Part 2

Wear the hat, then, _sans_ the feather, English women, kind and true; Birds enjoy the summer weather And the sea as much as you. There's the riband, silk, or jewel, Fashion's whims are oft absurd; This is execrably cruel; Leave his feathers to the bird!

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ROBERT AT MARLOW.

"HERE we are again!" as the Clown says in the Pantermine, at butiful Great Marlow, looking jest as bootiful as ever, though there is jest a few tears a falling from the dark clowds coz the sun doesn't shine as it did when we was in grand old Lundon last week, and turn all the drops of rain into reel dimons. My son WILLIAM has cum with us, and he says as how this lovely place makes quite a Poet of him, so he dashed off the following description of it larst nite when the rain was a coming down in palefuls, witch we all thinks to be amost as butiful as it's trew:--

"To Marlow have we come, a little city, Famous for pretty girls and boating, he Who has not seen it, will be much to pity, So says King ROBERT, and I quite agree Of all the towns on Thames there's none more pretty, Pangbourne perhaps, but that you soon may see. Our nice clean lodging's near the flowing river, A noble stream, much like the Guadalquiver."

I haven't corrected none of his rayther rum spelling, but writ it down jest as he wrote it all out of his hone hed. Not having ever herd of the place that he says the River is like, I natrally arsked him where it were, and he said in Sow Ameriky. What it is to be not only a Poet but a geolergist as well! ah, it's all owing to the Bellowsmender's Skool.

I don't find much difference in the old Place xcep that it's gitting bigger, witch it's a pity, but how can one be surprized. If peeple finds out a perfec pairodice they natrally tells their friends of it, and so more cums ewery year. Among others we've got a real live Hem Pea, but he's here on the sly, having told the Tory Whip as he's bin obligated to go to Swizzerland to see his pore sick Mother-in-Law! A nice sort of green Whip he must ha' bin to be so eesily gammond. His wally told me as he had shaved off his beard so nobody knowed him, but for fear of accidence he passes ewery Satterday and Sunday at a farm yard inland. Wot a lively life for a reel Swell!

I've ony bin here jest a few days, and I've had another startling adwenture. I never seed such a plaice as this is for adwentures. I had taken my favorit stroll to Temple Lock, and had my customary chat with the werry intellegent Lock Keeper there on things in general, and Locksmen's trubbles in partickler, and was walking gently home, wen I herd the most unusual report of Guns close by me, on the hopposite Bank; and jest as I came up to where they was a shooting, I seed three Gents raise their sanguinary Rifels and haim bang at my dewoted hed! I hadn't time to shout tout or to run away, so I had to stand it like a traitor or a dezerter. Luckely they missed me, and, laying down their murdrous weppons, went into the ouse. I was so prostrated with estonishment that I remaned fixt on the spot. Luckely my son WILLIAM came by in a Bote, so I hollowed to him, and, getting in, he pulled me across the foaming River. I luckely remembered hearing 2 of the Tems Consewatifs a torking at the LORD MARE'S Bankwet about the Buy Lors, and that one on em was a fine of 40_s_. for ewerrybody as shot a gun across the River. So, harmed with this nollidge, I at wunce adrest myself to the estonished Gents about the enormous sum as they wood have to pay me if as how as I went and told. I had bin a making the Calkerlashon all the way across, so I was able to say boldly, eleven shots, at 40_s_. per shot, is twenty-too pound! One of the gents turned gashly pail, and another sed as they woodn't do it not never no more, so I kindly promist not to do wot I might do, and rode away in our Bote with the feeling of a Judge a pardoning 3 criminals. They did say as they could not have bin a haiming at me becoz they fired up in the hair, where the birds was; but how was I to know that, wen the dedly weppens was pinted bang at me, and how, too, about the falling bullets? They must have bin quite fust-rate shots, for wen a hole flock of pidgeons flew into their garden, amost close to 'em, they all three fired at the lot, and acshally wounded one of 'em, poor thing.

When warking by the side of the River this arternoon, I was arsked by a young, but not werry successful angler, what o'clock it was. I told him, in course, and he said as he coudn't fish no more, as it was lunch time, so we warked along together, and he told me all his trubbels. He had bin at it for five days, and had never cort but one fish, and he was too little to keep. He was a nice brite young chap, so I simpathised with him. He said other peeple cort plenty of fish, but they came and looked at his bait, and then turned round and swum away; so I gave him a bit of adwice as I had wunce herd of. Don't buy your flys, I ses, but make 'em yourself. Anythink will do if it has 4 legs, and 2 wings made of gorze. And when the fishes sees it they will say to one another, "Hullo, BILL, here's a rum-looking fly--I never tasted one like him--so here goes," and he gobbles up your fly, and so you has him slick. How my young frend did larf. Ah, says he, that's the frute of indulging your curiossity. I'll set to work this evening and make one, as I've no dout he did.

I took a walk this morning in butiful Quarry Woods, but O what a site met my gaze! It used to be one of the atrakshuns of the place for anyboddy as could walk. What is it now? All the roads as bin dug up, and left so, and at the entrance to the lovely paths there are orrid bords put up, saying, "No path--trespassers persecuted." But it isn't true. They are Paths, and they leads everywhere, and I wasn't persecuted. All the finest trees are smeared over with dirty bills, saying, "No person allowed to camp, land, or picknick," and sumbody had added, "Or cough, or sneeze, without permission!" As a poor feller said to me, who was hobbling along on the horful road, and who knew the late propryeter, "Ah, a kind, Cristian Landlord ought to live as long as he posserbly can, for he never can tell what's to foller."

There's a place there where the Wolunteers practises firing, and I'm afraid they must be werry careless, for they writes up, "No one must damage the property of the Corpse," which is werry kind of 'em, so far.

ROBERT.

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THE WAIL OF THE MALE;

_Being a British Workman's View of the Cheap Female Labour Question, respectfully submitted to the Trades Union Congress._

_Bill Smith to his Shopmate, Ben Jones, loquitur_:--

EH? Give 'em the Suffrage--the Women? Why not? What else, that's worth having, lads, _haven't_ they got? If it's levelling up, let 'em have it all round, And _we_ shan't be the first to complain, I'll be bound. They've cut down our wages, and copied our coats, And I really don't see why they shouldn't have Votes. Wish _I_ was a woman, old fellow, that's flat; I should then have a chance, and know what to be at. I have just got the "bullet," Mate--sacked without notice, I wonder what pull _my_ possessin' the Vote is? _She_ hasn't got ne'er a one--_she's_ got my job, I lose a fair crib, and the boss saves ten bob! I've been at it five years, kept a family on it, And she--well, the first thing she buys is a bonnet! They're cutting us out, Mate--the Women are--straight, And I s'pose it's no use for to kick agen Fate, But it seems blooming hard on the wife and the kids, _She_'s a woman, of course, though she can't earn the "quids," But then, being married, she's out of the hunt For earning or votes. Look here, BILL! If they shunt You and me, and our like, as they're doing all round, Because Women are cheap, and there's heaps to be found, Won't it come to this, sooner or later, my boy, That the most of us chaps will be out of employ, Whilst the Women will do all the work there's to do, And keep us, and the kids, _on about half our "screw"_? Who's a-going to gain by that there but the boss? And for everyone else it is bound to be loss. A nice pooty look-out! Oh, I know what they say;-- That the women work better than us for less pay, And are much less the slaves of the pint and the pot; What's that got to do with it? All tommy rot! We have all got to live, and if women-folk choose To collar our cribs or to cut down our screws, _They_ will have to be bread-winners, leaving us chaps To darn stockings at home with the kids on our laps. Well, I hope as they'll like it. I tell you what, neighbour, The world's being ruined by petticoat labour. Besides, Mate, in spite of this Woman's Rights fuss, Work don't make 'em better _as_ women, but wus. It mucks 'em for marriage, and spiles 'em for home, 'Cos their notion of life is to racket and roam. Just look at that work-girl there, her with the fringe! She's a nice pooty specimen! Makes a chap cringe To think of that flashy young chit as a wife, That's what cheap woman labour will do for our life. Oh, give 'em the Vote, and the breeks, while you're at it, Make 'em soldiers, and Bobbies, and bosses. But, drat it, If this blessed new-fangled game's to prewail, I pities the beggar who's born a poor Male!

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BACKING BACO.

THE movements of Prince FERDINAND, as recently reported, appear to be shrouded in some mystery. It was announced that his Mamma was about to join him, and that a suite of apartments was being already prepared for her reception at the Palace. No sooner, however, was this encouraging piece of news published, than it was followed by a sinister rumour that the Prince himself was about to hurry off from Sofia to Baco, one of his country-seats on the frontiers of Hungary. As there is no mention of his being accompanied by his _suite_, it is doubtful if, in going to Baco, the Prince intended to take "returns." Naturally the Sobranje would like to be assured that, in going to Baco, he was really only going there and back, and did not mean, as the name of the place might suggest, to back out of the situation altogether. But perhaps there may not be, after all, any good foundation for the story of the proposed journey, in which event all this disturbing talk of a visit to Baco will probably end, as it naturally should, in smoke.

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DEAR AT THE PRICE.--The farmers of Derbyshire have been meeting together and trying to fix "the price of milk during the ensuing winter." Well, the price that we in London pay for milk seems only too often to be--scarlet fever. _That_ price requires regulating.

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HOUSE AND HOME.

MY DEAR MONEYPENNY,

PRAY excuse one more refusal of your kind and seasonable invitation, so often repeated, to come and stay with you at the "Sycamores." Believe me, there is nobody in the world than yourself I had rather live with if obliged to choose somebody. But to pass more than a few hours at a stretch in anyone's house besides my own, is more than I can abide, unless now and then for a night or so at an hotel, where I am not expected to notice anybody, and nobody minds me except the waiters in attendance, whom I am not ashamed of giving trouble. Besides, my dear fellow, you have no idea of what my making myself at home in your quarters as I do in my own would mean. Am in the first place, a very late riser. If my mind is occupied with any problem, usually lie in bed and think it out, very often until noon, or, even later.

When I have done breakfast (invariably taken in my own room), I always smoke a pipe, and then set-to at reading or writing for a longer or shorter time, and go on smoking at intervals in the meanwhile. Sometimes sit and meditate till I lapse into a brown study, and am then liable to dream day-dreams, and fall into fits of unconscious cerebration, in which I frequently start up and spout SHAKSPEARE, or sing songs, or hum passages in operas, oratorios, symphonies, and overtures, a trick which, as my voice is very harsh and discordant, would of course be most irritating and offensive to anybody who could hear me, as would be generally the case anywhere out of my own den. Could never bear to be punctual to meal times, must always dine at what time it suits me; am utterly incapable of observing regular hours.

So I might go on. But I trust I have now said enough to show you what a bore I should be if I were to repay your generous importunity to become your guest and do whatever I pleased so ill as to comply with it. Enough. I am afraid I have already bored you with much too long a letter. Let me only add that almost all social amusements, particularly cards and dancing, and every sort of small talk, common-place conversation, chaff, or gossip, or discussion of any subject, except philosophy, science, politics and theology, on which I am prone to argument, whilst my opponents generally lose their temper--are all so many bores of the very first magnitude to your sincerely candid and scrupulously outspoken friend,

_Tub Snuggery._ ANTONY CAVEBEAR.

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THE BRIGAND'S DOOM.

_Brief libretto for a Trades-Unionist Grand Opera written up to date._

_The Scene represents a Country Mansion surrounded by its grounds. Members of the New Labour Electoral Association discovered hanging about in threatening attitudes. As the Curtain rises they sing the following Chorus_:--

CHORUS.

SEE us here, in jubilation, A brand-new Association. Still, the truth to tell, although What we want we don't quite know. We are bound the world to wake, If sufficient noise we make. Hail our programme then with bliss, Which is, briefly stated, this: No longer we'll trust representative nous, But force for ourselves Parliamentary gates, As Members we'll take our own seats in the House, And have our expenses paid out of the rates.

A LOCAL RATEPAYER (_andante_).

Nay, nay! To take your seats, you're free, But not, oh! not, to burthen me! Enough am I already charged, And would not see the sum enlarged, Your pay,--that is your own affair; I care not whence it emanates: I only most distinctly swear, You shall not get it from the rates.

CHORUS (_advancing on him threateningly_).

Be still, and know that the whole nation, Bows down to the Association! [_The Local Ratepayer cowers before them._ And yet this question of the land We own we don't quite understand. Is there no specialist who'll try To make it clear?

_Enter_ Mr. JOSEPH ARCH. _He bounds into their midst._

MR. JOSEPH ARCH.

Why here am I! You want your intellect to march? [_They express assent._ Then listen all to JOSEPH ARCH. [_They group themselves in attentive positions gracefully about him._

BALLAD.

A man may own jewels and gold, A piano, horse, railway shares, A cellar of wine, new or old, A house, and the clothes that he wears. Everything he may sell, or may buy, That is purchased by wealth or by toil; But he mustn't own--no matter why-- A single square yard of the soil. He this who from HODGE, its true owner, perverts, Is a brigand, and merits a brigand's deserts!

This park that around you you see, These gardens you so much admire, Each hedgerow, each copse, every tree, Is the owner's bequeathed from his sire. He may have remitted his rents! What of that till the Nation cries "Quits!" His land, with the march of events, Being purloined and cut up into bits? For until to its true owner, HODGE, it reverts,-- He's a brigand, and merits a brigand's deserts!

[_At the conclusion of the ballad_ Mr. JOSEPH ARCH _gives a signal and the_ OWNER OF THE PROPERTY _is led on in the custody of Trade-Union Myrmidons_.

CHORUS.

Rob him! fleece him! gag him! seize him! Drive him from his country place. Of his right of tenure ease him; Call him "Brigand" to his face!

OWNER OF THE PROPERTY (_recitative_).

Oh, outrage horrible And entirely unsatisfactory, Thus to fasten with salutations Eminently unpalatable On the defenceless monied one of the County! Know ye not that my venerated sire, A Soap-boiler successful in his line of business Beyond his wildest visions, Purchased for eighty thousand pounds sterling, These acres, as an investment Speculative and commercial. Say, then, is it reasonable that I, His hopeful heir and offspring, Should be defrauded of what, At present prices agricultural, Is but a return dim and disappointing On his original outlay. Why call me "Brigand"? Tell me why?

MR. JOSEPH ARCH (_con fuoco_).

Your father had no right to buy, And, as the land to HODGE is due, We take it thus by force from you!

_A Crowd of Radical Land Reformers rush in, and seizing on the property, hew down the timber, cut away the brushwood, and parcel it out into small allotments._

OWNER OF THE PROPERTY (_con animo_).

And is there for no compensation room?

Mr. JOSEPH ARCH.

No! none! And now, behold the Brigand's doom!

[_Points triumphantly to the work at the back, while he waves the draft of a new Act of Parliament over the prostrate form of the_ Owner of the Property, _as the Curtain slowly descends_.

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MORE ADVICE GRATIS.

VICTIM.--We should not advise you to prosecute the constable who "pummeled you severely," and then took you up for being drunk and disorderly, because you happened to drop your hymn-book on the pavement on returning from Church last Sunday evening. We cannot, either, recommend your going to the Police Station to lodge a complaint, unless you are an expert pugilist or take the precaution to wear sheet-iron next the skin. Perhaps the poor fellow was trying to introduce the _massage_ treatment to your attention.

RIPARIAN OWNER.--Yes, you can, if you think it worthwhile, sue the owners of the five houseboats which have moored themselves close to your front-garden, and to whose proximity you fancy the two cases of typhus and one of cholera in your family are to be attributed. You ask what the maximum costs would be. Costs are things which have no maximum. Multiply your yearly income by the number of boats, and you will be pretty near the amount.

HISTORICAL STUDENT.--1. THOMAS CROMWELL was called the "Lord Protector" because he protected the Lord Chancellor (WOLSEY) from the King's vengeance. 2. No, the expression "short commons" has nothing do with the Long Parliament.

POLITICIAN.--1. You are under a misapprehension in supposing that Mr. CHAMBERLAIN has undertaken to delimit the Afghan frontier. He has been appointed a Fishery Commissioner, with full power to investigate the condition of the Margate whelk-trade. 2. North Sea "Smacksmen" are not so called in consequence of their recent treatment by the Ostend fish-wives.

VOTARY OF SCIENCE.--The Antarctic regions were so named to distinguish them from the Arctic regions. A rather illiterate sea-captain discovered them, and at once exclaimed, "Why, these _Aint Arctic!_" They have retained this quaint title ever since.--No, the British Association does not require its members to have, as you suppose, "a profound knowledge of Chemistry, Physiology, Dynamics, and all other branches of Modern Science." Payment of a guinea entrance-fee is all that is needed.

NERVOUS INVALID.--It is unfortunate that the last Southbourne Park train, should "blow off steam and whistle continuously for half an hour under your windows," at 1.30 A.M. Still, this does not quite excuse your smashing all the furniture and throwing the fire-irons into the street in one of the paroxysms you speak of. When you have a lucid interval write to the Company. No, don't "put a bullet through the engine-driver's head," as you suggest. Try a _mandamus_ first,--also try some soothing syrup.

ANXIOUS ENGINEER.--You ask "if there is any danger attending the experiment of mixing equal parts of nitro-glycerine, gun-cotton, and sulphuric acid in an iron tank in your back-garden?" We have never tried it, so cannot say. The best _modus operandi_ would be to invite your landlord, mother-in-law, and nearest tax-collector to come and see the fun. Go off yourself to the seaside, and get one of them to do the mixing. You would be sure to be interested in the result.

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THE LOST RECORD.

(_A Chaunt by an ex-Champion._)

AIR--"_The Lost Chord._"

RUNNING one day on the "Cinder," I led all the field with ease; I felt I was going strongly, I romped in quite "as you please." I knew not what I was doing, I was "fit as a fiddle" then, And I made a "Record" that morning I never shall make again.

It flooded the sporting papers, I got the pedestrian palm. They called me Champion of Champions; The praise in my ears was balm. But another "Ped."--confound him!-- "Cut" my record, in our next strife, By exactly one-tenth of a second. I should like to have his life!

I was Champion of Champions no longer, Gone, gone was my pride, my peace. Oh, the cheers for my hated supplanter! I thought they would never cease. I have struggled, but struggled vainly, By practice and training fine, To regain once more that "Record," Which for a brief month was mine. It may be the man who licked me Will be licked by yet better men, But the "Record" I lost that morning _I_ never shall win again.

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AN "ORANGE FREE STATE" THAT SHOULD HAVE ITS LIBERTY CURTAILED.--Peel on the pavement.

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THE HOUSE "UP" AT LAST.

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Tuesday, September 13._--The House is "up," or nearly so, and if not altogether, more shame for it. _We_ are, as will be seen from thumb-nail sketch annexed. I'm not only up, but have been off for a clear week. Come back just to hear HARCOURT'S Speech. Liked to go finally before, but ARNOLD MORLEY wouldn't let me. "Get a pair," said he, when I again broached subject, "and go as soon as you like."

All very well to say, "Get a pair," but where do they grow? In moody thought, and growing despair, met HARTINGTON'S dog. Here was chance! "ROY" rather nondescript politician. Says he's a Liberal, but barks in favour of Government, and, though admits they're not always right (opposed them, for example, on CADOGAN'S Amendment to Land Bill, and on Proclaiming of National League), yet steadily votes for them. Is, in short, a Liberal-Unionist. We're asked not to pair with Liberal-Unionists. But exceptions to every rule; will make one here. "ROY" delighted. Says he's sick of politics, and would like a roll on pasture-land.