_First Farmer_ (_recognising Second Farmer_). Why, 'tis Muster
FRETWAIL, surelie! didn't see it was you afore. And how be things
gettin' along with _you_, Sir, eh?
_Farmer Fretwail_ (_lugubriously_). 'Mong the middlin's, Muster
LACKADAY; 'mong the middlin's! Nothen doin' just now--nothen 't all!
_Third Farmer_ (_enviously_). Well, _you_ hevn't no call fur to cry
out, neighbour! I see you've got a likely lot o' noo 'oardins comin'
up all along your part o' the line. I wish mine wur arf as furrard, I
know thet!
_F. Fretwail._ Ah, them "Keep yer 'air on"'s, _you_ mean, RYEMOUTH. I
don't deny as they was lookin' tidy enough a week back. But just as I
was makin' ready fur to paint up "Try it on a Billiard Ball," blamed
if this yere frost didn't set in, and now theer's everything at a
standstill wi' the brushes froze 'ard in the pots!
_F. Ryemouth._ 'Tis the same down with me. Theer's a acre o' "Bunyan's
Easy Boots" as must hev a noo coat, and I cann't get nothen done to
'en till th' weather's a bit more hopen like. Don' keer _'ow_ soon we
hev a change, myself, I don't!
_F. Lackaday._ Nor yet me, so long as we don't 'ave no gales with it.
Theer was my height-acre pasture as I planted only las' Candlemas wi'
"Roopy's Lung Tonics"--wunnerful fine and tall they was, too--and
ivery one on 'en blowed down the next week!
_F. Fretwail._ Well, I 'ope theer wun't be no rain, neither, come to
that. I know I 'ad all the P's of my "Piffler's Persuasive Pillules"
fresh gold-leaved at Michaelmas, and it come on wet directly arter I
done it, and reg'lar washed the gilt out o' sight an' knowledge, it
did. Theer ain't no standin' up agen rain!
_F. Ryemouth._ I dunno as I wouldn't as lief hev rain as sun. My
"Hanti-Freckle Salves" all blistered up and peeled afoor the summer
was 'ardly begun a'most.
_F. Lackaday._ 'Tis a turr'ble 'ard climate to make 'ead against, is
ourn. I've 'eard tell as some farmers are takin' to they enamelled
hiron affairs, same as they used to hev when I wur a lad. I mind theer
wur a crop o' "Read Comic Cagmag" as lingered on years arter the paper
itself. Not as I hold with enamelling, myself--'tain't what I call
'igh farmin'--takes too much outer the land in _my_ 'pinion.
_F. Fretwail._ Aye, aye. "Rotation o' boards." Say, "Spooner's Sulphur
Syrup" fur a spring crop, follered with some kind o' soap or candles,
and p'raps cough lozengers, or hembrocation, or bakin' powder, if the
soil will bear it, arterwards--that's the system _I_ wur reared on,
and theer ain't no better, 'pend upon it!
_F. Ryemouth._ I tell 'ee what 'tis; it's time we 'ad some protection
agen these yere furrin advartisements. I was travellin' along the
Great Northern tother day, and I see theer was two or three o' them
French boards nigh in ivery field, a downright shame an' disgrace I
call it, disfigurin' the look o' the country and makin' it that
ontidy--let alone drivin' honest British boards off the land.
Goverment ought to put a stop to it; that's what _I_ say!
[Illustration]
_F. Lackaday._ They Parliment chaps don't keer _what_ becomes of us
poor farmers, they don't. Look at last General Election time. They
might ha' given our boards a turn; but not they. Most o' they
candidates did all their 'tisin' with rubbishy flags and
balloons--made in Japan, Sir, every blamed one o' them! And they
wonder British Agriculture don't prosper more!
_F. Ryemouth._ Speakin' o' queer ways o' hadvertisin', hev any on ye
set eyes on that farm o' young FULLACRANK'S? Danged if iver _I_ see
sech tomfool notions as he's took up with in all _my_ born days!
_F. Fretwail._ Why, what hev he bin up to _now_, eh?
_F. Ryemouth._ Well, I thought I shud ha' bust myself larfin' when I
see it fust. Theer ain't not a board nor a sky sign; no, nor yet a
'oarding, on the 'ole of his land!
_F. Lackaday._ Then how do he expect to get a profit out of
it?--that's what _I_ want to year.
_F. Ryemouth._ You'll 'ardly credit it, neighbours, but he's been
buryin' some o' they furrin grains, hoats and barley, an' I dunno what
not, in little 'oles about his fields, so as to make the words, "Use
FADDLER'S Non-farinaceous Food"--and the best on it is the darned
young fool expecks as 'ow it'll all sprout come next Aperl--he do
indeed, friends!
_F. Fretwail._ Flyin' in the face o' Providence, I calls it. He must
ha' gone clean out of his senses!
_F. Lackaday._ Stark starin' mad. I never heerd tell o' such
extravagance. Why, as likely as not, 'twill all die off o' the land
afore the year's out--and wheer wull he be _then?_
_F. Ryemouth._ Azackly what I said to 'en myself. "You tek my word for
it," I sez, "'twun't niver come to no good. The nateral crop for these
yere British Hisles," I told 'en, "is good honest Henglish hoak an'
canvas," I sez, "and 'tain't the action of no sensible man, nor yet no
Christian," sez I, "to go a drillin' 'oles and a-droppin' in
houtlandish seeds from Canada an' Roosha, which the sile wasn't never
intended to bear!"
_Farmers Fretwell and Lackaday._ Rightly spoke, neighbour RYEMOUTH,
'twas a true word! But theer'll be a jedgement on sech new-fangled
doin's, and, what's moor, you and I will live fur to see it afore
we're very much older!
[_They all shake their heads solemnly as scene closes in._
* * * * *
"PISTOLS BILL."--SIR, I am not much of a newspaper reader, but I
flatter myself on being a fair Shakspearian student. Judge my delight,
then, Sir, on seeing that "Pistols Bill" was recently the subject of
parliamentary discussion. I "read no more that day," but, satisfied
with the heading, at once write to you to know if "Falstaff's Bill"
(with the small item of "bread" in it) will next come under discussion?
I am, indeed, rejoiced to find that our British Parliament has now
before it a subject worthy of consideration.
Yours,
A WORSHIPPER OF THE BARD.
* * * * *
SPORTING QUERY.--Why is it pretty certain that Captain GRATWICKE, of
the National Rifle Association, will not run a horse, or if he does he
will not employ the jockey he had originally intended, for this year's
Derby? Because at a meeting of the N. R. A. it was announced that
"Captain GRATWICKE withdrew his proposed rider."
* * * * *
[Illustration: 'ARRY ON 'ORSEBACK.
_'Arry_ (_in extremities_). "WELL, GI' _ME_ A '_BIKE_'!"]
* * * * *
"LITERATURE AND ART."
[The Table of Contents of the _Yellow Book_ has two sub-titles,
"Literature" and "Art."]
No possibility of doubt
Can stop us now in finding out
What "literature" should be;
No longer dazed by rival claims,
We read a row of deathless names,
Not yet renowned, but would-be.
Not "letterpress," or other word
As modest, that would be absurd,
Contemptuous and slighting;
But "literature," which for long,
It may be right, it may be wrong,
Has meant the best of writing.
Those duller minds which once essayed
To ply the literary trade,
Poor SHAKSPEARE, DANTE, HOMER,
Did not describe their feebler work
As "literature." GIBBON, BURKE
Avoided this misnomer.
The art of writing now we learn.
Should POE or WYCHERLY return
They would not be neglected.
The corpses, tombs and worms of one,
The other's plain, outspoken fun,
Would never be rejected.
But anyone may marvel why
Sane persons read, and even buy,
A page, a word, a letter
Of this new school, yet hardly know
The works of WYCHERLY or POE,
So infinitely better.
Still literature is but a part;
These pages also teach us "art,"
Surpassing TINTORETTO.
_Allegro_, not in MILTON'S way,
But, with the modern meaning, "gay";
Not too gay, _allegretto_.
VELASQUEZ, you were but an ass,
Like REMBRANDT, TITIAN, alas!
All despicable duffers.
And ROMNEY, REYNOLDS (poor old fool!)
And GAINSBOROUGH, a simple school
Of blundering old buffers.
At last we know what art should be.
A subject which we cannot see,
In spite of all our trying;
The portraits not like anyone,
The landscapes, though not "well begun,"
"Half done" there's no denying.
And BEARDSLEY shows us now the nude;
It would not shock the primmest prude,
Or rouse the legislature.
An unclothed woman, ten feet high,
Could not make anyone feel shy;
She's "art," she is not nature.
[Illustration]
* * * * *