Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, February 4, 1893
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, February 4, 1893
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 104.
February 4, 1893.
[Illustration: WHEN A MAN DOES NOT LOOK HIS BEST.
_Burglar_ (_taking the ground heavily_). "NAOW, 'OOEVER'D 'A' THOUGHT O'
THE HOWNER O' THAT THERE HINNERCENT LITTLE VILLA BEIN' A PERFESSIONAL
'CHUCKER-HOUT'?!!!"]
* * * * *
LAMENT OF THE (WOULD-BE) IRISH EMIGRANT.
(_Latest Version, with apologies to Lady Dufferin._)
[Senator CHANDLER, in _The North-American Review_, recommends that
immigration into the United States should be suspended, at least
for a year.]
Oi'm sittin' on the stile, MARY, an' lookin' o'er the tide,
An' by jabers Oi'm afraid, Aroon, that there Oi'll _have_ to bide!
The grass is springin' fresh an' green in Ould Oireland, but oh moy!
If there's any green in JONATHAN'S land, _it is not in his oi_!
The States are awful changed, MARY; it is not _now_ as _then_,
When they lifted a free latch-string to all exiled Oirishmen.
Now we miss the whoop ov welcome; they suggest it's loike our cheek,
And Oi'm listenin' for brave LOWELL'S words--which CHANDLER does _not_
speak!
It seems to me their Aigle for full Freedom no more pants,
And the Senator, he mutthers ov "degraded immigrants."
Says they can't "assimilate" us; faix, the wurrud sounds monstrous
foine,
But Oi fancy that it's maning is, "We mane to draw the loine!"
Shure, we're "ignorant and debased," dear; and the poor won't now find
friends
Even in free Columbia! So 'tis thus the ould boast ends!
"Stop 'em--for a year," says CHANDLER; "we'll be holding our Big Show,
An' poverty, an'--well, Cholera, are not wanted _thin_, you know."
It's an artful move, my MARY, but, it stroikes me, a bit thin,
And it won't come home consolin', to "the poor ov Adam's kin."
Faix! they won't stop 'cabin passengers,' big-wigs, an' British Peerage,
But--_they don't want the poor devils that crowd over in the steerage_!
So Oi'm sittin' on the stile, MARY, and there Oi'll loikely sthop,
For they don't require poor PADDY in their big new CHANDLER'S Shop.
Uncle SAM'S some punkins, MARY, but he's not a great green goose;
An' he's goin' to sthop a braggin' ov that latch-string always loose!
* * * * *
MIXED NOTIONS--NO. IV. EGYPT.
_Two_ Well-Informed Men, _an_ Inquirer, _and an_ Average Man, _in
suburban morning train to London_.
_First Well-Informed Man_ (_reading his paper_). Oh, I say, dash it,
this'll never do. Here's this young KHEDIVE of Egypt kicking up a shine,
and dismissing British Ministers. We can't have that, you know.
_Inquirer._ What Ministers has he dismissed?
_First W. I. M._ Why, British Ministers,--at least (_reading on_) I mean
Egyptian Ministers; that's to say, chaps whom we appointed.
_Second W. I. M._ Come, come, we couldn't appoint Egyptian Ministers,
could we?
_First W. I. M._ Oh, it comes to exactly the same thing; they're
appointed subject to our proviso (_consulting paper_), yes, subject to
our veto, and then this little whipper-snapper goes and gives them the
chuck. He'll jolly soon have to climb down off that.
_Average Man._ Gently! The young chap's King, after all, isn't he? I
thought Kings might appoint or dismiss Ministers as they liked.
_First W. I. M._ Oh, rot! The QUEEN can't appoint her own Ministers. We
all know that. They're appointed by the Prime Minister. Any fool knows
that.
_Inquirer._ But who appoints the Prime Minister?
_First W. I. M._ He appoints himself, and tells the QUEEN he's done it.
They all go and kiss hands and get their seals, or something of that
sort.
_Inquirer._ Of course, of course. I forgot that. But how about these
Egyptian beggars?
_First W. I. M._ The KHEDIVE'S had the cheek to dismiss the Ministry, and
shove another lot in. I see Lord CROMER has been to the Palace to
protest.
_Inquirer._ Lord CROMER! Who's he?
_First W. I. M._ My dear fellow, fancy not knowing that! Lord CROMER'S
our Ambassador at Cairo.
_Second W. I. M._ Oh, nonsense. There are no ambassadors at Cairo.
_First W. I. M._ Aren't there? Oh, indeed. Well, then perhaps you'll tell
me what Lord CROMER is?
_Second W. I. M._ He's our Minister. That's what they call them.
_Inquirer._ Was it him the KHEDIVE dismissed, then?
_Second W. I. M._ (_laughing heartily_). No, no; we haven't got to that
yet. He dismissed his own Johnnies, of course; Egyptians. Lord CROMER'S
the English Minister.
_Average Man._ No, he isn't. He's the English Agent.
_Second W. I. M._ Oh, well, it's the same thing.
_First W. I. M._ (_taking his revenge_). No, it isn't at all the same
thing; it's a very different thing. A Minister's only just short of an
Ambassador, and an Agent (_pauses_)--well, he's something quite
different. I don't think he gets as much pay for one thing, and of course
he can't live in the Embassy.
_Inquirer._ But who does live in the Embassy, then?
_First W. I. M._ It's unoccupied, of course.
_Average Man._ No, it isn't. There isn't any Embassy at all. [_A pause._
_Inquirer_ (_returning to the charge_). But look here, who _is_ Lord
CROMER? I never heard of him before. I thought we'd got BARING or
ROTHSCHILD, or somebody representing us in Egypt.
_First W. I. M._ (_with smiling superiority_). My dear chap, you're
thinking of Sir EVELYN BARING. He left Egypt long ago.
_Inquirer._ Why did he leave?
_First W. I. M._ Old GLADSTONE gave him the sack.
_Second W. I. M._ No, he didn't. GLADSTONE wasn't in power when BARING
left Egypt. It was SALISBURY who dismissed him.
_First W. I. M._ I bet you a sov. it was GLADSTONE.
_Second W. I. M._ And I bet you a sov. it was SALISBURY.
_Average Man._ You'll both lose. It was neither.
_First W. I. M._, _Second W. I. M._ (_together_). Bosh! That's
impossible.
_Average Man._ It's a fact.
_First W. I. M._ (_triumphant_). Well, how do you account for his not
being there now?
_Average Man._ He is there.
_First W. I. M._ He isn't. Lord CROMER'S there. Here it is. (_Producing
Times._) "Lord CROMER has protested in person." So come!
_Average Man._ All right. I know all that. Only, unfortunately, they're
one and the same person.
_First W. I. M._, _Second W. I. M._ (_together_). Oh, I daresay; and you
think we're going to swallow that. You tell that to your Grandmother!
[_Both remain absolutely unconvinced._
_Inquirer._ But what's this about the French? What have they got to do
with it?
_Second W. I. M._ Oh, they've got their fingers in every pie; always
making mischief.
_First W. I. M._ Quite true; but they'll find we're going to sit tight in
spite of them, so the sooner they cart themselves and their blessed old
Pyramids out of the country the better.
_Inquirer._ Why should they take the Pyramids?
_First W. I. M._ Well, they built 'em, so I suppose they've got a right
to do what they like with them.
_Inquirer._ Of course. [_Terminus._
* * * * *
[Illustration: "H.M.S. 'TOKO.'"
_Nurse Britannia._ "ALLOW ME TO INFORM YOUR HIGHNESS HERE COMES A BOX OF
SOLDIERS YOU _MUSTN'T_ PLAY WITH."]
* * * * *
_The Red Spider_, by BARING GOULD, is to be dramatised. What a chance
this would have been for the "Brothers WEBB," were they still in
stage-land.
* * * * *
SOLE SURVIVORS.--The uppers of a Tramp's highlows.
* * * * *
SHARP FIGHTING AT RANGOON.--We hope soon to hear that the Kachins are
Kachin' it hot.
* * * * *
ADVICE TO THOSE "UP A GUM TREE" (_by "Non Possum_").--Come down as
quickly as you can, and don't stick there.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A LESSON IN FRENCH.
_Fraeulein Schnips_ (_who does not devote as much attention to the Toilet
as she does to Study, addresses Master Edward who has been made to join
in his Sister's lessons during his holidays_). "EDFARD, FOT IS 'I VASH MY
HANDS' IN FRENCH?"
_Master Edward_ (_sulkily_). "JE ME LAVE LES MAINS."
_F. S._ "NOW DEN. 'I DO NOT VASH MY HANDS.' GU'EST-CE GUE C'EST GUE CA?"
_Master Edward_ (_seizing his opportunity_). "EH BIEN, C'EST UNE HABITUDE
SALE, DONT VOUS DEVRIEZ AVOIR HONTE!"]
* * * * *
"SOME DAY!"
(_Latest Egyptian Version of Milton Welling's popular Song._)
Mr. BULL _to_ Miss EGYPT, _sings_:--
I know not when the day shall be,
I know not when we two shall part;
What farewell you will give to me,
Or will your words be sweet or tart?
It may not be till years have passed,
Till France grows calm, young ABBAS grey;
But I am pledged--so, love, at last,
Our hands, our hearts must part--_some day_!
Some day, some day,
Some day I shall leave you!
Love, I know not when or how,
(So I can but vaguely vow)
Only this, only this,
(Which I trust won't grieve you),
Only this--I _can't_ go now, I can't _go_ now, I can't go _Now_!
I know not if 'tis far or near,
Some six months' hence, while we both live;
I know not who the blame shall bear,
Or who protest, or who forgive;
But when we part, some day, some day,
France, fairer grown, the truth may see,
And all those clouds be rolled away
That darken love 'twixt her and me.
Some day, some day,
Some day I must leave you!
Lawks! I know not when or how,
(Though the Powers kick up a row),
Only this, only this,
(Which I won't deceive you),
Only this--I can't go _now_, I shan't go _now_, I won't go _Now_!
* * * * *
IS SCIENCE PLAYED OUT?
["In a grain of butter you have 47,250,000 microbes. When you eat
a slice of bread-and-butter, you therefore must swallow as many
microbes as there are people in Europe."--"Science Notes" in
_Daily Chronicle_.]
Charlotte, eating bread-and-butter,
Read this Note with horror utter,
And (assisted by the cutter)
Went on eating bread-and-butter!
Man will say--with due apology
To alarmed Bacteriology--
Spite of menacing bacilli,
Man _must_ eat, friend, willy-nilly!
And where _shall_ he find due foison
If e'en bread-and-butter's poison?
Science told our amorous Misses
Death may be conveyed _in kisses_;
But it did not keep the nation
From promiscuous osculation.
Now it warneth the "Young Person"
(Whom GRANT ALLEN voids his curse on)
"Bread-and-butter Misses" even
In _their_ food may find death's leaven!
Never mind how this is made out!
Science--as a Bogey's--played out.
Spite all warnings it may utter,
Women _will_ have Bread-and-Butter!
* * * * *
OUT OF WORK.
(_After reading "Outcast London" by the Daily Chronicle's Special
Commissioner at the East End._)
Divines inform us that the Primal Curse
On poor humanity was Compulsory Work;
But Civilisation has devised a worse,
Which even Christian effort seems to shirk.
The Worker's woes love may assuage. Ah, yes!
But what shall help Compulsory Worklessness?
Not Faith--Hope--Charity even! All the Graces
Are helpless, without Wisdom in high places.
Though liberal alms relieve the kindly soul,
You can't cure destitution by a dole.
No, these are days when men must dare to try
What a Duke calls--ARGYLL the high-and-dry--
"The Unseen Foundations of Society";
And not, like wealthy big-wigs, be content
With smart attacks on "Theories of Rent."
Most theories of rent we know, the fact is
What we have doubts about, Duke, is--the practice!
When Rent in Power's hands becomes a rack
To torture Toil, bold wisdom will hark back
To the beginnings and the bases; ask
_What_ hides beneath that Economic mask
Which smiles unmoved by Sorrow's strain and stress
On half-starved Work and whole-starved Worklessness!
* * * * *
THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.
A STORY IN SCENES.
SCENE IV.--Mrs. TIDMARSH'S _Drawing-room_; MR. TIDMARSH _has just
shaken hands with the latest arrival, and is still in the utmost
perplexity as to the best manner to adopt towards him. The other
Guests are conversing, with increased animation, at the further
end of the room._
_Lord Strathsporran_ (_to_ Mr. TIDMARSH). Afraid I'm most abominably
late--had some difficulty in getting here--such a fog, don't you know!
It's really uncommonly good of you to let me come and see your
antiquities like this. If I am not mistaken, you have got together a
collection of sepulchral objects worth coming any distance to study. [_He
glances round the room, in evident astonishment._
_Mr. Tid._ (_to himself_). Nice names to give my dinner-party! Impudent
young dog, this--Lord or no Lord! (_Aloud, with dignity._)
I--ha--hum--don't think that's quite the way to speak of them, Sir--my
Lord, I suppose I _ought_ to say!
_Lord Strath._ Oh, I expect a most interesting evening, I assure you.
_Mr. Tid._ Well, I--I daresay you'll have no cause to complain, so far as
_that_ goes, Lord--er--STRATH--you'll excuse me, but I haven't _quite_
got accustomed to that title of yours.
_Lord Strath._ (_smiling_). Not surprised at that--feel much the same
myself.
_Mr. Tid._ Ha--well, to tell you the honest truth, I should have been
just as pleased if you had come here _without_ any handle of that sort to
your name.
_Lord Strath._ Quite unnecessary to tell me so--and, you see, I couldn't
very well help myself.
_Mr. Tid._ (_to himself_). BLANKLEY sends 'em _all_ out with titles--then
his _is_ bogus! (_Aloud._) Oh, I don't blame _you_, if it's the rule;
only--(_irritably_)--well, it makes me feel so devilish _awkward_, you
know!
_Lord Strath._ Extremely sorry--don't know why it should. (_To himself._)
Queer little chap my host. Don't _look_ the Egyptologist exactly. And
where does he keep all his things? Downstairs, I suppose. (_He turns, and
recognises_ Miss SEATON.) MARJORY SEATON--here! and I've been trying to
hear something of her ever since I came back from Gizeh--this _is_ luck!
(_To her._) How do you do, Miss SEATON? No idea we should meet like this!
_Miss Seaton_ (_in a low constrained voice_). Nor I, Mr. CLAYMORE. [Mr.
TIDMARSH _catches his Wife's eye, and crosses to her._
_Mrs. Tid._ (_sotto voce_). MONTAGUE, isn't it time you introduced me to
this Lord Whatever-it-is? As the person of highest rank here, he
certainly ought to take _me_ in!
[Illustration: "I look upon him simply as a human being."]
_Mr. Tid._ He's _done_ it, MARIA. He's no more a Lord than I am. Miss
SEATON knows him--I just heard her call him "Mr. CLAYTON," or some name
like that!
_Mrs. Tid._ (_aghast._) So _this_ is the sort of person you _would_ go and
engage! He'll be found out, MONTAGUE, I can see Uncle edging up towards
him already. And anyhow, you know what his opinions are. A pretty scrape
you've got us into! Don't stand gaping--bring the man up to me this
minute--I must give him a hint to be careful. (_Lord S. is led up and
presented._) Sit down here, please, in this corner, Lord--(_with a
vicious emphasis_)--STRATH-_BLANKLEY_. (Lord. S. _obeys in mild
amazement._) Really, my husband and I were _hardly_ prepared for so
_aristocratic_ a guest--we are such plain humdrum people that a title--a
_real_ title like your _lordship's_--ahoo!--(_with an acid titter_)--is,
well--_rather_ overwhelming. I only hope you will be able to--er--sustain
it, or otherwise----
_Lord Strath._ (_lifting his eyebrows._) Am I to understand that you did
not expect me, after all? Because, if so,--I----
_Mrs. Tid._ Oh, yes, we _expected_ you, and of course, you will be
treated exactly the same as everybody else--except--I don't know if my
husband warned you about not touching the champagne? No? Oh, well, you
will drink _claret_ please, _not_ champagne. I daresay you prefer it.
_Lord Strath._ Thank you, I should indeed--if you have any misgivings
about your champagne.
_Mrs. Tid._ We must draw _some_ distinction between you and our regular
guests, as I'm sure you'll understand.
_Lord Strath._ (_to himself._) Poor devils--if they only knew! But what
an unspeakable snob this woman is! I'd give something to get out of this
house--if it wasn't for MARJORY. I must have a word with her before
dinner--strikes me she's put out with me about something or other.
_Mrs. Gilwattle_ (_to her Husband_). Did you ever see anything like the
way MARIA'S talking to that young nobleman, GABRIEL? as easy and composed
as if she'd kept such company all her life--it's a wonder how she can
_do_ it!
_Uncle Gab._ Look at the finishing she's had! And after all, he's flesh
and blood like ourselves. She might introduce you and me to him,
though--it looks as if she was ashamed of her own relations. I shall go
up and introduce myself in a minute, and do what I can to make the young
fellow feel himself at home. (_Intercepting_ Lord S. _in the act of
moving towards_ Miss SEATON.) Excuse me, my Lord, but, as the uncle of
our worthy host and hostess, I should like the honour of shaking you by
the hand. (_He shakes hands._) My name's GILWATTLE, my Lord, and I ought
to tell you before I go any further that I've no superstitious reverence
for rank. Whether a man's a lord or a linen-draper, is exactly the same
to me--I look upon him dimply as a human being.
_Lord Strath._ Quite so? he--ah--generally _is_, isn't he?
_Uncle Gab._ Very handsome of your Lordship to admit it, I'm sure--but
what I _mean_ to say is, I regard any friend of my niece and nephew's as
a friend of mine--be he a Duke or be he a Dustman.
_Lord Strath._ Unhappily for me, I'm neither a Duke nor a Dustman,
and--er--will you kindly excuse me? (_To himself as he passes on._) That
old gentleman makes me quite ill. Ah, MARJORY at last! (_To_ Miss
SEATON.) You've scarcely spoken a word to me yet! I hoped somehow you'd
look a little pleased to see me--after all this time!
_Miss Seaton._ Pleased? I can hardly be that under the circumstances, Mr.
CLAYMORE!
_Lord Strath._ Well, I only thought--we used to be such friends once. You
seem so changed!
_Miss Seaton._ I am not the only one who is changed, I think. You seem to
have changed everything--even your name. What ought I to call you, by the
way, I didn't catch it exactly. "Lord SOMEBODY," wasn't it?
_Lord Strath._ Never mind the confounded name, I have heard quite enough
of it already! It's not my fault if I'm what I am. _I_ never wanted to be
STRATHSPORRAN!
_Miss Seaton._ Then you really are Lord STRATHSPORRAN! Oh, DOUGLAS, how
_could_ you?
_Lord Strath._ I didn't. It was all that accident to my poor uncle and
cousin. And I'm about the poorest Peer in Scotland; if _that's_ any
excuse for me!
_Miss Seaton._ How can it be any excuse for your coming here? Have you no
pride, DOUGLAS!
_Lord Strath._ My goodness, what is there to be proud about? Why
_shouldn't_ I dine with anybody, provided----?
_Miss Seaton._ Please don't excuse yourself--I can't bear it. You _know_
it is unworthy of you to be here!
_Lord Strath._ I don't indeed. I came here simply as a----
_Miss Seaton._ Don't trouble to tell me--I know _everything_. And--and
you ought to have _died_ rather than descend to this!
_Lord Strath._ Ought I? Died, eh? That never occurred to me; and, after
all, MARJORY, _you_'re here! What's wrong? What have I let myself in for?
_Miss Seaton_ (_bitterly_). What have you let yourself _out_ for, you
mean, don't you?
_Lord Strath._ (_mystified_). _I_ don't know! I believe my man let me
out; and, anyway, what _does_ it matter now I've come? There's dinner
announced. MARJORY, before we're separated, just tell me what on earth
I've done to deserve this sort of thing!
_Miss Seaton_ (_with a little gesture of despair_). Is it possible you
want to be told how _horribly_ you have disappointed me!
[_The couples are forming to go down._
_Lord Strath._ (_stiffly_). I can only say the disappointment is mutual!
[_He moves away, and awaits his hostess's directions._
_Little Gwennie_ (_stealing up to her Governess_). Oh, Miss SEATON,
_haven't_ I been good? I've kept quite quiet in a corner, and I haven't
said a single word to anybody ever since he came. But _what_ nice
Gentlemen BLANKLEY does send, doesn't he?
_Mrs. Tid._ (_on_ Uncle GABRIEL'S _arm_). Oh, I quite forgot _you_,
Lord--ah--STRATHPORRIDGE. As you and Miss SEATON seem to be already
acquainted, perhaps you will have the goodness to take her down? You will
sit on my left--on the fireplace side--and--(_in a whisper_)--the less
you say the better!
_Lord Strath._ I am _quite_ of your opinion. (_To himself._) Can't make
my hostess out, for the life of me--or MARJORY either, if it comes to
that! This is going to be a lively dinner-party, I can see!
[_He gives his arm to_ Miss SEATON, _who accepts it without looking
at him; they go downstairs in constrained silence._
(_End of Scene IV._)
* * * * *
QUEER QUERIES.--CITY IMPROVEMENTS.--How much longer are we to wait for
the widening of the whole of Cheapside, the removal of the Post-Office
Buildings to a more convenient site, and the total and unconditional
sweeping away of Paternoster Row and the south side of Newgate Street?
These slight alterations are _imperatively required_. They will only cost
about ten millions, and what are ten millions to the Corporation? As I
purchased the five square yards on which my little tobacco-shop is built
in confident expectation of being bought out at a high figure, I consider
that any further delay in the matter involves something like a breach of
public faith. Why should not the Government help? They have lots of
money, and I haven't.--DISINTERESTED.
* * * * *
"FACTS AND FIGURES."--The business of the Labour Commissioner has to be
very delicately managed. There must be a good deal of "give and take" in
the work. However much "taking" there may be, there is sure to be plenty
of _Giffen_.
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
[Illustration]
There is something fascinating about the title of Mr. MCCULLAGH TORRENS'
book, published in one handsome volume, by BENTLEY. There should be a
good deal in _Twenty Years in Parliament_, more so when the epoch covers
recollections of PALMERSTON in his green old age, Mr. GLADSTONE in his
prime, BRIGHT in his political prize-fighting trim, COBDEN, TOM DUNCAN,
MONCKTON MILNES, JOHN STUART MILL, ISAAC BUTT, and a host of other ghosts
that have flitted off the scene. My Baronite turned to the book with
gusto, read it through with patience, and left it with disappointment.
Mr. TORRENS knew all these men personally; in fact, he was indispensable
to them. One marvels to find, from hints dropped and assertions boldly
made, how much they were severally indebted to him for counsel and
inspiration through the twenty years the narrative vaguely covers. The
figures of the men named loom large in history; but they were all
stuffed. The wires were pulled by plain unappreciated MCCULLAGH TORRENS.
The weight of the responsibility has had the effect of somewhat muddling
the narrative, and, from time to time, the diligent reader does not know
exactly where he is. He begins with some episode in which DIZZY, with arm
affectionately linked with that of MCCULLAGH TORRENS, is walking along
Pall Mall, when a passing Bishop obsequiously takes off his hat and bows.
MCCULLAGH modestly says this obeisance was paid to DIZZY, but _we_ know
very well it was to MCCULLAGH. Then, before we know where we are, we are
in the middle of an account of the Bulgarian atrocities, the
Russo-Turkish war, what Count BEUST said to MCCULLAGH, and how, in debate
on the Vote of Six Millions, "a Right Hon. friend who sat next to me
urged me to add a few words to what had been better said by others in
this sense." Better said! Oh, MCCULLAGH! Oh, TORRENS! There is an ancient
story of an old gentleman who had a treasured anecdote connected with the
going off of a gun. When he could not drag it in otherwise, he was wont
to furtively lift his foot and kick the table. "Hallo, what's that?" he
cried. "Sounds like a gun; that reminds me"--and then the story. Thus Mr.
TORRENS drags in successive Parliamentary episodes through twenty
years--the Disestablishment of the Church, the Charity Commission, State
Aid to Emigrants, School Board for London, Extradition, Artisans'
Dwellings; gives a not very clear summary of events leading up to each,
and then treats the entranced reader to the heads of the speech he
delivered. The book would have been more accurately entitled had it been
called _Twenty Years of McCullagh Torrens_, and old Members of the House
of Commons will agree that this is a little too much.
BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & CO.
* * * * *
The Three.
Some hold it a terrible fault of omission
That Parsons sit not on the Poor-Law Commission.
Alas! Hope would smile, but she finds it a rarity
For "Faith" not to hamper the freedom of Charity.
The world will look bright when we find in high places
A perfect accord 'twixt the Three Christian Graces!