Punch (90.1886)

A COLLOQUY AT "THE COLINDERIES."

Mrs. Britannia. Ah! this leafy nook is particularly snug, this tea is singularly refreshing, and the sound of Godfrey's
strains alternately soothing and stirring.

Mr. Punch. "Rule, Britannia," played perfectly, in a sort of scientifically-illuminated Fairy Land, amidst surround-
ings so stimulating to your imperio-maternal pride and affection, can hardly fail, my dear and much-honoured Madam, to
strike gratefully on those ears—extremely pretty ones—wearied as they must be with prolonged Party shindying.

Mrs. Britannia (sipping and sighing). Ah-h-h! Party Spirit, my dear Mr. Punch, is precisely the antithesis of this
vastly pleasant Pekoe ; it is not piquant, and it does upset the nerves.

Mr. Punch. Well, Madam, after all, the nerves of your numerous progeny are remarkably strong ones, and soon steady
themselves into patriotic firmness, even after the wildest indulgence in the political absinthe-toping of Party-warfare.

Mrs. Britannia. Why, yes, thank goodness, and their stout Saxon stock! This is a sight to gladden my matronly
heart, is it not, Mr. Punch ?

Mr. Punch. Imperial philoprogenitiveness could hardly desire a fuller satisfaction. What a year of home-coming
reunion and far-gathered family muster ! Queen Victoria's Jubilee Year, which I have already celebrated in my Almanack
Cartoon. How eagerly everyone, from the ever-genial Prince to the usually stolid Civic Policeman, welcomes the home-
comers ! The City Fathers, in all the ways open to them, at Cathedral Service, Memorial-Stone Ceremonial, Banquet, Ball,
Conversazione, and Fete, are doing their agreeable duty to " Our Boys." Pleasant to see the old Corporation and the
young Cohndians hobnobbing at Tower Bridge, Guildhall, Mansion House, and Crystal Palace! It is indeed a case of
" Hands All Pound," which must be deeply gratifying to patriots in general and the Poet-Laureate in particular.

Mrs. Britannia. Yes. There are those who say I am getting old and passee, Mr. Punch, and perhaps, appearing—as
at present—without my classical Amazonian arms, with a bonnet instead of the time-honoured helm, and the umbrella of
private life in place of a trident (which in haunts of peace and Pekoe like tins might attract needless attention, although
mightily useful for toasting a muffin or crumpet), perhaps, in such matronly mufti I may look a little less Minerva-like, and
more buxomly redundant than in those more heroic moments selected by the designers of penny-pieces and of your patriotic
and classic Cartoons for my portraiture. Fact is I am bound to be in mufti here, or I should be lovingly mobbed. But 1
assure you that, surrounded thus by " my family/' I feel as young as ever, and as war-proof as Boadicea or Britomart.

Mr. Punch. Of course you do, as your cantankerous critics will speedily find, if they put you to it. Years, my dear
Madam, years that bring the philosophic mind, and also the—ahem ! rational uncorseted costume—incline the wise, and