THINGS TO BE BORNE IN MIND IN JULY.
At the beginning of the month tell your partners at evening parties that you have not yet decided whether you shall go to Wiesbaden, Naples, or the Tyrol for the autumn; but be careful towards the end to bespeak the humble lodging at Gravesend or Margate.
Do not take a horse in the park that bears marks of collar and crupper, because it looks like one you might have hired at seven-and-sixpence for the afternoon's ride.
A walk at the West-end should not now be taken except in evening dress, that people may think you are going to a dinner or evening party. A reputation for fashion and fortune may be cheaply purchased by walking under the colonnade, at half-past midnight, in the same costume.
If you wish to escape from society and get yourself into condition, sponge upon some friend who has moors in Scotland for a fortnight's deerstalking. This sport consists in running with your back parallel to the horizon, and your nose within two inches of the ground, against the wind, for several hours. Do not ask where the deer are, as it will betray your inexperience; everybody is supposed to know.
THE BOW-STREET GRANGE.
BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
With blackest mud, the locked-up sots
Were splashed and covered, one and all
And rusty nails, and callous knots,
Stuck from the bench against the wall.
The wooden bed felt hard and strange;
Lost was the key that oped the latch;
To light his pipe he had no match,
Within the Bow Street station's range.
He only said, "It's very dreary;"
"Bail will not come," he said;
He said, "I have been very beery,
I would I were a-bed!"
The rain fell like a sluice that even;
His Clarence boots could not be dried,
But had been soaked since half-past seven—
To get them off in vain he tried.
After the smashing of his hat,
Just as the new police came by,
And took him into custody,
He thought, I've been a precious flat,
He only said, "The cell is dreary;"
"Bail cometh not," he said;
He said, "I must be very beery,
I wish I was in bed!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking, he heard a stunning row;
Some jolly cocks sang out till light,
And would not keep still anyhow.
He wished to bribe, but had no change
Within his pockets, all forlorn,
And so he kept awake till morn
Within that lonely Bow Street grange.
He only said, "The cell is dreary;"
"Bail cometh not," he said;
He said, "I must be very beery,
I'd rather be in bed!"
All night within that gloomy cell
The keys within the padlock creaked;
The tipsy 'gents' bawled out as well,
And in the dungeons yelled and shrieked.
Policeman slyly prowled about;
Their faces glimmered through the door,
But brought not, though he did implore,
One humble glass of cold without.
He only said, "The night is dreary;"
"Bail cometh not," he said;
He said, "I have been very beery,
I would I were in bed!"
At morn, the noise of boys aloof,
Inspectors' orders, and the chaff
Of cads upon the busses' roof,
To Poplar bound, too much by half
Did prove; but most he loathed the hour
When Mr. Jardine chose to say
Five shillings he would have to pay,
Now he was in policeman's power.
Then said he, "This is very dreary;"
"Bail will not come," he said;
He said, "I'll never more get beery,
But go straight home to bed!"