JEAMES'S SUMMARY.
Or, Le Monde où l'on s'ennuie.
["Now that the pageantry and the social stir evoked by the presence of the Imperial guests are over, there are few who will care to prolong the dreary and disappointing existence either of the Season or of the Session."—The Times.]
Jeames loquitur:—
Ya-a-a-w! Yes, young man, you've 'it it there, penny-a-liner as you may be,
And knowing, probably, no more about hus than a coster's baby;
But dull it 'as been, and no kid, and dreary, too, and disappinting;
Is it this Sosherlistic rot Society is so disjinting,
The Hinfluenza, or Hard Times, them Hirish, or wotever is it?
I couldn't 'ave 'eld on at all, I'm sure, but for the HEMP'ROR's visit.
Ya-a-a-w! 'Ang it, 'ow I've got the gapes! Bring us a quencher, you young Buttons!
And mind it's cool, and with a 'ed! Hour family is reg'lar gluttons
For "Soshal Stir." The guv'nor, he's a rising Tory M.P., he is.
And Missis all the Season through as busy as a bloomin' bee is,
A gathering Fashion's honey up from every hopening flower. That's natty.
I 'ave a turn for poetry; you're quite right there, my pretty PATTY.
Lor! 'ow that gal admires these carves! But that's "irrevelant," as the sayin' is;
Master and Missis both complain 'ow dull and slow the game they're playin' is.
The Session? Yah! Give me the days, the dear old days of darling DIZZY!
With him and GLADSTONE on the job a chap could say "Now we are busy."
But SMITH's a slug, 'ARCOURT's a hum, and LABBY makes a chap go squirmish.
Dull as ditchwater the whole thing. One longs e'en for a Hirish skirmish;
But PARNELL's fo par, and his spite, 'ave knocked the sparkle out of PADDY.
No; Parlyment's a played-out fraud, flabby and footy, flat and faddy.
The Season's similar. Season? Bah? By sech a name it ain't worth calling.
Shoulders like these and carves like those was not quite made for pantry-sprawling;
But wot's the use? Trot myself hout for 'Ebrews, or some tuppenny kernel?
No, not for JEAMES, if he is quite aweer of it! It's just infernal,
The Vulgar Mix that calls itself Society. All shoddy slyness,
And moneybags; a "blend" as might kontamernate a Ryal 'Igness,
Or infry-dig a Hemperor. It won't nick JEAMES though, not percisely;
Better to flop in solitude than to demean one's self unwisely.
Won't ketch me selling myself off. I must confess my 'art it 'arrers
To see the Strorberry-Leaves go cheap—like strorberries on low coster's barrers!
Tuppence a pound! Yes, that's the cry. It's cheapness, that Rad fad, that's done it.
Prime fruit ought to be scarce and dear, picked careful, and kept in the punnet.
The same with all chice things I 'old, whether 'tis footmen's carves or peerages;
But fools forget that good old rule in this yer queerest of all queer ages.
Trade bad, things in the City tight, no Court worth mentioning, queer scandals,
Socierty inwaded by a lot of jumped-up Goths and Wandals;
Swell-matches few, gurls' chances poor, late Spring, and lots o' sloppy weather,
With that there Hinfluenza—wich perhaps is wus than all together—
All over the dashed shop! When was a Season sech a sell as this is?
Wot wonder that it aggeravates us all, pertikler Me and Missis?
Ah! But for our "Himperial Guests" the Times' young man names with sech feeling,
I don't know wot I should 'ave done. A dismal dulness seems a-stealing
Afore its time o'er every think; and now Our Guests's gone wot reason,
As the Times sez, for trying to perlong the Session or the Season?
Ya-a-a-w! I shall gape my 'ed off 'ere. The Row's a bore, the 'Ouse a fetter.
And now the HEMP'ROR's slung 'is 'ook, the sooner we are horf the better!
A LUSUS NATURÆ.—A paragraph in the P.M.G., the other day, was headed, "A Lion Loose in a Circus." Bad enough. But a still more extraordinary incident would have been A Lion "tight" in a Circus.
MR. CHAUNCY DEPEW, the well-known American barrister, raconteur, and wit, is on his way to England. His visit is on business; probably to head a Depewtation.
