"AN OLD OFFENDER."
Reading edition
Europa. "AGAIN! BUT THIS TIME I HAVE A WEAPON AT HAND!"
MARY JONES.
(By her Husband.)
As I'm daily jolted down On the early bus to town, Through the yellow fog and brown, O'er the stones, I inhale the tawny air, And I deem it ether rare, For my soul is full of fair Mary Jones. Fellow-passengers are fain To abuse the wind and rain, And the weather, they complain, Chills their bones: But I laugh at snow and sleet As I bump upon my seat, For I'm thinking of my sweet Mary Jones. With a lightsome heart and gay To the Bank I wend my way. Where I calculate all day Debts and loans; Though anon my fancies flee From the rows of £ s. d., And they wander off to thee, Mary Jones. And I cannot blame their taste, Though a little time they waste For my Mary would have graced Monarchs' thrones. What are pounds and pence to her?— No. I cannot but concur With their choice when they prefer Mary Jones. Then I hurry home to tea, And I pass an A. B. C., Where I purchase two or three Cakes and scones: For I love the smiles that rise In your laughing hazel eyes When I offer you my prize, Mary Jones. And when tea is cleared away, And you kindle me my clay, As I listen to your gay Dulcet tones, Then I sometimes wonder who In the world's the best to do?— 'Gad, it's either I or you, Mary Jones!
A VERY VULGAR BOY.
"Askin' yer pardon, Miss, but might that 'ere little Dog's Tail ha' been cut off or druv' in?"
THE MODERN SOCIETY PLAY.
It surely should not be allowed, The Modern Society Play, That dreadfully shocking Kate Cloud, That bad Mrs. P. Tanqueray. That's what said X. Y. Z. It elevates everyone, The Modern Society Play, You stupid old son of a gun. Replied, bursting into the fray, Fearless, free, H. B. Tree. Why make such a clamour? Oh, blow The Modern Society Play! As nothing compels you to go, X. Y. Z., you can just stop away; Don't you see? So say we.
LOST IN LONDON.
1. Hymn-book stolen. Original price, in superior binding, 11-¾d.
2. Hymn-book pawned for 2-½d. by thief.
3. Pawnbroker, finding my name inside, tells Police.
4. Police inform me I can have the book restored to me "on application."
5. Go to Scotland Yard. Told hymn-book is at Bow Street. Cost of my journey so far, 4-½d.
6. At Bow Street have to take out summons against Chief Commissioner! This is "the invariable rule," I am informed. Cost of summons and "service"—not the Church Service—3s. Could have got three new hymn-books with the sum.
7. Have to attend week later at hearing of summons. Journey again 4-½d. Bow Street not a nice court. Hymn-book restored to me.
8. Chief Commissioner appeals! Believes there is another person of my name to whom book may belong. "If I give it up quietly, shall hear no more about it." Give up my own hymn-book! Never!
9. Appeal dismissed. Attendance and costs amount to £45. And I am the winning party!
10. Chief Commissioner "carries me" to House of Lords, but does not pay carriage. Preliminary costs, £80.
11. Long Vacation.
12. House of Lords sits. "Has no doubt hymn-book belongs to other person of my name." I to pay all costs in all Courts!
13. Ruined!
"I shall be all right again soon, I'll be bound!" as a dilapidated First Edition observed.
INTER-UNIVERSITY FOOTBALL.
[Yale v. Princeton University. "Before the game commenced an Inspector of police, who was on the ground, addressed the two teams, and cautioned them against violent play. This warning is without precedent in the history of the University contests."—Reuter.]
Scene—Queen's Club. Oxford and Cambridge Football Match. Teams undergoing modern torture of ordeal by photograph. Enter Police-Inspector, rampant, supported by two Peelers proper. He "addresses the two teams":—
I'm an Inspector bold, yet wary, So, gents, you must all take care, For I'm here to boss this battle, And see that you all fight fair. Now fisting, and scragging, and hacking, Are all fair enough, we say, But if gents exceed the limits Of legitimate violent play, We'll run them in, we'll run them in, As sure as we're standing here, We'll run them in, we'll run them in, For the Peeler knows no fear! Of course you may fight each other, But you mustn't attack the crowd, For we can't have unlimited bloodshed, And weapons are not allowed. So, gents, I must kindly ask you To enter the field without Your bludgeons and knives and pistols, Or else, beyond all doubt, We'll run you in, &c., &c.
[Teams join in chorus. Exit Inspector to look after ambulance arrangements.
THE SUNDAY LECTURE CASE.
The Lord's Day Observance Society Would make us all pinks of propriety— All models of mental sobriety, That is Stiggins and Chadband combined. They gain, doubtless, some notoriety By such overwhelming anxiety To force on us their sort of piety Of a most puritanical kind. This Sunday at Home mental diet, I Dislike, I would rather not try it; I Suggest that, by way of variety. Their own business now they should mind.
Prize Conundrum before Christmas.
How to Make Life Happy.—An Infallible Recipe:—Add fifty-nine to the latter half of it. *** Solution will be given next week.
THE PLUNGER.
First Boy (much interested in the game of Buttons). "'As 'e lost?"
Second Ditto. "Yes; 'e lost all them Buttons what 'e won off Tommy Crowther yesterday, an' then 'e cut all the Buttons off 'is Clothes, and 'es lost them too!"
NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS.
Kelt and Salted.—It may be true, as you have heard, that Mr. Standish O'Grady intends to supplement his series of Ossianic stories, Finn and his Companions, by a work entitled Fin an' Haddock. But, we confess, the story seems a little fishy.
A Brummagem Spoon.—You are quite wrong. The creation of the character of Rip Van Winkle was, in point of time, far anterior to the invention of the Self-working Noiseless Screw. Mr. Chamberlain's playful application of the term to Lord Hartington did not imply any proprietorship in the article. The right hon. gentleman was under the impression that he had come across the character in the course of his reading of Dickens' Christmas stories, and, wanting to say something nice of his noble friend, he just mentioned it. It led to some misunderstanding at the time, but has now been forgotten. See our answer to "Three Cows and an Acre" in the Christmas Number.
Residuary Legatee.—Certainly you may recover, especially if you can get A. to refund the money. Don't hesitate to sue. We make a practice of never accepting fees. The 6s. 8d. you enclosed (in stamps, postal order preferable) we shall, at the first opportunity, place in the Poor Box.
Perplexed.—What do you mean by asking us to tell you "If a herring and a-half costs three hapence, how much will a dozen run you in for?" This is just one of those simple problems you can solve for yourself on reference to an ordinary book of arithmetic. Do you suppose we sit here to save the time of idle persons? Our mission is to supply information drawn from authorities not accessible to the average subscriber.
Algernon and Sibyl.—Consult Sir George Lewis, Ely Place, Holborn, E.C. We never advise on delicate subjects such as yours. It is impossible for us to reply to correspondents through the post. Our motto is Audi altem parterem. As the lady may not be familiar with the dead languages, we may perhaps do well to translate. Freely rendered, it means, "We desire that all parties (altem parterem) may hear and profit by our advice."
One-who-has-had-no-rest-to-speak-of-for-fifteen-years-owing-to-neuralgic- pains-and-a-next-door-neighbour-who-plays-the-piano-night-and-day.—No.
Beyond the Dreams of Avarice.—Your record of an incident in the early life of Mr. W. Astor is very interesting. "Musing by the waters of the mighty Hudson he," you say, "conceived the ambition of becoming one of the richest men in the world." It is pleasing to know that his recent entrance upon journalistic enterprise is likely to realise his boyhood's dream.
Advertisement Agent.—There is, we fear, no opening for you in this direction. "Silonio" is not the name of a new shaving soap, as you surmise. It is the title of honour given by the delegates of a remote but respectable African race to a great and good British statesman. Its literal translation into the English tongue is, we are informed, "Open-mouthed."
A Subscriber for Seventy Years.—Your poem, commencing,
Diggle Diggle den, How is Brother Benn? Really, Mr. Riley, Ain't you rather wily?
is perhaps a little monotonous in its interrogative form. But it is not without merit, especially from one of your advanced age. A fatal objection is that it should be out of date. The School-Board Elections, we are glad to say, were completed a fortnight ago. Try again—for some other paper.
THE NEW NECTAR.
[Professor Huxley, at the anniversary meeting of the Royal Society, suggested that in the future imaginative speaking at their dinners might be stimulated by the drinking of liquid oxygen, bien frappé.]
Air—"Take hence the Bowl!"
Take hence the bowl; though beaming Brightly as bowl e'er shone, With Fizz sublimely creaming, Or Port or Zoedone. There is a new potation To warm the hearts of men, And wake imagination— In Liquid Oxygen! Each cup I drain, bien frappé, My tongue pat talk can teach; It helps to make me happy In after-dinner speech. At banquet, or at gala, I match such mighty men As Gladstone, Carr, or Sala, On Liquid Oxygen! A fig for Mumm or Massio, Falernian and such fudge; (Thin stuff those tipples classic If I am any judge.) But burning thoughts come o'er me And fire my tongue, or pen, When I've a bowl before me Of Liquid Oxygen! When fun needs stimulation, Or fancy fails in fire; When lags the long oration, Or tongues postprandial tire; Then take the tip Huxleyan, And one long swig,—and then You'll promptly raise a pæan To Liquid Oxygen!
FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
"There is nothing in Italy more beautiful to me than the coast-road between Genoa and Spezia." Remember these words of Dickens, in his Pictures from Italy, as I start from Pisa to see that lovely coast, and the Mediterranean, for the first time.
Pisa is sleepy, but the railway officials are wide awake. The man who sells me my ticket "forgets" one lira. This answers capitally with innocent old ladies from England or Germany. The old lady counts her change, and if she has carefully ascertained the fare by reading the price marked on her ticket, she finds at once that there is a halfpenny wanting. She never learns that this is the Government tax. "If you please," she begins; or, "Bitte," and then she goes off into—not hysterics, but French, and murmurs, "Seevooplay, je pongse vous devays avoir donnay moi un sou—er—er—more, vous comprenny?" or, "Il y a encore—er—er—fünfzig, vous savay, à moi à payer." Then the official answers, also in French, "Ah nong, Madame, ceci est la taxe doo gouvernemang sul biglietto, capisce?"
Whereupon the old lady is so agitated by the thought that she has wrongfully accused him of stealing a soldo, that she never notices that he has withheld a lira. If she counts her money later in the day, she will blame those nasty lira notes, which stick together so, that she must have given two somewhere instead of one. But the railway clerk is also prepared for any more exacting stranger, and holds the extra note ready for him. The clerk at Pisa does so, handing it to me, without a word of objection or explanation, as soon as I ask for it. The system is as perfect as it is simple. Having obtained my change, I start for the Mediterranean.
A First Impressionist.
THE TRUISMS OF LIFE.
(By the Right Hon. the Author of "The Platitudes of Life," M.P., F.R.S., D.C.L., LL.D.)
Chapter I.—De Omnibus Rebus.
Many people cannot say "No!" Others early learn to say "No!" when asked to do disagreeable things. "Mens sana in corpore sano." If the last word is pronounced Say No, this constitutes a word-play. There are some bad word-plays in Shakspeare. I disapprove of humour, new or old.
A PRECISIAN.
Professor Erasmus Scoles (of Epipsychidion Villa, St. John's Wood). "Can you tell me, Constable, whether there are any more—er—Atlantes to come up to-night?"
D. 134. "Any More 'ow Much?"
OF VAIN COLOURS.
When the century, growing a little bit mellow, Produces carnations outrageously green; When you notice a delicate, dairy-like yellow Adorn the pale face of the best margarine; When canaries, all warranted excellent singers, Are sold in the street for a shilling apiece, But at home all the yellow comes off on your fingers, Substrata of brown making daily increase; When a lady you happen to meet on a Monday With hair that is grey, and with cheeks that are old, Appears shortly after, the following Sunday, With rosy complexion, and tresses of gold; When a nursemaid has one of the worst scarlet-fevers, Or merely, it may be, a fit of the blues; When you're offered "Old Masters" as black as coal-heavers, Or shirts of quite "fast" unwashoutable hues; When a blue ribbon's equally known as denoting Teetotal fanatics, a Rad, or a Tory— In these and like cases too num'rous for quoting Remember old Virgil, "Ne crede colori."
THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.
VI.—Preparing for the Poll.
When I do a thing, I like to do it properly, for even my worst enemies, who call me a fool, admit that I'm a thorough fool. I have accordingly lost no time in getting to work at my electoral campaign. I commenced at a great disadvantage. The other seven candidates were electioneering for a week before the Parish Meeting, and the result was that they all polled three times as many votes as I did. That has happened once. I don't intend that it shall happen more than once.
"Vote for Winkins—a good All-round Man."
The first move I made was to cover my house with placards. I noticed that in a recent election Mr. Athelston Riley had pursued these tactics with great success, so I plastered the whole of the walls with "Winkins for Mudford"—"Vote for Winkins,"—but thereby hangs a tale. I gave my instructions to the local printer, and told him where they were to be posted, directing him to do it in the twilight, so that the whole effect might dawn once and for ever upon an astonished village in the morning. He did it, but unfortunately he didn't keep a proof-reader. I noticed next day, before I went out, that all the school-children looked up at the house and giggled. I thought it was merely the inappreciativeness of the youthful mind. There I was wrong. It was the fact that the children knew how to spell that caused the mischief. My house was covered with appeals to "Wote for Vinkins!" It did not take long to get new bills printed, but I am not disposed to deny I was a trifle disconcerted by this false start.
I am now hard at work canvassing. My wife flatly declines to help, and I'm afraid to suggest the girls should take the field in support of their father. I tried to secure the services of the vicar's two daughters, but he only wrote rather a stiff note to say that he thought they would have quite enough to do in advocating his claims. I am not always at one with the clergy, but for once I agree with him. I have succeeded, however, in getting Miss Phill Burtt to help me. Her full name is, of course, Phyllis; but it's always called and spelt "Phill"—I could never understand why. She's a most delightful girl, and is worth, at least, a hundred votes to me. As I explained once before, she has an extraordinary habit of calling all the villagers "idiots"—of course, I mean to her friends (such as myself), not to the villagers themselves. I asked her one day why, if she thought them idiots, she was kind enough to take the trouble to canvass them. "Well, you see," she said with a charming smile that was all her own; "I'm asking them to vote for you." At the time I thought this was a pretty saying, prettily said. I even told it with some amount of pride to my wife just to show her that there were people who did not sympathise with her haughty indifference. Curiously enough my wife only laughed consumedly. When she had recovered, I asked her why she laughed. "Do you really mean to say, Timothy," was her reply, "that you don't see what she meant?"
"Well, though it may seem idiotic...." I said, and was going to add, "I don't," but before I said that, I did see what she (Phyllis, of course, I mean) might have meant. Yet I hope she didn't. Miss Burtt has only one drawback as a canvasser. She is so ridiculously scrupulous, I came across an old woman the other day who was quite deaf to my appeals. Whilst I reasoned with her, I found out how kind Phyllis was to her. "Miss Phill, she's really good to us poor people. I'd vote for her if she was standing." I left, having produced no impression. A day or two after I met Miss Phill Burtt, and asked her to go and canvass the old woman; I felt sure she could secure her vote. Will it be believed that she wouldn't? She said it would be really undue influence if she did. How strange that even the nicest of women are so strangely unpractical at times! Another woman she refused to see because she never called upon her at ordinary times. Still, with all her faults, Miss Burtt is a tower of strength, and as I see her daily going about, canvass book in hand, my hopes rise higher and higher.