Local Preacher (giving an account to the Vicar of the Parish of a dispute he has had with the Leading Lights of his Sect). "YES, SIR, AFTER TREATMENT THE LIKES O' THAT, I SAYS TO 'EM, 'FOR THE FUTURE,' SAYS I, 'I CHUCKS UP ALL RELIGION, AND I GOES TO CHURCH!'"
SCENE—The Sanctum of a Newspaper Office. Editor discovered (by Obtrusive Visitor) hard at work.
Obtrusive Visitor. I trust that I have not come at an unfortunate moment?
Editor (looking up from his desk). Dear me! You here! Delighted to see you. But don't let me disturb you. Good-bye!
Ob. Vis. (seating himself). No; I am afraid it is the other way. I know at this time of the week you must be exceptionally busy.
Ed. (with courteous impatience). Not at all, but—
Ob. Vis. Oh! thank you so much. Because it is the very last thing in the world I would like to do—to disturb you. And now, how are you?
Ed. Quite well, thanks. But now, if you don't mind, I will just finish.
[Turns to go on with his article.
Ob. Vis. (rejecting the hint). I said to myself as I came along, Now I will look him up.
Ed. Very kind of you, but—
Ob. Vis. Oh, not in the least; and you know, my dear fellow, how I enjoy a chat.
Ed. Yes,—and I, too. But just now—
Ob. Vis. Quite so. You want me to do all the talking, as we haven't met for the last three weeks. Well, you must know we have been to Herne Bay, and—
Ed. Yes; charming place. But just now I am—
Ob. Vis. Quite so. But I didn't come to tell you about Herne Bay, although it is really a delightful spot. The air—
Ed. Yes, I know all about it. First-rate, most salubrious, and the rest of it. But, my dear friend, you really must—
Ob. Vis. Quite so! Yes, everyone knows all about Herne Bay; and I really came to ask you if you had any room for an article.
Ed. (roused). My dear fellow, I assure you we are quite full for months. Any number of excellent things standing over.
Ob. Vis. Oh, yes, I know you are always full. You told me so the last time I called.
Ed. Quite so! Very sorry, but it can't be helped. Have to look so far ahead nowadays, you know.
Ob. Vis. Certainly; and that is why I thought I would just bring a half-finished article and show you what I had dome, and complete it if you thought it would do. You can put it in whenever you like; so it would not hurt for standing over.
Ed. (with inspiration). What is it called?
Ob. Vis. "Russian Wheat and Chinese Tea or Free Trade in Australia." The subject is quite novel, and ought to attract considerable attention.
Ed. Novel! Why, my dear fellow, I do believe I have an article somewhere in that heap upon the very subject.
[Pretends to search pile of MS.
Ob. Vis. (uneasily). Oh, never mind. I will read you what I have written, and—
Ed. (genially). Oh, no, I won't give you the trouble. I will read you what he has written, and then you can see.—Ah, here it is!
[Produces enormous pile of MS.
Ob. Vis. (hesitating). Well, perhaps, if you don't mind—
[Suddenly remembers an appointment and exit. Editor resumes hit work with an air of triumph. Curtain.
Jones. "HOW IS IT WE SEE YOU SO SELDOM AT THE CLUB NOW?"
Old Member. "AH, WELL, YOU SEE, I'M NOT SO YOUNG AS I WAS; AND I'VE HAD A GOOD DEAL OF WORRY LATELY; AND SO, WHAT WITH ONE THING AND ANOTHER, I'VE GROWN RATHER FOND OF MY OWN SOCIETY."
Jones. "EPICURE!"
I Stand in the copses sighing
As the cruel hours creep by,
And I see you slowly flying
Above the trees on high.
Your wondrous wealth, of feather
Has weaved a subtle spell,
And I softly wonder whether
You'd really taste as well.
For my hand is fairly steady
Though my heart is beating fast,
Oh, tell me that you too are ready
To make this hour your last.
For repentance may come when we're sober,
Let's seize on the chance while we may;
Then why should we wait till October?
Oh! Why not be shot to-day?
Oh! tell me why, why should I remember
With a thought of wild alarm,
That all through the month of sweet September
You should be free from harm.
Why, why does your beauty enslave me,
As it does, you're bound to allow
Oh! say but the word that will save me,
And tell me to shoot you now.
For my heart is wildly beating
(As it's often done before),
And the moments madly fleeting
Are going to come never more.
For repentance may come when we're sober,
Let's seize on the chance while we may,
Then why should we wait till October?
Oh! Why not be shot to-day?
The Eminent Lawyer was about to return to his private address, when there was a knock at the door of his Chambers. He attended to the summons himself, and found facing him an elderly and carefully dressed individual.
"That some of my suburban neighbours desire the information, must be my excuse for troubling you," said the visitor.
"Nay, do not apologise," returned the Eminent Q.C., "it is my pleasantest duty to give legal tips or applications to anybody. It is not altogether lucrative, as I deliver them for nothing, but then on the other hand, they are suitable for insertion in the papers, and that is a comforting consideration. What can I do for you?"
"I have to ask you on behalf of my suburban neighbours," continued the visitor, "whether there is any principle which is accepted by Judges to regulate their decisions in cases where drunkenness seems to be the incentive of crime?"
"I shall only be too glad to find a solution to a problem which appears one of great difficulty—the more especially as certain inhabitants of the suburbs are so deeply interested in the subject. It seems to me that some Judges think one way and some another."
"That is strange," murmured the visitor. "Cannot their Lordships come to a common conclusion?"
"I fear not," replied the Eminent Counsel, with a mournful smile. "It is merely a question of opinion. However, I take it that one would be perfectly safe to commit a murder under the influence of delirium tremens."
"I am infinitely obliged to you for the information," said the visitor, "as now I know what to do."
"You are not homicidal, I trust!" exclaimed the Lawyer, jumping up from his chair, and taking protection behind a desk. "I have the greatest possible objection to homicidal clients."
"Be under no apprehension," was the reply. "I have a strong desire to shorten the life of a certain person, but have not the nerve to do it. If I ever succeed, will it be a case deserving capital punishment?"
The Lawyer pondered a moment, and then replied. "I have no wish to offer my counsel; but, as you have exhausted my time for consideration, I would propose that you should try the matter for yourself. Become intoxicated, put yourself within the clutches of the law, and then see whether his Lordship will assume the black cap."
"You are very good," returned the would-be homicide, "but I have one difficulty. When I make up my mind to remove a person by unconventional means (for choice, a carving-knife), and consume the necessary amount of alcohol to insure intoxication—"
"Yes," interjected the Lawyer, who had now opened the outer door.
"I find, on reaching intoxication, that I have entirely forgotten the identity of the man I have marked for my victim. Then I have got to grow sober before I can remember who it is. Annoying, isn't it?"
And, wishing the Eminent Counsel a pleasant holiday, the visitor disappeared into the Inner Temple.
Reflection polished of highbred
And unreflecting graces,
I scintillate o'er STREPHON's head
At gala, rout or races;
Mine is the black but comely blend,
And mine the crowning touches
That so demurely recommend
The dandy to the duchess.
Out on thee, cruel Parasol,
Of lace, the pearl, and satin;
And glinting like a fairy doll
With many a burnished patin;
Cool, charming as the dainty dame
Who twirls thy coromandel;
Thou flauntest proudly since thy name,
Like hers, can boast its handle!
The cynosure of wondering beaux,
I boast a soul above thee;
No fate can mar my calm repose,
Or make me cease to love thee;
Supreme above the common tile,
My own affronts unheeding,
I bow and compliment and smile,
The Chesterfield of breeding.
Out on thee, trinket idly swayed!
Could any courtier dare see,
Through such perfections so displayed,
The mere "Belle Dame sans merci"?
Could man believe a thing so soft,
So framed for gentle passion,
Might wound, and wound not once but oft
The jaunty glass of fashion?
Yet sooth it is; and here I stand
A martyr to my tenets—
That orthodoxy smooth and grand
Of LINCOLN's fane and BENNETT's;
Unruffled once and unperplexed,
Collapsing now like jelly,
And but a sermon on the text
Sic transit lux capelli.
I who have braved our fitful climes
And laughed when tempest drenches,
And shaken off the dust that grimes
Pews, cushioned stalls and benches,
Survived the counterblasting Row,
And Summer gales that roar so—
I ne'er imagined such a foe
Could trounce me to a torso.
["Even the Potato and the Heptarchy will not leave us perfectly equipped."—The Daily News on "Why Young Men Don't Marry."]
The Tater and the Heptarchy
Were walking hand-in-hand;
They wept like "first-night" Stalls to see
The folly of the land;
"If fools would not talk fiddlededee,"
They said "it would be grand!"
"If modest maids with towzled mops
On you and me were clear,
Do you suppose," the Tater said,
"More men would wed each year?"
"I doubt it," said the Heptarchy—
"They only mean to sneer!
"'O Maidens, come and cook for us!'
They—shamming love—beseech.
'Oh, tell us about Saxon times!
The course of history teach!'
But what they really want is 'tin;'
A thumping share for each.
"A girl may cook like any chef,
And know all HALLAM through,
May be a dab at darning socks,
Or making Irish stew;
But what young cubs care for is cash,
And not for me or you.
"They want to lead an easy life,
And have good weeds and wine.
Without these luxuries, a wife
They scornfully decline.
For Benedick's life of manly strife
The fops are far too fine."
"The Season's come," the Tater said,
"To write of many things:
Of frocks—and socks—and needle-work—
And babes—and bonnet-strings;
But all the lot talk utter rot.
Let the fools have their flings!
"Their jibes at girls, their games, their curls,
Their wastefulness, their waist,
Their yearnings to hook Dukes and Earls,
Their matrimonial haste,
Are the crude chat of cubs and churls,
And in the vilest taste.
"But when they prate of you and me,
As the two gifts they want,
Say Classic lore and Cookery
Are things for which they pant;
Believe me, my dear Heptarchy,
They plumb profoundest Cant!"
'Tis the Band of the Corporation—
And it plays on that body's pier;
And one knows by the way
That the instruments play,
That the talent is not too dear.
And the trombone is not too clear;
When it has to play quick
It is moistful and thick,
For the trombone is fond of beer—
It is nurtured on pots of beer.
'Tis the Band of the Corporation—
And the cornet is fat just here;
And he's short, and bull-necked.
When you come to reflect
How he wastes all his wind, 'tis queer
That the man should be stout just here!
But the noise of the throat
In the solos denote
That the cornet is fond of beer—
It's been brought up on pots of beer.
'Tis the Band of the Corporation—
And I know why that Band is queer,
For I see in the face
Of the trombone a trace
Of the blackguard who blows it near
Me in Town, at most times of year!
And I mark, too, the face
Of that beastly big-bass—
(Which has also been reared on beer)—
And I know, too, the face
Of that other disgrace,
The fat cornet! They've come down here—
They've been borrowed, and lent new gear!
But I know them of old,
And in spite of the gold
Round the hats, with the peaks just here,
I can see who they are while near.
They wear bowlers in Town,
And frock-coats which are brown,
On account of their age—or beer!
For they play to the public for beer;
For they stand and they blow
On the kerb in a row,
And then go to the public for beer!
And so this is the Band down here!
"THREE CHOIRS FESTIVAL."—Curious coincidence, if true, that when Miss JESSIE KING was charmingly giving the contralto song, "While my Watch I'm Keeping," a gentleman in the crowded audience suddenly put his hand to his waistcoat-pocket and exclaimed, "Good gracious! it's gone!" He will never forget the title of that song. The watch was off its guard.
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