Part 2

I have spoken of a man's wife's relations. This implies marriage. "The wise choice of female friends is ... important."[6] "Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel,"[7] as a writer lately put it, thinking, perhaps, of the Elizabethan skirt. There are risks in marriage. It is "for better for worse."[8] This distinction is well brought out in the two following passages--"And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, it is this, it is this!"[9] and "Wedlock's a saucy, sad, familiar state."[10]

[6] Lubbock.

[7] Lubbock adapting Shakspeare.

[8] Marriage service.

[9] Tom Moore.

[10] Peter Pindar.

One might throw out some thoughts on the question of selection, but, as a friend aptly and originally expressed himself to me--"Silence is golden"; and I remember to have read that "talking should be an exercise of the brain and not of the tongue."[11] Substitute "writing" for "talking," and "pen" for "tongue," and I really wonder why I have written all this. Can it be that I regard the reading public as "mostly fools"?[12]

[11] Lubbock.

[12] Carlyle.

* * * * *

THE MAKING OF A MAN.

["Lord ROSEBERY is not a man at all: he is a political Joint-Stock Company, _Limited_."--_Letter from Mr. Chamberlain in the "Times."_]

Oh, CHAMBERLAIN, with joy I note the labour of the file In this delightful sample of your literary style. I seem to see you trying it in half a hundred ways, Before your taste could settle on the perfect final phrase. With just a little polish here, a slight erasure there, You got it into shape at last, and made your copy fair. Lo, how its graceful suavity all meaner folk rebukes, In every little word I trace the influence of dukes; The gallant style, the courtly thrust with controversial sword Of one--what need to tell his name?--who dearly loves a lord; Who learnt amid our feudal halls the ancient courtesy That scorns to stoop to Billingsgate, or ape the bold bargee. Serene and proud he follows still the good old maxim's plan, And by his manners proves himself to all the world a Man.

* * * * *

Solution of Prize Conundrum given in our Last Week's Issue.

"How to make life happy by adding fifty-nine to the latter half of it."

The latter half of "_Life_" is "_fe_," isn't it?

Fifty-nine is "LIX," isn't it? Add this to FE, and the result is happy--"FELIX."

[⁂ The Conundrumist left the explanation and the country at the same time.--ED.]

***

"LYING LOW."

["The CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER has preserved, with admirable composure, an oracular silence during the controversies of the past few weeks. It is sad to think that the despairing appeals of the Ministerial Press to Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT to 'remember his swashing blow' may remain unanswered until the opening of the debate on the Address some two months hence."--_The Times._]

"Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn! The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn. Where is the boy who looks after the sheep? He's under the haycock, fast asleep(?)" _Old Nursery Rhyme._

_Much worrited Old Liberal Party loquitur:_--

O little Boy Blue!--('tis a sweet name for _you_, Though Pickwickian, perhaps, in suggestiveness!)-- What are you a-doing? There's mischief a-brewing, Our flocks appear troubled with restiveness; Our cattle are straying. You ought to be playing That horn with your old force and unction. Of what are you thinking? In long forty-winking Boy Blue seems forgetting his function!

You're not worth a button! That Forfarshire mutton The Unionist meadow is munching in; Our bonny Brigg cow, boy, now can't you see how, boy, The Tory corn-field she is crunching in? You are losing your sheep, like poor little Bo-Peep, And still that old horn lies unblown, boy. You're letting them roam, and _they_ will not "come home" If you do nought but "let them alone," boy!

Still drowsing! Oh, drat it! Young PRIMROSE is at it Without half your power of bellows. And cynics are hinting that, while he is sprinting, You're lazy--because you feel jealous. Of course, that's all footle. Still, your rootle-tootle Is wanted our courage to toughen. 'Twas never your habit, like artful Brer Rabbit, Of old to "lie low and say nuffin'!"

Your horn, like great ROLAND'S, through high lands and low lands, From Lincoln to Scotland, should blare up. We need its loud rallies, or _our_ Roncesvallês Will come,--when there _will_ be a flare-up! 'Tis surely not rifted? When ROLAND uplifted His Olifant, everyone heard it For thirty miles round. So your sheep-horn should sound, And too long, my Boy Blue, you've deferred it.

Their noses foes may cock, whilst under that haycock At Malwood at ease you're reclining. Poor PRIMROSE, our shepherd, is getting will peppered, The flock for your rally are pining. You are only Boy Blue, not the shepherd? That's true; Still, horn-blowing boys have their duty. Wake up, and wake _now_, Sir, and give us a rouser. Your best blast, we know, is a beauty!

Our fold's getting thinnish, our flocks fast diminish, Our milch-cows are sickening or straying. Up! back up the _pastor_, or there'll be disaster. The enemy's sheep-horns are braying; _They_'re "calling the cattle home." Rouse, with a rattle-home! Asleep? Well, perhaps you're "purtending"! But though one may easily play up _too_ weaselly, Sheep _do_ demand watchful tending.

* * * * *

TO A LADY.

(_Born so late in the Year, that she nearly missed having a Birthday altogether._)

Accept, dear girl, the season's compliments For Christmas and the twenty-ninth December, Your birthday--most auspicious of events-- Is also Mr. GLADSTONE'S, you remember.

Yours _was_ a close shave, but I'm bound to say That February the twenty-ninth far worse is, And worst of all, to come on All Fools' Day, Like BISMARCK--or the writer of these verses!

***

THE REAL SCHOOL-BOARD.--Its Pupils.

***

"THREE CHEERS FOR THE EMPEROR."

(_Recommended for translation and use in the German Reichstag._)

For he's a jolly good fellow, And so say all of us. But "hochs" at _all_ seasons to bellow Is sycophant folly and fuss. With a hip, hip, hip hooray, For that capital fellow, our Kaiser! If he'll let our cheers come in spontaneous way As loyal _we_'ll be, and _he_ wiser.

***

"COPY."

Some call the world a vale of tears, And some a haunt of bliss-- "Copy" the world to me appears, And all that therein is.

I loved, I hated, and desired, Despaired, like other men-- And "copy" thus I have acquired, Which still informs my pen.

Now, all the scenes whereon I look, All human joy and woe, Spontaneously as a book Into fresh "copy" flow.

There is no pang too terrible, No rapture too sublime, To furnish forth an article Or to suggest a rhyme.

I'd like a little while to break My fetters lucrative, To love again for Love's own sake, For Life's own sake, to live.

To look upon the stars again With no ulterior view. Oh, aspiration wild and vain! But--it is "copy," too!

***

"ONE MAN ONE JOB."

_A Christmassy Story for the Members of the L. C. C._

Mr. BLANK THREESTARS was an eminent member of the London County Council, and had distinguished himself as a supporter of the cry, "One Man One Job." In his opinion a workman should stick to his work, and try no other. If he were a bricklayer, he should lay bricks; if he were a painter, he should daub doors with colour.

"We don't want one man interfering with another man's business," said Mr. BLANK THREESTARS. "Let the shoemaker stick to his last."

And this declaration of policy made him extremely popular in his own set. He was considered a sound reformer. "Sound" in more senses than one, as he happened to be particularly partial to the tones of his own voice.

One day about Christmas time, when the holly and mistletoe were much in evidence, Mr. BLANK THREESTARS happened to be reading the reports of his own speeches at Spring Gardens, and unconsciously closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he found a gentleman in a black costume, who invited him to give his opinion on things in general and the London County Council in particular. Rather pleased to be asked to air his eloquence, Mr. BLANK THREESTARS readily complied with the obliging request. He talked long and well, and the gentleman in black seemed never weary of listening to him. When he paused for a moment his attentive visitor put a question to him which "set him off" again. And this was repeated quite a score of times. At length, however, the orator became exhausted.

"Why do you cease speaking?" asked the gentleman in black rather impatiently.

"Because I am very tired," was the reply; "and now, with your permission, I will go for a turn on my bicycle."

"Not at all. Your job is to speak, and I cannot let you do anything else. So please continue your interesting remarks. What do you think of the report upon the City of London?"

Poor BLANK THREESTARS attempted to give his views on the subject, but broke down. He was extremely exhausted; but the gentleman in black kept him going. He insisted upon being answered this, and answered that, until the eminent Member of the London County Council became almost senseless with fatigue. He closed his eyes once more, and when he reopened them, found that his own servant was standing by his side.

"Going to Spring Gardens, Sir?" asked the faithful adherent. "If you are it is time to be off."

"No," returned Mr. BLANK THREESTARS; "never again. I shall resign. I have had enough talking to last me a lifetime."

From that moment BLANK THREESTARS became a changed character. He goes in for all sorts of hard work--wood-cutting, cricket, football, and golfing--but he never approaches the L. C. C. In fact, he has only mentioned Spring Gardens once since his conversion, and then only to link with its name an expression usually represented by the fourth capital letter of the alphabet. And with this declaration his story must come to an end, as he declines to utter another syllable in explanation.

* * * * *

QUEER QUERIES.

FUTURE OF AFRICA.--Having read in the papers that Mr. JOHNSTON, our Commissioner in Central Africa, advocates the colonising of that country by "the yellow races," I write to ask if it would be of any use for me to apply? As I have now suffered from chronic jaundice for sixteen years, complicated with intermittent attacks of bilious fever, and, as my skin is usually of a bright orange, I think that I should fulfil Mr. JOHNSTON'S requirements down to the ground. Some of my friends urge me not to go because they are sure the swampiness of the country would carry me off; but Africa can hardly be much swampier than Lower Tottenham has been during the past autumn, and, personally, anything that would really "carry me off" from the latter place I should welcome as a blessed change. Perhaps some reader, with more knowledge of Africa than I possess, could inform me whether there would be much danger of my yellow complexion, in case of my having a fit of the blues out there, being converted into _green?_ Would Mr. JOHNSTON in that case regard me as a sort of colourable fraud, and ship me back home?

WOULD-BE PIONEER.

* * * * *

THE PERILS OF A JESTING PREMIER.

When Premiers try to joke (As they will like other folk) They should really have a care That their meaning be quite plain E'en to Brummagem's slow brain, Or it really isn't fair.

For you see a Goodman Dull The jest's flower may not cull, And he'll send a queer epistle To the _Times_ which shows him crunching Gentle irony, and munching Like a donkey at a thistle.

The ironical's a trap For your solid sort of chap, _Au grand serieux_ he'll take it, Your elusive little joke, And, like terrier or moke, Dig his teeth in it and shake it.

Men will then look on and mock, And the spectacle's a shock To our Commonwealth's stability, For it shows how little wit Goes to governing us and it. E'en in "statesmen of ability."

It's so dangerous to be funny! Men may make hardware, and money, Aye, and even a career, Who yet cannot make--or take-- A good joke. They're wide awake, Save to wit, though in a peer.

Therefore, PRIMROSE, do not jest! It comes badly, at the best, From a man at the State's tiller. The ironical reject Above all, and recollect Every JOE is not a MILLER!

***

SEASONABLE REFLECTION.--To look at _Holly Leaves_--at its glowing red appearance--is "quite a little holly-day!" The inside quite up to the out.

* * * * *

CURIOS FOR THE CRICKETERS' EXHIBITION.

Mr. BLOCKER's Bat, which he carried through a whole season without scoring once off it.

A Ball which was "muffed" eleven times in one innings.

"Pair of Spectacles" (unclaimed) found on a cricket-ground.

Fine Sitting of "Duck's-eggs" (exhibitor's name not mentioned), and sample of "Butter" used in preparing owner's fingers for "a great catch."

"The Catch of the Season." Taken by Instantaneous Photography. (Twenty-seven of these snap-shots--all different.)

Model (on enlarged scale) of the "Mountain-molehill" between wickets, after an hour's patting down by a fidgety batsman. (Photograph of this, life-size, may be had on a slide for microscopic study).

Instantaneous Photograph picked up at the Oval. (It is not known whether this represents an epileptic octopus, or the crack fast-bowler, SPINDLEWHIZ, "delivering" a ball.)

Fragments and Splinters. (Supposed to be the gathered remains of wicket, after being "scattered" by one of BUSTER'S lightning-expresses.)

Diagrams. (Supposed at one time to be "kodak" of a lightning-flash, but discovered to represent the course of a "misfielded" ball between leaving bowler's hand and returning thereto.)

"The Ball which Bowled BOKO." (Descriptions of--Thirteen in number, unique, varied, interesting, but unintelligible, selected from the unfortunate, and resentful, victim on thirteen several occasions when he was "just explaining how he was unlucky enough to be given out first ball in the Big Match.")

Portrait of Umpire. (After reading the above thirteen authentic and unimpeachable, but irreconcilable, explanations.)

* * * * *

BALLADE TO ORDER.

If you're ever in want of a subject for verse-- (Which I venture to say you may very well be)-- When you're strongly disposed to indulge in a curse, Like a golfer enraged at an afternoon tee, Then take my advice. When you're badly at sea, Just ask some fair lady to help you to settle Your subject. Here's one which was given to me-- _How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_

How long would it be, ere it felt getting worse, And seriously thought it must give up the G (Where G is the ghost), and how soon would a hearse Be required for the poor little corpse. Or with glee Would the sprightly small animal gaily make free, And kick up its heels in the finest of fettle, Considering it all as a wonderful spree-- _How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_

Now it wouldn't be truthful to say that my purse Has a superabundance of £, _s._, or _d._, Yet I don't mind confessing I'd gladly disburse All I _have_ got to know who it was--he or she-- Who fooled the poor bat to so great a degree. But it's really high time to take hold of the nettle And end this ballade (you must spell with an _e_)-- _How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_

_L'Envoi._

Fair Lady, I own that I felt up a tree, At the thought of the subject. But, put on one's mettle, It _can_ be done somehow--your thanks are my fee-- _How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_

* * * * *

FIZZ AND FUSS.

Once more America "takes the cake" for grotesque absurdity. Mr. JAMES PAYN tells us the teetotal folks there are shocked at the idea of christening ships with champagne! Well, perhaps it _is_ a waste of good liquor. "The rosy" in any form must surely be as completely "thrown away" on the hull of an ironclad as titillation on a turtle's back or (as SIDNEY SMITH put it) the dome of St. Paul's. The total abstainer, it seems, "on the occasion of baptising a new liner," sent the President (who was to perform the ceremony) "a bottle of water as a substitute." The Irishman supplied with whiskey to clean windows with drank the liquor and _breathed on the glass!_ Perhaps the President may see his way to taking a leaf out of PADDY'S book. Let him drink the fizz (if it is good enough) and "blow the water-drinkers!" Foolish fanatics! They surely forget that for every bottle of "the boy" bestowed on an insensible, unappreciative ship, there is one less left to "gladden the heart of man."

* * * * *

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

VII.--THE REAL THING.

The poll is over, and the Parish Council for Mudford is at last a _fait accompli_--or almost so. Yet, before I come to relate the story of the polling, there are one or two matters which, as a conscientious historian, I think I should not be justified in omitting.

As I ought to have mentioned before, I did not think it necessary or expedient in my candidature to hold any public meetings. Speaking broadly, I declared to win with Miss PHILL BURTT on _Canvassing_. It was far otherwise with some of my fellow-candidates. BLACK BOB and his mates (HARRY JORKINS and WILLIAM BROWN) got down from town a young glib-spoken fellow, who made a magnificent speech, with a Gladstone peroration, that was supposed to be worth any number of votes. BLACK BOB (I am told), in proposing a vote of thanks to him, somewhat cruelly called him "a cool, honest and straightforward lecturer." One of these briefless barristers, no doubt. Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT and Mrs. ARBLE MARCH held a joint meeting (not to be confounded with a meat tea) in support of women candidates, addressed by six enthusiastic ladies who pointed out the various fields of energy provided for woman by this new Engine of Reform. The vicar, the squire, and I, alone out of the eight, contented ourselves with no perfervid platform appeals.

I should also state that, as the poll grew nearer, my wife became increasingly confident that I should be beaten--"and that, TIMOTHY," she added, "you won't like." I pointed out (and I still think it was a natural thing to do in the circumstances) that the most formidable obstacle in the way of my succeeding was the apparent lack of interest taken in the affair by my family. This made MARIA perfectly furious. I needn't imagine I should bounce her into it that way; truth to tell, I never for one moment did think so. She would go away and stay at our town house with the girls till the whole affair was over--which she did. So, uncheered by wifely counsel or daughterly devotion, I sallied forth on the morning of the 17th to my Committee Rooms, thence to carry on the last stage of this great contest. I plume myself upon the excellence of my arrangements. Everywhere you were bidden (that is you would have been if you had been at Mudford) to "Vote for WINKINS, the Local Candidate." I am free to admit that there was nothing distinctive in this description of myself. We were all local candidates, since we all lived in the village itself. But this appeal to "local" feeling is always an excellent card to play. I know in my own case that I secured five votes at least from men who at the last General Election had voted for our sitting Member because he was the "local candidate." Then I got some boys to carry round a Big Loaf and a Little Loaf, adorned with suitable placards, inciting persons, men and women, married and single, to vote for me. I did this because I never knew of an election yet in which the loaves did not play a prominent part. I was determined to leave no electoral device--legitimate electoral device, of course, I mean--untried.

Except for the masterly precision and perfection of my arrangements, the polling presented few incidents. There were the usual number of people who did not find their names on the register, and who were consequently turned away sorrowing. (By the way, is "and who" right? I am never sure.) Equally, of course, there were some idiots who would put off voting till it was too late, and found themselves shut out by one minute.

At nine the poll closed: and the counting immediately commenced. I did not feel equal to the strain of being present, and was represented by Miss PHILL BURTT. I waited at the house in grim suspense. Suddenly I heard wild cheering. Then a minute later Miss PHILL dashed up waving a paper excitedly and shouting, "Hurrah! Top of the poll." And so it proved to be. I, who had been last, was actually now first. Here are the figures:--

TIMOTHY WINKINS, J.P. 219 G. TRAVIS-MERTON (the Squire) 203 ROBERT HEDGER (BLACK BOB) 203 HARRY JORKINS 195 WILLIAM BROWN 189 HENRY SANDFORD (the Vicar) 172 Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT 153 } Tie Mrs. ARBLE MARCH 153 }

I had hardly grasped the significance of these figures when the crowd surged up over the lawn. In a few brief, heartfelt words I thanked them. The greatest moment of my life--should never forget this kind appreciation on the part of those amongst whom I had lived, and amidst whom I hoped to die--wished them all a merry Christmas and good night. And so--they went--home.

The most curious point remains to be noticed. Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT and Mrs. ARBLE MARCH tied for the last place. The Returning Officer declined to give a casting vote. Oar Parish Council is to consist of seven Members. The first six are easy enough to find out. The latest Mudford puzzle is--Find the seventh.

I had nearly forgotten to add that my wife (who comes home to-morrow) has written to say she hopes I'm satisfied now. Well, I am.

* * * * *

A YULE GRETYNGE.