THE ADVANTAGE OF BEING CONSISTENT.
Reading edition
(A Dramatic Forecast of the Farce of the Future.)
Scene—Smoking-room of the Toy Club. Reformed members sipping lemon-squashes and inhaling tea-leaf cigarettes and reading "The Happy Hearth" and periodicals of a similar character.
First Member. I am heartily glad that the committee decided to change the name of the club from the Handicap to the Toy, as it has brought an influx of such extremely eligible members. The bishop is perfectly charming.
Second Member. Quite so, and really the archdeacon's stories are first rate. I suppose you heard his anecdote about the pew-opener who thought that matins were a substitute for oil-cloth?
First Mem. Excellent, it was told me yesterday by the Lord Chancellor of British Undiscoveredland. And how much better it is that we are not allowed to bet in the old-fashioned way. When you come to think of it, there was something amazingly demoralising in permitting a Guinea Club Sweep for the Derby.
Second Mem. I should think so! I give you my word that I put my name down in every single sweep in the old Handicap for fifteen years, and never once drew a starter.
First Mem. My experience too. Have you heard whether there is to be any substitute for the sweep this year?
Second Mem. Why, yes. I was told by a member of the Recreation Committee that all members taking the bread-and-milk luncheon daily for a week are to have chances for the Grand Derby Race Christmas Tree.
First Mem. Isn't a Christmas Tree a little too late or too previous in June?
Second Mem. Well, yes; but then it was said that once the Derby was run in a snow-storm, and so we might take it that sometimes we have winter in summer.
First Mem. I see. Have you any idea what the prizes are to be?
Second Mem. Oh, some of them will be very handsome. I am told that the tree is to be decorated with tea-cozies and silver-mounted blue spectacles.
First Mem. Really! I shall not forget to take my one o'clock bread-and-milk regularly in the coffee-room for the next week. I suppose you have quite given up your betting-book?
Second Mem. Well, no, because you see the Act permits betting in moderation, and under proper restrictions. For instance, I am quite prepared to take seven to one against Snuffbox for the Hardbake Selling Stakes, only of course it must be in peppermint drops.
First Mem. (producing betting-book). Well, I would accommodate you if I were not overburdened with peppermint-drops. Make it brandy-balls, and I will do it in ounces.
Second Mem. (referring to betting-book). I am not particularly fond of that sweetstuff, but I think I can act as commissioner for my aunt. (Enters bet.) Is your list full for The Band of Joy Two-year-old Caudle Cup?
First Mem. (after reference to betting-book). Well, I don't mind backing my opinion about the Churchwarden's County Council. Do you know his price?
Second Mem. I see in the Charity Box of last night that he was in considerable demand at Tattersall's. As much as two to one in Abyssinian sugar-sticks was taken freely. I don't mind letting you have a pound of mixed biscuits to an ounce of Everton toffy, if that will suit you.
First Mem. All right. (Makes entry in betting-book.) And now I really must go.
First Mem. What, are you off?
Second Mem. Why, yes. I want to see my stockbroker. I have quite a heavy flutter on in connection with these new Carbonate of Soda Mines. If they don't go up a bit before the next account I may lose a cool thousand.
First Mem. Just my case. However, I shall be able to pull through, as now that gambling is prohibited on the turf and in the club, there is more money available for different purposes.
[Exeunt for the City.
TO CORINNA.
The jocund spring, in season ripe, Her reign of gladness hath commenced, Each shepherd mends his broken pipe, Each nymph knows well The subtle spell By which she'll soon be influenz'ed. Then tarry not, belovèd maid, Nor make thy worshipper endure Such woes as haunt him who's afraid, And yet desires To think Love's fires Alone have raised his temperature! What though the crocus still delays? No fragrance hath it sweet or rare; The snowdrop pale let others praise; We need not yet The violet When eucalyptus fills the air! Away with winter's peevish woes! We'll wander though the meadows green Or where the babbling river flows, And on the brink We'll sit and drink Ambrosial tincture of quinine.
"OVER!"
Mr. St-dd-rt, Captain of the English Eleven, with Mr. G-ff-n, the Australian Captain, sing in harmony—
"The Lion and the Kangaroo Fighting for the Crown, The Lion beat the Kangaroo— Helped by Mr. Brown!"
*** "Mr. Brown was 'caught' with 140 to his credit."—Times' Report.
"OVER!"
Or, The Battle of the Bats.
The Lion and the Kangaroo Fighting for the Crown, The Lion licked the Kangaroo— Helped by Mister Brown! Air—"Battle of the Baltic."
Of Stoddart—splendid name!— Sing the rapturous renown, When our boys to battle came, All to win the Cricket Crown; Though Australia once again the toss had won. But the Britons took their stand In a bold determined band, And the Best Bat in the Land Led them on. Like "Leviathan" in form, Little Gregory laid on, Doughty Darling made it warm, And George Giffen, fadeless one, Smote our trundlers with a coolness quite sublime. Four—One—Four! The "wire" so saith!— There was silence deep as death, And our boldest held his breath For a time. But the hopes of England flushed On that mighty Melbourne green; How young Ward and Stoddart rushed O'er the space those stumps between! Sixty-eight our Captain piled, and the fun Cool Maclaren kept alive; With Six-Score! Bob Peel did strive, And our score was Three—Eight—Five! Ere 'twas done! Australia once again! And the scoring does not slack. May kind heaven avert the rain, Till the last bat hies him back! At good shots how the cheers break and boom Round the ring!—and oh! the wail At the click of flying bail, As the Richardsonian hail Pelts—like doom! Good Grey George, the Australian Chief, Smote again his swashing blows. Mingled sounds of joy and grief From the Melbourne ring arose! When the stumps again are drawn for the day Brockwell, prey to bad luck's blight, Is again out of the fight, Ward and Stoddart in, to smite As they may. Two—six—nine more runs to make! And one leading wicket down!— Old World, let thine echoes wake With the honoured name of Brown, Yorkshire Brown, the last selected, but not least, Oh! to see him smite and run, With Lancashire's great gun, Albert Ward, to share the fun Was a feast! One-forty! Ninety-three! Though, for once, stout Stoddart failed, That left few more runs, d'ye see? And though Trott and Giffen hailed At the stumps, and Jarvis watched like a cat, Young Maclaren and Bob Peel Won the match slap off the reel, By six wickets! How d'ye feel John, at that? Out spake the victor then (And we echo him o'er the wave), "Ye are brothers, trumps, and men! And it was the narrowest shave That victory to us Britons did allot. That Crown, as is but meet, We will lay at England's feet. But by George, you're bad to beat— George's Lot!" Now joy, Old England raise For the tidings of that fight. Gallant Stoddart crown with bays! When the wine-cup brims to-night His name will sound the loudest midst the roar. Thanks to him, and Mister Brown, And some others of renown, We still keep the Cricket Crown On our shore. But though Lion-Stoddart wears That proud wreath, the Kangaroo ("Old Man" Giffen) fairly shares, With his good and gallant crew, The best honours of the game they fought to save. At the wickets far from flats, In the field they were like cats. So here's power to the Bats Of the Brave.
GRATITUDE.
Patient (cured, and leaving the hospital—to Nurse). "I thank you kindly, Miss, for all your goodness—I shall never forget it! If ever there was a Fallen Hangel you're one!"
JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
(Died at Edinburgh, Saturday, March 2, 1895, in his 86th year.)
Thou brave old Scot! And art thou gone? How much of light with thee's departed! Philosopher—yet full of fun, Great humorist—yet human-hearted; A Caledonian—yet not dour, A scholar—yet not dry-as-dusty; A pietest—yet never sour! O, stout and tender, true and trusty Octogenarian optimist, The world for thee seemed aye more sunny. We loved thee better for each twist Which streaked a soul as sweet as honey. We shall not see thy like again! We've fallen on times most queer and quacky, And oft shall miss the healthy brain And manly heart of brave old Blackie!
Mrs. R. says she wouldn't miss the Naval and Military at Sandown for anything.
USEFUL HINT.
(For surmounting the Snow-drifts whenever they may be, as they have been till quite recently, heaped up behind most of the Fences.)
Sportsman (with Spade). "Wouldn't be without it for the world, Old Chap! Had to dig myself out no less than Three Times to-day!"