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<pre>

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 105,
July 15th 1893, by Various

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 105, July 15th 1893

Author: Various

Editor: Sir Francis  Burnand

Release Date: March 24, 2011 [EBook #35666]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON ***




Produced by Lesley Halamek, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net






</pre>


<hr class="full" />

<span class="pagenum"><a name="page13" id="page13"></a>[pg 13]</span>
<h1>Punch, or the London Charivari</h1>

<h2>Volume 105, July 15TH 1893</h2>

<h3><i>edited by Sir Francis Burnand</i></h3>

<hr class="full" />

<h2 class="sans">AN AFTERNOON PARTY.</h2>

<p> ... "The room is full of celebrities. Do you see that tall woman
in black, talking to the little old lady? That is Mrs. <span class="sc">Arbuthnot</span>&mdash;a
woman of some importance&mdash;and the other is <span class="sc">Charley's</span> Aunt.
The sporting-looking young man is Captain <span class="sc">Coddington</span>, who is
'in town' for the season."</p>

<p>"And who are the two men, exactly alike, tall and dark, who are
smoking gold-tipped cigarettes, and talking epigrams?" I asked.
I like to know who people are, and the person in the silver domino
seemed well-informed.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 300px;"><a href="images/013-600.png"><img src="images/013-300.png" width="300" height="444" alt="'The uninvitable in pursuit of the indigestible,' murmured Lord Illingworth." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">"The uninvitable in pursuit of the indigestible," murmured Lord Illingworth.</p></div>

<p>"Those are Lord <span class="sc">Illingworth</span>, and Lord <span class="sc">Henry Wotton</span>.
They always say exactly the same things. They are awfully
clever, and cynical. Those two ladies talking together are known
as <span class="sc">Nora</span> and <span class="sc">Dora</span>. There's rather a
curious story about each of them."</p>

<p>"There seems to be one about
everyone here," I said.</p>

<p>"Well, it seems that <span class="sc">Nora</span> and her
husband did not get on very well. He
thought skirt-dancing morbid. Also,
he forgave her for forging his name&mdash;in
type-writing&mdash;to a letter refusing
to subscribe to a wedding-present for
Princess <span class="sc">May</span>. She said a man who
would forgive a thing like that would
forgive anything. So she left the
Dolls' House."</p>

<p>"Quite right. Is that not the
Comtesse <span class="sc">Zicka</span>? I seem to recognise
the scent."</p>

<p>"It is&mdash;and the beautiful Italian
lady is Madame <span class="sc">Santuzza</span>. One meets
all sorts of people here, you know;
by the way, there's Mrs. <span class="sc">Tanqueray</span>."</p>

<p>"Princess <span class="sc">Salomé</span>!" announced
the servant. A little murmur of surprise
seemed to go round the room as
the lovely Princess entered.</p>

<p>"What <i>has</i> she got on?" asked
<span class="sc">Portia</span>.</p>

<p>"Oh, it's nothing," replied Mr.
<span class="sc">Walker</span>, London.</p>

<p>"I thought she was not received in
English society," said Lady <span class="sc">Windermere</span>,
puritanically.</p>

<p>"I can assure you, my dears, that
she would not be tolerated in Brazil,
where the nuts come from," exclaimed
<span class="sc">Charley's</span> Aunt.</p>

<p>"There's no harm in her. She's
only a little peculiar. She is particularly
fond of boar's head. It's nothing,"
said Mr. <span class="sc">Walker</span>.</p>

<p>"The uninvitable in pursuit of the
indigestible," murmured Lord <span class="sc">Illingworth</span>,
as he lighted a cigarette.</p>

<p>"Is that mayonnaise?'" asked the
Princess <span class="sc">Salomé</span> of Captain <span class="sc">Coddington</span>, who had taken her to
the
buffet. "I think it is mayonnaise. I am sure it is mayonnaise.
It is mayonnaise of salmon, pink as a branch of coral which fishermen
find in the twilight of the sea, and which they keep for the
King. It is pinker than the pink roses that bloom in the Queen's
garden. The pink roses that bloom in the garden of the Queen of
Arabia are not so pink."</p>

<p>"Who's the jaded-looking Anglo-Indian, drinking brandy-and-soda?"
I asked.</p>

<p>"That is a Plain young man. From the Hills. Which is curious.
I am much attached to him. By the way, I know who I am. And
why I wear a silver domino. You don't."</p>

<p>"That's another story," I said. "Let's go to the smoking-room.
We shall find the Eminent Person, the Ordinary Man, the Poet, the
Journalist, and the Mere Boy, and they will all say delightful
things on painful subjects."</p>

<p>"Barry Paynful," suggested the Mere Boy, with his usual impossibility.
They were trying to "draw" Lord <span class="sc">Illingworth</span>.</p>

<p>"What is a good woman?" asked the Journalist.</p>

<p>"A woman who admires bad men," answered Lord <span class="sc">Illingworth</span>.</p>

<p>"What is a bad man?"</p>

<p>"A man who smokes gold-tipped cigarettes."</p>

<p>"Which would you rather, or go fishing?" inquired the Mere
Boy, irreverently.</p>

<p>"Because it's a jar, of course. There are two kinds of women,
the plain and the coloured. But all art is quite useless."</p>

<p>"I say!" exclaimed Lord <span class="sc">Henry</span>, taking from his friend's
pocket a gold match-box, curiously carved, and wrought with his
initials in chrysoprases and peridots. "I say, you know,
<span class="sc">Illingworth</span>&mdash;come&mdash;that's
mine. I said it to <span class="sc">Dorian</span> only the other
evening. You're always saying my things."</p>

<p>"Well, what then? It is only the obvious and the tedious who
object to quotations. When a man says life has exhausted him&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"We know that he has exhausted life."</p>

<p>"Women are secrets, not sphinxes."</p>

<p>"Mine again," exclaimed Lord <span class="sc">Henry</span>.</p>

<p>"It would be useful to carry a little book to note down your good
things."</p>

<p>"Very useful. And I can forgive a man for making a useful
thing as long as he does not admire it."</p>

<p>"That's New Humour, isn't it? And you're a New Humourist?"
said <span class="sc">Walker</span>, satirically. "Why, it's a contradiction in itself!
The very essence of a joke is, that it
should be old. Where would you find
anything funnier than the riddle,
'When is a door not a door?' and,
'Why does a miller wear a white
hat?' Ah! it won't last&mdash;we're
bound to go back to the 'Old Humour'&mdash;there's
nothing like it&mdash;what is that
noise?"</p>

<p>"A dispute has arisen in the ladies'
cloak-room about a shawl. It's frightfully
thrilling!" said <span class="sc">Hilda Wangel</span>.</p>

<p>"They seem to be going on anyhow.
It's nothing," said <span class="sc">Walker</span>.</p>

<p>It appears that <span class="sc">Charley's</span> Aunt
had accused Princess <span class="sc">Salomé</span> of taking
her shawl. The Princess had indignantly
thrown it at her, and was
making rather rude personal remarks
about it.</p>

<p>"I don't want your shawl. Your
shawl is hideous. It is covered with
dust. It is a tartan shawl. It is
like the shawl worn in melodrama by
the injured heroine who is about to
throw herself over the bridge by moonlight.
It is the shawl of a betrayed
heroine in melodrama. There never
was anything so hideous as your
shawl!"</p>

<p>"Impertinence! To dare to speak
to me like this! I'm the success of
the season, and <i>you</i> were forbidden
the country," said <span class="sc">Charley's</span> Aunt,
furiously.</p>

<p>The second Mrs. <span class="sc">Tanqueray</span> here
chimed in, giving her opinion, which
did not add to the harmony of the
gathering, and a secondary quarrel
was going on, because Captain <span class="sc">Coddington</span>
had said that the scent Comtesse
<span class="sc">Zicka</span> used "was not quite up to
date," and the latter was offended.
In fact, there was a regular row all
round. <span class="sc">Nora</span> banged her tambourine, and <span class="sc">Walker</span> playfully
pretended
to hide his head behind Lady <span class="sc">Windermere's</span> fan.</p>

<p><ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'A'">At</ins> last, however, we managed to calm the indignant ladies, and
the party began to break up.</p>

<p>"The fact is," I said, "Society is getting a great deal too mixed.
Now, I like to go away from an afternoon party feeling a purer and
better man, my eyes filled with tears of honest English sentiment&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Great Scott! don't go on like that. Come and have a drink,"
said the <span class="sc">Silver Domino</span>.</p>

<p>"Valour is the better part of indiscretion," murmured Lord
<span class="sc">Illingworth</span>. "Good-bye, <span class="sc">Henry</span>. It has been a most interesting
afternoon."</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>LORD'S AND SANDOWN.</h3>

<p class="ind1">
["The Eclipse Stakes of 10,000 sovs., to be run at Sandown Park on Friday,
July 14, is looked upon as practically a match between Baron <span class="sc">De Hirsch's</span>
filly, <i>La Flèche</i>, and the Duke of <span class="sc">Westminster's</span> colt, <i>Orme</i>."&mdash;<i>Illustrated
Sporting and Dramatic News.</i>]
</p>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>The match between Eton and Harrow at Lord's</p>
<p class="i2">This week, which commences on Friday,</p>
<p>Because of the sport that it always affords,</p>
<p class="i2">Will draw a large crowd on that high-day.</p>
<p>But the interest taken in drive, cut, or catch,</p>
<p class="i2">Or as to which school will be beaten,</p>
<p>Will be nothing to that in the other great match,</p>
<p class="i2">The same day, 'tween The Arrow and Eaton.</p>
  </div>  </div>

  <hr class="medium" />

<span class="pagenum"><a name="page14" id="page14"></a>[pg 14]</span>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/014-1000.png"><img src="images/014-600.png" width="600" height="423" alt="ROSEBERY TO THE RESCUE!" border="0" /></a>
<h3 class="sans">ROSEBERY TO THE RESCUE!</h3>

<p class="center"><i>Unjust Steward.</i> "<span class="sc">Foiled! But no mattah! a time will come!!</span>"</p></div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page15" id="page15"></a>[pg 15]</span>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/015-1000.png"><img src="images/015-600.png" width="600" height="363" alt="THE ART OF WAR." border="0" /></a>
<h3 class="sans">THE ART OF WAR.</h3>

<p><i>Inspecting-General (galloping up to Mounted Yeoman, placed on Vedette
duty).</i> "<span class="sc">Now, Sir, what are you?</span>"</p>

<p><i>Yeoman.</i> "<span class="sc">Well, I do a little bit i' Pigs, Sir!</span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2>ROSEBERY TO THE RESCUE!</h2>

<p class="ind1"><span class="outdent"><i>Or, the Young Squire,</i></span> <i>the Unjust Steward, and the Grateful Ratepayer.
An Urban Drama, as lately performed at the County Hall, Spring
Gardens.</i></p>

<p>(<i>Enter</i> Steward, <i>bearing plans of a splendid, and expensive,
Palace</i>.)</p>

<p><i>Steward (looking lovingly upon plan).</i> Aha! Now shall I
triumph, despite mean Moderates, and cheese-paring Economists,
and reluctant Ratepayers. <span class="sc">Gr-r-r!</span> how I hate the whole
penurious brood! Housed appropriately I must and will be, though
Rate Incidence be as yet ill-adjusted, and that blessed word Betterment
be but an ear-soothing sound. But hold!&mdash;she comes!</p>

<p><i>Enter</i> Injured, but Beauteous, Ratepayer, <i>wringing her hands</i>.</p>

<p><i>I. but B. R. (aside).</i> Hah! Whom have we here? Merciless
Master <span class="sc">D-ck-ns-n</span>, as I'm a living woman! Was't not enough that
Vestries should vex me, Boards o'erburden me, Pedagogues oppress,
and Precepts perplex, but <i>he</i> too must turn against me? (<i>Aloud.</i>)
Give you good den, Master D.! Hast news of comfort for me?</p>

<p><i>Steward (harshly).</i> Woman, I know not what <i>thou</i> wilt deem news
of comfort. But if a superb site and a splendid structure (<i>pointing
to Plan</i>) have charms for thy something straitened and sordid soul,
then, verily&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p><i>I. but B. R. (shrieking as she catches sight of the Plan, and the
fair round Figures attached thereto).</i> Alas, Mr. Steward! 'tis, as
thou sayst, superb&mdash;splendid&mdash;and, what is more, prodigiously
<i>expensive</i> withal! It is <i>magnifique</i>, but it is <i>not</i>&mdash;Economy!</p>

<p><i>Steward (scornfully).</i> Expensive? Pooh! What matters a
Million or twain so London's Guardians be well housed?</p>

<p><i>I. but B. R.</i> But, in the words of the old game, where's the
money to come from? Moreover, is it not understood that <i>all</i>
Metropolitan Improvements be postponed till such time as those ghouls
of ground-renters, those ogres of property-owners, are compelled
proportionally to disgorge?</p>

<p><i>Steward.</i> Ahem! Truly so! But verily <i>this</i> matter is exceptional
and urgent. "Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat;" and
they who superintend the People's housing should surely themselves
be adequately, not to say magnificently, housed. As to the
money&mdash;why, fear not for thy pockets Dame, which are not yet
utterly depleted by that Briarean blood-sucker, <span class="sc">Bumble</span>. Why, we
shall right soon save the money in cab-fares, and&mdash;ahem!&mdash;other
comforts and conveniences for our committees, not to mention the
purchasing of supplementary tenements "at the rate of two houses
a year." Oh, be content, Dame; pay up, and look pleasant!
(<i>Imperatively.</i>)</p>

<p><i>I. but B. R. (frantically).</i> Alas! Is there, then, no hope? Will <i>no</i>
one bring a rescue or two? "Oh, where is County (Council) Guy?"</p>

<p><i>Enter the</i> Young Squire, <i>hastily</i>.</p>

<p><i>Young Squire (hurriedly arrived from heavy business and urgent
elsewhere, but impelled by a sense of public duty to intervene on this
occasion).</i> <span class="sc">Here!!</span> (<i>Chord.</i>) Be consoled, Dame&mdash;<i>I</i> will
protect
thee! And for thee, Sir Steward, what the mischief art up to, with
thy Aladdin Palaces, and thine Odd Millions?</p>

<p><i>Steward (confused, and displaying Plan).</i> Why, my lord&mdash;deeming
it befitting&mdash;that so illustrious and important and ubiquitously
influential a Body&mdash;as&mdash;Ourselves&mdash;should have a Local Habitation&mdash;as
well as a Name&mdash;I have prepared&mdash;this little Plan&mdash;which, with
the aid&mdash;of "a little cheque"&mdash;say for a trifle of Two Millions&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p><i>Young Squire (snatching Plan from his grasp and gazing angrily
thereon).</i> Aha! A veritable Castle in the Air! An Arabian Nights'
Phantom Palace!! The House that Jack (in Office) <i>would have</i>
built!!! (<i>Tears it, and treads it under foot.</i>) Nay, Sir Steward,
thou hast much misunderstood thy trust. The housing of the poor,
rather than of the rich, is thy prime function. Attend first to this
little list of Metropolitan Improvements, which cannot be unfamiliar
to thine ears and eyes. Or if <i>they</i> must perforce be postponed until the
attainment of "a fairer adjustment of the incidence of taxation,"
prythee, <i>à fortiori</i>, postpone also until that uncertain date this
precious scheme for an expensive Municipal Palace, and this premature
and impudent assault upon an already sufficiently depleted Pocket!</p>

<p><i>I. but B. R. (clasping her hands in gratitude).</i> Ah, thanks, noble
youth! Heaven reward thee for thy magnanimous championship
of the poor gyurl's purse!</p>

<p><i>Steward (aside).</i> Foiled!!! But no mattah! a time will come!!!</p>

<p class="center">(<i>Curtain.</i>)</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p class="ind"><span class="sc">"M. G." and "G. M."</span>&mdash;The first whispered proposal is, we
believe, generally formulated thus, "May I then hope? May I?"
But H.R.H. the Duke of <span class="sc">York's</span> proposal must have been even more
simple than this, for hope being changed into certainty, there was
only the whispered question, "<span class="sc">May George</span>?" and the gentle
answer, "<span class="sc">George May</span>." Then&mdash;all ended happily.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page16" id="page16"></a>[pg 16]</span>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">THE POLICE PHRASE-BOOK.</h2>

<h4><span class="sc">As Used in France.</span></h4>

<p class="ind1">I have no time to answer
questions.</p>

<p class="ind1">The slightest protest will
mean arrest.</p>

<p class="ind1">You will cause me to draw
my sword.</p>

<p class="ind1">I have a loaded revolver.</p>

<p class="ind1">We must take that barricade.</p>

<p class="ind1">We must obtain the help of
the army.</p>

<p class="ind1">We can assist bayonets with
bullets.</p>

<p class="ind1">We have no cause to succour
the wounded.</p>

<p class="ind1">We must preserve order.<br />
And, to do this, we cry,
"Long live France! Fire
upon any one! Charge!"</p>

<h4 style="margin-top: 2em;"><span class="sc">As Used in England.</span></h4>

<p class="ind1">The first turning to the left.
Sir, and then keep straight on
until you meet another constable&mdash;then
ask again.</p>

<p class="ind1">You have taken too much;
you had better go home
quietly. Shall I call a cab?</p>

<p class="ind1">Now don't forget you are a
gentleman, Sir, but help me
to do my duty.</p>

<p class="ind1">Now, coachman, wait a
moment. Must let these pass
before you can come.</p>

<p class="ind1">We don't want any help,
Sir. Why the crowd's as
meek as sheep and as good
natured as sandboys.</p>

<p class="ind1">Here, Sir, you have had an
awkward tumble. Let me
hold you up while my mate
goes for an ambulance.</p>

<p class="ind1">We must preserve order.<br />
And to do this we have only
to observe "move on."</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p class="ind"><span class="sc">Parliamentary.</span>&mdash;Change
of name. Mr. <span class="sc">Conybeare</span>
henceforth to be known as
"<span class="sc"><span style="letter-spacing:0.2em;">Conybore</span></span>," with the
accent on the "<i>bore</i>."</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"><a href="images/016-800.png"><img src="images/016-380.png" width="380" height="460" alt="" border="0" /></a>
<h2 class="sans">TOO AWFUL TO CONTEMPLATE!</h2>

<h4><i>A Confidence. After the Garden Party</i>.</h4>

<p>"<span class="sc">Oh, such a dreadful Thing happened to Me! I went up to
Lady Exe,&mdash;I had something very particular to say to her,&mdash;and I
didn't see she was talking to one of the Royal Princes. Well,
just fancy! I took no sort of Notice of him, but I just said what
I had to say to <i>her</i>. When I discovered what I had done, I called
on Lady Exe, and I said, 'I'm afraid His Royal Highness will be
awfully annoyed with me.' And dear Lady Exe quite comforted
me, you know. She said, 'If I were you, I wouldn't trouble myself
about it. He won't take any notice of it; as really, my Dear,
<i>people have such Bad Manners nowadays!</i></span>'"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">PROPHETIC DIARY OF THE L.C.C.</h2>

<h4>(<i>For the Next Ten Years.</i>)</h4>
<ul class="none">
<li>1894. &nbsp;&nbsp;Scheme accepted for
building Hôtel de Ville at a
cost of £3,000,000.</li>

<li>1895. &nbsp;&nbsp;Purchase of Kensington
Gardens as a Recreation-ground
for the Improvement
Committee.</li>

<li>1896. &nbsp;&nbsp;The Council buys St.
Paul's Cathedral as a Private
Chapel for the marriage of its
members and their families.</li>

<li>1897. &nbsp;&nbsp;Completion of <i>The
Bumble</i> Steam-yacht of the
L. C. C., costing £100,000.</li>

<li>1898. &nbsp;&nbsp;Uniforms for the
Members ordered at an expense
of £500,000.</li>

<li>1899. &nbsp;&nbsp;Purchase of a Crown
and other Jewels for the
Chairman on State occasions.</li>

<li>1900. &nbsp;&nbsp;The Palaces erected
for occupation by the Members
in Eaton, Belgrave, Grosvenor,
and Berkeley Squares acquired
and taken into use.</li>

<li>1901. &nbsp;&nbsp;A sum not exceeding
£5,000,000 voted by the L. C. C.
for statues commemorating
themselves, their wives, and
their families.</li>

<li>1902. &nbsp;&nbsp;Resolution carried by
acclamation confiscating the
entire sum received from the
ratepayers for the L. C. C.
Secret Service Fund.</li>

<li>1903. &nbsp;&nbsp;Petition for Metropolitan
Improvement unanimously
rejected.</li>

<li>1904. &nbsp;&nbsp;Act abolishing the
L. C. C. passed in Parliament
at a single sitting.</li>
</ul>
<hr class="medium" />

<p class="ind1">"<span class="sc">Commons Preservation
Society.</span>"&mdash;A most useful
body, no doubt. "But," asks
Lord <span class="sc">T. Noddie</span>, "as our
Upper House is so often
threatened, why isn't there a
"Lords Preservation Society?"</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>DANCE TILL DAWN.</h3>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>Charming maidens, smiling brightly,</p>
<p>Moving gracefully and lightly</p>
<p class="i22">          As the fawn,</p>
<p>Linger still, let me invite you,</p>
<p>Surely on this short June night you</p>
<p class="i22">          Dance till dawn.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Till the early bird will get the</p>
<p>Worm, and seaside shrimpers net the</p>
<p class="i22">          Shrimp or prawn.</p>
<p>Whilst they print the morning paper,</p>
<p>Let us glide and whirl and caper</p>
<p class="i22">          Till the dawn.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Till, with waking chirp of sparrows,</p>
<p>Early costermongers' barrows</p>
<p class="i22">          Forth are drawn.</p>
<p>Till the candles flare and gutter.</p>
<p>And the daylight, through the shutter,</p>
<p class="i22">          Peeps at dawn;</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Till the cock is crowing; listen!</p>
<p>And the dainty dewdrops glisten</p>
<p class="i22">          On the lawn;</p>
<p>Till my pretty partner's posies,</p>
<p>Made of June's delightful roses,</p>
<p class="i22">          Droop at dawn;</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Till my collar's limp and flabby&mdash;</p>
<p>Then I hail the sleepy cabby,</p>
<p class="i22">          As I yawn;</p>
<p>Home, to dream of sweet cheeks blushing</p>
<p>Like the sky, now rosy flushing</p>
<p class="i22">          At the dawn.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<hr class="medium" />

<p><span class="sc">Très Beau-tanical.</span>&mdash;An Aladdin-like
Magic-Lamp and Magic-Lantern Night at
the Botanical Gardens on Wednesday. A
thousand additional traditional lamps. The
Flower of the Aristocracy, being at the State
Ball, is represented by the Aristocracy of
Flowers (in the absence of Lord and Lady
<span class="sc">Battersea</span>, without whom no Floral <i>Fête</i> can
be absolutely perfect) in every part of these
beautiful gardens. Bands playing; but not
sufficient distance between them, so that
when they performed, simultaneously, entirely
different tunes, the effect was far from soothing
to the listeners' nerves. Why not adopt
the plan admirably carried out at the Marlborough
House Garden Party, where one band
having finished, another, at a distance, commenced?
Why among the harmony of colours
at the Botanical should there be produced
by the conflict of two tunes, taken in different
times, but played at the same moment, an
inharmonious whole?</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">Ladies' Fashions.</span>&mdash;Extremes: <i>Minimum</i>&mdash;Bonnet;
a ribbon and rosette. <i>Maximum</i>&mdash;Hat;
a Flower Garden on a Yard of Straw.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3 class="sans">THE MODERN NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD.</h3>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>If times were as when time was young,</p>
<p>And reason ruled each shepherd's tongue,</p>
<p>Thy pretty speeches might me move,</p>
<p>To live with thee, and be thy love.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>But times are changed in field and fold,</p>
<p>At shocking prices sheep are sold,</p>
<p>And farmers look exceeding glum,</p>
<p>Foreboding darker days to come.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>The weeds do choke the thriftless fields,</p>
<p>No profit now the harvest yields;</p>
<p>Honey is sought, but only gall</p>
<p>Is found, for still the prices fall.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Thy pinks, thy stocks, thy Provence roses,</p>
<p>Are pretty, and I'm fond of posies;</p>
<p>But wages may not long be gotten</p>
<p>When folly's rife, and business rotten.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>A man of straw thy master seems,</p>
<p>No grain of sense is in thy dreams,</p>
<p>And my Papa would not approve</p>
<p>Even if I would be thy love.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>But, when times mend, sheep-farms succeed,</p>
<p>And all on English mutton feed,</p>
<p>Ask me again, and thou may'st move,</p>
<p>To live with thee, and be thy love.</p>
  </div>  </div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page17" id="page17"></a>[pg 17]</span>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>OPERATIC NOTES.</h3>

<p><i>Tuesday, July 4. State Visit to the Opera.</i>&mdash;Yes, "<span class="sc">Todgers's</span>
could do it when it liked," as <span class="sc">Charles Dickens</span> remarked in <i>Martin
Chuzzlewit</i>, and Sir <span class="sc">Coventgardensis Druriolanus</span> can do it when
<i>he</i> likes, rather! The front of the house is quite a "mask of flowers,"
which the Master of the Gray's Inn Revels, himself present in a
gorgeous and awe-inspiring uniform, regards with a benign and
appreciative smile. Interesting
to note a number of
ordinarily quiet and unobtrusive
individuals, personally
known to me as the
mildest-mannered men, who
now appear as the fiercest,
and, on such a night, the
hottest of warriors; seeing
that if it is 98 in the shade,
the temperature must be ten
degrees higher to those who
are buttoned up to the chin
in a military uniform, with
straps, belts, buckles, boots,
weighted too with a dangling,
clattering sword, and
having to carry about a
thickly-furred hat, with a
plume in it like a shaving-brush,
that obstinately
refuses to be hung up, or
sat upon, or put out of
sight, in any sort of way
whatever, and which,
like a baby in arms, must
be carried,&mdash;or dropped.
The Venetians on the stage
in all their mediæval
bravery are not arrayed
like one of these simple
English yeomen, for, as I
am given to understand, to
that glorious body of our
country's agricultural defenders
do these dashing
Hussars, in their Hessian-fly
boots, belong! Ah! with such warriors England is safe!</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figleft" style="width: 200px;"><a href="images/017-400.png"><img src="images/017-200.png" width="200" height="368" alt="" border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">"Pas de Druriolanus; or, All among the Roses."</p></div>

<p>Then there are what <i>Mr. Weller</i> would have termed "My
Prooshan Blues," and likewise the diplomatic Muscovite, in hard-looking
cap, blue, naval-looking coat, and (apparently) flannel
boating trousers, falling, rather short, on to ordinary boots, with
plain unornamental spurs; a costume which, on the whole, suggests
that its wearer, at the command of the Autocrat of all the Russias,
must be ready at a second's notice to execute a forced march, dance
a hornpipe, run as a footman, take somebody up as a policeman,
head a cavalry charge, or (still in spurs) steer a torpedo boat on its
dangerous errand. Opera going strong, with the <span class="sc">De Frisky</span> Bros.
&amp; Co. The Last Act (by Royal Command) is omitted, and so for the
first time in dramatic history the story of <i>Romeo and Juliet</i> ends as
happily as possible. The lovers are only interrupted by the fall of the
curtain, and there are no sleeping draughts, poisonings, or burials. It
is a realisation of the line in <i>The Critic</i>, "In the Queen's name
I charge you all to drop your swords and daggers!" Only the
order is given in the Princess's name, and the swords, daggers, and
deadly draughts are all dropped accordingly. Greatest possible
success. <i>Gloria</i> <span class="sc">Druriolano</span>!</p>

<p><i>Friday Night.</i>&mdash;First performance of <i>I Rantzau</i>, and first-rate
performance, too. The Plot is simply a Plot of Land. Scene laid&mdash;laid
for seven <i>dramatis personæ</i>&mdash;in a Vague Village of the
Vosges; time, present century. The Rantzaus are the Capulets
and Montagues of this district; the son of one faction is in love
with the daughter of the other; but it doesn't end tragically, and
the lovers marry. That's all. It was played as a Drama at the
Français, with <span class="sc">Got</span> in it; when subsequently it was turned into an
Opera, it had the "Go" taken out of it. <span class="sc">De Lucia</span>, <span class="sc">Ancona</span>,
<span class="sc">Castelmary</span>, <span class="sc">Bispham</span>, and <span class="sc">Corsi</span> doing their very best,
as do
also the lamplighter and his assistant, who deftly perform their
"Wagnerian watchman" "business" to characteristic music.
Mlle. <span class="sc">Bauermeister</span> great in a small part; and Madame <span class="sc">Melba</span>
does her very best with the singularly uninteresting part of <i>Luisa</i>,
who is a very "Limited Loo." Signor <span class="sc">Mascagni</span> conducted the
Opera, and was himself conducted on to the stage as often as possible
in order to receive the congratulations of his "friends in
front." <i>I Rantzau</i> not "in it" with <span class="sc">Mascagni's</span> <i>Cavalleria</i>,
which,
like the Rantzau family at the end of the piece, "still holds the field."
Thermometer 95° in the stalls. House animated and appreciative.</p>

<p><i>Saturday.</i>&mdash;<i>Les Huguenots.</i> Grand Cast. Thermometer down again.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>A DITTY OF THE DOG-DAYS.</h3>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>Ninety-one in the shade, by <span class="sc">Negretti</span> and <span class="sc">Zambra</span>!</p>
<p class="i4">'Tis O that I dwelt in an ice-crevasse,</p>
<p class="i4">Or rented a share in the <i>Mer de Glace</i>,</p>
<p class="i4">Or hired (ere I melt and resolve to gas)</p>
<p>That <i>patio</i> cool in the chill Alhambra</p>
<p class="i2">(Not "Lei-ces-ter Squarr," but Granada far),</p>
<p class="i2">Where fountains sprinkle and plash and tinkle&mdash;</p>
<p class="i4">Ay me! that my dream can ne'er come to pass!</p>
<p>"Fourteen hours of the sun!" says the "Jordan Recorder"&mdash;</p>
<p class="i4">Each day it grows hotter in London town!</p>
<p class="i4">The plane-trees are withered and burnt and brown;</p>
<p class="i4">Ere Lammas has come the leaves are down!</p>
<p>The months have been mixed&mdash;they're out of order;</p>
<p class="i2">We'd the weather of June six weeks too soon;</p>
<p class="i2">And now we swelter and gasp for shelter&mdash;</p>
<p class="i4">We're grilled alive from toe to crown!</p>
<p>There's drought in the fields, and drought in my gullet!</p>
<p class="i4">I would that I sat in a boundless tank</p>
<p class="i4">Of claret and soda, and drank and drank!</p>
<p class="i4">My thirst with <span class="sc">Pantagruel's</span> own would rank&mdash;</p>
<p>Gargantuan draughts alone may lull it!</p>
<p class="i2">A shandygaff "chute" <i>à la</i> <span class="sc">Boyton</span> would suit,</p>
<p class="i2">Or of Pilsener lager a Nile or Niagara&mdash;</p>
<p class="i4">Would that it through my &oelig;sophagus sank!</p>
<p>I'd long to be <span class="sc">Nansen</span>, that bold Norwegian,</p>
<p class="i4">Who's off to the north like a sailor-troll;</p>
<p class="i4">Dry land I prefer in my inmost soul,</p>
<p class="i4">And his tub-like <i>Fram</i> will pitch and roll,</p>
<p>But she's bound at least for a glacial region!</p>
<p class="i2">Or stay, to be sure! here's Professor <span class="sc">D&mdash;&mdash;r</span></p>
<p class="i2">To cold can consign us untold degrees <i>minus</i>&mdash;</p>
<p class="i4">There's no need to visit the Northern Pole!</p>
<p>With this decuman "heat-wave" I grow delirious,</p>
<p class="i4">And babble a prayer to the Maid who sways</p>
<p class="i4">The Weather-department (on working-days)</p>
<p class="i4">Of the <i>Daily Graphic</i>&mdash;in crazy phrase&mdash;</p>
<p>The bale-fire to quench of far-distant Sirius!</p>
<p class="i2">To the Man in the Moon at noon I croon</p>
<p class="i2">For a lunatic boon, if that lone buffoon</p>
<p class="i2">Can stay this canicular, perpendicular,</p>
<p class="i2">Bang-on-my-forehead, horrid, torrid,</p>
<p class="i2">Beaming, gleaming, and ever-streaming</p>
<p class="i4">Blaze of rays that maze and daze!!</p>
  </div>  </div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>ROBERT AT THE MANSHUN HOUSE.</h3>

<p>I have long nown as how as the present <span class="sc">Lord Mare</span> was one of
the werry nicest, as well as one of the werry liberallists, of Lord
Mares as we has had for many years, but I most suttenly did not
kno, till larst Saturday, that, noticing, as he must have done, how
shamefoolly the County Counsellors is a trying for to destroy the grand
old Copperation, and take pusession of Gildhal and the Manshun
House, he had the courage to assemble round his ospiterbel Table all
the most princiblest of the great writers of our wunderful and
powerful Press, and let them judge for theirselves whether sich a
hinstitootion as he represented was worth preserwin or not! Ah,
that was sumthink like a Bankwet that was! Why amost eweryboddy
was there as was anyboddy. And the ony trubble as that
caused was, that they was all so jolly glad to meet each other, under
sitch unusual suckemstances, that nothink on airth coud keep em
quiet, no, not ewen when the Amerrycan Embassader torked to em
for about arf a nour!</p>

<p>One of the most distinguist of the skollars as I was waiting on
told one of the most butiful Painters, in my hearing, as how he
thort it wood be rayther a wise thing of all future Lord Mares if
they himmitated the present <span class="sc">Lord Mare's</span> exampel; and I wentur,
with all umility, to say Ditto to the distinguisht Skoller. <span class="sc">Robert.</span></p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p class="ind"><span class="sc">Ge-o-m-etrically Considered.</span>&mdash;The illuminations were as good
as they could be everywhere. The brilliant initials, "G. M.,"
wanted nothing to render them perfect. If that want had been supplied,
then, as "nothing" is represented by a cipher, the initials
would have commemorated the G. <i>O.</i> M.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p class="ind"><span class="sc">From Henley to the Opera on the Night of the State
Performance.</span>&mdash;"Rich and rare were the gems they wore;" and
two ladies, with magnificent tiaras, if they had only shown up at
Henley, would have won the prize for "<i>The Diamond Skulls</i>."</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p class="ind">Mrs. R. caught sight of a heading in a daily paper&mdash;"Board of
Trade Returns." Our old friend at once exclaimed. "Then where
has the Board of Trade been to? Where is it returning from? I
really don't call this attending to business."</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page18" id="page18"></a>[pg 18]</span>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/018-1000.png"><img src="images/018-600.png" width="600" height="399" alt="A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE." border="0" /></a>
<h3>A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.</h3>

<p><i>Tommy</i> (<i>on his way to the Browns' Juvenile Garden Party</i>). "<span class="sc">Now,
Nurse, remember, when once we've passed that Garden Gate,
<i>you don't belong to Me!</i></span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>FATHER WILLIAM.</h3>

<p class="ind1"><span class="outdent">(<i>Latest Anglo-Teutonic Version</i></span><i>, as repeated to the Caterpillar of State
by Alice, in Blunderland, from vague and mixed reminiscences of
Southey, Lewis Carroll, and the Reports of the Debates in the British
Parliament and the German Reichstag, concerning the Home-Rule
Bill and the Army Bill respectively.</i>)</p>

<p>"I'm afraid I am changed, Sir." said <span class="sc">Alice</span>; "I can't remember
things as I used&mdash;and I don't keep to the same author for ten
minutes together!"</p>

<p>"Can't remember <i>what</i> things?" said the Caterpillar of State.</p>

<p>"Well, I've tried to sing '<i>Rule, Britannia</i>', but it all came
different, and got mixed up with '<i>The Watch on the Rhine</i>!'"
<span class="sc">Alice</span> replied, in a very melancholy voice.</p>

<p>"Repeat '<i>You are old, Father William</i>,'" said the Caterpillar
of State.</p>

<p><span class="sc">Alice</span> folded her hands, and began:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>"Good-morrow!" the youth to the Woodcutter cried;</p>
<p class="i2">"Father <span class="sc">William</span>, you're 'sniggling,' I see!"</p>
<p>With a smile of bland 'cuteness the Old Man replied,</p>
<p class="i2">"Master <span class="sc">William</span>, good morrow! I <i>be</i>!"</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>"You are old, Father <span class="sc">William</span>," the young <span class="sc">Kaiser</span> said,</p>
<p class="i2">"And your hair, what there is of it, 's white;</p>
<p>And yet you still stand at the Government's head&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">Do you think, at your age, it is right?"</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>"Some twenty years since," Father <span class="sc">William</span> replied,</p>
<p class="i2">"I'd a passionate wish to retire;</p>
<p>But as I grow younger each year, I have tried</p>
<p class="i2">To subdue that untimely desire."</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>"You are old," said the youth, "yet your seat appears firm,</p>
<p class="i2">You are still pretty good over timber;</p>
<p>Your double back somersaults make your foes squirm.</p>
<p class="i2">What keeps you so nimble and limber?"</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>"In my youth," said the Senior, "I kept all my limbs&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">And some say my principles&mdash;supple;</p>
<p>And that's why old age neither stiffens nor dims,</p>
<p class="i2">And years with alertness I couple."</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>"You are old," said the youth, "and your 'jaw' should be weak,</p>
<p class="i2">I've often heard <span class="sc">Bizzy</span> pooh-pooh it.</p>
<p>Yet you polish off <span class="sc">Joe</span>, and tap <span class="sc">Goschen's</span> big beak;</p>
<p class="i2">Pray, how do you manage to do it?"</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>"In <i>my</i> youth," said the Sage, "Fair Debate was the law,</p>
<p class="i2">And genuine Eloquence rife;</p>
<p>And so in an age of mere Brummagem 'jaw'</p>
<p class="i2">I can still hold my own in the strife."</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>"You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose</p>
<p class="i2">That your eye was as steady as ever;</p>
<p>Yet you balance that eel on the end of your nose&mdash;</p>
<p class="i2">What makes you so awfully clever?"</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>"<i>You</i> are young," smiled old <span class="sc">Will</span>; "you don't yet understand.</p>
<p class="i2">The point&mdash;of the eel&mdash;you'd be missing;</p>
<p>But when you're an Old Parliamentary Hand</p>
<p class="i2">You will find it as easy as kissing!"</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>"I've caught an eel, also," observed the young 'sniggler,'</p>
<p class="i2">"<i>I</i>'m not, like you, beaked <i>à la</i> Toucan;</p>
<p>Mine's still smaller than yours, and a terrible wriggler;</p>
<p class="i2">I wish I could work it as <i>you</i> can!"</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>"The equilibrist's art," the Old Juggler replied,</p>
<p class="i2">"Is not to be learned in a jiffy.</p>
<p>With the help of your Eyes (<i>Ayes</i>), and your Nose (<i>Noes</i>), and good 'side,'</p>
<p class="i2">You <i>may</i> win&mdash;if you do not turn 'squiffy.'"</p>
  </div>  </div>

<p>"That is not said right," said the Caterpillar of State.</p>

<p>"Not <i>quite</i> right, I'm afraid," said <span class="sc">Alice</span>, timidly; "some of
the words have got altered."</p>

<p>"It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar,
decidedly; and there was silence for some minutes.</p>

<hr class="medium" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page19" id="page19"></a>[pg 19]</span>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"><a href="images/019-800.png"><img src="images/019-350.png" width="350" height="443" alt="" border="0" /></a>
<h2>"FATHER WILLIAM."</h2>

<p>"YOU ARE OLD," SAID THE YOUTH; "ONE WOULD HARDLY SUPPOSE</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;THAT YOUR EYE WAS AS STEADY AS EVER;</p>
<p>YET YOU BALANCE THAT EEL ON THE END OF YOUR NOSE&mdash;</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;WHAT MAKES YOU SO AWFULLY CLEVER?"</p>
  </div>

<span class="pagenum"><a name="page20" id="page20"></a>[pg 20]</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page21" id="page21"></a>[pg 21]</span>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>AN ORATOR "POUR RIRE."</h3>

<h4>(<span class="sc">A Study in Hyde Park.</span>)</h4>

<p class="ind1"><span class="outdent"><i>The Scene is that</i></span> <i>Forum for Fadmongers&mdash;the angle of the Park
fronting Cumberland Gate. A large and utterly irreverent
crowd is listening with cheerful intolerance to a Persevering
Gentleman, of a highly respectable and almost scholarly appearance,
who is addressing them from a three-legged stool on
nothing in particular, though he has apparently committed
himself by charging a certain Statesman with at least two
political murders.</i></p>

<p><i>The Orator</i> (<i>haltingly</i>). We who are fighting the
battle&mdash;(<i>uproarious
laughter from</i> Crowd, <i>which he endures with dignified
resignation</i>)&mdash;I say&mdash;we who are fighting the battle!</p>

<p><i>The Crowd.</i> 'Oo's talking about fightin' a battle?... <i>You</i>
wouldn't be 'ere if there was any battles about! 'E's a fair ole
fraud, 'e is&mdash;that's about 'is sort! Shet up, you idiotic ole ass, do!
(&amp;c., &amp;c.)</p>

<p><i>The Orator</i> (<i>patiently</i>). I say once more&mdash;we who are fighting
the&mdash;&mdash;(<i>Howls of derision, at which he
smiles, but perceives, regretfully, that the
battle must be abandoned.</i>) One of my friends
here has seen fit to describe me as an idiotic
old ass. ("<i>So you are!</i>") Well, I am glad,
at least, that he pronounced it <i>ass</i> with the
vowel short, and not ass, for it shows that
he has at least a certain regard for the
Queen's English (<i>The</i> Crowd <i>hasten to give
the vowel sound all the breadth in their
power</i>). I think I was&mdash;(<i>here he consults a
sheaf of notes</i>)&mdash;offering some remarks upon
Mr. <span class="sc">William Wobler</span>. Now we are told,
"Speak evil of no man!"</p>

<p><i>The Crowd.</i> That's a good un! 'Oo spoke
evil of Mr. <span class="sc">Bagwind</span> jest now?</p>

<p><i>The Orator</i> (<i>mildly hurt</i>). I never said a
single unkind word about Mr. <span class="sc">Bagwind</span>!</p>

<p><i>The Crowd.</i> Yer lie! Why, didn't you
say as he murdered <span class="sc">Jettison</span> and <span class="sc">Scapegoat</span>?
Wot yer call <i>that</i>, eh?</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 250px;"><a href="images/021-500.png"><img src="images/021-230.png" width="230" height="467" alt="" border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">"I say&mdash;<i>Never!</i>"</p></div>

<p><i>The Orator.</i> I may have made some such
observation&mdash;but far be it from me to speak
evil of any man. If I spoke evil, it was on
public grounds. I should scorn to attack
any individual in his private character. I
think I have satisfactorily answered <i>that</i>
matter. And I tell you this&mdash;it is largely
owing to me that Mr. <span class="sc">William Wobler</span>
owes his seat in Parliament to-day! (<i>His
hearers receive this with frank incredulity.</i>)
Ah, but it <i>is</i>, though, and I denounce him,
as I have denounced him before, and <i>shall</i>
denounce him while I have power to raise
my voice, as a man who has proved himself
utterly unworthy of the efforts I have made
on his behalf. Some people are saying they
want <span class="sc">Thomas Tiddler</span> in North Paddington.
I say&mdash;<i>Never!</i> Not as long as I've breath in
my body shall <span class="sc">Thomas Tiddler</span> be returned
for any constituency! No, gentlemen: here
I stand before you, with no money, and
only one lung. I have rich and high relations,
to whom I might apply for relief if I
condescended to do so; but I scorn to abase myself in any such
manner. I prefer to appeal to you, the people of London. It's a
disgrace&mdash;a public disgrace&mdash;that you people should allow such a
man as myself to walk the streets without food! (<i>A voice.</i> "Why
don't yer <i>work</i>?") Work? Am I <i>not</i> working? Am I not in my
proper place here to-night?</p>

<p><i>The Crowd</i> (<i>with hearty unanimity</i>). No!</p>

<p><i>The Orator</i> (<i>with exultation</i>). Then support me in the name of all
you hold dear! I have my work to accomplish, and I <i>shall</i>
accomplish it by the aid of the People's pence, by the aid of the
People's sixpences,&mdash;aye, and by the aid of the People's <i>shillings</i>!
<i>Will</i> you help me?</p>

<p><i>The Crowd</i> (<i>more heartily than ever</i>). No!</p>

<p><i>The Orator.</i> Then I will now proceed to make a collection.</p>

<p class="ind1"><span class="outdent">[<i>He descends</i></span> <i>from his stool, and circulates among the crowd
proffering a highly respectable hat. A</i> Rival Orator <i>mounts
the stool; he has a straw hat, side whiskers, and a style of
concentrated and withering invective</i>.</p>

<p><i>The Rival Orator</i> (<i>fluently, and with much enjoyment of his own
eloquence</i>). I shall preface what I have to say by protesting in the
strongest terms at my disposal against the most disgraceful attack
we have had the pain of listening to to-night, against the character
of a Statesman we all revere, by the unspeakably offensive and
degraded individual with a black coat, a clean collar, and only one
lung, who has just concluded his contemptible remarks, and is now
debasing himself, if possible, still further by going round cringing,
actually cringing, for the miserable halfpence which he hopes his
foul-mouthed virulence will extract from the more foolish among
his hearers! (<i>Applause at this spirited opening; the</i> First Orator
<i>imperturbably continues to protrude his hat</i>.) I have no hesitation in
saying that if such language as he has favoured us with was uttered
against a public man in any other community, in any other country,
in any other hemisphere in the civilized globe, the audience would
have risen in righteous indignation, and chased the cowardly
aggressor back to the vile den from whose obscurity he would have
done better never to emerge! Gentlemen, he has appealed to your
sympathy on the ground, forsooth, that he has only one lung! I
venture to assert that it is nothing short of a public calamity that he
<i>is</i> the possessor of one lung; for had he none at all, he would have
been incapable of outraging the general intelligence by the utterance
of such sentiments as he has disgusted you by this evening.
When I first became acquainted with this man, before he had sunk
into the besotted state in which he now wallows,
he used, I remember, to condemn the
practice of making a public collection. Now
I've never been against that practice myself.
<i>I</i> hold that a man who is capable of attracting
an audience by such gifts of oratory
as he may possess, is perfectly justified in
making a collection afterwards, whether he
requires the money or not. But this person
has become so degraded, so destitute of any
sense of honour, so soaked and sodden with
gin, that he now turns round on the principles
he once professed, and is to be seen
going round with a hat laden with the
coppers of those who are infinitely worse off
than&mdash;judging from his dress and prosperous
appearance&mdash;he evidently is himself!</p>

<p><i>The First Orator</i> (<i>exhibiting his empty hat</i>).
It don't look much like it at present, <span class="sc">Gabbitt</span>!</p>

<p><i>Mr. Gabbitt.</i> He has boasted to you of having
rich relations, and said he scorned to apply to
them. I want to know why, instead of coming
here begging to you, he <i>don't</i> go to them?</p>

<p><i>The First Orator.</i> I've <i>been</i>, <span class="sc">Gabbitt</span>.</p>

<p><i>Mr. G.</i> (<i>triumphantly</i>). You hear? he's
been to them. That proves they've found him
out; they know him for the grovelling soaker
he is, a wretch tottering on the verge of delirium
tremens, and, rightly, they'll have
nothing to do with him. It's very possible,
gentlemen, that he <i>may</i> have rich relations
in the place where most of us have rich
relations&mdash;I refer to the workhouse! (<i>Cheers
and laughter.</i>) And it is this wretch, this
indescribable mixture of meanness and malignity,
who has dared to come here and charge
Mr. <span class="sc">Bagwind</span> with crime! He asked you&mdash;and
let him not deny it now&mdash;"What about
Mr. <span class="sc">Scapegoat</span>?" Well, there may be a
good many things about Mr. <span class="sc">Scapegoat</span>, but
what I tell <i>you</i> is&mdash;an observation like that
is one that doesn't convey any concrete idea
whatever; in short, it is the observation of a
drivelling and confirmed lunatic!</p>

<p><i>Voice in the Crowd.</i> With on'y one lung; don't forgit that, ole man!</p>

<p><i>Mr. G.</i> (<i>magnanimously</i>). No, I've done with his lung, now; it
doesn't do to carry personalities too far, and I've disposed of that
already, and have no desire to return to it. And, as I observe that
the wretched object of the strictures which I have felt it my duty to
express, has concluded his efforts with the hat, and met with the
freezing contempt and indifference which are only to be expected
from intelligent and fair-minded men like yourselves, I will now
bring my exposure of the sophistries, the base insinuations, and the
incoherent maunderings which he had the effrontery to impose upon
your understandings as argument, to a premature close, and proceed
to make a collection on my own account, and thereby afford you the
opportunity of showing on which side your real sympathies and your
confidence are enlisted.</p>

<p class="ind"><span class="outdent1">[<i>He goes round</i></span> <i>with the straw hat, which his delighted audience fill
liberally with the coppers that the previous speaker has ignominiously
failed to extract from them. But the tender-hearted Reader
may be relieved to hear that, as soon as the crowd has dispersed,
the victor shares the proceeds of his eloquence in the handsomest
manner with his adversary, who shows a true elevation of mind in
betraying no abiding resentment at his oratorical defeat. So may
all such contests terminate&mdash;as, for that matter, they generally do.</i></p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page22" id="page22"></a>[pg 22]</span>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>"THE PLAY IS NOT THE THING."</h3>

<p>(<i>A Farce which is running in
most of the London Theatres,
but which should not be
tolerated for a single Night.</i>)</p>

<p><span class="sc">Scene</span>&mdash;<i>Auditorium of the
T. R.&mdash;&mdash; during the
performance of a Modern
Comedy. Enter a party
of four</i> Playgoers <i>into
private box</i>.</p>

<p><i>First Playgoer.</i> Rather a
pity it has begun! I always
like to see a play from first
to last. Don't you?</p>

<p><i>Second P.</i> Quite. So
much more interesting. Of
course if you don't catch
what they say at first, how
on earth can you catch the
idea of the plot?</p>

<p><i>Third P.</i> Not that the
plot matters much nowadays.
All dialogue, don't
you know? Smart hits at
somebody, and all that sort
of thing.</p>

<p><i>Fourth P.</i> Quite. Really
better fun than the other sort
of thing. Much better fun
to have to listen to epigrams
and all that sort of thing,
than to have to follow something
or other with interest.</p>

<p><i>Second P.</i> Quite. In fact,
nowadays, you can come in
when you like, and listen to
what you like.</p>

<p><i>Third P.</i> Yes, much better
plan, than having to take it
all in. Think it a first-rate
idea to allow talking all
through, instead of keeping
that sort of thing until between
the Acts.</p>

<p><i>Second P.</i> Quite. Between
the Acts a fellow wants to
smoke. Much jollier to talk
when the other fellows are
talking too. Divide the labour
with them&mdash;half the
conversation on one side the
Curtain, half on the other.</p>

<p><i>Fourth P.</i> Capital idea,
and much less fatiguing
than the old style. Fancy
having to take it all in!
Why, ten years ago, one had
to get up a play as if one had
to pass an examination in it
next morning! Awful bosh!</p>

<p><i>Second P.</i> Quite. No, it's
much jollier to chat. Is there
anyone in the house you
know?</p>

<p><i>First P.</i> Only that Johnnie
over there! The fellow
in the dinner-jacket, who's
gone to sleep. He's rather
a sportsman. (<i>Applause.</i>)
Hallo! What's that row
about?</p>

<p><i>Third P.</i> End of the First
Act. I say, you fellows,
I don't think there's much
in the piece, so far.</p>

<p><i>Fourth P.</i> I am blest if I
know what it's all about.</p>

<p><i>First P.</i> More do I.</p>

<p><i>Second P.</i> And I. Why
should we stay any longer?
Seems awful rot.</p>

<p><i>Fourth P.</i> Quite. Let's
go to a Music-Hall, where
we can smoke and chat.</p>

<p><i>First P.</i> Quite.</p>

<p class="ind"><span class="outdent1">[<i>Exeunt the party,</i></span> <i>to the
great relief of the remainder
of the Audience.</i></p>

<p class="ind"><i>Curtain.</i></p>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 330px;"><a href="images/022-800.png"><img src="images/022-330.png" width="330" height="460" alt="" border="0" /></a>
<h2 class="sans">PESSIMISM v. OPTIMISM.</h2>

<p>(<i>From the City.</i>)</p>

<p>"<span class="sc">You're getting quite a Corporation, Brown!</span>"</p>

<p>"<span class="sc">Yes; the result of a <i>Contented Mind</i>, Old Man!</span>"</p>

<p>"<span class="sc">No. You mean the result of a <i>Continual Feast</i>!</span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<p><span class="sc">An Omission in Last
Week's Ceremonial Accounted
for.</span>&mdash;It was first
proposed to make a <i>détour</i>
from Piccadilly by way of
Park Lane, Stanhope Street,
and so forth, round again to
Piccadilly. But as H. R. H.
the Duke of YORK pointed out,
there was no necessity for specially
visiting May Fair, as
from start to finish he took
<span class="sc">May</span> Fair with him.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>PUNCH'S "GOD-SPEED" TO THE POLE-SEEKERS.</h3>

<p class="center">
[Dr. <span class="sc">Fridtjof Nansen's</span> Arctic Expedition
sailed from Christiania in the <i>Fram</i> on June 24.]
</p>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>So Dr. <span class="sc">Fridtjof Nansen's</span> off!</p>
<p>Cynics will chuckle, and pessimists scoff.</p>
<p>What a noodle, that Norroway chap,</p>
<p>Who'd drift to the Pole to&mdash;complete our map!</p>
<p>Year after year in the broad-beam'd <i>Fram</i>,</p>
<p>Far from Society's "Real Jam,"</p>
<p>Away from the fjords, and Five o'Clock Tea,</p>
<p>Amidst the ice of the Kara Sea;</p>
<p>Certain of darkness, discomfort, and frost,</p>
<p>With an excellent prospect of getting lost,</p>
<p>Crunched in the ice-pack, frozen, or starved,</p>
<p>Whilst Mansion-House Banquets are being carved;</p>
<p>Over the snow like pale ghosts flitting,</p>
<p>Missing the sweets of an All-Night Sitting!</p>
<p>Alone in a canvas-bottom'd bunk,</p>
<p>When gossip is gabbled, and toasts are drunk,</p>
<p>Where Good Society's geese gregarious,</p>
<p>Hiss malignant, or cackle hilarious!</p>
<p>Well, who knows? Those Arctic snows</p>
<p>May bore <i>men</i> less than our Social Shows;</p>
<p>And utter aridity starve the soul</p>
<p>More in the House than the Northern Pole!</p>
<p>Here's to <span class="sc">Nansen</span>! Here's to his crew!</p>
<p>We know they'll venture what men may do.</p>
<p>Good luck and good cheer be Heaven's gift</p>
<p>To the <i>Fram</i> and her men on that long, long drift!</p>
<p>And if they win through the Polar pack,</p>
<p>May <i>Punch</i> be foremost to welcome them back.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.</h2>

<h4><span class="sc">Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.</span></h4>

<p><i>House of Commons, Monday, July 3.</i>&mdash;The
fat in the fire again. Who put it there?
"I," said <span class="sc">Joey C.</span>, "with my ready ladle;
I swooped it in." So he did, lighting up
with sudden flame embers that seemed quite
dead. At end of speech on <span class="sc">Wolmer's</span>
Amendment, seeing <span class="sc">John Dillon</span> sitting
opposite, asked him what about few remarks
made at Castlerea, in which he had threatened,
when Irishmen came to their own on
College Green, they would have police,
sheriffs, and bailiffs, under their control, and
would "remember" their enemies? <span class="sc">Dillon</span>,
amid scene of tumultuous excitement, admitted
that phrase not in itself defensible,
but pleaded that words had been spoken amid
great provocation. The massacre at Mitchelstown
had taken place just before; its memories
were hot within him, and, out of the
indignation of his heart, his tongue had
spoken.</p>

<p>As <span class="sc">Dillon</span> urged this plea, <span class="sc">T. W. Russell</span>
made a hurried remark in <span class="sc">Joseph's</span> ear.
J. smiled grimly; the Lord had delivered the
enemy into his hand. Some men would have
maimed their chance, if not spoiled the game,
by jumping up with hot interruption, and
hurriedly exposed the blunder upon which
<span class="sc">Dillon</span> had stumbled. <span class="sc">Joseph</span> never loses
his head. He lay low, sayin' nuffin', but
regarding the unconscious victim opposite
with dangerously smiling face. When <span class="sc">Dillon</span>
sat down, the crowded House plainly
moved by his effective speech, <span class="sc">Joseph</span> literally
leaped to his feet, and flung across the
floor the most complete and dramatic blow
ever dealt at a man in House of Commons.
It was Mitchelstown, was it, that had
rankled in <span class="sc">Dillon's</span> breast when he uttered
the phrase he now regretted? Would the
House believe that the massacre at Mitchelstown
took place on September 9, 1887, and
this speech at Castlerea was made on December
5, 1886?</p>

<p>"Remember Mitchelstown!" <span class="sc">John Dillon</span>
had remembered it nine months and
four days before it had taken place. Several
moments the Unionists cheered, <span class="sc">Joseph</span>
standing with accusatory finger pointed at
<span class="sc">John Dillon</span>, who sat silent with folded arms, the habitual pallor
of his face changed to a ghastlier white.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page23" id="page23"></a>[pg 23]</span></p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"><a href="images/023-1000.png"><img src="images/023-340.png" width="340" height="464" alt="" border="0" /></a>
<h3 class="sans">THE WEEK OF THE YEAR.</h3></div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page24" id="page24"></a>[pg 24]</span>
<p>"My dear <span class="sc">John</span>," I said to him later, "how on earth could you
make such a terrible mistake? The only amelioration it has is
that it was so stupendous and obvious that it was plainly stumbled
upon without intent or purport to deceive."</p>

<p>"Thank you, <span class="sc">Toby</span>," said <span class="sc">John Dillon</span>. "I suppose that is
clear enough to the generous mind. But I know a blunder is sometimes
worse than a crime. The fact is, about the time I spoke at
Castlerea, things were so bad in Ireland, the police so little hesitating
to shoot, that I got mixed up in my dates, and remembered
Mitchelstown when I was thinking about something else."</p>

<p><i>Business done.</i>&mdash;Home-Rule Bill in Committee.</p>

<p><i>Tuesday.</i>&mdash;<span class="sc">Tritton</span> descending amongst the minnows has brought
up <span class="sc">Conybeare</span>. Not much heard of late of that eminent legislator.
Seems he's been compensating
enforced
silence in House by
"saying things" of
<span class="sc">Speaker</span> in letter to
newspaper. More than
hints <span class="sc">Speaker</span>, moved
by political motives,
has acted unfairly in
Chair. Perhaps <span class="sc">Tritton</span>
had done better to
leave him alone. Comparatively
few were
aware of the little
excursion into print.
Now blazoned forth to
all the world. Since
'twas done 'twas well
'twas done admirably.
<span class="sc">Speaker</span> moved to one
of those outbursts of
passionate though restrained
eloquence of
which, upon occasion,
he shows himself
capable. As Baron
<span class="sc">Ferdy</span> remarks:&mdash;"Since
<span class="sc">G.P.R. James</span>
was sent as Consul to
Venice, the only city
in the world where the
solitary horseman of
his many novels could
not be 'observed,'
nothing so quaint as
condemning one of the
few parliamentary
orators of the day to the
silence of the Chair."</p>

<p>Mr. G. delivered
brief but magnificent
speech, instinct with the true spirit of Parliamentarian. <span class="sc">Prince
Arthur</span> said a few words; everybody looked round for <span class="sc">Curse Of
Camborne</span> but unwonted access of modesty had seized him. Here was
opportunity with crowded House waiting on his words. And where
was he? Not in his place; so episode closed.</p>

<p>Though <span class="sc">Conybeare's</span> intention probably not kindly meant,
<span class="sc">Speaker</span> certainly under considerable obligation to him. Opportunity
afforded House of enthusiastically applauding the most
capable, dignified, upright <span class="sc">Speaker</span> that ever faced the fierce light
that beats upon the Chair of the House of Commons.</p>

<p>Came across <span class="sc">Herbert Maxwell</span> just now; haven't seen him since
Saturday; met at dinner to Art and Literature given at Mansion
House by Lord Mayor <span class="sc">Knill</span>. "<span class="sc">Bayard</span> finished his speech yet?"
I asked.</p>

<p>"Not sure," said <span class="sc">Maxwell</span>; "fancy not. When I was carried
out, in state approaching coma, I observed on table before him two
or three other volumes of manuscript, containing further passages
of the prodigious recitation."</p>

<p><span class="sc">Bayard</span> is the new American Minister, doncha; made his first
public appearance at the Mansion House on Saturday; felt he must
rise to occasion; and did.</p>

<p>"Yours is a mere speck of a country, <span class="sc">Toby</span>," he said, before
we went in to dinner. "Your public speeches are, very properly,
planned in proportion. Now America, as you may have heard, is a
vast Continent, and I've got up a little thing to scale."</p>

<p>"Otherwise a very pleasant dinner," said <span class="sc">Maxwell</span>. "I sat next
to a Citizen and Loriner. Don't know what a Loriner is, but fancy,
from look in my friend's eyes, it's something to do with fish.
When turtle soup appeared on table there was phosphorescent
gleam in the worthy Loriner's eyes. He prodded me genially in ribs
with a fat elbow, and said with ungent chuckle, 'Ah, I s'pose you
writing fellows don't often sit down to a dinner like <i>this</i>?'"</p>

<p><i>Business done.</i>&mdash;In Committee on Home-Rule Bill. Much cry and
few Amendments.</p>

<p><i>Thursday.</i>&mdash;At ten o'clock to-night guillotine descended; simultaneously
Opposition lost their head; for hour and half there raged
succession of angry scenes that beat a gorgeous record. Mr. G. and
<span class="sc">Prince Arthur</span>, coming and going from division lobbies, were made
objects of rival ovations. Liberals and the Irish leaped to their feet,
madly cheering when <span class="sc">Premier</span> dropped in. Few minutes earlier or
later came <span class="sc">Prince Arthur</span>; instantly Unionists on their feet wildly
cheering. Outside all London making holiday. Here hon. gentlemen
almost clutching at each other's throats across the beneficently
wide floor. Instead of wedding festivities and national holiday
depleting House it was fuller than ever. <span class="sc">Villiers</span> came down to
give his vote against
Closure; Unionists
rapturous round their
Grand Old Man. The
other side had Mr. G.
with his fourscore
years and four. <span class="sc">Villiers</span>
of Wolverhampton
topped him by
seven years. Nearly
carried him into division
lobby shoulder
high; beat hasty retreat
after doing this
last service to his
country.</p>

<p>"Fact is, you know,
<span class="sc">Toby</span>," he said, "I'm
not quite the young
fellow I used to be;
can't stand the racket
as was easy enough
some sixty or seventy
years ago. If they'll
kindly excuse me, I'll
go and take a walk
with the crowd to see
the illuminations in
Piccadilly. That will
be delightfully quiet
after this turmoil."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"><a href="images/024-800.png"><img src="images/024-500.png" width="500" height="451" alt="'THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.'" border="0" /></a>
<h3>"THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE."</h3></div>

<p>On Clause 6 <span class="sc">Sage Of
Queen Anne's Gate</span>,
accompanied by half-a-dozen
unpurchaseable
Radicals, voted
in Opposition lobby;
brought Government
majority down to 15;
crowd, streaming by
Palace Yard, clearly
heard terrific cheers that welcomed this falling off. Proposed to bring
back the <span class="sc">Sage</span> and his merry men in triumph. Floral decoration
being order of day, why not let them enter rose-garlanded, led by
<span class="sc">Prince Arthur</span> on one side, and <span class="sc">Joey C.</span> on the other?
Guaranteed
a noble reception from grateful and gratified Opposition. But some
difference of opinion arose within little circle of Stalwarts, and proposal
abandoned. Drifted in one by one, amid stream of Opposition.</p>

<p><i>Business done.</i>&mdash;Clauses 5, 6, 7, and 8 added to Home-Rule Bill.</p>

<p><i>Friday Night.</i>&mdash;<span class="sc">Conybeare</span> went out a-shearing, and came home
shorn. Asked leave to make personal explanation; House naturally
thought this would assume form of apology for attack on <span class="sc">Speaker</span>,
of which note was taken on Tuesday. Permission accordingly given.
Turned out nothing further from <span class="sc">Conybeare's</span> thoughts. First began
by scolding unnamed persons for not rising in his defence on Tuesday;
then proceeded to argue with Mr. G. and <span class="sc">Speaker</span> on point of order
involved in his earlier attack. Incidentally, as the <span class="sc">Speaker</span>, in
indignant tones, pointed out, he repeated the charges embodied in his
letter. House long listened, with amazing patience. But there are
limits to forbearance; at end of quarter of an hour the <span class="sc">Curse of
Camborne</span> had reached these; his letter declared by unanimous vote
to be a breach of privilege; a lame apology wrung from his unwilling
lips, under penalty of a week's suspension. "Curses," said
the Member for Sark, "come home to roost, no exception being made
in the case of <span class="sc">Camborne</span>." <i>Business done.</i>&mdash;None.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p><span class="sc">Mrs. R.'s Latest Observation.</span>&mdash;Our excellent friend was disappointed
with the Royal Bridal Procession. Finding the King
and Queen of <span class="sc">Denmark</span> in the procession, she naturally looked out
for <i>Hamlet</i>, and does not, to this hour, see why he should have been
left out of the play.</p>

<hr class="full" />

<table align="center" summary="transcriber note" width="auto" style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em;">
<tr>
    <td class="note">

<h4>Transcriber's Note:</h4>

<p>This issue contains some dialect. (Specifically page 17, in 'Robert at the
Manshun House').</p>

<p>Page 13: 'A' corrected to 'At'. "At last, however, we managed to calm the
indignant ladies,..."</p>
<p>The correction is also indicated by dotted lines underneath.<br />
Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p>

</td>
</tr>
</table>

<hr class="full" />








<pre>





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