The Chair was taken by Mr. JOHN HORNER, P.R.I.N.T.C., lineal
descendant of the celebrated "Jack" of that ilk.
[Illustration]
The President said he had no desire to waste the meeting's valuable
time. He would at once address himself (and the company present) to
the myth, if myth it could be called, which had immortalised his own
name. Need he say he alluded to the legend of "Little Jack Horner"?
(_Cheers._) Some commentators are of opinion that "HORNER." was a
typographical error for "HOMER." But the prefix; and the epithet
combined to militate against this ingenious and plausible, but
specious, theory. "HOMER" was not in any sense "Little," nor was his
Pagan name "JACK." Again, "Corner," in the second line, could not
in any language have ever rhymed with "HOMER." He knew that "Cromer"
furnished them with a rhyme for "HOMER;" but if this were accepted,
what became of the ancient Greek, of the Syriac, of the Phoenician,
of the Nimrodic legends, nay, of the very _Iliad_ itself, if "HOMER"
were a native of "Cromer"? (_Loud and prolonged cheers._) No!
"Jack Horner," or, as it was originally written, "Jakorna," was
of Scandinavian origin, and it was, in all probability, a mythmic
rhyth--No, beg pardon, he should say a rhythmic myth (_Cheers_)
sung by a wandering Sam Oar Troupe on their visiting Egypt and the
Provinces before the time of the Celtic-Phoenician O'SIRIS, or at
least before the reign of RAMESES THE FIRST, ancestor of the great
Scotch RAMSEY family--(_Cheers_)--at one of the social entertainments
given on a non-hunting day by that eminent sportsman NIMROD. Then
came the question of where was "the corner" in which Jakorna secluded
himself? Of course, Christmas, as differentiating this pie from all
others, was a modern substitution. The original word was probably
"Kosmik." (_The lecture was still proceeding when our Reporter left,
the dryness of the subject having unfortunately affected his throat._)
* * * * *
[Illustration: A CONNOISSEUR.
_Sir Pompey Bedell._ "THIS BOTTLE OF ROMANÉE-CONTI SEEMS RATHER
CLOUDY, BROWN! IT _OUGHT_ TO BE ALL RIGHT. I KNOW IT STANDS ME IN
_TWELVE GUINEAS A DOZEN!_"
_The New Butler._ "THERE CERTAINLY _HIS_ SOME SEDIMENT, SIR POMPEY;
BUT IT'S OF NO CONSEQUENCE WHATEVER! I TRIED A BOTTLE OF IT _MYSELF_
THE OTHER DAY, AND FOUND IT FIRST-RATE!"]
* * * * *
"WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?"
["The 'tehorni narod'--the inconceivably ill-used, patient,
long-suffering 'black people,' as the moujiks of White
Russia are grimly denominated by their rulers--are dying by
thousands, of sheer starvation, without a hand being stretched
out by the 'Tchin' to rescue them from the greedy jaws of
Death."--_Daily Telegraph_.
The moujiks are remonstrating and even rebelling in
consequence.]
"Little Father," we have suffered long, and sorrowed,
We the "children" of the wonderful White Tsar,
Steadfast patience from staunch loyalty have borrowed,
Slaved for Slavdom still in Peace, and died in War;
We have borne the yoke of power, and its abuses,
We have trusted cells and shackles served their turn;
Nay, that e'en the ruthless knout had noble uses;
Now we starve--and think--and burn.
"Little Father," is your power then so paternal
As in pious proclamation is set forth?
If the round earth bears a brand of the infernal,
Does the trail of it not taint our native North?
Ay, we love it as in truth we've ever loved it.
Our devotion, poorly paid, is firm and strong;
Have our little pitied miseries not proved it,
And our weary tale of wrong?
"Little Father," we are hungering now, neglected,
While the foreigner shouts praises in our ports;
We are honoured, say your scribes, loved, feared, respected,
The proud Frank, we fought for you, your friendship courts.
The golden price of it you hug most gladly.
Well, that price, what is its destined end and aim?
The indulgence of ambitions cherished madly?
The pursuit of warrior fame?
Your realm is ever widening, Tsar, and lengthening,
Though its peoples--your dear children--prosper not;
Railways stretching, boundaries creeping, legions strengthening!
And the end, O Tsar, is--where?--the purpose--what?
The Afghan, Tartar, Turk feel your advancing,
The Persian and the Mongol hear your tread,
And an eager watchful eye is eastward glancing
Where the Lion lifts his head.
And your children, "Little Father"? They are lying
In their thousands at your threshold, waiting death.
Gold you gather whilst your foodless thralls are dying!
Is appeal, oh Great White Tsar, but wasted breath?
On armaments aggressive are you spending
What might solace the "black people" midst their dead?
Of the millions the effusive Frank is lending
Is there _nothing_ left for bread?
* * * * *