Her words, Ma'am, may please, if you'll deign but to hear;
They're English, you know; quite English, you know.
If you banish her now, she must soon reappear.
Still English, quite English, you know.
What Columbia has done she of course can undo
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know);
Our old fiscal system has gone all askew.
(Like the English, you know; say some English, you know.)
Protection has got to the street that's called Queer;
Free Trade!—well, her advent may distant appear;
Anyhow, do just glance at this lady, my dear.
She's English, you know; quite English, you know.
Mark the things she will say which 'twere prudent to hear,
They're English, you know; quite English, you know.
Our system's not solid or stable, I fear.
Not English, not English, you know.
Protection and you very long have been friends
(That's Yankee, you know; quite Yankee, you know);
But sure such a Surplus serves no useful ends.
To Yankees, you know, robbed Yankees, you know.
Humph! Yes, English "Chambers of Commerce" do pule
Just now for Protection; they're playing the fool.
But they'll hardly score much off the old Free Trade School.
That's English, you know; quite English, you know.
Heed not all the Vincents and Bartletts you hear,
Though English, you know; mad English, you know.
Economists know they are very small beer,
Though English, half English, you know.
For Salisbury, Gladstone and Bright all agree
(They're English, you know; all English, you know,)
That this new Fair Trade fad is pure fiddle-de-dee.
(Not English, you know; not English, you know.)
The Farmers and Landlords want prices to rise,
So they look on Fair Trade with encouraging eyes;
But they'll hardly get Statesmen to be their allies,
Who're English, you know; true English, you know.
President Cleveland (to Columbia). "WILL YOU ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE THIS YOUNG LADY?"
Trade Chambers may vote, Tory delegates cheer
(They're sure to, you know; quite sure to, you know);
But "Fiscal Reform" won't fool many, I fear,
Who're English; wise English, you know.
Columbia, may I present my young friend?
She's English, I know; quite English, I know.
I don't say adopt her; I do say—attend,
Though she's English, you know; quite English, you know.
At any rate deign to vouchsafe her a smile,
I fear my Republican friends she will rile;
But she may prove a friend, though she comes from the Isle
That's English, you know; quite English, you know.
The things I have said 'tis high time you should hear,
In English, you know; plain English, you know.
So let me present this young lady, my dear,
Though she's English, quite English, you know!
By Britt Part.
There was commotion in Gggrrandddolllmann's Camp. It could not have been a fight, for in those days, just when gold had been discovered on Welsh soil, such things as fights were unknown. And yet the entire settlement were assembled. The schools and libraries were not only deserted, but Jones's Coffee Palace had contributed its tea-drinkers, who, it will be remembered, had calmly continued their meal when even such an exciting paper as the Grocers' Journal had arrived. The whole Camp was collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of the clearing. Conversation was carried on in a low tone, but the name of a man was frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the Camp—"W. E. G.—a first-rate feller." Perhaps the less said of him the better. He was a strong, but, it is to be feared, a very unstable person. However, he had sent them a message, when messages were exceptional. Hence the excitement.
"You go in there, Taffy," said a prominent citizen, addressing one of the loungers; "go in there, and see if you can make it out. You've had experience in them things."
Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection. Taffy had once been the collector for a Trades Union Society, and it had been from some informality in performing his duty that Gggrrandddolllmann's Camp was indebted for his company. The crowd approved the choice, and Taffy was wise enough to bow to the majority.
The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. Physically they exhibited no indication of their past lives and character. They were ordinary Britons, and there was nothing to show they had been less contented than their neighbours; and yet these men, in spite of their loneliness, had never wanted for a single reform. Until now they had been absolutely satisfied with their lot.
There was a solemn hush as Taffy entered the Post Office. It was known that he was reading the despatch. Then there was a sharp querulous cry—a cry unlike anything heard before in the Camp. It was muttered by Taffy. He told them that the document called upon the whole community to ask for Disestablishment and Home Rule. The Camp rose to its feet as one man. It was proposed to explode a barrel of dynamite in imitation of the Irish Nationalists, but in consideration of the position of the Camp, which would certainly have been blown to pieces, better counsels prevailed, and there was merely a cutting of bludgeons from the trees the levelling of which W. E. G. was known to love so well.
Then the door was opened, and the anxious crowd of men, who had already formed themselves into a queue, entered in single file. On a table lay the document they had come to read.
"Gentlemen," said Taffy, with a singular mixture of authority and ex officio complacency; "gentlemen will please pass in at the front door and out of the back. Them as wishes to contribute anything towards the carrying out of the written wishes of the document will find a hat handy."
The first man entered with his hat on; he uncovered, however, as he looked at the writing, and so unconsciously set an example to the next. In such communities good and bad actions are catching. As the procession filed in, comments were audible. "A lot for the money!" "Just like him!" "Gets a deal into three lines!" And so on. The contributions were as characteristic. A life assurance policy, a pledge to abstain from intoxicating drinks, several volumes on political economy.
From a Portrait sketched by the Great McDermott, Q.C., during a recent Irish Trial.
So the despatch was read and re-read a score of times, and it was found necessary to give it a name. The natives of Wales are generally sagacious, and so they gave it the name of the Pluck. For the sake of the Pluck they did everything. It was certain, of late, they had not been very successful. They had certainly not paid their rents, and refused to patronise the Parson, and so the work of degeneration began in Gggrrandddolllmann's Camp. Instead of working as of old, the inhabitants gave up labour and shouted to one another. They repeated the phrases of the despatch crying, "Be worthy of yourself, gallant little Wales," "Remember Michelstown!" and went to sleep. Before the arrival of the despatch they had been a clean, hard-working, thrifty race. Latterly, however, there had been a rude attempt to let things go from bad to worse. The newly discovered mines were deserted and all industry was at a discount. "It is the Pluck of Gggrrandddolllmann's Camp that's doing it," said Taffy, as he gazed at the document as it lay on the table before him.
But at length things came to a crisis. The converted miners, as it has been explained, refused to work, and then neglected to pay their rents. Then came evictions, supported by the law. There was a confusion of staves and bayonets, buck-shot and black-thorn sticks. The Camp disappeared amidst much excitement. Some of the Campers emigrated, and others were sent to gaol. Taffy was missing. At length he was found in a ditch, holding a postcard bearing some warlike words, and signed "W. E. G."
"I have got the Pluck with me now," he said, as he was arrested; and the strong man, clinging to the thin document so full of wild advice, as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw, was marched off to prison!
The times have been
When German brains no bout with us would try;
We ruled the roast. Now Teuton scribblers come,
With twenty languages upon their tongues,
And push us from our stools!
A Sound Opinion.—Our Own French-Pronouncing Impressionist says that the new Cabinet in Paris cannot possibly be a success, as it commences with a Fallière.
Husband. "Didn't I tell you not to invite your Mother back in my——"
Wife. "Dear, that's the very Thing she's come about! She read your Letter!"
As Madame Patti would have said, if she had thought of quoting Bacon last Tuesday week, and as somebody probably will say after reading this, and then send it, a few months hence, to Mr. Punch as quite new and original, "When my Kuhe comes, call me." And when her Kuhe (English pronunciation) did come, she came up to time and tune, and came up smiling. Of course with such names as Mmes. Patti, Trebelli, Messrs. Lloyd and Santley with Miss Eissler on the violin, Mr. Leo Stern ("Leo the Terrible") on the 'cello (sounds uncomfortable this), Miss Kuhe on the pianoforte (unpleasant position), Mr. Ganz as "accompanyist," (what an ugly word!) and the Great Panjandrum himself, Mr. W. G. Cusins (Sir W. G. Cusins as is to be,—which was our Jubilee Midsummer Knight's Dream) as Conductor, what could the result be, but success? Every seat taken; up gets the Conductor, "Full inside, all right!" and on we goes again! And after this, off goes Madame Patti to America to earn any amount of dollars by singing her well-known répertoire, which, with one or two exceptions, she may leave t'other side of the Atlantic, and return to tell us of "The songs I left behind me," and to chant with feeling "I cannot sing the old Songs." Au plaisir! Adelina, and all good Engels guard thee! I beg to sign myself, re-signing myself to the absence of the Diva,
Before the applauding British P.
The fistic crack, Smith, stands,
Jem Smith a mighty man is he,
With smart and smiting hands;
And the muscles of his legs and arms
Stand out like steely bands.
His hair is fair, and closely cropped,
His pink face bears no tan;
His brow is low, his wits seem slow,
He "gates" whate'er he can!
But he gets more cheers than Salisbury's self,
Or e'en the Grand Old Man.
Whene'er their Champion spars at night
Excited Britons go,
To see him swing his left and right
With slogging force though slow;
And the guests are scarce a pretty sight,
They're loud and rather low.
Green youngsters scarce released from school
Flock in at the open door.
They love to see him "kid" and feint,
And pay their bobs therefor;
And if his right he does let fly
Great Cæsar, how they roar!
At length he into training goes,
Attended by "the bhoys,"
Punches the ball, pickles his hands,
With other training joys,
Which in the penny sporting prints
Abroad his backers noise,
To read the which boys about town
Esteem it Paradise;
They buy the accounts and o'er them pore,
Though probably all lies,
And to each other whisper them
With wonder-rounded eyes.
Bouncing, belauding, gammoning,
Onward the game still goes;
But whether in the fistic ring
The Champions will close,
Why, that is quite another thing,
Which nobody quite knows.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my fistic friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught.
If pugs can get a barney up,
Whereby the crowd is caught,
What matters it whether they'll fight
Or whether they have fought?
Toying with Truth.—The Annual Truth Toy Exhibition, which shows the toys provided for any number of Children in our hospitals, workhouses, and infirmaries at Christmas time, will be held at Willis's Rooms, December 19 and 20. No further intimation is necessary. When there a Will is, there a Way is.
Says Misther Donelly,
Who writes so funnily,
"Sure, Bacon's side I am on."
"The side of Bacon,"
Says Punch, "you've taken
Against our Will, is—gammon."
(With some allowance made for taking a false quantity.—Ed.)
American-Irish Donelly,
You're cunning as Micky O'Velly,
As you've undertaken
To prove Shakspeare Bacon.
Howld your whisht! "Porker verba,"
I tell 'ee.
Song for Mr. Pritchard-Morgan, of Mawddach Valley, near Dolgelly.—"Darling Mine!"
[Prize-Fighting having once again come into fashion, the above Pugilistic Encounters must be recorded as anticipations of "Boxing-Day."]
Professor Mahaffy's book on The Art of Conversation, seems witty, and (in parts) wise. People who want to learn to talk well in society had better consult the genial Professor, who declares that the art can be acquired. In fact he hands to each of his readers, across the visionary "walnuts and the wine," the pinch of Attic Salt which seasons dinner-parties. The theory must, of course, be taken cum grano. A few hints (strangely omitted in Mahaffy's "Haffy Thoughts,") are here appended:—
Should you happen to be in company with a number of eminent Statesmen belonging to one Party (say, at a dinner, when they can't get away from you,) mind and point out in a loud voice what you conceive to have been the chief errors of policy which they committed in their last Ministry, and what would have been your line in their place. If they are smarting under recent defeat, and have just been turned out of Office, they will be sure to thank you heartily for your kind advice.
Supposing politicians of every shade of opinion to be present, your best course will be to at once introduce some "burning" subject of the day—say, Home Rule, or the personal character of Mr. Gladstone or Lord Salisbury. Your host will be delighted, and you will be surprised to find what a brisk conversation you have initiated.
Always talk "shop." It gives local colour to your style. For instance, if you are a lawyer, and you see another legal gentleman at table, engage him in a conversation as to "that curious Equity point in the case of The Queen v. the Executors of Muggins, deceased, before the V.-C." Make your comments as technical as possible. If you don't soon "get the table in a roar," it will be astonishing. By the way, there are two kinds of "roar."
Avoid the least appearance of shyness. This is a pushing age. If you are really bashful by nature, assume a haughty and forbidding demeanour to cover it. This will make you universally liked.
Spice your talk with jokes. Invent at least six good puns for use at any dinner to which you may be invited, and bring them out,—naturally, if you can, but at any rate bring them out! E.g. If you are in Dublin, in a company consisting of fervid Nationalists, who bitterly resent the imprisonment of their Chief Magistrate, remark jocosely that "you hope his Lordship is not suffering much from mal de Mayor!" Conversely, when present at a dinner of Loyalists, refer to the eminent Liberal-Unionist Leader as "Half-Hartington." In either case your host is sure to ask you to come again.
Monopolise the conversation. Carlyle did this, and so did Macaulay, so why shouldn't you? You may be a Macaulay without knowing the fact.
Remember that people like anecdotes. This is how Hayward got his reputation. Don't hesitate because somebody has said that "all the good stories have been told." If so, tell them again without flinching.
Practise allusive and apparently unconscious swagger in private. When you are sure that you can refer to "my friend the Duke of St. David's," at a dinner-party without the slightest change of inflexion in your voice and in a perfectly natural manner, you are fitted to adorn any society—even the lowest.
Never humour women who try to talk learnedly. Bring the conversation down to feeding-bottles and keep it there. They will in reality appreciate your kindness and knowledge of female nature, even if they appear at the moment to resent it deeply.
Scene—An Italian Restaurant—anywhere in the Metropolis. Only a few of the small dining-tables are occupied as Scene opens. Near the buffet is a small lift communicating with the kitchen, and by the lift a speaking-tube.
Enter an Adorer with his Adored; he leads the way down the centre of the room, flushed and jubilant—he has not been long engaged, and this is the very first time he has dined with Her like this.
Adorer (beaming). Where would you like to sit, Pussy?
Pussy (a fine young woman—but past the kitten stage). Oh, it's all the same to me!
Adorer (catching an aggrieved note in her tone). Why, you don't really think I'd have kept you waiting if I could help it? There's always extra work on Foreign Post nights! (Pussy turns away and arranges hat before mirror). Waiter! (A Waiter who has been reading the "Globe" in the corner, presents himself with Menu.) What shall we have to begin with, eh, Pussy?
[The Waiter, conceiving himself appealed to, disclaims the responsibility with a shrug, and privately reflects that these stiff Englishmen can be strangely familiar at times.
Pussy. Oh, I don't feel as if I cared much about anything—now.
Adorer. Well, I've ordered Vermicelli Soup, and Sole au gratin. Now, you must try and think what you'd like to follow. (Tentatively.) A Cutlet?
Pussy (with infinite contempt for such want of originality). A Cutlet—the idea!
Adorer (abashed). I thought perhaps—but look down the list. (Pussy glances down it with eyes which she tries to render uninterested.) "Vol au vent à l' Herbaliste,"—that looks as if it would be rather good. Shall we try that?
Pussy. You may if you like—I shan't touch it myself.
Adorer. Well, look here, then, "Rognons sautés Venézienne,"—Kidneys, you know—you like kidneys.
Pussy (icily). Do I? I was not aware of it.
Adorer. Come—it's for you to say. (Reads from list.) "Châteaubriand Bordelaise," "Jugged Hare and Jelly," "Salmi of Partridge." (Pussy, who is still suffering from offended dignity, repudiates all these suggestions with scorn and contumely.) Don't like any of them? Well, (helplessly) can't you think of anything you would like?
Pussy. Nothing—except—(with decision)—a Cutlet.
Adorer (relieved by this condescension). The very thing! (Tenderly.) We will both have Cutlets.
Waiter (who has been waiting in dignified submission). Two Porzion Cutlet, verri well—enni Pottidoes?
Pussy (sharply). Potted what?
Adorer (to Waiter). Yes. (To Pussy, aside, in same breath.) Potatoes, darling. (The Waiter suspects he is being trifled with.) Do you prefer them sautés, fried, or in chips,—or what?
Pussy (with the lofty indifference of an ethereal nature). I'm sure I don't care how they're done!
Adorer. Then—Potato-chips, Waiter.
Pussy (as Waiter departs). Not for me—I'll have mine sautés!
Adorer (when they are alone, leaning across table). I've been looking forward to this all day!
Pussy (unsympathetically). Didn't you have any lunch then?
Adorer. I don't mean to the dinner—but to having you to talk with, quite alone by our two selves.
Pussy (who has her dignity to consider). Oh, I daresay. I wish you'd do something for me, Joshua.
Adorer (fervently). Only tell me what it is, darling!
Pussy. It's only to get me that Graphic—I'm sure that gentleman over there has done with it.
[The Adorer fetches it with a lengthening face: Pussy retires behind the "Graphic," leaving him outside in solitude. At length he asserts himself by fetching "Punch," (which he happens to have seen) from an adjoining table. A Bachelor dining lonely and unloved on the opposite side of the room, watches them with growing sense of consolation.
Waiter. Una voce poco fa maccaroni! (At least, it sounds something like this. A little cupboard arrives by the lift containing a dish which the Waiter hastens to receive. The new arrival is apparently of a disappointing nature,—he returns it indignantly, and rushes back to tube.) La ci darem la mano curri rabbito Gorgonzola!
A Voice (from bottom of lift—argumentatively). Batti, batti; la donna é mobile risotto Milanaise.
Waiter (losing his temper). Altro! Sul campo della gloria vermicelli!
The Voice (ironically). Parla tele d'amor o cari fior mulligatawni?
Waiter (scathingly). Salve di mora casta e pura entrecote sauce piquante crême à l'orange cotelettes pommes sautés basta-presto!
[Corks up tube with the air of a man who has had the best of it.
Two Brothers are seated here, who may be distinguished for the purposes of dialogue as the Good Brother and the Bad Brother respectively. The Good B. appears (somewhat against his will) to be acting as host, though he restricts his own refreshment to an orange, which he eats with an air of severe reproof. The Bad B. who has a shifty sullen look and a sodden appearance generally, is devouring cold meat with the intense solemnity of a person conscious of being more than three parts drunk. Both attempt to give their remarks an ordinary conversational tone.
The Bad B. (suddenly, with his mouth full). Will you lend me five shillings?
The Good B. No, I won't. I see no reason why I should.
The B. B. (in a low passionate voice). Will you lend me five shillings?
The G. B. (endeavouring to maintain a virtuous calm). I don't think I will.
B. B. You've been giving money away all the afternoon to people after I asked you for some!
G. B. (roused). I was not. It's dashed impertinence of you to say such a thing as that. I'm sick of this dashed nonsense—sick and tired of it! If I hadn't some principle left still, I should have gone to the East long ago!
B. B. I'm glad you didn't. I want five shillings.
G. B. Want five shillings! You keep on saying that, and never say what you want it for. You must have some object. Do you want it to go and get drunk on?
B. B. (with a beery persistence). Lend me five shillings.
G. B. (reflectively). I don't intend to.
B. B. (in a tone of compromise). Then lend me a sovereign.
G. B. (changing the subject with a chilling hospitality). Would you like anything after that beef?
B. B. (doggedly). I should like five shillings.
G. B. (irrelevantly). Look here! I at once admit you've got more brain than I have.
B. B. (handsomely). Not at all—it's you that have got more brain than me.
G. B. (rejecting this overture suspiciously). I've more principle at any rate, and, to tell you the truth, I'm not going to put up with this dashed impertinent treatment any longer!
B. B. You're not, eh? Then lend me five shillings.
G. B. (desperately). Here, Waiter—bill. I pay for this gentleman.
Waiter (after adding up the items). One and four, if you please.
[The G. B. pays.
B. B. And dashed cheap too!
[A small Cook-boy in white comes up to Waiter and whispers.
Waiter. Ze boy say zat gentilman (pointing to B. B.) tell him to give twopence for him to ze Cook.
G. B. (austerely). I have nothing to do with that—he must settle it with him.
B. B. (with fierce indignation). It's a lie! I gave the boy the money. It was a penny!
Waiter (impassively). Ze boy say you did not give nosing.
B. B. (to G. B.). Be d——d! Don't you pay it—it's a rascally imposition! See, Garcong, I'll tell you in French. J'ai donné l'homme, le chef, doo soo (holding up two fingers) pour lui-même-à servir.
G. B. I'm sorry to have to say it—but I don't believe your story.
[To the B. B.
B. B. (rising). I'm going to have it out with Cook. (Lurches up to door leading to kitchen and exit. Sounds of altercation below. Re-enter B. B. pursued by Voice. B. B. turning at door.) What did you say?
Voice. I say you are dronken Ingelis pig, cochon, va!
B. B. Well,—it's just as well you didn't say any more. (Goes up to Waiter, confidentially). That man down there was mos' insultin'—mos' insultin'. But, there, I'll give you the penny—there it is. (Presses that coin into Waiter's hand and closes his fingers over it.) Put it in your pocket, quick—say no more 'bout it, Goo' ni'. Only—remember (pausing on threshold à la Charles the First) if anyone wantsh row—(with recollection of Duke's motto)—I'm here! That 'sh all. (To G. B.) I shall say goo' ni' to you outside.
[Exit B. B. unsteadily.
The G. B. (solemnly to Waiter). I tell you what it is—I'm ashamed of him. There, I am. I'm ashamed of him!
[He stalks after his Brother; sounds of renewed argument without, as Scene closes in.
Bacon Again.—An erudite student informs us that "the crest of Shakspeare's mother's family was a boar," so that there is something Baconian about the Immortal Bard.
À propos of the Welsh Gold Find.—Advice Gratis:—Beware of Welshers.
NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.
Alternative spellings retained.
Punctuation normalized without comment.