(See Speech by Miss Cozens at Meeting of Woman's Emancipation Union at Birmingham, Oct. 27.)
The time is come, beware of "us,"
There's thunder in the air;
Your future's in the care of "us;"
Beware of "us"—beware!
We'll cease to coax and "Cozen" you
By fascinating smiles,
And gaily now impose on you
By dynamitic wiles.
After the labours of Vacation,
Ten long weeks with nothing to do,
I feel that I need some recreation,
I'll sit in Court for a week or two:
It's just as well, now and then,
To show yourself to the public ken.
Ah me! who would be
Judge of the High Court, Q B.D.?
But it's tiring work to sit on the Bench,
Hearing the Counsel, day by day,
Canting and ranting, while they clench
Their fists, and thump and hammer away:
Be their arguments weak or strong,
Whatever I say I'm in the wrong.
Ah me! who would be,
A badgered Judge of the Q.B.D.?
Whenever I crack a judicial jest,
Witnesses, jurors, suitors smile,
They quite understand I do my best,
A wearisome action to beguile:
"Silks" and "Juniors" seem to force,
A jeering laugh as a matter of course.
Ah me! who would be,
A jocular Judge of the Q.B.D.?
The public, solicitors, counsel, frown
And grumble and growl at the law's delay;
I'm never allowed to stop in town,
Off on Circuit I'm hurried away:
Election Petitions I'm made to judge,
On Irish Commissions I have to drudge.
Ah me! who would be,
A toiling Judge of the Q.B.D.?
To a cause célèbre I don't object,
Leaders of fashion around me sit,
My robes and ermine command respect,
I rather fancy I'm making a hit:
I feel there's a chance of getting, who knows?
Into Vanity Fair or Madame Tussaud's.
Ah me! who would not be,
A popular Judge of the Q.B.D.?
When the Sittings are in full swing, I'm bound,
From half past ten till the clock strikes four,
In Court or in Chambers to be found,
With half an hour for my lunch or more:
Summons and motion and cause I hear,
I'm only paid, five thousand a-year!
Many a man would like to be,
Judge of the High Court Q.B.D.
ANTI-TEETOTAL OPERA, "Eugène Onegin" at the Olympic. Will it be followed by Ourjane Twobrandi? and subsequently, by the celebrated Opera, Lotowiski?
Ethel (who has picked up a few sporting phrases, and thinks she can instruct her Governess). "NO, I HAVEN'T HEARD FROM MUMMY, BUT I'VE HEARD FROM POPPA. HE HAS KILLED 137 GROUSE, BUT I DON'T KNOW WHETHER THEY'RE BRACES."
"For graphic touch and keen appreciation of humour, for easy conversational narration, give me," quoth the Baron, "the papers now being published in Household Words (most appropriate place for them), written by MONTAGU WILLIAMS, Q.C. and Magistrate." His paper on Ramsgate, telling how he travelled down, who his companions were, is as thoroughly amusing and interesting as his tribute to the health-giving climate of Ramsgate is true. These papers under the comprehensive title of "Round London," are to be republished in book-form by, as I believe, Messrs. MACMILLAN, and assuredly they will be as popular as were the same author's "Leaves" and "Later Leaves." False sentiment, MONTAGU WILLIAMS, as man or magistrate, does not encourage. "Strongly do I recommend his 'Round London,'" says
"THE MORRIS DANCE."—NEW FIGURE.—The Premier Danseur, holding laurel-crown, dances up to WILLIAM MORRIS offering him the laurel-crown. Will MORRIS? MORRIS won't. Premier retires gracefully, and is seen approaching LEWIS MORRIS.
"How did I like that book?" I gained,
From reading it, joy unrestrained;
'Twas perfect—had it but contained
An Index!
Brilliant, yet also erudite,
Profound, in facts, in diction light,
Why failed its writer to indite
An Index?
'Twas history, on its social side,
With stories, good to quote, supplied,
Yet how quote anything, denied
An Index?
A book that "He who reads might run"—
MACAULAY, BOSWELL, GREEN, in one!
Its Printer, too—what made him shun
An Index?
I missed a date, harked back. "A fad!"
You'll say? Perhaps. It made me mad.
My hunt was vain, because, it had
No Index.
O Authors of instructive chat,
Supply this want when next you're at
A book! "Bis dat qui citò dat,"
An Index.
Answer any three of the following five questions:—
I. (a.) What is a cassowary? (b.) Does its internal construction render it capable of anthropophagy? (c.) Describe its habits, nature and food, and draw an outline sketch of its skeleton.
II. (a.) Give the latitude and longitude of Timbuctoo. (b.) State the number and religious belief of its inhabitants. (c.) Discuss its natural advantages; (i.), as a port, and (ii.) as a centre for missionary enterprise.
III. (a.) Is a missionary best when served (i.) au naturel; (ii.) à la maître d'hôtel, or, (iii.) aux petîtes livrettes de psaumes? Discuss the advantages of each method of preparation; (b.) Quote any advice given by (i.) LUCULLUS, or (ii.) EPICURUS on this subject.
IV. What version of the Prayer-book is in use amongst the natives of Central Africa?
V. Discuss the authorship of the poem entitled Timbuctoo, and adduce any reasons for believing JULIUS CÆSAR to have written it.
THE OTHER PAPER.—MR. NEWNES is bringing out a rival to the Pall Mall Gazette, Is it to be published before the P.M.G., or later in the day? If the first, its title might be The Noon's Paper; if the latter, The After-Newnes Paper. Whichever you like, my little dear! Mr. N. pays his money and takes his choice. Anyhow, "NEWNES' Paper" is a marketable commodity.
["The circumstances will indeed have to be very remarkable to take two Judges into Stepney."—Baron Pollock, re Stepney Election Petition, Oct. 26.]
I chanced to meet a man the other day,
Whose store of legal knowledge was amazing,
He stormed at me in quite the stormiest way,
With, fiery indignation simply blazing.
I wondered if he'd lost his (legal) hair
(Forgive the phrase) against a demi-rep? Nay!
They'd really ventured to presume to dare
To ask a Judge or two to go to Stepney!
Now if it had been merely Peekham Rye,
They would have gone at once, and gone right gladly.
Then Brondesbury, Barnet—New or High,—
Or Shepherd's Bush would not have done so badly.
Penge would have brought the Crystal Palace near,
And Kensington's Olympia made their soul burn,
They'd have enjoyed the jaunt to Greenwich Pier,
And Heaven had been synonymous with Holborn.
Oh! had it been Soho or Maida Vale
It would have been of course another story. A
Delightful trip to Euston could not fail
To please as much as Broad Street or Victoria.
Belgravia would have suited very well,
They could have done with Balham, Bow, or Brixton,
With Flower-laden Battersea. But tell
Me if you can—oh! why was Stepney fixt on?
Well, it isn't for one like me to say as how as good luck means wirtue rewarded, cos I have, in my long xperiense, seen not a werry few cases where it wasn't so—no, not by no manner of means.
But this I can most trewly say, that my slice of luck during this larst munth is worthy of being called a reel staggerer! And this is how it cum about:—
The Amerrycain Gent, at the Grand Hotel, wanted a change for about a weak or two, and he naterally arsked me what he shood do. I made lots of wise suggeshons, in course, such as Margate, and Grinnidge, and Hern Bay, and other hily arristercratick places, but they none on 'em woodn't do. So presently he calls out, "Did you ever go to Ireland?" I was that staggered, that I coud ardly arnser him; but then I says, "Yes, Sir—but it were sum time ago." Then he staggers me much more wiolently, for he says, says he, "Why shoudn't you go with me then, and be my Wally!" When I recovered my breth, I says, "I don't know as our gentelmanly Manager here woud spare me." So he says, "I'll soon see about that." So he rings the bell wiolently, and arsks for him—and he cums—and, to my serprize, he doesn't make not no objecshun at all, which was, in course, werry complementary to me, and, strange to say, no more did Mrs. ROBERT, when I told her of it.
Well, I passes over all prelimmenerry derangements, till we finds ourselves on board a lovly steemer, bound for Old Ireland, as we allus calls her, tho' I don't spose as she's any older than the rest on us. It was that ruff that I perposed waitin till the sea got smooth; but my Master ony larft, and sed I shood be all rite if I follered his adwice, as he was used to the sea, and rayther liked it a little ruffish. So he got me a sheet of brown paper to put on my manly chest, and gave me some champane, and one glass of Perettic Sline, I think he called it, and, with their ade, I got over much better than I xpected.
We went as strate as we coud go to the Lakes of Killarny, and if that isn't jest about as lovly a plaice as the hole world can show, why then let sumbody show me another as is. If anyboddy arsked me if it never rained there, truth wood make me say yes, it most suttenly does sumtimes, but then so it does ewerywheres in ollidy time excep where it's most speshally wanted.
My Guvner's fust harty larf was at dinner on the fust day, when he told me to ring for sum pepper. TIM the Waiter arnsered the bell, and I told him what was wanted, and I scarce xpecs to be bleeved when I says, as he cums back and he says, says he, "If you plase, Sir, sure the Pepper's engaged!" I thort the Guvner wood ha larfed hisself hill, but he soon recovered, and said, "Thin niver mind TIM, we'll do without it to-day, but let us have fust turn at it to-morrow." "Suttenly, your honour," says TIM, and wanishes.
The next day, after driving us round the naybourhood, he came in without being arsked, and goes to the fire and warms his hands, and then says with a broad grin, "Sure it's a jolly lucky cupple as you are, for the rains a bustin down like thunder!" When handing the unpeeled Potatows to the Guvner he wood pint his finger at one and say, "That's a rale buty, Sir!"
I spose as the Guvner was rayther libberal to TIM, when we left, as all reel gennelmen allus is, for the tears acshally came into the pore feller's eyes, and he blessed us both, and wished as a few more genelman like us woud sumtimes wisit poor old Ireland!
We stayed about a fortnight, but we didn't see another Waiter like poor TIM, who was the werry fust humane being as hever called me a gennelman, pore feller! but we had a werry nice time of it on the hole, which I may p'raps elude to sum day, when things ain't quite so brisk as they is just now, and I must say as my Guvner behaved like the reel Gennelman as he is, when we cum for to settel up.
["I have even gone so low as 1d. a course ... with enough success as to elicit effusive eulogies from some distinguished literary persons ..."—Mr. Ernest Hart in "Where are the Cooks?"—Daily Graphic, Oct. 18.]
Oh! where are the Cooks; where on earth can they be?
Pray, hark to the Housekeeper's pitiful moan.
Mr. HART seems to know, and he tells us, with glee,
Of a plan which is his, and is his, too, alone.
It's a plan for a dinner, that's easily shown
To be cheap, and of pleasure the joy-giving source,
'Tis a wonderful plan—hear the epicure groan—
It costs just exactly one penny a course.
The dinner's Hartistic. Sweet HART says that he
Had a meal fit to soften the heart of a stone,
There were guests men of letters, and lofty degree—
Who wore pleased, and not only saw fit to condone,
But who ransacked each country, land, continent, zone,
For encomiums of praise, till they really grew hoarse.
But would they have done so, had only they known
It cost just exactly one penny a course?
Yes, a penny a head. It's not easy to see
How it's done for the price of a bun or a scone.
When the Mistress and Cook find it hard to agree,
And the former of these is provokingly prone
With the latter to pick a most terrible bone,
When it seems that disaster must follow perforce,
Oh! whisper them this in a Hart rending tone—
It costs just exactly one penny a course!
O Host, if all other ideas have flown,
Remember this plan as a final resource,
Be Harty! Be Earnest! Make his plan your own!
It costs just exactly one penny a course!
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