PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 109, November 9, 1895.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
FIRST IN THE FIELD.
Weather breaks. Delightful prospect! Going strong!
ROUNDABOUT READINGS.
I have been staying recently at Oxford, the home of perennial youth—and of innumerable dogs. In fact, it was the canine aspect of Oxford that impressed me on this occasion more than any other. Nearly every self-respecting undergraduate keeps his dog, and the mediæval, academic look of the place is pleasantly tempered by these careless, happy, intrusive, "warlike wearers of the wagging tail," who career up the High, make the meadows to resound with their barkings, and bring the bicycled rowing coach to eternal smash on the tow-path. There being, roughly speaking, some 3,000 undergraduates, the floating population of Oxford dogs cannot be less than 2,500.
Perhaps, however, the most remarkable thing about Oxford dogs is the variety of their migrations. Some dogs, of course, remain constant to one owner. Others spend their lives under the general ownership of the whole University. These know the best rooms for bones from term to term; they can track the perfumed ash-pan to its lair, and indulge in hideous orgies of fish-heads and egg-shells. The most prominent representative of this class is, of course, Oriel Bill, who has, perhaps, the most gorgeously ugly and tenderly pathetic face ever granted by nature to a bull-dog.
But ordinary dogs, though they remain nominally the possession of one original owner, migrate from sub-owner to deputy-sub-owner, and thence to pro-deputy-sub-owner, with a wonderful rapidity. For instance, I once gave a retriever puppy to an Oxford friend. This is the life-history of that amiable animal, so far as I can gather it up to a recent date.
A. (my friend) kept the dog faithfully for a term. As he was going down, it occurred to A. that Ponto would be happier in Oxford than in London, so when the following term began, Ponto, still in his gay puppyhood, was once more found in Oxford under a different master, B. B. kept Ponto in his lodgings in the High. They were prettily furnished; there were cretonnes, and embroidered cushions, and handsome rugs. One day Ponto was left in solitary charge for one short hour. Upon B.'s return he found that remarkable dog sleeping soundly, with a well-gnawed slipper under each of his forepaws, amidst a ruin of tattered stuffs. Not a hanging, not a cushion, not a rug remained entire. This was too much, and Ponto promptly became the fleeting property of C., a Balliol man, who changed his name to Jowler (this happened in the time of the late Master), and taught him to worry cats.
After three weeks of glorious scrimmages amongst the surrounding feline inhabitants, Jowler took it into his head to get lost for a week. C. mourned him, but took no further steps when he found him living under the protection of D., a Brasenose man, totally unknown to A., the original owner. D. took him home in the vac, broke him to the gun, imbued him with an extraordinary fondness for beer, and re-christened him "Hebby."
At the beginning of the following term Hebby once more turned up in Oxford, being then almost a full-grown dog. He again lived in lodgings, this time in Turl Street. By this time he had acquired luxurious habits, and was particularly fond of taking his naps in any bed that might be handy. Having on four separate occasions covered himself with mud and ensconced himself in the bed of the landlady, he was not as popular as a dog of his parts ought to have been. But the culminating point was reached when Hebby, having stolen a cold pheasant and the remains of a leg of mutton, took the bones to the bed of his master, into which he tucked himself. After this he was passed onto E., a Magdalen man, and was called The Pre.
I cannot follow his wanderings after this point in any detail. I know he has gone the round of the Colleges twice. He has been a boating dog, a cricketing dog, an athletic dog, and a footballing dog. He has been a canine member of Vincent's Club; he has waited outside the Union unmoved while a debate, on which the fate of the Ministry hung, was in progress. He has been smuggled into College, he has disgraced himself, and caused a change of carpets in nearly every lodging in Oxford. He has lived near New College under the name of Spoo, has been entered at Christ Church as Fleacatcher (a delicate compliment to distinguished oarsman), and has frequented the precincts of the Radcliffe Infirmary, and been joyfully hailed as Pego by budding doctors. I believe he is still a resident member of the University, but his exact place of residence is more than I can tell. His original owner endeavoured to trace him not long ago. He got as far as Lincoln College, and there lost the clue.
This, I am sure, is no solitary example. Hundreds of Oxford dogs are at this very time undergoing the same vicissitudes, through a similar Odyssey of wanderings. And probably, if the truth were known, there are Cambridge dogs in no better case.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
"I like it muchly," quoth the Baron, finishing Baring Gould's Noëmi:—
"This scribe for publishers ne'er writes in vain;
His pen prolific, Baring Goulden grain."
And Noëmi, if a trifle less Gouldish than Weymanish, is a tale of stirring times, when to plunder, hack, stab, and string up a few unfriendly fellow-creatures, who would have done the same by you if the turn of luck had been theirs, came in the day's work; while to roast an offender whole "all alive O," just for once and away, was, so to speak, "quite a little 'oliday," as a special and exceptional treat. And all these jocular barbarities were occasioned, not by any religious fervour, or by intolerant persecuting zeal, excusing itself on the score of anxiety for future spiritual welfare of victim, but simply out of pure cussedness, and for the humour of the thing, much as, now-a-days, the bowie-knife and the cord are used "down West." Personally, the Baron gives not full credit to all these tales of mediæval cruelty, but the "scenes and properties" serve an excellent artistic purpose, and so he loves them as he loves such romances as those of She who must be obeyed, and Treasure Island. Therefore here's to the lass Noëmi, and, as she herself would of course say, in response to the toast, "You'll like me the more you Know-o'-me."
Another capital story by Frank Barrett, entitled A Set of Rogues, is strongly recommended by the faculty; the faculty in question being that of deciding upon what sort of book is certain to suit the tastes of the majority of romance-readers, who, aweary of the plodding every-day business in this "so-called nineteenth century," like to get away from it occasionally and live, just for a change, in the seventeenth. Stirring tale this of A Set of Rogues, without a dull chapter in it: and just enough human sentiment in it to soften down the roguery. In fact, so skilfully is the tale told that the reader will find himself siding with "their knavish tricks"; for the hearts of these rogues are in the right place, though their bodies very seldom were, and their heads never, in the noose. But "no noose is good noose," and so let the honest reader procure the book from Innes & Co. of Bedford Street; he will come to love the scoundrels, and will ask, with the Baron, "What on earth became of that captivating Don Sanchez?" and another query, "Was the villainous old Steward really killed?" Perhaps the author is reserving the Don and the Steward for another romance. If so, "What will he do with 'em?" asks the
Interested Baron de B.-W.
THE LAST SALUTE!
Tommy Atkins (to Commander-in-Chief H.R.H. The Dook of C-mbr-dge) "Sorry to lose you, Sir! You have always been a very good Friend to us!"
"In this, his first Army Order, Lord Wolseley wishes, in the name of the Army, to assure His Royal Highness of the affectionate regard of all who have served under him during his long period of office."—London Gazette, November 1, 1895.]
HOPE DEFERRED.
Old Gent (pulling up, not fancying the timber). "Confound it all! Surely One of 'em 'll manage to Break the Top Rail."
THE TWO SOLDIERS' TEARS.
(Some way after Thomas Haynes Bayly's "Soldier's Tear.")
When at the porch he turned,
To take a last fond look.
(Human emotion will have way
In Tommy or in Duke.)
He listened to the tramp,
So familiar to his ear;
And the soldier gripped his good old sword,
And wiped away a tear.
Not far from that same porch
A Tommy stood at ease,
But, as he saw, his head braced up,
And he stiffened at the knees.
"Sorry to lose you, Sir!
You've been our friend, and dear!"
That Tommy cried, and with his cuff,
He wiped away a tear.
Both turned, and left the spot,
Oh! do not deem them weak,
For dauntless was each soldier's heart,
Though a tear bedewed each cheek.
As Punch gives hearty thanks,
At the close of a long career,
To the gallant Duke, he also turns,
And—wipes away a tear!
Seasonable Dialogue.
First Dissatisfied Sportsman. What do you think of the present season, so far?
Second Dis. Sport. (with a terrific "cold id 'is dose"). Der preselt seasult? You mead der cubbig season.
First Dis. Sport. (correcting him). Well, the present season is the "cubbing season."
A YELL FROM THE YELLOW.
The "Yellow Dwarf" (in the Yellow Book), in an almost incoherent scream against the literary ladies and gentlemen of the day, wails as follows:—
"The bagman and the stockbroker's clerk (and their lady wives and daughters) 'ave usurped his (the 'gentleman and scholar''s) plyce, and his influence on readers; and the pressman has picked up his fallen pen—the pressman, Sir, or the press-woman!... With an illiterate reading mob howling at our doors, and a tribe of pressmen scribbling at our tables, what, in the name of the universe, can we expect? What we get; not so?"
Well, "what we get" is (among other things) the above shriek of the "Yellow Dwarf," who seems to do his full share of the "howling" he attributes to the "reading mob," and who, indeed, might be better described as the "Yeller Dwarf."
On a Sympathetic Actress.
Air—"The Widow Malone."
To the Garrick Theayter you'll roam,
You'll roam,
Where Marion Terry's at home,
At home.
She melts all the hearts
Of the swains in such parts
As she plays in a play by Jerome,
Jerome.
Not much of a play by Jerome.
Why should "All Souls," Oxford, be always a distinguished college? Because it could not be "all souls" without "somebodies" in it.
BENN AND JIM.
A Pathetic (L. C. C.) Ballad.
[See recent controversy between Mr. Benn and Lord James in the Times.]
Benn, an L. C. C. fighter bold,
Was used to war's alarms;
And when Jim knocked him off his legs,
He wouldn't lay down his arms.
He cried. "I will not quit the field,
Though Hereford Jim may shoot;
And though to stand on I've no leg,
I will not budge a foot!"
Now Hereford Jim, a gunner smart,
Riddled Benn fore and aft.
Cried Benn, "Although my decks he's swept,
He has not sunk my craft."
Says Jim, "Those shanks are not live limbs,
They're only party pegs!
You have as wooden members quite,
As represent your legs!"
"Alive—and kicking, still am I!"
Says Benn, with huge elation;
"But if you think my legs are dead,
Let's have—an arbitration!"
Says Jim, "They are mere timber-toes,
Though as live limbs you sport 'em,
Though arbitrators have their use,
They do not sit post-mortem!
"A coroner sits on a corpse,
To find out how he died."
The Times then "sat on" Benn, and found
A mistake in his inside.
The "Rubber Industry."—Evidently whist.
LEAVES FROM THE HIGHLAND JOURNAL OF TOBY, M.P.
FIRST LEAF.—THE THING TO DO IN SCOTLAND.
Quiverfield, Haddingtonshire, Monday.—You can't spend twenty-four hours at Quiverfield without having borne in upon you the truth that the only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff. (On other side of Tweed they call it golf. Here we are too much in a hurry to get at the game to spend time on unnecessary consonant.) The waters of what Victor Hugo called "The First of the Fourth" lave the links at Quiverfield. Blue as the Mediterranean they have been in a marvellous autumn, soon to lapse into November. We can see the Bass Rock from the eighth hole, and can almost hear the whirr of the balls skimming with swallow flight over the links at North Berwick.
Prince Arthur here to-day, looking fully ten years younger than when I last saw him at Westminster. Plays through live-long day, and drives off fourteen miles for dinner at Whittinghame, thinking no more of it than if he were crossing Palace Yard. Our host, Waverley Pen, is happy in possession of links at his park gates. All his own, for self and friends. You step through the shrubbery, and there are the far-reaching links; beyond them the gleaming waters of the Forth. Stroll out immediately after breakfast to meet the attendant caddies; play goff till half-past one; reluctantly break off for luncheon; go back to complete the fearsome foursome; have tea brought out to save time; leave off in bare time to dress for dinner; talk goff at dinner; arrange matches after dinner; and the new morning finds the caddies waiting as before.
Decidedly the only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff.
Deeside, Aberdeenshire, Wednesday.—Fingen, M.P., once told an abashed House of Commons that he "owned a mountain in Scotland." Find, on visiting him in his ancestral home, that he owns a whole range. Go up one or two of them; that comparatively easy; difficulty presents itself when we try to get down. Man and boy, Fingen has lived here fifty years; has not yet acquired knowledge necessary to guide a party home after ascending one of his mountains. Walking up in cool of afternoon, we usually get home sore-footed and hungry about midnight.
Fingen's Finger.
"Must be going now," says Fingen, M.P., when we have seen view from top of mountain. "Just time to get down before dark. But I know short cut; be there in a jiffy. Come along."
We come along. At end of twenty minutes find ourselves in front of impassable gorge.
"Ha!" says Fingen, M.P., cheerily. "Must have taken wrong turn; better go back and start again."
All very well to say go back; but where were we? Fingen, M.P., knows; wets his finger; holds it up.
"Ha!" he says, with increased joyousness of manner; "the wind is blowing that way, is it? Then we turn to the left."
Another twenty minutes stumbling through aged heather. Path trends downwards.
"That's all right," says Fingen, M.P.; "must lead on to the road."
Instead of which we nearly fall into a bubbling burn. Go back again; make bee line up acclivity nearly as steep as side of house; find ourselves again on top of mountain.
"How lucky!" shouts Fingen, M.P., beaming with delight.
As if we had been trying all this time to get to top of mountain instead of to bottom!
Wants to wet his finger again and try how the wind lies. We protest. Let us be saved that at least. Fingen leads off in quite another direction. By rocky pathway which threatens sprains; through bushes and brambles that tear the clothes; by dangerous leaps from rock to rock he brings us to apparently impenetrable hedge. We stare forlorn.
"Ha!" says Fingen, M.P., more aggressively cheerful than ever. "The road is on other side. Thought we would come upon it somewhere." Somehow or other we crawl through.
"Nothing like having an eye to the lay of country," says Fingen, M.P., as we limp along the road. "It's a sort of instinct, you know. If I hadn't been with you, you might have had to camp out all night on the mountain."
The Crack of the Whip('s Pate!)
They don't play goff at Deeside. They bicycle. Down the long avenue with spreading elm trees deftly trained to make triumphal arches, the bicycles come and go. Whipsroom, M.P., thinks opportunity convenient for acquiring the art of cycling. W. is got up with consummate art. Has had his trousers cut short at knee in order to display ribbed stockings of rainbow hue. Loose tweed-jacket, blood-red necktie, white felt hat with rim turned down all round, combine to lend him air of a Drury Lane bandit out of work. Determined to learn to ride the bicycle, but spends most of the day on his hands and knees, or on his back. Looking down avenue at any moment pretty sure to find W. either running into the iron fence, coming off sideways, or bolting head first over the handles of his byke. Get quite new views of him fore-shortened in all possible ways, some that would be impossible to any but a man of his determination.
"Never had a man stay in the house," says Fingen, M.P., ruefully, "who so cut up the lawn with his head, or indented the gravel with his elbows and his knees."
Evidently I was mistaken about goff. Cycling's the thing in Scotland.
Goasyoucan, Inverness-shire, Saturday.—Wrong again. Not goff nor cycling is the thing to do in Scotland. It's stalking. Soon learn that great truth at Goasyoucan. The hills that encircle the house densely populated with stags. To-day three guns grassed nine, one a royal. This the place to spend a happy day, crouching down among the heather awaiting the fortuitous moment. Weather no object. Rain or snow out you go, submissive to guidance and instruction of keeper; by comparison with whose tyranny life of the ancient galley-slave was perfect freedom.
Consummation of human delight this, to lie prone on your face amid the wet heather, with the rain pattering down incessantly, or the snow pitilessly falling, covering you up flake by flake as if it were a robin and you a babe in the wood. Mustn't stir; mustn't speak; if you can conveniently dispense with the operation, better not breathe. Sometimes, after morning and greater part of afternoon thus cheerfully spent, you may get a shot; even a stag. Also you may not; or, having attained the first, may miss the latter. At any rate you have spent a day of exhilarating delight.
Stalking is evidently the thing to do in Scotland. It's a far cry to the Highlands. Happily there is Arthur's Seat by Edinburgh Town where beginners can practise, and old hands may feign delight of early triumphs.
What the Sultan has a strong objection to do.—"Send round the Hatt."
OUR NEW KNIGHT HOSPITALLER.
["We must regard it (Guy's Hospital) as an institution aiming at the most Christian ends, of elementary necessity, never too rich for the work it had to do, and now, through no fault of its own, cut down to one half of its means."—Mr. Gladstone's Letter on Guy's Hospital.]
"'Twere good you do so much for charity."
"Merchant of Venice," Act IV., Sc. 1.
Knight of St. John or Malta? Nay!
But needs of a less knightly day
The new Knight Hospitaller pleads.
Once foremost in the press of fight.
We find to-day the good grey knight
Militant still—for human needs.
No more with levelled lance in rest,
But, the Cross still upon his breast,
A knightly almoner is he.
Not as of old with flashing steel,
But flashing words, he makes appeal
In the great Cause of—Charity.
Punch seconds it with warm goodwill.
It sends a most unwelcome chill
Through every generous heart to think
That the great gift of Thomas Guy
Should suffer stint, or seem to die,
Because lands fail and rentals sink.
One hundred empty beds! Whilst wealth
Swells in the west, and shaken health
And sudden anguish scourge the east?
It must not be, or how may we
Who hold full stock and store in fee
Enjoy the coming Christmas feast?
Think! Fifteen hundred poor kept out,
And left in lonely pain and doubt,
Because the funds of Guy's so fail;
The sufferer's peace, the surgeon's skill
Checked, because Charity feels a chill!
Punch on his Public would prevail
To step into the breach, and brim
Guy's store again, as urged by him
Who now no party plea prefers,
But a far wider, higher plea,
In the great cause of Charity,
Newest of Knight Hospitallers!*
* "Those who respond to Mr. Gladstone's appeal will not merely be ministering to the needs of a charity, and supplying the wants of the poor, but they will be strengthening the hands of the medical profession in its life-long battle with disease, and will be assisting to secure the blessings of health to all who are in danger of being deprived of them."—The Times.
A Member of the Public who may be expected to attend the Lecture on Criminal Law.
[The Lord Chief Justice suggests the opening of the Lectures on Legal Subjects to the general public.]
Mr. K-r H-rd-e.—No one has ever looked upon him other than as a perfectly harmless low-comedian with a highly developed mania for caps and knickerbockers. And this, probably, is the reason why we are told, in the Liverpool Courier's "Labour Notes," that he is "an influential gentleman in England and very much run after for lecturing purposes." But alas! it appears—from the same source of information—that, in the United States, "the running after" is all on the erewhile West Ham representative's side; though, being "rationally" garbed, this ought not to cause him much inconvenience. It is almost pathetic to learn that the poor gentleman was in the position of a Mahomet before a mountain of Fall River miners, from whom he was compelled to ask permission before a lecture could be arranged. Ichabod! or—more appropriately—Knicker-bod!
THAMES TALK.—A Forecast for 1896.
How greatly improved are the steamboats. They seem to be as good as any at home and abroad.
Quite so. They are simply floating palaces. You could find nothing to equal them in America.
So convenient to have a better class for those who can afford a few extra pence. Without this, we should have never seen that duchess chatting away with the countess in her own right.
Yes; and so pleasant to be able to get five o'clock tea nicely served by trim waitresses in a saloon upholstered with satins and ormolu.
And the duke and the viscount seem quite comfortable in the luxuriously furnished smoke-room.
Well, the sight is not surprising considering that the designer went to the Junior United Service Club for his model.
And yet the artisans are contented with their part of the vessel. It certainly was a happy thought to supply their cabins with bagatelle boards, dominoes, and a five guinea compendium of games.
In spite of the size of the vessels the boats travel at a rapid rate. No doubt this is attributable to the magnificent engines.
Of course. And really it is very pleasant to travel from Chelsea to Kew to the sounds of a first-rate Hungarian Band.
The commissariat, too, has not been neglected. The luncheon on board is worthy of the best traditions of the buffet at Calais. And as cheap. Only fancy, half-a-crown for three courses and dessert!
Yes; and that meal seems equally popular with the sixpenny tea (with cakes and crumpets) prepared for the patrons of the fore-part.
The fares are also very low. Even in these hard times it would be unreasonable to complain of overcharge when the ticket between the Temple and Hampton Court is only fourpence.
It is marvellous that no one tried the plan before of starting boats from half the piers for all the rest at five minutes interval.
And yet they are crowded with travellers. Really the Thames seems to be a very popular highway.
Naturally, when the passengers are sheltered from the weather—too much sun or a plethora of rain—at all times.
And I suppose London may thank the County Council for establishing comfort with economy, and luxury with rapidity?
Oh dear, no! If the metropolis had trusted to that dilatory body, it would have had to wait indeed!
Then to whom are the five million inhabitants of the chief city of the universe indebted for these sweet boons?
To an ordinary man of business who knows how to cater for the multitude, and has the courage to rely upon increased income as a means of meeting additional outlay.—He merits a statue.—He deserves more—hearty praise by the Press when he discards his incognito.
ROBING-ROOM RUMOURS.
In consequence of the great success of the "Smoking at Home" at the Inner Temple, it is proposed to start a circus at the Middle.
The suggested "Musical Dinner" at Lincoln's Inn is now under consideration, and will probably see the gas-light before the end of the term.
The numerous professional engagements of Sir Fr-nk L-ckw-d will not prevent him from appearing as The "Lightning Cartoonist" at the coming Gray's Inn Matinée.
Should the anticipated "Free-and-easy" come off at the Middle, the Lord Chancellor is not unlikely to give an exhibition of swordsmanship. The distinguished Peer is said to be the finest living exponent of the sword and dagger fight.
The Lord Chief Justice is expected before Christmas to repeat his recent interesting address, with the assistance of a piano and dissolving views. A troupe of first-rate banjoists from the Three-in-a-Bar Musical Society may possibly be found among the incidentals.
There is no truth in the report that at the next "Five o'clock tea with pipes" at Lincoln's Inn Sir 'Arry 'Awkins will warble "Down Newmarket Way."
In spite of the social entertainments in contemplation, the Examiners of the Council of Legal Education will perform their duties. At present there is no intention of adding another subject to the pass for admission to the Bar. In the future it may happen that all students will have to take up "the duties and responsibilities of proprietors of music halls."
From "The Pottery," Haymarket.—The "Tree-ilby Tree-o," G. D. M.-cum-P. P.-et-B. T., beg to state that they are all delighted with "the reception" of the piece, and still more with "the receipts."
"Ex Pede."—Miss Baird appears as the model Trilby without shoes or stockings. Such realism is a novelty which unfortunately prevents this young actress from ever losing her identity, as, though the upper portion of her figure is "very Trilby," her feet are most decidedly Baird.
Another Theatrical Benefit.—"The Benefit of the Doubt."
TRUE HUMILITY.
Right Reverend Host. "I'm afraid you've got a bad Egg, Mr. Jones!"
The Curate. "Oh no, my Lord, I assure you! Parts of it are excellent!"
IN PITY FOR SPRAGUE.
[A fund is being raised in aid of the widow of the fireman Sprague, who met his death gallantly in the late explosion in the Strand. "Sprague was a young man, under 30 years of age, of good character and promise. His widow has one child, and is soon again to become a mother."—Times. Any subscriptions forwarded to Mr. W. O. Reader, Vestry Clerk, 151, Strand, towards the relief fund, will be thankfully received and acknowledged.]
Air—Prowse's "City of Prague."
We dwell in a city fear-haunted,
And danger from fire is our lot;
Great pluck in our firemen is wanted,
And that they have certainly got.
We've stalwart young heroes in plenty
To fight with the fiery-tongued flame.
But to die when scarce past five-and-twenty,
Seems sad, though like Sprague, you die game.
Our duty to-day seems quite certain
The aim, of the fund, is not vague;
Punch hopes human pity will stir the whole city
To honour the memory of Sprague.
In he dashed, though the hugh wall was frowning,
The wall which fell, crushing on him;
Friends toiled, as to rescue the drowning.
Mates dug, though with hope growing dim.
They found him, death's flood bravely breasting,*
Ten hours of lone anguish he bore.
Now, alas! the brave fireman is resting,
To fight London's fire-fiend no more.
Though honour o'er him drops the curtain,
Our duty to his is not vague.
Subscribe, London city, in pride, and proud pity,
And love of your brave fireman, Sprague!
* "Covered with dirt, haggard, and hardly recognisable for the vigorous man who had dashed into the court ten hours before; he smiled faintly, and whispered words of gratitude and hope. 'I am so glad you have come,' he said. 'I shall be all right again soon.'"—Daily News.
"I PROMESSI SPOSI."
Princess Maud and the Danish Prince Charley.
(With Apologies to the Memory of the great Author of "Maud.")
["Her Royal Highness Princess Maud of Wales, youngest daughter of the Prince and Princess of Wales, is engaged to be married to His Royal Highness Prince Charles, second son of the Crown Prince and Crown Princess of Denmark. The Queen has received the news of the betrothal of her dear granddaughter with much pleasure, and given her ready consent."—From "Court Circular."]
I.
Words that brighten the season,
As winter's gloom is falling,
"Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud!"
Loyal Britons are calling.