Part 2

'Tis a wilderness wild of dread dilapidations, Where one feeble gas-light illumines the street, While right over the way fourteen kitchen foundations Of houses unfinished the aching eye greet! How he first chanced to find it his friends often wonder. No omnibus runs within miles of his door,-- Nor a train, be it either above-ground or under, Wakes life with its thrice welcome whistle and roar.

If you call at that house, you'll be knocking and ringing, Till, with forcible language, you're leaving the place, When a slavey, who comes up the hall gaily singing, Flings open the door, with a smut on her face. You ask "if they're in," and she looks you all over,-- It's clear she's quite new to an afternoon call,-- P'raps takes you for _Turpin_, _Bill Sikes_, the _Red Rover_; But she says that she'll "see," and leaves you in the hall.

You are ushered upstairs, which a Dutch carpet graces, To a drawing-room, curtained at threepence a yard, Where Japanese gimcracks appear in odd places, Though ASPINALL clearly has proved their trump card; For here it envelopes a plain kitchen-table, There a weak wicker lounge which invites not repose; And at length you are seated, as well as you're able, On a folding arm-chair that half threatens to close.

But they offer you tea, made with unboiling water, A syrupy Souchong at tenpence a pound, Which a simpering, woebegone, elderly daughter, With stale bread rancid buttered, is handing around. And you think you'll be off: as your talk halts and flounders, For you feel most distinctly, _they're not in your line_, And you say to yourself, "Yes, these JOHNSONS _are_ bounders," But before you can go, _you have promised to dine_!

That same dinner will take you some seasons forgetting! The claret was sour, the "tinned" oysters, Blue Point; And moreover 'tis really a little upsetting, For the cook to come up very drunk with the joint! And when to crown this you are asked to expel her, And find a Policeman,--that is, if you could. It may soothe you to hear yourself called "a good feller," But can you admit that the dinner was good?

And so when you meet JOHNSON going up to the City, It somehow to-day does not strike you as odd, That with feelings of scorn not unmingled with pity, You hurry on fast with a stiff little nod. Be his craze "speculation," "a crush," "a small dinner," A christening, marriage, a death or a birth,-- There's a limpness of purpose that shows, though no sinner. Why the dim "One-horse" Householder cumbers the earth!

* * * * *

* * * * *

MAKING THEM USEFUL.

See in the papers that school-children at Whissendine and elsewhere are taught gardening. Excellent idea, this. Small Holdings for Small Boys! Decide to try it at my "Select Academy for the Sons of Gentlemen," as kitchen garden certainly _does_ want attending to, and I can't afford a gardener. Tell the boys about it. They want to know if the hour a day which I purpose to devote to Agriculture is to take the place of _Bradley's Latin Exercises_. On hearing that it is, boys seem relieved, and SMITH JUNIOR pronounces the scheme a "jolly lark." I confess I am pleased to find this appreciation of my new arrangement on the part of the most troublesome urchin in the school.

_Next Day._--All the boys are now provided with separate plots, spades, rakes, and hoes. Youth, in fact, is at the Plough, and Myself at the Helm, so we ought to get on all right. I purchase for them some young cabbage-plants and cucumber-seeds, which will go down as "extras" in the bills at the end of Term. Boys very active first day. SMITH JUNIOR breaks his spade, and gets fifty lines. JONES astonishes me by talking about "Three Acres and a Cow." Find that his father is a strong Radical. Must be careful what I say to JONES. The general opinion seems to be that Gardening is better than _Bradley's Exercises_ "by long chalks." Encouraging.

_Week Later._--In order to gain my prize for best cabbages, boys have been stimulating their growth with a guano made of chopped bones, slate-pencil dust, and ink! Surprisingly fine specimens in young DODGER'S allotment. Too good to be true. Go out to inspect, take up one of his cabbages, and find it has no roots. DODGER admits that he bought them from village greengrocer. I remark humorously to boys--"This is DODGER'S _plot_!" Boys cheer me, and, being indignant at DODGER'S cheating, make him--so I hear afterwards--"run the gauntlet" in the dormitory the same evening. Hope it will do the little sneak good. SMITH JUNIOR tries to do circus trick on garden roller. Nearly killed. Two hundred lines, and a page of _Bradley's Exercises_. Hear him saying that "he wishes OLD SWATS (that's me) would do his gardening himself, and see how _he_ likes it!" No, thanks.

_End of the Experiment._--Kitchen garden a wreck! There has been a battle royal between FLASHBOYITES and SMITH JUNIORITES. FLASHBOY stole all the spades, and entrenched himself in an earthwork, which the other side stormed. SMITH JUNIOR bleeding but triumphant. Says "gardening is much better far than _Bradley's Exercises_." Cucumbers (bought as missiles) and potatoes lying all about. Several have got through school-room windows! Letters arrive from parents. Thought they would like the new agricultural departure as teaching their boys something really useful. But they don't. Quite indignant. Say their sons are "not intended for market-gardeners." SMITH JUNIOR'S parent says _his_ boy is "meant for the Church." Didn't know this before. SMITH JUNIOR will be an ornament of the Church Militant at any rate. Drop the gardening, and go back to _Bradley_.

* * * * *

"THE USUAL CHANNEL."

To what snug refuge do I fly When glass is low, and billows high, And goodness knows what fate is nigh?-- My Cabin!

Who soothes me when in sickness' grip, Brings a consolatary "nip," And earns my blessing, and his tip?-- The Steward!

When persons blessed with fancy rich Declare "she" does not roll, or pitch, What say--"The case is hardly sich"?-- My Senses!

What makes me long for _real_ Free Trade, When no Douaniers could invade, Nor keys, when wanted, be mislaid?-- My Luggage!

What force myself, perhaps another, To think (such thoughts we try to smother) "The donkey-engine is our brother"?-- Our Feelings!

And what, besides a wobbling funnel, Screw-throb, oil-smell, unstable gunwale, Converts me to a Channel Tunnel?-- My Crossing!

* * * * *

COOKED AT HEREFORD.

The strongest always rule the roast. Yes! we believe it fully; So what's the natural result, When COOKE'S opposed by PULLEY? Vain contest--vain the gallant fight! The winner's safely booked, And forty-four good witnesses Affirm the _poulet's_ cooked.

* * * * *

ONLY FANCY!

Only fancy if the Earth were flat-- As most of those who live upon it are-- And you went too near the edge of it, and toppled from the ledge of it, And landed on a distant star! Only fancy, if you fell upon your feet, And recovered pretty quickly from the jar, And you understood the lingo which the people speak and sing, oh, Who dwell upon a distant star! Only fancy, only fancy, what a lot of things there are Very likely to be met with on a distant star.

A goodish many things would prove Not exactly quite the same as here, I guess; P'raps the ladies _all_ are pretty, and the men all smart and witty, And marriage an unqualified success. P'raps, like WASHINGTON, they cannot tell a lie, And gossip is excluded from their talk; P'raps with them a thing of course is that beef isn't made of horses, And the milkmen haven't even heard of chalk! Only fancy, &c.

Perhaps they've no occasion for police, Though they may keep just a few to spoon the cooks; If they do, no doubt they're wary whom they make Home Secretary, And the Chief Commissioner's chosen for his looks. Very likely, if they ever play a farce, It contains a pretty moral for the young, And perhaps their panorama has a mission, and their drama To the tune of the Old Hundredth's "said or sung." Only fancy, &c.

Very likely they have guns that will not burst, And machinery that won't get out of gear; P'raps they've even ammunition in respectable condition, And vessels that are guaranteed to steer. And it's possible they have Vestries who refrain From swearing at each other when they meet; And, though _this_ isn't probable, they may have Boards "unjobable," And Contractors who will neither bribe nor cheat. Only fancy, &c.

A Parliament perhaps they may require, But its Members very likely don't obstruct, And each Government proposition just delights the Opposition, And anyone who makes a noise is "chucked." Very possibly they do not care for speech, But if indeed they've got a Grand Old Man In whom the fancy lingers, why, he talks upon his fingers, And they answer on the self-same plan! Only fancy, &c.

* * * * *

Mrs. R. says there is such a scare now about typhoid, that she always takes a tin of dis-connecting fluid about with her. She also says, a bottle of automatic vinegar is very refreshing in church.

* * * * *

MY GARDENERESS.

["Lady CARLISLE is training an entire staff of women gardeners, who, she hopes, will keep the grounds of her Yorkshire home in as perfect a condition as their male predecessors have done."--_Pall Mall Gazette._]

Come into the garden, MAUD, Why has not the grass been mown? Come into the garden, MAUD, Those seeds have never been sown; I fear you've been taking your walks abroad-- You blush like a rose full-blown.

When the early snail first moves, Before the sun is on high, Beginning to gnaw the leaves he loves On the beds, you should always try To pick him off with your garden gloves, And stamp on him--he must die.

You can't touch snails? Let that pass, I will smash each one in his shell; But when it rains you can roll the grass, When dry can water it well. You say you can't wet your boots--alas!-- Nor work when it's warm, _ma belle_?

And yet your wages you claim; I should like to know what you do. In truth I can't bear to blame Such a sweet pretty girl as you; So stop as my gardener all the same-- I'll be master and workman too.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Rough work should never be done By delicate hands as white as pearls, You only began for fun; So sit, with your parasol over your curls, Whilst I dig like mad in the sun.

* * * * *

* * * * *

WHO IS IT?

_A Political Enigma. Compounded from the Press of the Period._

He's hopeless of heaven, he's too bad for ----, (So say Unionist bards, and they ought to know well,) He is JUDAS-cum-CAIN with a _soupcon_ of OATES, An imperious despot, who grovels for votes; A mean truckling tyrant, an autocrat slave; A Knave who plays King, and a King who plays Knave. A haughty Commander, the tool of his troops, A swayer of "items," nose-led by his dupes; A Dog-despot, wagged by the tip of his tail, A Conspirator potent, whose plot's bound to fail; The land's greatest danger, because such a dolt; As ruler a scourge, because breeding revolt; As political guide ever banefully strong, Because the majority sees he is wrong. A prolix _Polonius_ who proves his senility By taking the shine out of youth and ability: A veteran lagging superfluous, whose age Puts him "out of it" so, that he fills the whole stage: So old that his age gives him every claim, Save to decent respect, which, of course, is a shame, And absurd "fetish-worship." As Lucifer proud And imperious, yet supple of knee to the crowd; A CORIOLANUS who plays the JACK CADE; A coward of nothing and no one afraid; A blundering batsman whom none can bowl out; A craven who staggers opponents most stout; A traitor who gives his whole life to the State, Whose zeal proves his spite, and his service his hate. A truckler to treason and trickster for place, Whose stubbornness oft throws him out of the race; A lover of power and public applause, Who dares to oppose the most popular cause. A talkative sophist who will _not_ explain; A bad-tempered man, ever bland and urbane: A casuist no one can half understand, But whose sinister purpose is plain as your hand; A vituperative and venomous foe, Whose speeches with calm magnanimity glow. In short, an old dolt, who inflicts dire defeat On the smartest young foes he can manage to meet; A powerless provoker of dreadful disasters, A master of slaves whose mere slaves are his masters; A voluble sphinx, and a simple chimaera The Age's conundrum, the _crux_ of his aera!

_Mem._:

If you can't give a guess at the theme of these rhymes, Why, peruse all the papers, and move with the times!

* * * * *

AUSTRALIA THE (WITHOUT) GOLDEN.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I see that, with a view to economy, the Victorian Legislature have cut down the salary of their future Governors to a reasonable sum. Every one will applaud an act inspired by so worthy a motive. Still, as the officials who have been thus deprived of some of their emoluments have a certain state to keep up, I think it would be only fair were that state also to undergo revision. With a view to assisting in so desirable a programme, I jot down a few suggestions.

_Uniform._--Future Governors not to be required to wear gold lace. Yellow braid to be sparingly used in decorating their frock-coats. Dirks to be substituted for swords. Cocked-hats no longer to be trimmed with feathers.

_Official Entertainments._--Governors no longer to be required to ask Colonials to dinner. Luncheons with chops and steaks and boiled potatoes to be substituted for extensive _menus_. Balls to be given only occasionally, and guests to be served with the lightest of light refreshments (sandwiches and lemonade); and if dancing be required, dancers to supply their own orchestras.

_Attending State Functions._--Governors no longer to be expected to appear in carriage and pair. Their Excellencies to be entitled to use tram-cars, omnibuses, and bicycles. When laying a foundation-stone, the Governors to be permitted to wear double-soled boots, and carry umbrellas.

_Miscellaneous._--To avoid expense, salutes will be dispensed with as much as possible. When guns are fired, tubes to be used without cartridges. Flags not to be flown in wet weather, and Chairs of State always to be covered with brown holland. Gaslights to be sparingly lighted, and wax-candles abolished.

There, my dear Sir, this should be a relief both to the goose and the gander. It is quite right to economise, but it is a little strange to find that we get our first hint in this direction from the Antipodes.

Yours truly, GAY WITHOUT PAY.

* * * * *

* * * * *

STILL WILDER IDEAS.

(_Possibilities for the next O. Wilde Play._) _Puppet Number One._ Let's come into the garden, MAUDLE. I adore the garden. Don't you know that the book of at least one good play begins with some epigrams in the garden, and ends with----

_Puppet Number Two._ Recitations--strictly puritanical. Well, let's go into the garden: there's nothing but Nature to look at there, so we will discuss----

_Puppet Number One._ The picture shows. It seems to me there are two principles in modern art. The first is--give a picture a good name, and they'll hang it.

_Puppet Number Two._ What's--ahem!--what _is_ in a name?

_Puppet Number One._ Usually a good deal more than is in the picture.

_Puppet Number Two._ And the second principle?

_Puppet Number One._ Art is short, and the life (of the average Academician) is long.

_Puppet Number Two._ Ah, well. I suppose I shall have to ask you sooner or later to define Art.

_Puppet Number One._ Certainly. Art is that which invariably goes one better than Nature.

_Puppet Number Two (with a sigh)._ And what is Nature?

_Puppet Number One._ Nature is that which is not so natural as it is painted.

_Puppet Number Two (with a groan)._ What about truth in Art then?

_Puppet Number One._ Ah! Truth is that one infirmity of a noble mind.

_Puppet Number Two._ Truth is nothing if not respectable.

_Puppet Number One._ Remember, respectability is an affectation, of cynics, dramatic authors--and other people of no importance generally.

[_Exeunt severally. Curtain._

* * * * *

Mrs. R. observes, "it is only too true that Summer pleasures, as the poet says, are nearly always effervescent."

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, August 14._--Quite shocked to see ASHER to-day. Strong constitution and a happy disposition united to make him a picture of buoyant health. Observing him walk up floor of House just now, hardly knew him. Shoulders bowed; arms hanging limp; cheeks sallow; an unspeakable sorrow in his dimmed eyes.

"What's the matter, Mr. SOLICITOR?" I asked, instinctively falling into the whispering tone proper in sick rooms. "Is it the state of Scotch business that weighs upon your mind? or is it true, as whispered, that necessity has been discovered for bringing in Bill amending the Borough Police and Health Act, 1892, with its 435 clauses?"

"No," said ASHER; "I'm thinking of neither. My thoughts tend in quite another direction. My heart is at Deeside, my heart is not here. I have a moor there; you understand me--not a person of dark complexion, who, after much conversation, disposes of his wife with the assistance of a pillow. But a stretch of moorland, gorse-scented, grouse-haunted. I awoke early on Saturday morning hearing the popping of the guns in far-off Aboyne. Mere fancy, of course. You remember CHARLES LAMB'S story about supping with some Scotchmen, and incidentally observing he only wished, to make the joy complete, that BURNS were there? One by one the Scotchmen got up and explained to him that BURNS had been dead for ever so many years, and that it was practically impossible, in view of the circumstances, that he could have been present; even, one of them added, supposing they knew BURNS, and it had occurred to them to invite him. So you will say that Deeside, being hundreds of miles away, I could not hear the birds on the wing, or the pottering of the guns. In a sense, that is true; but I heard them all the same; worse still, heard them when I was in church yesterday, and should have been hearing something else. I wouldn't mind missing a day, a week, or, in the service of my QUEEN and country, a fortnight. What I see, and what gars me greet, is the endless vista of nights and days we shall spend here. If we get any shooting at all we shall begin with the pheasants.

"O my BARTLEY, shallow-pated! O my TOMMY, such a bore! O, my dear beloved moorland, shall I see thee evermore?"

ASHER'S case representative of many; only his despair is the more eloquent.

_Business done._--Marking time in Home-Rule debate.

_Tuesday._--Just before eight bells, when all hands were piped below, Admiral FIELD turned up in favourite character as the honest British sailor. Rather modelled on transpontine style; a little unnecessarily noisy; too humorously aggressive; hopelessly obvious. But in present circumstances House grateful for anything; gleefully laughed whilst the Admiral shivered his timbers, talked about losing his soundings in a fog, declared against all shams, referred to himself as "honest and modest sailor who believed in straightforward action, and refused to have his eyes blinded by abstract proposals."

That last phrase didn't sound seafaring, but, as another honest sailor was accustomed to say, its bearings lay in the application of it. Motion before House was to eliminate Second Chamber from Home-Rule scheme; brought forward by Radicals; situation difficult for Opposition. If they voted against the Government they would be declaring against principle of House of Lords. If they voted with them they would be approving a proposition of the hated Bill. JOSEPH judiciously got out of difficulty by declining to vote at all. PRINCE ARTHUR elaborately explained that in going into Lobby with the Radicals he was voting against a concrete proposal and in favour of an abstract principle. This too subtle for COURTNEY, who announced his intention of voting with Government who happened to agree with him in approving principle of Second Chamber. It was amid these cross blades that the Admiral, hitching up his trousers, danced a hornpipe. TOMLINSON attempting to bring House back to more serious views, Members with one accord rushed into Lobby, and Government came out with majority of 83.

_Business done._--Seventh night in Report Stage Home-Rule Bill.

_Thursday._--"Whew!" said the Member for SARK. "I don't know what will become of us if things go on much longer like this. With a PREMIER over eighty, and the thermometer over 90, the situation is at least unusual. Even JOSEPH not able to maintain his favourite attitude, grafted on the iced cucumber. Just now Mr. G. made a passing remark, quite mild compared with JOEY'S own sly hits. J. C. up on instant, with boding brow and angry plaint that Mr. G. had attempted to slay him with a sneer."

"Yes," said PLUNKET, "times _are_ hot. I don't know what we should do without TOMMY BOWLES. The spectacle of his white ducks is to me as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. They talk about an army of men in the basement working machinery that keeps the temperature ten degrees below what it is marked on the Terrace. Also there is, it seems, a ton and a half of ice melting in ventilating chambers at the taxpayers' expense for our comfort. But I don't think ice is in it with TOMMY'S ducks. Even if they were stationary it would be something. But observe how, coming and going, TOMMY'S brain an argosy of great thoughts, the ducks seem to skim over our prosaic floor, calling up even to the unimaginative mind a vision of deep, tree-shaded, quietly-rippling Broad, over which the wild duck swiftly moves, waving white wings."

Only PLUNKET, I fancy, could evolve poesy out of to-night's scene; hot above precedent, dull beyond endurance.