E-text prepared by Lesley Halamek, Juliet Sutherland,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)

Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 104, May 13th 1893

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

MIXED NOTIONS.

No. X.—THE BEHRING-SEA ARBITRATION.

(Scene and Persons as usual. The Conversation has already begun.)

First Well-informed Man (concluding a tirade). —— so what I want to know is this: are we or are we not to submit to the Yankees? It's all very well talking about Chicago Exhibitions and all that, but if they're going to capture our ships and prevent us killing seals, why, the sooner we tell 'em to go to blue blazes the better. And as for its being a mare clausum——

Inquirer (interrupting). Who was she? What's she got to do with it?

First W. I. M. (laughing vigorously). Ha! ha! that's a good 'un.

Inquirer (nettled). Oh, laugh away, laugh away. That's you all over.

First W. I. M. My dear chap, I'm very sorry, but I really couldn't help it. There's no woman in the business at all. Mare clausum merely means the place where they catch the seals, you know; mare, Latin for sea.

Inquirer. Oh! I should have known that directly, if you'd only pronounced it properly. But what does clausum mean?

First W. I. M. Well, of course, that means—well, a clause, don't you know. It's in the treaty.

Average Man (looking up from his paper). It used to be the Latin for "closed," but I suppose it's altered now.

First W. I. M. (incredulously). It can't mean that, anyhow. Who ever heard of a closed sea, I should like to know?

Second W. I. M. (hazarding a suggestion). It might mean a harbour, you know, or something of that sort.

Average Man. I daresay it might mean that, but it doesn't happen to be a harbour (relapses into paper).

Second W. I. M. Oh, well, I only made the suggestion. [A pause.

Inquirer. But what are they arbitrating about in Paris? It says (reading from newspaper) "When Mr. Carter, the United States Counsel, had concluded his speech, he was complimented by the President, the Baron de Courcel, who told him he had spoken on behalf of humanity." I thought old Carnot was President of the French Republic.

First W. I. M. So he is.

Inquirer. But this paper says Baron de Courcel is President.

Second W. I. M. Oh, I suppose that's one of Carnot's titles, All these blessed foreigners are Barons, or something of that sort.

Inquirer. Ah, I suppose that must be it. But what have the French got to do with the Behring Sea? I thought it was all between us and the Yankees.

First W. I. M. So it is—but the French are arbitrating. That's how they come into the business. I can't say, personally, I like these arbitrations. We're always arbitrating now, and giving everything away. If we think we're right, why can't we say so, and stick to it, and let the French, and the Yankees, and the Russians, and all the rest of 'em, take it from us, if they can?

Second W. I. M. Take what from us?

First W. I. M. Why, whatever it happens to be, the Behring Sea, or anything else. We're so deuced afraid of everybody now, we never show fight; it's perfectly sickening. But of course you can't expect anything else from old Gladstone.

Second W. I. M. That's right—shove it all on to old Gladstone. But you're wrong this time. It was Jo Chamberlain, one of your own blessed Unionists, that you're so proud of, who arranged this arbitration.

First W. I. M. I know that, my dear boy; but Chamberlain was a Radical then; so where are you now?[A pause.

Inquirer (who has continued his reading, suddenly, with a puzzled air). I say, you know, this is too much of a good thing, bringing the Russians into the business. It says—(reads)—"documents were submitted, on behalf of the United States, to prove that Russia had never abandoned her sovereign rights in the manner suggested by Great Britain." How, on earth, does Russia manage to crop up everywhere? And where is this confounded Behring Sea?

Second W. I. M. (vaguely). It's somewhere in America, or Newfoundland, or thereabouts.

Inquirer. But how about Russia?

Second W. I. M. Oh, Russia shoves her oar in whenever we get into a difficulty of any kind anywhere.

Inquirer (persisting). Yes—but how can she have any "sovereign rights" in America?

Second W. I. M. (haughtily, but evasively). My dear fellow, if you had followed the thing properly, you wouldn't ask the question. There's no time now to explain it all to you, as it's very complicated, and goes back a long way. But you may take it from me that Russia has got certain rights, and that she means to make things as disagreeable for us as she can.[A pause.

Inquirer. It's rather a rum start, isn't it? sending out Sir Charles Russell and Sir Richard Webster. They're on opposite sides of politics.

First W. I. M. That's just why they send 'em. Russell has got to put the Liberal view, and Webster the Conservative.

Inquirer. Of course, of course; I never thought of that. By the way, have you ever seen a seal?

First W. I. M. They've got one at the Zoo. Catches fish, and kisses the keeper, and all that sort of game.

Inquirer. What, that big beast that looks as if it was made of india-rubber, with long whiskers and a sort of fish-tail?

First W. I. M. That's it.

Inquirer (with profound disgust). Well, I am blessed! Is that all they're jawing about?[Terminus.

IN MEMORIAM—"THE DEVIL'S OWN."

["Notwithstanding the efforts made by the Inns of Court Rifles, supported by the Authorities of the Inns, to increase the strength of the corps, the additional enrolments lately made have been judged by the War Office not sufficient to warrant the continued maintenance of the corps as an independent battalion; and orders have been given for its reduction from six to four companies, for the withdrawal of the Adjutant, and for the attachment of the corps to the 4th Middlesex Rifles."—Daily Paper.]

Oh, how bright were the days when we all of us saw

In their martial equipment the limbs of the Law.

With their helmets and rifles, and pouches complete,

(May I quote from the ladies), they "really looked sweet."

The Colonel, the Major, and all their attendants,

Appeared not as counsel, since all were defendants;

And no soldierly spirit could equal the Bar's,

When Themis, its goddess, was mated with Mars.

No more shall they charm us; harsh Fate with her shears

Has severed the thread of the Law's Volunteers.

And, whatever the cause was, 'twas certainly true

That these fee-less defenders at last were too few.

So now they're absorbed, and, no longer the same,

They lose by attachment their being and name.

And the old Devil's Own, from their discipline loosed,

Have gone to their owner; i.e., they're re-duced.

ENGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE.

(In the House and out of it.)

The Parliamentary Committee appointed to consider the best mode of reporting in the House, have decided that it will be advisable to allow Members to have an opportunity of revising their speeches after they have been "taken down" verbatim. The result of this suggestion will probably be as follows:—

"Spoke? Rather!"

MR. SYMPLE-STUTTER'S SPEECH.

(Verbatim Report.)

Mr. Speaker, Sir, What I mean to say, I venture to think is that the British Empire—yes Sir—that is what I venture to think, and I am a young Member. For I do not believe—no not now—or in fact, when otherwise. For envy and malice are together. I venture to think that sometimes the British Empire. Yes Sir, for the enemies are at our gates with the past and the future. When the sun sinks—not that it follows—at least so I venture to think. You may believe me, Sir, that it is farthest from my thoughts when the British Empire and the sinking sun which I venture to think is—in point of fact the setting sun, and I venture to think the British Empire, and that is I venture to think was my proposal in the past—which has the terrors of the present from generation to generation.

(Revised Report.)

Mr. Speaker, Sir, at a time like the present—when the enemies of the Empire are clamouring at our gates, when envy walks hand-in-hand with malice, and our fate is in our own hands—we should be bold and resolute. It is not for a young Member like myself to point out the course that we should pursue, but I venture to think that, by ignoring the terrors of the past with the courage of the present, we shall avert the dangers of the future. It has been said—and truly said—that the sun never sets upon the British Empire. Let us believe in that sun, and find in its rays an earnest of that glory which was the birthright of our ancestors, and which, should be the birthright of our descendants from generation to generation.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

Antony ... John Bull. Cleopatra ... Egypt. Mecænas ... H. L-b-ch-re. Enobarbus ... Gl-dst-ne.

Mecænas (aside to Enobarbus). "Now Antony must leave her utterly."

Enobarbus (aside to Mecænas). "Never; he will not." (Apart.) "At least, not yet."

Ant. and Cleo., Act II. Scene 2, adapted.

MR. GLADSTONE'S CHANGE OF NAME.

He was "The People's William." He will

Be known in future as "Our Home-Rule Bill."

High Notes for a Violin.—Last week a Stradivarius (vide Daily News), a real genuine "Strad," sold at Puttick and Simpson's for £860.

Fiddle de L. S. Dee!

In the Time of the Restauration.—They're going it! Feeding, feeding everywhere, and not a bit to eat—without paying for it pretty heavily. We gather from a note in Sala's Journal, that Long's Hotel now possesses a "Restauration." Of course, those who live in "Short's Gardens," won't be able to patronise "Long's." The management is announced as under the direction of a "M. Diette," and, as he has obtained no inconsiderable renown (so we are informed) at the Berkeley and Bristol, patrons of Long's may expect something superior, by way of "Diette-ary."

MR. PUNCH TO THE BETROTHED PAIR.

(The Duke of York and the Princess May of Teck.)

May 3, 1893.

'Mid the bird-chorus of the May,

From glade and garden madly ringing,

There sounds one welcome note to-day,

Round the glad world its way 'tis winging.

You hear—you hear the general cheer

That greets it! 'Twill suffice to show you

That all who love you joy to hear.

And all who love are all who know you!

Soft music of the marriage-bell

Seems woven 'midst the world's Spring Voices.

In truth, there's little need to tell

How in the prospect Punch rejoices.

His well-pleased eye has watched your way;

His loyal heart has shared your sadness;

Now on this bright Betrothal-Day

Your gladness he acclaims—with gladness!

How is Mr. F. Luke Fildes, R.A.?—In excellent health we sincerely hope, but from seeing daily, in the front sheet of the Times, an advertisement commencing "The Doctor after Luke Fildes, R.A." Many friends began to feel anxious. We are glad to be able to add, that, in answer to the numerous inquiries made at 39, Old Bond Street, a most satisfactory report has been obtained.

"HONOURS EASY."

First Undergraduate. "I say, Old Man, did you win your Money?"

Second Un. "'Course not; won Somebody else's. You lost your Coin, didn't you?"

First Un. "My Coin! What are you talking about? I lost the Guv'nor's!"

MUSE v. MECHANIC.

["Mr. Norman Gale—the Muse of orchards and pretty girls with polished knees; a charm often left unsung."

—Mr. Andrew Lang on the Poems of "A Country Muse."]

"A Country Muse" sings, if you please,

Of pretty girls "with polished knees"!

One would not quite demolish

The graphic rhymester's stock-in-trade,

But if bare knees must be displayed,

He might forego the polish.

It smacks of fustian! Workmen's "bags"

Are very "polished" where the "sags"

From salient joints protuberant,

Grow shiny with continual friction;

But "polished knees" in poet's diction

Strike one as too exuberant.

Say varnished elbows, burnished knuckles,

And you'll elicit scornful chuckles

From Muse and from Mechanic!

Selections from the terms of trade

Would put, I'm very much afraid,

Parnassus in a panic.

The bards are sometimes rather free

With feminine anatomy;

Their catalogues erotic

Of pretty girls' peculiar "points,"

Their eyes and limbs, and curves and joints,

Are often idiotic.

But if we must be told, sometimes,

Ladies have limbs, then that your rhymes

May not offend or fog any,

Don't mechanise a maiden's charms;

Leave "polishing" to legs and arms

Of walnut or mahogany.

RHYMES ON THE DECAY OF ROMANCE.

(Suggested by Mr. Frederic Harrison's recent Article in "The Forum.")

Oh, list to Mr. Harrison lamenting from The Forum,

Imagination done to death by latter-day decorum!

"Good boys and girls" we've all become, and modern men and maidens see

The world with such prosaic eyes, Romance is in decadency!

We're too absorbed in Politics, enamoured of Monotony,

To give an ear to Geniuses (supposing we had got any!)

But First-Class in our Fiction Mr. Harrison abolishes,

Indeed most Authors travel Third, their talent so toll-lollish is.

It's all the Fin-de-Siècle's fault—and this, of course, a true bill is;

For Genius puts its shutters up when centuries pass their jubilees!

As Mr. Harrison can prove by references historical,—

And any utterance of his is equal to an oracle.

We cannot stand a novel now, he says, if there's a shock in it;

Prefer our heroine angular, her eye must have a cock in it,

Unless she's dull and middle-aged, no sympathy have we with her,

Her sole excitement is to ask a plainer friend to tea with her!

He thinks, were Pickwick written now, we'd view it with a cooler eye,

And term the Trial Scene a piece of "riotous tomfoolery;"

While Jane Eyre's thrilling narrative of Rochester's sad revelries

Of "shilling shockers" scarcely would to-day above the level rise!

An age that's given up its gas to read by Electricity

Would naturally be repelled by Thackeray's causticity,

And scorn the characters of Scott, because they had Glengarries on,

An inference which is obvious—to Mr. Frederic Harrison!

How scathingly does he denounce our Literature degenerate,

With not a real Romancer left—or only two at any rate!

By "desperate expedients," each the old tradition carries on—

"But it's no good"—as they're informed by Mr. Frederic Harrison.

For Mr. Stevenson can write no stories worth hurraying at,

While he upon Pacific Isle persists in Crusoe playing at!

And Mr. Kipling's ceased to count—no heart in what he does is there—

He longs for death in far Soudan, a-fighting Fuzzy-Wuzzies there!

So we've only Mr. Meredith—(oh, what a sad disgrace it is!)

Though Mr. Blackmore writes romance—how poor and commonplace it is!

While Messrs. Thomas Hardy, Black, and Besant, it would seem, are all

Unworthy serious notice, mere nonentities ephemeral!

Some people like Miss Braddon, Mrs. Oliphant, Miss Broughton, too.

They're only lady-novelists—so serious readers oughtn't to,

And those who've been convinced by his invidious comparisons,

In future will eschew romance—excepting Mr. Harrison's.

The Darwinian Theory Exemplified.—At the Zoo is now being exhibited "Three White-tailed Gnus,"—"The Latest Gnus." with the best possible intelligence,—"and a Black-capped Gibbon." This last is evidently a descendant of the great historian; though, if this exemplifies "the survival of the fittest," where are the others of the race? Then "Black-capped" sounds ominous, as if this particular Gibbon stood self-condemned, and was soon to disappear. Should this be the case, the Zoo Authorities ought to advertise the fact, and give visitors a chance before it is too late.

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Extracted From the Diary of Toby, M.P.

House of Commons, Monday Night May 1.—Demonstrated in Debate on Second Reading Home-Rule Bill that House may talk and talk through twelve long nights, and not affect single vote—not even Saunders's. To-night shown how a single speech may cause to collapse what was expected and intended to be big Debate. It was Mr. G. performed the miracle. Looked in at House on his way from Downing Street, where he had received deputation on Eight Hours Question, and delivered important speech. That might have served as day's work for ordinary man, Mr. G., not to put too fine a point upon it, is not ordinary man. Being here, sat listening to Dilke with close attention. Dilke thinks time has come to evacuate Egypt. Stated his case in luminous speech; sustained his reputation of knowing more about Egyptian Question than most men except perhaps Tommy Bowles.

Mr. G. made no outward and visible sign of intention to follow; took no notes, and sometimes, as he sat with drooping arms and closed eyes, seemed to sleep. Dilke done and down, he sat bolt upright, looked round with almost startled air, "Well, really," he seemed to be saying to himself, "since I am here, and no one else is disposed to follow, I might as well say a few words."

Spoke for half an hour, without reference to a note, and without faltering for a word. Preserved throughout that studious assumption of having accidentally looked in which marked his appearance at table. Evidently desired to minimise as much as possible importance of occasion. Subject broached, he was, possibly, expected to say something; certainly not going to make a speech, much less deliver oration. Carried out this subtle fancy to such extent that, pitching voice on low conversational tone, sometimes difficult to catch full length of sentences. This added to impressiveness of scene. Crowded House sitting breathless; Members opposite leaning forward lest they might miss a phrase. Everyone conscious that at the door also listening were jealous France, the wily Turk, the interested Egyptian, the not entirely disinterested Czar, and the other Great Powers concerned for peace of Europe.

Mr. G., for all his affectation of unpremeditation, evidently had in mind these listeners at the door. To their shadowy presence was, for him, added consciousness of keen eyes watching him from all quarters of the House; some of his friends waiting for sign of readiness to quit Egypt; the Opposition ready to catch at any token of tendency to scuttle. Occasional passages he delivered at rapid rate; but you could see him weighing every word with due consideration of these manifold and conflicting interests and influences.

When he sat down, there was consciousness that the massive figure of important Debate that had loomed over House whilst Dilke was speaking had melted away. Jokim and Gorst had intended to speak from Front Bench; great authorities on Foreign Policy in other parts of House had proposed to say something, more or less soothing. Mr. G. had left nothing for anyone to say, unless it were Alpheus Cleophas, and the Talented Tommy, who, sitting immediately opposite the Premier, had, whilst he spoke, taken voluminous notes, only occasionally withdrawing eyes from manuscript to fix them with look of calm distrust upon the aged and unconscious statesman.

"I always like, when I look in," said Marjoribanks, smiling beneficently from the Bar, "to find Tommy in his place, taking notes. Gives one a sense of security. I feel, when I'm in the Lobby, looking after things, it's all right in the House. Browning said something of that sort. Don't remember exactly how it ran; something in this way:

A PATRON OF OLD CHINA.

(Vide "China Bowles Collection.")

Tommy Bowles is in his place;

It's all right with the Empire."

Business done.—Mr. G. excelled himself.

Tuesday.—Seven-leagued Boots not needed by Talented Tommy. He moves about universe with ease and grace, unmindful of mountains, regardless of ravines, reckless of rivers, oblivious of oceans. Last night, Forty Centuries looked down upon him whilst he showed how, in Egypt, Mr. G. is wrong, and Dilke, who criticised Ministerial policy, is not right. To-night he stands on the Roof of the World, a solitary, colossal figure upright on the lone Pamirs. His attitude is of manifold mien. Defiant of Russia, suspicious of Rosebery, patronising towards Afghanistan, he takes young China familiarly by the elbow, and bids it be of good cheer, for Tommy Bowles is its friend. Since Napoleon crossed the Alps, and was caught in the act by the brush of the painter, the world has not seen so moving a picture as Tommy throned on the grandly desolate Pamirs.

House almost empty whilst the Talented One discoursed on the subject. Mr. G., who misses nothing, happily in his place, listening with eager hand at ear whilst Tommy spoke familiarly of Asiatic rivers and mountains, not one with name of less than five syllables. Dicky Temple, who really knows something about this mysterious region, looked on in blank amazement at Tommy's erudition. Edward Grey, who would presently have to answer this damaging attack, tried to seem indifferent. But his young cheek paled when Tommy put his ruthless finger on that Foreign Office dispatch, out of which a line of print had been dropped. This a Machiavellian device that had hitherto escaped detection. Tommy's falcon eye had noted it, his relentless foot had followed up the tracks, and he had discovered, on reference to the original, that the criminally-deleted line of print embodied a reference to the Oxus. That was all. "Only the Oxus!" he said, with withering sarcasm. Then changing his tone and manner, he shook a minatory forefinger at the shrinking form of the Premier, and cried aloud, in voice strengthened with long warring with the winds on the Pamirs: "Sir, the stream of the Oxus has been entirely omitted from this paragraph."

"Poor Mr. G.!" said W. J. Lowther, present in his capacity as Ex-Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. "What with Labby one night and Tommy Bowles the next, he has a sad time of it."

"Yes," said Plunket, sole companion on the Front Bench. "It's a hard fate for a Prime Minister to stand between L. and Tommy."

Business done.—Miscellaneous talk on going into Committee of Supply.

Thursday.—Little difficulty arisen in connection with Budget. Squire faced by deficit of million and half. This he met by expedient that will be historical, as affording Jokim opportunity for a popular jape. The Squire has dropped his penny in the slot, in accordance with directions, pulls out the drawer, and finds there is something more than the sum necessary to balance the year's account. That is all very well; but there are some amateur Chancellors of the Exchequer who would do great things with the odd £20,000 or £30,000 which remains as surplus. Clark wants Graduated Income-tax; Bartley proposes Abatement on Incomes below £200; whilst Grant Lawson would let farmers off with half the proposed increase. Best of all is, Alpheus Cleophas, who would straightway abolish the tax on tea. The keen insight of Alpheus notes the little difficulty about the deficit.

"The Chancellor of the Exchequer," he observed, in his most judicial manner, "may ask me to suggest another source of revenue." The Squire pricked up his ears; the Committee sat attentive. If Alpheus Cleophas had given his great mind to consideration of the subject, it might be regarded as settled. All waited for his next utterances. "That," he continued, in steely tones, "is the Chancellor of the Exchequer's business. Mine is to carry out the Newcastle Programme." Alpheus Cleophas thereupon resumed his seat, leaving the Squire gloomily facing the dead wall of his deficit.

Business done.—Budget Bill passed report stage.

Friday Night.—Some young bloods below Gangway, on Ministerial side, in distinctly low spirits. On Tuesday night, stage of Budget Bill being taken, with ten minutes to spare, Asquith nimbly moved reference of Employers' Liability Bill to Grand Committee. Opposition, who want it referred to Select Committee, were under impression Mr. G. had promised discussion should not be taken till Thursday or Friday. Last night Chamberlain protested that they had been betrayed, and deceived. Young bloods below Gangway disposed to chuckle over this spectacle. Mr. G., on contrary, takes it seriously to heart. Having got Bill referred to Grand Committee, positively agrees to rescind Order, and begin all over again.

"It's very seldom," says the Sage of Queen Anne's Gate, in most melancholy mood, "that our side show themselves capable of doing a smart thing. When, by chance, it is accomplished, Mr. G. comes along, and coolly undoes it."

To-day, nearly two hours spent in discussing question; Bill, eventually, remitted to Grand Committee, as it had been left at midnight on Tuesday.

"Shan't play!" cries Chamberlain. "All very well for you, with your majority, to bowl us over, but you won't gain any time by it. You may take a horse to the Grand Committee, but you can't make him discuss your Bill."

Business done.—Budget Bill through.

Q. E. D.

(By a Grumpy Old Bachelor.)

"'Tis a mad world, my masters!" Grim Lombroso

Corroborates mild Shakspeare in this matter.

And, though his demonstration seems but so-and-so,

No doubt the world's as mad as any hatter,

The sweeter sex especially! 'Tis sad,

But that rule's absolute, depend upon it!

'Tis obvious all women must be mad,

Because—there is a "b" in every bonnet!

WILDER IDEAS;

Or, Conversation as she is spoken at the Haymarket.

The Disciple. Ah, that supper after the Theatre! It was the unspeakable following the unplayable. I feel so seedy!

The Master. Nay, but have I not told you that the two letters to follow "X. S." are "S. and B.?" And you have yourself said that "Soda and Brandy is the last refuge of the—digestion."

The Disciple. Hang it! I can survive everything—except the cast-off clothes of my own epigrams,—or, by the bye, death.

[Exit from this life, to prove it.

Mem. on the Behring-Sea Business.

A Forty-hours' speech by magniloquent Carter!

That Behring Tribunal has caught a Tartar!

Whatever the upshot one cannot but feel

'Tis a fine illustration of "Say and Seal!"

Though Bunsby might say of this lengthy oration,

"The Behring will lie in the application."

Appropriate Song (for anybody connected with the Tourist-Managing firm of Gaze, on hearing a Lady say that she was "going to try a Cook.")

"Ah me! she has gone from our Gaze,

That beautiful girl from our door!"

(The remainder can be added ad libitum, and sung whenever opportunity permits.)

"A Move on the Board" in the Right Direction.—Our Surprising School-Board has voted in favour of allowing its Industrial School youths to enjoy "reasonable recreation" on Sundays. Its version of Sir William Jones's distich would be something as follows:—

The morn at Church, the afternoon at play,

Will serve to while the Day of Rest away.

Apparently it looks favourably on a modicum of Sunday Cricket or Football, and does not taboo even the enormity of Lawn-tennis. As against that eminently strict Sabbatarian, Mrs. Grundy, the tennis-player may defend himself by a reference to the "services" in which he is engaged.

OBVIOUS.

"Want Anything on it, Sir?"

"Yes—confound you! More Hair!"

A SWINBURNE!

(See "Nineteenth Century.")

I.

Three times one are always three;

Waves are stormy on the sea;

Bonnets oft contain a bee;

Bear delights in bun.

The Algernon, that ever

Is linked to Charles, shall never

From poet Swinburne sever,

The three appear as one.

II.

Once he lashed and slashed the Priest,

Chopped him up to make a feast,

Called him brute and called him beast,

Black as crows are black.

But now he rhymes "together"

(See Calverly) with "weather":

He might have thrown in "heather,"

A rhyme that men call "hack."

III.

Clash the cymbal, beat the gong;

Sense is weak, but sound is strong;

Such is Swinburne's latest song,

Made by him alone.

See Watts and Knowles around us,—

James Knowles with cheques hath bound us

To write; the Muse hath found us

With Putney Hill as throne.

IV.

When the wind's Nor-West by West,

Man and beast are rarely blessed.

Sometimes I like mutton best,

Often I like veal.