PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 107.
July 14, 1894.
THE DIURNAL FEMININE.
Let others read the "latest news"
Our daily papers offer,
Take pleasure in the smart reviews
And chuckle with the scoffer,
Enjoy the leaders, or appraise
The newest "Labour Crisis,"
Or smile to learn, that Brighton A's
Maintain their recent prices.
I only find such trifles vex,
I do not seek instruction
Upon the blemishes which X.
Perceives in Y.'s production,
And stocks may fall like anything,
They'll not affect my fate, or
Compel less cheerfully to sing
This vacuus viator.
The reason why I daily make
My sacrifice of pennies,
Is merely for a column's sake
Which scarce, perhaps, for men is,
And yet it elevates, refines,
It stirs the noblest passions,
That article whose moving lines
Are headed "Latest Fashions."
What joy to ascertain in print
The latest mode in dresses,
To learn the new artistic tint
Adopted by Princesses,
To roam the galleries with her
Whose eulogies and strictures
To hats and dress alone refer,
And never deal with pictures!
Let troubles still oppress the State
With all their usual rigour,
Let politicians still debate
With undiminished vigour,
Of such the common person reads,
But give to me the papers
That chronicle at length the deeds
Of milliners and drapers!
STATE AID FOR MATRIMONY.
(By a University Extensionist.)
Dear Mr. Punch,—What a charming little theatre that is at Burlington House! I missed you at the matinées there a few days ago. Of course you know the Travelling Provincial Company of the Universities' Guild for the Extension of High-Class Comedy? Well, they visited the Metropolis for their coming-of-age, and gave the new extravaganza of Hodge, B. Sc., or The Vision of Peers and the Plowman. This had nothing to do with Jupiter, LL. D., though no fewer than three noble Chancellors took a leading part at the different performance. After all it was nothing but a dished-up version of the old play of Gentleman Geordie, or The Cultured Collier; only the pitman business is a little played out, and the victim of Agricultural Enlightment is just now the vogue, thanks to the County Councils.
But what interest, you will say, can this weary work have for "the young person" (is not that the phrase?). Why should Ethel and I and the other country cousins, who are up to have a good time, waste our precious moments on University Extension, when they might have been given to the galleries, or, better still, to the shops? Dear Mr. Punch, you will not betray my confidence and print my real name, will you, if I tell you the reason? I do so in the hope that you will use your great and good influence to support our claim for State aid in a matter deeply interesting us girls in the provinces.
I have always thought that the most important object of University Extension has been overlooked. It certainly was the other day. I mean this. In the present unparalleled depression of the matrimonial market, what we want is a constant supply of nice, eligible young men from the University "brought home to our very doors," as they say about culture and the people. We cannot all live in garrison towns, and what are two or three curates among so many? Already, as I have seen in one of the magazines for young ladies, the cleric cloth is being supplanted in romantic fiction by the lay lecturer's velveteen. But we must have State said, and, if necesary, create a fresh Government Department, for the increase and support of this class of men. The profession would be very popular; those who joined it would keep marrying and moving on (I hope I express myself intelligently), and there would soon be enough to go round.
Ethel's papa, who is not very rich, and has a large family, told her that people in Rome who married, and had three children, got a sort of degree for it, and were let off taxes. It seems to me that the scheme for State aid which I suggest is a much more modest one.
A man that played the title-rôle in Hodge, B. Sc., gave vent to what I considered a very stupid sentiment. "Give us," he said, "some really useful and sensible instruction, not silly lectures about Love and Marriage, just to make people laugh!" This only shows how dreadfully void of finer feeling is your man of Agricultural Enlightenment. Why, we once had a delightful course on almost the very subjects at which he was ignorantly pleased to scoff! It was given by an interesting-looking young graduate from St. Valentine's, and was called "Byron and Shelley, with dissolving views." I remember well the questions set by him for one of the weekly papers. Shall I repeat them? He had just been lecturing on Don Juan.
1. Give in alphabetical order the chief attractions of the Hero of our poem.
2. Cite parallels to Don Juan among the gentleman friends of your acquaintance other than Extension Lecturers.
3. Contrast the character (if any) of Haidee with that of (a) The Maid of Athens, (b) Queen Mab.
I took a lot of pains over this paper, and I sent the lecturer an anonymous button-hole, with a request (in the same handwriting as on the answer-paper) that he would wear my floral tribute at lecture. He did so, and expressed himself as greatly pleased with my work. On my exercise (which I have kept) he wrote the following observation:—"Excellent; most appreciative and womanly; I thank you; should like to discuss a small question with you after class."
Now we want more of this spirit among Extension Lecturers. True, the one of whom I spoke turned out afterwards to have been married all the time, and I do think he should have mentioned it on the cover of his syllabus; but the principle holds good just the same.
So, dear Mr. Punch, on this question of State aid, at which I have (as I hope with delicacy) hinted above, you will help us, won't you?
Your devoted, Madge.
P.S.—Couldn't you lecture to us on something nice, and help to raise a fund for our scheme?
MR. PUNCH'S ILLUSTRATED LAW REPORTS.
No. 1.—"Alleged Contempt of Court by an Infant."
YET ANOTHER MEMOIR OF NAPOLEON.
Dear Mr. Punch,—There are so many lives of the great Napoleon being published nowadays that one might fancy the former ruler of France must have been as many-careered as a cat. Still, it may be interesting to your
I had the pleasure of meeting the great Napoleon some forty or fifty years ago; he was then in his prime.
In personal appearance he was not unlike the portraits so familiar to the public. In spite of his enthusiastic devotion for France, he invariably addressed his troops in the English language. This is a characteristic that seemingly has escaped the attention of all his biographers.
The numbers and quality of his army have been much exaggerated. Although in his speeches he was accustomed to boast of the strength of his troops, as a matter of fact they could be more easily counted by tens than hundreds. His artillery was almost a myth, and the ammunition was chiefly composed of crackers. As for his cavalry, the horses were showy but unreliable, many of them had white spots, and not a few were extremely intelligent. His favourite charger had been known on occasion (when engaged in circus duty) to drink a glass of sherry with the clown.
But there is one point I particularly wish to set right. Although known by the public as Napoleon Buonaparte, my hero in private life was invariably called by his intimates "poor old Gomersal."
Yours respectfully,
The Amphitheatre Boswell Redivivus.
Within Site of Astley's.
P.S.—I saw the latest actor's edition of Napoleon the other night at the Gaiety. He wasn't "in it" with "Gomersal,"—but then Gomersal was occasionally on horseback; still, there was the uniform and the snuff-box.
FANCY PORTRAIT.
Lord Chief Justice . . . Lord Russell of Killowen.
King Henry the Fifth . . Mr Punch.
"You are right, Justice, and you weigh this well;
Therefore still bear the Balance, and the Sword:
And I do wish your Honours may increase!"
Second Part of King Henry the Fourth, Act., V Sc. 2.
FANCY PORTRAIT.
(A Shakspearian "Living Picture" up to date.)
Lord Chief Justice. . . Lord Russell of Killowen.
King Henry the Fifth. . Mr. Punch.
King. You are right, Justice, and you weigh this well;
Therefore still bear the balance, and the sword:
And I do wish your honours may increase!
For which I do commit into your hand
The unstained sword Coleridge was used to bear;
With this remembrance,—That you use the same
With the like bold, just, and impartial spirit
As you have shown before. There is my hand!
Second Part of King Henry the Fourth,
Act V. Sc. 2 (slightly altered).
As Harry unto Gascoigne gave,
So Punch to Russell gladly gives
That Sword which frights but rogue and slave,
By which our ordered freedom lives;
And gives therewith his hand in token
Of pleasure more than may be spoken.
Nought have you "done that misbecame
Your place, your person," or your power.
'Tis a right crown of crescent fame,
Of fitness full befitting dower,
That you, my Lord, "have foremost hand"
In dealing justice round the land.
If set in quaint Shakspearian guise,
Not less the motley-wearing Sage
Gaily presents to serious eyes
A Living Picture for the Age.
So "take it—earnest wed with sport," [1]
From one who, stooping not to court,
Loves e'en to praise in merry sort!
[1] Tennyson's The Day Dream.
THE HARDY ANNUAL AT HENLEY
Or, Lunch among the Rowers.
Air—"Love among the Ruins."
When the early cat erotically smiles
On the tiles,
I arise and rather accurately fling
Any thing
That is handy and adapted to my sense
Of offence;
Then I reconstruct my well-avengèd head
On the bed;
But the hope of sleep deferred is deadly dull,
So I cull
Memoranda from the great and golden time
Of my prime.
Twenty years ago at Henley-on-the-Thames,
While the gems
Of the season simply sparkled into cheers,
(Little dears!)
I endeavoured to secure the Ladies' Plate;
Though of late
I have been the painful object of remark
In a barque;
But the circuit of my waist was not as yet
Fifty, nett;
And I fancy I was feeling pretty fit;
That was it.
Then I fed on oaten fare and milky slops,
Steaks and chops;
Never, never looked a lobster in the face,
And the race
Saw me down to just eleven at the scales,
Hard as nails;
Now I very much prefer to view the hunt
From a punt,
Or a houseboat, or an ark, or any sort
Of support,
While I minimise the necessary strain
With champagne.
At the yearly celebration it's the rule,
Hot or cool,
For a girl with yellow eyes and eager hair
To be there,
By a mass of mayonnaise and pigeon-pie;
So am I!
Oh the glory of the battle past recall!
After all,
What with hearts that freely wobble, stitch that stabs,
And the crabs,
And the quicken up to forty round the chest—
Lunch is best!
MODESTY
Housewife. "Well, if I give you some Breakfast, you'll have
Tramp. "I'd like ter 'blige yer, Lady. But, bleshyer 'art, 'tain't fer the likes o' me ter foller in the Footsteps o' Mr. Gladstone!"
Specially-arranged Motto for the Victoria Steamboat Association's New Vessel "The Palm."—"Palma, quæ meruit, ferat,"—(i.e., Let The Palm carry as many as she was constructed to carry, and not more).
Old Loves for New.
(New Version of an Old Song.)
If 'tis good to be merry and wise,
If 'tis good to be honest and true,
Then 'tis good to keep on with the old "Woman,"
And carefully keep off the New:
For of honesty, truthfulness, wisdom, and mirth,
The "New Woman" shows a most plentiful dearth.
The German Derby (61,000 marks) was won at Hamburg by Baron Münchausen's Spider. The Baron has done many wonderful things in his lifetime (vide the history of his adventures), and it was a foregone conclusion that if he ran a horse at the Derby he was bound not only to win, but to make something more than his mark.
LYRE AND LANCET.
(A Story in Scenes.)
PART II.—SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING POET.
Scene II.—The Morning Room at Wyvern. Lady Rhoda Cokayne, Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris, and Miss Vivien Spelwane are comfortably established near the fireplace. The Hon. Bertie Pilliner, Captain Thicknesse, and Archie Bearpark have just drifted in.
Miss Spelwane. Why, you don't mean to say you've torn yourselves away from your beloved billiards already? Quite wonderful!
Bertie Pilliner. It's too horrid of you to leave us to play all by ourselves! We've all got so cross and fractious we've come in here to be petted!
[He arranges himself at her feet, so as to exhibit a very neat pair of silk socks and pumps.
Captain Thicknesse (to himself). Do hate to see a fellow come down in the mornin' with evenin' shoes on!
Archie Bearpark (to Bertie Pilliner). You speak for yourself, Pilliner. I didn't come to be petted. Came to see if Lady Rhoda wouldn't come and toboggan down the big staircase on a tea-tray. Do! It's clinkin' sport!
Capt. Thick. (to himself). If there's one thing I can't stand it's a rowdy bullyraggin' ass like Archie!
Lady Rhoda. Ta muchly, dear boy, but you don't catch me travellin' downstairs on a tea-tray twice—it's just a bit too clinkin', don't you know!
Archie (disappointed). Why, there 's a mat at the bottom of the stairs! Well, if you won't, let's get up a cushion fight, then. Bertie and I will choose sides. Pilliner, I'll toss you for first pick up—come out of that, do.
Bertie (lazily). Thanks, I'm much too comfy where I am. And I don't see any point in romping and rumpling one's hair just before lunch.
Archie. Well, you are slack. And there's a good hour still before lunch. Thicknesse, you suggest something, there's a dear old chap.
Capt. Thick. (after a mental effort). Suppose we all go and have another look round at the gees—eh, what?
Bertie. I beg to oppose. Do let's show some respect for the privacy of the British hunter. Why should I go and smack them on their fat backs, and feel every one of their horrid legs twice in one morning? I shouldn't like a horse coming into my bedroom at all hours to smack me on the back. I should hate it!
Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris. I love them—dear things! But still, it's so wet, and it would mean going up and changing our shoes too—perhaps Lady Rhoda——
[Lady Rhoda flatly declines to stir before lunch.
"I'll read you a regular rouser called 'A Trumpet Blast.'"
Capt. Thick. (resentfully). Only thought it was better than loafin' about, that's all. (To himself.) I do bar a woman who's afraid of a little mud. (He saunters up to Miss Spelwane and absently pulls the ear of a Japanese spaniel on her knee.) Poo' little fellow, then!
Miss Spelw. Poor little fellow? On My lap!!!
Capt. Thick. Oh, it—ah—didn't occur to me that he was on your lap. He don't seem to mind that.
Miss Spelw. No? How forbearing of him! Would you mind not standing quite so much in my light, I can't see my work.
Capt. Thick. (to himself, retreating). That girl's always fishin' for compliments. I didn't rise that time, though. It's precious slow here. I've a good mind to say I must get back to Aldershot this afternoon.
[He wanders aimlessly about the room; Archie Bearpark looks out of window with undisguised boredom.
Lady Rhoda. I say, if none of you are goin' to be more amusin' than this, you may as well go back to your billiards again.
Bertie. Dear Lady Rhoda, how cruel of you! You'll have to let me stay. I'll be so good. Look here, I'll read aloud to you. I can—quite prettily. What shall it be? you don't care? no more do I. I'll take the first that comes. (He reaches for the nearest volume on a table close by.) How too delightful! Poetry—which I know you all adore.
[He turns over the leaves.
Lady Rhoda. If you ask me, I simply loathe it.
Bertie. Ah, but then you never heard me read it, you know. Now, here is a choice little bit, stuck right up in a corner, as if it had been misbehaving itself. "Disenchantment" it's called.
[He reads.
"My Love has sicklied unto Loath,
And foul seems all that fair I fancied—
The lily's sheen a leprous growth,
The very buttercups are rancid!"
Archie. Jove! The Johnny who wrote that must have been feelin' chippy!
Bertie. He gets cheaper than that in the next poem. This is his idea of "Abasement."
[He reads.
"With matted head a-dabble in the dust,
And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust,
I lie all loathly in my rags and rust—
Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust."
Now, do you know, I rather like that—it's so very decadent!
Lady Rhoda. I should call it utter rot, myself.
Bertie (blandly). Forgive me, Lady Rhoda. "Utterly rotten," if you like, but not "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich."
[He reads.
"The lark soars up in the air; The
toad sits tight in his hole;
And I would I were certain which of
the pair Were the truer type of my soul!"
Archie. I should be inclined to back the toad, myself.
Miss Spelw. If you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. Aren't there any love songs?
Bertie. I'll look. Yes, any amount—here's one. (He reads). "To My Lady."
"Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe,
Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green,
Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe,
Then—kiss me, Lady Grisoline!"
Miss Spelw. (interested). So that's his type. Does he mention whether she did kiss him?
Bertie. Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. I'll see ... h'm, ha, yes; he does mention it ... I think I'll read something else. Here's a classical specimen.
[He reads.
"Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,
Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;
Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,
Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing."
And so on, don't you know.... Now I'll read you a regular rouser called "A Trumpet Blast." Sit tight, everybody!
[He reads.
"Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (One for you, dear Archie!)
Blink your blearèd eyes. (Blink, pretty creatures, blink!)
Behold the Sun—
—Burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence,
Demos dawning, and the Darkness—done!"
[General hilarity, amidst which Lady Culverin enters.
Lady Culverin. So glad you all contrive to keep your spirits up, in spite of this dismal weather. What is it that's amusing you all so much, eh, dear Vivien?
Miss Spelw. Bertie Pilliner has been reading aloud to us, dear Lady Culverin—the most ridiculous poetry—made us all simply shriek. What's the name of it? (Taking the volume out of Bertie's hand.) Oh, Andromeda, and other poems. By Clarion Blair.
Lady Culv. (coldly). Bertie Pilliner can turn everything into ridicule, we all know, but probably you are not aware that these particular poems are considered quite wonderful by all competent judges. Indeed, my sister-in-law——
All (in consternation). Lady Cantire! Is she the author? Oh, of course, if we'd had any idea!
Lady Culv. I've no reason to believe that Lady Cantire ever composed any poetry. I was only going to say that she was most interested in the author, and as she and my niece Maisie are coming to us this evening——
Miss Spelw. Dear Lady Culverin, the verses are quite, quite beautiful; it was only the way they were read.
Lady Culv. I am glad to hear you say so, my dear, because I'm also expecting the pleasure of seeing the author here, and you will probably be his neighbour to-night. I hope, Bertie, that you will remember that this young man is a very distinguished genius; there is no wit that I can discover in making fun of what one doesn't happen to understand.
[She passes on.
Bertie (plaintively, after Lady Culverin has left the room). May I trouble somebody to scrape me up? I'm pulverised! But really, you know, a real live poet at Wyvern! I say, Miss Spelwane, how will you like to have him dabbling his matted head next to you at dinner, eh?
Miss Spelw. Perhaps I shall find a matted head more entertaining than a smooth one. And if you've quite done with that volume, I should like to have a look at it.
[She retires with it to her room.
Archie (to himself). I'm not half sorry this Poet-johnny's comin'; I never caught a Bard in a booby-trap yet.
Capt. Thick. (to himself). She's coming—this very evening! And I was nearly sayin' I must get back to Aldershot!
Lady Rhoda. So Lady Cantire's comin'; we shall all have to be on our hind legs now! But Maisie's a dear thing. Do you know her, Captain Thicknesse!
Capt. Thick. I—I used to meet Lady Maisie Mull pretty often some time ago; don't know if she'll remember it, though.
Lady Rhoda. She'll love meetin' this writin' man—she's so fearfully romantic. I heard her say once that she'd give anythin' to be idealised by a great poet—sort of—what's their names—Petrarch and Laura business, don't you know. It will be rather amusin' to see whether it comes off—won't it?
Capt. Thick. (choking). I—ah—no affair of mine, really. (To himself.) I'm not intellectual enough for her, I know that. Suppose I shall have to stand by and look on at the Petrarchin'. Well, there's always Aldershot!
[The luncheon gong sounds, to the general relief and satisfaction.
TO THE OXFORD CRICKET CAPTAIN.
"100, Not Out." Monday, July 2, 1894.
Congratulations, Mr. C. B. Fry,
You neatly wiped the Cantab Light Blue eye,
And well deserved the fashionable shout
Which hailed you for your century, not out.
For your exploits, what language is too tall?
At cricket good alike with bat and ball,
Full back at football (that's Association),
At jumping lengthways—well, you lick creation.
In Schools no idler when stern duty calls,
Already having got a First in "Smalls."
Yes, Oxford surely boasts
Her most distinguished son, a Triple Blue.
The Lord's good wicket made a scoring high day,
But you yourself turned Monday into Fry-day!
Anarchist Attempt on a Well-known Bridge.—After several failures, the Hampton Court Bridge was shot yesterday evening by a young man, supposed to be an Anarchist, whose name and address remain a profound secret, as, owing to his having taken his outrigger by the hour, and, having paid his shot, there was no excuse for his detention by the assistants in charge of the boats. He had been dining freely at a neighbouring hostelrie, the sign of which being "The Mitre," suggested to the intelligent detective in charge of the case the probability of the wretched youth being a "dîne-à-mitre." Furnished with this clue, the police are on his track. Fortunately the bridge escaped without injury, and this morning it not only crossed the river itself without difficulty, but assisted many travellers to do the same.
Aspiration.—A youthful rhymist, inspired by the Derby, wishes to become a Sporting Poet. "'Poet' and 'Prophet,'" he learnedly observes, "meant about the same thing in Homeric times; and, indeed, in most prophecies of coming events on the turf I have generally found more of poetry than of profit." The modest rhymster says, that as he can never hope to be first in the field of poetry, "he may at least become a second Ossy-'un."
OPERATIC NOTES.
L'Attaque du Moulin (à poivre)
It strikes me forcibly that the Wagnerian idea has influenced all recent compositions. Nothing is now done without a "motive." It may be a good motive, or a bad motive, or an inadequate motive, or an indifferent motive; but motive there must be with our most modern school of composers, who, adopting the Wagnerian idea, (not in itself a purely original one,) and improving on it, attribute less importance to the "Act" than to the "motive," though by a reflex action the scheme of the Act suggests, organises, and it may be added, orchestrates the "motives." L'Attaque du Moulin is a practical example of this theory. It is not styled an opera but a lyric drama in four acts. It is founded by M. Louis Gallet on Zola's story; it is reduced to plain English by Mr. Weatherly; the music is by Alfred Bruneau; and for the stage management, which has so largely conduced to its success, Sir Augustus Druriolanus is responsible. It is not what the sporting papers term "a merry mill," though there is plenty of fighting. There are some songs in it, and there are some melodies—or mill-odies—which may catch on when heard a second or third time; but they certainly do not arrest the attention at a first hearing. The music, I judge only from the one representation, seems lacking in those catching-on airs which, coupled with the admirable acting of the principals, made the fortune, sur le champ, of the Cavalleria Rusticana. But a "wind-mill" without any "air" can't be expected to "go."
Madame Delna is forcibly dramatic, true, but not powerful as a singer, at least in Covent Garden. Nor is there in the character of this Maid of the Mill any such great opportunity whereby to test the power of the actress as there is in the part of Santuzza, or of Anita in La Navarraise. Madame Delna may be all that enthusiastic reporters have said she is, but she must have a great deal of power in reserve, for the display of which this opera does not offer the chance. Mons. Bouvet as Merlier, the Miller, who "created" the part in Paris, is good, but his acting is somewhat monotonous. Madame de Nuovina as Françoise, is a young Lady Macbeth, who gives the dagger and does not request that it may be returned to her again when done with. M. Bonnard, as the Singing Sentinel, reminding me of Gilbert and Sullivan's Sentinel "with a song" in one of the Savoy Series, was very good; and Mons. Cossira, excellent as the escaping prisoner, bore so strong a resemblance to the Director of the Fortunes of Covent Garden and Drury Lane, that people looked twice at their programmes in order to be quite sure that an apology for the singer had not been made, and that the much-talented Sir Druriolanus had not, at the shortest possible notice, consented to be his "remplaçant." Mons. Albers, as the German Captain, ought to be in receipt of a very large salary, seeing "how wide he opens his mouth" when singing. All were good in the best of all possible operatic entertainments, including the unequalled orchestra conducted by M. Ph. Flon, (is this "Phlon-Flon"?) who has taken his turn with Signori Bevignani, Mancinelli, and Mr. Frederic Cowen, the last-mentioned coming to look after his new Opera of Signa, in which Madame de Nuovina was charming, and Signor Benjamino Davieso appeared as the Anglo-Italian Tenor. Congratulations to Signor Frederico Coweni.
Saturday night. Elaine. "If it's not very lively," observes Sir Augustus beforehand, "still it must be remembered that I have not only at heart the interests—and in pocket the interest—of Covent Garden, but also of 'Drear Elaine.' Should it prove a joyous opera and attract the people, then I shall consider it as an example of 'Drawer-Elaine' at Covent Garden. But now—hark!—let us not trifle with time and tune. Mancinelli is raising his bâton, up goes the curtain, and all in to begin. Nous verrons." And the "all" includes the Prince and Princess of Wales and their two unmarried daughters, and a very good house indeed. "And how is Elaine?" is the question. "Very well, thank you, and much better than she was two years ago," is the reply. Elaine is decidedly thinner. One Act gone, and other judicious cuts have reduced her. The opera is consequently lighter. Due weight, however, is given to it by Madame Melba and Jean de Reszké. Druriolanus has followed the precedent of "cutting the 'osses." But the "cackle" of geese followeth not. On the contrary, the applause is abundant.
MUSIC AT HOME.
Hostess. "Oh, thank you for your lovely Music, Herr Blumentoff! It's just what I like. It blends so perfectly with the Conversation without in the least interrupting it!"
WAITING THEIR TURN.
(In the Hot Room, St. Stephen's Baths, Westminster.)
Bath-Man, loquitur:—
Pouf! 'Tis slow work! Were I a Turk,
Fancy I'd put it
Poor little Bills! Funkiness fills
All their small souls! See 'em glancing suspiciously,
Timid and torrid! Finding it horrid
Waiting their turns for shampooing and plunging
Parboiled and limp, each, as a shrimp;
No great result for my long scurryfunging!!!
Faith, I am tired! Been much admired
For my long patience with Big Billy Budget.
He got it hot! Worrying lot
Some of these fellows. But Billy will trudge it
Pretty soon, now. Splosh!!! What a row!
Billy is bulky, and makes a big splashing.
Head-first he goes, kicks up his toes,—
All that is left after boiling and washing.
Thanks be he's through! What'll I do
Next, and which of 'em in waiting seems readiest?
I'm so restricted! Little "Evicted,"
Small Irish bhoy, seems I fancy the steadiest.
"Equalisation?" His perspiration
Something prodigious, and yet—well—the other!—
Oh! English, Scotch, Welsh, they all look like squelch,
And the task of selection is truly a bother!
Had I free choice,—Ah! but my voice
Only counts one nowadays in selection.
Balfour & Co.—they run the show;
Matter I think for most urgent reflection.
They arrogate questions of date,
They set the time, and the temperature too.
If I insist, well, they'll resist,
Get their way, too, in the long run,—ah! sure to!
Nice state o' things! Wish I had wings!
Much rather boss small Bath by the Bosphorus!
Sixes and sevens now at St. Stephen's!
Running it all the year round at a loss—for us!
Look at 'em there, each on his chair,
Wobbly, perspiring and weary o' waiting!
Might have been done, every one,
But for Balfourian procrastinating.
Rum-looking lot! Don't they seem hot?
Little "Evicted," young "Equalisation."
Quite in a stew. The other two,—
Well, 'tis complete discumboblification!
Must make my choice! Waiting my voice!
Gentlemen please—Mr.—ahem! Oh! thunder!
They all pop up, prompt as a Krupp.
Which had I better first call in I wonder?
THE NEW PARTY.
[Mr. Grant Allen and several other advanced politicians have started a new party, the members of which are to be called Isocrats, a title very similar to one coined by Coleridge for a society which he desired to found on principles of general equality.—Daily Paper.]