THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.
Reading edition
X.—The Chair.
As soon as we had agreed to allow the Parish Meeting Chairman to preside, Black Bob jumped up and proposed that Mrs. Letham Havitt should be elected to the chair. She was a lady whose excellences he need not dilate on. She had excellent business habits, and, with all respect to Mrs. March, she had as much right to a seat on the Council as that lady. Then a miracle happened. Mrs. March not only did not resent this reference, but actually seconded Mrs. Havitt. It was essential, she said, that women should be represented as fully as possible, and she should, without hesitation, embrace this opportunity of securing a woman colleague. This made the situation serious, not to say hopeless. After she had sat down, there was an ominous pause. At length I rose and proposed myself. In impressive tones I pointed put that the hand of the electors had pointed in no uncertain way to myself, and that since no one else had proposed my election, at the risk of being misunderstood once more, I had, on public grounds, to do it myself. After another painful pause the Parson seconded my nomination. Then the voting. Mrs. Havitt's name was put first. She got 4 votes—Mrs. March, Black Bob, and his two comrades. I got 3—the Squire, the Parson, and my self. And so I was foiled again—by the Eternal Feminine.
And so our Parish Council is at last complete, and ready for action, a corporate body in the eyes of the law. Possibly, in these pages I may from time to time be permitted to relate how Mudford progresses under our rule. Possibly, I may not. But in any case I ought to add that, being beaten by Mrs. Havitt has not—well, improved the domestic atmosphere. Wifely devotion seems to be out of fashion in these fin de siècle days.
DUTCH ENTERPRISE.
The question of alien immigration as affecting the British Labour Market is one that occasionally occupies the attention of the Legislature. The subjoined advertisement cut from the Daily News suggests something even worse:—
H OLLAND.—THE FIRST NETHERLAND STEAM MUSTARD and SPICE MILLS, visiting the whole country, wishes to represent a first English house in articles of daily consumption.
It is bad enough to have foreign labourers competing with our people. But if they are going to send over, bodily, their mills and other labour shops, John Bull will be obliged to put his foot down and kick somebody.
Seasonable(?) Greeting for a Chinaman.—A Jappy New Year to you!
VIVE LE TAILLEUR DU ROI.
["Le duc d'Orléans a voulu donner une leçon aux mauvais patriotes; il habite Londres, il charge un tailleur parisien du soin de garnir sa garde-robe."—French Press.]
Along the boulevard's busy curb That bristles bravely with étrennes, A thing has threatened to disturb The careless vie parisienne; It isn't spies or journalist blackmailers, It is the question of monarchic tailors. For lo! from perfide Albion Has lately come a ducal note With patterns for a pantalon And therewithal a redingote; (Observe, in passing, that the royal billet Says nothing of the corresponding gilet). Now while in matters of the gown The monde of Paris sets the mode, Their gay flâneurs that paint the town Long since affect a foreign code, Developing in fact a steady passion For dressing in the latest London fashion. With any perfect patriot How bitterly it stirs the bile, This craze for being clothed in what Is thought to be the English style; It makes the language of his heated brain Occasionally verge on the profane. And now the Exile, armed with red Hot coals of living anthracite, Projects them on his country's head, And more in pity than in spite Bids France that hunted him and his like rabbits Henceforth to execute his daily habits. Some fancy, romping at results, The constitution's overthrow, A view unworthy of adults, According to the Figaro; It makes a democrat extremely nettled. To hear the thing is practically settled. Of course there may be something in That strange omission of the vest, Yet were it little short of sin To lay this unction to the breast; A person isn't worth a paltry filet Who stakes the Third Republic on a gilet. There lacks, you see, a final law To guide in France the statesman's game The casual ignited straw Will set the camel's hump aflame; A redingote may raise enough éclat To bring about a pretty coup d'état.
FANCY PORTRAIT.
THE REHEARSAL; OR, PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT.
"Lord H-lsb-ry will be the principal guest at a smoking 'At Home,' Jan. 25th, at the W-stm-nst-r P-l-ce Hotel."—Daily Paper.
A GENTLE HINT TO THE JUBILANT JAP.
There is a Jappy land Far, far away, Where Art they understand; None more than they. Now in fair battle's ring They've pummelled poor Ping-Wing, All men their praises sing Who've won the day. Bright in that Jappy land Beams every eye. But, though their pluck be grand, Bar-bar-i-ty Their choicest gifts will mar, Blood stains their rising star, Foul slaughter is not war. Fie, Jappy, fie!