SCENE--_A Government Office. A_ Government Official _discovered_.
_To him enter a_ Petitioner.
_Petitioner._ I really think, Sir, that the time has arrived for a
grant.
_Official._ Impossible, my dear Sir, impossible. I can assure you the
reports are greatly exaggerated.
_Pet._ But do you know that the ports cannot properly be guarded
without further financial assistance?
_Off._ Very likely; at least, that may be the general opinion.
PET. And Science could be far more certain did the funds permit--you
are aware of that?
_Off._ Faddists never consider the cost of anything.
_Pet._ And I suppose you are aware that it is marching towards the
metropolis?
_Off._ When it gets there it will be time to consider the situation.
_Pet._ Then you have not heard of the recent affair in Westminster?
_Off._ In Westminster! Why that is close to the Houses of Parliament!
_Pet._ And if I tell you that it has been traced to the Lobby of the
Commons.
_Off._ Don't say another word, my dear Sir, not another word. What,
appeared in the House of Commons! Why, several millions shall be
granted at once!
[_Scene closes in upon preparations of the most active character._
* * * * *
ANNOUNCEMENT.--_The Heavenly Twins_ has had a success. It will
be followed by a treatise on gout by Mrs. SARAH GAMP, M.D., to be
entitled _The Uneavenly Twinge._
* * * * *
"SOCIAL TEST-WORDS."
[An American writer in _The Critic_ has an article on this
subject.]
Two "social questions" soon, we may expect.
Will, in two continents, raise a social storm:--
"Is it _correct_ to say a thing's 'correct'"?
"Is it _good form_ to use the phrase 'good form'"?
Or will both go, with those who finely feel,
The way of "gentlemanly," and "genteel"?
Shall _Punch_ attempt to settle it? No, thankee!
He rather thinks he'll leave it to the Yankee.
What matters it about _our_ played-out tongue?
(In which some good things _have_ been said and sung.)
Let those the war of "Saxon _versus_ Slang" wage,
Who have the charge of "the American Language."
That _has_ a future (HOWELL'S law, and Fate's!)
"The language of the Great United States"
(Unless through cant and coarseness it goes rotten)
The world will speak when "English" is forgotten.
* * * * *
The Coming Fall.
The Autumn comes. We welcome it--
A change from Summer heat appalling.
The birds once more begin to flit
To warmer climes, the leaves are falling.
But portent clear as clear can be,
We know that Autumn comes by reasoning
"Look all the papers that we see
Are daily stuffed with silly seasoning."
* * * * *
"A QUIET PIPE."
[Illustration]
"One touch of nature" kins To-day
With classical Arcadia.
This faun-like "nipper,"
Tree-perched, is tootling, tootling on,
Though Pan be dead, Arcadia gone,
And wild "Kazoos" are played upon
By the cheap tripper.
Half imp, half animal, behold
The 'ARRY of the Age of Gold
In this young satyr!
Lover of pleasure and of "lush"
(Silenus at the slang might blush),
Of haunted Nature's holy hush
Irreverent hater.
Mischief and music, mockery,
Swift eyes oblique in goblin glee,
And nimble finger;
Sardonic lips that slide with speed
Athwart the ranged pastoral reed;
Upon these things will fancy feed,
And memory linger.
Imp-urchin of the budding horn,
Native to Nature's nascent morn,
The same quaint pranks
You played 'midst the Arcadian shade,
By satyrs of to-day are played;
Their nether limbs in "tweeds" arrayed
Not shaggy shanks.
Not cheap tan kids and KINO'S best
Can hide the frolic faun confest,
Or coarse Silenus;
Like SPENSER'S satyrs, they attack us,
With rompings rouse, with noises rack us,
Brutes in the train of beery Bacchus,
And vulgar Venus.
'ARRY'S mouth-organ is, indeed,
Far shriekier than your shrilling reed,
Pan-fathered piper;
While his tin-whistle!--a wood-god,
Whose tympanum _that_ sound should prod,
Would start, and shriek, as though he trod
Upon a viper.
Ah, yes, my little satyr-friend,
Better Arcadia than Southend
On a Bank-Holiday!
You and your Pan-pipe _might_ appear,
And tootle, yet not rend my ear.
Or with a novel Panic fear
Upset a jolly day.
Aperch upon your branch, you carry
A certain likeness to our 'ARRY,
Yet 'tis but slight.
He could not sit, the noisy brute!
And natural music mildly flute,
Till the assembled nymphs were mute
With sheer delight.
He'd want the banjo and the bones,
And rowdy words, and raucous tones,
And roaring chorus.
Urchin, I've done you grievous wrong!
No echoes of Arcadian song
Sound in the screech the holiday throng
Rattle and roar us.
To your shrill flutings I could listen
When on the grass-blades dewdrops glisten,
And morn is ripe.
Could sit and hear your pastoral reed,
In peace, and do myself, indeed
(Fair laden with "the fragrant weed"),
"A Quiet Pipe!"
* * * * *