Part 2

Thus do the elements obey my call. Thus do I influence the Seasons' course Thus do I exercise for great and small, The king, the lord, the beggar, one and all, Odyllic Force.

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"WHO SAID--'ATROCITIES'?"

OR, "THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD DOG YET."

["It was my fate, my fortune, about, I think, eighteen years ago to take an active part with regard to other outrages, which first came up in the shape of rumour, but were afterwards well verified, in Bulgaria.... Old as I am, my feelings have not been deadened in regard to matters of such a dreadful description."--_Mr. Gladstone's Birthday Speech at Hawarden, December 29, 1894, on the alleged Armenian Atrocities._]

Retirement? Oh, rubbish! Tykes currish or cubbish May curl up in kennels, or snug up in straw, But dogs of right mettle to rest will not settle, While sight's in the eye, and while snap's in the jaw. A bed in a basket? Mere mongrels may ask it. A couch and a cushion? They're lap-dog delights. But pluck and true breeding, such comforts unheeding, Desert laps and hearth-rugs for frolics and fights.

Retired! How rats chortle! Like "_Rab_" the immortal This dog scorns dull rest, and is still "rough on rats." As always delighting in "plenty o' fechting," He pricks up his ears at a whisper of "s-s-scats!" Aslumber and dreaming? Oh, that is mere seeming, Curled up tail to muzzle in cosiest sort. His hairs are a-bristle at whisper or whistle That gives the least promise of scrimmage or sport.

On rats he's still ruthless! They may think him toothless, Those red Turkish rodents who once felt his fangs. Ah! eighteen years earlier his coat was much curlier, Now white and whispy sparse-scattered it hangs. But years though they roughen his hide, seem to toughen The muscles and nerves of this rare sporting tyke. The rattling old ratter is still game to scatter A pitful of vermin, of what breed you like.

The Istamboul sort are his favourite sport, Rabid rodents who raven, red-fanged, in foul hordes, Turco sewer-bred legions, who earth's fairest regions Would ravage like TAMERLANE'S Tartar-swung swords. Terrors untameable, horrors unnameable, Mark their maraudings and hang on their track. Now in fresh numbers they swarm, whilst he slumbers Who once was the plague of the pestilent pack.

But--_Who said--Atrocities?_ Old animosities Wake in his spirit and stir in his blood. Eh? What? Retirement? Nay, not if requirement, Or prospect of sport, move the old champion's mood. His heart has not deadened; his old eyes have reddened With love of the fray and the old righteous wrath. The varmint old ratter his old foes would scatter. "Auld _Rab_" once again will be on the war-path!

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"BON JOUR, PHILIPPINE!"

"They grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee"-- Until that evening at dessert You passed the nuts to me. Then came the "crack of doom," the twins No sooner had you seen Than, "Oh, what fun!" you said, "we'll have A _Bon jour_, PHILIPPINE!"

"They grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee"-- Until they found respective graves Alas! in you and me. And then to win a gift next morn We vowed with solemn mien, Whoe'er should greet the other first With "_Bon jour_, PHILIPPINE!"

"_Bon jour_"--I dreamt of it all night, At dawn recalled it yet, But clean forgot it whilst I shaved-- At breakfast then we met. I'd only time, I know, to think Maid sweeter ne'er was seen, When you, with laughter-dancing eyes, Cried, "_Bon jour_, PHILIPPINE!"

And so you won a gift from me, And chose that I should write These verses, which I've pondered o'er For many a sleepless night! I'll never crack another nut, When you are there, I mean; Yet may you greet me often--save With "_Bon jour_, PHILIPPINE!"

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MOTTO FOR MODERN MANAGERS.--The proper study of (theatre-going) Mankind is--the _New Woman._

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THE VESTRYMAN.

A COMIC SONG FOR SERIOUS CONSIDERATION.

(_By an Elderly Victim of Bumbledom._)

["The London Vestries and Boards of Works have not exactly covered themselves with glory in their dealings with the recent snowfall. In very few neighbourhoods was any attempt made on Wednesday to remove the slush, and Nature having taking her course during the night, in the direction of a frost early yesterday morning, the streets in many places were absolutely impassable for wheeled traffic until a liberal layer of sand and gravel had been spread."--_Daily Chronicle, January 4._]

AIR--"_The Bogie Man._"

Come, gather round me, ratepayers, So full of fun and glee; New Bumble's going to play the fool To please the L. C. C. They swear that he is able Improvements for to plan; I love to hear Progressives say, "Hush! The New Vestryman!"

_Chorus._

_Slush! Slush!! Slush!!!_ _Where is_ the Vestryman? Are broom and shovel ready? What _is_ his brand new plan? Oh, Slush! Slush! Slush!-- The footways never ran With a worse slithery slippery slop, 'Neath the Old Vestryman.

When I sit down, impromptu, All in a soft snow-pie; Or slide a yard, then come down hard, I groan, and wonder why. I blow my blue numb fingers, I watch a fast-stuck van; Reform, I cry, seems all my eye. Where _is_ that Vestryman?

_Chorus._

_Slush! Slush!! Slush!!!_ Why _is_ this, Vestryman? Is this the outcome shady Of the Progressive plan? Oh, Slush! Slush! Slush! No gravel, sand, or tan! All slip and slop. I'd like to _whop_ That blessed Vestryman!!!

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TRAVELS IN TAFFY-LAND; OR, WALES BLOWING.

[The Flint Town Council has censured the L. & N. W. Railway for dismissing some of its servants for ignorance of the English language.]

Would you tell me, Porter, if the next train is the one for Aberystwyth?

I am really very much obliged for your reply, but as I have not a Cymric dictionary at hand, I am totally unable even to guess at your meaning.

As the man points to the train which is now at the platform, and nods vigorously, I suppose he means me to get in. Still, the fact that it has "Llanrhychwyn" on it makes me a little doubtful whether I shall ever reach Aberystwyth if I enter it.

I am grateful for your attention, Guard, but it was a foot-warmer that I asked for, not the newspaper-boy.

As I have just been hurled down an embankment and find myself sitting much bruised in a shallow pond in a field close to the line, I really fancy that the Welsh-speaking signalman at the adjoining cabin has failed to understand the message wired to him in English from our last stopping station.

I should be glad, Stationmaster, if you would kindly have a telegram sent to my friends saying that I have only four ribs broken.

As you do not appear to understand what I say, and as I suppose there is nobody who knows English in this desolate Welsh valley where the sufferers from the accident are lying, perhaps you will kindly have us all sent back to Shrewsbury as soon as possible.

The man lying next to me, whose arm is hurt, says that the train was not going to Aberystwyth at all. So perhaps it is as well that circumstances have prevented my proceeding further in it.

We should undoubtedly have been much better off if this accident had happened to us in France or Germany, because then we should have been able to secure the services of the railway interpreter.

Thank Heaven! I am back at Chester, where the hotel people _do_ talk English; and in future I shall vote steadily at elections against any party that does not make the total suppression of all so-called "national tongues" within the British Isles a part of its recognised programme.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Mr. RUDOLF LEHMANN possesses some gifts which peculiarly qualify him to write the volume SMITH, ELDER & CO. publish, under the title _An Artist's Reminiscences_. He has passed the age of three-score and ten, and has throughout that period had many opportunities of seeing places, and, more precious, of meeting people. To the study of both he brings keen sight, a good memory, and a genuine, not too obtrusive, sense of humour. Born in Hamburg in 1819, he has sojourned in most of the capitals of Europe, permanently settling down to marriage and life in London. He seems to have known most of the notable personages of the middle and latter half of the century. His wide acquaintance with royalty (some of them mad) would be appalling if it were not mentioned with winning modesty. The volume abounds in good stories, my Baronite particularly delighting in one pertaining to the ceremony of prorogation of parliament by the QUEEN. Mr. LEHMANN was much struck with the spectacle of the old Duke of WELLINGTON carrying the sword of state, Lord LANSDOWNE bearing the crown, and the Marquis of WINCHESTER with the cap of maintenance set on red velvet cushion. At Lady GRANVILLE'S the same evening he asked Lord GRANVILLE what was the significance of the cap of maintenance. It was one of the few things Lord GRANVILLE did not know. "But," he said, "there is Lord WINCHESTER, who carried it this morning. I will go and ask him." The two peers conversed in a whisper, and Lord GRANVILLE, returning to his inquiring friend, said, "He does not know either." Mr. LEHMANN incidentally mentions that his brother HENRY'S first success, at the Salon of 1835, was gained by a picture setting forth "_Le Départ du Jeune Tobie_." At that date TOBY had not even arrived to take his place on the volumes in his master's study, and still less, was he M.P. for Barks. It only shows how prophetic is the soul of genius.

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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NEW YEAR REFLECTION.

(_By an Old-fashioned Fellow._)

"Goodwill to man!" the dear old carol saith. Ah me! Then why so much mean personal pother? We're credulous of aught that means the scathe Of a sad sister, or a stumbling brother. Men are like stout JOHN BUNYAN'S "Little Faith,"-- Save in believing evil of each other! There faith indeed is strong; but 'tis a rarity That such strange Faith is found combined with Charity!

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MEM. BY A MUSER.--Many a spouting member of the "Independent Labour Party" is a "party" who wishes to be independent of labour. _Hardie_ Norsemen, please note!

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TO JULIA'S POCKET.

[The ideal lady's pocket, that shall at once be accessible to its owner and defy the footpad's art, has yet to be invented.--_Wears of Tautologus._]

My JULIA'S chaste and winsome cheer, Her comely lip, her coral ear, And eke her knickerbocker gear,--

These be the theme of rhyming folk, Whereof the skill I here invoke In malediction of her poke;

In that it passeth human wit By sleight of hand withal to hit Upon the pathless track of it.

Though JULIA'S self therein dispose' That napkin with the which she blows For sorry rheum her Greekish nose,

Not if she search with heavy pain Shall she by taking thought attain To look upon the thing again;

To him alone of mortal clay That picketh pokes beside the way Their deeps are open as the day.

Whenas her alms she would disburse, In vain she probeth for her purse, Whereat the beggars shrewdly curse;

Even so their teeth do felons gnash That lightly lift her ready cash, Which he that stealeth stealeth trash.

Oft-times she doth full bravely hold Her breezy reticule of gold Within her digits' dainty fold;

As certain maids, I well believe, Do wear th' affections on their sleeve For any worthless wight to reave.

But though her purse not suffer rape, Mischance is like in other shape To put on her a saucy jape;--

If so my lady at the mart For very joyaunce of her heart Do purchase her a pasty tart,

Let her not make essay to bring So beauteous and frail a thing Within her poke's encompassing;

Lest, sitting down with weary stress, Unheedful of its buxomness, She make a right unseemly mess!

Certes a man purblind may see For these offences needs must be Some comfortable remedy;

Whoso deviseth such an one, I trow that his inventiòn Shall soothly pouch the peerless bun.

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NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS.

_Perplexed._--You are entirely in error in supposing that the member for Otley, Yorks, has, in accepting a baronetcy, descended from a higher estate. You have been deceived by similarity of sound. The hon. member was not of the same rank as a statesman (who we observe has just repaired to his country seat at Pinley Park, where he will entertain His Serene Highness the DUC DE SEIDLITZ-POUDRE) to whom Sir ROBERT PEEL used to allude in the House of Commons as "the noble Baron." In becoming Sir JOHN BARRAN, Bart., the member for Otley gains a distinct step in the social ladder.

_Blind, Deaf, and Dumb._--We are pleased to be able to reassure you. The fact that you have not lately heard or read speeches by Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT is no evidence that the treble disability under which you unhappily labour is increasing. There is a well known case, cited in Littleton upon Coke, where a man was not able to see the Spanish fleet "because it is not yet in sight." For analogous reason you have not lately heard anything of the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER. He has not been speaking. The fact is, the SQUIRE OF MALWOOD--to use a title by which he is locally known, and in which he most rejoices--was cut out for a rustic recluse. Circumstances have, unwillingly, dragged him into the front of politics, and he has done the duty that lies to his hand. When opportunity can be made he takes his leisure at his lodge in the New Forest, and meditates on the untimely fate of his pre-Plantagenet forbear WILLIAM RUFUS. Nevertheless, we are not without suspicion that Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT shares the peculiarity of CARLYLE, of whom you will remember his wife shrewdly remarked that "his love for silence is platonic." If you keep your ears open and your mouth shut, you may probably, before long, hear the familiar voice resounding from a public platform.

_A Shakspearean Student._--We had not before heard of the incident. It is, however, quite possible, as you have been informed, that when the Marquis of SALISBURY, K.G., heard of the defection of the Earl of BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, who has joined the Liberal forces, the only remark he made was "Off with his head."

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OVERHEARD FRAGMENT OF A DIALOGUE

_Lord Illingworth._ My dear GORING, I assure you that a well-tied tie is the first serious step in life.

_Lord Goring._ My dear ILLINGWORTH, five well-made button-holes a day are far more essential. They please women, and women rule society.

_Lord Illingworth._ I understood you considered women of no importance?

_Lord Goring._ My dear GEORGE, a man's life revolves on curves of intellect. It is on the hard lines of the emotions that a woman's life progresses. Both revolve in cycles of masterpieces. They should revolve on bi-cycles; built, if possible, for two. But I am keeping you?

_Lord Illingworth._ I wish you were. Nowadays it is only the poor who are kept at the expense of the rich.

_Lord Goring._ Yes. It is perfectly comic, the number of young men going about the world nowadays who adopt perfect profiles as a useful profession.

_Lord Illingworth._ Surely that must be the next world? How about the Chiltern Thousands?

_Lord Goring._ Don't. GEORGE. Have you seen WINDERMERE lately? Dear WINDERMERE! I should like to be exactly unlike WINDERMERE.

_Lord Illingworth._ Poor WINDERMERE! He spends his mornings in doing what is possible, and his evenings in saying what is probable. By the way, do you really understand all I say?

_Lord Goring._ Yes, when I don't listen attentively.

_Lord Illingworth._ Reach me the matches, like a good boy--thanks. Now--define these cigarettes--as tobacco.

_Lord Goring._ My dear GEORGE, they are atrocious. And they leave me unsatisfied.

_Lord Illingworth._ You are a promising disciple of mine. The only use of a disciple is that at the moment of one's triumph he stands behind one's chair and shouts that after all he is immortal.

_Lord Goring._ You are quite right. It is as well, too, to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be learnt.

_Lord Illingworth._ Certainly, and ugliness is the root of all industry.

_Lord Goring._ GEORGE, your conversation is delightful, but your views are terribly unsound. You are always saying insincere things.

_Lord Illingworth._ If one tells the truth, one is sure sooner or later to be found out.

_Lord Goring._ Perhaps. The sky is like a hard hollow sapphire. It is too late to sleep. I shall go down to Covent Garden and look at the roses. Good-night, GEORGE! I have had such a pleasant evening!

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DEATH IN THE CUP.

["The social duty of paying calls, refreshed, as it necessarily is, by frequent cups of tepid tea, is apparently little better than a process of slow poisoning."--_Daily Graphic._]

Oh, here's a pretty state of things! Whenever you go calling, And take this deadly liquor and imbibe it without stint, You're certainly preparing a catastrophe appalling, Your mirth is as the little lamb's, unmindful of the mint.

And when your entertainer, who seems so sweetly placid And quite unlike a criminal, suggests "Another cup?" She might as well be offering a dose of prussic acid, And the Public Prosecutor ought to take the matter up!

"The cup that cheers"--that hackneyed phrase is frightfully in error, If seldom it "inebriates" (it _does_, the doctors plead), There lurks within its fatal draught a more efficient terror, 'Twill shortly make a funeral your one and only need!

So since a daily cup or two the thin end of the wedge is, And since this revelation of our danger has been made, We all will wear red ribbons and will sign the strictest pledges, And speedily inaugurate an "Anti-Tea" crusade.

A word to you, AMANDA mine. Unless your cruel kindness, Your efforts to consign me to an early grave, shall cease, And if you dare, presuming on my long-continued blindness, To offer me a cup of tea--I'll send for the police!

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THE TIME OF DAY.--Good, after NEWNES to find the style "Bart." The bestowal of the baronetcy quite a Tit-Bit for the Strand. But there is no truth in the report that the event will be followed by the establishment of a new morning paper to be called _The Dragon_, and edited by Sir GEORGE.

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THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

IX.--OF COAL.

The County Council has solved the great Mudford mystery by deciding in favour of Mrs. ARBLE MARCH, who is in the seventh heaven at being the Seventh Councillor. A wise Legislature had it in contemplation that possibly when the great measure came to be worked, it might not be found to act, however much you pulled the string, and it was accordingly left to the County Council to set on its legs any poor little Parish Council which might have been brought into the world without its full number of members. Thus it came about that Mrs. MARCH got elected. The actual circumstances of her election gave rise to some comment. She was proposed by the Primrose League Ruling Councillor of one adjoining parish, and seconded by the Knight Harbinger of another. Our County Council is a strongly Tory body, and she was easily elected. There was a great outcry against this, as an act of political partisanship. It was. But when it became known that Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT'S friends and supporters were all avowed Radicals, popular indignation seemed suddenly to flicker out.

It may be, however, that the indignation only transferred itself to me, for I myself have got, in a most extraordinary and unexpected fashion, into a great hobble. It arose in this way. Having been elected on to the Parish Council at the top of the poll, and having, moreover, been subsequently the recipient of innumerable congratulations from my fellow-parishioners, I not unnaturally--so I still venture to think--desired in some way to show my appreciation of the kind treatment I had received. I accordingly determined to make to every elector a present of coals, and to carry out that intention issued the following circular:--

_To the Electors of Mudford._

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--For your kindness in electing me at the top of the poll, I can find no terms sufficiently warm to express myself. In commemoration of the great occasion, and as a small thankoffering for my return, I beg your acceptance of the enclosed Coal Ticket, which will entitle you to 2 cwt. of coal from any of the village coal dealers.

Your obliged and obedient servant,

TIMOTHY WINKINS.

I sent this to every elector, high or low, rich or poor. I hardly imagined that the Squire would want coal, but he was a constituent of mine, and he had his ticket. What has been the result of my generosity? This. Whilst almost every coal-ticket has been used, I am denounced right and left in unmeasured terms as an unscrupulous briber. Miss PHILL BURTT (who, as might be expected, has been most kind and sympathetic about the whole thing), tells me that even the Squire said it was a very ingenious way of wishing myself Many Happy Returns to the Parish Council. A poor joke, I think, but an undeniably excellent sneer. BLACK BOB is, as might be expected, much more plain and direct in his denunciation. He says, that if I stand for re-election--in April, 1896!--this ought to be enough to unseat me. A pleasant prospect. I can do nothing. My boats, like my coal, are burnt.

What happened at the Parish Council meeting last night I must leave--till my next.

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