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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107,
July 21st 1894, by Various

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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, July 21st 1894

Author: Various

Release Date: May 23, 2012 [EBook #39770]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Ernest Schaal and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net









PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 107.
JUNE 21, 1894.

                               * * * * *

                          A RIVERSIDE LAMENT.

  In my garden, where the rose
  By the hundred gaily blows,
  And the river freshly flows
        Close to me,
  I can spend the summer day
  In a quite idyllic way;
  Simply charming, you would say,
        Could you see.

  I am far from stuffy town,
  Where the soots meander down,
  And the air seems--being brown--
        Close to me.
  I am far from rushing train;
  _Bradshaw_ does not bore my brain,
  Nor, comparatively plain,
        _A B C_.

  To my punt I can repair,
  If the weather's fairly fair,
  But one grievance I have there;
        Close to me,
  As I sit and idly dream,
  Clammy corpses ever seem
  Floating down the placid stream
        To the sea.

  Though the boats that crowd the lock--
  Such an animated block!--
  Bring gay damsels, quite a flock,
        Close to me,
  Yet I heed not tasty togs,
  When, as motionless as logs,
  Float defunct and dismal dogs
  There _aussi_.

  As in Egypt at a feast,
  With each party comes at least
  One sad corpse, departed beast,
        Close to me;
  Till a Canon might go off,
  Till a Dean might swear or scoff,
  Or a Bishop--tip-top toff
        In a see.

  Floating to me from above,
  If it stick, with gentle shove,
  To my neighbour, whom I love,
        Close to me,
  I send on each gruesome guest.
  Should I drag it out to rest
  In my garden? No, I'm blest!
        _Non, merci!_

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: THE 'ARDEN-ING PROCESS.

_Orlando._ "TIRED, ROSALIND?" _Rosalind._ "PNEUMATICALLY."]

                               * * * * *

                          OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"For a modest dish of camp-pie, suited to barracks and youth militant,
commend me," quoth one of the Baron's Baronites, "to _Only a
Drummer-Boy_, a maiden effort, and unpretentious, like its author, who
calls himself ARTHUR AMYAND, but is really Captain ARTHUR DRUMMER
HAGGARD. He has the rare advantage, missed by most people who write
soldier novels, of knowing what he is talking about. If there are faults
'to pardon in the drawing's lines,' they are faults of technique and not
of anatomy." "The Court is with you," quoth the BARON DE B.-W.

                               * * * * *

HOTEL NOTE.--The _chef_ at every Gordon Hotel ought to be a "_Gordon
Bleu_."

                               * * * * *

                      THE VOLUNTEER'S VADE MECUM.

                          (_Bisley Edition._)

_Question._ What is the ambition of every rifleman?

_Answer._ To become an expert marksman.

_Q._ How is this to be done?

_A._ By practice at the regimental butts (where such accommodation
exists), and appearing at Bisley.

_Q._ Is the new site of the National Rifle Association better than the
last?

_A._ Certainly, for those who come to Bisley intend to shoot.

_Q._ But did any one turn up at Wimbledon for any purpose other than
marksmanship?

_A._ Yes, for many of those who occupied the tents used their _marquees_
merely as a suitable resting-place for light refreshments.

_Q._ Is there anything of that kind at Bisley?

_A._ Not much, as the nearest place of interest is a crematorium, and
the most beautiful grounds in the neighbourhood belong to a cemetery.

_Q._ Then the business of Bisley is shooting?

_A._ Distinctly. Without the rifle, the place would be as melancholy as
its companion spot, Woking.

_Q._ In this place of useful work, what is the first object of the
marksman?

_A._ To score heavily, if possible; but, at any rate, to score.

_Q._ Is it necessary to appear in uniform?

_A._ That depends upon the regulations commanding the prize
competitions.

_Q._ What is uniform?

_A._ As much or as little of the dress of a corps that a judge will
order a marksman to adopt.

_Q._ If some marksmen were paraded with their own corps, how would they
look?

_A._ They would appear to be a sorry sight.

_Q._ Why would they appear to be a sorry sight?

_A._ Because over a tunic would appear a straw hat, and under a
pouch-belt fancy tweed trousers.

_Q._ But surely if the Volunteers are anxious to improve themselves they
will practise "smartness"?

_A._ But they do not want to promote smartness; they want to win cups,
or the value of cups.

_Q._ What is the greatest reward that a marksman can obtain?

_A._ Some hundreds of pounds.

_Q._ And the smallest?

_A._ A dozen of somebody's champagne, or a box of someone else's soap.

_Q._ Under all the circumstances of the case, what would be an
appropriate rule for Bisley?

_A._ Look after the cup-winning, and everything else will take care of
itself.

                               * * * * *

                     LATEST PARLIAMENTARY BETTING.

                        GENERAL ELECTION STAKES.

    2 to 1 on Rosebery and Ladas (coupled).
   25 to 1 agst Harcourt's Resignation.
   50 to 1  -- Nonconformist Conscience.
   70 to 1  -- Budget Bill (off--75 to 1 taken).
  100 to 1  -- Ministerial Programme.

                   FOR PLACES (NEXT SESSION STAKES).

   2 to 1 on Asquith for the Leadership.
  12 to 1 agst the Labouchere Peerage.

                    NEW PREMIERSHIP SELLING STAKES.

   12 to 1 on Gladstone Redivivus.
  200 to 1 agst any other.

                               * * * * *

                             AS WE LIKE IT.

                          (JAQUES _resumes_.)

  --All the world's upon the stage,
  And here and there you really get a player:
  The exits rather than the entrances
  Are regulated by the County Council;
  And one man in a season sees a lot--
  Seven plays a week, including _matinees_,
  And several acts in each. And first the infant,
  A vernal blossom of the Garrick Caste,
  Playing the super in his bassinet,
  And innocently causing some chagrin
  To Mr. ECCLES. Then there's _Archibald_,
  _New Boy_, and nearly father to the man,
  With mourning on his face and kicks behind,
  Returning under strong connubial stress
  Unwillingly to school. And next the lover,
  Sighing like ALEXANDER for fresh fields,
  And plunging wofully to win a kiss,
  Even to his very eyebrows. Then the soldier,
  Armed with strange maxims and a carpet-bag,
  Cock-Shaw in military ironies,
  And blowing off the bubbling repartee
  With chocolate in his mouth. And next is _Falstaff_,
  In fair round belly with good bolsters lined,
  Full of wide sores, and badly cut about
  By Windsor hussies,--modern instances
  Of the revolting woman. Sixthly, _Charley's Aunt_.
  Now ancient as the earth, and shifting still
  The Penley pantaloons for ladies' gear,
  Her fine heroic waist a world too wide
  For the slim corset, and her manly lips,
  Tuned to the treble of a maiden's pipe,
  Grasping a big cigar. Last scene of all,
  The season's close and mere oblivion;
  Away to Europe and the provinces;
  And London left forlorn without them all,
  _Sans-Gene_, _Santuzza_, yea, _sans_ everything.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "A GOOD TIME COMING!"

_British Farmer ("playing a game of mixed chance and skill with
Nature")_ "I DO BELIEVE MY LUCK'S ON THE TURN!"]

                               * * * * *

                         "A GOOD TIME COMING!"

              (_And it HAS been a good time coming._)

    ["The game of mixed chance and skill which the farmer plays each
    year with Nature is still undecided; but, if the farmer wins,
    his winnings will be large indeed."
                              --_The "Times" on Farming Prospects._]

                       _British Farmer, loq.:_--

  Bless my old bones!--they're weary ones, wherefore I takes small
        shame--
  For the first time for many a year mine _looks_ a winning game!
  A "bumper" harvest? Blissful thought! For long I've been fair stuck,
  But now I really hope I see a change in my bad luck.
  True, my opponent is a chap 'tis doosed hard to match.
  I seed a picture once of one a playing 'gainst Old Scratch,
  And oftentimes I feels like that, a-sticking all together,
  Against that demon-dicer whom we know as British Weather!
  What use of ploughs and patience, boys, or skill, and seed, and
        sickle,
  'Gainst frost, and rain, and blighted grain, and all that's foul and
        fickle?
  When the fly is on the turmuts, and the blight is on the barley,
  And meadows show like sodden swamps, a farmer do get snarley.
  But now the crops from hay to hops show promising of plenty,
  A-doubling last year's average, plus a extry ten or twenty.
  And straw is good, uncommon so, and barley, wheat and oats, Sir,
  Make a rare show o'er whose rich glow the long-tried farmer gloats,
        Sir!
  Beans ain't so bad, spite o' May frosts; turnips and swedes look
        topping;
  Though the frost and fly the mangolds try, and the taters won't be
        whopping.
  Those poor unlucky taters! If there's any mischief going,
  They cop their share, and how they'll fare this year there ain't no
        knowing;
  And peas is good, and hops is bad, or baddish. But, by jingo!
  The sight o' the hay as I saw to-day is as good as a glass of stingo.
  Pastures and meadows promise prime, well nigh the country over,
  Though them as depend on their clover-crop will hardly be in clover.
  But take 'em all, the big and small, the cereals, roots, and grasses,
  There's a lump o' cheer for the farmers' hearts, and the farmers'
        wives and lasses;
  If only him I'm playing against--well, p'r'aps I'd best be civil,--
  If he isn't JEMMY SQUAREFOOT though, he has the _luck_ o' the divil.
  With his rain and storm and cold and hot, and his host of insect
        horrors,
  He has the pull, and our bright to-days may be spiled by black
        to-morrers.
  A cove like him with looks so grim, and flies, and such philistians,
  Is no fair foe for farmer chaps as is mortial men and Christians.
  Look at him damply glowering there with a eye like a hungry vulture!
  With his blights at hand, and his floods to command, he's the scourge
        of Agriculture.
  But howsomever, although he's clever, luck's all, and mine seems
        turning,
  Oh! for a few more fair fine weeks, not swamped, nor yet too burning,
  When the sun shines sweet on the slanting wheat, with the bees through
        the clover humming,
  And us farmer chaps with a cheery heart _will_ sing "_There's a good
        time coming!_"

                               * * * * *

                            A MODERN MADAME.

              (_According to the New School of Teachers._)

She believes in nothing but herself, and never accepts her own
personality seriously.

She has aspirations after the impossible, and is herself far from
probable; she regards her husband as an unnecessary evil, and her
children as disturbances without compensating advantages.

She writes more than she reads and seldom scribbles anything.

She has no feelings, and yet has a yearning after the intense.

She is the antithesis of her grandmother, and has made further
development in generations to come quite impossible.

She thinks without the thoughts of a male, and yet has lost the
comprehension of a female.

To sum up, she is hardly up to the standard of a man, and yet has sunk
several fathoms below the level of a woman.

                               * * * * *

MEM. AT LORD'S DURING THE ETON AND HARROW, FRIDAY, JULY 13. (_It rained
the better part, which became the worse part, of the day._)--Not much
use trying to do anything with any "match" in the wet.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: TO GOLFERS.

SUGGESTION FOR A RAINY DAY. SPILLIKINS ON A GRAND SCALE.]

                               * * * * *

                        WHAT WE MAY EXPECT SOON.

_By Our Own Wire._--Dispute broken out between local employer of
labour--Shoemaker with two apprentices--and his hands. One apprentice
won't work with t'other. Shoemaker locked out both.

_Later News._--Dispute developing. Amalgamated Association of Trade
Unions sent fifty thousand men with rifles into town. Also park of
artillery. Arbitration suggested.

_Special Telegram._--Federated Society of Masters occupying Market Place
and principal streets with Gatling guns. Expresses itself willing to
accept Arbitration in principle.

_A Day After._--Conflicts to-day between opposing forces. Streets
resemble battle-field. Authorities announce--"will shortly act with
vigour." Enrolled ten extra policemen. Police, including extra ten,
captured by rioters, and locked up in their own cells. Business--except
of undertakers--at standstill.

_Latest Developments._--More conflicts, deaths, outrages, incendiarism.
Central Government telegraphs to Shoemaker to take back both apprentices
to stop disastrous disorder. No reply. Shoemaker and both apprentices
been killed in riots.

_Close of the Struggle._--Stock of gunpowder exhausted. Both sides
inclined to accept compromise. Board of Conciliation formed. Survivors
of employers and employed shake hands. Town irretrievably ruined, but
peace firmly re-established.

                               * * * * *

WHAT! ALREADY!--"I'm afraid," said Mrs. R., "that the new Tower Bridge
is in a bad way. I hear it said, of course I do not know with what
truth, that it has 'bascules.' Now weren't they the insects that
destroyed the crops one year and gave so many persons the influenza? I
think you'll find I'm right."

                                 * * *

EPIGRAMMATIC DESCRIPTION, BY A BILLIARD PLAYER, OF THE SELECTION OF THE
CHIEF MINSTREL TO BE THE RECIPIENT OF A PRIZE AT THE RECENT
EISTEDDFOD.--"_Spot Bard._"

                                 * * *

ACCIDENTS IN OUR ROTTENEST ROTTEN ROW.--The sooner the cause (_i.e._
Rotten Row itself) of the numerous complaints is _well grounded_, the
better for the equestrians.

                                 * * *

NATIONAL REFLECTION (SUGGESTED BY RECENT YACHT-RACE).--It is of small
use BRITANNIA being BRITANNIA unless she be also Vigilant.

                               * * * * *

                            LYRE AND LANCET.

                         (_A Story in Scenes._)

                     PART III.--THE TWO ANDROMEDAS.

    SCENE III.--_Opposite a Railway Bookstall at a London Terminus._
                      TIME--_Saturday_, 4.25 P.M.

_Drysdale_ (_to his friend_, GALFRID UNDERSHELL, _whom he is "seeing
off"_). Twenty minutes to spare; time enough to lay in any quantity of
light literature.

_Undershell (in a head voice)._ I fear the merely ephemeral does not
appeal to me. But I should like to make a little experiment. (_To the
Bookstall Clerk._) A--do you happen to have a copy left of CLARION
BLAIR'S _Andromeda_?

_Clerk._ Not in stock, Sir. Never 'eard of the book, but daresay I could
get it for you. Here's a Detective Story we're sellin' like 'ot
cakes--_The Man with the Missing Toe_--very cleverly written story, Sir.

[Illustration: "Here 's a detective story we're sellin' like 'ot
cakes."]

_Und._ I merely wished to know--that was all. (_Turning with resigned
disgust to_ DRYSDALE.) Just think of it, my dear fellow. At a bookstall
like this one feels the pulse, as it were, of Contemporary Culture; and
here my _Andromeda_, which no less an authority than the _Daily
Chronicle_ hailed as the uprising of a new and splendid era in English
Songmaking, a Poetic Renascence, my poor _Andromeda_ is trampled
underfoot by--(_choking_)--Men with Missing Toes! What a satire on our
so-called Progress!

_Drys._ That a purblind public should prefer a Shilling Shocker for
railway reading when for a modest half-guinea they might obtain a
numbered volume of Coming Poetry on hand-made paper! It _does_ seem
incredible,--but they do. Well, if they can't read _Andromeda_ on the
journey, they can at least peruse a stinger on it in this week's
_Saturday_. Seen it?

_Und._ No. I don't vex my soul by reading criticisms on my work. I am no
KEATS. They may howl--but they will not kill _me_. By the way, the
_Speaker_ had a most enthusiastic notice last week.

_Drys._ So you saw _that_ then? But you're right not to mind the others.
When a fellow's contrived to hang on to the Chariot of Fame, he can't
wonder if a few rude and envious beggars call out "Whip behind!" eh? You
don't want to get in yet? Suppose we take a turn up to the end of the
platform.                                                [_They do._

    JAMES SPURRELL, M.R.C.V.S., _enters with his friend_, THOMAS
    TANRAKE, _of_ HURDELL AND TANRAKE, _Job and Riding Masters,
    Mayfair_.

_Spurrell._ Yes, it's lucky for me old SPAVIN being laid up like
this--gives me a regular little outing, do you see? going down to a
swell place like this Wyvern Court, and being put up there for a day or
two! I shouldn't wonder if they do you very well in the housekeeper's
room. (_To_ Clerk.) Give me a _Pink 'Un_ and last week's _Dog Fancier's
Guide_.

_Clerk._ We've returned the unsold copies. Could give you _this_ week's;
or there's _The Rabbit and Poultry Breeder's Journal_.

_Spurr._ Oh, rabbits be blowed! (To TANRAKE.) I wanted you to see that
notice they put in of _Andromeda_ and me, with my photo and all; it said
she was the best bull-bitch they'd seen for many a day, and fully
deserved her first prize.

_Tanrake._ She's a rare good bitch, and no mistake. But what made you
call her such an outlandish name?

_Spurr._ Well, I _was_ going to call her _Sal_; but a chap at the
College thought the other would look more stylish if I ever meant to
exhibit her. _Andromeda_ was one of them Roman goddesses, you know.

_Tanr._ Oh, I knew _that_ right enough. Come and have a drink before you
start--just for luck--not that you want _that_.

_Spurr._ I'm lucky enough in most things, TOM; in everything except
love. I told you about that girl, you know--EMMA--and my being as good
as engaged to her, and then, all of a sudden, she went off abroad and
I've never seen or had a line from her since. Can't call _that_ luck,
you know. Well, I won't say no to a glass of something.

                            [_They disappear into the Refreshment Room._

         _The_ Countess of CANTIRE _enters with her daughter_,
                          Lady MAISIE MULL.

_Lady Cantire_ (_to_ Footman). Get a compartment for us, and two
foot-warmers, and a second-class as near ours as you can for PHILLIPSON;
then come back here. Stay, I'd better give you PHILLIPSON'S ticket.
(_The_ Footman _disappears in the crowd._) Now we must get something to
read on the journey. (_To_ Clerk.) I want a book of some sort--no
rubbish, mind; something serious and improving, and _not_ a work of
fiction.

_Clerk._ Exactly so, Ma'am. Let me see. Ah, here's _Alone with the 'Airy
Ainoo_. How would you like _that_?

_Lady Cant._ (_with decision_). I should not like it at all.

_Clerk._ I quite understand. Well, I can give you _Three 'Undred Ways of
Dressing the Cold Mutton_--useful little book for a family, redooced to
one and ninepence.

_Lady Cant._ Thank you. I think I will wait until I am reduced to one
and ninepence.

_Clerk._ Precisely. What do you say to _Seven 'Undred Side-splitters for
Sixpence_? 'Ighly yumorous, I assure you.

_Lady Cant._ Are these times to split our sides, with so many serious
social problems pressing for solution? You are presumably not without
intelligence; do you never reflect upon the responsibility you incur in
assisting to circulate trivial and frivolous trash of this sort?

_Clerk_ (_dubiously_). Well, I can't say as I do, particular, Ma'am. I'm
paid to sell the books--I don't _select_ 'em.

_Lady Cant._ That is _no_ excuse for you--you ought to exercise some
discrimination on your own account, instead of pressing people to buy
what can do them no possible good. You can give me a _Society Snippets_.

_Lady Maisie._ Mamma! A penny paper that says such rude things about the
Royal Family!

_Lady Cant._ It's always instructive to know what these creatures are
saying about one, my dear, and it's astonishing how they manage to find
out the things they do. Ah, here's GRAVENER coming back. He's got us a
carriage, and we'd better get in.

                [_She and her daughter enter a first-class compartment_;
                    UNDERSHELL _and_ DRYSDALE _return_.

_Drys._ (_to_ UNDERSHELL). Well, I don't see now where the insolence
comes in. These people have invited you to stay with them----

_Und._ But why? Not because they appreciate my work--which they probably
only half understand--but out of mere idle curiosity to see what manner
of strange beast a Poet may be! And _I_ don't know this Lady
CULVERIN--never met her in my life! What the deuce does she mean by
sending me an invitation? Why should these smart women suppose that they
are entitled to send for a Man of Genius, as if he was their _lackey?_
Answer me that!

_Drys._ Perhaps the delusion is encouraged by the fact that Genius
occasionally condescends to answer the bell.

_Und._ (_reddening_). Do you imagine I am going down to this place
simply to please _them_?

_Drys._ I should think it a doubtful kindness, in your present frame of
mind; and, as you are hardly going to please yourself, wouldn't it be
more dignified, on the whole, not to go at all?

_Und._ You never _did_ understand me! Sometimes I think I was born to
be misunderstood! But you might do me the justice to believe that
I am not going from merely snobbish motives. May I not feel that
such a recognition as this is a tribute less to my poor self than to
Literature, and that, as such, I have scarcely the _right_ to decline
it?

_Drys._ Ah, if you put it in that way, I am silenced, of course.

_Und._ Or what if I am going to show these Patricians that--Poet of the
People as I am--they can neither patronise nor cajole me?

_Drys._ Exactly, old chap--what if you _are_?

_Und._ I don't say that I may not have another reason--a--a rather
romantic one--but you would only sneer if I told you! I know you think
me a poor creature whose head has been turned by an undeserved success.

_Drys._ You're not going to try to pick a quarrel with an old chum, are
you? Come, you know well enough I don't think anything of the sort. I've
always said you had the right stuff in you, and would show it some day;
there are even signs of it in _Andromeda_ here and there; but you'll do
better things than that, if you'll only let some of the wind out of your
head. I like you, old fellow, and that's just why it riles me to see you
taking yourself so devilish seriously on the strength of a little volume
of verse which has been "boomed" for all it's worth, and considerably
more. You've only got your immortality on a short repairing lease at
present, old boy!

_Und._ (_with bitterness_). I am fortunate in possessing such a candid
friend. But I mustn't keep you here any longer.

_Drys._ Very well. I suppose you're going first? Consider the feelings
of the CULVERIN footman at the other end!

_Und._ (_as he fingers a first-class ticket in his pocket_). You have a
very low view of human nature! (_Here he remarks a remarkably pretty
face at a second-class window close by._) As it _happens_, I am
travelling second.                                   [_He gets in._

_Drys._ (_at the window_). Well, good-bye, old chap. Good luck to you at
Wyvern, and remember--wear your livery with as good a grace as possible.

_Und._ I do not intend to wear any livery whatever.

     [_The owner of the pretty face regards_ UNDERSHELL _with interest._

_Spurr_. (_coming out of the Refreshment Room_). What, second? with all
my exes. paid? Not _likely_! I'm going to travel in style this journey.
No--not a smoker; don't want to create a bad impression, you know. This
will do for me.

        [_He gets into a compartment occupied by_ Lady CANTIRE _and her
            daughter._

_Tanr._ (_at the window_). There--you're off now. Pleasant journey to
you, old man. Hope you'll enjoy yourself at this Wyvern Court you're
going to--and I say, don't forget to send me that notice of _Andromeda_
when you get back!

      [_The_ Countess _and_ Lady MAISIE _start slightly; the train moves
            out of the station._

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: 'ARRY AT BISLEY.

'_Arry_ (_to 'Arriet_). "OH, I SY! WHAT SEEDS THEM MUST BE TO GROW A
LAMP-POST!"]

                               * * * * *

                      THE LATEST GREAT YACHT RACE.

                    (_By our own Nautical Special._)

DEAR SIR,--The captain went on board the gallant _Naughty Lass_ with his
Wind Lass. A Wind Lass is short for "Winn'd Lass," _i.e._ a Lass he has
won. I think her name is "POLL." The Captain says he is always true to
her, and nothing will ever induce him to leave his dear Wind Lass ashore
when he's afloat. Noble sentiment, but unpractical. The fact is (as
whispered) the Wind Lass is jealous of the _Naughty Lass_, and won't let
the Captain go alone. When the other Captain went on board the rival of
the gallant _Naughty Lass_, the _Anne Nemone_, and "the crafty ones," as
they call the sailors "in the know," were ready to bet any money on the
_Anne Nemone_. Both cutters "cut" (hence the name) well away from each
other at the start, and a fresh breeze coming up (the stale one had been
got rid of) there was a lot of fore-reaching, until the Captain, who is
an old hand at this sort of thing, sent round steward with brandy. "All
hands for grog!" was then the order of the day, and we just managed to
clear Muddle Point, leaving the home-marked (or "home-made," I forget
which is the technical term, but I suppose the latter, as she was built
on the neighbouring premises) boat well to windward. After a free reach
in this weather down to Boot Shore--where the vessel heeled over a bit,
but nothing to speak of, as it was soon remedied by a cobble that was
close at hand--the _Naughty Lass_ lifted her head-sails, and away we
went for Incog Bay, where nobody knew us, or we should have been
received with three times three.

At this moment the _Anne Nemone_, racing close to us, let out a right
good "gybe," which was in execrable taste, I admit, but which ought not
to have called for any retort from the captain's Wind Lass, who gave it
her hot and strong, and threatened to haul her over the coal-scuttlers.
Fortunately we were away again, and there was no time for opposite
gybes. (I spell "gybes" in the old English nautical fashion, but, as I
ascertain, it is precisely the same as "jibes.") Sailors' language is a
bit odd; they don't mean anything, I know--it's only professional;
still, as reporting the matter to ears polite, I scarcely like to set
down in full _all_ I heard. At 1 P.M. all hands were piped for luncheon,
and we had spinnakers cooked in their skins (they are a sort of bean),
with a rare nautical dish called "Booms and Bacon." Fine! I did enjoy
it! But then I'm an old hand at this sort of thing,--luncheon on board,
I mean; for there's scarcely a board, be it sea board or other board,
or, in fact, any boarding establishment, that I don't know. But "yeo ho!
my boys! and avast!" for are we not still racing? We are!!

We passed The Bottle at 2.30 P.M. What had become of the _Anne Nemone_ I
don't know, and probably we should never have seen her again had not our
captain, who was trying to sight the port after passing The Bottle,
stood on the wrong tack, which ran into his boot and hurt him awfully.
He was carried below, and we gathered round him as he turned to the
_Naughty Lass_ and murmured--but POLLY objected that there was nothing
to murmur about or to grumble at, and that the sooner he stumbled on
deck the better it would be for the race. So up rose our brave captain,
took a stiff draught of weather bilge (which is the best preventive of
sea-sickness), and calling for his first mate, Mr. JACK YARD TOPSAIL,
told him to "stand away," which I could quite understand, for JACK YARD
TOPSAIL is a regular salt, full of tar, rum, 'baccy, and everything that
can make life sweet to _him_, but not to his immediate neighbours. So
"stand away" and not "stand by" it was, and when we got to Squeams Bay
the sailors took a short hitch (it is necessary occasionally--but I
cannot say more--lady-readers being present), and we went streaking away
like a side of bacon on a fine day.

"Are we winning?" asks POLLY, the Wind Lass. "_You_ look winning!" I
reply, politely. "By how much?" she inquires, just tucking up her
skirts, and showing a trim ankle. The Captain, with his glass to his
eye, and looking down, answers, "The fifth of a long leg!" I never saw a
woman so angry! "I haven't!" she exclaimed; and there would have been a
row, and we should never have won, as we did splendidly, had not the
"First Officer" (just as they name the supernumeraries in a play) come
up and reminded Pretty POLLY that she wasn't the only mate the Captain
had on board. "Where's the other?" she cried, in a fury. "Below!"
answered the First Officer, and down went POLLY, not to re-appear again
until all was over, and our victorious binnacle was waving proudly from
the fore-top-gallant. At the finish we went clean into harbour, without
a speck on our forecastle, or a stain on our character. I wire you the
account of this great race, and am (Rule BRITANNIA!)
                                                        Yours,
                                        "EVERY OTHER INCH A SAILOR!"

P.S.--I am informed that after I left the vessel--in fact it was next
day--a Burgee was run up at the mast head. I suppose some sort of
court-martial was held first, and that the Burgee (poor wretch!) was
caught red-handed. Still, in these days, this sort of proceeding does
sound rather tyrannical. High-masted justice, eh? Well, sea-dogs will be
sea-dogs. I don't exactly know what a Burgee is, but I fancy he is
something between a Buccaneer and a Bargee; a sort of river-and-sea
pirate. But I fear it is a landsman!! Burgee, masculine (and probably
husband) of Burgess!! If so, there _will_ be a row!
                                           YOURS AS BEFORE THE MAST.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "A FRIEND IN NEED--"

ANARCHIST. "'ELP! 'ELP! PER-LICE!!"

CONSTABLE. "'DOWN WITH EVERYTHING,' INDEED! LUCKY FOR _YOU_ YOU HAVEN'T
'DOWN'D' _ME_!!"]

                               * * * * *

                           A FRIEND IN NEED;

                  _Or, The Lawbreaker's Last Refuge._

    Sure stranger irony life never saw
    Than Lawlessness low suppliant to the Law!

                  _Guardian of Order soliloquiseth:_--

  "Down with Everything!" Ah, yes!
    That's the sort o' rot you jaw!
  You'd be in a tidy mess
    If you'd downed with good old Law.
  Funniest job we have to do,
  Is to "save" such scamps as you.

  "Down with Everything!" Spout on!
    I, who stand for Law, stand by.
  You may want me ere you've done.
    Somethink in that workman's eye,
  And the clenching of his fist,
  Ought to put you on the twist.

  Think you're fetching of 'em fine
    With your tommy-rotten patter?
  Think you've got 'em in a line,
    Or as near as doesn't matter?
  Won't you feel in a rare stew
  If they take to downing _you_?

  Downing is a sort o' game
    Two can play at _here_--thanks be!
  Spin your lead out! Don't let shame,
    Common sense, or courtesy,
  Put the gag on your red rag;
  Flourish it--like your Red Flag!

  How they waggle, flag and tongue!
    Proud o' that same bit of bunting?
  See the glances on you flung?
    Hear the British workman grunting?
  He is none too fond, that chap,
  Of rank rot and the Red Cap!

  Perched upon a noodle's nob,
    Minds me of an organ-monkey!--
  If a workman will not _rob_,
    You denounce him as a "flunkey."
  Some of 'em know what that means.
  Mind your eye! They'll give you beans!

  Ah! I thought so. Gone too fur!
    Set the British Workman booing.
  "_Dirty dog!!!_" That riles you, Sir!
    Better mind what you are doing!
  Mug goes saffron now, with fear,
  Round you glare! Yes, Law _is_ here!

  Show your teeth, shark-like and yellow!
    You won't frighten them, or me.
  Ah! there comes the true mob-bellow!
    That means mischief--as you see.
  Mob, when mettled, goes a squelcher
  For Thief, Anarchist _or_ Welsher.

  "Help! Perlice!!" Oh! _that_'s your cry!
    _I'm_ your friend, then,--at a pinch?
  Funk first taste of Anarchy?
    Law is better than--Judge Lynch?
  Rummy this! For all his jaw
    The lawbreaker flies to Law!

  Good as a sensation novel
    For to see you crouching there.
  Can't these Red Flag heroes grovel?
    Come, my Trojan, have a care.
  Do not clasp Law's legs that way,
  Like _Scum Goodman_ in the play.

  Help? Oh, yes; I'll help you--out!--
    "_Stand back there, please! Pass along!_"
  Come, get up! _Now_ don't you doubt
    If your "downing" dodge ain't wrong?
  Anyhow 'tis, you'll agree,
  Lucky for _you_--you've not downed _me_!

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

_Madame la Baronne_ (_who WILL speak English_). "AND TELL ME, MISTRESS
BROWN, YOUR CLEVARE 'USBAND, WHO 'AVE A SO BEAUTIFUL TALENT--IS HE YET
OF ZE ROYAL ACADEMY?"

_Our Artist's Wife_ (_who WILL speak French_). "OH NON, MADAME, HELAS!
SEULEMENT, IL EST _PENDU_ CETTE ANNEE, VOUS SAVEZ!"

_Madame la Baronne_ (_relapsing into her native language_).
"OH--MADAME--QUELLE AFFREUSE NOUVELLE!"]

                         A MIDSUMMER DAY-DREAM.

    [_The Jackson-Harmsworth Expedition has started._]

  PUNCH sleeps. The cheerful Sage has heard
    That JACKSON is about to start.
  His sympathies are warmly stirred,
    He hath the _Windward's_ weal at heart.
  He dreams: That block of dinner ice
    Stirs arctic fancies in his breast.
  He travels Pole-ward in a trice;
    He joins the JACKSON-HARMSWORTH quest.

                                 * * *

  "All precious things, discovered late
    To those that seek them issue forth."--
  To find her may be JACKSON'S fate,
    That Sleeping Beauty of the North!
  She lieth in her icy cave
    As still as sleep, as white as death.
  Her look might stagger the most brave,
    And make the stoutest hold his breath.

  "The bodies and the bones of those
    That strove in other days to pass,"
  Are scattered o'er the spreading snows,
    Are bleached about that sea of glass.
  He gazes on the silent dead:
    "They perished in their daring deeds."
  The proverb flashes through his head,
    "The many fail: the one succeeds."

                                 * * *

  _Punch_ wakes: lo! it is but a dream--
    A vision of the Frozen Sea;
  Yet may be it may hold a gleam
    Of prophecy. So mote it be!
  To JACKSON and to HARMSWORTH too
    He brims a well-earnt bumper. "Skoal!"
  Here's health to them and their brave crew!
    And safe return from well-won goal!

                               * * * * *

                      THE MINX.--A POEM IN PROSE.

                             [Illustration]

_Poet._ It's so good of you to see me. I merely wished to ask one or two
questions as to your career. You must have led a most interesting life.

_Sphinx._ You are very inquisitive and extremely indiscreet, and I have
always carefully avoided being interviewed. However, go on.

_Poet._ I believe you can read hieroglyphs?

_Sphinx._ Oh yes; I _can_, fluently, But I never do. I assure you they
are not in the least amusing.

_Poet._ No doubt you have talked with hippogriffs and basilisks?

_Sphinx_ (_modestly_). I certainly _was_ in rather a smart set at one
time. As they say, I have "known better days."

_Poet._ Did you ever have any conversation with THOTH?

_Sphinx_ (_loftily_). Oh, dear no! (_Mimicking._) Thoth he wath not
conthidered quite a nice perthon. I would not allow him to be introduced
to me.

_Poet._ You were very particular?

_Sphinx._ One has to be careful. The world is so censorious.

_Poet._ I wonder, would you give me the pleasure of singing to me?
"_Adrian's Gilded Barge_," for instance?

_Sphinx._ You must really excuse me. I am not in good voice. By the way,
the "Gilded Barge," as you call it, was merely a shabby sort of punt. It
would have had no effect whatever at the Henley Regatta.

_Poet._ Dear me! Is it true you played golf among the Pyramids?

_Sphinx_ (_emphatically_). Perfectly untrue. You see what absurd reports
get about!

_Poet_ (_softly_). They do. What was that story about the Tyrian?

_Sphinx._ Merely gossip. There was nothing in it, I assure you.

_Poet._ And APIS?

_Sphinx._ Oh, he sent me some flowers, and there were paragraphs about
it--in hieroglyphs--in the society papers. That was all. But they were
contradicted.

_Poet._ You knew AMMON very well, I believe?

_Sphinx_ (_frankly_). AMMON and I _were_ great pals. I used to see
a good deal of him. He came in to tea very often--he was _quite_
interesting. But I have not seen him for a long time. He had one
fault--he _would_ smoke in the drawing-room. And though I hope I am not
too conventional, I really could not allow _that_.

_Poet._ How pleased they would all be to see you again! Why do you not
go over to Egypt for the winter?

_Sphinx._ The hotels at Cairo are so dreadfully expensive.

_Poet._ Is it true you went tunny-fishing with ANTONY?

_Sphinx._ One must draw the line somewhere! CLEOPATRA was so cross. She
was horribly jealous, and not nearly so handsome as you might suppose,
though she _was_ photographed as a "type of Egyptian Beauty!"

_Poet._ I must thank you very much for the courteous way in which you
have replied to my questions. And now will you forgive me if I make an
observation? In my opinion you are not a Sphinx at all.

_Sphinx_ (_indignantly_). What am I, then?

_Poet._ A Minx.

                               * * * * *

                        THE LAY OF THE EXPLORER.

  I USED to think that if a man
    In any character could score a
  Distinctly leonine success,
    'Twould be as a returned explorer.

  So, when by sixteen tigers tree'd,
    Or when mad elephants were charging,
  I joyed to say--"On this, some day,
    My countrymen will be enlarging."

  And when mosquitoes buzzed and bit
    (For 'tis their pleasing nature to),
  Or fevers floored me, still this dream
    Helped me to suffer and to do.

  I _have_ returned! Whole dusky tribes
    I've wiped right out--such labour sweet is!--
  And with innumerable chiefs
    Arranged unconscionable treaties.

  What's the result? I have become
    A butt for each humanitarian,
  Who call my exploits in the chase
    The work of a "confessed barbarian."

  And, worst of all, my rival, JONES,
    Who'd any trick that's low and mean dare,
  Cries--"Equatorial jungles! Pish!
    I don't believe he's ever been there!"

  So now I just "explore" Herne Bay,
    With trippers, niggers, nurses, babies:
  I've tried for fame. I 've gained it, too:
    I share it with the vanished JABEZ!

                               * * * * *

NOTE AND QUERY.--At Aldershot the QUEEN expressed herself much pleased
with the "tattoo" all round. "IGNORAMUS" writes to inquire "if
'tattoo-ing' is done in Indian ink or with gunpowder?"

                               * * * * *

                           RULE, "BRITANNIA."

                       (_New Yachtical Version._)

                H.R.H. THE P----E OF W----S _sings_:--

  When _Vigilant_, at GOULD'S command,
    Came over here to sweep the main,
  This was the lay that thrilled the land,
    And Yankee Doodle loved the strain--
      Lick _Britannia!_ the fleet _Britannia_ lick!
      And JOHNNY BULL may cut his stick.

  But _Vigilant_, less fast than thee,
    Must in her turn before thee fall,
  _Britannia_, who hast kept the sea,
    The dread and envy of them all.
      Win, _Britannia_! _Britannia_ rules the waves!
      (Though by the narrowest of shaves.)

  Six races in succession show
    The Yankee yacht has met her match;
  Though she was hailed, not long ago,
    The swiftest clipper of the batch.
      Rule, _Britannia_! _Britannia_ rule the waves!
      The most appropriate of staves!

  I'm sorry poor DUNRAVEN'S crack
    So prematurely has gone down;
  But mine has kept the winning tack,
    And well upheld the isle's renown.
      Rule, _Britannia_! &c.

  When JONATHAN thy match hath found,
    He'll to our coasts again repair.
  We'll have another friendly round,
    With manly hearts and all things fair.
      Rule, _Britannia_! _Britannia_ rules the waves,
      Six sequent wins BULL'S honour saves!

                               * * * * *

                        TO ALTHEA IN THE STALLS.

  From the Orchestra as I was staring
    So wearily down at the hall,
  The programme I held hardly caring
    To turn, I was tired of it all!
  For I knew 'twas a futile endeavour
    With music my trouble to drown,
  And I'd made up my mind that you never,
    Ah, never, would come back to town!

  When suddenly, there I beheld you
    Yourself--ah, the joyous amaze!
  I wonder what instinct impelled you
    Your dreamy dark eyes to upraise,
  That for one happy second's communing
    Met mine that had waited so long--
  And the wail of the violins tuning
    It turned to a jubilant song!

  'Mid organ-chords sombre and mellow
    There breaks out a ripple of glee,
  And the voice of the violoncello,
    ALTHEA, is pleading for me!
  The music is beating and surging
    With joy no _adagio_ can drown,
  In ecstasy all things are merging--
    Because you have come back to town!

                               * * * * *

THE COREAN DIFFICULTY.--"_Japan declines to withdraw._"--(_Telegram,
Thursday, July 12_).--"Ah," observed Miss QUOTER, who is ever ready,
"that reminds me of BYRON'S line in _Mazeppa_, quite applicable to the
present situation--

                  'Again he urges on his mild Corea.'"

                                 * * *

NEW WORK (_by the Chief Druid Minstrel at the Eisteddfod, dedicated to
their Royal Highnesses_).--"_How to be Harpy in Wales._"

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: PREHISTORIC PEEPS.

A CRICKET MATCH. "HOWS THAT, UMPIRE?"!!]

                               * * * * *

                         ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

                 EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Lords, Monday, July 9._--PLAYFAIR'S leonine countenance
habitually cheerful. But never saw him looking so pleased as when we
walked through St. Stephen's Chapel on way to Lords just now. "From
point of view of old House of Commons man the Lords are, I admit, a
little unresponsive," my Lord said. "The chamber is, acoustically and
otherwise, the sepulchre of speech. You remember the little lecture on
margarine I delivered years ago in the Commons? Bless me, how delighted
the House was to see the table covered with small white pots containing
samples, with a bottle of best Dorset margarine hooked on to the Mace
for greater convenience of reference. Often I've enchained an audience
with my object lessons. Up to present time that monologue on margarine
ranks as most successful. But I'll beat the record to-night. See that?"
(Here he slapped a something bulging out from his trouser pocket.)
"Guess what that is? Thought you couldn't. It's cultch. Know what cultch
is?"

"Not unless it's the beginning of knowledge," I said, drawing a bow, so
to speak, at a venture. "Positive cultch, comparative culture, eh?"

PLAYFAIR stared at me vacantly. "Cultch----" he said; "but no, that's
part of the lecture. Come along to the Lords and hear it."

[Illustration: Suggested Statues for the Vacant Niches in the Inner
Lobby.

No. I.--"The Majesty of the Law!"]

House not in condition particularly inspiring for lecturer. Benches
mostly empty; STANLEY of Alderley completed depletion by rambling
speech of half an hour's duration, modestly described in Orders as "a
question." Wanted to know how many lighthouses in England and Wales paid
Income Tax; how many were behindhand with their rates; were Death Duties
applicable to some of them; if so, which; and whether the tenants
compounded for rates or otherwise. These inquiries not without interest,
but STANLEY not chiefly remarkable for concentration of thought or
conciseness of phrase.

At length PLAYFAIR'S turn came. A flutter of interest amongst Peers as
he was observed tugging at something in trousers pocket; hauled out what
looked like empty oyster shell.

"Ah!" said HERSCHELL, smiling, "I see the lawyers have been before us."

"In moving the Second Reading of the Sea Fisheries (Shell Fish) Bill, I
propose, if I may be permitted, to give your Lordships an object lesson.
This particular shell," PLAYFAIR continued, holding it up between finger
and thumb, "is covered all over with microscopic oysters. Oysters in all
stages of growth are seen there."

"Well," said the MARQUIS OF CARABAS, "if one had a twenty billion
magnifying glass of the kind associated with the memory of _Sam Weller_,
perhaps we might see the oysters. All I can say is, I don't see any
worth three and sixpence a dozen. PLAYFAIR's no business to bring these
things down here, filling House with smell of stale seaweed when his
oysters are no bigger than a pin's head."

The MARQUIS strode angrily forth. Others followed. Lecture cut short.

_Business done._--Sea Fisheries (Shell Fish) Bill read a second time,
amid unexpectedly depressing circumstances.

_House of Commons, Tuesday._--SQUIRE OF MALWOOD back after a week's
rustication. Brings glowing news of the hay crop; looks, indeed, as if
he had been helping to make it; ruddier than a cherry; indescribable but
unmistakable country air about him as he sits on Treasury Bench with
folded arms, listening to the monotonous ripple of talk renewed on
Budget Bill.

                 "Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis,"

says PRINCE ARTHUR, looking across at the rustic Squire.

                                          "_At ille_
              Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum,"

added JOKIM, with approving glance at bench behind, where the Busy B.'s
swarm after week's rest, humming round amendments with increased vigour.

Almost imperceptible movement of river goes forward. The blameless
BARTLEY on his feet, entrancing House with particulars of a silver
cup, prized heirloom in the humble household in Victoria Street. It
seems that one of BARTLEY'S ancestors--he who came over with the
Conqueror--had brought with him certain blades of buckwheat, which he
industriously planted out on the site, then a meadow, on which the Army
and Navy Stores now flourish. The buckwheat grew apace. One day King
STEPHEN, passing by on a palfrey, noted the waving green expanse.
Enquiring to whom the State was indebted for this fair prospect, a
courtier informed him that it was "the ancestor of GEORGE CHRISTOPHER
TROUT BARTLEY, Member for North Islington in the thirteenth Parliament
of Queen VICTORIA."

"By our sooth," said the King, "he shall have a silver cup."

One was forthwith requisitioned from the nearest silversmith's, and this
it is which now adorns the sideboard in the best parlour at St.
Margaret's House, Victoria Street, S.W.

These interesting reminiscences of family history GEORGE CHRISTOPHER
TROUT recited to a charmed House in support of proposed new Clause,
moved by DICK WEBSTER, exempting from estate duty heirlooms under
settlement. SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, usually impervious to argument in favour
of alterations in his prized Budget, evidently moved. If BARTLEY had
only thought of bringing the cup with him, had at this moment produced
it from under his cloak, and flashed it forth on gaze of House, the
Clause would have been added, and the cup, Estate-duty free, would have
passed on through the ages, telling its simple story to successive
strata of the BARTLEY family. As it was, SQUIRE stood firm, and
WEBSTER'S Clause negatived.

"Couldn't do it, my dear WEBSTER," the SQUIRE found opportunity of
saying, as he met disappointed legislator behind SPEAKER'S Chair. "Of
course I said the polite thing about BARTLEY'S Cup. But I wasn't
thinking of that. I know very well what you had in mind in bringing in
this Clause. The heirlooms you thought of are those cups and medals you
won for Cambridge when, twenty-nine years ago, you met the Oxford
Champion in the two-mile race, and in the one-mile spin. If we could do
something in the Schedules specially exempting them I should be glad.
Think it over, and see me later."

WEBSTER wrung the SQUIRE'S hand, and passed on, saying nothing. There
are moments when speech is superfluous. 'Tis true, they don't often
occur in House of Commons; but here was one. Let us cherish its memory.

_Business done._--Considering and negativing new Clauses to Budget Bill.

_Thursday._--All the cheerfulness of to-day has brightened
Committee-room, where question of issue of Writ, following on
application for Chiltern Hundreds, is considered. The SQUIRE under
examination for nearly two hours and a-half. Difficult to say which the
more enjoyed it, the witness or the Committee.

[Illustration: An Interesting Specimen. The Coleridge Caterpillar!]

"What is the state of a Peer pending issue of Writ of Summons?" asked
the SQUIRE, suddenly taking to interrogate the Committee assembled to
question him. "Is he a caterpillar passing through a larva, spinning a
cocoon of silk until he reaches a condition where they toil not neither
do they spin?" (Here, quite by accident, his glance fell upon JOSEPH,
supposed to be sitting upon him in judicial capacity.) "There is," he
continued (and here he glanced at PRINCE ARTHUR, smiling at the sly hit
dealt at his dear friend JOE) "an opening for philosophic doubt as to
the precise condition of this impounded Peer in his intermediary state."

The House still going about with millstone of Budget Bill round its
neck, BYRNE, BUTCHER, BEACH, BOWLES and BARTLEY tugging at it,
KENYON-SLANEY now and then uttering obvious truths with air of
supernatural wisdom. GRAND YOUNG GARDNER (address Board of Agriculture,
Whitehall Place, S.W.) hands me scrap of paper; says he found it near
SQUIRE'S seat on Treasury Bench; but it doesn't look like his writing:

  "Two modes there are, O BYRNE and BUTCHER,
    Our gratitude to earn:
  If BYRNE would only burn up BUTCHER,
    Or BUTCHER butcher BYRNE;
  Or both combine--yes, bless their souls--
  To burn and butcher TOMMY BOWLES!"

_Business done._--Very little.

_Friday._--TEMPLE going about much as if on Tuesday night he had got out
of his cab in the ordinary fashion. He didn't, you know. Taken out in
sections through the upper window by couple of stalwart policemen. This
owing to circumstance that Irish cab-driver having, after fashion of his
country, saved a trot for the avenue, dashed up against kerbstone and
overturned cab.

"Gave me a start, of course," TEMPLE said, as we brushed him down. "Not
a convenient way of getting out of your hansom. What I was afraid of was
being disfigured. Am not a vain man, but don't mind telling you, TOBY, a
scratch or a scar on one's face would have been exceedingly annoying.
But I'm all right, as you see. Hope it isn't a portent. A small thing
that under this Government I should be overturned. What I fear is, that
unless we keep our eye on them they'll overturn the Empire."

_Business done._--Not yet done with Budget.

                               * * * * *

FASHIONABLE INFORMATION AND SUGGESTION.--The Duke and Duchess of BEDFORD
having returned from Thorney will go to Beds;--a delightful change, that
is unless they are rose-beds, which are proverbially thorny. And "the
Duchess of ROXBURGHE goes to Floors." No Beds here; only Floors. Why not
combine the two establishments and get them both under one roof?

                                 * * *

"_NIHIL tetiqit quod non ornavit_," as the prizefighter said of his
right fist, after blacking his opponent's eye and breaking the bridge of
his nose.

                                 * * *

"The Knights of Labour" seem to be banded together against "Days of
Work."

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: CRUEL!

_Lucullus Brown_ (_on hospitable purpose intent_). "ARE YOU DINING
ANYWHERE TO-MORROW NIGHT?"

_Jones_ (_not liking to absolutely "give himself away"_). "LET ME
SEE"--(_considers_)--"NO; I'M NOT DINING ANYWHERE TO-MORROW."

_Lucullus Brown_ (_seeing through the artifice_). "UM! POOR CHAP! HOW
HUNGRY YOU WILL BE!"

                                           ["_Exeunt,--severally._"]

                               * * * * *

                         THE ROYAL WELSH BARD.

    [The Prince of WALES was initiated as a Bard the other day at
    the Carnarvon Eisteddfod.]

  The Minstrel-Prince to his Wales has gone,
    In the ranks of the Bards you'll find him;
  His bardic cloak he has girded on,
    And his tame harp slung behind him.
  "Land of Song!" said the Royal Bard,
    "You remarkably rum-spelt land, you,
  One Prince at least shall try very hard
      To pronounce you, and understand you."

  The Prince tried hard, but the songs he heard
    Very soon brought his proud soul under,
  With twenty consonants packed in a word,
    And no vowels to keep them asunder!
  So he said to the Druid, "A word with you,
    Your jaw must be hard as nails, Sir;
  Your songs may do for the bold Cymru,
    They've done for the Prince of WALES, Sir!"

                               * * * * *

                              GOOD WISHES.

    (_To Mr. and Mrs. J. M. Barrie on their Marriage, July 9, 1894._)

  "When authors venture on a play,
    They have been known to find them undone,
  But Mr. BARRIE found the way
    To great success in _Walker, London_.
  A ready TOOLE he'd close at hand,
    And those who know her merry glance'll
  Not find it hard to understand
    How much was due to MARY ANSELL.

  Her acting in the House-boat Scene
    Led Mr. BARRIE to discover
  He'd lost his heart (although he'd _been_
    Of Lady NICOTINE a lover).
  And those who felt sweet NANNY'S charm,
    Or who in Thrums delight to tarry,
  Long happy life, quite free from harm,
    Will wish this new-formed firm of BARRIE.




Transcriber Notes:

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of
the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. Thus
the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in
the List of Illustrations, and the order of illustrations may not be the
same in the List of Illustrations and in the book.

Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.

On page 25, "o" was changed to "to".

On page 25, "Isi" was changed to "Is it".

On page 31, a quotation mark was added before "'DOWN WITH".





PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 107.
JUNE 21, 1894.

                               * * * * *

                          A RIVERSIDE LAMENT.

  In my garden, where the rose
  By the hundred gaily blows,
  And the river freshly flows
        Close to me,
  I can spend the summer day
  In a quite idyllic way;
  Simply charming, you would say,
        Could you see.

  I am far from stuffy town,
  Where the soots meander down,
  And the air seems--being brown--
        Close to me.
  I am far from rushing train;
  _Bradshaw_ does not bore my brain,
  Nor, comparatively plain,
        _A B C_.

  To my punt I can repair,
  If the weather's fairly fair,
  But one grievance I have there;
        Close to me,
  As I sit and idly dream,
  Clammy corpses ever seem
  Floating down the placid stream
        To the sea.

  Though the boats that crowd the lock--
  Such an animated block!--
  Bring gay damsels, quite a flock,
        Close to me,
  Yet I heed not tasty togs,
  When, as motionless as logs,
  Float defunct and dismal dogs
  There _aussi_.

  As in Egypt at a feast,
  With each party comes at least
  One sad corpse, departed beast,
        Close to me;
  Till a Canon might go off,
  Till a Dean might swear or scoff,
  Or a Bishop--tip-top toff
        In a see.

  Floating to me from above,
  If it stick, with gentle shove,
  To my neighbour, whom I love,
        Close to me,
  I send on each gruesome guest.
  Should I drag it out to rest
  In my garden? No, I'm blest!
        _Non, merci!_

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: THE 'ARDEN-ING PROCESS.

_Orlando._ "TIRED, ROSALIND?" _Rosalind._ "PNEUMATICALLY."]

                               * * * * *

                          OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"For a modest dish of camp-pie, suited to barracks and youth militant,
commend me," quoth one of the Baron's Baronites, "to _Only a
Drummer-Boy_, a maiden effort, and unpretentious, like its author, who
calls himself ARTHUR AMYAND, but is really Captain ARTHUR DRUMMER
HAGGARD. He has the rare advantage, missed by most people who write
soldier novels, of knowing what he is talking about. If there are faults
'to pardon in the drawing's lines,' they are faults of technique and not
of anatomy." "The Court is with you," quoth the BARON DE B.-W.

                               * * * * *

HOTEL NOTE.--The _chef_ at every Gordon Hotel ought to be a "_Gordon
Bleu_."

                               * * * * *

                      THE VOLUNTEER'S VADE MECUM.

                          (_Bisley Edition._)

_Question._ What is the ambition of every rifleman?

_Answer._ To become an expert marksman.

_Q._ How is this to be done?

_A._ By practice at the regimental butts (where such accommodation
exists), and appearing at Bisley.

_Q._ Is the new site of the National Rifle Association better than the
last?

_A._ Certainly, for those who come to Bisley intend to shoot.

_Q._ But did any one turn up at Wimbledon for any purpose other than
marksmanship?

_A._ Yes, for many of those who occupied the tents used their _marquees_
merely as a suitable resting-place for light refreshments.

_Q._ Is there anything of that kind at Bisley?

_A._ Not much, as the nearest place of interest is a crematorium, and
the most beautiful grounds in the neighbourhood belong to a cemetery.

_Q._ Then the business of Bisley is shooting?

_A._ Distinctly. Without the rifle, the place would be as melancholy as
its companion spot, Woking.

_Q._ In this place of useful work, what is the first object of the
marksman?

_A._ To score heavily, if possible; but, at any rate, to score.

_Q._ Is it necessary to appear in uniform?

_A._ That depends upon the regulations commanding the prize
competitions.

_Q._ What is uniform?

_A._ As much or as little of the dress of a corps that a judge will
order a marksman to adopt.

_Q._ If some marksmen were paraded with their own corps, how would they
look?

_A._ They would appear to be a sorry sight.

_Q._ Why would they appear to be a sorry sight?

_A._ Because over a tunic would appear a straw hat, and under a
pouch-belt fancy tweed trousers.

_Q._ But surely if the Volunteers are anxious to improve themselves they
will practise "smartness"?

_A._ But they do not want to promote smartness; they want to win cups,
or the value of cups.

_Q._ What is the greatest reward that a marksman can obtain?

_A._ Some hundreds of pounds.

_Q._ And the smallest?

_A._ A dozen of somebody's champagne, or a box of someone else's soap.

_Q._ Under all the circumstances of the case, what would be an
appropriate rule for Bisley?

_A._ Look after the cup-winning, and everything else will take care of
itself.

                               * * * * *

                     LATEST PARLIAMENTARY BETTING.

                        GENERAL ELECTION STAKES.

    2 to 1 on Rosebery and Ladas (coupled).
   25 to 1 agst Harcourt's Resignation.
   50 to 1  -- Nonconformist Conscience.
   70 to 1  -- Budget Bill (off--75 to 1 taken).
  100 to 1  -- Ministerial Programme.

                   FOR PLACES (NEXT SESSION STAKES).

   2 to 1 on Asquith for the Leadership.
  12 to 1 agst the Labouchere Peerage.

                    NEW PREMIERSHIP SELLING STAKES.

   12 to 1 on Gladstone Redivivus.
  200 to 1 agst any other.

                               * * * * *

                             AS WE LIKE IT.

                          (JAQUES _resumes_.)

  --All the world's upon the stage,
  And here and there you really get a player:
  The exits rather than the entrances
  Are regulated by the County Council;
  And one man in a season sees a lot--
  Seven plays a week, including _matinees_,
  And several acts in each. And first the infant,
  A vernal blossom of the Garrick Caste,
  Playing the super in his bassinet,
  And innocently causing some chagrin
  To Mr. ECCLES. Then there's _Archibald_,
  _New Boy_, and nearly father to the man,
  With mourning on his face and kicks behind,
  Returning under strong connubial stress
  Unwillingly to school. And next the lover,
  Sighing like ALEXANDER for fresh fields,
  And plunging wofully to win a kiss,
  Even to his very eyebrows. Then the soldier,
  Armed with strange maxims and a carpet-bag,
  Cock-Shaw in military ironies,
  And blowing off the bubbling repartee
  With chocolate in his mouth. And next is _Falstaff_,
  In fair round belly with good bolsters lined,
  Full of wide sores, and badly cut about
  By Windsor hussies,--modern instances
  Of the revolting woman. Sixthly, _Charley's Aunt_.
  Now ancient as the earth, and shifting still
  The Penley pantaloons for ladies' gear,
  Her fine heroic waist a world too wide
  For the slim corset, and her manly lips,
  Tuned to the treble of a maiden's pipe,
  Grasping a big cigar. Last scene of all,
  The season's close and mere oblivion;
  Away to Europe and the provinces;
  And London left forlorn without them all,
  _Sans-Gene_, _Santuzza_, yea, _sans_ everything.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "A GOOD TIME COMING!"

_British Farmer ("playing a game of mixed chance and skill with
Nature")_ "I DO BELIEVE MY LUCK'S ON THE TURN!"]

                               * * * * *

                         "A GOOD TIME COMING!"

              (_And it HAS been a good time coming._)

    ["The game of mixed chance and skill which the farmer plays each
    year with Nature is still undecided; but, if the farmer wins,
    his winnings will be large indeed."
                              --_The "Times" on Farming Prospects._]

                       _British Farmer, loq.:_--

  Bless my old bones!--they're weary ones, wherefore I takes small
        shame--
  For the first time for many a year mine _looks_ a winning game!
  A "bumper" harvest? Blissful thought! For long I've been fair stuck,
  But now I really hope I see a change in my bad luck.
  True, my opponent is a chap 'tis doosed hard to match.
  I seed a picture once of one a playing 'gainst Old Scratch,
  And oftentimes I feels like that, a-sticking all together,
  Against that demon-dicer whom we know as British Weather!
  What use of ploughs and patience, boys, or skill, and seed, and
        sickle,
  'Gainst frost, and rain, and blighted grain, and all that's foul and
        fickle?
  When the fly is on the turmuts, and the blight is on the barley,
  And meadows show like sodden swamps, a farmer do get snarley.
  But now the crops from hay to hops show promising of plenty,
  A-doubling last year's average, plus a extry ten or twenty.
  And straw is good, uncommon so, and barley, wheat and oats, Sir,
  Make a rare show o'er whose rich glow the long-tried farmer gloats,
        Sir!
  Beans ain't so bad, spite o' May frosts; turnips and swedes look
        topping;
  Though the frost and fly the mangolds try, and the taters won't be
        whopping.
  Those poor unlucky taters! If there's any mischief going,
  They cop their share, and how they'll fare this year there ain't no
        knowing;
  And peas is good, and hops is bad, or baddish. But, by jingo!
  The sight o' the hay as I saw to-day is as good as a glass of stingo.
  Pastures and meadows promise prime, well nigh the country over,
  Though them as depend on their clover-crop will hardly be in clover.
  But take 'em all, the big and small, the cereals, roots, and grasses,
  There's a lump o' cheer for the farmers' hearts, and the farmers'
        wives and lasses;
  If only him I'm playing against--well, p'r'aps I'd best be civil,--
  If he isn't JEMMY SQUAREFOOT though, he has the _luck_ o' the divil.
  With his rain and storm and cold and hot, and his host of insect
        horrors,
  He has the pull, and our bright to-days may be spiled by black
        to-morrers.
  A cove like him with looks so grim, and flies, and such philistians,
  Is no fair foe for farmer chaps as is mortial men and Christians.
  Look at him damply glowering there with a eye like a hungry vulture!
  With his blights at hand, and his floods to command, he's the scourge
        of Agriculture.
  But howsomever, although he's clever, luck's all, and mine seems
        turning,
  Oh! for a few more fair fine weeks, not swamped, nor yet too burning,
  When the sun shines sweet on the slanting wheat, with the bees through
        the clover humming,
  And us farmer chaps with a cheery heart _will_ sing "_There's a good
        time coming!_"

                               * * * * *

                            A MODERN MADAME.

              (_According to the New School of Teachers._)

She believes in nothing but herself, and never accepts her own
personality seriously.

She has aspirations after the impossible, and is herself far from
probable; she regards her husband as an unnecessary evil, and her
children as disturbances without compensating advantages.

She writes more than she reads and seldom scribbles anything.

She has no feelings, and yet has a yearning after the intense.

She is the antithesis of her grandmother, and has made further
development in generations to come quite impossible.

She thinks without the thoughts of a male, and yet has lost the
comprehension of a female.

To sum up, she is hardly up to the standard of a man, and yet has sunk
several fathoms below the level of a woman.

                               * * * * *

MEM. AT LORD'S DURING THE ETON AND HARROW, FRIDAY, JULY 13. (_It rained
the better part, which became the worse part, of the day._)--Not much
use trying to do anything with any "match" in the wet.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: TO GOLFERS.

SUGGESTION FOR A RAINY DAY. SPILLIKINS ON A GRAND SCALE.]

                               * * * * *

                        WHAT WE MAY EXPECT SOON.

_By Our Own Wire._--Dispute broken out between local employer of
labour--Shoemaker with two apprentices--and his hands. One apprentice
won't work with t'other. Shoemaker locked out both.

_Later News._--Dispute developing. Amalgamated Association of Trade
Unions sent fifty thousand men with rifles into town. Also park of
artillery. Arbitration suggested.

_Special Telegram._--Federated Society of Masters occupying Market Place
and principal streets with Gatling guns. Expresses itself willing to
accept Arbitration in principle.

_A Day After._--Conflicts to-day between opposing forces. Streets
resemble battle-field. Authorities announce--"will shortly act with
vigour." Enrolled ten extra policemen. Police, including extra ten,
captured by rioters, and locked up in their own cells. Business--except
of undertakers--at standstill.

_Latest Developments._--More conflicts, deaths, outrages, incendiarism.
Central Government telegraphs to Shoemaker to take back both apprentices
to stop disastrous disorder. No reply. Shoemaker and both apprentices
been killed in riots.

_Close of the Struggle._--Stock of gunpowder exhausted. Both sides
inclined to accept compromise. Board of Conciliation formed. Survivors
of employers and employed shake hands. Town irretrievably ruined, but
peace firmly re-established.

                               * * * * *

WHAT! ALREADY!--"I'm afraid," said Mrs. R., "that the new Tower Bridge
is in a bad way. I hear it said, of course I do not know with what
truth, that it has 'bascules.' Now weren't they the insects that
destroyed the crops one year and gave so many persons the influenza? I
think you'll find I'm right."

                                 * * *

EPIGRAMMATIC DESCRIPTION, BY A BILLIARD PLAYER, OF THE SELECTION OF THE
CHIEF MINSTREL TO BE THE RECIPIENT OF A PRIZE AT THE RECENT
EISTEDDFOD.--"_Spot Bard._"

                                 * * *

ACCIDENTS IN OUR ROTTENEST ROTTEN ROW.--The sooner the cause (_i.e._
Rotten Row itself) of the numerous complaints is _well grounded_, the
better for the equestrians.

                                 * * *

NATIONAL REFLECTION (SUGGESTED BY RECENT YACHT-RACE).--It is of small
use BRITANNIA being BRITANNIA unless she be also Vigilant.

                               * * * * *

                            LYRE AND LANCET.

                         (_A Story in Scenes._)

                     PART III.--THE TWO ANDROMEDAS.

    SCENE III.--_Opposite a Railway Bookstall at a London Terminus._
                      TIME--_Saturday_, 4.25 P.M.

_Drysdale_ (_to his friend_, GALFRID UNDERSHELL, _whom he is "seeing
off"_). Twenty minutes to spare; time enough to lay in any quantity of
light literature.

_Undershell (in a head voice)._ I fear the merely ephemeral does not
appeal to me. But I should like to make a little experiment. (_To the
Bookstall Clerk._) A--do you happen to have a copy left of CLARION
BLAIR'S _Andromeda_?

_Clerk._ Not in stock, Sir. Never 'eard of the book, but daresay I could
get it for you. Here's a Detective Story we're sellin' like 'ot
cakes--_The Man with the Missing Toe_--very cleverly written story, Sir.

[Illustration: "Here 's a detective story we're sellin' like 'ot
cakes."]

_Und._ I merely wished to know--that was all. (_Turning with resigned
disgust to_ DRYSDALE.) Just think of it, my dear fellow. At a bookstall
like this one feels the pulse, as it were, of Contemporary Culture; and
here my _Andromeda_, which no less an authority than the _Daily
Chronicle_ hailed as the uprising of a new and splendid era in English
Songmaking, a Poetic Renascence, my poor _Andromeda_ is trampled
underfoot by--(_choking_)--Men with Missing Toes! What a satire on our
so-called Progress!

_Drys._ That a purblind public should prefer a Shilling Shocker for
railway reading when for a modest half-guinea they might obtain a
numbered volume of Coming Poetry on hand-made paper! It _does_ seem
incredible,--but they do. Well, if they can't read _Andromeda_ on the
journey, they can at least peruse a stinger on it in this week's
_Saturday_. Seen it?

_Und._ No. I don't vex my soul by reading criticisms on my work. I am no
KEATS. They may howl--but they will not kill _me_. By the way, the
_Speaker_ had a most enthusiastic notice last week.

_Drys._ So you saw _that_ then? But you're right not to mind the others.
When a fellow's contrived to hang on to the Chariot of Fame, he can't
wonder if a few rude and envious beggars call out "Whip behind!" eh? You
don't want to get in yet? Suppose we take a turn up to the end of the
platform.                                                [_They do._

    JAMES SPURRELL, M.R.C.V.S., _enters with his friend_, THOMAS
    TANRAKE, _of_ HURDELL AND TANRAKE, _Job and Riding Masters,
    Mayfair_.

_Spurrell._ Yes, it's lucky for me old SPAVIN being laid up like
this--gives me a regular little outing, do you see? going down to a
swell place like this Wyvern Court, and being put up there for a day or
two! I shouldn't wonder if they do you very well in the housekeeper's
room. (_To_ Clerk.) Give me a _Pink 'Un_ and last week's _Dog Fancier's
Guide_.

_Clerk._ We've returned the unsold copies. Could give you _this_ week's;
or there's _The Rabbit and Poultry Breeder's Journal_.

_Spurr._ Oh, rabbits be blowed! (To TANRAKE.) I wanted you to see that
notice they put in of _Andromeda_ and me, with my photo and all; it said
she was the best bull-bitch they'd seen for many a day, and fully
deserved her first prize.

_Tanrake._ She's a rare good bitch, and no mistake. But what made you
call her such an outlandish name?

_Spurr._ Well, I _was_ going to call her _Sal_; but a chap at the
College thought the other would look more stylish if I ever meant to
exhibit her. _Andromeda_ was one of them Roman goddesses, you know.

_Tanr._ Oh, I knew _that_ right enough. Come and have a drink before you
start--just for luck--not that you want _that_.

_Spurr._ I'm lucky enough in most things, TOM; in everything except
love. I told you about that girl, you know--EMMA--and my being as good
as engaged to her, and then, all of a sudden, she went off abroad and
I've never seen or had a line from her since. Can't call _that_ luck,
you know. Well, I won't say no to a glass of something.

                            [_They disappear into the Refreshment Room._

         _The_ Countess of CANTIRE _enters with her daughter_,
                          Lady MAISIE MULL.

_Lady Cantire_ (_to_ Footman). Get a compartment for us, and two
foot-warmers, and a second-class as near ours as you can for PHILLIPSON;
then come back here. Stay, I'd better give you PHILLIPSON'S ticket.
(_The_ Footman _disappears in the crowd._) Now we must get something to
read on the journey. (_To_ Clerk.) I want a book of some sort--no
rubbish, mind; something serious and improving, and _not_ a work of
fiction.

_Clerk._ Exactly so, Ma'am. Let me see. Ah, here's _Alone with the 'Airy
Ainoo_. How would you like _that_?

_Lady Cant._ (_with decision_). I should not like it at all.

_Clerk._ I quite understand. Well, I can give you _Three 'Undred Ways of
Dressing the Cold Mutton_--useful little book for a family, redooced to
one and ninepence.

_Lady Cant._ Thank you. I think I will wait until I am reduced to one
and ninepence.

_Clerk._ Precisely. What do you say to _Seven 'Undred Side-splitters for
Sixpence_? 'Ighly yumorous, I assure you.

_Lady Cant._ Are these times to split our sides, with so many serious
social problems pressing for solution? You are presumably not without
intelligence; do you never reflect upon the responsibility you incur in
assisting to circulate trivial and frivolous trash of this sort?

_Clerk_ (_dubiously_). Well, I can't say as I do, particular, Ma'am. I'm
paid to sell the books--I don't _select_ 'em.

_Lady Cant._ That is _no_ excuse for you--you ought to exercise some
discrimination on your own account, instead of pressing people to buy
what can do them no possible good. You can give me a _Society Snippets_.

_Lady Maisie._ Mamma! A penny paper that says such rude things about the
Royal Family!

_Lady Cant._ It's always instructive to know what these creatures are
saying about one, my dear, and it's astonishing how they manage to find
out the things they do. Ah, here's GRAVENER coming back. He's got us a
carriage, and we'd better get in.

                [_She and her daughter enter a first-class compartment_;
                    UNDERSHELL _and_ DRYSDALE _return_.

_Drys._ (_to_ UNDERSHELL). Well, I don't see now where the insolence
comes in. These people have invited you to stay with them----

_Und._ But why? Not because they appreciate my work--which they probably
only half understand--but out of mere idle curiosity to see what manner
of strange beast a Poet may be! And _I_ don't know this Lady
CULVERIN--never met her in my life! What the deuce does she mean by
sending me an invitation? Why should these smart women suppose that they
are entitled to send for a Man of Genius, as if he was their _lackey?_
Answer me that!

_Drys._ Perhaps the delusion is encouraged by the fact that Genius
occasionally condescends to answer the bell.

_Und._ (_reddening_). Do you imagine I am going down to this place
simply to please _them_?

_Drys._ I should think it a doubtful kindness, in your present frame of
mind; and, as you are hardly going to please yourself, wouldn't it be
more dignified, on the whole, not to go at all?

_Und._ You never _did_ understand me! Sometimes I think I was born to
be misunderstood! But you might do me the justice to believe that
I am not going from merely snobbish motives. May I not feel that
such a recognition as this is a tribute less to my poor self than to
Literature, and that, as such, I have scarcely the _right_ to decline
it?

_Drys._ Ah, if you put it in that way, I am silenced, of course.

_Und._ Or what if I am going to show these Patricians that--Poet of the
People as I am--they can neither patronise nor cajole me?

_Drys._ Exactly, old chap--what if you _are_?

_Und._ I don't say that I may not have another reason--a--a rather
romantic one--but you would only sneer if I told you! I know you think
me a poor creature whose head has been turned by an undeserved success.

_Drys._ You're not going to try to pick a quarrel with an old chum, are
you? Come, you know well enough I don't think anything of the sort. I've
always said you had the right stuff in you, and would show it some day;
there are even signs of it in _Andromeda_ here and there; but you'll do
better things than that, if you'll only let some of the wind out of your
head. I like you, old fellow, and that's just why it riles me to see you
taking yourself so devilish seriously on the strength of a little volume
of verse which has been "boomed" for all it's worth, and considerably
more. You've only got your immortality on a short repairing lease at
present, old boy!

_Und._ (_with bitterness_). I am fortunate in possessing such a candid
friend. But I mustn't keep you here any longer.

_Drys._ Very well. I suppose you're going first? Consider the feelings
of the CULVERIN footman at the other end!

_Und._ (_as he fingers a first-class ticket in his pocket_). You have a
very low view of human nature! (_Here he remarks a remarkably pretty
face at a second-class window close by._) As it _happens_, I am
travelling second.                                   [_He gets in._

_Drys._ (_at the window_). Well, good-bye, old chap. Good luck to you at
Wyvern, and remember--wear your livery with as good a grace as possible.

_Und._ I do not intend to wear any livery whatever.

     [_The owner of the pretty face regards_ UNDERSHELL _with interest._

_Spurr_. (_coming out of the Refreshment Room_). What, second? with all
my exes. paid? Not _likely_! I'm going to travel in style this journey.
No--not a smoker; don't want to create a bad impression, you know. This
will do for me.

        [_He gets into a compartment occupied by_ Lady CANTIRE _and her
            daughter._

_Tanr._ (_at the window_). There--you're off now. Pleasant journey to
you, old man. Hope you'll enjoy yourself at this Wyvern Court you're
going to--and I say, don't forget to send me that notice of _Andromeda_
when you get back!

      [_The_ Countess _and_ Lady MAISIE _start slightly; the train moves
            out of the station._

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: 'ARRY AT BISLEY.

'_Arry_ (_to 'Arriet_). "OH, I SY! WHAT SEEDS THEM MUST BE TO GROW A
LAMP-POST!"]

                               * * * * *

                      THE LATEST GREAT YACHT RACE.

                    (_By our own Nautical Special._)

DEAR SIR,--The captain went on board the gallant _Naughty Lass_ with his
Wind Lass. A Wind Lass is short for "Winn'd Lass," _i.e._ a Lass he has
won. I think her name is "POLL." The Captain says he is always true to
her, and nothing will ever induce him to leave his dear Wind Lass ashore
when he's afloat. Noble sentiment, but unpractical. The fact is (as
whispered) the Wind Lass is jealous of the _Naughty Lass_, and won't let
the Captain go alone. When the other Captain went on board the rival of
the gallant _Naughty Lass_, the _Anne Nemone_, and "the crafty ones," as
they call the sailors "in the know," were ready to bet any money on the
_Anne Nemone_. Both cutters "cut" (hence the name) well away from each
other at the start, and a fresh breeze coming up (the stale one had been
got rid of) there was a lot of fore-reaching, until the Captain, who is
an old hand at this sort of thing, sent round steward with brandy. "All
hands for grog!" was then the order of the day, and we just managed to
clear Muddle Point, leaving the home-marked (or "home-made," I forget
which is the technical term, but I suppose the latter, as she was built
on the neighbouring premises) boat well to windward. After a free reach
in this weather down to Boot Shore--where the vessel heeled over a bit,
but nothing to speak of, as it was soon remedied by a cobble that was
close at hand--the _Naughty Lass_ lifted her head-sails, and away we
went for Incog Bay, where nobody knew us, or we should have been
received with three times three.

At this moment the _Anne Nemone_, racing close to us, let out a right
good "gybe," which was in execrable taste, I admit, but which ought not
to have called for any retort from the captain's Wind Lass, who gave it
her hot and strong, and threatened to haul her over the coal-scuttlers.
Fortunately we were away again, and there was no time for opposite
gybes. (I spell "gybes" in the old English nautical fashion, but, as I
ascertain, it is precisely the same as "jibes.") Sailors' language is a
bit odd; they don't mean anything, I know--it's only professional;
still, as reporting the matter to ears polite, I scarcely like to set
down in full _all_ I heard. At 1 P.M. all hands were piped for luncheon,
and we had spinnakers cooked in their skins (they are a sort of bean),
with a rare nautical dish called "Booms and Bacon." Fine! I did enjoy
it! But then I'm an old hand at this sort of thing,--luncheon on board,
I mean; for there's scarcely a board, be it sea board or other board,
or, in fact, any boarding establishment, that I don't know. But "yeo ho!
my boys! and avast!" for are we not still racing? We are!!

We passed The Bottle at 2.30 P.M. What had become of the _Anne Nemone_ I
don't know, and probably we should never have seen her again had not our
captain, who was trying to sight the port after passing The Bottle,
stood on the wrong tack, which ran into his boot and hurt him awfully.
He was carried below, and we gathered round him as he turned to the
_Naughty Lass_ and murmured--but POLLY objected that there was nothing
to murmur about or to grumble at, and that the sooner he stumbled on
deck the better it would be for the race. So up rose our brave captain,
took a stiff draught of weather bilge (which is the best preventive of
sea-sickness), and calling for his first mate, Mr. JACK YARD TOPSAIL,
told him to "stand away," which I could quite understand, for JACK YARD
TOPSAIL is a regular salt, full of tar, rum, 'baccy, and everything that
can make life sweet to _him_, but not to his immediate neighbours. So
"stand away" and not "stand by" it was, and when we got to Squeams Bay
the sailors took a short hitch (it is necessary occasionally--but I
cannot say more--lady-readers being present), and we went streaking away
like a side of bacon on a fine day.

"Are we winning?" asks POLLY, the Wind Lass. "_You_ look winning!" I
reply, politely. "By how much?" she inquires, just tucking up her
skirts, and showing a trim ankle. The Captain, with his glass to his
eye, and looking down, answers, "The fifth of a long leg!" I never saw a
woman so angry! "I haven't!" she exclaimed; and there would have been a
row, and we should never have won, as we did splendidly, had not the
"First Officer" (just as they name the supernumeraries in a play) come
up and reminded Pretty POLLY that she wasn't the only mate the Captain
had on board. "Where's the other?" she cried, in a fury. "Below!"
answered the First Officer, and down went POLLY, not to re-appear again
until all was over, and our victorious binnacle was waving proudly from
the fore-top-gallant. At the finish we went clean into harbour, without
a speck on our forecastle, or a stain on our character. I wire you the
account of this great race, and am (Rule BRITANNIA!)
                                                        Yours,
                                        "EVERY OTHER INCH A SAILOR!"

P.S.--I am informed that after I left the vessel--in fact it was next
day--a Burgee was run up at the mast head. I suppose some sort of
court-martial was held first, and that the Burgee (poor wretch!) was
caught red-handed. Still, in these days, this sort of proceeding does
sound rather tyrannical. High-masted justice, eh? Well, sea-dogs will be
sea-dogs. I don't exactly know what a Burgee is, but I fancy he is
something between a Buccaneer and a Bargee; a sort of river-and-sea
pirate. But I fear it is a landsman!! Burgee, masculine (and probably
husband) of Burgess!! If so, there _will_ be a row!
                                           YOURS AS BEFORE THE MAST.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "A FRIEND IN NEED--"

ANARCHIST. "'ELP! 'ELP! PER-LICE!!"

CONSTABLE. "'DOWN WITH EVERYTHING,' INDEED! LUCKY FOR _YOU_ YOU HAVEN'T
'DOWN'D' _ME_!!"]

                               * * * * *

                           A FRIEND IN NEED;

                  _Or, The Lawbreaker's Last Refuge._

    Sure stranger irony life never saw
    Than Lawlessness low suppliant to the Law!

                  _Guardian of Order soliloquiseth:_--

  "Down with Everything!" Ah, yes!
    That's the sort o' rot you jaw!
  You'd be in a tidy mess
    If you'd downed with good old Law.
  Funniest job we have to do,
  Is to "save" such scamps as you.

  "Down with Everything!" Spout on!
    I, who stand for Law, stand by.
  You may want me ere you've done.
    Somethink in that workman's eye,
  And the clenching of his fist,
  Ought to put you on the twist.

  Think you're fetching of 'em fine
    With your tommy-rotten patter?
  Think you've got 'em in a line,
    Or as near as doesn't matter?
  Won't you feel in a rare stew
  If they take to downing _you_?

  Downing is a sort o' game
    Two can play at _here_--thanks be!
  Spin your lead out! Don't let shame,
    Common sense, or courtesy,
  Put the gag on your red rag;
  Flourish it--like your Red Flag!

  How they waggle, flag and tongue!
    Proud o' that same bit of bunting?
  See the glances on you flung?
    Hear the British workman grunting?
  He is none too fond, that chap,
  Of rank rot and the Red Cap!

  Perched upon a noodle's nob,
    Minds me of an organ-monkey!--
  If a workman will not _rob_,
    You denounce him as a "flunkey."
  Some of 'em know what that means.
  Mind your eye! They'll give you beans!

  Ah! I thought so. Gone too fur!
    Set the British Workman booing.
  "_Dirty dog!!!_" That riles you, Sir!
    Better mind what you are doing!
  Mug goes saffron now, with fear,
  Round you glare! Yes, Law _is_ here!

  Show your teeth, shark-like and yellow!
    You won't frighten them, or me.
  Ah! there comes the true mob-bellow!
    That means mischief--as you see.
  Mob, when mettled, goes a squelcher
  For Thief, Anarchist _or_ Welsher.

  "Help! Perlice!!" Oh! _that_'s your cry!
    _I'm_ your friend, then,--at a pinch?
  Funk first taste of Anarchy?
    Law is better than--Judge Lynch?
  Rummy this! For all his jaw
    The lawbreaker flies to Law!

  Good as a sensation novel
    For to see you crouching there.
  Can't these Red Flag heroes grovel?
    Come, my Trojan, have a care.
  Do not clasp Law's legs that way,
  Like _Scum Goodman_ in the play.

  Help? Oh, yes; I'll help you--out!--
    "_Stand back there, please! Pass along!_"
  Come, get up! _Now_ don't you doubt
    If your "downing" dodge ain't wrong?
  Anyhow 'tis, you'll agree,
  Lucky for _you_--you've not downed _me_!

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

_Madame la Baronne_ (_who WILL speak English_). "AND TELL ME, MISTRESS
BROWN, YOUR CLEVARE 'USBAND, WHO 'AVE A SO BEAUTIFUL TALENT--IS HE YET
OF ZE ROYAL ACADEMY?"

_Our Artist's Wife_ (_who WILL speak French_). "OH NON, MADAME, HELAS!
SEULEMENT, IL EST _PENDU_ CETTE ANNEE, VOUS SAVEZ!"

_Madame la Baronne_ (_relapsing into her native language_).
"OH--MADAME--QUELLE AFFREUSE NOUVELLE!"]

                         A MIDSUMMER DAY-DREAM.

    [_The Jackson-Harmsworth Expedition has started._]

  PUNCH sleeps. The cheerful Sage has heard
    That JACKSON is about to start.
  His sympathies are warmly stirred,
    He hath the _Windward's_ weal at heart.
  He dreams: That block of dinner ice
    Stirs arctic fancies in his breast.
  He travels Pole-ward in a trice;
    He joins the JACKSON-HARMSWORTH quest.

                                 * * *

  "All precious things, discovered late
    To those that seek them issue forth."--
  To find her may be JACKSON'S fate,
    That Sleeping Beauty of the North!
  She lieth in her icy cave
    As still as sleep, as white as death.
  Her look might stagger the most brave,
    And make the stoutest hold his breath.

  "The bodies and the bones of those
    That strove in other days to pass,"
  Are scattered o'er the spreading snows,
    Are bleached about that sea of glass.
  He gazes on the silent dead:
    "They perished in their daring deeds."
  The proverb flashes through his head,
    "The many fail: the one succeeds."

                                 * * *

  _Punch_ wakes: lo! it is but a dream--
    A vision of the Frozen Sea;
  Yet may be it may hold a gleam
    Of prophecy. So mote it be!
  To JACKSON and to HARMSWORTH too
    He brims a well-earnt bumper. "Skoal!"
  Here's health to them and their brave crew!
    And safe return from well-won goal!

                               * * * * *

                      THE MINX.--A POEM IN PROSE.

                             [Illustration]

_Poet._ It's so good of you to see me. I merely wished to ask one or two
questions as to your career. You must have led a most interesting life.

_Sphinx._ You are very inquisitive and extremely indiscreet, and I have
always carefully avoided being interviewed. However, go on.

_Poet._ I believe you can read hieroglyphs?

_Sphinx._ Oh yes; I _can_, fluently, But I never do. I assure you they
are not in the least amusing.

_Poet._ No doubt you have talked with hippogriffs and basilisks?

_Sphinx_ (_modestly_). I certainly _was_ in rather a smart set at one
time. As they say, I have "known better days."

_Poet._ Did you ever have any conversation with THOTH?

_Sphinx_ (_loftily_). Oh, dear no! (_Mimicking._) Thoth he wath not
conthidered quite a nice perthon. I would not allow him to be introduced
to me.

_Poet._ You were very particular?

_Sphinx._ One has to be careful. The world is so censorious.

_Poet._ I wonder, would you give me the pleasure of singing to me?
"_Adrian's Gilded Barge_," for instance?

_Sphinx._ You must really excuse me. I am not in good voice. By the way,
the "Gilded Barge," as you call it, was merely a shabby sort of punt. It
would have had no effect whatever at the Henley Regatta.

_Poet._ Dear me! Is it true you played golf among the Pyramids?

_Sphinx_ (_emphatically_). Perfectly untrue. You see what absurd reports
get about!

_Poet_ (_softly_). They do. What was that story about the Tyrian?

_Sphinx._ Merely gossip. There was nothing in it, I assure you.

_Poet._ And APIS?

_Sphinx._ Oh, he sent me some flowers, and there were paragraphs about
it--in hieroglyphs--in the society papers. That was all. But they were
contradicted.

_Poet._ You knew AMMON very well, I believe?

_Sphinx_ (_frankly_). AMMON and I _were_ great pals. I used to see
a good deal of him. He came in to tea very often--he was _quite_
interesting. But I have not seen him for a long time. He had one
fault--he _would_ smoke in the drawing-room. And though I hope I am not
too conventional, I really could not allow _that_.

_Poet._ How pleased they would all be to see you again! Why do you not
go over to Egypt for the winter?

_Sphinx._ The hotels at Cairo are so dreadfully expensive.

_Poet._ Is it true you went tunny-fishing with ANTONY?

_Sphinx._ One must draw the line somewhere! CLEOPATRA was so cross. She
was horribly jealous, and not nearly so handsome as you might suppose,
though she _was_ photographed as a "type of Egyptian Beauty!"

_Poet._ I must thank you very much for the courteous way in which you
have replied to my questions. And now will you forgive me if I make an
observation? In my opinion you are not a Sphinx at all.

_Sphinx_ (_indignantly_). What am I, then?

_Poet._ A Minx.

                               * * * * *

                        THE LAY OF THE EXPLORER.

  I USED to think that if a man
    In any character could score a
  Distinctly leonine success,
    'Twould be as a returned explorer.

  So, when by sixteen tigers tree'd,
    Or when mad elephants were charging,
  I joyed to say--"On this, some day,
    My countrymen will be enlarging."

  And when mosquitoes buzzed and bit
    (For 'tis their pleasing nature to),
  Or fevers floored me, still this dream
    Helped me to suffer and to do.

  I _have_ returned! Whole dusky tribes
    I've wiped right out--such labour sweet is!--
  And with innumerable chiefs
    Arranged unconscionable treaties.

  What's the result? I have become
    A butt for each humanitarian,
  Who call my exploits in the chase
    The work of a "confessed barbarian."

  And, worst of all, my rival, JONES,
    Who'd any trick that's low and mean dare,
  Cries--"Equatorial jungles! Pish!
    I don't believe he's ever been there!"

  So now I just "explore" Herne Bay,
    With trippers, niggers, nurses, babies:
  I've tried for fame. I 've gained it, too:
    I share it with the vanished JABEZ!

                               * * * * *

NOTE AND QUERY.--At Aldershot the QUEEN expressed herself much pleased
with the "tattoo" all round. "IGNORAMUS" writes to inquire "if
'tattoo-ing' is done in Indian ink or with gunpowder?"

                               * * * * *

                           RULE, "BRITANNIA."

                       (_New Yachtical Version._)

                H.R.H. THE P----E OF W----S _sings_:--

  When _Vigilant_, at GOULD'S command,
    Came over here to sweep the main,
  This was the lay that thrilled the land,
    And Yankee Doodle loved the strain--
      Lick _Britannia!_ the fleet _Britannia_ lick!
      And JOHNNY BULL may cut his stick.

  But _Vigilant_, less fast than thee,
    Must in her turn before thee fall,
  _Britannia_, who hast kept the sea,
    The dread and envy of them all.
      Win, _Britannia_! _Britannia_ rules the waves!
      (Though by the narrowest of shaves.)

  Six races in succession show
    The Yankee yacht has met her match;
  Though she was hailed, not long ago,
    The swiftest clipper of the batch.
      Rule, _Britannia_! _Britannia_ rule the waves!
      The most appropriate of staves!

  I'm sorry poor DUNRAVEN'S crack
    So prematurely has gone down;
  But mine has kept the winning tack,
    And well upheld the isle's renown.
      Rule, _Britannia_! &c.

  When JONATHAN thy match hath found,
    He'll to our coasts again repair.
  We'll have another friendly round,
    With manly hearts and all things fair.
      Rule, _Britannia_! _Britannia_ rules the waves,
      Six sequent wins BULL'S honour saves!

                               * * * * *

                        TO ALTHEA IN THE STALLS.

  From the Orchestra as I was staring
    So wearily down at the hall,
  The programme I held hardly caring
    To turn, I was tired of it all!
  For I knew 'twas a futile endeavour
    With music my trouble to drown,
  And I'd made up my mind that you never,
    Ah, never, would come back to town!

  When suddenly, there I beheld you
    Yourself--ah, the joyous amaze!
  I wonder what instinct impelled you
    Your dreamy dark eyes to upraise,
  That for one happy second's communing
    Met mine that had waited so long--
  And the wail of the violins tuning
    It turned to a jubilant song!

  'Mid organ-chords sombre and mellow
    There breaks out a ripple of glee,
  And the voice of the violoncello,
    ALTHEA, is pleading for me!
  The music is beating and surging
    With joy no _adagio_ can drown,
  In ecstasy all things are merging--
    Because you have come back to town!

                               * * * * *

THE COREAN DIFFICULTY.--"_Japan declines to withdraw._"--(_Telegram,
Thursday, July 12_).--"Ah," observed Miss QUOTER, who is ever ready,
"that reminds me of BYRON'S line in _Mazeppa_, quite applicable to the
present situation--

                  'Again he urges on his mild Corea.'"

                                 * * *

NEW WORK (_by the Chief Druid Minstrel at the Eisteddfod, dedicated to
their Royal Highnesses_).--"_How to be Harpy in Wales._"

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: PREHISTORIC PEEPS.

A CRICKET MATCH. "HOWS THAT, UMPIRE?"!!]

                               * * * * *

                         ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

                 EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Lords, Monday, July 9._--PLAYFAIR'S leonine countenance
habitually cheerful. But never saw him looking so pleased as when we
walked through St. Stephen's Chapel on way to Lords just now. "From
point of view of old House of Commons man the Lords are, I admit, a
little unresponsive," my Lord said. "The chamber is, acoustically and
otherwise, the sepulchre of speech. You remember the little lecture on
margarine I delivered years ago in the Commons? Bless me, how delighted
the House was to see the table covered with small white pots containing
samples, with a bottle of best Dorset margarine hooked on to the Mace
for greater convenience of reference. Often I've enchained an audience
with my object lessons. Up to present time that monologue on margarine
ranks as most successful. But I'll beat the record to-night. See that?"
(Here he slapped a something bulging out from his trouser pocket.)
"Guess what that is? Thought you couldn't. It's cultch. Know what cultch
is?"

"Not unless it's the beginning of knowledge," I said, drawing a bow, so
to speak, at a venture. "Positive cultch, comparative culture, eh?"

PLAYFAIR stared at me vacantly. "Cultch----" he said; "but no, that's
part of the lecture. Come along to the Lords and hear it."

[Illustration: Suggested Statues for the Vacant Niches in the Inner
Lobby.

No. I.--"The Majesty of the Law!"]

House not in condition particularly inspiring for lecturer. Benches
mostly empty; STANLEY of Alderley completed depletion by rambling
speech of half an hour's duration, modestly described in Orders as "a
question." Wanted to know how many lighthouses in England and Wales paid
Income Tax; how many were behindhand with their rates; were Death Duties
applicable to some of them; if so, which; and whether the tenants
compounded for rates or otherwise. These inquiries not without interest,
but STANLEY not chiefly remarkable for concentration of thought or
conciseness of phrase.

At length PLAYFAIR'S turn came. A flutter of interest amongst Peers as
he was observed tugging at something in trousers pocket; hauled out what
looked like empty oyster shell.

"Ah!" said HERSCHELL, smiling, "I see the lawyers have been before us."

"In moving the Second Reading of the Sea Fisheries (Shell Fish) Bill, I
propose, if I may be permitted, to give your Lordships an object lesson.
This particular shell," PLAYFAIR continued, holding it up between finger
and thumb, "is covered all over with microscopic oysters. Oysters in all
stages of growth are seen there."

"Well," said the MARQUIS OF CARABAS, "if one had a twenty billion
magnifying glass of the kind associated with the memory of _Sam Weller_,
perhaps we might see the oysters. All I can say is, I don't see any
worth three and sixpence a dozen. PLAYFAIR's no business to bring these
things down here, filling House with smell of stale seaweed when his
oysters are no bigger than a pin's head."

The MARQUIS strode angrily forth. Others followed. Lecture cut short.

_Business done._--Sea Fisheries (Shell Fish) Bill read a second time,
amid unexpectedly depressing circumstances.

_House of Commons, Tuesday._--SQUIRE OF MALWOOD back after a week's
rustication. Brings glowing news of the hay crop; looks, indeed, as if
he had been helping to make it; ruddier than a cherry; indescribable but
unmistakable country air about him as he sits on Treasury Bench with
folded arms, listening to the monotonous ripple of talk renewed on
Budget Bill.

                 "Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis,"

says PRINCE ARTHUR, looking across at the rustic Squire.

                                          "_At ille_
              Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum,"

added JOKIM, with approving glance at bench behind, where the Busy B.'s
swarm after week's rest, humming round amendments with increased vigour.

Almost imperceptible movement of river goes forward. The blameless
BARTLEY on his feet, entrancing House with particulars of a silver
cup, prized heirloom in the humble household in Victoria Street. It
seems that one of BARTLEY'S ancestors--he who came over with the
Conqueror--had brought with him certain blades of buckwheat, which he
industriously planted out on the site, then a meadow, on which the Army
and Navy Stores now flourish. The buckwheat grew apace. One day King
STEPHEN, passing by on a palfrey, noted the waving green expanse.
Enquiring to whom the State was indebted for this fair prospect, a
courtier informed him that it was "the ancestor of GEORGE CHRISTOPHER
TROUT BARTLEY, Member for North Islington in the thirteenth Parliament
of Queen VICTORIA."

"By our sooth," said the King, "he shall have a silver cup."

One was forthwith requisitioned from the nearest silversmith's, and this
it is which now adorns the sideboard in the best parlour at St.
Margaret's House, Victoria Street, S.W.

These interesting reminiscences of family history GEORGE CHRISTOPHER
TROUT recited to a charmed House in support of proposed new Clause,
moved by DICK WEBSTER, exempting from estate duty heirlooms under
settlement. SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, usually impervious to argument in favour
of alterations in his prized Budget, evidently moved. If BARTLEY had
only thought of bringing the cup with him, had at this moment produced
it from under his cloak, and flashed it forth on gaze of House, the
Clause would have been added, and the cup, Estate-duty free, would have
passed on through the ages, telling its simple story to successive
strata of the BARTLEY family. As it was, SQUIRE stood firm, and
WEBSTER'S Clause negatived.

"Couldn't do it, my dear WEBSTER," the SQUIRE found opportunity of
saying, as he met disappointed legislator behind SPEAKER'S Chair. "Of
course I said the polite thing about BARTLEY'S Cup. But I wasn't
thinking of that. I know very well what you had in mind in bringing in
this Clause. The heirlooms you thought of are those cups and medals you
won for Cambridge when, twenty-nine years ago, you met the Oxford
Champion in the two-mile race, and in the one-mile spin. If we could do
something in the Schedules specially exempting them I should be glad.
Think it over, and see me later."

WEBSTER wrung the SQUIRE'S hand, and passed on, saying nothing. There
are moments when speech is superfluous. 'Tis true, they don't often
occur in House of Commons; but here was one. Let us cherish its memory.

_Business done._--Considering and negativing new Clauses to Budget Bill.

_Thursday._--All the cheerfulness of to-day has brightened
Committee-room, where question of issue of Writ, following on
application for Chiltern Hundreds, is considered. The SQUIRE under
examination for nearly two hours and a-half. Difficult to say which the
more enjoyed it, the witness or the Committee.

[Illustration: An Interesting Specimen. The Coleridge Caterpillar!]

"What is the state of a Peer pending issue of Writ of Summons?" asked
the SQUIRE, suddenly taking to interrogate the Committee assembled to
question him. "Is he a caterpillar passing through a larva, spinning a
cocoon of silk until he reaches a condition where they toil not neither
do they spin?" (Here, quite by accident, his glance fell upon JOSEPH,
supposed to be sitting upon him in judicial capacity.) "There is," he
continued (and here he glanced at PRINCE ARTHUR, smiling at the sly hit
dealt at his dear friend JOE) "an opening for philosophic doubt as to
the precise condition of this impounded Peer in his intermediary state."

The House still going about with millstone of Budget Bill round its
neck, BYRNE, BUTCHER, BEACH, BOWLES and BARTLEY tugging at it,
KENYON-SLANEY now and then uttering obvious truths with air of
supernatural wisdom. GRAND YOUNG GARDNER (address Board of Agriculture,
Whitehall Place, S.W.) hands me scrap of paper; says he found it near
SQUIRE'S seat on Treasury Bench; but it doesn't look like his writing:

  "Two modes there are, O BYRNE and BUTCHER,
    Our gratitude to earn:
  If BYRNE would only burn up BUTCHER,
    Or BUTCHER butcher BYRNE;
  Or both combine--yes, bless their souls--
  To burn and butcher TOMMY BOWLES!"

_Business done._--Very little.

_Friday._--TEMPLE going about much as if on Tuesday night he had got out
of his cab in the ordinary fashion. He didn't, you know. Taken out in
sections through the upper window by couple of stalwart policemen. This
owing to circumstance that Irish cab-driver having, after fashion of his
country, saved a trot for the avenue, dashed up against kerbstone and
overturned cab.

"Gave me a start, of course," TEMPLE said, as we brushed him down. "Not
a convenient way of getting out of your hansom. What I was afraid of was
being disfigured. Am not a vain man, but don't mind telling you, TOBY, a
scratch or a scar on one's face would have been exceedingly annoying.
But I'm all right, as you see. Hope it isn't a portent. A small thing
that under this Government I should be overturned. What I fear is, that
unless we keep our eye on them they'll overturn the Empire."

_Business done._--Not yet done with Budget.

                               * * * * *

FASHIONABLE INFORMATION AND SUGGESTION.--The Duke and Duchess of BEDFORD
having returned from Thorney will go to Beds;--a delightful change, that
is unless they are rose-beds, which are proverbially thorny. And "the
Duchess of ROXBURGHE goes to Floors." No Beds here; only Floors. Why not
combine the two establishments and get them both under one roof?

                                 * * *

"_NIHIL tetiqit quod non ornavit_," as the prizefighter said of his
right fist, after blacking his opponent's eye and breaking the bridge of
his nose.

                                 * * *

"The Knights of Labour" seem to be banded together against "Days of
Work."

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: CRUEL!

_Lucullus Brown_ (_on hospitable purpose intent_). "ARE YOU DINING
ANYWHERE TO-MORROW NIGHT?"

_Jones_ (_not liking to absolutely "give himself away"_). "LET ME
SEE"--(_considers_)--"NO; I'M NOT DINING ANYWHERE TO-MORROW."

_Lucullus Brown_ (_seeing through the artifice_). "UM! POOR CHAP! HOW
HUNGRY YOU WILL BE!"

                                           ["_Exeunt,--severally._"]

                               * * * * *

                         THE ROYAL WELSH BARD.

    [The Prince of WALES was initiated as a Bard the other day at
    the Carnarvon Eisteddfod.]

  The Minstrel-Prince to his Wales has gone,
    In the ranks of the Bards you'll find him;
  His bardic cloak he has girded on,
    And his tame harp slung behind him.
  "Land of Song!" said the Royal Bard,
    "You remarkably rum-spelt land, you,
  One Prince at least shall try very hard
      To pronounce you, and understand you."

  The Prince tried hard, but the songs he heard
    Very soon brought his proud soul under,
  With twenty consonants packed in a word,
    And no vowels to keep them asunder!
  So he said to the Druid, "A word with you,
    Your jaw must be hard as nails, Sir;
  Your songs may do for the bold Cymru,
    They've done for the Prince of WALES, Sir!"

                               * * * * *

                              GOOD WISHES.

    (_To Mr. and Mrs. J. M. Barrie on their Marriage, July 9, 1894._)

  "When authors venture on a play,
    They have been known to find them undone,
  But Mr. BARRIE found the way
    To great success in _Walker, London_.
  A ready TOOLE he'd close at hand,
    And those who know her merry glance'll
  Not find it hard to understand
    How much was due to MARY ANSELL.

  Her acting in the House-boat Scene
    Led Mr. BARRIE to discover
  He'd lost his heart (although he'd _been_
    Of Lady NICOTINE a lover).
  And those who felt sweet NANNY'S charm,
    Or who in Thrums delight to tarry,
  Long happy life, quite free from harm,
    Will wish this new-formed firm of BARRIE.




Transcriber Notes:

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of
the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. Thus
the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in
the List of Illustrations, and the order of illustrations may not be the
same in the List of Illustrations and in the book.

Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.

On page 25, "o" was changed to "to".

On page 25, "Isi" was changed to "Is it".

On page 31, a quotation mark was added before "'DOWN WITH".






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