Punch (93.1887)

114

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [Sepibmbbe 10, 1887.

SEA-SIDE WEATHER STUDIES. SET FAIR. WHITBY.

" ON HIS OWN HOOK ! "

A Political "Angler's Song."

[Imitated, at a respectful distance, from Pisca-
tor's Song in " The Compleat Angler."

Piscator pipeth:—
Now private'pique breeds party talk,
Some Gr. would bless, and some would baulk ;
Some seem to find it pretty sport,
Changeful constituencies to court.
To share such games I do not wish,
No, for awhile, I'd rather—fish.

Just now I might to danger ride,

There's doubt about the winning side,

Ooe's little game may often prove

Advanced by a retiring move.
For faction's fetter, party's snare,
Whilst angling here I need not care.

8uch recreation is there none,
As playing one's own game alone.
Aught else is risky, more or less,
And well may land one in a mess,

My hand alone my work can do,

Here I can fish, and study too.

I care not much to fish the seas,
Me party-angling more doth please";
My present task I contemplate
With patience, not with heart elate.
±Sut in safe waters I would keep,
And Moods at home run wild and deep.

I'm not quite cocksure on which side
At present runs '• the flowing tide • "
I'd not be stranded with the ebb—
I've shunned the Grand Old Spider's web ■

I am not like a simple fly; '

I take my hook, and mind my eye.

I '11 not with Caucus gudgeons wait,
Prepared to gorge whatever bait.

How poor a thing, wire-pullers find,
Will captivate the Caucus mind !

Yet latterly, to my surprise,

Unto my bait it fails to rise.

But here, though while I fish I fast

From the political repast.

Yet, as my new-found friends invite,

I '11 take the swim, I '11 watch the bite.
Should chance the Coalition dish,
There'd be a pretty kettle o' fish !

So I'm content this post to take,

Alone, but calm and wide awake.

Anglers " lie low " just now and then,

Much more so we fishers of men.
Here I can " bob," smoke, make a name,
And from afar watch the whole game.

I fancy that, were Randolph here.
He'd smile, and share my bottled beer.
Both fishers we, by brain not book,
Take our own line, on our own hook.
I '11 watch which way the home wind blows,
And when 'tis settled—well, who knows ?

AT HOME WITH ATOMS.

Deae Me. Punch,—After listening to Sir
Heney Roscoe's Address at the Free Trade
Hall last evening, my brain feels very much
like a " molecule on the eve of being broken
into atoms," by the grandeur of the subject
on which he discoursed, and as he so kindly
told us this catastrophe "may be brought
about not only by heat vibrations, but like-
wise by an electrical discharge at a compara-
tively low temperature," the present state of
the weather rather adds to the anxiety I feel
about the seat of my mental organisation.
Still " there is a fundamental difference," he
tells us, " between the question of separating
the atoms in the molecule, and that of splitting

up the atom itself," so that there seems to
be a remote chance in any case of my pre-
serving an atom or two of sound sense and in-
telligence in the midst of impending chaos,
the more so, as " even the highest of terrestrial
temperatures, that of the electric spark, has
failed to shake any atom in two."

In the course of his address Sir H. Roscoe
also said, "There is no such thing in nature
as great or small." I was always considered
the smallest in my family, and it seems diffi-
cult, though at the same time encouraging,
to believe I am equal in physical quantities
of height and weight to the other members.
What such nice men say must be true—at any
rate until something truer is found out. I
shall therefore cherish the idea I have hitherto
been under a delusion. Mind may have some
inscrutable quality wherewith to balance
Matter. I remember my tallest sister wasthe
one who thought least. Mind and Matter are
now so much mixed, that they may be inter-
changeable molecules; who knows ? Sir
H. Roscoe observed also that "heat is evolved
by the clashing of the atoms." I felt how true
that was when we twelve molecules quarrelled
as children.

I think, Mr. Punch, for a woman, I have
gathered a great deal of information in a few
hours. Yours truthfully,

The Betteb Halt oe Somebody.

The Peccant Member.

A Wail by a Weary One.

Paeliament sitting still—and in September!
It's all along of "the unruly member "—
That is, the tongue. But, to adapt it duly
To modern days, it should be called Home-
Ruly!

" Not in the Hunts."—Mr. Sanders.