Deep in a murky hole,
Cavernous, untransparent, fetid, dank,
The demiurgus of the servants' hall,
The scuttle-bearing buttons, boon and blank
And grimy loads his evening load of coals,
Filled with respect for the cook's and butler's rank,
Lo, the round cook half fills the hot retreat,
Her kitchen, where the odours of the meat,
The cabbage and sweets all merge as in a pall,
The stale unsavoury remnants of the feast.
Here, with abounding confluences of onion,
Whose vastitudes of perfume tear the soul
In wish of the not unpotatoed stew,
They float and fade and flutter like morning dew.
And all the copper pots and pans in line,
A burnished army of bright utensils, shine;
And the stern butler heedless of his bunion
Looks happy, and the tabby-cat of the house
Forgets the elusive, but recurrent mouse
And purrs and dreams;
And in his corner the black-beetle seems
A plumed Black Prince arrayed in gleaming mail;
Whereat the shrinking scullery-maid grows pale,
And flies for succour to THOMAS of the calves,
Who, doing nought by halves,
Circles a gallant arm about her waist,
And takes unflinching the cheek-slap of the chaste
And giggling fair, nor counts his labour lost.
Then, beer, beer, beer.
Spume-headed, bitter, golden like the gold
Buried by cutlassed pirates tempest-tossed,
Red-capped, immitigable, over-bold
With blood and rapine, spreaders of fire and fear.
The kitchen table
Is figured with the ancient, circular stains
Of the pint-pot's bottom; beer is all the go.
And every soul in the servants' hall is able
To drink his pint or hers until they grow
Glorious with golden beer, and count as gains
The glowing draughts that presage morning pains.
* * * * *
[Illustration: QUITE UNANSWERABLE.
_Ethel._ "MAMMY DEAR! WHY DO YOU POWDER YOUR FACE, AND WHY DOES THOMAS
POWDER HIS HAIR? I DON'T DO EITHER!"]
* * * * *
EPISCOPACY IN DANGER.--_Mr. Punch_ congratulates Dr. PEROWNE, Bishop
of Worcester, on his narrow fire-escape some days ago, when his lawn
sleeves (a costume more appropriate for a garden-party than a pulpit)
caught fire. It was extinguished by a bold Churchwarden. In future let
Churchwardens be prepared with hose whenever a prelate runs any chance
of ignition from his own "burning eloquence." If _Mr. Punch's_ advice
as above is acted upon, a Bishop if "put out" may probably mutter,
"Darn your hose." But this can be easily explained away.
* * * * *
BETTER AND BETTER.--The Report last week about Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN
was that "he hopes to go to the country shortly." So do our political
parties. Sir ARTHUR cannot restrain himself from writing new and
original music at a rapid pace. This, is a consequence of his having
taken so many composing draughts.
* * * * *
"OUR BOOKING OFFICE."--Not open this week, as the Baron has been
making a book. Interesting subject, "On the Derby and Oaks." Being
in sporting mood, the Baron adopts as his motto King SOLOMON's
words of wisdom, out of his (King SOLOMON's) own mines of golden
treasures,--"And of book-making there is no end." He substitutes
"book-making" for "making of books," and with the poetic CAMPBELL
(HERBERT of that ilk) he sings, "it makes no difference."
* * * * *
AFTER THE EVENT.--Last Sunday week was the one day in the year when
ancient Joe Millers were permissible. It was "Chestnut Sunday." We
didn't like to mention it before.
* * * * *
The Royal General Theatrical Fund Dinner, held last Thursday, will be
remembered in the annals of the Stage as "ALEXANDER's Feast."
* * * * *