The popular wheel, so the French doctors say,Is the worst enemy of the popularweal.Academies of science scarce will stayThe devastations of the steed of steel.The scorcher will deride as a bad jokeAttempts in his wild wheel to put a spoke
The popular wheel, so the French doctors say,Is the worst enemy of the popularweal.Academies of science scarce will stayThe devastations of the steed of steel.The scorcher will deride as a bad jokeAttempts in his wild wheel to put a spoke
The popular wheel, so the French doctors say,Is the worst enemy of the popularweal.Academies of science scarce will stayThe devastations of the steed of steel.The scorcher will deride as a bad jokeAttempts in his wild wheel to put a spoke
Instrument for an Anti-Birmingham Band.—The Ban-Joe.
A YOUNG CYNIC.Dorothy."I wonder why Men take their Hats off in Church, and Women don't!"Michael."Oh, Dorothy, just think of all the Looking-glasses there'd have to be in every Pew!"
A YOUNG CYNIC.
Dorothy."I wonder why Men take their Hats off in Church, and Women don't!"Michael."Oh, Dorothy, just think of all the Looking-glasses there'd have to be in every Pew!"
Dorothy."I wonder why Men take their Hats off in Church, and Women don't!"
Michael."Oh, Dorothy, just think of all the Looking-glasses there'd have to be in every Pew!"
["Immediately after the death of his father, the Duke ofOrleansaddressed the following telegram to all the Sovereign Princes of Europe:—'Asa Majesté, &c.—J'ai la douleur de faire part à Votre Majesté de la mort de mon pèrePhilippe, Comte de Paris, pieusement décédé à Stowe House le huit Septembre.Philippe.'Great significance is attached to the fact that the Duke signs himself with regal simplicity 'Philippe.' His father under similar circumstances, on the occasion of the death of the Comte deChambord, signed 'Phillipe, Comte de Paris,' thus ignoring his Sovereign rank."—The Daily Graphic.]
["Immediately after the death of his father, the Duke ofOrleansaddressed the following telegram to all the Sovereign Princes of Europe:—
'Asa Majesté, &c.—J'ai la douleur de faire part à Votre Majesté de la mort de mon pèrePhilippe, Comte de Paris, pieusement décédé à Stowe House le huit Septembre.Philippe.'
Great significance is attached to the fact that the Duke signs himself with regal simplicity 'Philippe.' His father under similar circumstances, on the occasion of the death of the Comte deChambord, signed 'Phillipe, Comte de Paris,' thus ignoring his Sovereign rank."—The Daily Graphic.]
Madame la République museth:—
Ah! "Vive la France!" If words were only deeds,I might perchance secure a new defender.AsAmurathtoAmurathsucceeds,E'en so succeeds Pretender to Pretender.Aye. "plus ça change plus c'est la même chose!" AllFancy their words "the writing on the wall."Street-corner scrawls are not the script of fate.Plon-Plonandle brav' Général,Chambord, Paris,All chalked my walls; "devotion to the State"Inspired their schemes predestined to miscarry,ButBourbon, Bonapartist or what not,Self ever seemed the centre of the plot.As "Roi des Français" or as "Monsieur X.,"Boulanger'sbacker, or the White Flagwaver,What has availed their valour save to vex?Frenchmen and soldiers? Doubtless, Sirs; few braver.But plots and manifestoes wild and windyContribute little to the State—save shindy!Eh? Right Divine? That old, old weapon stillPretenders fain would furbish up to fright me.Would I bear weary strife, or bow my willTo human wrong if "Right Divine" could right me?No; right divine to rule must prove affinity,To the divine ereItrust its divinity."Philippe!" Ah! boldly written! You admireIts flowing form, the freedom of its flourish.And "Vive la France!" To what may you aspire?What is the scope, Sir, of the hopesyounourish?Your sire "ignored his Sovereign rank"—in writing,ButPhilippe—Roi—de——humph!—thatmightmean fighting.Chalk, youngster! Purpose scribbled on the wall,Not graven in the rock with pen of iron,Affrights not the Republic. ItmayfallAmidst the perils that its path environ,But scarce to summons of the bravest boys,Or, like old Jericho, to the power of noise.Yes; "the Pretender's dead," and who will nowCry "Long live the—Pretender"? Courtly throngs,Crafty intriguers, may parade and bow,But for the People? Will they deem their wrongsLike to be cured by the old royal line,Or righted by the rule of Right Divine?What will you do—save scribble and orate?Were you indeed—ah, me!—that strong man armedFor whom so long I've waited, and still wait;Then, then, perchance. I might—who knows?—be charmedTo lily-girt Legitimist ways of yore.At present 'tis but—one Pretender more!
Ah! "Vive la France!" If words were only deeds,I might perchance secure a new defender.AsAmurathtoAmurathsucceeds,E'en so succeeds Pretender to Pretender.Aye. "plus ça change plus c'est la même chose!" AllFancy their words "the writing on the wall."Street-corner scrawls are not the script of fate.Plon-Plonandle brav' Général,Chambord, Paris,All chalked my walls; "devotion to the State"Inspired their schemes predestined to miscarry,ButBourbon, Bonapartist or what not,Self ever seemed the centre of the plot.As "Roi des Français" or as "Monsieur X.,"Boulanger'sbacker, or the White Flagwaver,What has availed their valour save to vex?Frenchmen and soldiers? Doubtless, Sirs; few braver.But plots and manifestoes wild and windyContribute little to the State—save shindy!Eh? Right Divine? That old, old weapon stillPretenders fain would furbish up to fright me.Would I bear weary strife, or bow my willTo human wrong if "Right Divine" could right me?No; right divine to rule must prove affinity,To the divine ereItrust its divinity."Philippe!" Ah! boldly written! You admireIts flowing form, the freedom of its flourish.And "Vive la France!" To what may you aspire?What is the scope, Sir, of the hopesyounourish?Your sire "ignored his Sovereign rank"—in writing,ButPhilippe—Roi—de——humph!—thatmightmean fighting.Chalk, youngster! Purpose scribbled on the wall,Not graven in the rock with pen of iron,Affrights not the Republic. ItmayfallAmidst the perils that its path environ,But scarce to summons of the bravest boys,Or, like old Jericho, to the power of noise.Yes; "the Pretender's dead," and who will nowCry "Long live the—Pretender"? Courtly throngs,Crafty intriguers, may parade and bow,But for the People? Will they deem their wrongsLike to be cured by the old royal line,Or righted by the rule of Right Divine?What will you do—save scribble and orate?Were you indeed—ah, me!—that strong man armedFor whom so long I've waited, and still wait;Then, then, perchance. I might—who knows?—be charmedTo lily-girt Legitimist ways of yore.At present 'tis but—one Pretender more!
Ah! "Vive la France!" If words were only deeds,I might perchance secure a new defender.AsAmurathtoAmurathsucceeds,E'en so succeeds Pretender to Pretender.Aye. "plus ça change plus c'est la même chose!" AllFancy their words "the writing on the wall."
Street-corner scrawls are not the script of fate.Plon-Plonandle brav' Général,Chambord, Paris,All chalked my walls; "devotion to the State"Inspired their schemes predestined to miscarry,ButBourbon, Bonapartist or what not,Self ever seemed the centre of the plot.
As "Roi des Français" or as "Monsieur X.,"Boulanger'sbacker, or the White Flagwaver,What has availed their valour save to vex?Frenchmen and soldiers? Doubtless, Sirs; few braver.But plots and manifestoes wild and windyContribute little to the State—save shindy!
Eh? Right Divine? That old, old weapon stillPretenders fain would furbish up to fright me.Would I bear weary strife, or bow my willTo human wrong if "Right Divine" could right me?No; right divine to rule must prove affinity,To the divine ereItrust its divinity.
"Philippe!" Ah! boldly written! You admireIts flowing form, the freedom of its flourish.And "Vive la France!" To what may you aspire?What is the scope, Sir, of the hopesyounourish?Your sire "ignored his Sovereign rank"—in writing,ButPhilippe—Roi—de——humph!—thatmightmean fighting.
Chalk, youngster! Purpose scribbled on the wall,Not graven in the rock with pen of iron,Affrights not the Republic. ItmayfallAmidst the perils that its path environ,But scarce to summons of the bravest boys,Or, like old Jericho, to the power of noise.
Yes; "the Pretender's dead," and who will nowCry "Long live the—Pretender"? Courtly throngs,Crafty intriguers, may parade and bow,But for the People? Will they deem their wrongsLike to be cured by the old royal line,Or righted by the rule of Right Divine?
What will you do—save scribble and orate?Were you indeed—ah, me!—that strong man armedFor whom so long I've waited, and still wait;Then, then, perchance. I might—who knows?—be charmedTo lily-girt Legitimist ways of yore.At present 'tis but—one Pretender more!
THE YOUNG PRETENDER.Madame a République."WHAT WILL YOU DO—SAVE SCRIBBLE AND ORATE?WERE YOU INDEED—AH ME!—THAT STRONG MAN ARMEDFOR WHOM SO LONG I'VE WAITED, AND STILL WAIT;THEN, THEN PERCHANCE, I MIGHT—WHO KNOWS?—BE CHARMEDTO LILY-GIRT LEGITIMIST WAYS OF YORE.AT PRESENT 'TIS BUT—ONE PRETENDER MORE!"
THE YOUNG PRETENDER.
Madame a République.
"WHAT WILL YOU DO—SAVE SCRIBBLE AND ORATE?WERE YOU INDEED—AH ME!—THAT STRONG MAN ARMEDFOR WHOM SO LONG I'VE WAITED, AND STILL WAIT;THEN, THEN PERCHANCE, I MIGHT—WHO KNOWS?—BE CHARMEDTO LILY-GIRT LEGITIMIST WAYS OF YORE.AT PRESENT 'TIS BUT—ONE PRETENDER MORE!"
"WHAT WILL YOU DO—SAVE SCRIBBLE AND ORATE?WERE YOU INDEED—AH ME!—THAT STRONG MAN ARMEDFOR WHOM SO LONG I'VE WAITED, AND STILL WAIT;THEN, THEN PERCHANCE, I MIGHT—WHO KNOWS?—BE CHARMEDTO LILY-GIRT LEGITIMIST WAYS OF YORE.AT PRESENT 'TIS BUT—ONE PRETENDER MORE!"
"WHAT WILL YOU DO—SAVE SCRIBBLE AND ORATE?WERE YOU INDEED—AH ME!—THAT STRONG MAN ARMEDFOR WHOM SO LONG I'VE WAITED, AND STILL WAIT;THEN, THEN PERCHANCE, I MIGHT—WHO KNOWS?—BE CHARMEDTO LILY-GIRT LEGITIMIST WAYS OF YORE.AT PRESENT 'TIS BUT—ONE PRETENDER MORE!"
(By an Absent-minded Sportsman.)
Well, I'm blest, I'm pretty nearlySpeechless, as I watch that bird,Saving that I mutter merelyOne concise, emphatic word—What that is, may be inferred!English prose is, to my sorrow,Insufficient for the task.Would that I could freely borrowExpletives from Welsh or Basque—One or two is all I ask!Failing that, let so-called versesServe to mitigate my griefDoggerel now and then dispersesAgonies that need relief.(Missing birds of these is chief!)Blankly tramping o'er the stubblesIs a bore, to put it mild;But, in short, to crown my troubles,Onemishap has made me riled,Driv'n me, like the coveys, wildFor at last I flush a partridge.Ten yards rise, an easy pot!Click! Why, bless me, where's the cartridge?Hang it! there, I clean forgotPuttingthemin ere I shot!
Well, I'm blest, I'm pretty nearlySpeechless, as I watch that bird,Saving that I mutter merelyOne concise, emphatic word—What that is, may be inferred!English prose is, to my sorrow,Insufficient for the task.Would that I could freely borrowExpletives from Welsh or Basque—One or two is all I ask!Failing that, let so-called versesServe to mitigate my griefDoggerel now and then dispersesAgonies that need relief.(Missing birds of these is chief!)Blankly tramping o'er the stubblesIs a bore, to put it mild;But, in short, to crown my troubles,Onemishap has made me riled,Driv'n me, like the coveys, wildFor at last I flush a partridge.Ten yards rise, an easy pot!Click! Why, bless me, where's the cartridge?Hang it! there, I clean forgotPuttingthemin ere I shot!
Well, I'm blest, I'm pretty nearlySpeechless, as I watch that bird,Saving that I mutter merelyOne concise, emphatic word—What that is, may be inferred!
English prose is, to my sorrow,Insufficient for the task.Would that I could freely borrowExpletives from Welsh or Basque—One or two is all I ask!
Failing that, let so-called versesServe to mitigate my griefDoggerel now and then dispersesAgonies that need relief.(Missing birds of these is chief!)
Blankly tramping o'er the stubblesIs a bore, to put it mild;But, in short, to crown my troubles,Onemishap has made me riled,Driv'n me, like the coveys, wild
For at last I flush a partridge.Ten yards rise, an easy pot!Click! Why, bless me, where's the cartridge?Hang it! there, I clean forgotPuttingthemin ere I shot!
Query.—Would an ideal barrister be a counsel of perfection?
Or, the March of Civilisation.
About the merry MandarinHis fatal gift for humour,I find it passing hard to pinMy faith to every rumour.This war, for instance. Fancy shutsBoth eyes and vainly laboursTo grasp the news that he is nutsOn blowing up his neighbours.If so, he threatens to deface,Beyond all recognition,His right of kinship with a raceWhose excellent tradition,Oldest of old traditions, hasTime out of mind begun byThis rule:—Do not to others asYou'd rather not be done by.Ignoring now the ancient bards,He must have emulatedThe doctrine whichAh Sinat cardsSo darkly demonstrated,When, flush of duplicate supplies,Well up his sleeves he slid 'em—Do those whom you will otherwiseBe done by:—and he did 'em.Observe this sad example ofImported Western culture!Symbol of peace, the sucking-doveKnocks under to the vulture;And prophets of a prior ageMight fairly be astoundedTo find the system of the sageConfuciusworse confounded!
About the merry MandarinHis fatal gift for humour,I find it passing hard to pinMy faith to every rumour.This war, for instance. Fancy shutsBoth eyes and vainly laboursTo grasp the news that he is nutsOn blowing up his neighbours.If so, he threatens to deface,Beyond all recognition,His right of kinship with a raceWhose excellent tradition,Oldest of old traditions, hasTime out of mind begun byThis rule:—Do not to others asYou'd rather not be done by.Ignoring now the ancient bards,He must have emulatedThe doctrine whichAh Sinat cardsSo darkly demonstrated,When, flush of duplicate supplies,Well up his sleeves he slid 'em—Do those whom you will otherwiseBe done by:—and he did 'em.Observe this sad example ofImported Western culture!Symbol of peace, the sucking-doveKnocks under to the vulture;And prophets of a prior ageMight fairly be astoundedTo find the system of the sageConfuciusworse confounded!
About the merry MandarinHis fatal gift for humour,I find it passing hard to pinMy faith to every rumour.
This war, for instance. Fancy shutsBoth eyes and vainly laboursTo grasp the news that he is nutsOn blowing up his neighbours.
If so, he threatens to deface,Beyond all recognition,His right of kinship with a raceWhose excellent tradition,
Oldest of old traditions, hasTime out of mind begun byThis rule:—Do not to others asYou'd rather not be done by.
Ignoring now the ancient bards,He must have emulatedThe doctrine whichAh Sinat cardsSo darkly demonstrated,
When, flush of duplicate supplies,Well up his sleeves he slid 'em—Do those whom you will otherwiseBe done by:—and he did 'em.
Observe this sad example ofImported Western culture!Symbol of peace, the sucking-doveKnocks under to the vulture;
And prophets of a prior ageMight fairly be astoundedTo find the system of the sageConfuciusworse confounded!
(By a Disgusted Backer.)
Ladas, Ladas,Go along with you, do.I'm now stone-broke,All on account of you.It wasn't a lucky Leger,And I wish I'd been a hedger,Though youdidlook sweet,Before defeat——But I've thoroughly done with you!
Ladas, Ladas,Go along with you, do.I'm now stone-broke,All on account of you.It wasn't a lucky Leger,And I wish I'd been a hedger,Though youdidlook sweet,Before defeat——But I've thoroughly done with you!
Ladas, Ladas,Go along with you, do.I'm now stone-broke,All on account of you.It wasn't a lucky Leger,And I wish I'd been a hedger,Though youdidlook sweet,Before defeat——But I've thoroughly done with you!
Scientific Gossip.—In spite of the great number of bathers at all our most frequented sea-side resorts there has been no appreciable diminution in either the quality or quantity of the sea-water.
STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE.Mr. Hippopotamus as he might have been.]
STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE.
Mr. Hippopotamus as he might have been.]
'Twas almost dusk; the galleriesLay silent and desertedWhere happy knots of twos and threesHad wondered, talked, and flirted;Where, armed with buns and catalogues,The country-bred relationsHad criticised, appraised, despisedThe art of many nations.No more the rigid censor viewedWith hearty disapprovalAthenian statues in the nude,Demanding their removal;No more the cultured connoisseur,Whom nothing new amazes,The very old designs extolledIn very modern phrases.Yet two remained; a youth and maidStill lingered in the sectionWhere Egypt's treasures lie displayedFor popular inspection;They talked in whispers, and althoughThe subject dear to some is,They did not seem to take as themeThe obelisks and mummies.An Art more ancient far, one thinks,Was that they talked of lightly,Compared with which the hoary SphinxSeems juvenile and sprightly;Young as the very latest tale,Old as the oldest stories,It kept them there, this happy pair,That Art—thears amoris!The mummies round them seemed to smile,Ah, long ago, one fancies,Those withered faces by the NileHad known their own romances.The old-world gods have passed away,Osiris lies forsaken,But Love alone retains his throneUnquestioned and unshaken!
'Twas almost dusk; the galleriesLay silent and desertedWhere happy knots of twos and threesHad wondered, talked, and flirted;Where, armed with buns and catalogues,The country-bred relationsHad criticised, appraised, despisedThe art of many nations.No more the rigid censor viewedWith hearty disapprovalAthenian statues in the nude,Demanding their removal;No more the cultured connoisseur,Whom nothing new amazes,The very old designs extolledIn very modern phrases.Yet two remained; a youth and maidStill lingered in the sectionWhere Egypt's treasures lie displayedFor popular inspection;They talked in whispers, and althoughThe subject dear to some is,They did not seem to take as themeThe obelisks and mummies.An Art more ancient far, one thinks,Was that they talked of lightly,Compared with which the hoary SphinxSeems juvenile and sprightly;Young as the very latest tale,Old as the oldest stories,It kept them there, this happy pair,That Art—thears amoris!The mummies round them seemed to smile,Ah, long ago, one fancies,Those withered faces by the NileHad known their own romances.The old-world gods have passed away,Osiris lies forsaken,But Love alone retains his throneUnquestioned and unshaken!
'Twas almost dusk; the galleriesLay silent and desertedWhere happy knots of twos and threesHad wondered, talked, and flirted;Where, armed with buns and catalogues,The country-bred relationsHad criticised, appraised, despisedThe art of many nations.
No more the rigid censor viewedWith hearty disapprovalAthenian statues in the nude,Demanding their removal;No more the cultured connoisseur,Whom nothing new amazes,The very old designs extolledIn very modern phrases.
Yet two remained; a youth and maidStill lingered in the sectionWhere Egypt's treasures lie displayedFor popular inspection;They talked in whispers, and althoughThe subject dear to some is,They did not seem to take as themeThe obelisks and mummies.
An Art more ancient far, one thinks,Was that they talked of lightly,Compared with which the hoary SphinxSeems juvenile and sprightly;Young as the very latest tale,Old as the oldest stories,It kept them there, this happy pair,That Art—thears amoris!
The mummies round them seemed to smile,Ah, long ago, one fancies,Those withered faces by the NileHad known their own romances.The old-world gods have passed away,Osiris lies forsaken,But Love alone retains his throneUnquestioned and unshaken!
Lex Talionis.—Mr.Lang, turned speculative law-giver, suggests that we should tax literature. Well, that's onlyquid(or so much in the "quid")pro quo; seeing how literature (lots of it) taxes us. A high rate on literary rubbish would yield "pretty pickings," especially if the producers thereof were allowed to "rate" each other! In this age of sloppiness, sniff and snippets there is a lot of "literature" which should be tariffed off the face of the earth.
What matter titles?Helmholtzis a nameThat challenges, alone, the award of Fame!When Emperors, Kings, Pretenders, shadows all,Leave not a dust-trace on our whirling ball,Thy work, oh grave-eyed searcher, shall endure,Unmarred by faction, from low passion pure.To bridge the gulf 'twixt matter-veil and mindPerchance to mortals, dull-sensed, slow, purblind,Is not permitted—yet; but patient, keen,Thou on the shadowy track beyond the Seen,Didst dog the elusive truth, and seek in soundThe secret of soul-mysteries profound.Essential Order, Beauty's hidden law!Marvels to strike more sluggish souls with awe,Great seekers, lonely-souled, explore that track,We welcome the wild wonders they bring backFrom ventures stranger than an earthly PoleCan furnish. Distant still that mental goalTo which great spirits strain; but when calm FameSums its bold seekers,Helmholtz, thy great nameAmong the foremost shall eternal stand,Science's pride, and glory of thy land.
What matter titles?Helmholtzis a nameThat challenges, alone, the award of Fame!When Emperors, Kings, Pretenders, shadows all,Leave not a dust-trace on our whirling ball,Thy work, oh grave-eyed searcher, shall endure,Unmarred by faction, from low passion pure.To bridge the gulf 'twixt matter-veil and mindPerchance to mortals, dull-sensed, slow, purblind,Is not permitted—yet; but patient, keen,Thou on the shadowy track beyond the Seen,Didst dog the elusive truth, and seek in soundThe secret of soul-mysteries profound.Essential Order, Beauty's hidden law!Marvels to strike more sluggish souls with awe,Great seekers, lonely-souled, explore that track,We welcome the wild wonders they bring backFrom ventures stranger than an earthly PoleCan furnish. Distant still that mental goalTo which great spirits strain; but when calm FameSums its bold seekers,Helmholtz, thy great nameAmong the foremost shall eternal stand,Science's pride, and glory of thy land.
What matter titles?Helmholtzis a nameThat challenges, alone, the award of Fame!When Emperors, Kings, Pretenders, shadows all,Leave not a dust-trace on our whirling ball,Thy work, oh grave-eyed searcher, shall endure,Unmarred by faction, from low passion pure.To bridge the gulf 'twixt matter-veil and mindPerchance to mortals, dull-sensed, slow, purblind,Is not permitted—yet; but patient, keen,Thou on the shadowy track beyond the Seen,Didst dog the elusive truth, and seek in soundThe secret of soul-mysteries profound.Essential Order, Beauty's hidden law!Marvels to strike more sluggish souls with awe,Great seekers, lonely-souled, explore that track,We welcome the wild wonders they bring backFrom ventures stranger than an earthly PoleCan furnish. Distant still that mental goalTo which great spirits strain; but when calm FameSums its bold seekers,Helmholtz, thy great nameAmong the foremost shall eternal stand,Science's pride, and glory of thy land.
"My dear," said Mrs. R., "I had to discharge my gardener, for when I questioned him about the sale of the vegetables his answers were far too amphibious."
Unhappy Thought by an Invalid.—What a dreadful thing to become the Permanent Head of a Department with a Permanent Headache!
On being asked to play Croquet, A.D. 1894.
["It is impossible to visit any part of the country without realising the fact that the long-discredited game of Croquet is fast coming into vogue again.... This is partly owing to the abolition of 'tight croqueting.'"—Pall Mall Gazette.]
["It is impossible to visit any part of the country without realising the fact that the long-discredited game of Croquet is fast coming into vogue again.... This is partly owing to the abolition of 'tight croqueting.'"—Pall Mall Gazette.]
Eh? What? Why? How?Are we back in the Sixties again?I am rubbing my eyes—is itthen, or now?I'm aRip van Winkle, it's plain!Hoop, Ball, Stick, Cage?Eh, fetch them all out once more?Why, look, they're begrimed and cracked with age,And their playing days are o'er!Well—yes—here goesFor a primitive chaste delight!Let us soberly, solemnly beat our foes,For Croquet's no longer "tight"!
Eh? What? Why? How?Are we back in the Sixties again?I am rubbing my eyes—is itthen, or now?I'm aRip van Winkle, it's plain!Hoop, Ball, Stick, Cage?Eh, fetch them all out once more?Why, look, they're begrimed and cracked with age,And their playing days are o'er!Well—yes—here goesFor a primitive chaste delight!Let us soberly, solemnly beat our foes,For Croquet's no longer "tight"!
Eh? What? Why? How?Are we back in the Sixties again?I am rubbing my eyes—is itthen, or now?I'm aRip van Winkle, it's plain!
Hoop, Ball, Stick, Cage?Eh, fetch them all out once more?Why, look, they're begrimed and cracked with age,And their playing days are o'er!
Well—yes—here goesFor a primitive chaste delight!Let us soberly, solemnly beat our foes,For Croquet's no longer "tight"!
II.
"If any of you knowCause or impediment."—Cause! I should think I do,That girl to wed I meant!She made me drink the cupOf woe, well-shaken upWith bitter sediment.If I forbid the bannsWith visage pallid,Ere she's another man's,And I have rallied,Because in bygone daysWith me she dallied,Would my forbidding phraseBe counted valid?Because her eyes would shineOnce when I praised her,Because her heart to mine,When I upraised herFrom the low garden chair,Beat for a moment's spaceWith sudden, yielding graceWhile I just kiss'd her hair,Which nought amazed her;Soothed her with loving touch,Loving, but not too much,When on her little handThe buckle of her bandHad lightly grazed her?Slowly our souls betweenMists of reserve crept in—I reck'd not, blindly—A sister she became,O chill and veal-like name!A great deal less than kin,Much less than kindly.Then on the old sweet waysOf thoughtless, chummy days,Turning severely,Pride, hooded in dislike,Struck as a snake might strike,And, in the public gaze,Froze me austerely.Well, all is vanity;She'll disillusion'd be,And I—well, as for me,When these confusionsClear from my brain away,Back in my thoughts I'll strayWhere sunbeams ever playOn lost illusions.
"If any of you knowCause or impediment."—Cause! I should think I do,That girl to wed I meant!She made me drink the cupOf woe, well-shaken upWith bitter sediment.If I forbid the bannsWith visage pallid,Ere she's another man's,And I have rallied,Because in bygone daysWith me she dallied,Would my forbidding phraseBe counted valid?Because her eyes would shineOnce when I praised her,Because her heart to mine,When I upraised herFrom the low garden chair,Beat for a moment's spaceWith sudden, yielding graceWhile I just kiss'd her hair,Which nought amazed her;Soothed her with loving touch,Loving, but not too much,When on her little handThe buckle of her bandHad lightly grazed her?Slowly our souls betweenMists of reserve crept in—I reck'd not, blindly—A sister she became,O chill and veal-like name!A great deal less than kin,Much less than kindly.Then on the old sweet waysOf thoughtless, chummy days,Turning severely,Pride, hooded in dislike,Struck as a snake might strike,And, in the public gaze,Froze me austerely.Well, all is vanity;She'll disillusion'd be,And I—well, as for me,When these confusionsClear from my brain away,Back in my thoughts I'll strayWhere sunbeams ever playOn lost illusions.
"If any of you knowCause or impediment."—Cause! I should think I do,That girl to wed I meant!She made me drink the cupOf woe, well-shaken upWith bitter sediment.
If I forbid the bannsWith visage pallid,Ere she's another man's,And I have rallied,Because in bygone daysWith me she dallied,Would my forbidding phraseBe counted valid?
Because her eyes would shineOnce when I praised her,Because her heart to mine,When I upraised herFrom the low garden chair,Beat for a moment's spaceWith sudden, yielding graceWhile I just kiss'd her hair,Which nought amazed her;Soothed her with loving touch,Loving, but not too much,When on her little handThe buckle of her bandHad lightly grazed her?
Slowly our souls betweenMists of reserve crept in—I reck'd not, blindly—A sister she became,O chill and veal-like name!A great deal less than kin,Much less than kindly.
Then on the old sweet waysOf thoughtless, chummy days,Turning severely,Pride, hooded in dislike,Struck as a snake might strike,And, in the public gaze,Froze me austerely.
Well, all is vanity;She'll disillusion'd be,And I—well, as for me,When these confusionsClear from my brain away,Back in my thoughts I'll strayWhere sunbeams ever playOn lost illusions.
ONE THING AT A TIME.Genial Master (under the painful necessity of discharging his Coachman)."I'm afraid, Simmons, we must part. The fact is, I couldn't help noticing that several times during the last Month you have been—Sober; and I don't believe a Man can attend properly to the Drink if he has Driving to do!"
ONE THING AT A TIME.
Genial Master (under the painful necessity of discharging his Coachman)."I'm afraid, Simmons, we must part. The fact is, I couldn't help noticing that several times during the last Month you have been—Sober; and I don't believe a Man can attend properly to the Drink if he has Driving to do!"
'Arry, 'Arry Smith de Smith,As wheelman you would win renown!You are the country districts' pest,You are the nuisance of the town:You're wan and wild and dust-defiled;You think you're awfully admired.Though winner of a hundred "pots,"Your fame is not to be desired.'Arry, 'Arry Smith de Smith,You whirl and whisk about the lands.With shoulders bowed, with lowered pate,And dull eyes fixed upon your hands.Oh! take some interest in the scene,Love birds that sing and flowers that blow;Try not to be a mere machine,And let the record-squelcher go!
'Arry, 'Arry Smith de Smith,As wheelman you would win renown!You are the country districts' pest,You are the nuisance of the town:You're wan and wild and dust-defiled;You think you're awfully admired.Though winner of a hundred "pots,"Your fame is not to be desired.'Arry, 'Arry Smith de Smith,You whirl and whisk about the lands.With shoulders bowed, with lowered pate,And dull eyes fixed upon your hands.Oh! take some interest in the scene,Love birds that sing and flowers that blow;Try not to be a mere machine,And let the record-squelcher go!
'Arry, 'Arry Smith de Smith,As wheelman you would win renown!You are the country districts' pest,You are the nuisance of the town:You're wan and wild and dust-defiled;You think you're awfully admired.Though winner of a hundred "pots,"Your fame is not to be desired.
'Arry, 'Arry Smith de Smith,You whirl and whisk about the lands.With shoulders bowed, with lowered pate,And dull eyes fixed upon your hands.Oh! take some interest in the scene,Love birds that sing and flowers that blow;Try not to be a mere machine,And let the record-squelcher go!
A little less than M'Kinley, but more than Unkind.—PresidentClevelandhas had to allow the Gorman Act to become law without formally assenting to it. He has had, in fact, to swallow what he would fain reject, an act of involuntary political Gormandising which must be unpleasant.
(A Symposium à la Mode.)
The Author of "A Saddis Aster" confesses.
I am much flattered by your kind invitation to discuss the Advanced Woman, but an initial difficulty suggests itself to me. Can one discuss the Advanced Woman if this Advanced Woman herself is non-existent? I am aware, of course, that she has stridden large of late in the pages of feminine fiction, but is she not as extinct (before she has ever existed) as herDodotitle? Let me make my own confession. I have used, if I did not invent, the A. W. I have secured a remunerative public. Once on a time I wrote of life as I found it. I used my eyes and ears, and endeavoured to let the world have the result in the old-fashioned, wholesome story. It was a dreary failure. The critics commended my style, and the public let me severely alone.Nous avons changé tout cela.A theatrical manager who finds his musical piece begin to drag, saves the situation by a New Edition—in other words, by two new songs and some fresh dances. In a similar way I secured a reputation by dragging in (at times by her very heel) the Advanced Woman. True that she resembles no one in actual existence, true, indeed, that she is outrageously and offensively improbable, but the public were not happy till they got her. They're happy now. So am I.
Mrs. Shriek Shriekon speaks out.
I should have thought thatmyviews on the Advanced Woman were sufficiently well known; but, since you ask my opinion, I may say at once that I lose no opportunity of inveighing against thisfin-de-siècleabomination. Once on a time it was not thought unbecoming for a woman to be modest and retiring. She knew her sphere, and, queen in her own selected world, she did not aspire to a sovereignty which naturally belonged to others. If they were alive to-day (and, after all, some of them are), our grandmothers would hardly know theirGrandchildren—the Heavenly Twins. I am glad that I am permitted to keep burning the sacred lamp of the Old Womanhood. Indeed, it looks as if the jeers which a thoughtless world has hitherto reserved for the Old Maid were being transferred to the Old Woman. Yet to those who have never yielded to the spell of the latter-day notions, there is only dismay in the spectacle of the Advanced Woman sweeping triumphantly on, with her mind full of sex-problems she has not brains enough to understand, and her breath stained with the trace of cigarettes she does not care to conceal. Wholesomeness dies at being dubbed old-fashioned; Modesty does not survive the disgrace of not being up to date. It's a bad world, my masters, and I'm never tired of saying so.
Ann U. Woman dreams of the Future.
The fact that you have invited my opinion with full knowledge of what I shall say, emboldens me to speak out. Man's day (which, like every dog, he has had) draws to an end. For centuries he has had Woman at his mercy. What she is to-day, that he has made her. And what is she? His Doll, his Slave, his "Old Woman." But Man made one fatal mistake. In a weak moment he consented to allow Woman to earn her own living. From that moment our ultimate triumph was assured. Now we know our strength. Told of old that we were brainless, we now become Senior Wranglers. Condemned aforetime to inactivity, we now realise that in life's struggle there are no prizes we are not competent to secure, though, of course, we are not always permitted. We have precipitated ourselves out of a yellow miasma of stagnant sloth into an emancipated, and advanced day. The Advanced Woman has come to stay—but not with any husband. She will be as free as the air, as strong as the eagle. I must stop, as to do any more fine writing would be to anticipate my next novel. Be sure to get it. It will be called—— [No; I can stand a good deal, but not that.—Ed.]
That holiday cruise on board the good steamshipCannie Donia! Did I dream it? or was it a reality? "Are there wisions about?" It seems like yesterday or like years ago, and I know it was neither. "OldKaspar's,"—or let us say middle-agedKaspar's,—"work was done"pro tem., and he could not neglect so great an opportunity, nor refuse so inviting an invitation as that sent him by SirCharles Cheerie, the Chairman, to come aboard for the trial trip of the G.S.S.Cannie Donia. So I, middle-agedKaspar, work done as aforesaid, did then and thereby becomeTommythe Tripper, and, as such, went aboard the gallant SS. abovementioned, all-to-the-contrary, nevertheless, and notwithstanding.
And what a goodly company!
SirCharlesand LadyCheerie, perfect host and hostess in themselves. Here too was ourToby, M.P., waggish as ever. "I am not down on the official list of guests as 'Tobias,'" quoth he. "And why?" I gave it up. "Because," says he, answering his own conundrum, "I am a free and independent scribe, and there is nothingto biasme. Aha!" The sea air agrees withToby, M.P. "And wherewouldthe Member for Barkshire be," he asks, propounding as it were another and a better puzzle, "but aboard a bonnie barque? My bark," he continues gaily, "may be worse than my bite, but——" Here the bugle-call to breakfast sounds, and from ocular evidence I can roundly assert that whatever his bark may be, I will back his bite—and this without backbiting, of which, as I trust, neither of us is capable—against that of any two of his own size and weight. YetTobyen mangeantis not the dog in a manger, no, not by any means! With one eye to the main chance, and another to the corresponding comfort of his co-breakfasters, so pursueth he his steadfast course, as indeed do we all, to the astonishment of most of us, through the shoals of toast and butter; over the shallows of eggs; safely through the Straits of Kipper and Kurrie; with a pleasant time in Hot Tea Bay; then through a Choppy sea, between the dangerous rocks of Brawn and Bacon; into the calm Marmaladean Sea, where we ride at anchor and all is well.
After breakfast, the cigar, or pipe, with conversational accompaniment, what time we pace the quarter-deck. Prognostications as to probable weather are "taken and offered" by nautically-attired guests, who, in a general way, may be supposed from their seagoing costume "to know the ropes." Here is the ever amiable and truly gallant SirPeter Plural, looking every inch the ideal yachtsman, as honorary member of the Upper House of Cowes and Ryde Piers. Wonderful man SirPeter!knows everybody, is liked by everybody; has been yachting and sailing and voyaging for any number of years; knows even the smallest waves by sight, and, if asked, could probably tell you their names! One day he will publish his reminiscences!
We anchor off Queenstown. The estimable, jovialValentine Vulcan, M.P., from the North, must ashore to purchase some trifling knickknacks by way of mementoes of the visit. Instead of "knickknacks" he lays in a stock of "knock-knocks," yclept "shillelaghs," which are served out to him by a delicately pale beauty of Erin, dark-haired, slim waisted, and as elegant as might be any natty girl from County Trim. She shows us some dozen shillelaghs with hard, murderous-looking, bulbous knobs.
"Phew!" whistlesValentine Vulcan, M.P., weighing one of these dainty sticks in his hand. "You might get rather a nasty crack from this." I agree with him, and the sad daughter of Erin regards us sadly and sympathetically.
"Maybe," I think to myself, "she has lost a friend or a lover in one of these confoundedO'CapuletandO'Montaguerows. Poor girl!" And I eye her with a look wherein admiration is tempered with pity. It occurs to me that I will say something appropriate, just to show her how I, a stranger and a Saxon, feel for her. It may lead her to express her hearty detestation of these faction-fights, and of these deadly fracas with the armed constabulary. So I say, with a touch of deep indignation in my tone, "It's a shame," say I, "that such things as these"—and I nod frowningly at the shillelaghs, whichVulcan, M.P., is twirling meditatively, one in each hand, as if right and left were about to fight it out—"it's a shame that such things as these should be permitted!" The pale, sad, beautiful daughter of Erin, regards me mournfully, and then, in a tone expressive of astonishment blended with firm remonstrance, she asks,—
"An' whatwouldthe poor Boys use, an' they not allowed fire-arms?"
That was all. No smile is on the lips of Erin's pale daughter. She is apparently in earnest, though bothVulcanand myself, talking it over subsequently, unite in opinion that, perhaps, she had been availing herself of this rare and unique opportunity of "getting at" the Saxon.
So she went on recommending sticks and photographs, and did a good bit of business with our generousVulcan, M.P., who returned, laden with gifts for various fellow-guests aboard the good SS.Cannie Donia.
What amusing nights and delightful days! The ladies—bless 'em!—all charming, and very Barkisses in their perpetual "willingness" to do anything and everything that might give pleasure and afford amusement. Two fairy-gifted maidens entertain us mightily with a capital dramatic sketch of their own composition; others follow suit, playing the piano; and asestetteperform, without previous rehearsal, glees, madrigals, part-songs, and choruses to popular plantation melodies, under the leadership of that masterly musicianTom Tolderol, whose only regret is that he has not been able to bring on board with him his sixteen-horse-power-fifty-stopped-sixteen-pedal organ (designed and made by the eminent firm ofBellows, Blower & Co., at a cost of some few thousand pounds), though, as he explains to us, he would have done so, had this musical mammoth been only compressible within the limits of an ordinary carpet bag.
However,à proposof organs, we have with us a representative of one of the greatest organs—of the Press—full of wise saws and modern instances; as jolly as a sandboy, or rather as a schoolboy out for a holiday. A sailor every inch of him, and this is saying a great deal, as he must be over six feet, and broad in proportion.
Appropriate, too, as aboard "the craft," is the presence of the Great Grand Secretary, Mr.Benjamin Boaz, A.M., P.G.M., &c., &c., and the still Greater, Grander Something Else, P.P.M., &c., SirJonathan Jachin, mysterious officers,Arcades ambo, of the Secret Rites of Masonry, fall of nods, winks, becks, wreathed smiles, signs, secrets, fun, frolic, and tales galore.
Ah! the happy days! And the happy evenings! What excellent "toasts" and "returnings of thanks" by my LordAffidavit, by SirPoseidon À Vinklo(President of the Anchorite Court), byAndrew McJason(senior of the Argonautic Firm that built the good shipCannie Donia), and the sprightliest speech of all by SirCharles Cheerie!
Round to Falmouth, up the Fal, "with our Fal, lal, la," as singeth our brilliantsestetteto piano, or, to quote SirJonathan, "our P. an' O." accompaniment.
Then S'uth'ards! Then.... But "here break we off."
Thus do I briefly make some record of a "trial trip"; and may no trip that any of us may make, whether involving a trial or not, have worse results than has this, of which, beginning and finishing happily and gloriously as it has done—and such be theCannie Donia'sfate evermore—I am privileged to write this slight record, and proud to account myself henceforth as
One of the Trippers.
Saxon (referring to the shillelaghs)."It's a shame that such things as these should be permitted!"Daughter of Erin (plaintively)."An' whatwouldthe poor Boys use, an' they not allowed Fire-arms?"
Saxon (referring to the shillelaghs)."It's a shame that such things as these should be permitted!"
Daughter of Erin (plaintively)."An' whatwouldthe poor Boys use, an' they not allowed Fire-arms?"
AN IMPORTANT 'JUNCTION."You mind your Fader gets my Boots reddy by Four o'clock, 'cos I'm goin' to a Party!"
AN IMPORTANT 'JUNCTION.
"You mind your Fader gets my Boots reddy by Four o'clock, 'cos I'm goin' to a Party!"
["To Poets.—£5 offered for a One-Act Opera Libretto, subject to conditions," &c.—Advertisement in "Morning Post."]
["To Poets.—£5 offered for a One-Act Opera Libretto, subject to conditions," &c.—Advertisement in "Morning Post."]
Passed are the days when in accents patheticWriters complained of their wage as unjust,Gone are the times when the genius poeticStruggled in penury, dined on a crust!Nor need they longer, who strive for a pittance,Grieve if the editors still are remiss;What though the papers refuse them admittanceWhile they're afforded such chances as this?Writers of verse, here is news to elate you!"Poets" (the title you value the most),Simply magnificent offers await you!—Videthis paragraph, cut from thePost.Hasten, ye bards (who surely a debt oweTo thisMæcenas, this opulent man),Hasten with joy to prepare alibrettoFit to accomplish his excellent plan!He will fulfil your most lofty ambitions—Such generosity simply astounds!—You will receive (under certain "conditions")Honour, and glory, and fame, and—five pounds!
Passed are the days when in accents patheticWriters complained of their wage as unjust,Gone are the times when the genius poeticStruggled in penury, dined on a crust!Nor need they longer, who strive for a pittance,Grieve if the editors still are remiss;What though the papers refuse them admittanceWhile they're afforded such chances as this?Writers of verse, here is news to elate you!"Poets" (the title you value the most),Simply magnificent offers await you!—Videthis paragraph, cut from thePost.Hasten, ye bards (who surely a debt oweTo thisMæcenas, this opulent man),Hasten with joy to prepare alibrettoFit to accomplish his excellent plan!He will fulfil your most lofty ambitions—Such generosity simply astounds!—You will receive (under certain "conditions")Honour, and glory, and fame, and—five pounds!
Passed are the days when in accents patheticWriters complained of their wage as unjust,Gone are the times when the genius poeticStruggled in penury, dined on a crust!
Nor need they longer, who strive for a pittance,Grieve if the editors still are remiss;What though the papers refuse them admittanceWhile they're afforded such chances as this?
Writers of verse, here is news to elate you!"Poets" (the title you value the most),Simply magnificent offers await you!—Videthis paragraph, cut from thePost.
Hasten, ye bards (who surely a debt oweTo thisMæcenas, this opulent man),Hasten with joy to prepare alibrettoFit to accomplish his excellent plan!
He will fulfil your most lofty ambitions—Such generosity simply astounds!—You will receive (under certain "conditions")Honour, and glory, and fame, and—five pounds!
A Paradox of Theatrical Success.—At the Criterion very difficult to get intoHot Water.
(To a Friendly Adviser.)
When starting off on foreign trips,I've felt secure if someone gave meInvaluable hints and tips;Time, trouble, money, these would save me.I'm off; you've told me all you know.Forewarned, forearmed, I start, instructedHow much to spend, and where to go;Yet free, not like some folks "conducted."Now I shall face, serene and calm,Those persons, often rather pressingFor little gifts, with outstretched palm.To some of them I'll give my blessing.To others—"service" being paid—Buona mano,pourboire,trinkgeld;They fancy Englishmen are madeOf money, made of (so they think)geld.Thegarçon, ready with each dish,His brisk "Voilà, monsieur" replyingTo anything that one may wish;His claim admits of no denying.Theportier, who never rests,Who speaks six languages togetherTo clamorous, inquiring guests,On letters, luggage, trains, boats, weather.Thefemme de chambre, who fills mybain;Theouvreuse, where I see theacteur,A cigarette tochef de train,A franc to energeticfacteur.I give eachcocherwhat is right;I know, without profound researches,What I must pay for each new sight—Cathedrals, castles, convents, churches.Or climbing up to see a view,Fromcampanile, roof or steeple.Those verbal tips I had from youSave money tips to other people.Save all those florins, marks or francs—Orpfennige,sous,kreutzer, is it?—The change they give me at the banks,According to the towns I visit.I seem to owe you these, and yetWill money do? My feeling's deeper.I'll owe you an eternal debt—A debt of gratitude, that's cheaper.
When starting off on foreign trips,I've felt secure if someone gave meInvaluable hints and tips;Time, trouble, money, these would save me.I'm off; you've told me all you know.Forewarned, forearmed, I start, instructedHow much to spend, and where to go;Yet free, not like some folks "conducted."Now I shall face, serene and calm,Those persons, often rather pressingFor little gifts, with outstretched palm.To some of them I'll give my blessing.To others—"service" being paid—Buona mano,pourboire,trinkgeld;They fancy Englishmen are madeOf money, made of (so they think)geld.Thegarçon, ready with each dish,His brisk "Voilà, monsieur" replyingTo anything that one may wish;His claim admits of no denying.Theportier, who never rests,Who speaks six languages togetherTo clamorous, inquiring guests,On letters, luggage, trains, boats, weather.Thefemme de chambre, who fills mybain;Theouvreuse, where I see theacteur,A cigarette tochef de train,A franc to energeticfacteur.I give eachcocherwhat is right;I know, without profound researches,What I must pay for each new sight—Cathedrals, castles, convents, churches.Or climbing up to see a view,Fromcampanile, roof or steeple.Those verbal tips I had from youSave money tips to other people.Save all those florins, marks or francs—Orpfennige,sous,kreutzer, is it?—The change they give me at the banks,According to the towns I visit.I seem to owe you these, and yetWill money do? My feeling's deeper.I'll owe you an eternal debt—A debt of gratitude, that's cheaper.
When starting off on foreign trips,I've felt secure if someone gave meInvaluable hints and tips;Time, trouble, money, these would save me.
I'm off; you've told me all you know.Forewarned, forearmed, I start, instructedHow much to spend, and where to go;Yet free, not like some folks "conducted."
Now I shall face, serene and calm,Those persons, often rather pressingFor little gifts, with outstretched palm.To some of them I'll give my blessing.
To others—"service" being paid—Buona mano,pourboire,trinkgeld;They fancy Englishmen are madeOf money, made of (so they think)geld.
Thegarçon, ready with each dish,His brisk "Voilà, monsieur" replyingTo anything that one may wish;His claim admits of no denying.
Theportier, who never rests,Who speaks six languages togetherTo clamorous, inquiring guests,On letters, luggage, trains, boats, weather.
Thefemme de chambre, who fills mybain;Theouvreuse, where I see theacteur,A cigarette tochef de train,A franc to energeticfacteur.
I give eachcocherwhat is right;I know, without profound researches,What I must pay for each new sight—Cathedrals, castles, convents, churches.
Or climbing up to see a view,Fromcampanile, roof or steeple.Those verbal tips I had from youSave money tips to other people.
Save all those florins, marks or francs—Orpfennige,sous,kreutzer, is it?—The change they give me at the banks,According to the towns I visit.
I seem to owe you these, and yetWill money do? My feeling's deeper.I'll owe you an eternal debt—A debt of gratitude, that's cheaper.
(After a Long Course of Cynicism.)
"Sentiment is come again."So says clever Mr.Zangwill.Most things tire the human brain;Mugwump mockery and slang will:Pessimism's pompous pose,Hedonism's virus septic;Cynicism's cold cock-nose,Creedless dismals, doubts dyspeptic,All are wearying—being sham.Twopenny Timon tires and sickens.Bitters bore us! We'll try jam!Back toLytton,Hood, andDickens?Sorrows of sweet seventeen?Vows that manly one-and-twenty meant?Yes! we're sick of Cynic spleen.Let's hark back again to Sentiment!Saccharine surfeit, after all,Though it be a trifle sickly,Changes our long gorge of gall.Come back, Sentiment, and quickly!
"Sentiment is come again."So says clever Mr.Zangwill.Most things tire the human brain;Mugwump mockery and slang will:Pessimism's pompous pose,Hedonism's virus septic;Cynicism's cold cock-nose,Creedless dismals, doubts dyspeptic,All are wearying—being sham.Twopenny Timon tires and sickens.Bitters bore us! We'll try jam!Back toLytton,Hood, andDickens?Sorrows of sweet seventeen?Vows that manly one-and-twenty meant?Yes! we're sick of Cynic spleen.Let's hark back again to Sentiment!Saccharine surfeit, after all,Though it be a trifle sickly,Changes our long gorge of gall.Come back, Sentiment, and quickly!
"Sentiment is come again."So says clever Mr.Zangwill.Most things tire the human brain;Mugwump mockery and slang will:Pessimism's pompous pose,Hedonism's virus septic;Cynicism's cold cock-nose,Creedless dismals, doubts dyspeptic,All are wearying—being sham.Twopenny Timon tires and sickens.Bitters bore us! We'll try jam!Back toLytton,Hood, andDickens?Sorrows of sweet seventeen?Vows that manly one-and-twenty meant?Yes! we're sick of Cynic spleen.Let's hark back again to Sentiment!Saccharine surfeit, after all,Though it be a trifle sickly,Changes our long gorge of gall.Come back, Sentiment, and quickly!
Transcriber's Note:Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.