In the London correspondence of a provincial paper it is stated that
"Lord HOTHFIELD, who recently gave up the errors and heresies of
Liberalism to seek security in Conservatism, has been elected a member
of the Carlton. His characteristic exclamation on entering the club
the first time after his election was, 'Thank God, I can now have
a quiet game of whist,' meaning I suppose, that his mind was now at
rest." This explanation of Lord HOTHFIELD'S meaning does credit to the
ingenuity of the correspondent. It is a sublime spectacle, that of a
Radical peer forswearing his errors merely that he may have a quiet
game of whist at the Carlton. Such a coruscating specimen of the wit
and wisdom of our hereditary peerage should go far to reconcile even
Mr. LABOUCHERE to the existence of the House of Lords.
* * * * *
Confusion on your programmes, your turbulence, your din:
Your tattered mob of Radicals, how blind they are and lame.
Lord HOTHFIELD proudly leaves your ranks, the Carlton takes him in;
Behold him in the whist-saloon enjoying of his game.
Some men are led by blighted hopes to leave the ancient fold,
And some by mere conviction, and some by thirst for fame;
And some because the Government were far too fond of gold;
Lord HOTHFIELD quits the Radicals because he wants a game.
A quiet game his Lordship loves; ex-Radical and peer,
With what a wealth of irony he puts his foes to shame;
And LABBY'S self amazed forbears the customary sneer,
When HOTHFIELD in the Carlton sits enjoying of his game.
* * * * *
I have been reading about the harvest festivals with which the
country has been lately teeming. They are all made on one pattern.
The interior of the building is very tastefully adorned with fruit and
foliage, supplied by friends connected with the church and others. The
subject of one reverend gentleman's discourse in the morning is, "Put
in the sickle." In the afternoon another reverend gentleman discourses
on "A stroll through a corn-field," and in the evening a third
clergyman poses his congregation with the question, "What shall be
done with the tares?" Thank-offerings in aid of the church funds
are then taken, the choir sings special harvest hymns, and somebody
invariably "presides" at the organ.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
The temptations of the fruit are sometimes, I am sorry to say,
irresistible. I have seen an absent-minded landed proprietor steadily
pluck and eat his way through a whole bunch of grapes, while the
preacher held forth on the symbolic meaning attached to fruit. The
attention of the congregation, I need hardly say, was breathlessly
concentrated not on the preacher, but on the devourer of the grapes.
At a festival I attended last year, the fruits of the earth were
represented by dead rabbits on the window-sills of the church.
* * * * *
By the way, why does one always "preside" at the organ? At the first
blush there would not seem to be anything peculiarly presidential
about the playing of the instrument, but then I may be dull. For
instance, I have never yet understood why young tobacconists are
always alluded to as "commencing." Other traders are content to
begin or to start, but a tobacconist must apparently "commence" or be
eternally disgraced.
* * * * *
Oh, dealer in the latest brand
Of Claro and Maduro,
One question agitates our land,
From Ballater to Truro.
In Belfast I have heard it put,
Where men the Home Rule whim rue;
'Tis asked amid our London soot,
And in the realms of Cymru.
On gray St. Andrews' windy links,
So niblicky and cleeky;
In far Glenlivet, famed for drinks;
In Auld Athenian Reekie.
Where Cornwall's rock-bound coast defies
The surge of the Atlantic,
One puzzle-question takes the prize,
And drives the public frantic.
One matchless question fairly burns,
It leads us all a dance, Sir;
Ye men who profit by Returns,
Return me quick an answer;
Explain, tobacconist to me,
Without unduly fencing,
Why those who end in smoke should be
Unceasingly commencing.
* * * * *
Mr. HENRY BLACKBURN has been visiting Manchester and Liverpool, and
has confided his impressions of these great cities to the editor of
the _Manchester Guardian_. He admires Manchester for "its admirable
tramway, street police, and other traffic arrangements," but there
is an _amari aliquid_ in the shape of the Manchester street Arab. Mr.
BLACKBURN has all an artist's tolerance; but, as might be expected
of a black and white artist, he feels bound to draw the line, and he
draws it before street Arabs. He thinks it worth while to mention--
"A pedestrian's experience of his, generally, free fight with
the street _gamin_ culminating on Saturday afternoon last at
2.15 by being tripped up and thrown down in the middle of the
road near the Central Station, and only saved from further
contact with the said tramcars by rolling quickly round
and round into the gutter. This rapid act was witnessed,
doubtless, by several of your readers, two of whom rendered
timely assistance. I am aware that it is the rule in any
household or community for a guest to conform to its ways for
the time being, and not to complain of any _contretemps_; but,
having had a second encounter (of less consequence) on the
very steps of the entrance to the Walker Art Gallery in
Liverpool, on the same afternoon, I venture to think that the
juvenile--and in some respects perfectly delightful--street
vendors of matches, flowers, and football newspapers have a
little too much of a free run in both these cities."
* * * * *
AT LAST.--Mr. LANE, the Magistrate, appealed to by an Indian gentleman
as to whether he--the I. G.--might "turn round upon" rude street-boys,
who called him "Lulali," and asked whether he--the Magistrate--would
like it himself, replied that he had lived too long in the world
to care about such matters. This imperturbable "Beak" is evidently
then--at last--the often-talked-of "Long Lane that has no turning."
* * * * *