"THE VERY LATEST."
["A Cookery Autograph-book is the last idea. Each friend is supposed to write a practical recipe for a dainty dish above his or her signature."
The Graphic.]
No, Mabel, no;—though your behest
I always heed with rapt attention,
Most fervently I must protest
Against this horrible invention;
Your word has hitherto been law,
But this appears the final straw!
Obedient to imperious looks,
I've had to write, at your suggestion,
The answers in confession-books
To many an idiotic question;
I'll vow my favourite tint is blue
(The colour mostly worn by you);
I'll gladly draw a fancy sketch,
I'll make acrostics with elation,
I'll write you verses at a stretch,
Or give my views on vaccination;
But, even to fulfil your wishes,
I cannot manufacture dishes!
I know, in theory, how to make
The matutinal tea and coffee,
And, when at school, I used to bake
A gruesome mess described as toffee;
But these, which form my whole cuisine,
Are scarce the kind of thing you mean.
Of course I'd learn some more by heart,
If this could gain me your affection,
But fear the anguish on your part
Produced by faulty recollection;
On me, my Mabel, please to look
As lover only—not as Cook!
CRINOLINE.
Rumour whispers, so we glean
From the papers, there have been
Thoughts of bringing on the scene
This mad, monstrous, metal screen,
Hiding woman's graceful mien.
Better Jewish gabardine
Than, thus swelled out, satin's sheen!
Vilest garment ever seen!
Form unknown in things terrene;
Even monsters pliocene
Were not so ill-shaped, I ween.
Women wearing this machine,
Were they fat or were they lean—
Small as Wordsworth's celandine,
Large as sail that's called lateen—
Simply swept the pavement clean:
Hapless man was crushed between
Flat as any tinned sardine.
Thing to rouse a Bishop's spleen,
Make a Canon or a Dean
Speak in language not serene.
We must all be very green,
And our senses not too keen,
If we can't say what we mean,
Write in paper, magazine,
Send petitions to the Queen,
Get the House to intervene.
Paris fashion's transmarine—
Let us stop by quarantine
Catastrophic Crinoline!
"More butter is coming from Victoria," says the P. M. G., "to the Mother Country." Our Colonies are not given to supplying us with this article of food to any great extent. It is generally the Mother Country that has buttered the Colonies.
On Three Poets.
(By the Fourth Party.)
Swinburne, Austin, Morris,
Bardic busybodies,
Threnodies they wrote:—
They were the Three Noddies!
Mrs. R. says that, in this cold weather, whenever she wants to know if there is to be a change, she consults her thawmometer.
The amusing article, "A Man's Thoughts on Marriage," ought not to have appeared in The Gentleman, but in the United Service Magazine. This is evident.
