Chapter 3

The Lawyer pondered a moment, and then replied. "I have no wish to offer my counsel; but, as you have exhausted my time for consideration, I would propose that you should try the matter for yourself. Become intoxicated, put yourself within the clutches of the law, and then see whether his Lordship will assume the black cap."

"You are very good," returned the would-be homicide, "but I have one difficulty. When I make up my mind to remove a person by unconventional means (for choice, a carving-knife), and consume the necessary amount of alcohol to insure intoxication--"

"Yes," interjected the Lawyer, who had now opened the outer door.

"I find, on reaching intoxication, that I have entirely forgotten the identity of the man I have marked for my victim. Then I have got to grow sober before I can remember who it is. Annoying, isn't it?"

And, wishing the Eminent Counsel a pleasant holiday, the visitor disappeared into the Inner Temple.

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THE HAT TO THE PARASOL.

(_A SCHERZO IN NOBS AND STICKS._)

Reflection polished of highbred And unreflecting graces, I scintillate o'er STREPHON's head At gala, rout or races; Mine is the black but comely blend, And mine the crowning touches That so demurely recommend The dandy to the duchess.

Out on thee, cruel Parasol, Of lace, the pearl, and satin; And glinting like a fairy doll With many a burnished patin; Cool, charming as the dainty dame Who twirls thy coromandel; Thou flauntest proudly since thy name, Like hers, can boast its handle!

The cynosure of wondering _beaux_, I boast a soul above thee; No fate can mar my calm repose, Or make me cease to love thee; Supreme above the common tile, My own affronts unheeding, I bow and compliment and smile, The Chesterfield of breeding.

Out on thee, trinket idly swayed! Could any courtier dare see, Through such perfections so displayed, The mere "_Belle Dame sans merci_"? Could man believe a thing so soft, So framed for gentle passion, Might wound, and wound not once but oft The jaunty glass of fashion?

Yet sooth it is; and here I stand A martyr to my tenets-- That orthodoxy smooth and grand Of LINCOLN's fane and BENNETT's; Unruffled once and unperplexed, Collapsing now like jelly, And but a sermon on the text _Sic transit lux capelli_.

I who have braved our fitful climes And laughed when tempest drenches, And shaken off the dust that grimes Pews, cushioned stalls and benches, Survived the counterblasting Row, And Summer gales that roar so-- I ne'er imagined such a foe Could trounce me to a torso.

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THE POTATO AND THE HEPTARCHY.

(_A SENSIBLE SONG FOR THE SILLY SEASON._)

["Even the Potato and the Heptarchy will not leave us perfectly equipped."--_The Daily News on "Why Young Men Don't Marry."_]

The Tater and the Heptarchy Were walking hand-in-hand; They wept like "first-night" Stalls to see The folly of the land; "If fools would not talk fiddlededee," They said "it _would_ be grand!"

"If modest maids with towzled mops On _you_ and _me_ were clear, Do you suppose," the Tater said, "More men would wed each year?" "I doubt it," said the Heptarchy-- "They only mean to sneer!

"'O Maidens, come and cook for us!' They--shamming love--beseech. 'Oh, tell us about Saxon times! The course of history teach!' But what they really want is 'tin;' A thumping share for each.

"A girl may cook like any _chef_, And know all HALLAM through, May be a dab at darning socks, Or making Irish stew; But what young cubs care for is cash, And not for me _or_ you.

"They want to lead an easy life, And have good weeds and wine. Without these luxuries, a wife They scornfully decline. For _Benedick's_ life of manly strife The fops are far too fine."

"The Season's come," the Tater said, "To write of many things: Of frocks--and socks--and needle-work-- And babes--and bonnet-strings; But all the lot talk utter rot. Let the fools have their flings!

"Their jibes at girls, their games, their curls, Their wastefulness, their waist, Their yearnings to hook Dukes and Earls, Their matrimonial haste, Are the crude chat of cubs and churls, And in the vilest taste.

"But when they prate of you and me, As the two gifts _they_ want, Say Classic lore and Cookery Are things for which _they_ pant; Believe me, my dear Heptarchy, They plumb profoundest Cant!"

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SEA-SIDE ILLS.

(_BY OUR MAN OVER-BORED._)

SEA-SIDYLL--THE PIER BAND.

'Tis the Band of the Corporation-- And it plays on that body's pier; And one knows by the way That the instruments play, That the talent is not too dear. And the trombone is not too clear; When it has to play quick It is moistful and thick, For the trombone is fond of beer-- It is nurtured on pots of beer.

'Tis the Band of the Corporation-- And the cornet is fat just here; And he's short, and bull-necked. When you come to reflect How he wastes all his wind, 'tis queer That the man should be stout just here! But the noise of the throat In the solos denote That the cornet is fond of beer-- It's been brought up on pots of beer.

'Tis the Band of the Corporation-- And I know why that Band is queer, For I see in the face Of the trombone a trace Of the blackguard who blows it near Me in Town, at most times of year! And I mark, too, the face Of that beastly big-bass-- (Which has also been reared on beer)-- And I know, too, the face Of that other disgrace, The fat cornet! They've come down here-- They've been borrowed, and lent new gear!

But I know them of old, And in spite of the gold Round the hats, with the peaks just here, I can see who they are while near. They wear bowlers in Town, And frock-coats which are brown, On account of their age--or beer! For they play to the public for beer; For they stand and they blow On the kerb in a row, And then go to the public for beer! And so this is the Band down here!

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"THREE CHOIRS FESTIVAL."--Curious coincidence, if true, that when Miss JESSIE KING was charmingly giving the contralto song, "_While my Watch I'm Keeping_," a gentleman in the crowded audience suddenly put his hand to his waistcoat-pocket and exclaimed, "Good gracious! it's gone!" He will never forget the title of that song. The watch was off its guard.

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