"Love me, love my Dog!" Well, I don't want to flog
The fine but excitable fellow.
With a nip on his tail e'en a Bull wouldn't fail
To bounce round a bit, and to bellow.
I'd do my square best with the greatest good will,
If only he'd—just for a moment—stand still.
Stand still, with a nip like crocodile's grip
On one's caudal appendage? Ah, just so!
I know 'tis a task that seems too much to ask.
I'm reasonable,—or I trust so.
But there is the Lobster, it's holding on fast.
And—hang it! this state of affairs cannot last!
How came it about? That's a matter of doubt,
Which there isn't much use in discussing,
To part them's my aim; I would manage that same
Without either fighting or fussing.
Newfoundland or not, there's no dog finds it nice
To live very long with its tail in a vice!
I want to get near if I can, but, oh dear!
The Dog to my call won't attend. I
Conceive, if he would, it might be for his good,
I'd hit on some modus vivendi.
But if Dog won't stand still, and if Lobster won't loose,
My heartiest help cannot be of much use.
One ANDROCLES bold eased a lion of old
Of a thorn in his foot—a great worry!
But ANDROCLES, sure, would have failed of a cure
If poor Leo had kept on the scurry,
As you, my dear Dog, do at present. Verb. sap.!
Do just let me get at the Lobster, old chap!
While it's fast to your tail, and you wriggle and wail,
And romp all around, the best master,
And kindest of heart, Dog and Lobster can't part.
Don't think I deride your disaster!
The pinch of it might make an elephant prance;
No, all that I ask is—just give me a chance!
Life is a farce, a dreary round,
A fraud—of that there's not a doubt,
Although I've only lately found
It out.
Bad boldly masquerades as good,
Fruit turns to ashes in the taking,
Unpleasant very is the rude
Awaking.
'Tis Spring, when something, so one learns,
Seems to affect the burnished dove,
And when a young man's fancy turns
To love.
With window open to the breeze,
The tramp of passers-by unheeding,
I sit reclining at mine ease,
A-reading.
I've read enough—and not amiss
I rather fancy now would be
A little rest—ah! what is this
I see?
A sight that's almost past belief,
And makes me think I must be raving,
For there a girl a handkerchief
Is waving!
Like to a light that in the black
And inky night shines o'er the main,
It disappears, and then comes back
Again.
I know the house quite well—I've heard
Her father's something in the City,
And she's a blue-eyed girl absurd-
-ly pretty.
By Jove! she does it with a whirr,
It's clear this inexpressive she
Is given to the fortiter
In re.
Of course it's forward—and indeed
It's worse—it's shockingly imprudent
Thus to encourage me, a need-
-y student.
Her form is shadowy—I must
Get out my glasses, so to bring
Her nearer. Yes—the range is just
The thing!
Life is a farce, without a doubt!
The cause of all this fuss and fluster
Is just a housemaid shaking out
Her duster!
Lord Salisbury.—Allegorical Cartoon representing BRITANNIA astonished at the success of her recent Foreign Policy.
Mr. Gladstone.—Pocket Edition of Cyclopædia of Universal Information, copiously illustrated, for the use of veteran Statesmen.
The Emperor of Germany.—Prize Homily on the Art of Governing, with special reference to the science as applied to the subordination of "temper."
Mr. Parnell.—Sculptured Group representing the Reptile of Egotism turning the tables on St. Patrick, and endeavouring to drive him out of Ireland.
The President of the United States.—An Italian Iron—over-heated.
Ex-King Milan of Servia.—A Monthly Cheque for amusement and travelling expenses, but not including a return ticket to Belgrade.
The Post-Master-General.—One hundred Receipts for getting into hot water.
Mr. Sheriff Augustus Harris.—Draft Proposal for buying up and working the British Government with duly audited Schedule, showing how the "takings" could be more than doubled by spirited management.
Mr. Jackson of Clitheroe.—Prize Farce entitled, "Lynch Law and Conjugal Rights."
He was a dapper, dumpy thing,
With nought decisive on him graven
But smiles, like footlights flickering
O'er visage shaven.
And it, that kind of social myth
Where every guest (and each a rum one)
Is Somebody, because the kith
Or kin of Someone.
The Great Siberian Victim's Aunt,
The Godfather of Colonel CODY,
And some affinity I can't
Recall to DAUDET.
In fine, a Tussaud's once removed,
Not waxworks, but their far connections;
The names, the attitudes, approved,
But mere reflections.
Our hostess, wont to pedigree
Her portents, slurred his surname sweetly;
So up my smiler tripped—to me
Unknown completely.
Thus mystified, I needs must bruit
The weather—"It was rainy, rather."
"Yes," he rejoined, "It does not suit
My Poet-father:
"Strange how the damp affects great men;
My nephew, not the Wit, the Artist,
You know paints always smartest when
It rains the smartest."
"In water-colours?" feebly next
I faltered, falling quite to pieces:
"No, no," he murmured mildly vexed,
"You mean my nieces.
"Those delicate young paintresses
Of Idyls in Cobalt and Bistre,
Though for Impressionist success,
Give me my sister.
"My nephew, he's inspired of course,
Divine, quite autre chose: en bref you—
Forgive an uncle's pride—perforce
Adore my nephew."
Reeling with Relatives, I quite
My compass lost: to shift our bearing,
"Who is the Lady on your right?"
Quoth I, despairing.
"That Beauty, like the portraits I've
For sale beheld of Miss BELLE BILTON."—
"She? She's the representative,
The last, of MILTON!"
This was too much: what could I try
To burst from such a tangled tether?
The shops for neutral ground, thought I,
Eclipse the weather.
The shops! The very thing. I dared
The shops. "How wonderful was WHITELEY!"
Dazed at the Wizard's name he stared,
And shuddered slightly.
A silence froze his ready twang:
No more he smiled—from that fell minute,
HENRY THE FIRST—to speak in slang—
Was scarcely in it.
That smilelessness! What meant the curse?
Who could the skein unravel? I did.
This was the Diner "Univers-
-ally provided."
Renowned, if nameless—hired to be
Salvation of a banquet's ruin,
"Monsieur Le Quatorzième" took me,
And may take you in.
"For ever and again the Corporation of London send down their protégés, the young City sportsmen who may, or may not, know how to load a gun, but who are very keen on 'Sport.' Then the herds are driven by beaters towards the gallant huntsmen, the forest re-echoes with the report of guns, and next day you can trace the whereabouts of the wounded bucks and deer by tracks of blood among the bushes, and by impressions on the grass where the maimed creature has fallen in its flight for life."—Pall Mall Gazette.
Oh, we like,—we love the Merry Green Wood,
As should Huntsmen bold of the proper sort!
And we would hit the stag if we possibly could,—
As is meet with such palpable sons of Sport.
Away to the forest we cheerily run,
And wait for the beaters' welcome cry;
And though we are new to the use of a gun,
What matters? At anything we'll let fly!
So Sing hey, sing ho, for the startled deer;
We warrant we'll hit him, if he comes near
And we'll send him lame and limping away,
With a shot he'll remember for many a day!
For marry come up! But it would be absurd
To expect a bold Sportsman to bag the whole herd!
So he blazes away; and he hits one or two;
And they hobble away in some thicket to lie,
And, after a day or two's suffering, die;
We don't see precisely what more we could do,
Than shout that "we love the Merry Green Wood!"
And would settle the stag,—if we possibly could!
The following advertisement appears in the Standard:—
A Lady wishes to have twice from the country a SUPPLY of LIVE SPARROWS, for a favourite cat.—Address, &c.
There is an uncomfortably blood-thirsty look about this "Lady's" desire to supply her favourite cat with some downright real Sport. For it is to be presumed that she intends her well-cared for pet literally to do the unhappy sparrows to death in the most approved fashion. How will she manage it? Clip their wings, and set them on the drawing-room floor; or tie strings to their legs, and let the favourite cat "go for them?" Cats must be fed. But it is not necessary to provide them with a "Supply of Live Sparrows" twice, or even once. We submit the subject to the notice of the S.P.C.A.
ONE POUND NOTES.—Probable rate that a fashionable prima donna will charge for a song in the near future.
Emancipated Blue-Ribboned British Workman loquitur:—
Yesh, HARRY LAWSHUN mosh entirely righ'!
WILFRIDSH mush blesh his nameshake! Had a frigh'
Only lash Shundaysh. Fanshied I saw snakesh.
Frigh'ful to watch 'em wrigglung, when one wakesh
Over the quilterpane—I mean counterquilt.
Liqnorsh are lovely, when you're that waysh built;
But snakesh ish pizen! So ish liquorsh, too—
Leastwaysh, so WILFRIDSH LAWSHON and hish crew
Alwaysh declaresh! No matter! Nash'ral Museum,
Mush better than the Jim-Jamsh! Eugh! I shee 'em!
All eyesh and limbsh, all twists, and twirls, and twiddles;
Tails like long corkscrewsh, gogglesh in their middles;
Big headsh, and bony bodysh—frigh'fully frisky!
Fancy sush things living in Irish Whishky,
Like animalcu—what's it? in—hic—water!
No matter! I've sworn offsh! POLLY, my daughter,
Made me Good Templarsh! No more horrorsh now!
To Heaven's broad blue vault I lift my brow,
A shober Br—Bri'sh Workman! So old DUMPER,
The lecturer, putsh it. He'sh a rare tub-thumper!
Itsh Easter Shunday, and I am not tigh'!
Bri'sh Workman—Nash'ral Museum! Thatsh or'righ'.
Feelsh bit unsteady! That dashed ginger-beer
Gassysh—go i' my head an' makesh me queer!
One nipsh!—no, no! won't do! Wherream I? Lor!
Strai' on, the plishman says, through tha' there door.
Doorsh blesshed wide, and these 'ere big shop-cases
With bitsh o' stone and beedlesh!—Yah! Thosh faces!
Thosh eyesh, thosh limbsh, thosh bodysh, big and bony!
Thosh wrigglewigglements! I'll bet a pony
Thish ish no Nash'ral Museum—Nash—hic—ral Hishtory!
Look at 'em! Look at 'em!! Oh, hersh a mystery!
POLLYSH,—where are yer? Where'sh that blesshed bottle?
I'vesh got a peck o' March dust down my throttle.
Give ush that gin—ger beersh, o' course, I mean.
Look, POLLY!—shee that creature long and lean,
Crawling towardsh us! Jim-Jamsh are not in it
With thish 'ere Bri's'h Museum! Wai' a minute!
Where am I? Whersh tha' girl? Can't read this lingo!
"Mega—" It moves! Got 'em again, by Jingo!!!
March 10.—It has come at last, and I'm free to confess I don't care for it half as much as I thought I should. I got the letter five days ago. Here it is:—
Sir,—I have been in communication with headquarters, and I am informed that you are looking out for a Constituency at the next General Election. We have been for some time past endeavouring to find a Candidate for this Borough, and should be glad to hear if we may submit your name to the consideration of our local Council. The political history of Billsbury must be known to you. Up to the date of the last election we have always been represented by a Conservative. In fact, Billsbury was always looked upon as an impregnable fortress of sound Constitutional opinion.
Our late Member, however, was unable to devote to the Constituency the time and attention it required. Moreover, I may mention in strict confidence, that his conduct over the Billsbury Main Drainage Scheme alienated a considerable number of his supporters, and the consequence was that at the last election Sir THOMAS CHUBSON, the Liberal Candidate and present Member for Billsbury, was elected by a majority of 279. Since then, however, the Party has rallied, the divisions in our ranks have been healed, the registrations have been very much in our favour, and there is no reason to doubt that, as soon as Billsbury has the chance, she will return to her ancient allegiance. I shall be in London the day after to-morrow (Thursday, March 6), and shall do myself the honour of calling upon you. Kindly let me know where and when I can see you. I shall be glad to afford you any further information.
I dashed off at once to the Central Association. They urged me to accept, and told me that even if I failed, which they said was extremely unlikely, my fight would give me "an irresistible claim on the Party." Afterwards saw VULLIAMY, the Member for one of the Pinkshire Divisions. He said "Take it? Of course you must. Ridiculous to hesitate. A youngster like you, who only left College four years ago, ought to be proud of the chance. If you're beaten you'll have a claim on the Party, and mind you don't let 'em forget it. Curse them, they never think of a man's valuable services if he doesn't keep on reminding them himself;" and then he drivelled on for a quarter of an hour about all he'd done for the Party, and how "the shabby beggars" had refused his nephew the Morterton Recordership. It seems the other side manage their business much better. Next I called on Uncle HENRY in the City. He said he'd stick to his promise of paying half my expenses, but wouldn't help me to nurse the place. However, I daresay that won't cost much. Eventually wrote to Old TOLLAND, and asked him to call at my Chambers on Thursday at 3 o'clock. Then went home and told my mother. She said, "My darling boy, I knew you would be distinguished. I knew it all along. If your dear father had only lived, he would have been a proud man to-day. Now, mind you have that horrid grating removed from the Ladies' Gallery." And with that she kissed me and rang for cook to tell her the news. I sloped.
On Thursday Old TOLLAND called. It seems he's an Alderman, and I only addressed him as plain Esquire. He wanted to know, What were my views on the Labour Question? Was I an Eight Hours' man? How about Vaccination and Woman's Suffrage? and all kinds of other rubbish. I had to beat about a good deal, and answer generally, but at last I consented to address the Council, and to-morrow was fixed as the day. If accepted, I shall have to come before a Mass Meeting, and go through it all again. It all seems rather roundabout, but I suppose it's the usual way.
Oh, what are the "rights" of the Q.C.?
The point of the question but few see.
Those rights are to do
What suits him, if not you!
Faith! that's the whole business in nuce!
JOKIN'S LATEST.—"The Surplus will be anything but a dry subject this year, as it is owing to a steady or (probably) unsteady consumption of Drink!"
House of Commons, Monday, March 23.—Easter Holidays begin to-morrow; to-night last rally round RAIKES; Postmaster harried from both sides of House; the Contumacious COBB begins it; comments on Coroner's conduct beginning to pall on accustomed appetite; references to delicate investigation in judicial circles falling flat; so turns upon POSTMASTER-GENERAL. Wants to know about the Boy Messengers? Pack in full cry; RAIKES pelted with newspapers, assailed with over-weighted letters; late at night CAMERON comes up quite fresh, desiring to "call attention to the position taken up by the POSTMASTER-GENERAL with regard to the Electric Call and Boy Messenger System," just as if he had at the moment made the discovery.
In course of lecture CAMERON produces sort of pocket-pistol; explains it's the thing you work the electric call with. You press a button here, and up comes a tumbler of milk and soda; another button, and you have a sausage and a hot potato; a third, and your boots are suddenly pulled off by an unseen agency; a fourth, and you find yourself seated in a hansom cab, with eighteenpence pressed into your hand to pay your fare withal; a fifth, and you're awakened at four o'clock in the morning with an apology. Something, you learn, went wrong with the machine, and it was the gentleman on the next floor who ought to have been called at this hour.
GANE, Q.C., with hands folded on knees, sat entranced, listening to this interesting narrative, and watching the illustrations rapidly produced by CAMERON, as he touched the various buttons.
"Wonderful!" cried GANE, Q.C. "Never knew anything like it since I read Arabian Nights."
"What's RAIKES' loss is our GANE," says WILFRID LAWSON.
Must think this over during the Recess.
For awhile RAIKES had peace; quite forgotten whilst House, falling into GANE's attitude, listened to CAMERON's fairy tale.
"It's only postponed, TOBY," he said, wearily, CAMERON (having accidentally touched the wrong button) being promptly carried off to bed in the middle of a sentence; "they'll be at me again to-morrow, and will begin once more, like giants refreshed, when they come back from the holidays. It's an old story; the House of Commons must always have its whipping-boy. Don't know whether you've sat long enough for Barks to remember AYRTON? A dead set was made against him, and he was not only driven out of office, but forth from public life. It's generally the HOME SECRETARY who is fastened on. There was WALPOLE, chronically reduced to tears. BRUCE was chivied by the cabmen, and had his hat blocked by the publicans. The blameless HARCOURT didn't go scot free whilst he was at the Home Office. MATTHEWS has had a long run, with the hounds after him. Now they've turned aside from him, and are yelping after me. It's very well for MATTHEWS, but a little worrying for me. Of course I don't claim to be perfect. As HARCOURT once admitted of himself, I'm almost human, I try to do my duty, and protect the interests of Department committed to my charge. They come in touch with all classes, and naturally there is friction. Just now the howling is persistent, and, I fancy, organised. Perhaps it'll fall away by-and-by. In the meanwhile, it's rather wearing, so pitilessly monotonous. As you said the other day, a new constitutional maxim has been established. Once OLD MORALITY used to write in his copybook, 'The QUEEN can Do no Wrong.' Now he may add this other, 'The POSTMASTER-GENERAL Does Nothing Right.'" Business done.—Miscellaneous.
Tuesday Afternoon.—Winding up business before holiday; rather a scramble at the end. OLD MORALITY, as usual, piled up heap of work to be got through. "Quite easy, you know," he said. "Tithes Bill, Electoral Disabilities Removal Bill, Savings Bank Bill, take them in your stride. What does the poet say? Line upon Line; Little by Little; Here to-day and gone To-morrow. Those are the sound economical principles that should guide a man through life."
At one time seemed that whilst we were certainly here to-day, we wouldn't be gone till to-morrow. Tithe Bill in last stage took a lot of fighting over. House wouldn't have Electoral Disabilities Removal Bill or the Savings Bank Bill at any price.
"Then I'll move the adjournment," paid OLD MORALITY, in despair.
"Not till you've heard my speech," said Dr. CLARK; pulled out manuscript from breast coat-pocket, began descanting on the under-pay of Civil Servants in Scotland, whilst TYSSEN AMHERST folded his tent like the Arab, and as silently stole away. Example followed generally by Members in all parts of the House. CLARK thoroughly enjoying himself, composedly went on to end of speech, and then adjournment. SPEAKER "kept in" till Thursday to take part in ceremony of Royal Commission. Rest off, and won't be back till Monday, 6th of April.
Business done.—Wound up for Easter Holidays.
SIR,—The suggestion of your Correspondent "EASTER EGG," who wishes Easter to be a fixed festival, always coming on April 20, is excellent. At present, Easter-tide, like the other tide, depends on the moon. What a humiliating confession! Why should we any longer consent to be the slaves of the (so-called) Science of Astronomy?
SIR,—What's all this fuss about Easter being too early this year? It isn't half early enough. It ought to have come last Christmas, and Whitsuntide the same, and then we should have polished off three public holiday seasons—public nuisances, I call them,—at once.
SIR,—I have just been horrified to hear that one of my boys now at home from school remains with us for a three weeks' vacation! The early date of Easter is the paltry excuse offered by his Headmaster for this infliction. Anybody can see through such a flimsy pretext. His brother is to have his holiday four weeks later. The result is that the boys will see nothing of each other during their holidays, while their parents will see a great deal too much. How can brotherly affection—I say nothing of fatherly affection,—that priceless blessing, which I flatter myself I always conspicuously display—be expected to continue under these depressing conditions?
SIR,—As peeple are riting lettres to you about the Easter holy-days, I should like you to put in what old BOREHAM—he's our Principul—has been doing. We all think it a thundring shame. He kept us grinding away right through Good Friday, Easter Monday, and means us to go on several weeks afterwards! The result was we had about half a Hot Cross-Bun each! Old BOREHAM akshally fixed Easter Monday for going over all the Latin irreglur verbs. Pleese would you say something in your valyble collums about old BOREHAM, and oblige
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