THE MEETING OF WELLINGTON-S-L-SB-RY AND BLUCHER-CH-MB-RL-N.]
[Illustration: _Workman_ (_politely, to old Lady, who has accidentally got into a Smoking Compartment_). "YOU DON'T OBJECT TO MY PIPE, I 'OPE, MUM?"
_Old Lady._ "YES, I _DO_ OBJECT, VERY STRONGLY!"
["After the noble lord's dinner-party, at which the ladies appeared in their cycling costumes, consisting of ..., the company set off at half-past ten on their bikes for the region between St Paul's and the Tower, where at that hour, except an occasional policeman, hardly a soul is to be seen. Their example is now being generally imitated." _People of To-Day_.]
When night her sable pall doth spread Above the city's sleeping head So as it seemeth to be dead;
And labour hath a short surcease, And burglars taste a halcyon peace, Save where the vigilant police,
All fearless on their darkling beat, With sound of heavy-sandalled feet Wake awesome echoes in the street;
When weary chapmen go their ways To halls of song or sit at gaze In front of elevating plays;
Or haply drop into the club, And pausing for a friendly rub Defy the deadly nuptial snub;
Or watch in fond paternal mood The slumber of their infant brood In some suburban neighbourhood:--
Then, JULIA, then, at such an hour I gather that you quit your bower And seek the purlieus of the Tower;
Encased in wanton breeks and wide, A solid regiment, you ride With swains revolving at your side;
By stilly thoroughfares you strike Th' astonied silence with your bike; Earth never yet hath seen the like!
Not she, that fair of whom they sing, Who wrought her city's ransoming, GODIVA dared so bold a thing.
High Heaven alone sees such a sight When Dian wheels her orb by night With many a starry satellite.
But, JULIA, though the mode decree, By all the rites of Battersea, That you career in company,
The conscious object of remark, Whenas the lusty-throated lark Disporteth o'er the People's Park;
Yet certes it were more discreet, When Hesper from his vantage-seat Illuminateth Cannon Street,
To ride with none but me to know Just how th' enamoured breezes blow Round your ineffable _trousseau!_
How say you, sweet? To-morrow, then, We assignate for half-past ten Upon the punctual stroke of Ben?
On Cupid's chaste commission bent We twain will meet, with your consent, 10.30, by the Monument.