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A PROPOS OF THE SECRETARY FOR WAR’S ROSEATE AFTER—­DINNER SPEECH (on the entirely satisfactory state of the Army generally).—­(STAN-)"HOPE told a flattering tale.”

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UNIVERSITY MEM.—­The Dean of Christ Church will keep his seat till Christmas, and just a LIDDELL longer.

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THE RAVEN.

(Very Latest War-Office Version.  See Mr. Stanhope’s After-Dinner Speech at the Holborn Restaurant (Oct. 17), and Letter in “Times” (Oct. 21) on “Pangloss at the War Office.")

[Illustration]

Secretarial Pangloss sings:—­

Late, upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, tired but cheery,
Over many an optimistic record of War Office lore;
Whilst I worked, assorting, mapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone rudely rapping, rapping at my Office-door. 
“Some late messenger,” I muttered, “tapping at my Office-door—­

                    Only this, but it’s a bore.”

I remember—­being sober—­it was in the chill October,
Light from the electric globe or horseshoe lighted wall and floor;
Also that it was the morrow of the Holborn Banquet; sorrow
From the Blue Books croakers borrow—­sorrow for the days of yore,
For the days when “Rule Britannia” sounded far o’er sea and shore. 

                    Ah! it must have been a bore!

But on that let’s draw the curtain.  I am simply cock-sure—­certain
That “our splendid little Army” never was so fine before. 
It will take a lot of beating!  Such remarks I keep repeating;
They come handy—­after eating, and are always sure to score—­
Dash that rapping chap entreating entrance at my Office-door! 

                    It is an infernal bore!

Presently I grew more placid (Optimists should not be acid.)
“Come in!” I exclaimed—­“con_found_ you!  Pray stand drumming there
no more.” 
But the donkey still kept tapping.  “Dolt!” I muttered, sharply
snapping,
“Why the deuce do you come rapping, rapping at my Office-door? 
Yet not ‘enter’ when you’re told to?”—­here I opened wide the door—­
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Open next I flung the shutter, when, with a prodigious flutter,
In there stepped a bumptious Raven, black as any blackamoor. 
Not the least obeisance made he, not a moment stopped or stayed he,
But with scornful look, though shady, perched above my Office-door,
Perched upon BRITANNIA’s bust that stood above my Office-door—­

                    Perched, and sat, and seemed to snore.

“Well,” I said, sardonic smiling, “this is really rather riling;
“It comports not with decorum such as the War Office bore
In old days stiff and clean-shaven.  Dub me a Gladstonian craven
If I ever saw a Raven at the W.O. before. 
Tell me what your blessed name is. ‘Rule Britannia’ held of yore,”

                    Quoth the bird, “’Tis so no more!”