[A "lady palmist" has been fined ten shillings and costs for
fortune-telling.--_Daily News._]
She lived, this prophetess, too late,
And plied an art that's out of date,
Another age had seen her gain
Her reputation not in vain,
Had seen a crowd respectful wait
Upon the arbiter of fate,
While kings and rulers brought her gold
To have futurity unrolled!
In some Greek court where fountains play,
Or dwelling by the Appian way,
The prophetess would surely be
Besought by each Leuconoe,
And if for these she sometimes drew
A future pleasanter than true,
At least she gave them, you'll confess,
Anticipated happiness!
Ah! times are changed, and nowadays
Such divination hardly pays;
There comes no more the crowds that used,
The fees are terribly reduced!
And if our policemen caught the Sphinx
Propounding "Missing Words," one thinks
Our British justice could not fail
To send her speedily to gaol!
* * * * *
IMPY AND GARRY.--Colonel SAUNDERSON, "speaking as an Irishman" (did
anyone ever hear the gallant Colonel speak as an Englishman?), didn't
object to being classed among his countrymen, whom Mr. BRODRICK had
styled "impecunious and garrulous." He might have quoted the name
of one of their own national airs as emphasizing, by descriptively
[]abreviating, these two epithets, namely, "_Garryowen_." "_Garry_" is
clearly the short for "_garrulous_," and "_owen_" is the oldest form
of _"not payin'_."
* * * * *
[Illustration: A "TURKISH OCCUPATION;" OR, VISIONS IN SMOKE.
["The KHEDIVE has been the object of numerous marks
of personal friendship on the SULTAN'S part."--_Times
Correspondent at Constantinople._
]
_Sultan (amicably)._ Welcome, dear ABBAS! Take a seat, and a
pipe--take anything you have a mind to, and "make yourself at home,"
as the accursed Giaours say.
_Khedive (squatting)._ Thanks, my dear--Suzerain! Yildiz Kiosk feels,
indeed, very home-like. More than my own Cairo does--when CROMER'S
there. This Nichan-i-Imtiaz Order is really very becoming. Pity you
and I, ABDUL, have to take "orders" from anybody west of Alexandria!
_Sultan (sotto voce)._ And why _should_ we?
_Khedive (sulkily)._ Well, the sons of burnt fathers _have_ got the
upper hand of the Faithful, somehow--confound them!
_Sultan (reading)._ "Intelligence received here of late, from
trustworthy quarters in Egypt, indicates that the KHEDIVE'S journey is
to be made the point of departure for a _grande action diplomatique_
against British influence in the Valley of the Nile." That's from the
_Times_, my ABBAS!
_Khedive (moodily)._ Humph! Wish the Egyptian quarters _were_
"trustworthy." _Grande action diplomatique?_ Quite makes one's mouth
water!
_Sultan._ _Doesn't_ it? The same infernal--but influential--news-sheet
says: "The young KHEDIVE knows that not only would he meet with a
personally kindly reception, but that the grievances he is known to
be anxious to pour out would fall on ready ears." There, at least,
the Giaour "rag" is right. Pour away, my ABBAS! "Keep your eye on
your father--or Suzerain--and he will pull you through."
[_Winks and whiffs._
_Khedive (whiffing and winking)._ Will he, though? And that Turkish
Bodyguard?
_Sultan (warmly)._ At your service at any moment, my dear ABBAS!
_Khedive (smoking furiously with closed eyes)._ Ah! if they would only
let me alone, let me rule my subjects in my own Oriental way--as you
do yours in Armenia, for example--then, indeed, I could have a good
time, and plenty of treasure.
_Sultan (significantly)._ Out of which my little formal trifle of
Tribute might come easily and _regularly_--eh, ABBAS?
_Khedive._ Quite so, Padishah! Bah! These brutal, blundering
Britishers don't understand the Art of Government as adapted to
Eastern Ideas.
_Sultan (soothingly)._ Well, never mind, ABBAS. We'll lay our heads
together, anon, now you _are_ here, and--who knows? Meanwhile, let's
enjoy ourselves. Something like a "Turkish Occupation" this--eh? And
how do you like this Turkish tobacco?
_Khedive (blowing vigorously)._ Smokes easily, and makes a big cloud.
In which I fancy I can see myself driving the British Lion out of the
Nile Valley at the point of the bayonet.
_Sultan (dreamily)._ And I picture myself comfortably replenishing my
Treasury with that Tribute! Like music, ABBAS?
_Khedive (uneasily)._ Ye-e-e-s. Why!
_Sultan (promptly)._ Then I'll tip you something soothing.
[_Sings._
I'll sing thee songs of Arabi,
And tales of far Cash ne-ar!
Strange yarns to move thee to a smile,
Or melt thee to a te-ar!
And dreams of delight shall hover bright,
And smoke-born vi-i-sions rise
Of artful "fake," which well may wake
Wild wonder in thine eyes.
I'll move thee to a smile
With dreams of far Cash ne-e-e-e-ar!
[_Left dreaming._
* * * * *
[Illustration: LACONIC.
_Passenger._ "CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT ARE THE TIMES FOR THESE 'BUSSES TO
LEAVE THE SWISS COTTAGE?"
_Driver._ "Quarter after--'Arf after--Quarter to--and _At!_"]
* * * * *