CANTO VII

'THE BEEFSTEAK'

While Germans eat flesh that is said to be equine,
And Chinamen batten on birds' nests and dogs,
While Frenchmen with vin ordinaire (such a weak wine!)
Ingurgitate molluscs and frogs,
The Briton, old-fashioned, in language empassioned,
On underdone oxen demands to be fed;
His soul seems to glory in steaks that are gory,
He 'looks on the kine when they're red,'
And all his carnivorous cravings awake
When somebody happens to name 'The Beefsteak.'
'Tis years since the first of those chops began grilling,
Whose smell caused so many choice spirits to throng
Where wags would insist though 'the spirits were swilling,
The flesh was undoubtedly strong'!
When Harlequin Rich entertained in his kitchen
That circle which met round his sociable hearth,
Where kidneys were roasted and cheese could be toasted
By Johnson and Wilkes and Hogarth,
And by most of Great Britain's more notable wits
Whose counterparts nowadays dine at the Ritz.
Some centuries later we find a revival;
Once more 'Beef and Liberty' mingle and blend,
Where now 'The Beefsteak' represents, without rival,
La vie de Bohème du West End!
Here humorous rallies and jocular sallies
Are heard at a board where the diet is plain,
Where Clayton and Wortley conversed so alertly
With Morris or poor Corney Grain,
While Brookfield would coin some satirical phrase
Which to-day he discovers in other men's plays!
'Tis said that the neophyte's nerves are affected,
When first introduced here, his throat becomes dry;
At sight of the eminent persons collected,
He feels unaccountably shy;
Till Bourchier, so breezy, makes ev'rything easy
By slapping the newcomer hard on the back,
Or Elliot (our Willie) says, 'Dinna be silly!
Set doon an' we'll hae a gude crack!'
When, greatly encouraged, though somewhat abashed,
He orders stewed tripe or a 'sausage and mashed.'
Here friendship and talk are the principal factors
That make of this Club a resort beyond praise,
For writers and soldiers, for lawyers and actors
(Who dine here on matinée days).
No cards are permitted, but wits can be pitted,
And members in rivalry verbal may vie
Who never play poker (although they've a Joe-Carr!)
And deprecate steaks that are high!
While brains never weary and tongues never flag,
As they do, I believe, at the Turf or the 'Rag'!

CANTO VIII

THE TRAVELLERS'

Though clubs without number are suited to slumber,
How few (as has often been noted)
To rest and reposing, to dreaming and dozing,
Are quite so completely devoted
As that which is labelled, in language poetic,
The final resort of the peripatetic!
Here peace may be relished, in rooms unembellished
By portraits, by prints or engravings,
On sofas of leather, designed altogether
To satisfy somnolent cravings,
Where, clutching the Times or the Chronicle tightly,
A member may slumber in public politely.
A subtle aroma, conducive to coma,
Which renders the coffee-room pleasant,
Proves gratefully cloying to diners enjoying
A snooze 'twixt the fish and the pheasant.
The air, as it were, is with somnolence seething,
And nothing is heard but their stertorous breathing!
No card-games are played here, and even 'Old Maid' here
Its votaries find uninviting;
You might get a quorum for (say) 'Snip-snap-snorem,'
But 'Patience' is deemed too exciting;
While rubbers of Bridge (should you chance to require some)
With partners all 'sleeping' prove terribly tiresome!
These precincts hypnotic provide a narcotic,
And trav'llers (all subterfuge scorning)
Curl up on their quarters, and tell the hall-porters
To call them next Saturday morning;
And even explorers, their rambles arrested,
Become as 'Club-footed' as some one suggested!

CANTO IX

'THE BATH'

Ye citizens of common clay
Who, squinting in a painful way,
Remove (with grimy hands and grey)
The smuts upon your noses,
Come, follow me to Dover Street
Where, any moment, we may meet
Figures as fragrant and as sweet
As new-mown hay or roses,
Tripping along the primrose path
That leads each member to 'The Bath'!
Ye breadwinners, who seek in vain
To keep your features free from stain,
When in some matutinal train
To town you daily rush up,
Observe the cleanly creatures, please,
Who in this club recline at ease!
Existence for such men as these
Is one long 'Wash and Brush Up'!
Perfumed and scented, combed and curled,
They live unspotted of the world!
Here Indian clubs are deftly swung,
And dumb-bells twirled, by old and young;
Here 'horizontal bars' are hung
With eminent patricians;
And when, at times, on Sunday nights,
The lady-members (clad in tights),
From swimming-bath's sublimest heights,
Give diving exhibitions,
Tis 'Water, water ev'rywhere'—
And sopped spectators get their share!
Observe that youth, with purple socks
And chest suggestive of an ox;
He comes to 'punch the ball' or box
With (possibly) Lord Desb'rough.
Observe that Admiral; though old,
He takes a daily plunge, I'm told,
Though when the water's rather cold
He very often says 'Brrrh!'
Or, if the suds get in his eyes,
'Here! What the douche!' he crossly cries.
That warning, to the sloven dear:
'Abandon Soap who enter here!'
Upon these walls does not appear,
To reassure the dirty;
But on the Turkish bathroom screen,
Pinned to a notice-board of green,
This statement, day by day, is seen:
'Pores Open, 7.30.'
Till Bishops at 'The Bath,' they say,
Are moved to murmur, 'Let us Spray!'
Then, Gentle Reader, I advise
(Should opportunity arise)
That you should be extremely wise
And join this institution;
And thus, though deeming dumb-bells 'Bosh!'
And scorning hectic games of 'Squash,'
You may enjoy a thorough wash,
A top-to-toe ablution,
Nor die, in deep dejection plunged,
'Unsoapt, unlathered, and unsponged!'