PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 109.August 3, 1895.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
THE NAVAL MANŒUVRES.
(By our Special Expert, who has been accorded the customary courtesy extended to the Press.)
On board H.M.S. ——.
---- the —th, 1895.
Forgive me for the vagueness of my address, but it is the desire of those in command that the greatest secrecy should be observed as to our movements.
"Are we the Blue Fleet or the Red?" I asked only a few moments ago of one of the chief commanders.
"As you are the guest of the Government," was the immediate reply, "you will not be allowed to pay your money—except indirectly to the collector of Revenue; but there is nothing to prevent you from taking your choice!"
From this response you will see that there is a strong inclination on the part of the authorities that are to remain reticent. However, it is only fair to say that the food is excellent. Nothing could be better than the wine; and the view on the quarter deck is capital. Still, this is scarcely an account of naval manoeuvring—now is it?
Well, I think I may reveal this much. There are two fleets—a Red Fleet and a Blue Fleet. The Red Fleet has a number of ships—so has the Blue. Then the Red Fleet tries to out-manoeuvre the Blue Fleet, and the Blue Fleet returns the compliment. All this takes place on the sea. No ship is allowed to run on shore—unless of course by force of circumstances outside the control of the commander. And when I had got as far as this, I thought I would make a further inquiry.
"I presume," said I, to one of the chief officials, "that our object is to——"
At this point I was interrupted.
"Pray ask no more," was the prompt reply of the veteran I had questioned. "Take my advice. If you wish a question answered, answer it for yourself. Arrange in your own mind that 'Heads' shall mean 'Yes,' and the reverse a negative. Then toss."
And so now I am taking the advice I have received. I have spun my sixpence in the air. I am to write no more to you. All refuse to send my communications for me. So I place this document in a bottle and throw it into the sea. You desired the fullest information about the naval manoeuvres. Well—I wish you may get it!
NOTHING LIKE BEING READY WITH AN EXCUSE NOTHING LIKE BEING READY WITH AN EXCUSE.
Elderly Skittish Cousin, "Oh, how unkind of you to have left me out of your beautiful Party! You seem to have forgotten I'm your First Cousin!"
He (with no end of near but not very dear relatives). "So very sorry! First Cousin—ah, yes." (Recovering himself.) "So long ago, you know.... Had you been my Last Cousin, this never could have occurred!"
Coins of 'Vantage.—The Dundee Advertiser calls attention to Mr. "Robert Wallace, M.P. Edin.'s," complaint that the Imperial Parliament contains, in himself and another Mr. Robert Wallace, two Members with the same surnames and identical Christian names. Mr. "Robert Wallace, M.P. Edin.," suggests that he may get his namesake's Christmas bills, while "the other fellow" receives his (Mr. "R. W., M.P. E.'s") invitations to dinner. Could not the little difficulty be overcome with the aid of a coin of the realm? Let the first Mr. Robert call himself "Bob," and the second Mr. Robert "half a florin." This should settle the matter amicably; although both, no doubt, are worth considerably more than a shilling.
A Severe Critic.—"Slatin' Pasha."
RE-INCARNATION.
Monday.—Have just been reading in the Pall Mall Magazine a wonderful story called "A Re-Incarnation," by the author of "A Green Carnation." He seems fond of carnations. Re-Incarnation and Gre-Encarnation. Should have been in the exhibition of the National Carnation Society at the Crystal Palace. His story tells how a man murdered a white cat, and afterwards married its soul, re-incarnated in the body of a young woman with "china-blue" eyes and a large fortune. Marvellous! Must carefully avoid marrying young women with "china-blue" eyes and large fortunes, though the latter might not be so harmful.
Tuesday.—That theory of re-incarnation impresses me wonderfully. Think about it all night. In the silent darkness remember that I once stamped on a black beetle. My nurse called it "a black beadle." Think of this with horror. Will it come back to murder me? Terrible! Get up still nervous. Must go out into the air and sunlight, to dispel my gloomy thoughts. Stroll along Piccadilly. To avoid a shower step into the Burlington Arcade. Heavens, what is that by the entrance? It is a man in black—a black beadle! Gaze at him aghast. It has come back, the soul of that harmless crawling thing which I crushed in my boyhood, and now——Fly while there is yet time! Ha! I am safe at home at last.
Wednesday.—Have now no doubt of this marvellous theory. It is probable that re-incarnation may sometimes go the other way. Will investigate at the Zoological Gardens. Directly I see the largest elephant I recognise my late mother-in-law. The large, heavy form, the habit of trampling obstacles under foot—obstacles such as myself—the very cap-strings, now become ears flapping in the wind, all are there. She always poked her nose into everything, and she does it now. What a proboscis she has! Must tell the keeper the real truth to prevent mishaps. Tell him confidentially. He grins. Assure him that I am quite serious. He leads me gently by the arm to the exit, where the turnstile only turns one way, and advises me to go home at once.
Thursday.—Fresh proofs every hour. Have just seen an omnibus horse, with the long face, the great yellow teeth and the general expression of my uncle's second wife. Greatly overcome, seek rest and refreshment in my club. What is that having lunch over there? Don't tell me it is an old gentleman with white hair and mild eyes. No! It is my first rabbit, which died of starvation through my carelessness. See, he is hungrily munching a lettuce! That is conclusive.
Friday.—My great work on Re-Incarnation begun to-day. It will astonish the world, for it is all true. By why have my friends asked those two doctors to call? There is nothing the matter with me. The two fools say I ought to give up all writing and keep quite quiet in the country. Explain that it is impossible. They insist with gentle firmness. Tell them I have no doubt they are the two leeches I once took from the bowl at the chemists and put on my little sister's neck, whence they were removed by the nurse and ruthlessly slaughtered.
Monday.—My diary has been interrupted, for I have been moving to this hydropathic establishment, as those doctors called it, at Colney Hatch. I don't like the place. Most of the visitors seem mad. But probably many of these water-drinkers are mad. Wouldn't they be surprised if they knew who I really am? Ha, ha! It will make a nice summer correspondence for the Daily Telegraph. To-morrow I will write to that paper stating the actual facts. I also am re-incarnated. I am, or rather I was, the Great Sea Serpent.
Mrs. R. was very sorry that the clergyman of her parish had been compelled to leave. "You see," she said, "the poor man fell off his bicycle, and his doctor has told him that for some time he must try an incumbent position. So he has gone away for another cure."
DEFEATED DEFEATED!
Napoleon R-s-b-ry (meditating). "Um!—Bless Harcourt!"
ODE TO A WATER COMPANY.
(By a Poor Sufferer who "Owes it One.")
Oh, Company, scourge, tyrant, tease!
"Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,"
(Like woman,)
And variable—in supply—
As your excuses (all my eye!).
Inhuman,
Brutal, and bumptious (corporate) beast!
Harsh as the wind when in the east!
Were water
"Supplied" to Wealth as 'tis to me,
Short is the shrift that you would see!
Last quarter
You "froze me out," you "cut me off,"
And at my plaintive cries would scoff,
(Confuse you all!)
Claiming for what I did not have,
And treating me like a mere slave,
(As usual.)
And now, in Summer, just to suit
Your interests, you (corporate) brute,
You slacken
My poor, inadequate supply.
Yah! I should like your (corporate) eye
To blacken!
When care and heat bedew my brow,
A ministering demon thou!
My fickle
Supply, upon a day quite torrid,
You slacken to a thread-like, horrid,
Slow trickle.
I cannot wash, I dare not drink,
And fever lurks in pipe and sink.
You, scorning
My needs, my health, may turn the screw,
In mercy, for an hour or two
Each morning,—
Or you may not! Or when my throat is
Heat-parched you come and—without notice—
Dissever
Me from the main for a whole day,
As is your little funny way;
And never
Do I complain, with visage meek,
But you administer more cheek,
You Tartar!
And for redress I've little chance
Unless I've stumped up in advance;
Your "charter"
Always exonerating you,
Whether for "putting on the screw"
Or turning
The service off. Oh, Company!
There are, ah! thousands like poor me,
Who're burning
With indignation at the capers
You play with laundresses, and drapers,
And poor fishmongers.
Beware! The public yet, you bet,
On you that dire revenge will get
For which it hungers!!
AWKWARDLY PUT AWKWARDLY PUT.
She. "By the way, George, have you got anything on this Evening?"
He. "Nothing whatever."
She. "Then come and Dine with us—and don't Dress!"
ON THE SENIOR SCULLS.
(By our Water Wagtail.)
[The Hon. R. Guinness won the Senior Sculls at the Metropolitan Amateur Regatta, beating the redoubtable brothers Guy and Vivian Nickalls, believed to be almost invincible.]
The rank is but the "Guinness" stamp,
But scullers of the stamp of Guinness
Are not too common. What a damp
To Guy and Vivian this win is!
The Honourable R. has found
How fickle fortune gives hope pickles;
But in this last—aquatic—round
True Guinness gold has beaten Nickalls.
They'll meet, perchance, again, to settle
The game—for all are men of mettle.
The Glass House of Commons.—Some fine "Pairs" already on view.
ELECTION NOTES FROM THE WEST.
This is how the Western Daily Mercury describes "the fight"—before it began. "The electoral battle continues, but it is a most unequal contest. The Tories have been out-generalled, outmanoeuvred, and outclassed. They are like the Chinese fleet at Yalu, stolid and uncertain, whilst the Liberals are sailing round them, pouring into them a withering fire from quick-firing guns, sweeping away masts and signal-yards, and scattering their crews in confusion. The fire from the Tories is intermittent, insufficient, and badly directed. It is doing very little harm."
This is quite a gem of nautical description. Such as might justly be expected from a great naval port like Plymouth, which is the home of the Mercury. The chief beauty of it, moreover, is that it will serve again to describe the battle—when it is finished ("after the poll"), the only alteration necessary being a transposition of the two words Tories and Liberals.
Cornwall.—Excellent programme, including Two Macs. As usual, when one "scores," the other doesn't. McDougall beaten, while McArthur of course held whip-hand in St. Austell's division.
Love's Local Option.—"Drink to me only with thine eyes."
SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.
Another Irish Party!—The snakes are coming back to Ireland! In a Cork paper we read the following:—
Mr. Cornelius Donovan, while crossing a grass field near Blarney, encountered a snake, which at first he believed to be an eel, and struck it with his walking stick. Having killed the reptile, he discovered it was a snake, measuring 3 feet 9 inches.
Evidently a political omen of some kind, this return of the emigrants to Erin. What does it portend? Mr. M-rl-y, on being consulted, is "inclined to fancy that the Cork snake is a herald of Coercion, and shows that the venom of Dublin Castle will soon be at work." Mr. G. B-lf-r, on the other hand, says that "the return of general confidence at the advent of a Unionist Government, and a really capable Irish Secretary, has never been better exemplified. Even the reptiles are not afraid now to try Ireland as a place of residence!" And Mr. J-st-n M'C-rthy has no doubt at all that "the incident is another sign of the growing Irish spirit of disunion. Did not St. Patrick banish snakes from Ireland? And ought not snakes, if they are worthy of the name of patriots, to obey St. P., and stay away? Well, they are returning, and defying St. P.—just as R-dm-nd defies me! And," added the eminent leader, meditatively, "I've often thought there was a good deal of the eel about him, too."
"Peers are Cheap To-day."—From the North British Daily Mail:—
Bailie Wright, in supporting the motion, said that if he had the power he would make every man in that meeting a peer, so that they should go to the Lords and resolve upon their abolition.
Prodigious! But how is the Bailie going to proceed? Bring in a "Bill of Wright's" when he has got his new nobility ensconced in the Gilded Chamber? And suppose the Bailie's peers decline to commit suicide?
Air—"Waly, Waly."
O, Bailie, Bailie, your peers be bonnie
A little time while they are new!
But when they're auld, they'll wax most cauld,
And vote in a way to astonish you!
OFF OFF!
Mature Damsel (as they pass the Conservatory). "Dear me! What a delicious smell of"—(archly)—"Orange-blossoms!"
Little Mr. Tipkins (alarmed). "Oh, no—really—I assure you, nothing of the sort!"
[Bolts.
DELIGHTFUL DISCOVERIE.
(A Dialogue at the Service of the "I. G. C.")
Visitor. As I am a stranger in London, can you please tell me how to get to Holly Lodge?
Native. Make for Holloway, and you will get into its neighbourhood.
Visitor. Thanks, very much; and where is the Institute of the Painters in Water Colours?
Native. Why, in Piccadilly, of course; next door to St. James's Church.
Visitor. I am infinitely obliged to you; and now perhaps you will direct me to Carlton House Terrace, Kew Gardens, Greenwich, and the Docks?
Native. First, behind the AthenÆum; and the others you can get to by train after consulting Bradshaw. But why this thirst for geographical knowledge?
Visitor. Because I am a member of the International Geographical Congress.
Native. Indeed! And what are you going to do at these places?
Visitor. I am going to be "entertained." In fact, my duty will be to see and be seen.
Native. And how about geographical research?
Visitor. That will be satisfied to a considerable extent by a hunt for sandwiches, and a quest for strawberries and cream!
THE AGE OF CULTURE.
["It is a good omen for the future of agriculture that the upper classes are beginning to take a practical interest in it."—A Morning Paper.]
Extracts from the "World," June, 1900.
Despite the unfavourable weather, Lady Tipton's garden-party on Wednesday was a great success. Strawberry-picking was the principal amusement, and some well-known performers were present. Miss De Mure, as usual, beat all her rivals, but the Bishop of Pulborough was only half-a-basket behind. Like most of her friends, Lady Tipton has now converted all her croquet and tennis lawns into fruit-beds.
Lord Grayson is entertaining a large party of friends for bird-scaring this week. Starlings are somewhat scarce this year, but sparrows are very plentiful and strong on the wing. Some capital sport was enjoyed over these well-known fields last week, and the host (who used a blunderbuss manufactured by Messrs. Murdey) is credited with having frightened away about 5000 brace in a single day.
Truth is quite wrong in stating that the Marquis of Coombe intends to sell his well-known potato-patch in Hammersmith. On the contrary, he has just laid down two dozen new plants. It is true, however, that several of the smartest people are growing onions instead of potatoes this year.
As the show-season will soon be with us again, it may be well to remark that the committees should make certain of the genuine character of the exhibits. It would be disgraceful were there to be any repetition of such a scandal as occurred last autumn at a leading exhibition, when it was discovered that the apples belonging to a certain lady of title, to which the prize already had been awarded, owed their brilliant appearance to the fact that her Grace had tinted them with water-colours.
The Inter-'Varsity ploughing competition takes place at Lord's on Friday. The Cambridge men are perhaps the favourites at present, but, though they have undoubtedly done some fast times, their furrows are apt to be very erratic. Still, under Farmer Hodge's able coaching, they may be expected to improve greatly in the next few days.
Some of the papers have been making merry over the attempts to start butter-making clubs among the poorer classes. It is true that butter-making has been considered hitherto almost exclusively a rich man's recreation; but I do not see why the hard-working labourer, who has been toiling at golf or polo all day, should not be allowed to amuse himself with this healthy pastime in the evening, just as much as his superiors in social station.
À propos of butter-making, I hear that a testimonial is to be presented to Mr. Aylesbury, who has now captained his county team for some years. Of his all-round skill it is needless to speak; he is a useful change churner, and he had far the highest patting average last season.
How to Spend a Happy Day!—Luncheon, dinner, and breakfast baskets provided for travellers by the Great Wheel at Earl's Court. Also all requisites for making up fairly comfortable beds in any one of the compartments. Address Wheel and Woa Co., E. C. S. W.
"MR. SPEAKER!"
"Hats off, strangers!"—Policemen passim.
Now the new House of Commons is complete, and Members are preparing to meet for their first Session, the question of who is to be Speaker comes to the front. Mr. Punch is pleased to observe the growing conviction in both political camps that there really is no question on the subject. Had Mr. Gully performed the duties of Speaker with merely average capacity, the House of Commons, mindful of its highest traditions, would have been slow to celebrate a party victory at the polls by dispossessing him in favour of a nominee of the new majority. His marked success happily makes such action more than ever improbable.
His position was made exceptionally difficult by the circumstances of the day. Elected by a narrow majority, he succeeded the greatest Speaker of modern times. The fierce light that beats on the Speaker's chair was intensified by the inevitable contrast between the new occupant and the stately figure long familiar to the House. From the first Mr. Gully wisely refrained from even approach to imitation of the manner of Mr. Peel. That was a thing apart, like the bow of Ulysses. The new Speaker was simply himself; and the House of Commons, the keenest, swiftest, fairest judge of character in the world, was delighted to find in him perfect equanimity of temper, a judicial mind, unfailing readiness in emergency, and a quite surprising knowledge of the intricacies of procedure.
During his brief tenure of office Mr. Gully was more than once suddenly faced by a knotty point that might reasonably have been expected to baffle a 'prentice hand. Never on these occasions has he failed. Such rare aptitude displayed at the outset of a career promises the fullness of perfection when, strengthened and sustained by the unanimous vote of a new Parliament, the Speaker resumes his work.
New Work.—Messrs. Macmillan have just published The Theory and Practice of Counter-Irritation, by H. C. Gillies. One example of this could easily be given by anyone in a hurry, who couldn't get attended to at the Stores, or vice vers by a counter-jumper at a linendraper's, whose temper was more than ordinarily tried by some extra-shilly-shallying customer.
OUR THESPIANS.
Sir Henry Irving's Saturday night at home previous to his departure for America was brilliant. House so crowded in every part, that the like of it has rarely been seen even at the Lyceum. Our Ellen, as charming Nance Oldfield, was cheered to the Echo, or would have been had there been any place left for an Echo in the house. Sir Henry admirable as the old soldier in A Story of Waterloo, and both he and Miss Terry at their best in the one scene from grand old Willy Shakspeare's Much Ado about Nothing. The "Much Adoo," as Mr. Weller senior would have pronounced and spelt it, came after the curtain had fallen, and on both sides the "Adoo" was changed into a hearty "Au revoir!"
To mention "Henry" is to remember "Johnnie," the Johnnie yclept J. L. Toole, who, Mr. Punch was delighted to see, looking "fit as a fiddle," having Toole'd up to town from Margate evidently on the high road to perfect recovery.
CONCERNING A PUBLIC NUISANCE.
By One who lives Next Door.
[The Salvationists of Warwickshire have lately been restrained by the new county by-law, which provides that no person shall play any musical instrument within fifty yards of a dwelling-house.]
Bravo, good men of Warwick! you'd rejoice
John Leech's soul and all whose nerves are shattered
By blatant street musician's raucous voice
Or braying trombone—these at last you've scattered!
Ah! would that London followed now your lead,
And kept a tight hand o'er the rude fanatics
Who blare away her Sunday peace, whose creed
Is uproar, "fire and blood," and acrobatics!
If they'd a grain of humour's saving grace,
Enough to hear themselves as others hear them,
They'd straight retire to some far desert place
And bang and clang and howl where none come near them!
Ev'n as I write, some strain like "Daisy Bell"
With would-be sacred words and tuneless jar racks
My tortured ear—hard fate has made me dwell
Next door, alas! to what they call their "barracks."
Their ranting, roaring may be heav'nly joys,
But me they fill with bile and ire plethoric;
When, I would ask, shall we put down such noise,
As have the worthy citizens of Warwick?
AU REVOIR TO OPERA.
End of operatic season, and a fine season too. The Patti nights exceptionally brilliant. De Reszke frÈres, the accomplished Bicycling Brothers, did not appear, but Sir Druriolanus sang the old song "We're going to do without them" and did so, uncommonly well. Maurel, Ancona, PlanÇon, were bright particular stars; while Melba suddenly shone forth as Comet with magnificent tail, i.e. a great following. CalvÉ held her own against all comers: and, as Santuzza, it was a case of "honours divided" with Mdme. Bellincioni, who, it must not be forgotten, was the original of the part. The Beneficent Bauermeister, of talent unlimited, has shown that "woman," like man, "in her time can play many parts." Mlle. Bauermeister has played them; and all equally well.
So farewell Operatics till next year, when Druriolanus need fear no storms, if still provided with his lightning Conductors Bevignani, Mancinelli & Co. Nor need the Liberal-Conservative Druriolanus Operaticus think of having to reckon with any formidable rivalry, should the utterly improbable happen and a new Opposition Opera be started. Why two Opera Houses cannot succeed in London may be a problem, but hitherto it is one which dissolution of the weaker was the only solution. The strong company went to Covent Garden, and the weak went—to the wall.
Report From a Minor Canon.—Archdeacon Farrar, hitherto performing "Archi-diaconal functions" at Westminster, has just been "installed" Dean of Canterbury. There are, clearly, only two notable installations, one of the Electric Light, and the other of a Dean. Canterbury has now the chance of being thoroughly enlightened and electrified.
A CORRECT EYE A CORRECT EYE.
Mrs. Brown has bought her Husband twenty yards of native Scotch Homespun, and has sent for the Tailor of the Glen to make him a Suit thereof. The Tailor takes the material, gives a glance at Brown, and is about to depart.
"But look here," says Brown; "you've not taken my Measure!"
Tailor. "Hoot, Man, ye're not deforrm'd!"
YOUNG PRIMROSE'S PARTY.
A Plaint of the Polls.
Air—"Hans Breitmann's Party."
Young Primrose had a Party,
He led it—like a lamb.
It fell in love with a motley thing
They called the Rad Pro-gramme.
They swore that plan to fight for,
Aye, fight till all was Blue;
But when it came unto the Polls,
That Party split in two.
Young Primrose had a Party,
For Progress it was bound;
But all the progress that it made
Was staggering round and round.
The liveliest shindies in the House,
And mockery out-o'-door,
Was all that Party caused, and so
It dwindled more and more.
Young Primrose had a Party.
I tell you it cost him dear.
The Rads he led "rolled into" him
Because he was a Peer:
They tried to knock Bung's spigot in,
The Caineites raised a cheer.
I think that so fine a Party
Never went bust on beer.
Young Primrose had a Party,
They were all "Souse undt Brouse,"[1] A more divided company
Ne'er wrangled in the House:
They talked of "filling up the cup,"
Vetoing the Vitler's guilt;
But soon they found the pot was full,
And that the cup was spilt.
Young Primrose had a Party,
Although it was not big,
It tried to break the power of beer,
And check the sway of swig!
But soon they found 'twas all in vain,
The brewer they did "cop";
And the company scattered like fighting crowds
When the constable bids them stop.
Young Primrose had a Party,
Where is that Party now?
Where are the lovely golden dreams
Of the Newcastle pow-wow?
Where are the Democratic plans,
The L. C. C.'s delight?
All floated away on a flood of beer
Away—in the Ewigkeit![2]
East Norfolk Election.—When women are stoned by cowardly ruffians, of any party, or, more probably, of no party, it is not a time for jokes. But Mr. Punch wishes he had been there, with a few of his young men and a few revolvers, and then some persons more deserving to be hit might have been hit, and with something sharper than stones. In East Norfolk, during the excitement of an election, it is evidently almost as necessary to carry firearms for self-defence as in any quite uncivilised and savage country—such as Bulgaria, under the government of the brave Ferdinand.
METEOROLOGICAL MISGIVINGS.
Saturday.—How warm it is! Shall go for my holiday somewhere on the sea. A month's cruise on the coast of Norway, perhaps.
Sunday.—What a tremendous gale! Imagine a month of this on the sea. Shall go inland, quite in the country—say to a cottage on Dartmoor.
Monday.—What a dull day! Couldn't stand the country in this gloom. Try Paris.
Tuesday.—A glorious day. Very hot and sunny in Paris now. Shall go to the Lakes.
Wednesday.—Steady rain. Don't like the idea of the Lakes. Always damp and depressing. In this sort of weather better be at Scarborough or Brighton.
Thursday.—Drizzle and mist. No doubt sea fog on coast. Hate sea fog. Better go to a dry place abroad. How about North Italy?
Friday.—What beastly dust everywhere! No good going to a dry, sunny climate. Try Cornwall.
Saturday.—Damp, close day. Couldn't stand much of this. Too enervating. Shall go to the Alps—anywhere up high in the mountain air.
Sunday.—Chilly for the time of year. Probably snowing on the Alps. Very dismal, cowering over a stove in a Swiss inn. What a difficulty this holiday is! Good idea! Will postpone it till the settled weather in the winter.
New adaptation of Ancient Chaff to the Defeated Candidates.—"Does your mother know you're 'Out'?" [N.B.—What view "mother" will take of it depends on "mother's" politics.]
AFTER THE BATTLE AFTER THE BATTLE.
THE MEETING OF WELLINGTON-S-L-SB-RY AND BLUCHER-CH-MB-RL-N.
TO JULIA, KNIGHT-ERRANT.
["After the noble lord's dinner-party, at which the ladies appeared in their cycling costumes, consisting of ..., the company set off at half-past ten on their bikes for the region between St Paul's and the Tower, where at that hour, except an occasional policeman, hardly a soul is to be seen. Their example is now being generally imitated." People of To-Day.]
When night her sable pall doth spread
Above the city's sleeping head
So as it seemeth to be dead;
And labour hath a short surcease,
And burglars taste a halcyon peace,
Save where the vigilant police,
All fearless on their darkling beat,
With sound of heavy-sandalled feet
Wake awesome echoes in the street;
When weary chapmen go their ways
To halls of song or sit at gaze
In front of elevating plays;
Or haply drop into the club,
And pausing for a friendly rub
Defy the deadly nuptial snub;
Or watch in fond paternal mood
The slumber of their infant brood
In some suburban neighbourhood:—
Then, Julia, then, at such an hour
I gather that you quit your bower
And seek the purlieus of the Tower;
Encased in wanton breeks and wide,
A solid regiment, you ride
With swains revolving at your side;
By stilly thoroughfares you strike
Th' astonied silence with your bike;
Earth never yet hath seen the like!
Not she, that fair of whom they sing,
Who wrought her city's ransoming,
Godiva dared so bold a thing.
High Heaven alone sees such a sight
When Dian wheels her orb by night
With many a starry satellite.
But, Julia, though the mode decree,
By all the rites of Battersea,
That you career in company,
The conscious object of remark,
Whenas the lusty-throated lark
Disporteth o'er the People's Park;
Yet certes it were more discreet,
When Hesper from his vantage-seat
Illuminateth Cannon Street,
To ride with none but me to know
Just how th' enamoured breezes blow
Round your ineffable trousseau!
How say you, sweet? To-morrow, then,
We assignate for half-past ten
Upon the punctual stroke of Ben?
On Cupid's chaste commission bent
We twain will meet, with your consent,
10.30, by the Monument.
