[Mr. BARTLEY protested in the House of Commons against Mr. W.
O'BRIEN'S conduct in dining in the House with strangers at
a table reserved for Members. Mr. O'BRIEN explained that Mr.
AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN had taken a table which he (Mr.
O'BRIEN) had previously reserved. The question is under the
consideration of the Kitchen Committee.]
A crisis! A crisis! The man is a fool
Who desires at this moment to talk of Home Rule.
Though we know that in Egypt a something is rotten,
The intrigues of young ABBAS are straightway forgotten;
And we think just as much of the woes of Siam
As we care for that coin of small value--a _dam_.
For a crisis has come, and the House is unable
To detach its attention from questions of table.
Their tongues and their brains all the Members exhaust in
Discussing the rights of O'BRIEN and AUSTEN.
They debate in an access of anger and gloom
As to who took from which what was kept, and for whom.
The letters they wrote, the retorts they made tartly
Are detailed--gracious Powers preserve us--by BARTLEY,
Who can bend--only statesmen are formed for such feats--
His mind, which is massive, to questions of seats,
And discuss with a zest which is equal to TANNER'S,
The absorbing details of a matter of manners.
Mr. BARTLEY you like to be heard than to hear
Far more, but, forgive me, a word in your ear.
Though we greatly rejoice when all records are cut
By your steam-hammer mind in thus smashing a nut,
Yet we think it were well if the Kitchen could settle
In private this question of pot _versus_ kettle.
And in future, when dog-like men fight for a bone,
Take a hint, Mr. BARTLEY, and leave them alone.
* * * * *
LATEST FROM THE NATIONAL BOXING SALOON (_with the kind regards of the_
SPEAKER).--"The nose has it, and so have the eyes!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: SAINT IZAAK AND HIS VOTARIES.
_Mr. Punch's Tercentenary Tribute to the Author of "The Compleat
Angler."_
[August 9th this year is the 300th anniversary of the birth,
in the ancient house at Stafford, of IZAAK WALTON.]
]
Good IZAAK of the diction quaint,
The calendar holds many a fellow
Less worthy to be dubbed a saint
(For gentle heart and wisdom mellow)
Than thou, the Angler's genial guide
By wandering brook and river wide.
"I care not, I, to fish in seas,"
So chirped WILL BASSE, thy favourite singer,
"Fresh rivers best my mind do please."
Bard-loving quoter, brave back-bringer
Of England's pastoral scenes and songs,
All England's praise to thee belongs.
Thy Book bewitches more than those
Who are sworn "Brothers of the Angle."
Scents of fresh pastures, wilding rose,
All trailing flowers that intertangle
In England's hedgerows, seem to fill
Its pages and our pulses thrill.
We see the stretch "up Totnam Hil,"
Toward the "Thatcht House" that fresh May morning;
We hear VIATOR praise the skill
That he was first inclined to scorning;
We mark the Master's friendly proffer
Change him to votary from scoffer.
Those "many grave and serious men,"
He chid as "men of sowr complexions,"
If they resist his graphic pen,
His pastorals sweet, his quaint reflections,
Must have indeed mere souls of earth,
To beauty blind, untuned to mirth.
The "poor-rich-men" he pitied so
All Anglers, and wise hearts, must pity.
His song's queer "trollie lollie loe,"
Sounds cheerily as the blackbird's ditty,
To men in populous city pent,
Who know the Angler's calm content.
And even those who know it not,
Nor care--poor innocents!--to know it,
Whom ne'er the Fisher's favoured lot
Has thrilled as sportsman, fired as poet,
May love to turn the leaves, and halt on
The quaint conceits of honest WALTON.
The man whose only "quill" 's a pen,
Who keeps no rod and tackle handy,
May hear thy "merry river" when
"It bubbles, dances, and grows sandy."
May sit beneath thy beech, and wish
To catch thy voice, if not thy fish:
May love to sit or stroll with thee,
Amidst the grassy water-meadows;
The culverkeys and cowslips see,
Dancing in summer's lights and shadows;
And watch yon youngster gathering stocks
Of lilies and of lady-smocks:
To hear thy milkmaid, MAUDLIN, troll
Choice morsels from KIT MARLOW sweetly;
And MAUDLIN'S mother,--honest soul,
Whose "golden age" has fled so fleetly!--
Respond with RALEIGH'S answering rhyme
Of wisdom past its active prime:
To take a draught of sound old ale--
What tipple wholesomer or sweeter?--
At the old ale-house in the vale,
With CORYDON and brother PETER;
And share the "Musick"'s mellow bout,
As they at supper shared the trout.
Then to that cleanly room and sweet--
After a gay good night to all--
Lavender scent about the sheet,
And "ballads stuck about the wall,"
And fall on sleep devoid of sorrow,
With fair dreams filled of sport to-morrow.
What wonder WALTON'S work has charmed
Three centuries? That his bait has captured
The grey recluse, the boy switch-armed,
The sage, the statesman, bard enraptured,
Gay girl--are fish her only spoil?--
And grave Thames-haunting son of toil!
Thy votaries, good Saint IZAAK, are
"All who love _quietnesse_, and _vertue_."
Is there on whom such praises jar?
Well, join for once--it scarce can hurt you--
In _Punch's_ Tribute; fortune wishing
To gentle souls who "go a-fishing!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: GUESSES AT TRUTH.
_Mr. Laidislaw._ "HANDSOME WOMAN OUR HOSTESS--DON'T YOU THINK? BY THE
BYE, WHAT DO YOU SUPPOSE HER AGE IS?"
_Miss St. Cyr._ "WELL, I SHOULD FANCY, WHAT THE ILLUSTRATED
BIOGRAPHIES CALL 'PRESENT DAY!'"]
* * * * *
"HERE'S TO THE CLIENT."
Here's to the client who makes his own will,
And here's to his friends who dispute it;
Here's to the case which is drawn up with skill,
And the time that it takes to refute it.
Here's to the felon whose crimes are a score,
And here's to the wretch with but one, Sirs;
Fraudulent trustees, directors galore,
And the various things that they've done, Sirs.
Here's to the costs which will mount up apace,
When the action comes on for a hearing,
"Retainers," "refreshers," and all of their race,
Which they lavish on us for appearing.
Here's to the Law, with its hand just and strong,
Which has grown from the earliest ages;
And here's to this lay, which we hope's not too long
For _Punch_ to put into his pages.
* * * * *
NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SAYING (_adapted for exclusive swells who cannot
enjoy even a Sport when it becomes "so common, don't-cha!"_).--What is
Everybody's pleasure is Nobody's pleasure!
* * * * *