My good Mr. Punch, such an extension of the House of Peers merely for the satisfaction of the vanity of a number of vulgar and puffing men would be a scandal to our civilisation. No, my good Sir, our noble order is large enough. I am satisfied that it should not be extended, and when I am satisfied the opinions of every one else are (and here I take a simile from an industry that has given me my wealth) "merely bubbles—bubbles of soap."
And now I sign myself, not as of old, plain Joe Snooks, but Yours very faithfully,
Savon de Soapleigh.
P.S.—I am sure my long line of ancestors would agree with me. When that long line is discovered you shall hear the result.
BYGONES.
The midsummer twilight is dying,
The golden is turning to gray,
And my troublesome thoughts are a-flying
To the days that have vanished away,
When life had no crosses for me, love,
But Proctors and bulldogs and dons,
And I used to write sonnets to thee, love,
In the dreamy old garden of John's.
By Jove! What a time we just had, love,
That week you were up for Commem.!
The dances and picnics—egad, love,
How strange to be thinking of them!
How we laughed at the dusty old doctors,
And the Vice with his gorgeous gold gown,
And you thought it a shame that the Proctors
Were constantly sending me down.
We danced and we dined and we boated,
Did the lions all quite comme il faut,
And I felt a strange thrill when you voted
Old Johnnie's the best of the show.
I remember your eager delight, love,
With our garden and chapel and hall—
And oh, for that glorious night, love,
When we went to the Balliol ball!