My Queen, Mayonnaise! Oh, give ear to thy lover--
Oh, pity his passion, my sweet Mayonnaise!
Just one glance from those eyes which (like eggs of the plover!)
Can kill--(or be cooked)--in a hundred of ways!
When first I beheld thee my thoughts flew unbidden
To dishes I'd eaten--so fair to the eye.
That I've looked and I've looked till the flavour they've hidden
Was forgot at the sight of the dish, or the pie.
[Illustration]
Oh, grant that our loves, like _potage à la crême_,
Flow gently and smoothly along through the days.
(To me it's the same, for though MABEL'S thy name,
To me thou art ever my sweet "Mayonnaise.")
White as snow are thy teeth that, like _riz à l'Anglaise_,
Shine forth between lips red as _sauce écrevisse_;
And the truffle-like beauty-spot nestles and says,
"Come and kiss next the dimple and taste, dear, of bliss!"
_Dinde de Bresse_ is not plumper nor fairer than thee;
And thy gown and its trimmings thy beauties enhance.
None so sweet in the country of Gruyère and Brie,
Where St. Sauce counts for more than St. Louis of France.
Nay, turn not your head. Never blush _portugaise_,
Be tender as _chaufroid_ of veal _à la reine_--
(A dish for the gods!--not what Englishmen praise,
Indigestible veal _qui ne "veau" pas la_ pain!)
Hot as _sauce rémoulade_ though thy temper may be--
Though caprice gall thy thoughts till thy brain's _panaché_--
I'll love thee and love thee--I swear it by THEE!--
The roast thou shalt rule, by night and by day!
My Queen, Mayonnaise, oh give ear to my prayer!
Be my love--be my wife! Come, Mayonnaise dear,
And to Paris we'll fly, and at BIGNON'S we'll fare,
And the evening we'll spend at the _Menus_-Plaisirs!
Though TORTONI'S no more, we may still taste of joy,
For I wot of a house where a goddess might eat--
Where the palate's not worried, the dishes don't cloy,
Where to eat is to live, and to drink is a treat!
Behold, Mayonnaise, I'm the slave of thy wishes--
A lover devoted who cannot do less
Than to set on thy table the daintiest dishes;
So the man thou mayst love, while the cook thou dost bless.
* * * * *
NEW ARRANGEMENT OF MOTTO FOR THE FRENCH (_Suggested
Gallus Anti-Gallicanus_).--"_Liberté, Ill-égalité, Fraternité!_"
* * * * *
A CLERICAL QUESTION
FOR EXETER.
The Special Correspondent "doing" the Church Congress at Exeter for the
_Morning Post_, when remarking on the clerical costumes in the
procession to the Cathedral, told us that among the "college caps"
_i.e._ "mortar-boards," (which of course go with the university gown or
clerical surplice,) and "birettas," (which, being Italian, are not
certainly part of English academical or ecclesiastical costume,) there
appeared a "tall hat," _i.e._ the topper of private life, which, as it
happens, is part of the Academical Master of Arts costume, and
therefore, though unbecoming in a procession of mortar-boards and
birettas, is yet unassailable from a purely academic and Cantabrigian
point of view. It may not be "Oxonian," by the way; but if the wearer
were an Oxford man he would know best. Now, if the hat, presumably
black, had been _a white one_? White is the surplice: why not the hat?
White is the emblem of purity, although, sad to say, when associated
with a hat, it used at one time to be provocative of an inquiry as to
the honesty of the wearer in regard to the surreptitious possesion of a
donkey. Has anybody anywhere ever seen a parson, whether M.A. or not, in
a white hat? Surely such a phenomenon must rank with the defunct postboy
and dead donkey. This will be one of the inquiries to which clerical
costume at ecclesiastical Exeter must naturally give rise. Perhaps the
top-hatted clergyman was a Freemason, wearing this as emblematic of a
"tiled lodge."
* * * * *
[Illustration: IN THE WILDS OF THE NORTH.
_Hungry Saxon (just arrived, with equally hungry family)._ "WELL,
NOW--ER--WHAT CAN YOU GIVE US FOR DINNER, AS SOON AS WE'VE HAD A WASH?"
_Scotch Lassie._ "OH, JIST ONYTHING!"
_H. S. (rubbing his hands in anticipation)._ "AH! NOW WE'LL HAVE A NICE
JUICY STEAK."
_Lassie._ "A--WEEL. WE'LL BE HAEIN' SOME STEAK HERE MAYBE BY THE BOAT I'
THE MORN'S MORN!"
_H. S. (a little crestfallen)._ "OH--WELL--CHOPS THEN. WE'LL SAY MUTTON
CHOPS."
_Lassie._ "OH, AY, BUT WE'VE NO BEEN KILLIN' A SHEEP THE DAY!"
[_Ends up with boiled eggs, and vows to remain
at home for the future._]
* * * * *
"ALL UP WITH THE EMPIRE!"
This is a dreadful cry to raise. Let's hope it is not anywhere near the
truth. Says the Emperor, _i.e._ the chairman of the Empire (Theatre),
"There will be only one effect should the County Council endorse the
decision of its Licensing Committee. The Empire Theatre will be at once
closed, as it would be impossible to carry it on under such absurd
restrictions." Such is the Imperial ukase issuing from Leicester Square.
And the Emperor is right. This "grandmotherly legislation," however
well-intentioned the grandmothers, may be all very well for "babes and
sucklings," but then babies in arms are not admitted to the Empire, and
those babes of older growth who have evidently been partaking too freely
of "the bottle" are strictly excluded by the I. C. O. or Imperial
Chuckers Out. No doubt London common sense will ultimately prevail, even
in the Court of the London County Council, and the Empire will soon be
going stronger than ever.
* * * * *
MOTLEY REFLECTION.--What better name for an historian than "MOTLEY"? Not
in the buffoonic sense of the term; not when, to change the spelling,
"Motley is your only _ware_"; but as implying a variety of talents as
equal as the patches in the perfect dress of a harlequin. Of course the
pen is the wand. What transformations cannot the Motley historian bring
about! A monster becomes a man, and a man a monster.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LITTLE AH SID AND THE BUTTERFLY-BEE.]
* * * * *