THE MAN THAT SMOKES THE RANK TWO-D CIGAR, OH!
Air—"The Man that broke the Bank at Monte Carlo."
[Pardon, good Gilbert, pardon, genial Coborn, That from the Bois Boolong. Unto the Cockney purlieus of 'Igh 'Olborn, We shift your famous song.]
I'm just "all there," no 'Arry; I've the money, so I score!
To a Race last week I went,
And there staked a quarter's rent.
Dame Fortune smiled upon me as she never done before:
And now I've copped the ochre I'm a gent!
Yus, now I've piled the pieces, I'm a gent!
Chorus.
As I mash and lark in Finsbury Park,
With a free an' heasy hair,
You can twig the donahs stare.
"Bob must be a millionnaire!"
You can 'ear 'em cry,
"Oh, ain't 'e fly?
And carn't 'e wink the hother heye?"
The man wot smokes the prime Two-D cigar, oh!
I've chucked my crib, and two-quid-screw, for betting's now my walk;
I do my mornin' march
Down to the Marble Arch.
I'm bound to spot more winners; I've a eye that's like a 'awk;
I'm a mass of oof and 'air-oil, shine and starch;
Yus, a reg'lar mass of ochre, shine and starch.
Chorus.
As I walk along, still "going strong,"
With my Tuppenny all a-flare,
You can 'ear old buffers swear,
As my baccy scents the air.
You can hear 'em sigh,
And moan, "Oh my!"
You can see 'em choke, and blink the heye
At "the man wot smokes the rank Two-D cigar, oh!"
I paternise the Promenards on a Sunday, with the Swells,
With my topper on the skew,
And my cloud a-blowin' blue;
For a tuppenny smoke and a leary joke they nobble the mam'selles,
And if they're nuts on me, wot can I do?
Yus, if they're arter me, wot can I do?
Chorus.
As I swagger and swell along Pell-Mell,
With a reg'lar oof-bird air,
You can 'ear sour swells declare,
"A Whitechapel weed!"—and swear.
But their narsty cry
Means—jealousy.
So I puff, and wink the hother heye—
"The man wot smokes the rank Two-D Cigar, oh!"
In the City Article of last Saturday's Times, we read that Lord Knutsford has joined the London Board of "Chaffey, Bros., Limited." What a festive board! What a rivalry must exist among the Chaffey Brothers as to who shall be the chaffiest and the wheatiest of the family!
[The new Japanese Press Bill prohibits women from becoming Publishers or Editors.—Daily Graphic.]
A Land of flowers and of Art,
Which lived for centuries apart,
Some years ago woke with a start;
Folks, simply dressed by wrappin' knees
In silken robes of dainty hue,
Began to long for something new
The good, the beautiful, the true
No longer charmed the Japanese.
So Western Art improved their lot;
A House of Commons grew. Each got
Boots, trousers, frock-coat, chimney-pot.
"Art? 'E don't care a rap, an' 'e's,"
Saus 'Arry, "sich a swell! I'm blowed
'E'd knock 'em in the Old Kent Road."
You are a sight, dressed à la mode
O too-progressive Japanese!
And yet, to Madame Chrysanthème,
Divided Skirter, Primrose Dame,
And all the rest, are but a name;
It therefore cannot happen ease
Is yours, although men dress like frights,
And even have election fights;
One thing is wanting—Women's Rights,
O fin-de-siècle Japanese!
Sweet Maiden, what is this you wear,
This most eccentric sort of bonnet,
That stands erect upon your hair
As though a coal-scoop fixed upon it?
A very funny shape it seems,
Flat, oval, rather like a shuttle,
Or, like some Statesmen's foreign schemes,
A sort of undecided scuttle.
And yet not wholly of the kind
Beloved by loud Salvation lasses,
Which brings the coal-box to one's mind—
Booth's fashions would not suit the Classes.
There's some resemblance to a spoon,
But you are not considered "spooney"—
Word coined by some low buffoon,
Romantic, quite, as "Annie Rooney."
It's rather like the ace of spades,
And yet it plays the deuce with features,
O Queen of hearts, of pretty maids,
So say we knaves of clubs, male creatures;
Who look askance at what may shade—
When larger grown—the face that charms us.
If scoop or scuttle, spoon or spade,
No matter; each of them alarms us.
A Possible Bungler.—Through Reuter's Agency last Friday, we learn that "Bungle Khan is in Afghan territory." Capital man to be opposed to us. We shall be ready to take any advantage of him, as, if Bungle Khan can bungle, he will of course do so.
One for the Other Side.—Mrs. R. cannot understand how Mr. Gladstone can advocate Monometallism in the House of Commons, as, she says, she has always heard that "Words are silver, and silence is gold."
Curate. "Hello, Regie! Ah, it's good to be you! A Poor Beggar like Me, you see, has to be content with Running after the Hounds on Foot."
Regie (who, as the Son of our M.F.H., has all the Hunting-Man's horror of Foot-people). "Ah—yes. And the Pater says he wouldn't mind that so much, if only half the Parish didn't sometimes turnout to Run after You!"
EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
House of Commons, Monday, February 27.—"Am thinking, Toby," said Rigby, just now, "of applying for Chiltern Hundreds. Parliament isn't quite the place I pictured to myself when I fought for a seat. Of course I've done pretty well. To be made Solicitor-General right off, with Waddy around, and Willis still in prime of life and energy, was a fine thing. But House seems perversely inclined to accept me as a joke, and that's not the sort of thing I'm accustomed to at Chancery Bar. Look what happened the other night, when, in my learned brother Russell's absence, I answered questions. Did it in my best, most imposing, and conclusive style. Kept my eye on Speaker throughout, to see how he'd take it. Effect most satisfactory. You know I make Chitty sit up, and North tremble. They, to certain extent, used to it; all new to Speaker, and told accordingly. Was really fascinated myself. I frowned at him, pursed my mouth, wrinkled my forehead, squared my jaw, sometimes lowered my voice into my boots, anon uplifted it above where my wig ought to have been. Being my first appearance at table, thought it worth while to make an effort. Judging from Speaker's limp appearance towards conclusion of my remarks, felt I had done it. Suddenly curious noise, that I'm told is known as a titter, interrupted me, and, before I had quite finished, there was a boisterous roar of laughter."
"Oh, come," I said, "you mustn't take that too much to heart. House will have its joke, and, if you won't make it, it sometimes makes it round you, using you as lay-figure. Your voice and manner in answering simple matter-of-fact question, were perhaps a size or so too large. But you'll get the hang of the place by-and-by, and will be all right."
"I don't think so," said Solicitor-General, sadly. "Look again what happened just now. House unexpectedly goes into Committee. Can't find Mellor. 'You take the Chair,' says the Squire; 'you'll fill it admirably.' No time for hesitation; I take the Chair; Clerk claps Bill into my hand. I say, 'Question is, that I do report progress, and ask leave to sit again.' Shouts of 'Aye,' and 'No.' 'I think the Ayes have it,' I say, in deep chest-notes, with persuasive fall of eyebrows. 'The Noes have it!' they shout. Very well; first duty of Chairman is to be impartial; so I say, 'The Noes have it.' Again they roar with laughter. Woodall, in charge of Bill, feels for sword of Financial Secretary to War Office. Fortunately, can't find it. Otherwise, Chair of Committees might have been steepled with my gore. What shall I do next? 'Put question again,' Clerk hoarsely whispered. 'Question is, that I do report progress, and ask leave to sit again. Those who are of that opinion say Aye; the contrary, No. I think the Ayes have it.' That would at least get me out of the Chair, and you certainly won't find me asking for leave to sit again. But what follows? In all parts of the House, just now opposing progress, hilarious shout of 'No! No!' rises up. That means I'm to go on with the Bill; but I know if I declare 'the Noes have it,' they'll turn round to the 'Ayes.' So, after standing for moment irresolutely, Bill in hand, I'm not ashamed to say I bolted from table, taking Bill with me. House roared louder than ever. Seem to have discovered excellent joke. But I don't see it, Toby. If this is House of Commons life, give me the dignity and quiet of the Chancery Bar."
Quite a procession of new Members took their seats on election. Honours of the day with Harry Lawson, who, after stubborn fight, has won Cirencester. As young Harry, with his beaver on, marched to table, Liberals temporarily relieved themselves from imputation that they don't know how to cheer.
Business done.—Local Veto Bill brought in.
Tuesday Night.—"It's a natural temptation," said Charles Russell, "for the human mind to believe that Mr. G.'s latest performance at table of House of Commons excels all he has done before. There is a phrase—you are probably familiar with it in Horace—which speaks of the Laudator temporis acti. But the other impulse is certainly, in this connection, quite as strong, I, therefore, hesitate to affirm that that's the best speech Mr. G. ever made; but certainly it's among the best."
It was on Bimetallism. Like olives and claret, Bimetallism quite an acquired taste; ordinary Member will have none of it; flees House when subject announced. In the Parliamentary world, Bimetallism supplies part of the Browning or Ibsen cult known out-of-doors. Analogy accurate inasmuch, that whilst mass of mankind are averse to contemplation of topic, the few faithful pass all ordinary bounds in the enthusiasm of their worship. Thus, for upwards of hour to-night, Meysey-Thompson handled it as if he loved it. Montagu, whilst musically jingling in trowser-pocket handful of newly-minted sovereigns, equally adulatory. Then Mr. G. walked in. It was reasonably thought in advance that Bimetallism would prove too much even for the charm of his oratory. Had evidently come down unprepared for special effort; neither sheaf of notes nor pomatum-pot. He listened to mover and seconder, and then just talked to entranced House, crowding up in every corner. Quite surprised, as Mr. G. was himself when he sat down, to find he'd been talking for an hour.
Business done.—House declares by 229 votes against 148, will have nothing to do with Bimetallism.
Wednesday.—Hear a very pleasant thing in connection with an old friend. Am told that as soon as Local Veto Bill passes into law, Wilfrid Lawson is to be raised to the Peerage.
"Why not?" asks Squire of Malwood. "On the principle that the Devil shouldn't have all the good tunes suitable for Wesley's hymns, why should the Trade have the monopoly of the Peerage? Why shouldn't there be a Viscount Appolinaris as well as a Baron Bass, a Lord Barleywater to pair off with a Baron Barleycorn? Let us drink (in toast-and-water), health and long life to Lord Barleywater of Brayton!"
Business done.—In discussion on Irish National Education Bill Grandolph effects little surprise. Been running admirably in double harness with Prince Arthur. This afternoon suddenly jibs; nearly upsets coach.
Friday, 1 A.M.—"Begin to think, Toby," said Prince Arthur, as we walked home together in the moonlight, "that we shall scotch this Home-Rule Bill yet. Expectation only just dawned on me. When I went down to House in the afternoon, was of different opinion. Had philosophically settled down to acceptance of inevitable. Might maim it a bit in Committee; play with it so as to block off other business, and send it up to Lords at so late period of Session that they would seem justified in throwing it out, on score of inadequate time to discuss it. Now I think we shall go one better. Courtney thought he could serve Unionist cause better from standpoint below Gangway. The supremest service he could render to that cause was effected when he created vacancy in Chair."
"Don't you think," I said, "they were a little hard on Mellor? Wasn't the sport something after the fashion of the gallant emprise in Windsor Park with the carted stag? And then the merry sportsmen didn't give the new Chairman the ordinary courtesy of a fair start and a little run."
"Oh," said Prince Arthur, "if you put it in that way, of course there's something to be said. But all is fair in hate and war. Mr. G. should have thought of that before he got rid of Courtney. Our business is to stop Home-Rule Bill from passing, and after to-night the way is clear, and the goal certain."
Business done.—New Chairman baited for an hour by Westminster Clock. Before the lawless, disorderly squabble about Law and Order in County Clare, regular foot-ball scrimmage, in which Saunderson naturally turned up. In one of the pauses the Colonel dropped into poetry? could hear him crooning to himself:—
There's Justice O'Brien of Clare,
How rare!
'Tis little for justice they care
Down there!
They're choke full of crimes,
(So at least says the Times),
And they've got no policemen to spare,
How quare!
They've got no policemen to spare.
Friday Night.—Seems, after all, Mellor quite right in his ruling yesterday. Point was that, on supplementary Estimate, you may not debate questions of policy settled when original vote agreed to. Prince Arthur denounced this as absolutely novel principle. Chamberlain kept game up from other side, and for full hour conviction borne in upon new Chairman that life not worth living. Speaker, appealed to to-day, declares Mellor to have been in the right. Report of Select Committee on Estimates. Procedure cited to show Courtney categorically laid down the principle challenged, and systematically acted upon it.
"Yes," said Squire of Malwood, reflectively stroking his chin, "and Courtney might have got up and said so last night. Only his fatal bashfulness, his irreclaimably retiring disposition, could have kept him silent in such circumstances. True, his interposition would have spoiled the little game of his friends. It would not have been War, but it would have been Magnanimous."
Business done.—Albert Rollit, and Ex-Lord Mayor Whitehead, carry Resolution declaring Revised Railway Rates prejudicial to commercial interests of country.