TO A WOULD-BE AUTHORESS.

O the brave fisher's lifeIt is the best of any!He who'd mar it with mere strifeSure must be a zany.Other men,Now and then,Have their wars,And their jars;Our rule stillIs goodwillAs we gaily angle.We have hooks about our hat,We have rod and gaff too;We can cast and we can chat,Play our fish and chaff too.None do hereUse to swear,Oathes do frayFish away.Our rule stilIs goodwill.Fishers must not rangle.

Second Piscator.Well sung, brother! Oh me, but even at our peaceful and vertuous pastime, there bee certain contentious and obstructive spoil-sports now. These abide not good old Anglers' Law, but bob and splash in other people's swims, fray away the fish they cannot catch, and desire not that experter anglers should, do muddy the stream and block its course, do net and poach and foul-hook in such noisy, conscienceless, unmannerly sort, that even honest angling becometh a bitter labour and aggravation.

First Piscator.Marry, yes brother! the Contemplative Man's Recreation is verily not what it once was. What would the sweet singer, Mr.William Basse, say to the busy B's of our day;DubartastoB-rtl-y, or Mr.Thomas Barker, of pleasant report, toTommy B-wl-s?

Second Piscator.Or worthy oldCottonto the cockyMacullum More?

First Piscator.Or the equally cockyBrummagem Boy?

Second Piscator.Or DameJuliana BernerstoB-lf-ur?

First Piscator.Or SirHumphrey Davyto the haughty autocrat ofH-tf-ld?

Second Piscator.Wel, wel, I hate contention and obstruction and all unsportsmanlike devices—when I am fishing.

First Piscator.And so say I. (Sings.)

The Peers are full of prejudice,As hath too oft been tri'd;High trolollie lollie loe,high trolollie lee!

Second Piscator.The Commons full of opulence,

And both are full of pride.Then care awayand fish along with me!

First Piscator.Marry, brother, and would that I could always do so. But doomed as we often are to angle in different swims, I may not always land the big fish that you hook, or even——

Second Piscator.Wel, honest scholer, say no more about it, but let us count and weigh our day's catch. By Jove, but that bigge one I landed after soe long a fight, and which you were so luckie as to gaff in that verie snaggy and swirly pool itselfe, maketh a right brave show on the grassie bank! And harkye, scholer, 'tis a far finer and rarer fish than manie woule suppose at first sight!

[Chuckleth inwardly.

First Piscator.You say true, master. And indeed the other fish, though of lesser bigness, bee by no manner of meanes to be sneezed at. Marry, Master, 'tis none so poor a day's sport after all—considering the weather and the much obstruction, eh?

Second Piscator.May bee not, may bee not! Stil, I could fain wish, honest scholer, you had safely landed those two bigge ones you lost in Peers' Pool, out of which awkward bit of water, indeed, I could fain desire we might keepallour fish!

COUNTING THE CATCH.Rosebery."NOT SUCH A BAD DAY AFTER ALL!"Harcourt."NO! WISH YOU'D LANDEDTHOSE OTHERSALL THE SAME!!"

COUNTING THE CATCH.

Rosebery."NOT SUCH A BAD DAY AFTER ALL!"Harcourt."NO! WISH YOU'D LANDEDTHOSE OTHERSALL THE SAME!!"

TO A WOULD-BE AUTHORESS.Though,Maud, I respect your ambition,I fear, to be brutally plain,No proud and exalted positionYour stories are likely to gain;

Though,Maud, I respect your ambition,I fear, to be brutally plain,No proud and exalted positionYour stories are likely to gain;

And, frankly, I cannot pretend IRegard with the smallest delightThe vilecacoëthes scribendiWhich led you to write.Your talk is most charming, I know it,You readily fascinate all,But yet as a serious poetYour worth, I'm afraid, is but small;Your features, though well-nigh perfection,Of the obstacle hardly disposeThat you haven't the faintest conceptionOf how to write prose!You think it would be so delightfulTo see your productions in print?Well, do not consider me spitefulFor daring discreetly to hintThat in this too-crowded profession,Where prizes are fewer than blanks,You'll find the laconic expression,"Rejected—with thanks."And so, since you do me the pleasureTo ask for my candid advice,Allow for your moments of leisureSome other pursuit to suffice;And, if you would really befriend me,One wish I will humbly confess,—Oh, do not continue to send meThose reams of MS.!

And, frankly, I cannot pretend IRegard with the smallest delightThe vilecacoëthes scribendiWhich led you to write.

Your talk is most charming, I know it,You readily fascinate all,But yet as a serious poetYour worth, I'm afraid, is but small;Your features, though well-nigh perfection,Of the obstacle hardly disposeThat you haven't the faintest conceptionOf how to write prose!

You think it would be so delightfulTo see your productions in print?Well, do not consider me spitefulFor daring discreetly to hintThat in this too-crowded profession,Where prizes are fewer than blanks,You'll find the laconic expression,"Rejected—with thanks."

And so, since you do me the pleasureTo ask for my candid advice,Allow for your moments of leisureSome other pursuit to suffice;And, if you would really befriend me,One wish I will humbly confess,—Oh, do not continue to send meThose reams of MS.!

A MODERN TRAGEDY.Our hostess told us off in pairs,I had not caught my partner's name,But learned, when half way down the stairs,She long had been a Primrose Dame;And, ere the soup was out of sight,She'd found, and left behind, her text onA speech, if I remember right,Attributed to Mr.Sexton.And I—I sat and gasped awhile,And only when we reached the pheasant,Assuming my politest smile,And with an air distinctly pleasant,Attempted firmly to directHer flow of talk to other channels,Books—shops—the latest stage-effect—The newest ways of painting panels.I tried in vain. "Ah, yes," she said,"And that reminds me—this Dissent"—And thereupon began, instead,Discussing Disestablishment!The case was clearly hopeless, soI hazarded no more suggestions,But merely answered Yes or NoAt random, to her frequent questions.Yet, while that gushing torrent ran,I made a solemn private vowThat, though no ardent partisan,Those Ministers I'll vote for nowWho'll introduce a drastic billTo bring about her abolition,To banish utterly, or killThe modern lady-politician!

Our hostess told us off in pairs,I had not caught my partner's name,But learned, when half way down the stairs,She long had been a Primrose Dame;And, ere the soup was out of sight,She'd found, and left behind, her text onA speech, if I remember right,Attributed to Mr.Sexton.And I—I sat and gasped awhile,And only when we reached the pheasant,Assuming my politest smile,And with an air distinctly pleasant,Attempted firmly to directHer flow of talk to other channels,Books—shops—the latest stage-effect—The newest ways of painting panels.I tried in vain. "Ah, yes," she said,"And that reminds me—this Dissent"—And thereupon began, instead,Discussing Disestablishment!The case was clearly hopeless, soI hazarded no more suggestions,But merely answered Yes or NoAt random, to her frequent questions.Yet, while that gushing torrent ran,I made a solemn private vowThat, though no ardent partisan,Those Ministers I'll vote for nowWho'll introduce a drastic billTo bring about her abolition,To banish utterly, or killThe modern lady-politician!

And I—I sat and gasped awhile,And only when we reached the pheasant,Assuming my politest smile,And with an air distinctly pleasant,Attempted firmly to directHer flow of talk to other channels,Books—shops—the latest stage-effect—The newest ways of painting panels.

I tried in vain. "Ah, yes," she said,"And that reminds me—this Dissent"—And thereupon began, instead,Discussing Disestablishment!The case was clearly hopeless, soI hazarded no more suggestions,But merely answered Yes or NoAt random, to her frequent questions.

Yet, while that gushing torrent ran,I made a solemn private vowThat, though no ardent partisan,Those Ministers I'll vote for nowWho'll introduce a drastic billTo bring about her abolition,To banish utterly, or killThe modern lady-politician!

THE OYSTER AND THE SPARROW.A Pessimistic Tale.At Whitstable one summer day,An oyster gave his fancy wings;He very indolently layIn bed, and thought of many things;Of what his life had been; of weeksAll spent in having forty winks—You know an oyster never speaks,But lies awake in bed, and thinks.He thought, with pardonable pride,That he had never worked—a planWhich showed, it cannot be denied,That he was quite a gentleman.He lived more calmly in his seaThan any Bishop; never crossedIn any sort of wishes, heHad never loved, and never lost.No cruel maid had ever spurnedHis heart, such grief no oyster knows;Nor hatred ever in him burnedAgainst the rival whom she chose.

A Pessimistic Tale.

At Whitstable one summer day,An oyster gave his fancy wings;He very indolently layIn bed, and thought of many things;Of what his life had been; of weeksAll spent in having forty winks—You know an oyster never speaks,But lies awake in bed, and thinks.He thought, with pardonable pride,That he had never worked—a planWhich showed, it cannot be denied,That he was quite a gentleman.He lived more calmly in his seaThan any Bishop; never crossedIn any sort of wishes, heHad never loved, and never lost.No cruel maid had ever spurnedHis heart, such grief no oyster knows;Nor hatred ever in him burnedAgainst the rival whom she chose.

At Whitstable one summer day,An oyster gave his fancy wings;He very indolently layIn bed, and thought of many things;

Of what his life had been; of weeksAll spent in having forty winks—You know an oyster never speaks,But lies awake in bed, and thinks.

He thought, with pardonable pride,That he had never worked—a planWhich showed, it cannot be denied,That he was quite a gentleman.

He lived more calmly in his seaThan any Bishop; never crossedIn any sort of wishes, heHad never loved, and never lost.

No cruel maid had ever spurnedHis heart, such grief no oyster knows;Nor hatred ever in him burnedAgainst the rival whom she chose.

Yet, when considered, all appearedToo softly calm, too free from strife;He thought, and, sighing, stroked his beard,"There does not seem much use in life."By chance, upon this very dayA London sparrow, for a minute,Was thinking somewhat in this wayOf life, and what the deuce was in it,And how he fluttered up and down,Like Berthas, Doras, Trunks, or Yankees—His nest was far above the town,Upon the buildings known as Hankey's.He thought, with pardonable pride,Unlike a pampered, gay canary,He worked—it cannot be deniedThat "Laborare est orare."He worked with all his might and main,Yet now he chirped with some misgiving,"Shoot me if I know what I gain,There does not seem much use in living."Soon after this the bird and fishWere slain by old, relentless foes,When death was near, each seemed to wish!To keep his life—why, no one knows.The bird was knocked upon the head—A crack no gluing could repair;The oyster rudely dragged from bed,Died from exposure to the air.They helped in one great work, at least,To make some greedy beings fat;The oyster graced a City feast,The bird was eaten by the cat.

Yet, when considered, all appearedToo softly calm, too free from strife;He thought, and, sighing, stroked his beard,"There does not seem much use in life."

By chance, upon this very dayA London sparrow, for a minute,Was thinking somewhat in this wayOf life, and what the deuce was in it,

And how he fluttered up and down,Like Berthas, Doras, Trunks, or Yankees—His nest was far above the town,Upon the buildings known as Hankey's.

He thought, with pardonable pride,Unlike a pampered, gay canary,He worked—it cannot be deniedThat "Laborare est orare."

He worked with all his might and main,Yet now he chirped with some misgiving,"Shoot me if I know what I gain,There does not seem much use in living."

Soon after this the bird and fishWere slain by old, relentless foes,When death was near, each seemed to wish!To keep his life—why, no one knows.

The bird was knocked upon the head—A crack no gluing could repair;The oyster rudely dragged from bed,Died from exposure to the air.

They helped in one great work, at least,To make some greedy beings fat;The oyster graced a City feast,The bird was eaten by the cat.

Thus, though they led such different lives,One fat from sloth, from work one thinner,Their end was that for which man strives,And mostly ends his days with—dinner!

VERSES TO THE WEATHER MAIDEN.Lady, the best and brightest of the sex,Whose smile we value, and whose frown we fear,Let me proclaim the miseries that vexThe numerous throng who all esteem you dear;'Tis not that you habitually appearSerenely contemplating the AtlanticIn raiment which, if fashionable here,Would greatly shock the properly pedantic,Make Glasgow green with rage, and Mrs.Grundyfrantic;Your classical costume a true delight isTo all who study you from day to day,And even if it hastens on bronchitisIt serves your graceful figure to display:But now your thousand fond admirers prayAmid the tumult of the London trafficAnd in each rural unfrequented way—"O weather-goddess, look with smile seraphicAnd prophesy 'Set Fair' within theDaily Graphic!"Too long, too long, each worshipper relates,You've told of woe with melancholy glance,Predicted new "depressions" from the States,Or "V-shaped cyclones" nearing us from France;Our summer flies, oh, herald the advanceOf decent weather ere its course be ended,Put your umbrella down, and if by chancePiscatorgrumble, let him go unfriended,Heed not his selfish moan, but give us sunshine splendid!Our confidence towards you never flinches,Let others be unceasingly employedIn working out the barometric inches,Or tapping at the fickle aneroid,Wet bulb and dry we equally avoid,In you, and you alone, our hopes remain,Then be not by our forwardness annoyed,Nor let our supplications rise in vain,—Oh,Daily Graphicmaid, smile, smile on us again!

Lady, the best and brightest of the sex,Whose smile we value, and whose frown we fear,Let me proclaim the miseries that vexThe numerous throng who all esteem you dear;'Tis not that you habitually appearSerenely contemplating the AtlanticIn raiment which, if fashionable here,Would greatly shock the properly pedantic,Make Glasgow green with rage, and Mrs.Grundyfrantic;Your classical costume a true delight isTo all who study you from day to day,And even if it hastens on bronchitisIt serves your graceful figure to display:But now your thousand fond admirers prayAmid the tumult of the London trafficAnd in each rural unfrequented way—"O weather-goddess, look with smile seraphicAnd prophesy 'Set Fair' within theDaily Graphic!"Too long, too long, each worshipper relates,You've told of woe with melancholy glance,Predicted new "depressions" from the States,Or "V-shaped cyclones" nearing us from France;Our summer flies, oh, herald the advanceOf decent weather ere its course be ended,Put your umbrella down, and if by chancePiscatorgrumble, let him go unfriended,Heed not his selfish moan, but give us sunshine splendid!Our confidence towards you never flinches,Let others be unceasingly employedIn working out the barometric inches,Or tapping at the fickle aneroid,Wet bulb and dry we equally avoid,In you, and you alone, our hopes remain,Then be not by our forwardness annoyed,Nor let our supplications rise in vain,—Oh,Daily Graphicmaid, smile, smile on us again!

Your classical costume a true delight isTo all who study you from day to day,And even if it hastens on bronchitisIt serves your graceful figure to display:But now your thousand fond admirers prayAmid the tumult of the London trafficAnd in each rural unfrequented way—"O weather-goddess, look with smile seraphicAnd prophesy 'Set Fair' within theDaily Graphic!"

Too long, too long, each worshipper relates,You've told of woe with melancholy glance,Predicted new "depressions" from the States,Or "V-shaped cyclones" nearing us from France;Our summer flies, oh, herald the advanceOf decent weather ere its course be ended,Put your umbrella down, and if by chancePiscatorgrumble, let him go unfriended,Heed not his selfish moan, but give us sunshine splendid!

Our confidence towards you never flinches,Let others be unceasingly employedIn working out the barometric inches,Or tapping at the fickle aneroid,Wet bulb and dry we equally avoid,In you, and you alone, our hopes remain,Then be not by our forwardness annoyed,Nor let our supplications rise in vain,—Oh,Daily Graphicmaid, smile, smile on us again!

THE YELLOW RIDING-HABIT.Chang, he had a yellow jacketFitting rather nice and slick;When the garment got the sack, itMade him simply deathly sick;And he swore, with objurgations,It was due—or he'd be hung—To the fiendish machinationsOf a man who rhymed with Bung.But his lord in mild, celestial,Manner moralised and said—"There are other really bestialThings I might have done instead;Might, in point of fact, have tied youTo a poplar with a splice,And explicitly denied youEvery claim to Paradise.Nay, I even wondered whetherI should play another card,And reduce your dorsal tetherBy a matter of a yard;Or curtail your nether raiment,(This I waived as rather coarse,)Or appropriate your paymentAs a marshal of the force.But I gave you just a gentle,If humiliating, shock,Much as any OccidentalCastigates the erring jock,Who in place of freely pluggingAt a reasonable rate,By irregularly luggingLets a rival take the plate.Thus I delicately hintedIt was time to jog your gee;And the proper view is printed,In the paganP. M. G.,Namely, that you might be charyOf a deal of sultry dirt,And do better in an airyWaistcoat with a cotton shirt.Doubtless habits have a lot toDo with character as such,Yet the prophet warns us not toTrust in colour very much;And indeed your yellow custardCame to smack of rotten cheese,Since they took to making mustardBooks and Asters over-seas."

Chang, he had a yellow jacketFitting rather nice and slick;When the garment got the sack, itMade him simply deathly sick;And he swore, with objurgations,It was due—or he'd be hung—To the fiendish machinationsOf a man who rhymed with Bung.But his lord in mild, celestial,Manner moralised and said—"There are other really bestialThings I might have done instead;Might, in point of fact, have tied youTo a poplar with a splice,And explicitly denied youEvery claim to Paradise.Nay, I even wondered whetherI should play another card,And reduce your dorsal tetherBy a matter of a yard;Or curtail your nether raiment,(This I waived as rather coarse,)Or appropriate your paymentAs a marshal of the force.But I gave you just a gentle,If humiliating, shock,Much as any OccidentalCastigates the erring jock,Who in place of freely pluggingAt a reasonable rate,By irregularly luggingLets a rival take the plate.Thus I delicately hintedIt was time to jog your gee;And the proper view is printed,In the paganP. M. G.,Namely, that you might be charyOf a deal of sultry dirt,And do better in an airyWaistcoat with a cotton shirt.Doubtless habits have a lot toDo with character as such,Yet the prophet warns us not toTrust in colour very much;And indeed your yellow custardCame to smack of rotten cheese,Since they took to making mustardBooks and Asters over-seas."

But his lord in mild, celestial,Manner moralised and said—"There are other really bestialThings I might have done instead;Might, in point of fact, have tied youTo a poplar with a splice,And explicitly denied youEvery claim to Paradise.

Nay, I even wondered whetherI should play another card,And reduce your dorsal tetherBy a matter of a yard;Or curtail your nether raiment,(This I waived as rather coarse,)Or appropriate your paymentAs a marshal of the force.

But I gave you just a gentle,If humiliating, shock,Much as any OccidentalCastigates the erring jock,Who in place of freely pluggingAt a reasonable rate,By irregularly luggingLets a rival take the plate.

Thus I delicately hintedIt was time to jog your gee;And the proper view is printed,In the paganP. M. G.,Namely, that you might be charyOf a deal of sultry dirt,And do better in an airyWaistcoat with a cotton shirt.

Doubtless habits have a lot toDo with character as such,Yet the prophet warns us not toTrust in colour very much;And indeed your yellow custardCame to smack of rotten cheese,Since they took to making mustardBooks and Asters over-seas."

PEARLS BEFORE SWINE.The Vicar."What do you think of that Burgundy? It's the last Bottle of some the dear Bishop gave me. It cost himEighteen Shillings a Bottle!"The Major."Very nice! But I should just like you to try someI gave Twelve Shillings a Dozen for!"

PEARLS BEFORE SWINE.

The Vicar."What do you think of that Burgundy? It's the last Bottle of some the dear Bishop gave me. It cost himEighteen Shillings a Bottle!"

The Major."Very nice! But I should just like you to try someI gave Twelve Shillings a Dozen for!"

Noble Half Hundred!!!"We mean to keep our Empire in the East!"So sang the music halls with noisynous,Well, one thing now is very clear at least,Our Empire in the East can't keep—a House!Is our Indian Government fairly cheap? men askAre Anglo-Indian rulers wise and thrifty?The Commons meet to tackle that big task,AndFowler'sspeech is listened to by—Fifty!

"We mean to keep our Empire in the East!"So sang the music halls with noisynous,Well, one thing now is very clear at least,Our Empire in the East can't keep—a House!Is our Indian Government fairly cheap? men askAre Anglo-Indian rulers wise and thrifty?The Commons meet to tackle that big task,AndFowler'sspeech is listened to by—Fifty!

How werry particklar sum peeple is in having it adwertised where they have gone to spend their summer holliday. I wunce saw it stated, sum years ago, that the Markis ofSorlsberryhad gone with the Marchoness to Deep, I think it was, and then follered the staggering annowncement that Mr. DeputyMugginsand Mrs.Mugginswas a spending a hole week at Gravesend! I'm a having mine at Grinnidge, and had the honner last week of waiting upon the Ministerial Gents from Westminster, and a werry jowial lot of Gents they suttenly seems to be.

I likes Grinnidge somehow; it brings back to fond memmory the appy days when I fust preposed to my MissesRobertin Grinnidge Park, and won from her blushing lips a fond awowal of her loving detachment for me!

Ah! them was appy days, them was, and never cums more than wunce to us; no, not ewen in Grinnidge Park.

I'm told as how as Appy Amsted is not at all a bad place for this sort of thing; but I cannot speak from werry much pussonal xperience there myself.

Having a nour or two to spare before the Westminster Dinner, I took a strol in the butiful Park. Not quite the place for adwenters, but I had a little one there on that werry particklar day as I shant soon forget.

I was a setting down werry cumferal on a nice cumferal seat, when a nice looking Lady came up to me, and setting herself down beside me asked me wery quietly if I coud lend her such a thing as harf a crown! I was that estonished that I ardly knew what to say, when to my great surprise she bust out a crying, and told me as how as she had bin robbed, and had not a penny to take her home to London! What on airth coud I do? I coudn't say as I hadn't no harf crown coz I had one, and I carnt werry well tell a hunblushing lie coz I allers blushes if I tries one, so I said as how as it was the only one as I had, and so I hoped as she woud return it to me to-morrow, and I told her my adress, when she suddenly threw her arms round my neck and acshally kist me, and then got up and ran away! and I have lived ever since in a dredful state of dowt and unsertenty for fear as she shoud call when I was out and tell Mrs.Robertthe hole particklers! and ewen expect her to believe it!

Robert.

(Fragment from a Romance of the Future.)

The successful General, after winning the great victory, acted with decision. He cut all the telegraph wires with his own hands, until there was but one left in the camp—that which had its outlet in his own tent. He called for the special correspondents. They came reluctantly, writing in their note-books as they approached him.

"Gentlemen," said he, with polite severity, "I have no wish to deal harshly with the Press. I am fully aware of the services it does to the country. But, gentlemen, I have a duty to perform. I cannot allow you to communicate to your respective editors the glorious result of this day's fighting. For a couple of hours you must be satisfied to restrain your impatience."

"It will yet be in time for the five o'clock edition," murmured one of the scribes.

"And I shall be able to get it into the Special," murmured another.

Then the General bowed and retired to his own tent. At last he was alone. Over the receiver to the telephone was a board inscribed with various numbers, with names attached thereto. He saw that 114 stood for "Wife," 12,017 for "Mother-in-law," and 10 for "Junior United Service Club." But he selected none of these.

"No. 7," he cried, suddenly applying his lips to the receiver and ringing up, "are you there?"

"Why, certainly; what shall I do?"

"Why, buy 30,000 Consols for me," was the prompt reply. And then the General a few minutes later added, "Have you done it?"

"I have—for the next account."

And then the warrior smiled and released the Press-men. Nay, more, he ordered the telegraph wires to be repaired. All was joy and satisfaction. The glorious news was flashed in a thousand different directions. The name of the general received immediate immortality.

And the great commander was more than satisfied. His fortune was assured. Before allowing the news to be spread abroad he had taken the precaution to do a preliminary deal with his stockbroker!

AN ALPINE RAILWAY.Abominable work of man,Defacing nature where he canWith engineering;On plain or hill he never failsTo run his execrable rails;Coals, dirt, smoke, passengers and mails,At once appearing.To Alpine summits daily goThe locomotives to and fro.What desecration!Where playful kids once blithely skipped,Where rustic goatherds gaily tripped,Where clumsy climbers sometimes slipped,He builds a station.Up there, where once upon a timeDetermined mountaineers would climbTo some farchâlet;Up there, above the carved wood toys,Above the beggars, and the boysWho play theRanz des Vaches—such noiseDown in theThal, eh?Up there at sunset, rosy red,And sunrise—if you're out of bed—You see the summit,Majestic, high above the vale.It is not difficult to scale—The fattest folk can go by railTo overcome it.For nothing, one may often hear,Is sacred to the engineer;He's much too clever.Well, I must hurry on again,That mountain summit to attain,Good-bye. I'm going by the train.I climb it? Never!

Abominable work of man,Defacing nature where he canWith engineering;On plain or hill he never failsTo run his execrable rails;Coals, dirt, smoke, passengers and mails,At once appearing.To Alpine summits daily goThe locomotives to and fro.What desecration!Where playful kids once blithely skipped,Where rustic goatherds gaily tripped,Where clumsy climbers sometimes slipped,He builds a station.Up there, where once upon a timeDetermined mountaineers would climbTo some farchâlet;Up there, above the carved wood toys,Above the beggars, and the boysWho play theRanz des Vaches—such noiseDown in theThal, eh?Up there at sunset, rosy red,And sunrise—if you're out of bed—You see the summit,Majestic, high above the vale.It is not difficult to scale—The fattest folk can go by railTo overcome it.For nothing, one may often hear,Is sacred to the engineer;He's much too clever.Well, I must hurry on again,That mountain summit to attain,Good-bye. I'm going by the train.I climb it? Never!

Abominable work of man,Defacing nature where he canWith engineering;On plain or hill he never failsTo run his execrable rails;Coals, dirt, smoke, passengers and mails,At once appearing.

To Alpine summits daily goThe locomotives to and fro.What desecration!Where playful kids once blithely skipped,Where rustic goatherds gaily tripped,Where clumsy climbers sometimes slipped,He builds a station.

Up there, where once upon a timeDetermined mountaineers would climbTo some farchâlet;Up there, above the carved wood toys,Above the beggars, and the boysWho play theRanz des Vaches—such noiseDown in theThal, eh?

Up there at sunset, rosy red,And sunrise—if you're out of bed—You see the summit,Majestic, high above the vale.It is not difficult to scale—The fattest folk can go by railTo overcome it.

For nothing, one may often hear,Is sacred to the engineer;He's much too clever.Well, I must hurry on again,That mountain summit to attain,Good-bye. I'm going by the train.I climb it? Never!

"FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD."Tourist from London (to young local Minister)."How quiet and peaceful it seems here!"Minister."Eh, Friend, it seems peacefu'. Wha wad think we were within Seven Miles o' Peebles!"

"FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD."

Tourist from London (to young local Minister)."How quiet and peaceful it seems here!"

Minister."Eh, Friend, it seems peacefu'. Wha wad think we were within Seven Miles o' Peebles!"

AN ANGLO-RUSSIAN ECHO.[At Baku, on the Caspian, a Society has been formed to abolish hand-shaking and kissing, on the ground that bacilli are propagated by such personal contact. The ladies, however, have protested against this to the Governor-General.Daily Telegraph.Baku is a place that is pretty well Grundyfied,Where the good folks have all frolic and fun defied,Where I'd be shunned, if I'dPlay at Whit-MondayfiedGames such as "Catch-can" and Kiss-in-the-ring!For the greybeards, it seems, of this naptha-metropolis(Really, their reason about to o'ertopple is)All o'er the shop'll hiss,Hollering, "Stop! Police!Hi, there! hand-shaking the mischief will bring!"And kissing, they think, only leads to diphtheria—Well, I should say, such a dread of bacteriaQuite beyond query, amounts to hysteria!No, it won't "wash"—they don't either, I fear!ButSoniaandOlgaandVeraare mutinous,Rightly, I think, at such nonsense o'erscrutinous."Thisrot take root in us?No, keep salutin' us!"Echo ourMabelsandMaudsover here!

[At Baku, on the Caspian, a Society has been formed to abolish hand-shaking and kissing, on the ground that bacilli are propagated by such personal contact. The ladies, however, have protested against this to the Governor-General.Daily Telegraph.

Daily Telegraph.

Baku is a place that is pretty well Grundyfied,Where the good folks have all frolic and fun defied,Where I'd be shunned, if I'dPlay at Whit-MondayfiedGames such as "Catch-can" and Kiss-in-the-ring!For the greybeards, it seems, of this naptha-metropolis(Really, their reason about to o'ertopple is)All o'er the shop'll hiss,Hollering, "Stop! Police!Hi, there! hand-shaking the mischief will bring!"And kissing, they think, only leads to diphtheria—Well, I should say, such a dread of bacteriaQuite beyond query, amounts to hysteria!No, it won't "wash"—they don't either, I fear!ButSoniaandOlgaandVeraare mutinous,Rightly, I think, at such nonsense o'erscrutinous."Thisrot take root in us?No, keep salutin' us!"Echo ourMabelsandMaudsover here!

Baku is a place that is pretty well Grundyfied,Where the good folks have all frolic and fun defied,Where I'd be shunned, if I'dPlay at Whit-MondayfiedGames such as "Catch-can" and Kiss-in-the-ring!

For the greybeards, it seems, of this naptha-metropolis(Really, their reason about to o'ertopple is)All o'er the shop'll hiss,Hollering, "Stop! Police!Hi, there! hand-shaking the mischief will bring!"

And kissing, they think, only leads to diphtheria—Well, I should say, such a dread of bacteriaQuite beyond query, amounts to hysteria!No, it won't "wash"—they don't either, I fear!

ButSoniaandOlgaandVeraare mutinous,Rightly, I think, at such nonsense o'erscrutinous."Thisrot take root in us?No, keep salutin' us!"Echo ourMabelsandMaudsover here!

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TORY, M.P.

House of Lords. Monday, August 13.—Sorry I didn't hear the Duke ofArgyll. Have been told he is one of finest orators in House; a type of the antique; something to be cherished and honoured.

"Were you ever,"Sarkasked, "at Oban when the games were going on? Very well then, you would see the contest among the pipers. You have watched them strutting up and down with head thrown back, toes turned out, cheeks extended, and high notes thrilling through the shrinking air. There you have Duke ofArgyll—God bless him!—addressing House of Lords. He is not one piper, but many. As he proceeds, intoxicated with sound of his own voice, ecstatic in clearness of his own vision, he competes with himself as the pipers struggle with each other until at last he has, in a Parliamentary sense of course, swollen to such a size that there is no room in the stately chamber for other Peers. Nothing and nobody left but His Grace the Duke ofArgyll. Towards end of sixty minutes spectacle begins to pall on wearied senses; but to begin with, it is almost sublime. For thirty-two years, he toldRoseberyjust now, he had sat on the opposite benches, a Member of the Liberal Party. He sat elsewhere now, but why? Because he was the Liberal Party; all the rest like sheep had gone astray. Pretty to see theMarkisswith blushing head downcast whenArgyllturned round to him and, with patronising tone and manner, hailed him and his friends as the only party with whom a true Liberal might collogue. In some circumstances, this bearing would be insupportably bumptious. In the Duke, with the time limit hinted at, it is delightful. He really unfeignedly believes it all. Sometimes in the dead unhappy night, when the rain is on the roof (not an uncommon thing in Inverary) he thinks in sorrow rather than in anger of multitudes of men hopelessly in the wrong; that is to say, who differ from his view on particular subjects at given times."

Business done.—Second Reading of Evicted Tenants Bill moved in Lords.

Tuesday.—For awhile last night, whilstLansdownespeaking,Clanricardesat on rear Cross Bench immediately in front of Bar where mere Commoners are permitted to stand. Amongst them at this moment wereTim Healy,O'Brien, andSexton, leaning over rail to catchLansdowne'sremarks. Before them, almost within hand reach, certainly approachable at arm's length with a good shillalegh, was the bald pate of the man who, from some points of view, is The Irish Question.Clanricardesat long unconscious of the proximity.Sark, not usually a squeamish person, after breathlessly watching this strange suggestive contiguity, moved hastily away. This is a land of law and order. Differences, if they exist, are settled by judicial processes. But human nature, especially Celtic nature, is weak. The bald pate rested so conveniently on the edge of the bench. It was so near; it had schemed so much for the undoing of hapless friends in Ireland. What if * * *

To-nightClanricardeinstinctively moved away from this locality. Discovered on back bench below gangway, from which safe quarter he delivered speech, showing how blessed is the lot of the light-hearted peasant on what he called "my campaign estates."

TheMarkissandClanricarderose together. It was ten o'clock, the hour appointed for Leader of Opposition to interpose; in anticipation of that event the House crowded from floor to side galleries garlanded with fair ladies. Privy Councillors jostled each other on steps of Throne; at the Bar stood the Commons closely packed;Tim Healy, anxious not again to be led into temptation, deserted this quarter; surveyed scene from end of Gallery over the Bar. TheMarkissstood for a moment at the table manifestly surprised that any should question his right to speak. According to Plan of Campaign prepared beforehand by Whips now was his time;Roseberyto follow; and Division taken so as to clear House before midnight.Clanricarderecks little of Plans of Campaign: stood his ground and finally evicted theMarkiss; cast him out by the roadside with no other compensation than the sympathy ofHalsburyand ofRutland, who sat on either side of him.

When opportunity came theMarkissrose to it. Speech delightfulto hear; every sentence a lesson in style. Hard task for young Premier to follow so old and so perfect a Parliamentary hand.Markissspoke to enthusiastically friendly audience.Roseberyrecognised in himself the representative of miserable minority of thirty; undaunted, undismayed, he played lightly with the ponderous personalities ofArgyll, and looking beyond the heads of the crowd of icily indifferent Peers before him, seemed to see the multitude in the street, and to hear the murmur of angry voices.

Business done.—Lords throw out Evicted Tenants Bill by 249 votes against 30.

Thursday, Midnight.—Spent restful evening with Indian Budget. There is nothing exceeds indignation with which Members resent postponement of opportunity to consider Indian Budget, except the unanimity with which they stop away when it is presented. Number present duringFowler'smasterly exposition not equal to one per ten million of the population concerned. Later,Chaplinendeavoured to raise drooping spirits by few remarks on bi-metallism. Success only partial.Clarkdid much better. Genially began evening by accusingSquire of Malwoodof humbugging House. That worth at least a dozen votes to Government in Division that followed.Tim Healy, who can't abear strong language, was one who meant to vote against proposal to take remaining time of Session for Ministers. AfterClark'sspeech, voted with and for theSquire.

Clarkclosed pleasant evening by insisting on Division upon Statute Law Revision Bill running through Committee.

"Will the hon. Member name a teller," said Chairman, blandly.

"Mr.Conybeare," respondedClark, instinctively thinking of Member for Camborne as most likely to help in the job he had in hand.

ButConybeareis a reformed character. Even at his worst must draw line somewhere. Drew it sharply atClark. Appeared as if game was up. On the contrary it wasWeir. Deliberately fixing a pair of cantankerous pince-nez that seem to be in chronic condition of strike,Weirgazed round angered Committee. With slowest enunciation in profoundest chest notes he said, "I will tell with the hon. Member."

Committee roared with anguished despair; but, since procedure in case of frivolous and vexatious Division seems forgotten by Chair, no help for it. If there are two Members to "tell," House must be "told." But there tyranny of two ceases. You may take horse to water but cannot make him drink. Similarly you may divide House, but cannot compel Members to vote with you. Thus it came to pass that after DivisionClarkandWeirmarched up to table with confession that they had not taken a single man into the Lobby with them. They had told, but they had nothing to tell.

"They're worse off by a moiety than the Squire in theCanterbury Tales," saidSark—

"Him who left half toldThe story of Cambuscan bold."

"Yes, poor needy Knife-grinders," said the otherSquire; "if they'd only thought of it when asked by the Clerk, 'How many?' they might have answered, Members, God bless you, we have none to tell.'"

Business done.—Indian Budget through Committee.

Friday.—Something notable in question addressed byBryn RobertstoHome Secretary. Wants to know "whether he is aware that the Mr.Williams, the recently appointed assistant inspector, who is said to have worked at an open quarry, never worked at the rock but simply, when a young man, used to pick up slabs cast aside by the regular quarrymen, and split them into slates; and that,ever since,he has been engaged as a pupil teacher and a schoolmaster."

Shall put notice on paper to askBryn Robertswhether the sequence therein set forth is usual in Wales, and whether picking up slabs and splitting them into slates is the customary pathway to pupil teachership.

Long night in Committee of Supply; fair progress in spite ofWeirandClark.Tim Healysprang ambush on House of Lords: moved to stop supplies for meeting their household expenses. Nearly carried proposal, too. Vote sanctioned by majority of nine, and these drawn from Opposition.

Business done.—Supply.

Or, The Grand Old Georgic.

["The whole care of poultry, the production of eggs, care of bees, and the manufacture of butter—of itself a most important branch of commerce—are really included within the purposes of this little institution."—Mr. Gladstone on "Small Culture," at the Hawarden Agricultural and Horticultural Fête, August 14, 1894.]

G. O. Melibœus sings:—

What am I piping about to-day?Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!What shall I praise in my pastoral way?Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Here I am, smiling, afar from strife,(Indifferent substitute, true, for my wife!)Discussing, as though they'd absorbed my life:Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!A Georgic, my lads, is my task this time,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!HoraceI've Englished in so-so rhyme,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!To-day I am in a Virgilian vein,My pastoral ardour I cannot restrain;And so I will sing, like some Mantuan swain,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Home Rule? Dear me, no! Not at all in the mood!Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!(Though Irish butter, you know, is good.)Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!I hear they're yet wrangling down Westminster way;The "Busy B's" there are still having their say.Now the care ofthoseB's—but that is notmylay.Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!"The frugal bee," (as the Mantuan sings),Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Is valued for honey, and not for stings,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!PoorHarcourt'shive has a good many drones,And more sting than honey. Eh! Who's that groans?Well, well, let me sing, in mellifluous tones,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!The ladies have taken to speeches of late,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Serious matter, dear friends,—for the State!Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!On Female Suffrage I hardly dote,But ladies may speak, while they have not the vote.—Beg pardon! That's hardly the pastoral note!Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Not only to flowers we look, but fruits;Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Nay, not to them only, but also toroots.Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!The root of the matter, in Irish affairs,Of course is Home Rule—but there, nobody caresFor such subjects here! Let's sing poultry, and pears,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!This "little culture"'s the theme I'd touch,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!(Tories pooh-pooh it!—they've none too much!)Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!But "mickles" soon merge into "muckles" you know,And from "little cultures" big aggregates grow,Just as small majorities—Woa, there, woa!—Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Hawarden's example will do much good,—Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Nay, friends, I am not in a militant mood,—Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!So I don't meanmine, but your own example.The powers of the soil are abundant and ample;You'll teach men to furnish—and up to sample—Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!I'm a little bit tired—in a physical sense—Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!But my pleasure in pastoral things is immense,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!My Georgic to-day I must cut short, I fear,But—if you desire—and we're all of us here,I may give you a much longer Eclogue—next year!Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!

A Georgic, my lads, is my task this time,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!HoraceI've Englished in so-so rhyme,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!To-day I am in a Virgilian vein,My pastoral ardour I cannot restrain;And so I will sing, like some Mantuan swain,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!

Home Rule? Dear me, no! Not at all in the mood!Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!(Though Irish butter, you know, is good.)Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!I hear they're yet wrangling down Westminster way;The "Busy B's" there are still having their say.Now the care ofthoseB's—but that is notmylay.Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!

"The frugal bee," (as the Mantuan sings),Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Is valued for honey, and not for stings,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!PoorHarcourt'shive has a good many drones,And more sting than honey. Eh! Who's that groans?Well, well, let me sing, in mellifluous tones,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!

The ladies have taken to speeches of late,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Serious matter, dear friends,—for the State!Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!On Female Suffrage I hardly dote,But ladies may speak, while they have not the vote.—Beg pardon! That's hardly the pastoral note!Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!

Not only to flowers we look, but fruits;Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Nay, not to them only, but also toroots.Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!The root of the matter, in Irish affairs,Of course is Home Rule—but there, nobody caresFor such subjects here! Let's sing poultry, and pears,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!

This "little culture"'s the theme I'd touch,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!(Tories pooh-pooh it!—they've none too much!)Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!But "mickles" soon merge into "muckles" you know,And from "little cultures" big aggregates grow,Just as small majorities—Woa, there, woa!—Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!

Hawarden's example will do much good,—Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!Nay, friends, I am not in a militant mood,—Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!So I don't meanmine, but your own example.The powers of the soil are abundant and ample;You'll teach men to furnish—and up to sample—Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!

I'm a little bit tired—in a physical sense—Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!But my pleasure in pastoral things is immense,Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!My Georgic to-day I must cut short, I fear,But—if you desire—and we're all of us here,I may give you a much longer Eclogue—next year!Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!

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