(Lines written in an irresponsible holiday mood.)
To people who allege that we
Incline to overrate the Sea,
I answer, "We do not;
Apart from being coloured blue,
It has its uses not a few—
I cannot think what we should do.
LIf ever 'the deep did rot.'"
Take ships, for instance. You will note
That, lacking stuff on which to float,
They could not get about;
Dreadnought and liner, smack and yawl,
And other types that you'll recall—
They simply could not sail at all
It Ocean once gave out.
And see the trouble which it saves
To islands; but for all those waves
That made us what we are—
But for their help so kindly lent,
Teutons could march right through to Kent
And never need to circumvent
A single British tar.
Take fish, again. I have in mind
No better field that they could find
For exercise and sport;
How would the whale, I want to know,
The blubbery whale contrive to blow;
Where would your playful kipper go
If the supply ran short?
And hence we rank the Ocean high;
But there are privy reasons why
Its praise is on my lip:
I deem it, when my heart is set
On walking into something wet,
The nicest medium I have met
In which to take a dip.
Ah, speed the hour already fixed
When, mid the bathers (freely mixed),
In a polite costume
I mean to plunge beneath the spray
And, washing from a soul at play
The City's stain—three times a day—
Restore its vernal bloom.
Rocked like a babe upon the brine
It is my dream to float supine
And to the vast inane
Banish awhile from off my chest
The cares that hold it now obsessed,
And even take a clean-cut rest
From Ulster-on-the-brain.
The Best Holiday Insurance.
Mr. Punch ventures to hint to the gentlest among his readers that, while there are excellent methods of insuring against the disturbance of their holidays by accident or bad weather, the best way for them to insure happiness is to offer a share of it to those who cannot afford a holiday of their own. The very easy sum of Ten Shillings means a Fortnight among green fields or by the sea for one child, if the gift is sent—and now is the moment—to the Earl of Arran, Hon. Treasurer of the Children's Country Holiday Fund, 18, Buckingham Street, Strand, W.C.
The place, too, was well fitted for such a gathering. Memories of departed monarchs spoke from the rich hangings of the room in tones that were not less eloquent for being silent. Here the First Gentleman of Europe had displayed the rounded symmetry of those calves which had defied the serried legions of the French and, in their lighter moments, had captured the wayward fancies of the fair or mitigated the harshness of a statesman. This was the chamber where the Sailor King, bluff but not undignified, had jested with his intimates, had smoothed a frown from the rugged brow of Wellington or held his own against the eagle glance of Grey; the chamber where the great Queen, conscious of her august destiny, had consecrated to grief such moments as could be spared from the needs of Empire; the chamber where her son had laboured for peace and extended the bounds of friendship; the chamber where a Disraeli, repaying scorn with scorn, may have spread his snares, and a Gladstone, overwhelmed by the torrent of his own eloquence, may have fallen into them.
Nothing was wanting to complete the solemnity of the spectacle. Outside, the scarlet-coated sentries paced rigidly on their accustomed rounds, and the populace, hemmed in by the strong arms and the panting forms of e constabulary, cheered to the echo its favourites or exchanged one another the harmless sallies that give pleasure to a crowd. Within, the King himself, his face now clouded with anxious thought, now lit with hope, gave a cordial welcome to the more unwonted of the guests he had summoned to his presence, while busy courtiers filled the corridors with an importance which lost nothing in weight from being unwarranted by knowledge or experience. Lackeys in the gorgeous liveries of the most brilliant Court in Europe were in attendance, ready to minister to those whose failing strength might need refreshment, or to execute with intelligence and despatch the humbler duties pertaining to their office.
Nor were the chiefs unworthy of the scene to which they had been called. There was the Speaker, Lowther, his brow beaming with the good humour which enabled him to abate pomposity without injuring the feelings even of the pompous, and to calm with a happy phrase the agitated waters of debate. There were Asquith, strong in the affection of his friends, and Lloyd George, braced to action by the invectives his foes. There were Law and Lansdowne, staunch defenders of the citadel in which the last of the Tories, stern and unbending as ever, had sought refuge. Waterford had sent John Redmond, the pride and champion of a nation, the unwearied vindicator of Ireland's right to govern herself. Through years of contumely and depression he had borne aloft her standard, and now, when her triumph was all but achieved, he was here to watch over a settlement which all desired, though none hitherto had been able to bring it about. With him had come John Dillon, tall, dignified and stately, whose grey hair and admirable bearing had won the respect and conciliated the temper of the more fastidious assembly in the world. Arrayed against these two, sons of Ireland no less than they, were Carson and Craig; Carson with his saturnine face and his swift and piercing intelligence, Craig of the burly form and uncompliant humour. Vowed to the Orange cause, and dwelling fondly on memories of the Boyne, they denounced with equal severity the religion of Rome and the political aspirations of the majority of their fellow-countrymen. Such were the men who were now met to decide the most momentous issue of our time.
