"But just fancy the confusionWhen a bear has burst his fetters!"
"But just fancy the confusionWhen a bear has burst his fetters!"
"But just fancy the confusion
When a bear has burst his fetters!"
HEINE'sAtta Troll.
Oh! why does your eye gleam so bright?Russian Bear?Oh! why does your eye gleam so bright?You've broken your fetters. Like some of your betters,Your freedom moves some with affright.All right?Well,that's reassuring,—oh!quite!Yes, your optic gleams piggishly bright,Russian Bear;It gleams with true ursine delight.'Tis done—France is won, And 'tis capital funTo hold it in shackles, which, slight—Ho! ho!—Yet fit so remarkably tight.The chains may feel light as a thread,Russian Bear!As light and as slight as a thread;But though light be the chain. Will his might and his mainAgain rend it in twain? Fear is fled!Quite fled!And old animosity dead.Haw! haw!Nay, laugh not I pray you so loud,Russian Bear!Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear!Though sly is your smile The heart to beguile,Bruin's chuckle is horrid to hear,O dear!And makes quidnuncs quake and feel queer.You have quite turned the tables, that's true,Russian Bear,The dancer did use to beyou.Nowyouthump the tabor, And France, your "dear neighbour,"Seems game to dance on till all's blue.Hurroo!Alliancesarepretty things,Russian Bear!Seductive and promising things;That rat-a-tat-too, Which suggests a Review—Makes his legs whirl as swiftly as wings.How he springsAnd leaps to the wild whillaloo!You pipe and he dances this time,Russian Bear!The Bear and his Leader change places.Quicker and quicker he, Steps; Miss TERPSICHOREScarce could show prettier paces.Houp là!Atta Trollcould not rival his graces.He who pays for the Pipe calls the tune—Russian Bear!Pooh!thatold saw's quite obsolete.Just look at that stocking! What matters men's mocking?He'll pay, but your tune is so sweet—Rat-tat-too!—That it keeps him at work hands and feet!How long? That remains to be seen,Russian Bear;But in spite of political spleen,And Treaties and Fables, Youhaveturned the tables.Such sight is not frequently seen.You've slipped yourself out of your chains,Russian Bear;'Till hardly a shackle remainsIn Black Sea or Bosphorus. This may mean loss for us,Bruin cares not whilst he gains.Treaties and protocols irk,Russian Bear;And therefore are matters to shirk.Berlin and Paris, No longer must harassThis true friend of France—and the Turk.Hrumph! hrumph!Well, well, we shall see how 'twill work!
Oh! why does your eye gleam so bright?Russian Bear?Oh! why does your eye gleam so bright?You've broken your fetters. Like some of your betters,Your freedom moves some with affright.All right?Well,that's reassuring,—oh!quite!
Oh! why does your eye gleam so bright?
Russian Bear?
Oh! why does your eye gleam so bright?
You've broken your fetters. Like some of your betters,
Your freedom moves some with affright.
All right?
Well,that's reassuring,—oh!quite!
Yes, your optic gleams piggishly bright,Russian Bear;It gleams with true ursine delight.'Tis done—France is won, And 'tis capital funTo hold it in shackles, which, slight—Ho! ho!—Yet fit so remarkably tight.
Yes, your optic gleams piggishly bright,
Russian Bear;
It gleams with true ursine delight.
'Tis done—France is won, And 'tis capital fun
To hold it in shackles, which, slight—
Ho! ho!—
Yet fit so remarkably tight.
The chains may feel light as a thread,Russian Bear!As light and as slight as a thread;But though light be the chain. Will his might and his mainAgain rend it in twain? Fear is fled!Quite fled!And old animosity dead.Haw! haw!
The chains may feel light as a thread,
Russian Bear!
As light and as slight as a thread;
But though light be the chain. Will his might and his main
Again rend it in twain? Fear is fled!
Quite fled!
And old animosity dead.
Haw! haw!
Nay, laugh not I pray you so loud,Russian Bear!Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear!Though sly is your smile The heart to beguile,Bruin's chuckle is horrid to hear,O dear!And makes quidnuncs quake and feel queer.
Nay, laugh not I pray you so loud,
Russian Bear!
Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear!
Though sly is your smile The heart to beguile,
Bruin's chuckle is horrid to hear,
O dear!
And makes quidnuncs quake and feel queer.
You have quite turned the tables, that's true,Russian Bear,The dancer did use to beyou.Nowyouthump the tabor, And France, your "dear neighbour,"Seems game to dance on till all's blue.Hurroo!
You have quite turned the tables, that's true,
Russian Bear,
The dancer did use to beyou.
Nowyouthump the tabor, And France, your "dear neighbour,"
Seems game to dance on till all's blue.
Hurroo!
Alliancesarepretty things,Russian Bear!Seductive and promising things;That rat-a-tat-too, Which suggests a Review—Makes his legs whirl as swiftly as wings.How he springsAnd leaps to the wild whillaloo!
Alliancesarepretty things,
Russian Bear!
Seductive and promising things;
That rat-a-tat-too, Which suggests a Review—
Makes his legs whirl as swiftly as wings.
How he springs
And leaps to the wild whillaloo!
You pipe and he dances this time,Russian Bear!The Bear and his Leader change places.Quicker and quicker he, Steps; Miss TERPSICHOREScarce could show prettier paces.Houp là!Atta Trollcould not rival his graces.
You pipe and he dances this time,
Russian Bear!
The Bear and his Leader change places.
Quicker and quicker he, Steps; Miss TERPSICHORE
Scarce could show prettier paces.
Houp là!
Atta Trollcould not rival his graces.
He who pays for the Pipe calls the tune—Russian Bear!Pooh!thatold saw's quite obsolete.Just look at that stocking! What matters men's mocking?He'll pay, but your tune is so sweet—Rat-tat-too!—That it keeps him at work hands and feet!
He who pays for the Pipe calls the tune—
Russian Bear!
Pooh!thatold saw's quite obsolete.
Just look at that stocking! What matters men's mocking?
He'll pay, but your tune is so sweet—
Rat-tat-too!—
That it keeps him at work hands and feet!
How long? That remains to be seen,Russian Bear;But in spite of political spleen,And Treaties and Fables, Youhaveturned the tables.Such sight is not frequently seen.
How long? That remains to be seen,
Russian Bear;
But in spite of political spleen,
And Treaties and Fables, Youhaveturned the tables.
Such sight is not frequently seen.
You've slipped yourself out of your chains,Russian Bear;'Till hardly a shackle remainsIn Black Sea or Bosphorus. This may mean loss for us,Bruin cares not whilst he gains.
You've slipped yourself out of your chains,
Russian Bear;
'Till hardly a shackle remains
In Black Sea or Bosphorus. This may mean loss for us,
Bruin cares not whilst he gains.
Treaties and protocols irk,Russian Bear;And therefore are matters to shirk.Berlin and Paris, No longer must harassThis true friend of France—and the Turk.Hrumph! hrumph!Well, well, we shall see how 'twill work!
Treaties and protocols irk,
Russian Bear;
And therefore are matters to shirk.
Berlin and Paris, No longer must harass
This true friend of France—and the Turk.
Hrumph! hrumph!
Well, well, we shall see how 'twill work!
"HANGING THEOLOGY."—Readers of theTimeshave been for some time in a state of suspense—most appropriately—as to the result of the correspondence carried on by Lord GRIMTHORPE & Co. under the above heading. At all events the Editor of theTimeshas been giving his correspondents quite enough rope to ensure the proverbial termination of their epistolary existence.
'TURNING THE TABLES.'"TURNING THE TABLES."["The success of a Russian Loan is not dearly purchased by a little effusion, which, after all, commits Russia to nothing. French sentiment is always worth cultivating in that way, because, unlike the British variety, it has a distinct influence upon investments."—Daily Paper.]
["The success of a Russian Loan is not dearly purchased by a little effusion, which, after all, commits Russia to nothing. French sentiment is always worth cultivating in that way, because, unlike the British variety, it has a distinct influence upon investments."—Daily Paper.]
[Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE, in a letter to theTimes, attacks the logic and disputes the dogmas of the fanatical Teetotaller, and carries the war into the enemy's country by boldly asserting that "incalculable harm has been done to the average human organism, with its functions, which we are wont to classify as mental and physical, by the spread of teetotal views and practices."]
[Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE, in a letter to theTimes, attacks the logic and disputes the dogmas of the fanatical Teetotaller, and carries the war into the enemy's country by boldly asserting that "incalculable harm has been done to the average human organism, with its functions, which we are wont to classify as mental and physical, by the spread of teetotal views and practices."]
Oho! Doctor MORTIMER GRANVILLE,You are scarcely as bland as DE BANVILLE.On the Knights of the PumpYour assertions come thumpLike an old Cyclops' "sledge" on his anvil.Fanatical logicis"quisby";Each crank in his bonnet hashisbee.They swagger, dod rot'em!—Like loud BullyBottomWhen playing theThrasoto "Thisby."Total abstinence purely pernicious?Oh, Doctor, that's really delicious!That's turning the tablesOn faddists, whose fablesDo make the judicious suspicious.Your modest and moderate drinker,Who's also a fair-minded thinker,Would look in the faceThe fell scourge of our race.Sense from logic should not be a shrinker.But drinking and drunkenness, truly,Should not be confounded unduly.Fanatics here blunder;As far they're asunderAs Tempe and Ultima Thule!We thank you, whose lucid urbanityAssures us our favourite "vanity"(To quote cheery SAM)Neednotbe a "dram"To drive us to death or insanity.Good wine and sound ale have their uses,To distinguish 'twixt which and abusesThe clear-headed want;But illogical cantWill ne'er solve our worst socialcruces."Table waters and watery" wines, Sir,Don't cheer up a man when he dines, Sir.To gases and slops,And weak "fizzles," and "pops,"The weak stomach only inclines, Sir.Like teetotal cant, they're "depressing,"And if you can give them a dressing.With logic compact,Firmly founded on fact,Sober sense will bestow its best blessing.But drunkenness, Doctor is awful,'Tis that we could wish made unlawful.'Tis that which will prickA man's conscience when sickOf fanatics of flatulent jaw full.Your sots are sheer abominations,But they who deserve castigationsMuch more than poor "drunks,"Are those pestilent skunksWhopoison the people's potations!Good wine and sound ale need apology?No! But there's something to follow, G.!Distilling and BrewingMust work our undoingWhen branches of mere Toxicology!Good malt, hop, and grape, though fermented,May leave a man well and contented,But poisons infernal(See any Trade Journal!)Drive decent souls drunk and demented.Verb. sap.! You'll, excuse the suggestion.They soften brains, ruin digestion;Sap body and soul,In the (drugged) Flowing Bowl.There, Doctor, 's the real Drink Question!Meanwhile,Punchadmires your plain speaking.Enough of evasion and sneaking!Let fact, logic stout,And sound pluck fight it out.Truth's "at home" to right valorous seeking.Of course, my dear Doctor, you'll catch it.The Pump is aggressive; you match it.Whoever proves right,Your pluck starts a good fight,AndPunchis delighted to watch it!
Oho! Doctor MORTIMER GRANVILLE,You are scarcely as bland as DE BANVILLE.On the Knights of the PumpYour assertions come thumpLike an old Cyclops' "sledge" on his anvil.
Oho! Doctor MORTIMER GRANVILLE,
You are scarcely as bland as DE BANVILLE.
On the Knights of the Pump
Your assertions come thump
Like an old Cyclops' "sledge" on his anvil.
Fanatical logicis"quisby";Each crank in his bonnet hashisbee.They swagger, dod rot'em!—Like loud BullyBottomWhen playing theThrasoto "Thisby."
Fanatical logicis"quisby";
Each crank in his bonnet hashisbee.
They swagger, dod rot'em!—
Like loud BullyBottom
When playing theThrasoto "Thisby."
Total abstinence purely pernicious?Oh, Doctor, that's really delicious!That's turning the tablesOn faddists, whose fablesDo make the judicious suspicious.
Total abstinence purely pernicious?
Oh, Doctor, that's really delicious!
That's turning the tables
On faddists, whose fables
Do make the judicious suspicious.
Your modest and moderate drinker,Who's also a fair-minded thinker,Would look in the faceThe fell scourge of our race.Sense from logic should not be a shrinker.
Your modest and moderate drinker,
Who's also a fair-minded thinker,
Would look in the face
The fell scourge of our race.
Sense from logic should not be a shrinker.
But drinking and drunkenness, truly,Should not be confounded unduly.Fanatics here blunder;As far they're asunderAs Tempe and Ultima Thule!
But drinking and drunkenness, truly,
Should not be confounded unduly.
Fanatics here blunder;
As far they're asunder
As Tempe and Ultima Thule!
We thank you, whose lucid urbanityAssures us our favourite "vanity"(To quote cheery SAM)Neednotbe a "dram"To drive us to death or insanity.
We thank you, whose lucid urbanity
Assures us our favourite "vanity"
(To quote cheery SAM)
Neednotbe a "dram"
To drive us to death or insanity.
Good wine and sound ale have their uses,To distinguish 'twixt which and abusesThe clear-headed want;But illogical cantWill ne'er solve our worst socialcruces.
Good wine and sound ale have their uses,
To distinguish 'twixt which and abuses
The clear-headed want;
But illogical cant
Will ne'er solve our worst socialcruces.
"Table waters and watery" wines, Sir,Don't cheer up a man when he dines, Sir.To gases and slops,And weak "fizzles," and "pops,"The weak stomach only inclines, Sir.
"Table waters and watery" wines, Sir,
Don't cheer up a man when he dines, Sir.
To gases and slops,
And weak "fizzles," and "pops,"
The weak stomach only inclines, Sir.
Like teetotal cant, they're "depressing,"And if you can give them a dressing.With logic compact,Firmly founded on fact,Sober sense will bestow its best blessing.
Like teetotal cant, they're "depressing,"
And if you can give them a dressing.
With logic compact,
Firmly founded on fact,
Sober sense will bestow its best blessing.
But drunkenness, Doctor is awful,'Tis that we could wish made unlawful.'Tis that which will prickA man's conscience when sickOf fanatics of flatulent jaw full.
But drunkenness, Doctor is awful,
'Tis that we could wish made unlawful.
'Tis that which will prick
A man's conscience when sick
Of fanatics of flatulent jaw full.
Your sots are sheer abominations,But they who deserve castigationsMuch more than poor "drunks,"Are those pestilent skunksWhopoison the people's potations!
Your sots are sheer abominations,
But they who deserve castigations
Much more than poor "drunks,"
Are those pestilent skunks
Whopoison the people's potations!
Good wine and sound ale need apology?No! But there's something to follow, G.!Distilling and BrewingMust work our undoingWhen branches of mere Toxicology!
Good wine and sound ale need apology?
No! But there's something to follow, G.!
Distilling and Brewing
Must work our undoing
When branches of mere Toxicology!
Good malt, hop, and grape, though fermented,May leave a man well and contented,But poisons infernal(See any Trade Journal!)Drive decent souls drunk and demented.
Good malt, hop, and grape, though fermented,
May leave a man well and contented,
But poisons infernal
(See any Trade Journal!)
Drive decent souls drunk and demented.
Verb. sap.! You'll, excuse the suggestion.They soften brains, ruin digestion;Sap body and soul,In the (drugged) Flowing Bowl.There, Doctor, 's the real Drink Question!
Verb. sap.! You'll, excuse the suggestion.
They soften brains, ruin digestion;
Sap body and soul,
In the (drugged) Flowing Bowl.
There, Doctor, 's the real Drink Question!
Meanwhile,Punchadmires your plain speaking.Enough of evasion and sneaking!Let fact, logic stout,And sound pluck fight it out.Truth's "at home" to right valorous seeking.
Meanwhile,Punchadmires your plain speaking.
Enough of evasion and sneaking!
Let fact, logic stout,
And sound pluck fight it out.
Truth's "at home" to right valorous seeking.
Of course, my dear Doctor, you'll catch it.The Pump is aggressive; you match it.Whoever proves right,Your pluck starts a good fight,AndPunchis delighted to watch it!
Of course, my dear Doctor, you'll catch it.
The Pump is aggressive; you match it.
Whoever proves right,
Your pluck starts a good fight,
AndPunchis delighted to watch it!
["When women no longer interest themselves in silks and satins, ribbons and furbelows, it will be an infallible sign that the great drama of humanity is at length played out, and that the lights are to be turned down, and the house left to silence and the dark."—Daily Chronicle.]
["When women no longer interest themselves in silks and satins, ribbons and furbelows, it will be an infallible sign that the great drama of humanity is at length played out, and that the lights are to be turned down, and the house left to silence and the dark."—Daily Chronicle.]
Lo! 'tis a gala nightWithin the "Rational" latter years!A female throng, dowdy, bedightIn veils, and drowned in tears,Sits in a theatre, to seeA play of hopes and fears,Whilst the orchestra breathes fitfullyThe music of the spheres.
Lo! 'tis a gala nightWithin the "Rational" latter years!A female throng, dowdy, bedightIn veils, and drowned in tears,Sits in a theatre, to seeA play of hopes and fears,Whilst the orchestra breathes fitfullyThe music of the spheres.
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the "Rational" latter years!
A female throng, dowdy, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sits in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
Whilst the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, dressed in fashion now gone by,Mutter and mumble low,And hither and thither fly:Mere puppets they who come and goAt the bidding of a huge formless ThingThat shifts the scenery to and fro,Ruling the World from flat and wing—Paris and Pimlico!
Mimes, dressed in fashion now gone by,Mutter and mumble low,And hither and thither fly:Mere puppets they who come and goAt the bidding of a huge formless ThingThat shifts the scenery to and fro,Ruling the World from flat and wing—Paris and Pimlico!
Mimes, dressed in fashion now gone by,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly:
Mere puppets they who come and go
At the bidding of a huge formless Thing
That shifts the scenery to and fro,
Ruling the World from flat and wing—
Paris and Pimlico!
That motley drama—oh, be sureIt shall not be forgot!With its Phantom chased for evermoreBy a crowd that seize it not,Through a circle that ever returneth inTo the self-same spot;With much of Folly, and waste of Tin,And Vanity soul of the plot.
That motley drama—oh, be sureIt shall not be forgot!With its Phantom chased for evermoreBy a crowd that seize it not,Through a circle that ever returneth inTo the self-same spot;With much of Folly, and waste of Tin,And Vanity soul of the plot.
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot;
With much of Folly, and waste of Tin,
And Vanity soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic routA mystic shape intrude!A formless thing that writhes from outThe scenic solitude!It writhes! it squirms!—with mortal pangs,Mocked at by laughter rude;There's no more snap in its sharp fangs,Which once that crowd subdued.
But see, amid the mimic routA mystic shape intrude!A formless thing that writhes from outThe scenic solitude!It writhes! it squirms!—with mortal pangs,Mocked at by laughter rude;There's no more snap in its sharp fangs,Which once that crowd subdued.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A mystic shape intrude!
A formless thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes! it squirms!—with mortal pangs,
Mocked at by laughter rude;
There's no more snap in its sharp fangs,
Which once that crowd subdued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!And over each pallid form,The curtain, Mode's funeral pall,Comes down amidst hisses in storm;And the audience, dowdy, but human,Uprising proclaim, with wild mirth,That the play is the Comedy "Woman,"And the hero the conquered "WORTH."
Out—out are the lights—out all!And over each pallid form,The curtain, Mode's funeral pall,Comes down amidst hisses in storm;And the audience, dowdy, but human,Uprising proclaim, with wild mirth,That the play is the Comedy "Woman,"And the hero the conquered "WORTH."
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each pallid form,
The curtain, Mode's funeral pall,
Comes down amidst hisses in storm;
And the audience, dowdy, but human,
Uprising proclaim, with wild mirth,
That the play is the Comedy "Woman,"
And the hero the conquered "WORTH."
It is a noticeable thingThat when Kent bines produce their crop,Swelldom is always "on the wing,"And Slumdom "on the Hop"!
It is a noticeable thingThat when Kent bines produce their crop,Swelldom is always "on the wing,"And Slumdom "on the Hop"!
It is a noticeable thing
That when Kent bines produce their crop,
Swelldom is always "on the wing,"
And Slumdom "on the Hop"!
[It is stated that rain may be brought down by the explosion of dynamite and blasting-powder attached to oxyhydrogen balloons and kite-tails.]
[It is stated that rain may be brought down by the explosion of dynamite and blasting-powder attached to oxyhydrogen balloons and kite-tails.]
Evening red and morning greyWill send the traveller on his way;But—blasting-powder on kites' tails spread,Will bring down rain upon his head.
Evening red and morning greyWill send the traveller on his way;But—blasting-powder on kites' tails spread,Will bring down rain upon his head.
Evening red and morning grey
Will send the traveller on his way;
But—blasting-powder on kites' tails spread,
Will bring down rain upon his head.
If dynamite would bringfineweather,Scientists might be in fine feather,As 'tis, I sing, to the schoolboy tune,"Yah-bah! (oxyhydrogen) balloon!"
If dynamite would bringfineweather,Scientists might be in fine feather,As 'tis, I sing, to the schoolboy tune,"Yah-bah! (oxyhydrogen) balloon!"
If dynamite would bringfineweather,
Scientists might be in fine feather,
As 'tis, I sing, to the schoolboy tune,
"Yah-bah! (oxyhydrogen) balloon!"
Father. And now, my dear Son, I must ask you for your rent.
Son. But surely, Father, I am entitled to a room in your house?
Father. Out of my love and affection; but this is a matter of business; and, if you desire to be a Voter, you must behave as such.
Son. But I have had some difficulty in scraping up enough to pay you.
Father. Surely, eighteen shillings a-week is a reasonable sum for an apartment, however small, in Mayfair?
Son. I do not deny it; still it seems hard that I should be mulcted to that extent some fifty times a-year.
Father. I cannot see the hardship,northe money!
Son. If you really want it, it is here.
[Produces a pocket-book, from which he takes sufficient change to satisfy the claim.
[Produces a pocket-book, from which he takes sufficient change to satisfy the claim.
Father(pocketing coin). Thank you; and now we may say, adieu!
Son. But how about dinner—am I not to dine with you?
Father. Dine with me! What an idea! Why should you?
Son. Because I am your Son.
Father. You mean someone infinitely more important—my Lodger.
Son. And you absolutely refuse me food?
Father. Not I, my boy; not I! It is the law! If I was to give you what you ask, you and I would be had up for bribery.
Son. Then you prefer patriotism to paternal affection?
Father. Well, to be candid with you, I do! It is distinctly cheaper!
HIRSCH! HIRSCH! HIRSCH!Here comes the Bogie Man!He wants to help the Hebrews; he'll catch them if he can.HIRSCH! HIRSCH! HIRSCH!He's hit upon a plan,And all the persecutors cry, "Here comes the Bogie Man!"
HIRSCH! HIRSCH! HIRSCH!Here comes the Bogie Man!He wants to help the Hebrews; he'll catch them if he can.HIRSCH! HIRSCH! HIRSCH!He's hit upon a plan,And all the persecutors cry, "Here comes the Bogie Man!"
HIRSCH! HIRSCH! HIRSCH!
Here comes the Bogie Man!
He wants to help the Hebrews; he'll catch them if he can.
HIRSCH! HIRSCH! HIRSCH!
He's hit upon a plan,
And all the persecutors cry, "Here comes the Bogie Man!"
DOWNEY has photographed "the FIFES" at home.Aha! Domestic music! FIFE and "drum "!
DOWNEY has photographed "the FIFES" at home.Aha! Domestic music! FIFE and "drum "!
DOWNEY has photographed "the FIFES" at home.
Aha! Domestic music! FIFE and "drum "!
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR. A LITTLE HOLIDAY IN WALES.MR. PUNCH ON TOUR. A LITTLE HOLIDAY IN WALES.
Ah! I was fogged by the Materialistic,By HUXLEY and by ZOLA, KOCH and MOORE;And now there comes a Maëlstrom of the Mystic,To whirl me further yet from sense's shore.Microbes were much too much for me, bacilliBewildered me, and phagocytes did daze,But now the author 'cute of "Piccadilly,"HARRIS the Prophet, the BLAVATSKY craze,Thibet, Theosophy, and Bounding Brothers—No, Mystic Ones—Mahatmas Ishouldsay,But really they seem so much like the othersIn slippery agility!—day by dayMystify me yet more. Those germs were bad enough,But what are they compared with Astral Bodies?Of Useless Knowledge I have almost had enough,I really envy uninquiring noddies,I would not be a Chela if I could.I have a horror of the Esoterical.BESANT and OLCOTTmaybe wise and good,They seem to me pursuing the chimerical.Maddened by mysteries of "Precipitation,"The Occult Dream and the Bacillus-Dance;We need Societies for the propagationOf Useful—Ignorance!
Ah! I was fogged by the Materialistic,By HUXLEY and by ZOLA, KOCH and MOORE;And now there comes a Maëlstrom of the Mystic,To whirl me further yet from sense's shore.Microbes were much too much for me, bacilliBewildered me, and phagocytes did daze,But now the author 'cute of "Piccadilly,"HARRIS the Prophet, the BLAVATSKY craze,Thibet, Theosophy, and Bounding Brothers—No, Mystic Ones—Mahatmas Ishouldsay,But really they seem so much like the othersIn slippery agility!—day by dayMystify me yet more. Those germs were bad enough,But what are they compared with Astral Bodies?Of Useless Knowledge I have almost had enough,I really envy uninquiring noddies,I would not be a Chela if I could.I have a horror of the Esoterical.BESANT and OLCOTTmaybe wise and good,They seem to me pursuing the chimerical.Maddened by mysteries of "Precipitation,"The Occult Dream and the Bacillus-Dance;We need Societies for the propagationOf Useful—Ignorance!
Ah! I was fogged by the Materialistic,
By HUXLEY and by ZOLA, KOCH and MOORE;
And now there comes a Maëlstrom of the Mystic,
To whirl me further yet from sense's shore.
Microbes were much too much for me, bacilli
Bewildered me, and phagocytes did daze,
But now the author 'cute of "Piccadilly,"
HARRIS the Prophet, the BLAVATSKY craze,
Thibet, Theosophy, and Bounding Brothers—
No, Mystic Ones—Mahatmas Ishouldsay,
But really they seem so much like the others
In slippery agility!—day by day
Mystify me yet more. Those germs were bad enough,
But what are they compared with Astral Bodies?
Of Useless Knowledge I have almost had enough,
I really envy uninquiring noddies,
I would not be a Chela if I could.
I have a horror of the Esoterical.
BESANT and OLCOTTmaybe wise and good,
They seem to me pursuing the chimerical.
Maddened by mysteries of "Precipitation,"
The Occult Dream and the Bacillus-Dance;
We need Societies for the propagation
Of Useful—Ignorance!
Sir,—We need not go so far afield as Messrs. HALIBURTON & CO. in search of dwarfs. In the suburbs of London, and even in the more densely-populated districts of this vast Metropolis, there are numbers of people who are uncommonly short. About quarter-day these extraordinary individuals may be heard of, but are rarely seen; which fact, however, affords no proof of their non-existence.
Yours, TAXOS GATHEROS.
LATEST PUBLICATION (OF THE POLITICAL NATURAL HISTORY SERIES).—Curious Development of French Froggies into Toadies of Russia.
'WHEN A MAN DOES NOT LOOK HIS BEST.'--No. 1."WHEN A MAN DOES NOT LOOK HIS BEST."—No. 1.WHEN HE MAGNANIMOUSLY CONSENTS TO GO ON THE PLATFORM AT A CONJURING PERFORMANCE, AND UNWONTED OBJECTS ARE PRODUCED FROM HIS INSIDE POCKETS.
Dear Dr. GRACE, the season throughYou've struggled on, and striven gamely;Your leg, for all you've tried to do,Has made your record come out lamely;Your county suffers, too, with you;Your failures very dear have cost her.But better luck in 'ninety-twoTo you, old friend, and good old Gloucester!
Dear Dr. GRACE, the season throughYou've struggled on, and striven gamely;Your leg, for all you've tried to do,Has made your record come out lamely;Your county suffers, too, with you;Your failures very dear have cost her.But better luck in 'ninety-twoTo you, old friend, and good old Gloucester!
Dear Dr. GRACE, the season through
You've struggled on, and striven gamely;
Your leg, for all you've tried to do,
Has made your record come out lamely;
Your county suffers, too, with you;
Your failures very dear have cost her.
But better luck in 'ninety-two
To you, old friend, and good old Gloucester!
And so PETER, learning that the veteran Alchymist was to be seen on the presentation of a small coin of the realm, approached the old man's residence. He had heard that the Sage had discovered the secret of immortality—barring accidents, he would live for ever.
"Now that JOSEPHINE is true to me," he murmured, "I have no objection to a further century of existence, or even two."
And he continued his walk. He had never seen so many taverns in his life. On every side of him were distilleries, public-houses, and beer-shops. He marvelled that a man of so many summers should have chosen such a bibulous spot for his home.
"He must be exceedingly eccentric," he thought to himself; "however, that is nothing to me. If he can teach me how to live continuously, this bag of gold, now mine, shall change masters."
The small coin of the realm was presented, and PETER stood face to face with the Sage of the Ages.
"What do you want?" asked the ancient Alchymist, with a glistening eye. "What d'ye want with an old man—a very old man?" And the Sage wept.
"I meant not this," remonstrated PETER, greatly distressed at the incident. "I came here merely to crave your aid. I wish to live now, for JOSEPHINE is true to me."
"Who's JOSEPHINE?" asked the Sage, in the same thick voice. "Never heard of JOSEPHINE. JOSEPHINE's bore—swindle! Old JOSEPHINE's jolly humbug!"
"Well, let that pass," said PETER, "I am here to ask you why you have lived so long. You are one hundred and twenty-seven years old, I think, and yet you are still alive."
"Why, certainly. But you know all about it. Secret no longer. Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE has told theTimeshow it's done. Consider it great shame. Takes the bread, so t' speak, out of one's mouth." Here the Sage gave a lurch and seated himself accidentally on a stuffed alligator. Seeing that his host was about to indulge in an untimely nap, PETER thought the moment had arrived to urge him to reveal his wonderful secret. "I implore you to tell me how you have managed to live for so many years when all your contemporaries are gone."
"Well, sure I don't mind," was the reply. "Won't hurt me—may do you good. Want to know how it's managed?"
"That I do, indeed," was the earnest answer,
"Why reason I've lived for more than century and quarter is this! I've never been—mind, never been during all that time—see—during all that time—never been sober!"
PETER was astounded.
"Why, Sir WILFRID LAWSON says—" he began.
"Never mind what Sir WILF-LAWSON says, I say if you want, keep your health you must—hic—always—be—in—in—intoxicavated! Now go to public-house. My patients in public-houses yonder."
And, urged by a sense of duty, PETER withdrew; and, joining the Sage's cures, found them in various stages of renewed health, and increased intoxication.
'Tis a very good land that we live inTo lend, or to lose, or to give in;But tosell—at a profit—or keep a man's own,'Tis the very worst country that ever was known.Men give cash for their wines, wives, weeds, churches and cooks,But your genuine Britonwon'tpay for his—Books!
'Tis a very good land that we live inTo lend, or to lose, or to give in;But tosell—at a profit—or keep a man's own,'Tis the very worst country that ever was known.Men give cash for their wines, wives, weeds, churches and cooks,But your genuine Britonwon'tpay for his—Books!
'Tis a very good land that we live in
To lend, or to lose, or to give in;
But tosell—at a profit—or keep a man's own,
'Tis the very worst country that ever was known.
Men give cash for their wines, wives, weeds, churches and cooks,
But your genuine Britonwon'tpay for his—Books!
Since my call to the Bar, have been treating myself to rather a long roll abroad. Now, however, the time has come to devote myself to the work of the profession, which seems to mean studying practical law with some discreet and learned Barrister.
Dick Fibbins.Dick Fibbins.
Met a few nights ago, at dinner, a very entertaining fellow. Full of legal anecdotes. Told that it was DICK FIBBINS, a Barrister, "and rather a rising one." DICK (why not RICHARD?) talked about County Courts with condescending tolerance; even the High Court Judges seemed (according to his own account) to habitually quail before his forensic acumen.
Mentioned to FIBBINS that I had just been "called," and was "thinking of reading in a Barrister's chambers;" and he seemed to take the most friendly and generous interest in me at once—asked me, indeed, to call on him any day I liked at his chambers in Waste Paper Buildings, which I thought extremely kind, as I was a complete stranger.
Go next day. Clerk, with impressive manner, receives me with due regard to his principal's legal standing. (Query—has arisingBarrister any standing?) Ushered into large room, surrounded with shelves containing, I imagine, the Law Reports from the Flood downwards. Just thinking what an excellent "oldest inhabitant" METHUSELAH would have made in a "Right of Way" case, when DICK FIBBINS rises from the wooden arm-chair on which he has been sitting at a table crowded with papers, and bundles tied up in dirty red tape, and shakes hands heartily.
"What's your line of country?" he asks—"Equity or Common Law?"
I admit that it's Common Law. Have momentary feeling that Equity sounds better, WhyCommonLaw?
"Quite right," he says, encouragingly; "much the best branch.Iam a Common-Law man too." Refers to it as if it were a moral virtue on his—and my—part to have avoided Equity. Wonder if Equity men talk in this way about "Common" Lawyers? If so, oughtn't there to be moreesprit de corpsin the Profession?
"Been before old PROSER, Queen's Bench Division, to-day," he proceeds. "Do you ever sit in Court?"
I reluctantly confess that I have not made an habitual point of doing so.
"Ah," he says, finding that I can't contradict him as to what did really happen in old PROSER's Court to-day; "youshouldhave been there just now. Had BLOWHARD, the great Q.C., opposed to me. But, bless you, he couldn't do anything to speak of against my arguments. PROSER really hardly would listen to him once or twice. Made BLOWHARD quite lose his temper, I assure you."
"So he lost his case, too, I suppose?" I remark, humorously.
"Um," replies FIBBINS, sinking into despondency, "not exactly. PROSER didn't quite like to decideagainstBLOWHARD, you know; so he—so he—er—decidedforhim, in fact. Of course we appeal. It won't," goes on FIBBINS, more cheerfully, "do BLOWHARD's clients a bit of good. Only run their bill up. I'm safe to win before the Court of Appeal. Lord Justice GRILL a first-rate lawyer—sure to reverse old PROSER. I can," he ends with conscious pride, "twist GRILL round my finger, so to speak."
The idea of twisting a Lord Justice round one's finger impresses me still more with DICK FIBBINS's legal genius. How lucky I am to have made his acquaintance! Feel impelled to ask, as I do rather nervously, not knowing if a bitter disappointment does not await me.
"Do you—er—take legal pupils ever?"
I feel that I've put it in a way that sounds like asking him if he indulges in drink. But FIBBINS evidently not offended. He answers briskly, with engaging candour.
"Well, to tell you the truth, though I've often been asked to—quite pestered about it, in fact—I've never done so hitherto. The Solicitors don't like it quite—makes 'em think one is wasting the time which ought to be given to their briefs on one's own pups—I mean pupils."
Perhaps, after all, FIBBINS will dash my hopes (of becoming his "pup!"Query, isn't the wordinfra dig.—or merely "pleasantly colloquial?") to the ground.
"I was," I say boldly, "going to ask you if you would letmeread with you."
"Were you?" replies DICK, apparently intensely astonished at the idea; "By Jove! I should be really sorry to disappointyou. Yes," he goes on in a burst of generosity, "I will make room for you—there!"
This is really kind of DICK FIBBINS. We finally arrange that I am to come in two days' time—at the usual, and rather pretentious, fee of one hundred guineas for a year's "coaching"—and begin work.
"You'll see some good cases with me—good fighting cases," FIBBINS remarks, as I take my leave. "When there are no briefs, why, you can read up the Law Reports, you know. My books are quite at your disposal."
"But," I remark, a little surprised at that hint about no briefs—I thought DICK FIBBINS had more than he knew what to do with—"I suppose—er—there's plenty of business going on here?"
"Oh, heaps," replies FIBBINS, hastily. Then, as if to do away with any bad impression which his thoughtless observation about no briefs might have occasioned in my mind, he says, heartily,—
"And, when I take old PROSER up to the Court of Appeal,you shall come too, and hear me argue!"
I express suitable gratitude—but isn't it rather "contempt of Court" on FIBBINS's part to talk about "taking up" a Judge?—and feel, as I depart, that I shall soon see something of the real inner life of the Profession.
MARLOWE, your "mighty line"Though worthy of a darling of the Nine,Has—in quotation—many a reader riled.Like SHAKSPEARE's "wood-notes wild,"And POPE's "lisped numbers," it becomes a boreWhen hackneyed o'er and o'erBy every petty scribe and criticaster.Yet we must own you masterOf the magnificent and magniloquent.And modern playwrights might be well contentWere they but dowered with passion, fancy, wit,Like great ill-fated "KIT."
MARLOWE, your "mighty line"Though worthy of a darling of the Nine,Has—in quotation—many a reader riled.Like SHAKSPEARE's "wood-notes wild,"And POPE's "lisped numbers," it becomes a boreWhen hackneyed o'er and o'erBy every petty scribe and criticaster.Yet we must own you masterOf the magnificent and magniloquent.And modern playwrights might be well contentWere they but dowered with passion, fancy, wit,Like great ill-fated "KIT."
MARLOWE, your "mighty line"
Though worthy of a darling of the Nine,
Has—in quotation—many a reader riled.
Like SHAKSPEARE's "wood-notes wild,"
And POPE's "lisped numbers," it becomes a bore
When hackneyed o'er and o'er
By every petty scribe and criticaster.
Yet we must own you master
Of the magnificent and magniloquent.
And modern playwrights might be well content
Were they but dowered with passion, fancy, wit,
Like great ill-fated "KIT."
She. What do you know about MARLOWE?
He. Isn't it somewhere near Taplow?
She. I think not, because Mr. IRVING went to unveil MARLOWE, and I don't think he is a rowing-man.
He. But he may be doing it for Sir MORELL MACKENZIE, who has a place at Wargrave.
She. Yes, but then the papers would have said something about it—wouldn't they?
He. Very likely; they would say anything in the silly season.
She. Well, I know all about MARLOWE now. He was a great poet—greater than SHAKSPEARE, or thereabouts.
He. Always thought that they would find some fellow greater than SHAKSPEARE. SHAKSPEARE always bores me awfully. But what didthisfellow write?
She. Oh, lots of things!Faust, amongst the rest.
He. Come, that must be wrong, forFaustwas written by GOUNOD. Wasn't it?
She. Now! I come to think of it, I suppose it was—or BERLIOZ.
He. Yes, they did it together. But where does MARLOWE come in?
She. Well, I am not quite sure.
He. You had better write to Mr. IRVING about it; he will tell you. He's awfully well up in the subject. As for me, I'm still under the impression that Marlow is somewhere on the river.
Writers can't speak in public. So says WALTER.They mumble, stumble, hammer, stammer, falter!BESANT, why grumble at fate's distribution?To writers, sense; to speakers, elocution!Some books are bosh, but all experience teaches"Rot's" native realm is—After-dinner Speeches!
Writers can't speak in public. So says WALTER.They mumble, stumble, hammer, stammer, falter!BESANT, why grumble at fate's distribution?To writers, sense; to speakers, elocution!Some books are bosh, but all experience teaches"Rot's" native realm is—After-dinner Speeches!
Writers can't speak in public. So says WALTER.
They mumble, stumble, hammer, stammer, falter!
BESANT, why grumble at fate's distribution?
To writers, sense; to speakers, elocution!
Some books are bosh, but all experience teaches
"Rot's" native realm is—After-dinner Speeches!
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