Volume 105, November 18th 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

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"THE PAPER OF THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW."

[In one of the magazines an entire article has been transmitted to the office, not by the post, but by mental suggestion.--_News paragraph._]

SCENE--_Editor's Room of "The Mental Mirror of the Universe."_ TIME--_An hour before publication._ Editor _and_ Chief-Sub. _discovered in consultation_.

_Editor._ Dear me, Mr. PAYSTE, this is very annoying! Debate on Africa in the House to-night, and our leader-writer has sent in no copy! Why did you not communicate with me?

_Chief-Sub._ Well, Sir, as you were dining with the Duke, I did not like to disturb you, especially as I had arranged matters. I have got some one else to knock off the article.

_Ed._ Very good, and where does it come from?

_Chief-Sub._ I turned on the mentophone and found Lord MACAULAY disengaged.

_Ed._ Of course he writes smartly enough, but I should have thought he was scarcely sufficiently well-up in the subject.

_Chief-Sub._ So he said, Sir: so we applied to Sir WALTER RALEIGH, who has sent in a good column.

_Ed._ His English, I am afraid, is a trifle old-fashioned.

_Chief Sub._ Well, yes, Sir; a little. But I gave it to one of our subs. who has made black letter a study, and between them they have turned out a very decent leader. Sorry to say the wire has broken down between London and the seat of the war, so we have no despatches.

_Ed._ Distinctly annoying! However, I think I can put myself in communication with our special. (_Takes a pen in his right hand, and commences writing._) Well, what next?

_Chief Sub._ But shall I not disturb you?

_Ed._ Not at all; my right hand is in sympathy with LONGBOW, so I need not pay any attention to what he is sending us until he gets to the end of his copy. Everything else right?

_Chief Sub._ I think I may venture to say "Yes," Sir. Mrs. COVERS, who does our reviews, has neglected to send in her stuff, but I have used the mentophone again in that case. Put on CHARLES LAMB. And I think that's all, save, as there is a letter about the authorship of _Hamlet_, I have got WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE to answer it himself. And now, Sir, I would suggest that, as we are rather full up this evening, you might conclude that dispatch as quickly as possible.

_Ed._ My hand has just done writing. (_Gives copy to_ Chief Sub.) Anything worth a line for the bill?

_Chief Sub._ (_after perusal_). Well, yes, Sir. I find there has been a battle, so we may as well give that.

_Ed._ Everything right now?

_Chief Sub._ Everything, Sir.

_Ed._ Well, now you can send down the paper to press as soon as you please. (_Exit_ Chief Sub. _to carry out directions_.) Dear me! It really simplifies matters considerably when waves of thought will do as well as the electric telegraph.

[_The Curtain falls upon the_ Editor's _very natural reflection_.

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TO THE SEA.

_An Expostulation._

Oh, smooth and smiling! I have loved thee well! Hymned thee, and heard thee; lived beneath thy spell; For years thy life-giving ozone have bless'd, That makes loose garments tighter round the chest. Paced in the dark thy sounding margent white, And voiced my rapture in the boisterous night, Striking the lurking coastguard with affright.

Now on my barque--ah, no! no barque be mine! On the new packet of the Angler Line, I learn, too late, when fairly out at sea, How well they speak who speak not well of thee Implacable, inscrutable Emirs Mock not the captured foe of bloodstained years As thou hast mock'd one who ne'er did thee wrong, Save in the venial fault of unexpressive song. Or canst thou this unmeasured vengeance take, Remembering some childish duck-and-drake, Forgotten long, and never done in spite? How could it harm thy navy-rending might, Thou, whose huge waves in wanton affluence bang Their heads against the rocks, in mid-air hang, Up the sheer cliffs clamber with foamy claws, And backward plunge again, with mad applause Of all the turbulent, tumultuous press That hurl themselves to spray in wantonness? Prone, but unconquered, I have roll'd to leeward, Soothed by the merciless mercy of the steward. How can I stand when hardest steel and teak Play a vertiginous game of hide-and-seek? All is a-swing and dipping and a-roll. Oh, vain material creed! Th' informing soul! Proves well its immateriality, Defying thus the tortures of the sea, That force all else to helpless surrender; For aught but very Spirit would prefer To seek at once the illimitable inane, Than cognisant of anguish thus remain The tenant of a desolated shrine, A bare clay cabin, like this frame of mine. Oh, rich saloons! Oh, rooms of wretched state! The pomp and glory of you all I hate! Ye fulsome diving dados, would ye were Extinct as your vocabular congener! Place me where errant icebergs, anchored deep By chains of frost, a darkling vigil keep, Fixed in the pole's impenetrable wall, Dead to the warmer ocean's roving call! Far from this liquid way that heaves and rolls, This world-long switchback, bounded by the poles, This path of pain, whose undulations cease Only in that palæocrystic peace! Nay, what is this? How steady! Here we are! Field breezes mingle with the oil and tar, And with a shudder I behold anear The solid weed-hung timbers of the pier. Perfidious sea! I'll trust thee never more, And mock thy fury safely from the shore.

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TO HEBE.

(_See the Report of the Lady Commissioners on Women's Labour._)

Waitress! with the dimpled chin, Cap as clean as a new pin, Here's a feather to put in!

For Miss ORME'S report declares That no male with you compares In the showing off of wares.

Be it counter, be it bar, You can "dress" it--you're its star, Bright, and _most_ particular!

Grievances you have, no doubt; Which of us exists without? Still, you do not pine or pout.

Standing with reluctant feet Always ready, trim, and neat, No one tells _you_--"Take a seat!"

Hours are long, and meal-time short, Mashing bores, who think it "sport," Say the things they didn't ought!

Gather, then, the tips that fall; Don't let vulgar chaff appal; To the Bar you've had your "call"!

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CON. FOR COMPETITIVE SPORTSMEN.--_Q._ What is the most unpopular thing in the (sporting) world? _A._ A "record," because it is always being "cut," by everybody, everywhere, every day.

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["He fully admitted the difficulties of the Government and Sir HENRY LOCH. Both found themselves to be in a most exceptionally difficult position, created by those who had gone before them by granting in the wrong way the charter to the Company. He admitted that both Lord RIPON and Sir HENRY LOCH did their best in the circumstances for a long time to maintain peace; both urged that war should be avoided.... Mr. RHODES was Prime Minister of Cape Colony, and obviously Sir HENRY LOCH had an exceedingly difficult position in dealing as Prime Minister and as the head of the Company with that gentleman, to whom he could not say that he did not quite believe him, and that he was forcing on the war."--_Mr. Labouchere on the Chartered Company and Matabeleland._]

_Lion-Tamer_ (_grandly_). "Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen! See the great African live lion, Matabele--called Lo Ben for short--larger than (average) life, and thrice as natural as normal (menagerie) nature! Walk up! Walk up! Taming process just about to begin----

_Agent of Menagerie Proprietor_ (_sotto voce_). Oh, well you know--subject, of course, to--ahem!--every provision being made for--a--_humanity_--and--ahem--every precaution being taken against--a--a--needless risks, you know, and--a--obvious cruelty, you see--and--ahem!--all that sort of thing, don't you know.

_Lion-Tamer_ (_nettled_). No, I _don't_ know, dontcher know. And what's more I don't believe _you_ know, dontcher know, nor your guv'nors neither, for that matter. What _is_ your little game, anyhow?

_Agent_ (_with some assumption of dignity_). We have _no_ "little game." Little Game is not the word. Lions, I believe, are generally called "Big Game," by NIMRODS and others.

[_Sniggers as one who has scored._

_Lion-Tamer_ (_sardonically_). NIMROD, indeed! Ah! a mighty hunter before the Lords _you_ are, ain't you? You and your lot! Rural rabbits and parochial foxes are G----'s "Big Game," eh?

_Agent._ This is neither the time nor the place to argue that point. Your business is lion-taming; ours is menagerie-managing.

_Lion-Tamer_ (_scornfully_). All right, my noble swell! Manage _him_!

[_Pointing to Lion, who is ramping and roaring._

_Agent._ Not at all, not at all!

[_Spectators become impatient._

_Lion-Tamer._ Well, look here, do you want this lion tamed for you, or do you _not_?

_Agent._ Why, cert'n'ly! Subject of course to the assistance--ahem!--I _should_ say _supervision_ of LOCH and myself.

_Lion-Tamer._ Ah, "supervise" away as much as you please, only don't interfere with me. The old game! Stand by while I do the dangerous part of the business, hamper me as much as you can, and when, in spite of you all, I am successfully through, take the business--and the credit--over yourselves!

_Agent_ (_aside_). Wonderful man, very. Wish I quite knew what to make of him. Lion-tamers, like fire, are excellent servants, but bad masters. All alike, all alike, CLIVE, WARREN HASTINGS, Rajah BROOKE, Jamaica EYRE, BARTLE FRERE, GORDON, all wonderful, and--in the end--very useful, but worrying, worrying!

_Lion-Tamer_ (_proceeding_). Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen! All in to begin! See the big black-maned African lion, fresh from Mashonaland wilds; bigger than CHURCHILL ever chased or SELOUS slew, or VAN AMBURGH subdued, tamed in the twinkling of an assegai, conquered in the 'tss! of a Hotchkiss, by the Great South African Lion-Tamer, RHODOROWDIDOW the Rumbistical.

_Spectators._ Hooray! Hooray!! Hoo-_ray!!!_

_Agent_ (_aside_). How wonderfully popular these thrasonical wild-beast tamers and prancing proconsul sort of fellows are--with the gallery!

_Lion-Tamer_ (_to attendant_). I say, just hand me the loaded whip, and--keep the poker hot, in case of emergency----

_Agent_ (_hurriedly_). Oh, here, I say; that will never do, RHODOROWDIDOW!

_Lion-Tamer_ (_impatiently_). What do you mean?

_Agent._ Why, you know, loaded bludgeons and red-hot pokers _read_ too much like--_Cruelty to Animals_! What _would_ LABBY and the Humanitarians say? You're none too popular already, you know, in certain quarters. Your masterful little ways and monetary success have put a good many backs up. We mustn't run any needless risks, RHODO. _Wouldn't_ this little toy-whip and this big bottle of (_medicated_) rose-water do as well?

_Lion-Tamer_ (_scornfully_). _Was it with Rose-water that "John Company" tamed your Indian tiger for you?_

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YOU NEVER WROTE.

(_To Another Man's Fiancée._)

You never wrote a single word, though I Sent prompt congratulations in a note, You gave my well-meant greetings the go-by-- You never wrote.

Do you remember when we took a boat, And slowly drifted 'neath a summer sky? Perhaps you don't. In fact, perhaps, you vote Such memories a bore. You can't deny That, politician-like, you turned your coat, In fine, you jilted me. Is not that why You never wrote?

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MRS. R. heard in Scotland that MONSON was always a bit of a scapegoat.

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UNDER THE ROSE.

(_A Story in Scenes._)