Part 2

"That's 'Jackdaw' the Snapshotter all up and down!" says BILL with a grunt. That's a nickname 'e's guv me Along of my liking for looking at life. Well, the world is a floorer all round; but Lord love me Mere grumble's no good; doesn't mend things a mite; world rolls on and larfs at us; don't seem a doubt of it; Cuss it and cross it, and over _you_ go! Better far to stand by and look on, till you're out of it.

"Heye like a bloomin' old robin, _you_ 'ave," says BILL (meaning _me_), "allus cocked at creation As though you was recknin' it up for a bid like. And what is the end of your fine 'observation'? You squint, and you heft, and you size people up, sorter 'grading 'em out' as Yank JONATHAN puts it. And when you are through, what's the hodds? All my heye! You boss till you're blind, and then death hups and shuts it!"

Carn't 'it it, we carn't. But we're pals all the same, becos BILL is more 'onest than some who're more 'arty. We kid, and we kibosh each other like fun, but when H. J. wants backing old BILLY'S the party, And when BILLY busts JACK is all there, you bet, although _I_ tool a Forder and _'e_ a old Growler. But pickles ain't in it for sourness with BILLY, nor yet fresh-laid widders for doin' the 'owler.

"Hansom up!"--"Ah!" says old BILLY. "_Per_cisely! It's jest 'Hansom up, Growler _down_!' _I_ ain't in it With sech a smart, dashing young Jehu as _you_, as can put on your quarter o' mile to the minute! Hivory fitments, and bevel-edged mirrors! A lady's boodwore in blue cloth! Ain't it 'trotty'? Wanity Fair upon wheels, JACK, _I_ call it. Wot price now I wonder for me and OLD SPOTTY?

"Women, too, getting that bloomin' _hadvanced_ they all paternise you--_and_ a cigaratte. Drat 'em! Few years agone they'd a fynted at thought on it. Women fair knock-outs. Could never get at 'em! Foller their leaders like sheep to a slorter-'ouse. Drive theirselves next, I persoom, _on_ a Forder. Party you took up outside 'ere larst night, 'er in feathers and paint, was a pooty tall horder."

"Known _'er_ six year, BILL," I says with a sigh like. "A sweeter young snowdrop than when I first druv 'er You couldn't 'a' button-holed. Ah! and she's pooty as paint--bar _the_ paint--at this moment, Lord luv 'er! Frolicsome, freehanded,--fast? Well, I s'pose so. She used to drive up with a toffy young masher. Turtle-doves? Well,'twas a pleasure to see 'em, BILL; 'er such a dainty 'un, 'im such a dasher."

"Innercent, hay? _Yes_, as rain-sprinkled laylock boughs. _'E_ broke 'is neck in a steeplechase, BILLY, _She_ took to sewing, and dropped smiles and 'ansoms. Wilted away like a gas-shrivelled lily. Then I lost sight on 'er, couple o' year or so. Next she turned up as--well, BILLY you've seen 'er, Pro. at the "Pompydour," generous, gassy, and--well, p'r'aps as _good_ as a lot that look greener."

"Bah!" snaps BILL BOGER, dissecting 'is bloater as though 'twos 'umanity, and 'im a surgeon; "Life as it's seen from the cab-driver's 'pulpit' would give some new texts to a PARKER or SPURGEON. _Culler-der-rose_, indeed! Yaller-der-janders! It's most on it dubersome, dirty or dingy. The free 'anded fares is best part on 'em quisby, and them as _is_ righteous runs sour-like _and_ stingy."

I says, "BILL, you're bilious!" 'E snorts supercilious, and bolts the 'ard-roe. "Hah, young Daffydowndilly," 'E growls as 'e munches, "of all the green bunches o' Spring inguns _you_ are the greenest. It's silly, Your slop-over sentiment is, _for_ a Cabby!!!"--Fare? "Finsbury Park, and look slippy!" "All right, Sir!"-- "We'll argue it out, BILLY BOGER, some other time." Right away coachman! Kim up mare! Good night, Sir!

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The words of that arch-humourist, the late ARTEMUS WARD, on the subject of the New Woman, whom he designated "a he-lookin' female," are worth repeating:--"'O, woman, woman,' I cried, my feelins worked up to a hi poetick pitch, 'you air a angle when you behave yourself; but when you take off your proper appairel and (mettyforically speaken) get into pantyloons--when you desert your firesides, and with your heds full of wimin's rites noshuns go round like roarin lyons, seekin whom you may devour someboddy--in short, when you undertake to play the man, you play the devil and air an emfatic noosence. My female friends,' I continnered, as they were indignantly departin, 'wa well what A. WARD has sed!'"

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LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.

A BALLAD OF BIRD SLAUGHTER.

(_With Apologies to the Shade of Keats._)

"The new style of women's head-gear--called mixed plumes--threatens to add the extermination of Birds of Paradise to that of several species of herons.... It is for this 'use' that whole heronries in Florida and elsewhere have been utterly destroyed; it is for this that Birds of Paradise are being persecuted even to extinction."--_Mrs. E. Phillips, Vice-President of the Society for the Preservation of Birds._

I.

Oh, what can ail thee, poet-man, Alone and palely loitering? "The wings are banished from the woods, And no birds sing."

II.

Oh, what can ail thee, bird-lover, So haggard and so woe-begone? "The heronry no more is full, And the cranes are flown."

III.

I see there's sorrow on thy brow, At dawn's rose-flush, at eve's cool dew. "Bird-song is gone from the garden rose, And the field flowers too.

IV.

"I met a lady on the way, Fell, beautiful, cold Fashion's child; Her hair was golden, her plume was high, And her eyes were wild.

V.

"She made a mixed plume for her head, Of heron crest and aureole. She looked at me as void of love, And cold of soul.

VI.

"She slaughtered Birds of Paradise, And little cared for all day long Save silencing the whirr of wings, And the trill of song.

VII.

"She found the task of relish sweet; The warbling wildwood choir she slew. Till the larks were mute, and the linnets dead, And the robins few.

VIII.

"She took me to her milliner's And showed with glee a sight full sore, Her new mixed plume, with aureoles six, And egrets four.

IX.

"'Twas there she lulled all love asleep, And her heart grew hard--ah, woe betide!-- As the granite-boulder that gleameth white On the cold hill-side.

X.

"I saw dead songsters heaped to view. From field, wood, mere, came one sad call: They cried, '_La Belle Dame sans Merci_ Will slay us all!'

XI.

"Beauty no more will flash a-wing, Music no more full-throated flush. Fashion will curse the fields of Spring With the Winter's hush.

XII.

"I saw poor bird-beaks in that room With fruitless warning gaping wide; And the lady wore their stolen plumes With a cruel pride.

XIII.

"'The Feathered Woman' was she hight; But all reproof, compassion-born, The modish _Belle Dame sans Merci_ Doth laugh to scorn.

XIV.

"What plea for beauty or for song, Or simple prudence, may she reck, While Fashion rules she with mixed plumes Her head must deck?

XV.

"The birds in myriads may die, Till earth is all a songless hush; But she upon her crest _must_ sport A feathered-brush!

XVI.

"'Tis not sore need bids songsters bleed, Not lack of vesture or of food; 'Tis only Fashion's foolish freak Strips wold and wood.

XVII.

"And that is why I wander here, Alone and sadly loitering, Whilst the sedge shakes not with glancing plume, And no birds sing!"

* * * * *

BOURNEMOUTH'S chief magistrate, by decision and order of the corporation of that town, has been deprived of a strip of land, alleged to be public property, which he had enclosed within his own private grounds. The sight of sixty workmen ruthlessly "removing his summer-house and shrubs, and throwing tons of mould over the cliffs," could not have been a very exhilarating one for the erstwhile owner, who must have felt like Mayor-ius 'mid the ruins of Cart-hage.

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ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

"Roundabout Ridings" would be the more correct title, for he who writes these lines has yielded to the joint influences of the prevalent craze and the glorious weather, and has been touring in North Devon on (and off) a bicycle. I say "off" advisedly, for the hills in that delightful country are so numerous, so long, and so steep, that out of every hundred miles you accomplish you will find that you have walked at least fifty while you painfully shoved your wheel before you. And when you reach the laborious summit and pause panting, you are as likely as not to gather your breath and strength under a notice informing you that the descent beyond, down which you had hoped to spin with extended legs, is dangerous to cyclists.

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And thereupon, if the sun is shining in full strength, and you are spent and parched, you may possibly decide that in order to make a bicycle tour in North Devon a complete and splendid success, it is essential that you should do it without a bicycle. But later on, when you have reached the end of your journey, have had your bath, your rub down and your brush up, and are waiting placidly for your dinner with an appetite well set and a thirst calculated to drain a vat of cider, then you will realise that even in the precipitous Devonshire country bicycling is a real delight.

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Putting aside for the moment the question whether or not you ought to take a bicycle, I hold that the following ingredients go to make a successful bicycle tour. (1) A tall youngster from Oxford possessing incalculable yards of totally irresponsible arms and legs, a happy knack of conversational prattle, a shock of fair hair, and imperturbable good humour. These details, though important, are not essential. It is, however, absolutely essential that he should make all plans for the day's ride, settle on the stopping places and hotels, and carry maps and guide-books. You can then enjoy the satisfaction of abusing him heartily whenever things go wrong. You will also find that whenever you want the map he will either have left it in the pocket of a coat which has been sent on by train, or stowed it away in the darkest recess of the bottom of his kit-case.

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The second ingredient is a private clown of quaint humour and original ideas. This is the sort of man who finds interest and amusement in everything, and provokes you to laughter by the most unexpected sallies. Before you have had time to turn round he will be on terms of easy familiarity with drivers of coaches, porters at hotels, ladies who serve behind bars, and rustics whom he may meet on the road. In five minutes he knows the details of all their personal history, their length of service, the manner of their work, the size of their families, their adventures, and their chief desires in life. They all treat him with the highest consideration and go out of their way to make things easy for him. At Lynton our own particular clown sent the hotel band into convulsions by dancing a step dance while they were solemnly playing a German march. The incongruity of the situation so tickled the trombone that for at least two minutes he was utterly unable to carry on the pumping operations entailed by his instrument. His ruin was completed when he was asked to join our party with the special object of inflating the back-tyres of our bicycles. Even the conductor relaxed into a smile.

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The third ingredient is a paymaster. If you can find a handsome, well-built, agreeable and intellectual man for the position (as we did) so much the better. You will thus add an air of character and distinction to your tour. In that respect, I admit, we were fortunate beyond the average. I need only add, as a slight reminder to my companions, that they have not yet repaid to me the money I disbursed for them.

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The fourth ingredient is one rainy day. It helps you to enjoy the fine weather all the more, and it gives you an opportunity of investing yourself in the pretty little gray waterproof cape which bicycle outfitters provide for wet weather. From a ticket attached to the collar of mine, I discovered that it was called an "electric poncho." I can only say that it fully deserved the title. Wet weather, moreover, adds a pleasing element of uncertainty to bicycling by making your back wheel skid, so that you never know, from one moment to the other, what you may be doing. If three of you are riding in a line, it is more than probable that, in the twinkling of an eye, you will be piled three deep on the side of the road.

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You ought also to insure at least one hotel dance in the course of your journey. All hotel dances are the same, and therefore one is quite sufficient as a sample. Hotel dances are attended by eight ladies and six men. One of the men is a boy. He has two sisters, who are also present at the dance. He dances three times with one sister, and three times with the other. His seventh dance he devotes to a lady no longer in her first youth, who has captured his young affections, and after the mad excitement of this episode he goes to bed. Another of the men is always elderly, bald and stout. He displays the courtly gallantry which is understood to be an attribute of the old school. He is a rigorous stickler for the etiquette of the ballroom. He dances the Lancers with a solemn precision and the waltz with a precise solemnity, and that is the only distinction he makes between them. He is a great hand at well-turned compliments of a ponderous nature, and it is a liberal education to see him conducting his partner back to her seat. A third man is an amusing rattle. He makes his partners giggle by his total ignorance of the Lancers, and incurs the frowns of the bald man by his dashing exploits in the waltz. The ladies all wear high dresses, they have interchangeable _chaperons_, and make a noble pretence of enjoying themselves. In the fifth dance the bald man falls down, and long before twelve o'clock everything is over and peace reigns again in the hotel.

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Clovelly is the proud possessor, not merely of the steepest High Street in the world, but also of a "poet-artist" (so he describes himself), who is also (I again quote his own description) a "professional qualified photographer." Here is an extract from his enthusiastic poem entitled "A Peep from the Hobby Drive, Clovelly."

How charming is the old High Street, Pitched with pebbles, rough--how steep; There donkeys stand with coal and sand, And women with their brush in hand.

Out boldly stands the grand old pier, To check the waves that may come near; And fishermen upon it stand, Yarning with their pipes in hand.

Among such grandeur, artist, rest-- To imitate it at thy best; For should some beauty fall to ground, Thy picture has it, safe and sound.

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From the _Fishing Gazette_ I take the following story:--

Last spring, while a party of tourists were fishing up North, a well-known lawyer lost his gold watch from the boat in which he was sitting. Last week he made another visit to the lakes, and during the first day's sport caught an 8lb. trout. His astonishment can be imagined when he found the watch lodged in the throat of the trout. The watch was running, and the time correct. It being a "stem winder," the supposition is that, in masticating its food, the fish wound up the watch daily.

I happen to know that this story is incomplete, and I venture to add some missing details. The fish--a particularly thoughtful animal--finding that there was no chain to the watch, resolved to supply this defect, and, by a well-known process in metallurgy, converted some of its scales into a complete Albert, which it connected with the watch. The watch used to lose two minutes a week. With admirable patience the fish regulated it, and restored it to its owner in perfectly accurate trim. When it was originally lost the watch was a simple one. It has now become a repeater, with a special dial indicating the days of the week, the month, and the year A.D. By a trick, learnt from a fried whiting in early life this trout contrived every day to insert its tail into its mouth, and, by using it as a brush, to keep the watch clean, and free from rust. When the fish had been boiled and eaten, the watch stopped, out of sympathy, and has not gone since.

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A CRY FROM CHICAGO.

Better fifty years of Europe Than a cycle of Porkopolis! Freedom's shackled with a new rope In Mock-Modesty's metropolis. Ladies--aye and men--in tights To Chicago prudes proves shockers; So they limit wheelman rights By forbidding--knickerbockers! Nay, the manly human calf To these Aldermen's so shocking, They prohibit--do not laugh!-- All display of--the male--stocking!!

We must don a costume baggy From the throat unto the ankles; Something stuffy, chokey, draggy! Yah! In freemen's hearts it rankles This restriction. Don't let's heed 'em! If they bother thus our biking. Ho! for Battersea and freedom! Cyclists of Chicago, striking, Like their sires for Independence, 'Gainst the prigs our wheel-rights blocking, Claim, in all their old resplendence, Knicker free and liberal stocking!

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MUSIC MINUS CHARMS.

(_The Latest Developments of the Educational Department._)

"Where are we going next?" asked the Taught of the Teacher. They had just left the portals of the School Board.

"To a place that should be inscribed with the words 'All hope abandon who enter here,' and which is known as the Slums," was the sad reply.

The Teacher and the Taught travelled on until they were lost in a maze of workmen's buildings.

"Not so very bad," commented the Taught.

"Surely a man and his family might live peaceably enough in these seemingly comfortable flats."

"You do not know all," said the Teacher. "Much has been done for the artisan, but the School Board have driven him to despair. Listen!"

Then the two investigators heard sounds of shrieking and wailing. There was a hubbub of dreadful groans and sighs.

"These are not human," cried the Taught.

"They are not," was the answer. "Have you ever heard the like?"

"Never. And yet I should say that the tones came from violins--played, no doubt, by imps."

"No, it is not that." And then came the full explanation.

"The dreadful discord to which we are listening is caused by the practice of the scholars of the School Board. The energetic youngsters are being taught at the expense of the ratepayers how to play the 'fiddle.'"

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THE BRITISH BATHER.

(_By a Dipper in Brittany._)

[See the correspondence in the _Daily Graphic_]

Mrs. GRUNDY rules the waves, With Britons for her slaves-- They're fearful to disport themselves, Unless the sexes sort themselves And take their bathing sadly, for French gaiety depraves!

'Tis time no more were seen The out-of-date "machine"; Away with that monstrosity Of prudish ponderosity-- Why can't we have the bathing tent or else the trim _cabine?_

I think we should advance If we took a hint from France, And mingled (quite decorously) On beaches that before us lie All round our coasts--we do abroad whene'er we get the chance!

O'er here in St. Maló The thing's quite _comme il faut_; Why not in higher latitude? I can't make out the attitude Of those who make the British dip so "shocking," dull and slow!

* * * * *

LANCASHIRE riflemen who "pay their shot" at the average rate of £5 per annum for "marking," are certainly entitled to every modern improvement on their range at Altcar, and it is no wonder that there has been some grumbling at the non-introduction of canvas-targets since their invention years ago. However, this defect, we read in the _Liverpool Daily Post's_ "Volunteer Notes," will shortly be removed, and the desired innovation substituted, so that Bisley marksmen who, hitherto, indulged in sneers at the deficiencies of Altcar, must now cease making a butt of the northern range.

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ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, August 26._--Doorkeepers and police puzzled by notable gathering of strangers. Came in one by one. No one seemed to know another; yet there was about them, according to Mr. HORSLEY'S testimony, certain signs of brotherhood. None wore top hats; every man's hair was longer than it is ordinarily worn; several carried cloaks, mostly brown about the seams, cut, as far as Mr. HORSLEY can remember, something after pattern of cloak worn by Lord TENNYSON when he came to be sworn in as a peer of the realm, and was, on first presenting himself, turned away by the policeman in the outer hall under the impression that he was collecting empty bottles.

Most of the strangers had orders for special gallery. Some had seats under the gallery. Others (these, it turned out when the secret was fully disclosed, were the sonneteers) found seats on the higher, but, in the House of Commons, less distinguished, slopes of Parnassus, allotted to undistinguished strangers who ballot for places.

They were the candidates for the Poet Laureateship, or rather some of them. Walking out after questions were over, SARK found a double row of poets sitting on the stone benches right and left of the corridor, waiting for a possible turn at the ballot--waiting with same dogged patience, same unquenchable hope, with which they tarry for public recognition.

All due to JOHNSTON of Ballykilbeg. Turning aside for moment from the vexed Bermothes of theology, and the suspicious conduct of Irish Members of the Catholic faith, BALLYKILBEG permitted his gaze to fall on the vacant chair of the Poet Laureate. Gave notice of intention to ask PRINCE ARTHUR at to-day's sitting what he meant to do about it. Hence this commotion in the drear woods and the hungry thickets that clothe the foot of Parnassus.