BRITISH FRENCH.

BRITISH FRENCH.BRITISH FRENCH.Emily.“Ask her to give us some more of herSacredMusic, George!”George (a linguist).“Oh, Mademoiselle, donnez-nous encore de votre Sacrée Musique.”

Emily.“Ask her to give us some more of herSacredMusic, George!”

George (a linguist).“Oh, Mademoiselle, donnez-nous encore de votre Sacrée Musique.”

Off to Ireland!—At last.Collingswith me, of course:—rather grumpy, becauseSalisbury’sgot the credit of passing the Allotments Bill, instead of himself. Still,Jessebetter than nobody. Would create bad impression to visit Belfast without anentourage.

In Steamer.—Look up my Irish History—or rather,Jesse’sIrish History, which he’s borrowed from Birmingham Free Library. An Aldermancando that sort of thing. Also examine revolver. Not accustomed to carrying one. What is the best place for it?Jessesays, “left-hand coat-tail pocket, decidedly, because then you can whip it out in a twinkling.”Jesse’sconfidence contagious—he talks as if he had always been in the habit of “whipping-out” revolvers, like a cow-boy,—or a “three-acres-and-a-cow-boy.” Do as he advises. Very uncomfortable feeling. Sit down on revolver in a moment of forgetfulness, and nearly blow Captain’s head off. Captain irritated. Asks me for “ransom.” Ridiculous!

Belfast.—No end of a reception. Drive through the principal streets. Enthusiastic populace insist on taking horses out of carriage and pulling it themselves. Gratifying, but should feel safer with the horses. WhywillCollingsbow? I’m the person to bow, obviously. Bad taste, but don’t like to stop him. Believe the mobtakehim for me—or why do they cheer him so?

At Hotel.—Just found out reason of enthusiasm evoked by appearance ofJesse.He’s got on an Orange tie!Ask him, reproachfully, why he did this? Pretends it was a mere accident—forgot that orange was favourite Ulster colour. Don’t want a religious riot, so make him take it off.Jessegetting grumpier. Can’t help it.

Evening.—Before going to meeting, had better find out what Belfast chiefly famous for. AskCollings. Replies “linen-shirts and handkerchiefs.” Try to put him in good humour by remarking that “heseems shirty.” Is there no other historical fact connected with place? “Yes,” he replies, “visit of LordRandolph Churchill.” Wish he hadn’t mentioned latter event. Dispiriting. Reminds one of proposed National Party, with self andRandolphas sole leaders—and sole followers, too, it seems.

At Hotel—after Speech.—Great success. Felt horribly inclined to start another Home Rule plan—my fifth—but fortunately refrained. Instead of dismemberment of Empire, I offered more Members to Ulster. Ulster people saw the justice of this arrangement at once. Told ’em there were “two Irelands.” Isn’t one Ireland enough, however?

Coleraine.—A triumphal arch, with “Welcome to English Peasant Emancipators” on it. Stupid to bracketCollingswith me in this way. Receive threatening letter. Reminds me of my revolver.Jesseexamines it with the air of a professional gunsmith, critically. Appears quite hurt at its condition; says, “I’ve sat on it so often he doubts if it would go off now,” and recommends my carrying a “bowie-knife” instead. Am surprised atJesse’sacquaintance with deadly weapons. Ask him what historical event took place at Coleraine. Says he doesn’t know and doesn’t care. But what’s he here for except to keep me posted up in local details? Hint to him that “I hope I may be able to offer him post of President of Local Government Board in my future Ministry.” Replies (rudely, I think) that “he’ll wait till I’m asked to form one.”Query—doesn’t air of Ulster exercise demoralising effect on English politicians? Is this the “Ulster Custom” one’s heard so much about?Randolpha case in point.

Back again.—Coleraine speech excellent, though I say it, as shouldn’t. Cheered to the echo. So wasJesse, hang him! Shan’t takehimto Canada with me. Now for a study of the habits of deep-sea fish in the pages of a Natural Science Primer.

(By a Belated Oarsman.)

Come, little Maid, to the cracked piano,The semi-grand in the coffee-room;We’ll take your harmonies allcum grano,For the strings vibrate like the crack of doom.Over the lawn the flat clouds loom,And when they lighten the rain falls faster;Like gossips who relish a friend’s disasterThe ducks quack loud in the rain-ruled gloom.I’ve studied the cracks in the ceiling-plaster,And the statuettes with their stolid leer,And the landscape visions of some Young Master,Who viewed the world through a haze of beer.We’ve done as much with the hostel’s cheerAs sane men mayin corpore sano;So come, little Maid, to the cracked piano.Play us “The Battle of Prague,” my dear.The silence clouds, like a potion shaken,As the limp strings jar to an ancient pain;Their light and sweetness no touch can waken,And only the dregs of a tone remain.The silk-sewn music with fray and stainSwoons on the keys at the urgent stages,And the little Maid, as she props the pages,Just murmurs, “Bother!” and starts again.And the streaming window again engagesThe thoughts that stray from the field of Prague;And the moping birds in their gauze-girt cages,And the wax-work fruits of a genus vague;And the flies that buzz like a lazy plagueRound the lone lorn jam, as it stands forsaken;And the varnished pike in the mill-pool takenAbout the year that they fought at Prague.But twilight falls, and its folds encumberThe misty mounds of the patient trees,And sunset cheers with a touch of umberThe puddles of steel-gray Gruyère cheese.And, interposing a little ease,Our frail thoughts dally with false surmisesOf a morning as brilliant as mid July’s isWith bravest sunshine and sweetest breeze.A soothing silence the soul surprises,For the little Maid, like a hero true,Has fought her fight through its poignant crises,And shown what practice can dare and do.And, tearing the moonlight in handfuls through,A giant arm in the cloudland sombreScatters the light on a world of slumber,Through snowy craters, from gulfs of blue.

Come, little Maid, to the cracked piano,

The semi-grand in the coffee-room;

We’ll take your harmonies allcum grano,

For the strings vibrate like the crack of doom.

Over the lawn the flat clouds loom,

And when they lighten the rain falls faster;

Like gossips who relish a friend’s disaster

The ducks quack loud in the rain-ruled gloom.

I’ve studied the cracks in the ceiling-plaster,And the statuettes with their stolid leer,And the landscape visions of some Young Master,Who viewed the world through a haze of beer.We’ve done as much with the hostel’s cheerAs sane men mayin corpore sano;So come, little Maid, to the cracked piano.Play us “The Battle of Prague,” my dear.

I’ve studied the cracks in the ceiling-plaster,

And the statuettes with their stolid leer,

And the landscape visions of some Young Master,

Who viewed the world through a haze of beer.

We’ve done as much with the hostel’s cheer

As sane men mayin corpore sano;

So come, little Maid, to the cracked piano.

Play us “The Battle of Prague,” my dear.

The silence clouds, like a potion shaken,As the limp strings jar to an ancient pain;Their light and sweetness no touch can waken,And only the dregs of a tone remain.The silk-sewn music with fray and stainSwoons on the keys at the urgent stages,And the little Maid, as she props the pages,Just murmurs, “Bother!” and starts again.

The silence clouds, like a potion shaken,

As the limp strings jar to an ancient pain;

Their light and sweetness no touch can waken,

And only the dregs of a tone remain.

The silk-sewn music with fray and stain

Swoons on the keys at the urgent stages,

And the little Maid, as she props the pages,

Just murmurs, “Bother!” and starts again.

And the streaming window again engagesThe thoughts that stray from the field of Prague;And the moping birds in their gauze-girt cages,And the wax-work fruits of a genus vague;And the flies that buzz like a lazy plagueRound the lone lorn jam, as it stands forsaken;And the varnished pike in the mill-pool takenAbout the year that they fought at Prague.

And the streaming window again engages

The thoughts that stray from the field of Prague;

And the moping birds in their gauze-girt cages,

And the wax-work fruits of a genus vague;

And the flies that buzz like a lazy plague

Round the lone lorn jam, as it stands forsaken;

And the varnished pike in the mill-pool taken

About the year that they fought at Prague.

But twilight falls, and its folds encumberThe misty mounds of the patient trees,And sunset cheers with a touch of umberThe puddles of steel-gray Gruyère cheese.And, interposing a little ease,Our frail thoughts dally with false surmisesOf a morning as brilliant as mid July’s isWith bravest sunshine and sweetest breeze.

But twilight falls, and its folds encumber

The misty mounds of the patient trees,

And sunset cheers with a touch of umber

The puddles of steel-gray Gruyère cheese.

And, interposing a little ease,

Our frail thoughts dally with false surmises

Of a morning as brilliant as mid July’s is

With bravest sunshine and sweetest breeze.

A soothing silence the soul surprises,For the little Maid, like a hero true,Has fought her fight through its poignant crises,And shown what practice can dare and do.And, tearing the moonlight in handfuls through,A giant arm in the cloudland sombreScatters the light on a world of slumber,Through snowy craters, from gulfs of blue.

A soothing silence the soul surprises,

For the little Maid, like a hero true,

Has fought her fight through its poignant crises,

And shown what practice can dare and do.

And, tearing the moonlight in handfuls through,

A giant arm in the cloudland sombre

Scatters the light on a world of slumber,

Through snowy craters, from gulfs of blue.

(A Legend of the Grosvenor Gallery.)

The Spirit of Art glided through the streets of Modern London, seeking a resting-place. She entered the Diploma Gallery of the Royal Academy, but hurried away, affrighted at some of the terrible examples of the illustrious Forty.

“And these are the greatest English painters!” she murmured—“the countrymen ofShakspeare,Milton, andAddison,Tennyson,Macaulay, andDickens! How is it that Painting cannot keep pace with Literature?”

It sounded like a Conundrum, and the Spirit of Art was not good at Conundrums. So she gave it up. Then she passed into other Exhibitions—there were quite a dozen in the neighbourhood at the very least. But she was unsatisfied, and came away. She paused, and considered. The Spirit of Art had one great English friend (of Irish extraction), who was a Musician.

“Arthuris a clever fellow,” said the Spirit of Art to herself—there was no one else to speak to—“and if hedoescompose more comic Operas than Oratorios, it is, I suppose, because there is a greater demand for the former than the latter.”

From this it will be seen the Spirit of Art had, on the whole, a good head for business. “Now,” continued the Representative of the Beautiful, “I distinctly recollect that the words to one of the songs of my friendArthurcontained a pointed reference to the Greenery Yallery Gallery. I fancy, from all I have heard, that the sort of thing I want will be found in the Greenery Yallery Gallery.”

She was quite pleased at the notion. To tell the truth the Spirit of Art was rather weary of perambulating the streets of London—not even the advertisements ofBuffalo Billon the hoardings gave her lasting satisfaction.

“Let me consider,” she said, as she hovered on the threshold of the Grosvenor Gallery, “now I shall find myself amongst the grandest works of MisterJones. I am never tired of that pale face with the pointed chin—no more is MisterJones. This frequently-reproduced portrait of a lady is most interesting. No doubt it is a study of a chronic case of dyspepsia that must have lasted for twenty years. Then I shall see the choicest works ofMoreandMillais, andWatts, and oh, joy! of SirCoutts-Lindsay! This is indeed the very spot for a resting-place.”

So the Spirit of Art glided up the staircase and into the Grosvenor Gallery. For a moment she was puzzled. There was no dyspeptic lady—“no greenery” and very little “yallery.” Then she shivered, for on all sides she found immense pictures of battles and executions ghastly beyond description.

“Why, what are these?” she gasped. “What are these?”

“Catalogue, Miss?” replied a civil attendant. “Thank you, Miss,—sixpence.”

And then the Spirit of Art read that such and such a picture represented a dreadful defeat, that a pestilent hospital, yonder one a scene of torture. She found representations of war treated in the most prosaic and unbeautiful form.

She was horrified and fainted!

Then the vision, before her became more and more terrible and the entire contents of the Catalogue was unfolded before her. Dying soldiers defying vultures, mutilated Russians lying in an open grave, old men being blown from the guns! Wounds, and fire, and blood!

When she came to herself she hurried away. She thought it out.

“I must gradually accustom myself to less horrible things,” she whispered. “I will begin at once. If I were not to do this by degrees, I should go mad!” She called a hansom.

“Where to, Miss?”

“To the Marylebone Road,” cried the Spirit of Art—in these days the Spirit is a very self-assertive young person, and not at all like an unprotected female—“Baker Street Station, Marylebone Road.”

Then she threw away her Catalogue.

“I must see something less repulsive than this—I must gradually resume my normal condition. Something less repulsive! I have it! I will begin with the figures of MadameTussaud’s—in the Chamber of Horrors!”

Congregation at Oxford, having (in an empty House), for the sake of economy, turned the old Professorship of Anglo-Saxon into one of English Literature, and having, with a view to utilising its salary, entirely suppressed the chair of Poetry, it is rumoured that the Hebdomadal Council have already in contemplation a sweeping list of curtailments in the same direction.

The Professorships of Arabic, Archæology, Astronomy, Botany, Celtic, Chemistry, and Chinese, will, it is said, also be rolled into one.

It is hoped that, by some spirited reforms in the direction indicated above, the University that, from the fashion in which it has dealt with the Chair of Poetry, appears indeed to be out at elbows, may survive the financial crisis in which it is evidently involved.

Arranged for the use of the returning British Passenger at Breakfast-time. By a very Dyspeptic Contributor.

It is a glorious thing to think that one is leaving France and all foreign kickshaws behind one, and is once more approaching dear honest old England on the deck of a British steamer.

But let us come into the cabin and have a bit of breakfast before we get in.

Surely that table covered with a dirty sheet instead of a tablecloth is not prepared for our repast?

Why, this stale loaf must have been on board quite a week.

It has evidently made several passages backwards and forwards in company with this extremely remarkable sample of butter.

Why does this coffee the Steward has just brought us look like ink and sawdust, and taste like something perplexing?

The Frenchman, who has been expectingdéjeuner à la fourchette, is surveying with astonishment the dish of mutton-chops they have set down before him.

It is a great pity that they are all two inches thick, and are underdone when cut.

I wonder whether he is thinking, as I am, of the clean, fresh, and trimrestauranttable, the excellentcafé au laít, petits-pains, Normandy butter, and other “foreign kickshaws,” that he has just left behind him in France.

Though he has had to pay three shillings for his hot breakfast, he has informed me that he will wait till he arrives, and take “le lunch” on shore.

I wonder whether he is aware that, if he makes this meal at the typical Refreshment-Room, he will have to content himself with stale sponge-cakes, the day-before-yesterday’s buns, and small tins of lemon-drops.

But let us get out of the Cabin. I certainly prefer the deck of an excellent steamer to the arrangements made for providing one with breakfast down below.

“The rapid increase both of buildings and population which has taken place in the Metropolitan Police district of late years has outrun the increase which it has been possible to make to the Police Force.”—Sir Charles Warren, in his Official Reports, 1885, 1886.

“The average applications for admission to the Metropolitan Police Force now amount to one hundred per diem.”Statistics, October, 1887.

Sergeant Punch (inspecting would-be ex-Unemployed).Sergeant Punch (inspecting would-be ex-Unemployed).“So, my Lad, you want to be a Constable! Rather enforce the Law than break it, eh? That’s right! Hem! The Force has long been undermanned. We must see if we can’t make room for you!”

Sergeant Punch (inspecting would-be ex-Unemployed).“So, my Lad, you want to be a Constable! Rather enforce the Law than break it, eh? That’s right! Hem! The Force has long been undermanned. We must see if we can’t make room for you!”

Ne Plus Ulster.—Mr.Chamberlainseems to find the heart of the Irish Question in Ulster. Does he expect to find its solution there? He appears to set little store by the wishes of those not inconsiderable portions of Ireland which, as he says, “do not form a portion of the Ulster plantation.” All other parts, even of the favoured province, “though geographically part of Ulster, are not parts of what we know as political Ulster.” This certainly narrows the Irish Question. But does it simplify it? We have all heard of those who are “more Irish than the Irishmen themselves.” Mr.Chamberlainseems to be more Ulsterish than the men of Ulster, though they, to be sure, on his own showing, are virtually English and Scotch. In declining to look beyond Ulster, it may be asked whether he looks into the Irish Question at all. Altogether Irish—very!

The Danvers Jewels, published byRichard Bentley and Son, and written by an anonymous author who dedicates the work to his sister “Di,” (from whom he received some assistance in the story, otherwise he would “never have said ‘Di’”) is a short and well-told sensational novelette in a shilling volume. There is a genuine vein of humour running through it, which is so artistically managed as at first to escape the reader’s attention, who becoming more and more irritated with the stupidity of the supposed narrator, gradually discovers that the story which is being recounted by a middle-aged Indian Colonel, who prides himself on being remarkably astute, and on possessing a perfectly marvellous insight into character, is being recounted by a conceited, shallow-pated old ass. I think it a fault that at the very last, by some such accident as being in an assize town and being invited to sit on the bench, he does not see the villain thoroughly unmasked, placed in the dock, and condemned to death, or at least penal servitude for life. The story, excellent as it is, seems to me to want this finish. By the way, why, for no conceivable purpose, quote on the title-page a line from the Old Testament which, as every one remembering its context and after reading the book must see, has no apparent bearing on the subject? Mistake this.

A work by "Q."A work by “Q.”

Deadman’s Rock.By “Q.” Have Messrs.Louis StevensonandRider Haggardcombined under the signature of “Q.” to write at all events the first part of the weird and exciting Romance entitledDeadman’s Rock? If not let those two authors look to their laurels. There is much in this book to remind the reader ofTreasure Island, especially the fiendish Sailor’s uncouth chaunt, “Sing hey for the deadman’s eyes, my lads,” which, however, is not a patch upon Mr.Stevenson’s“Ho! Ho! Ho! and a bottle of rum,” inTreasure Island. Then there is one line in “Q.’s” story, “And here a strange thing happened,” which must call to mind Mr.Rider Haggard’spatent of “and now a strange thing happened.” “Q.”—rious coincidence, isn’t it? But a “coincidence” is not likely to annoy Mr.Haggard.

In the first part the most impatient reader will find that he cannot afford to skip a couple of lines without detriment to the narrative, but in the second part he may skip handfuls, as the lovemaking is common-place, and time is wasted over the tragedy which is written by one of the heroes, and over the description of their life in London. But on the other hand the scene in the gambling-house is exciting and artistically worked up,—and coming immediately after this, the lovemaking is uncommonly tame,—and the scene at the Theatre is also very good, but after this there is a lull in the excitement until the end approaches, when there is one very strong situation. But the actual finish is weak. So the summing up is that the first part is first-rate, and the second part is, on the whole, second-rate. But who is “Q.”?

That is the Q. and what is the A.?Deadman’s Rockis not a good book for very nervous persons or children: for the latterAlmond Rockwould be far preferable.

(By an Envious and Irritable Bard, after reading “Ballades and Rondeaus,” just published, and wishing he could do anything like any of them.)

Bored by the Ballade, vexed by Villanelle,Of Rondeau tired, and Triolet as well!THE BALLADE.(In Bad Weather.)Oh! I’m in a terrible plight—For how can I rhyme in the rain?’Tis pouring from morn until night:So bad is the weather again,My language is almost profane!Though shod with the useful galosh,I’m racked with rheumatical pain—I think that a Ballade is bosh!I know I am looking a fright;That knowledge, I know, is in vain;My “brolly” is not water-tight,But hopelessly rended in twainAnd spoilt by the rude hurricane!Though clad in a stout mackintosh,My temper I scarce can restrain—I think that a Ballade is bosh!Oh, I’m an unfortunate wight!The damp is affecting my brain;My woes I would gladly recite,In phrases emphatic and plain,Your sympathy could I obtain.I don’t think my verses will wash,They’re somewhat effete and inane—I think that a Ballade is bosh!Envoy.I fancy I’m getting insane,I’m over my ankles in slosh;But let me repeat the refrain—I think that a Ballade is bosh!THE VILLANELLE.(With Vexation.)I do not like the Villanelle,I think it somewhat of a bore—This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!The reason why I cannot tell;Each day I fancy, more and more,I do not like the Villanelle!It makes me stamp and storm and yell,It makes me wildly rage and roar:This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!I look upon it as a sell,Its use I constantly deplore;I do not like the Villanelle!Poetic thoughts it must dispel,It very often tries me sore:This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!For this I know, and know full well—Let me repeat it o’er and o’er!—I do not like the Villanelle,This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!THE TRIOLET.(In a Temper.)A triolet’s scarcely the thing—Unless you would carol in fetters!If lark-like you freely would sing,A Triolet’s scarcely the thing:I miss the poetical ring,I’m told that it has, by my betters!A Triolet’s scarcely the thing—Unless you would carol in fetters!THE RONDEAU.(In a Rage.)Pray tell me why we can’t agreeTo bid the merry Muse run free?Pray tell me why we should inclineTo see her in a Rondeau pine,Or sigh in shackled minstrelsy?Why can’t she sing with lark-like glee,And revel in brightjeux d’esprit?Where form can’t fetter or confine—Pray tell me why?Pray tell me why that frisky gee,Called Pegasus, should harnessed be?Why bit and bridle should combineTo all his liveliness consign,—To deck the Rondeau’s narrow line—Pray tell me why?

Bored by the Ballade, vexed by Villanelle,Of Rondeau tired, and Triolet as well!

Bored by the Ballade, vexed by Villanelle,

Of Rondeau tired, and Triolet as well!

(In Bad Weather.)

Oh! I’m in a terrible plight—For how can I rhyme in the rain?’Tis pouring from morn until night:So bad is the weather again,My language is almost profane!Though shod with the useful galosh,I’m racked with rheumatical pain—I think that a Ballade is bosh!

Oh! I’m in a terrible plight—

For how can I rhyme in the rain?

’Tis pouring from morn until night:

So bad is the weather again,

My language is almost profane!

Though shod with the useful galosh,

I’m racked with rheumatical pain—

I think that a Ballade is bosh!

I know I am looking a fright;That knowledge, I know, is in vain;My “brolly” is not water-tight,But hopelessly rended in twainAnd spoilt by the rude hurricane!Though clad in a stout mackintosh,My temper I scarce can restrain—I think that a Ballade is bosh!

I know I am looking a fright;

That knowledge, I know, is in vain;

My “brolly” is not water-tight,

But hopelessly rended in twain

And spoilt by the rude hurricane!

Though clad in a stout mackintosh,

My temper I scarce can restrain—

I think that a Ballade is bosh!

Oh, I’m an unfortunate wight!The damp is affecting my brain;My woes I would gladly recite,In phrases emphatic and plain,Your sympathy could I obtain.I don’t think my verses will wash,They’re somewhat effete and inane—I think that a Ballade is bosh!

Oh, I’m an unfortunate wight!

The damp is affecting my brain;

My woes I would gladly recite,

In phrases emphatic and plain,

Your sympathy could I obtain.

I don’t think my verses will wash,

They’re somewhat effete and inane—

I think that a Ballade is bosh!

I fancy I’m getting insane,I’m over my ankles in slosh;But let me repeat the refrain—I think that a Ballade is bosh!

I fancy I’m getting insane,

I’m over my ankles in slosh;

But let me repeat the refrain—

I think that a Ballade is bosh!

(With Vexation.)

I do not like the Villanelle,I think it somewhat of a bore—This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

I do not like the Villanelle,

I think it somewhat of a bore—

This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

The reason why I cannot tell;Each day I fancy, more and more,I do not like the Villanelle!

The reason why I cannot tell;

Each day I fancy, more and more,

I do not like the Villanelle!

It makes me stamp and storm and yell,It makes me wildly rage and roar:This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

It makes me stamp and storm and yell,

It makes me wildly rage and roar:

This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

I look upon it as a sell,Its use I constantly deplore;I do not like the Villanelle!

I look upon it as a sell,

Its use I constantly deplore;

I do not like the Villanelle!

Poetic thoughts it must dispel,It very often tries me sore:This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

Poetic thoughts it must dispel,

It very often tries me sore:

This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

For this I know, and know full well—Let me repeat it o’er and o’er!—I do not like the Villanelle,This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

For this I know, and know full well—

Let me repeat it o’er and o’er!—

I do not like the Villanelle,

This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

(In a Temper.)

A triolet’s scarcely the thing—Unless you would carol in fetters!If lark-like you freely would sing,A Triolet’s scarcely the thing:I miss the poetical ring,I’m told that it has, by my betters!A Triolet’s scarcely the thing—Unless you would carol in fetters!

A triolet’s scarcely the thing—

Unless you would carol in fetters!

If lark-like you freely would sing,

A Triolet’s scarcely the thing:

I miss the poetical ring,

I’m told that it has, by my betters!

A Triolet’s scarcely the thing—

Unless you would carol in fetters!

(In a Rage.)

Pray tell me why we can’t agreeTo bid the merry Muse run free?Pray tell me why we should inclineTo see her in a Rondeau pine,Or sigh in shackled minstrelsy?Why can’t she sing with lark-like glee,And revel in brightjeux d’esprit?Where form can’t fetter or confine—Pray tell me why?

Pray tell me why we can’t agree

To bid the merry Muse run free?

Pray tell me why we should incline

To see her in a Rondeau pine,

Or sigh in shackled minstrelsy?

Why can’t she sing with lark-like glee,

And revel in brightjeux d’esprit?

Where form can’t fetter or confine—

Pray tell me why?

Pray tell me why that frisky gee,Called Pegasus, should harnessed be?Why bit and bridle should combineTo all his liveliness consign,—To deck the Rondeau’s narrow line—Pray tell me why?

Pray tell me why that frisky gee,

Called Pegasus, should harnessed be?

Why bit and bridle should combine

To all his liveliness consign,—

To deck the Rondeau’s narrow line—

Pray tell me why?

A Simple Clearance under Protest.A Simple Clearance under Protest.

A Simple Clearance under Protest.

We learn from a report of the proceedings of the City Commissioners of Sewers last week, that those vigilant protectors of the health of our ancient City had before them a case that fairly puzzled them, and in its strangeness and difficulty would probably have puzzled even a more judicial body than they probably pretend to be. It would seem that they had received a note of warning from the eminent firm ofFrancis Peek & Co., that a large parcel of tea was about to be submitted to public auction which was “simple filth,” and utterly unfit for consumption.

A Commissioner stated that he was present at the Sale that morning, and that the whole quantity, consisting of 1000 Chests, had been sold, duty paid (it must have been cleared at the Custom House with or without protest), at one halfpenny per pound! The natural expectation was that the “simple filth” as it had been termed by experts, would be at once seized by the officials and destroyed, but this strange difficulty arose. The Medical Officer of Health stated that he had analyzed a sample of the tea in question, and could not swear before a Magistrate that it was unfit for use! He stated too, as a specimen of the wisdom of our legislators, that, by Act of Parliament, Tea was specially exempted from the operations of Public Analysts! So the willing Commissioners found themselves powerless to act, but referred the whole matter to their Sanitary Committee, who, we understand, will at their next meeting take tea, instead of luncheon, made from the remains of the sample, and report the result.

In the meantimeMr. Punch, ever ready to assist in a good cause, dispatched one of his City young men to make further inquiries, who reported that he had visited the Auction Mart on three successive days at lunch-time, and had asked one or two of the sharpest-looking of the crowd, as possible purchasers of the wondrous tea, to lunch with him, which they had willingly done; but, although he says he lunched them copiously, they one and all denied any knowledge of the tea sale in question.

“Shepherdv.Keevil.”—Mem; Christian maxim for a Pastor or Shepherd, “Do not think eevil of your neighbour.”

Pointing finger

NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

Transcriber’s notesOn page 181, “influenced” was missing the letter “d”, and on page 183, “enliten” was missing its first “e”. These have been corrected.On page 185, “Gringore” was changed to “Gringoire” for consistency.

On page 181, “influenced” was missing the letter “d”, and on page 183, “enliten” was missing its first “e”. These have been corrected.

On page 185, “Gringore” was changed to “Gringoire” for consistency.

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