MRS BROWN AT THE PLAY.
Wich it \vo3 Mr M'Beath as I wished for to see. Leastways Mrs M'Beath. My old man artor tea says, Saircy, says he, 'ore's a ticket. A ticket for wot, says I. For scup oi' course, says he. wich I bought, lie says, says he, from a purswusive young fomail pusson And her name ? says I. Never you mind, says ho, I'm a goin' to blow my bacca at 'ome to night in peace, and you can get a hevenin hout. Wich 1 took. It had been many a long year since I last set eyes on Mr and Mrs M'Beath at the Laue, and I folt as if I'd like to renoo my draymatic rummy noosanses. Well, when I got to the loonaticlc, I mean the Masonick asylum, or 'all, which is it? the curting 'ad rized, and I wos 'anded along hup to the front were the wimmen folk was a sittiu by theirselves like so menny femail Mormonizers, and I> squceged into a chair, but lor so ricketty, and I looked about for Mrs M'Beath. There she was, dear critter, but deary me so changed. Instead of a walkiu' the strigo backards and foWards wit'a dajjers in her 'ands and her back hair let down in a scotch scarf, and welweteen dress and spangles, she had a humberella and was a purswadiu of Mr M'Beath to inwest his money in watchboxes and wclocipedos, and oh my! such a bonnet! Talk about lookin for a friend down a dark area. And Mr M'Beath instead of wearing a petticut and phillibeg was eertingly the rummiest lookin' Scotchman I ever seed, and the state ol mops and brooms he'd got into was drefful to behold. The rest of the carra'ktors too wos queer. Inst id of 'ighland soots they'd on smock frocks and britches and bed curting weskits and frills. Eor the life of mo I couldn't make it hout, but at last I purswaded myself that it was Shakespere modernized a bit. Still it didn't seem the sort of M'Beath I'd been used to in my appy days of girlhood, and 1 made so bold" as to ask a old gentleman with a baskit if it wos the fust or second hact. He says says he " ripe apples and liornish.es four a shillink the fust mum," all in a breth yon know. ' So I wailed fur the next,-a listeniu to the ladies a talkin. Not a bit of scandal, oh dear no ! And the babbies a squall in, and the pianny and I'lugorlct a playin, and them drabs of boys-at the back, wich it was a burniu shame to allow hout of bod. The owdacious young wiilins wich pitched a piece of horiugc peel into a young girl's chinnon, where it stuck I 'spose till she got home and took her back hair hoff. At last the curting rized again, and tiero was Mr M'Beath in a new soot of close, and his wite stockins tide on tito with gilt paper, wich consideria he'd just come off a barren heath,' he'd kept werry clean indeed. Boor man, since I'd seen him hist he'd got werry thin and werry sunburnt. By-and byo in walked Mrs M'Beath, and this time she'd left her bonnet at 'oine, and had put a gbldian crown and a tortus shell comb on her .'ed in two places. But lor, dear heart alive, she'd been so used to murderin' wot's 'is name that sho took it as cool as if sho was telling Mr M'Beath to go nnd kill a cock-a-doodle-doo for their Sunday dinner. Mr M'Beath he had a terrible time of it to hisself; but the purtyest site o' all was the dajjer. There wos no mistake aboot it they guv you yer money's worth at'that show. There wos the real dajjer a blbbity bobbing along on a slack wire quite wisible to sight. Next came hact three and it was rely too much for my feelins. There was a, table trimmed with hilluminated pumpkins and throe
live Scotchmen in a row eatin apples all the time Mr M'Beath was a talkin' to the jost. Mrs M'Beath was there too but 'ad to sit down, werry tired no doubt. The jost too was tremenjuis. Such a face 1 But all the same 'is stockins' were clean and his shoes well polished, and he came on that spritcly that I thought he was agoin to do a step jig. By'm'by the curting cum down again and I was told that the next hact would be Bombastick Furioser. But 1 thought if it was goin to be any more furioser than wot I'd seed, 1 really wouldn't hanser for the conksevences to some of them deer married ladies in the front seats. And I left. Spell my name Mr Ed-hitter with a hen, and not with a he. The only he I've got is my old man and his name is Wiluin.—Yours respectbly T , Salkei' Buown.
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Westport Times, Volume VIII, Issue 1190, 3 July 1874, Page 4
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835MRS BROWN AT THE PLAY. Westport Times, Volume VIII, Issue 1190, 3 July 1874, Page 4
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