The record-union., 1897-04-18
ROMANCE OF POfTLEBURY,J


position, whence there is no escape, save
by the grave or divorce court. This
story-written under feigned name,
since the appending of the real one
would only serve to increase my diff
culties-is addressed to a needless pub
lie, by way of warning. Ye lambs who
sport on the verge of precipices; We
moths who hover around delusive
flames, take example from my misfor-
tunes, lest We become even as 1. And
what am I? you ask. 1 am a married
man.
Her name was Jenny Darrow-I am
not abiding to my wife-and I wooed
her in the romantic woods of Pottlebury
for six paradisaical months. Had my
suit been crowned with orange blossoms
and the marriage service this tale would
not have been written; as it is, she be-
came the bride of another. This is not
the least part of my misfortune. Oh
Fate. Fate, like the dog of Sir Isaac
Newton, Thou little knowest what
thou hast done" Accused be thou
but this is my Byronic vein, and BELTS
not the plain tale 1 have to narrate.
Let me. fetter my Pegasus, and set down
in cold words the sickening details of the
crime which blighted my life.
l always sympathiZed with Alexander
the Great, who objected to the fame ac-
quired by his father Philip. To be the
son Of a celebrated sire is a great mis-
fortune for the son. AS the sole Off
spring of Josiah Pottlebury, the great
muffin manufacturer, 1 can subscribe
lInrpCprUQ6lV n "a
fame of my father as millionaire has
overshadowed mine as poet; yet only
last year I published my little volume,
"Pickings on Parnassus." My father
made mullins, make verses; of the two
employments, the former is the most
profitable. But the point of this para
graph is, that as the son of my too ia
nous parent, am known as Pottlebury
Junior.
1t was Josiah Pottlebury who founded
the village of that name, which is placed
on the romantic banks of the River
Stour, in Hampshire. AS a town gath
cred around a medieval castle, so did
one collect round the mandatory of
Pottlebury & Co. That firm-formerly
my father, now myself-made nothing
but mullins. In his early days as a con-
fectioner, my low-born sire-he was a
work-house foundling-discovere how
to make muffin that was not indigest-
IDLE, and from that he made his fame
and fortune. All muffin-eaters were de-
llghted to ind variety Of their favor
lite edible which did not entail agonies
after consumption. There was a rush
for the digestible muffin of Josiah Pot
tlebury-muffins poured out of his ovens,
money poured into his Golfers: and after
founding the Hampshire manufactory.
with the subsequent village, my father
followed my mother into the next world.
and left me a million, a poet. and. alas,
married man. But this latter state
ala not come into existence until a year
after the decease of my manufacturing
parent.
AS may be guessed, I was the King
OF Pottlebury, and 1 dwelt in a splendid
manslon-outside the town, but con-
nected Herewith by a pleasant road.
Thereon, Queen Anne villas had been
erected by enterprising jerry builders,
and in one of these dwelt my Jenny
with her spinster aunt. Jane barrow
The similarity of names was rather
y,
so as not to interfere with the indi-
v1duaiity of the elder, adopted the
playful diminutive cognomen. Jane
the aunt was 40, lean, we'll preserved,
and overlooking with elderly glee; Jane
the niece was 20, and shone as a star
among the stars Of Pottlebury. She was
beautiful and | loved her; so did an
other
This other was a tall, robust, ruffian-
ly youth, by name Dick Monteith. who
possessed an estate contiguous to mine.
We had been to school together. and
he always treated me in a bullying
manner. Because | did not shoot. or
row, or ride, or play games, he called
me a moily-coddle,' a term of oppro-
brium which l resented in well-chosen
words.
Il am not molly-coddle Dick I
said on the last occasion he hurled his
vulgarities at my head, but an ex-
ceptionally sensitive man."
You may be sensitive" replied Dick.
shifting his gun from one arm to the
other-we We're walking across one of
his helds at the moment-"but I'm
hanged if you are a man. You are a
I1CkSty httie wretch, MufflnSi'
l may here explain that Dick called
me Mullins in alluson to the source
whence l derived my income but my
real name is Philibert Josiah Pottle-
bury. | generally sign myself "P. p"
in my magazine verse, and entirely
suppress the Josiah. The name which
suited my father is not adapted to a
poet. As to being rickety. l admit that
am neither tall nor robust; but l ad-
mire my own refined looks and care
full toilets far more than / do Dick
intrusive healthfulness and untidy
dress. No doubt some people would
consider his bold face handsome and
would admire his rough shooting
clothes, but l could never see much in
him myself. | may be wrong. but /
prefer Apollo to Polyphemus.
You need not call me names. Dick"
said / as we got over the stile: land
pray be careful of that gun; it might
go off.
Dick removed the cartridges from his
breech- loader, and sitting on the stile
grinned at me in q way which I can
only describe as offensive / leaned in
a poetic attitude against an aged oak
and waited to hear what coarse re-
mark he would make next
"Will that suit your highness?" he