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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44707 ***</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page181" id="page181"></a>[pg 181]</span></p>
<hr />
<h1>PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.<br />
<small>Volume 108, <span class="sc">April 20, 1895</span></small><br />
<span class="smaller"><i>edited by Sir Francis Burnand</i></span></h1>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter1" style="width: 400px;"><a href="images/181-800.png"><img src="images/181-300.png" width="300" height="452" alt="IMPROVING THE SHINING HOUR." /></a>
<h3 class="sans">IMPROVING THE SHINING HOUR.</h3>
<p><i>The New Governess.</i> "<span class="sc">What are the Comparative and Superlative
of <i>Bad</i>, Berty?</span>"</p>
<p><i>Berty</i> (<i>the Doctor's son</i>). "<span class="sc">Bad</span>—<span class="sc">Worse</span>—<span class="sc">Dead!</span>"</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>A CHINO-JAPANESE CALENDAR.</h2>
<p class="title1">(<i>For the next Ten Years.</i>)</p>
<ul class="none">
<li>1895. Treaty of peace signed between China and Japan, on the
basis of the opening up of Chinese territory and introduction of
machinery into the Celestial Empire. The Japanese prophesy that
the compact will ultimately prove to be for the benefit of the Chinese.</li>
<li>1896. Japan floods China with home-made merchants, who obtain
an enormous trade.</li>
<li>1897. England, America and France follow suit, and, after a
pause, the remainder of the civilized world adopt the prevailing
fashion.</li>
<li>1898. Japanese China becomes over-populated, thanks to the
foreign invasion, and there is much discontent amongst the original
inhabitants.</li>
<li>1899. The foreigners, having secured all the possible trade that
could be obtained, commence the erection of manufactories.</li>
<li>1900. Japanese China challenges Birmingham, Glasgow, Lyons,
and Marseilles on their own ground, and holds its own. It claims to
be one of the most productive places on the face of the universe.</li>
<li>1901. The introduction of machinery having thrown the teeming
millions of Japanese China out of work, there is great discontent
amongst them.</li>
<li>1902. An enterprising citizen of the United States of America
projects an emigration scheme for supplying the outer world with the
superfluous population of Japanese China.</li>
<li>1903. The scheme of the citizen of the U. S. A. proves a great
success, and sixty millions of Chino-Japanese are conveyed to the
two worlds, the old and the new.</li>
<li>1904. The original inhabitants of Europe and America, undersold
by the Chino-Japanese, are ousted from their positions and left without
work. Consequently, great prosperity of the Chino-Japanese.</li>
<li>1905. Fulfilment of the prophecy, that the treaty of peace between
China and Japan signed in 1895 was "really for the benefit of the
Chinese."</li>
</ul>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>WON'T WASH!</h2>
<p class="title1">Or, The British Laundress's Lament.</p>
<p class="ind3">
[There is talk of a company for taking our laundry-work over to Holland,
washing it there, and returning it to the owners at a less cost than it can be
done for at home.]
</p>
<div class="poem width24"> <div class="stanza">
<p>In matters of laundry the fault of them Dutch,</p>
<p>Is charging too little, and grabbing too much!</p>
<p>They'd collar our collars, cut off with our shirts!</p>
<p>The heart of a true washerwoman it hurts</p>
<p>To think of Frows taking <em>our</em> time-honoured tub.</p>
<p>What, travel to Holland to get rub and scrub,</p>
<p>While soap and strong arms may in Britain be found?</p>
<p>It's worse than them Stores! Furrineers may be found</p>
<p>To do dirty work on the cheap, I've no doubt;</p>
<p>But can old <span class="sc">John Bull</span> know just what he's about</p>
<p>In sending our work from his shores in <em>this</em> way?</p>
<p>I'm sure it won't wash, and I 'ope it won't pay!</p>
<p>Shall we to Mynheer and his frowsy Frow truckle,</p>
<p>While one English woman has arm, wrist, and knuckle?</p>
<p>Forbid it, my sisters! My patriot 'eart</p>
<p>Is up in my mouth at this ojus new start.</p>
<p>There is an old proverb, and what do it say?</p>
<p>It is the true laundress's motter, I say.</p>
<p>But what in the world to <span class="sc">John Bull</span> can 'ave come</p>
<p>If he can't <em>wash his own dirty linen at 'ome</em>?</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>A MISMANAGED ACCIDENT.</h2>
<p>Have just discovered that the pretty girl I met at the dance the
other night is a lady nurse at Charing Cross Hospital. Such a nice
girl! What a charming nurse she must be! Almost wish I was
laid up at the hospital. In fact, quite wish it. But I can't be.
Another outrage on the miserable, downtrodden, middle class. If I
were one of the fortunate, pampered masses, a Working Man, I
should be nursed by her, if I were ill, and by others, perhaps, like
her. Stay! There is a chance. If I could be damaged in an
accident—not too much damaged—and carried to the hospital, they
must look after me, and nurse me. They couldn't help themselves.
Northumberland Avenue—the very place! Never cross it without
being nearly run over.</p>
<p>Go straight there and look eagerly for the usual rushing hansoms.
Here's one. Stroll in front of it. Driver pulls aside, shouts and
swears at me, and goes on. Reflect that some caution is necessary.
If the wheel went over my neck, even her ministrations would
be useless. Must be run over judiciously. Better only be knocked
down. Stroll across road again. Here comes one. Shouts from
driver. A large splash of mud in my eye. And that's all. These
cabmen drive so absurdly well. They pull up, or pull aside, or
pull somewhere instantly. Wipe my eye, and then see something
better. Old lady's brougham, from the suburbs, driven by the sort
of coachman who also works in the garden. He won't be able to pull
aside quickly. Stroll in front of horse. Shouts from gardening
coachman. Horse nearly on me. Suddenly pulled back by fussy
policeman, who says I had a narrow escape. Hang the fellow, of
course I did! Am obliged to give him ten shillings for his prompt
action. Begin to despair of this accident. Stroll on nearly to Embankment.
Immense van coming along at a trot. Much too heavy.
I should be smashed flat. And this driver seems to want to run
over me. Escape with difficulty by jumping aside. At that moment
something hits my legs, I am thrown down, and a wheel passes over
my foot. It is a costermonger's donkey-cart which was racing the
van. How ignominious! To be knocked down by a donkey and run
over by a truck! Very painful too. Feel as if I should faint.
Picked up by sympathetic people who rush to me. Say feebly to
them, "Take me to the hospital." Then faint.</p>
<p>After a short time open my eyes. Am being carried in somewhere.
At last! I shall forget the pain. I am in the hospital. She will
nurse me! <i>She</i>—oh, heavens! Though I have planned it all,
suppose I ought to murmur, "Where am I?" Do so. "In St.
Thomas's Hospital," says somebody.</p>
<p class="ind"><i>A fortnight later.</i>—And I am in it still.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind1">According to a paragraph last week in the <cite>Westminster Gazette</cite>,
quoting from the <cite>Australian Review of Reviews</cite>, it appears that the
Earl of <span class="sc">Yarmouth</span> has been making a sensation in the Colonies as a
"Skirt-dancer." Queer fish this nobleman! belongs to the Bloater
Aristocracy.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind2"><span class="sc">A Noble Plunger.</span>—One day last week in the <cite>Times</cite> appeared an
article headed "<cite>Lord Rayleigh on Waves</cite>." Rather early for sea-bathing,
eh? Evidently so, such prominence having been given to
the fact by the leading journal.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page182" id="page182"></a>[pg 182]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 375px;"><a href="images/182-1100.png"><img src="images/182-375.png" width="375" height="482" alt="'BETTER LATE THAN NEVER.'" /></a>
<h3 class="sans">"BETTER LATE THAN NEVER.</h3>
<p><i>Mr. Punch</i> (<i>welcoming Miss Spring-time</i>). '<span class="sc">Glad to see you, my dear! Began to think you were never coming!</span>'"</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page183" id="page183"></a>[pg 183]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/183-1500.png"><img src="images/183-600.png" width="600" height="329" alt="'ANIMAL SPIRITS.'" /></a>
<h3 class="sans">"ANIMAL SPIRITS."</h3>
<p class="title2">No. XI.—<span class="sc">After Bank Holiday.</span></p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>"BETTER LATE THAN NEVER."</h3>
<p class="title1">Mr. Punch to Miss Spring:—</p>
<div class="poem width33"> <div class="stanza">
<p>Well, here you are at last, dear! <i>Are</i> the biting blizzards past, dear?</p>
<p class="i2">And <i>will</i> you guarantee us from subjection to the plumber?</p>
<p>Will no casual icy splinter from the serried spears of Winter</p>
<p class="i2">Put a chill upon your smile, and spoil the promise of the Summer?</p>
<p>We've been waiting worn and weary, till e'en cuckoo-songs sound cheery,</p>
<p class="i2">And belated almond-blossoms show like roses of Cashmere:</p>
<p>And the cockney chaunt now flowing, "All-a-blowing <i>and</i> a-growing!"</p>
<p class="i2">Falls far sweeter than <span class="sc">Mascagni</span> upon London's longing ear.</p>
<p>Where on earth have you been hiding? We are in no mood for chiding,</p>
<p class="i2">But mid-April's <i>rather</i> late, dear, for what should have come in March!</p>
<p>What malignant hocus-pocus has kept back the plucky crocus,</p>
<p class="i2">Whose gold is scarce yet bursting from the beds the winds still parch?</p>
<p>After that six weeks cold snap, dear, of fast frozen pipe and tap, dear,</p>
<p class="i2">When back to barbarism and to bathlessness fate drove us,</p>
<p>And we sicklier grew, and surlier, if you'd come a <i>leetle</i> earlier,—</p>
<p class="i2">Well, let bygones now be bygones! But O Spring sweet! an you love us,</p>
<p>Come—at last, dear—<i>à la</i> <span class="sc">Herrick</span>, with such influence atmospheric</p>
<p class="i2">As will slay the Influenza; with such fragrance from your flowers,</p>
<p>As will knock Malaria silly; let your dear daffydown-dilly</p>
<p class="i2">From our bodies drive bacilli, and the blight from out our bowers.</p>
<p>Slay our Microbes, Spring, and bless us! Like a clinging Shirt of Nessus</p>
<p class="i2">Morbid sickliness surrounds us in our lives, our books, our art.</p>
<p>Oh, if sunshine and your breezes might but slay our soul-diseases,</p>
<p class="i2">Oust the pestilent miasma that pervades the home, the mart;</p>
<p>Neutralise the nauseous virus whose developments so tire us;</p>
<p class="i2">Disinfect the New Parnassus, purge the New Pierian Spring,</p>
<p>Bring us honesty and health, dear, why for all our wit and wealth, dear,</p>
<p class="i2">We might love like Nature's lovers, and like Nature's poets sing.</p>
<p>Ah! we need Spring's prophylactic!—But I'm getting too didactic</p>
<p class="i2">For a sunny April morning, and a sweet young thing like you.</p>
<p>My dear, the London Season, wrapped and furred out of all reason,</p>
<p class="i2">Has been waiting, decked like Winter, with a nose-tip nearly blue;</p>
<p>Waiting, waiting for your coming. Sweet as bees in clover humming</p>
<p class="i2">Is the first sound of your footfall. Most spontaneous of passions</p>
<p>Is the love for you, you darling. You will bring the thrush and starling,</p>
<p class="i2">And the young leaves and the young lambs, and, what's better—</p>
<p class="i4"><i>the Spring Fashions</i>!!!</p>
<p>So no wonder that she greets you with effusion when she meets you.</p>
<p class="i2">Ah, Spring! 'tis not your lilacs, and your daffodils and stocks,</p>
<p>Or the tender leaves the trees on, that most moves Miss London Season,</p>
<p class="i2">'Tis the hope of "rippin'" frolics and the thought of "trotty" frocks.</p>
<p>But an old man's heart, my treasure, beats to quite another measure,</p>
<p class="i2">Still my sympathies, dear Spring, are with the youngsters and with you.</p>
<p>They are looking for love's playtime, and the merry, merry May-time,</p>
<p class="i2">And the popular R.A. time, and the whole tohu-bohu!</p>
<p>Bring the girls delights as dowry, may their social paths be flowery,</p>
<p class="i2">And your silver drops the only tears they need to look upon.</p>
<p>So they're wholesome, may they flourish; and may all Spring influence nourish</p>
<p class="i2">True manhood and pure womanhood, and—there, my preaching's done!</p>
<p>We need a true <i>Spring Clean</i>, sweet. Give us parks and gardens green, sweet.</p>
<p class="i2">And laughter, like your bird-songs pure, un-satyr-like, though clever,</p>
<p>Bless our boys, our girls, our babies, yes—<i>and bring us back our <span class="sc">Jabez</span></i>,</p>
<p class="i2">And we'll pardon your delay, and say 'tis better late than never!</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind2"><span class="sc">Opportunity lost by Mr. Justice Hawkins during a recent
Case when His Lordship might have put it to the Jury.</span>—"Gentlemen,
what is the difference, or, as there has been no quarrel,
let us say what is the distinction between a costumier and a butcher
anxious to arrange his shop-front to the best advantage? Gentlemen,
I will not detain you, it is this: The costumier meets out the
dresses; the butcher 'dresses out' the meats. Gentlemen, you are
discharged."</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">To Charitable Chess-Players.</span>—A good move at Easter time is—"cheque
to his Bishop."</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page184" id="page184"></a>[pg 184]</span></p>
<h3 class="sans">BLIND ALLEY-GORIES.</h3>
<p class="title2"><span class="sc">By Dunno Währiar.</span></p>
<p class="title2a">(<i>Translated from the original Lappish by Mr. Punch's own
Hyperborean Enthusiast.</i>)</p>
<p class="title">Introductory Note.</p>
<p>IT affords me no ordinary gratification to be the humble instrument
in rendering these exquisitely obscure prose-poems—reeking as they
are with the self-consciousness of so magnificently triumphant an
Ego—into the English tongue, though I am fully aware of the difficulty
of preserving all the mystical unintelligibility of the original.</p>
<p><span class="sc">Dunno Währiar</span> is
perhaps the most remarkable
personality
that his native Lapland
has yet produced. He
first saw the light on
April 1, 1879, at Kandalax,
so that he may
still be called comparatively
young. His impressionable,
sensitive
soul broke out in early
revolt against the train-oil
and tallow which
formed the traditionary
nutriment of his family
circle, and in 1883 we
find him casting off the
shackles of conventionality
and escaping to
Sweden in his sledge-perambulator.
There
he has lived ever since,
and has already secured
a foremost place among
the greatest physiological
psychologists of
Scandinavia. As a morbid
pathologist, he surpasses
<span class="sc">Strindberg</span>;
while in neurotic sensitivism,
he has hustled
<span class="sc">Hansson</span> into a back
seat; easily beaten
<span class="sc">Björnson</span> in diagnosis
of the elusive emotions;
and taken the indigestible
cake of slack-baked
symbolism from
the master hand of <span class="sc">Ibsen</span>
himself! Small
wonder, then, that the
commonest penwiper
containing issues from
his pen is eagerly sought
after by admirers of such effusions.</p>
<p>He belongs ('tis true) to the Literary Upper Crust, and is for the
few rather than the many; while so absolute has been his fidelity to
the principles of his art, that he has published every one of his works
at a considerable pecuniary loss.</p>
<p>Need I say more to ensure for him that respectful admiration
which the public is ever ready to lavish upon anything they fail to
understand?</p>
<p>Let me rather efface myself and leave <span class="sc">Dunno Währiar</span>—or
"Young <span class="sc">Garnaway</span>," as is his self-adopted pseudonym—to unfold
the rhythmic charm of his own inimitable incomprehensibility.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>BLIND ALLEY-GORY THE FIRST.</h3>
<p class="title2">THE LOST BACKBONE.</p>
<p>One summer evening, when the moon was at the full, and cloud-shadows
glided imperceptibly over the chimney-pots, as curses that
have found no utterance and come dejectedly home to roost, I wandered
into my back-garden, and caught the God of the Period napping
in the moonshine on one of my celery-beds.</p>
<p>He rose up suddenly and reposed awhile in space, with his head
resting on the back of the Great Bear, and one foot on the arm of
Cassiopeia's Chair, while with the other he skimmed the cream off the
Milky Way. And he seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere in
particular, and he said nothing, and I was afraid to make a remark—and
there was no sound, save that of the boundless, inconceivable
silence which was rumbling round the corner.</p>
<p>Presently he came down to the celery-bed once more.</p>
<p>"What are you seeking for so late?" asked he; "your face looks
so long and solemn, and your eyes are hollow and full of woe. Have
you been having anything indigestible for supper?"</p>
<p>"I am in trouble about Humanity," I replied; "for, though I
loathe and despise them individually, collectively I love them
dearly."</p>
<p>"What's the matter with Humanity?" asked the God, as he
squatted amid the celery.</p>
<p>"They are growing so deadly dull," I answered. "I am Young
<span class="sc">Garnaway</span>, the Pessimistic Prose Poet, and it pains me to see how
utterly they have lost their perception of the ridiculous, which is the
backbone of real enjoyment. So I came out to see if by any chance
the backbone was hidden under one of the flower-pots."</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 450px;"><a href="images/184-1200.png"><img src="images/184-450.png" width="450" height="470" alt="'I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms and unsubstantial egg-shapes.'" /></a>
"I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms and unsubstantial egg-shapes."</div>
<p>The Period-God once more pervaded the endless space that glittered
in darkling infinitude
round about and right ahead of him. It seemed to me, when he returned,
that he had been laughing; but suddenly I saw him pull himself together, and frown.</p>
<p>And from afar a gurgling rose through the gloom, and darkness fell
upon my back-garden, knocking a basilisk off the waterbutt, and
above the garden-walls there appeared a crowd of rude persons, in pot
hats, with red lolling tongues and wide grinning mouths, holding
their sides with inextinguishable mirth. All at once the giggles
turned into the booing of Philistines, and there was a fantastic shadowy
horseplay, which rolled nearer and nearer.</p>
<p>I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms, and unsubstantial egg
shapes rushing towards me through the air. Instinctively I ran indoors
and gripped the umbrella from its corner, and stood on guard.</p>
<p>Then I heard someone chuckling quite close
to me, chuckling softly, but unmistakably. And the booing hushed,
and the gloom lightened, and the garden-roller glimmered faintly
in the moonlit summer night, and inside the lawn-mower lay the God
of the Period crying with uncontrollable laughter.</p>
<p>"When the time comes," he said, "when mankind gets weary of
Paraded Pessimism, and the Big Scandinavian Boom has burst, then
I will conjure forth the Great Guffaw; and <i>then</i> it will be time for
all Dyspeptic Decadents to get under their umbrellas—just as you
did awhile ago, for mankind will have recovered its sense of
humour, and will decline to take them seriously. But you had much
better leave off bothering your head about that lost backbone, for
you won't be happy when they get it!"</p>
<p>And while I was taking off my goloshes indoors, I heard again the
sound of snapping celery sticks, as the Period-God rolled on the
bed in ecstasies of stifled merriment, and I wondered at intervals
what it was all about.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">For Outward Application.</span>—"'A man may change his skies,'
as the Roman poet puts it," quoth the <i>Daily Telegraph</i>, "but he
does not so easily change his habits." The Academy is about to
open. The pictures will soon be hung. Varnishing day comes, with
last chance for alteration. Then comes in Latin poetic proverb,
"A man may change his skies, but, do what he will, he cannot alter
that peculiar style that marks the work as his, and nobody else's."</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">New Proverb.</span>—All "problem" and no "play" makes drama a
dull joy.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page185" id="page185"></a>[pg 185]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter1" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/185a-1500.png"><img src="images/185a-600.png" width="600" height="382" alt="SHOCKING HEATHENISM." /></a>
<h3 class="sans">SHOCKING HEATHENISM.</h3>
<p><i>Rector.</i> "<span class="sc">So you go up to Town next month, Miss Mary. How I envy you! And of course you'll attend the May Meetings.</span>"</p>
<p><i>Miss Mary.</i> "<span class="sc">May Meetings? Oh dear no! Though I adore Horses, I quite disapprove of <i>Racing</i>, don't you know!</span>"</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"><a href="images/185b-300.png"><img src="images/185b-100.png" width="100" height="219" alt="'Fridoline.'" /></a>
<p class="center">"Fridoline."</p></div>
<p>The Baron heartily welcomes the appearance of <i>Happy Thoughts</i>
in French, under the very attractive style and title of <i>Fridoline</i>. No
fear now of the <i>entente cordiale</i> between England and France being
disturbed; and that is indeed <i>une "pensée" la plus "heureuse" ou
"ingénieuse."</i> The dialogue with the patient angler who remains
in the middle of the stream day after day, and, probably, night after
night, is quite a little lesson in French.</p>
<p>"<i>'Pris quelque chose?' 'Rien.' 'Pas
mordu du tout?' 'Une fois, je crois.' Le
pêcheur n'a pas perdu son calme, mais son air
n'a rien de triomphant.</i>"</p>
<p>And the world goes on and the <i>mouvement</i>
continues, and ever and anon the Happy
Thoughter, returning to the river, finds the
same man in the same boat in almost the same
position. Then, before retiring for the night,
the H. T. takes one turn on the lawn, "<i>pour
m'assurer</i>," he says, "<i>que je ne laisse rien
derrière moi. Ah si! je laisse l'homme au
bachot, toujours sa ligne en main. Il avait,
paraît-il, un pen redescendu le courant.
'Bonne pêche?' 'Non.' 'Pris quelque
chose?' 'Rien.'</i>" Those who read "<i>entre
les lignes</i>" may see in this figure of unrewarded
patience and perseverance more than
meets the eye. <span class="sc">M. Aurelien de Courson</span> has
done his work excellently well, "<i>avec l'autorisation
de l'auteur</i>."</p>
<p>I found a book on my table lying among a
number of others put aside to be read at "a more convenient season."
The title attracted me—<i>Clove Pink</i>. Its leaves are of last autumn,
but the story they tell is for ever. It is admirably written; its word-painting
is the work of a true artist: but beginning brightly and
gladly, as do the lives of the young hero and heroine, it ends sadly
but sweetly. If you are not averse to a simple, well-told tale, with
stirring incidents of modern warfare, graphically narrated, that
stand out in startling contrast to the scenes of quiet English rural
life, a story whose pathos and simple truth will touch you deeply,
read <i>Clove Pink</i>, says</p>
<p class="author"><span class="sc">The Baron de Book-Worms</span>.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>VERY CATCHING.</h3>
<div class="figright" style="width: 250px;"><a href="images/185c-400.png"><img src="images/185c-150.png" width="150" height="153" alt="'To-morrow will be Fry day," /></a>
<div class="poem width21"> <div class="stanza">
<p>"To-morrow will be Fry day,</p>
<p>So we'll catch our fish to-day."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i10"><i>Somebody's Song.</i></p>
</div> </div>
</div>
<p>In the <cite>Times</cite> of Monday, April 8, appeared an advertisement
headed "Lent, Lent—Fish, Fish." This meant, of course, that the
season was Lent, not that the fishmonger was a lender of fish. And
for the season it was Holy Week,
<i>i.e.</i> last week of Lent. Then it
goes on "<em>Have you ordered your
Good Friday's Dinner?</em> If not,
do so at once." Excellent and most
timely advice, seeing it was given
on the Monday preceding Good
Friday. So far so good; but then
comes "a reason why" which apparently
quite upsets the kettle of
fish. Here is the extract:—</p>
<blockquote><p>
"Having made contracts with a
number of the leading trawl and line
fishermen to take the whole of their
prime fish caught during Easter week,"
&c., &c.
</p></blockquote>
<p>What on earth is the good of fish
caught in Easter Week to the persons
who have ordered it for the
previous Friday? That's where the trouble is. The fishmonger is
at sea as well as his good fishermen. If the advertisement had been
headed "Lent and Easter," then it would have been evident that
two different subjects were being dealt with, and "both caught with
one fish," as Mrs. R. might say, adapting a proverb.<br /><br /><br /></p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3 class="sq">TEMPERATE TO INTEMPERATE.</h3>
<div class="poem width15"> <div class="stanza">
<p><span class="sc">Fanatic</span> sophistries, I think,</p>
<p class="i2">To logic's limits will have shrunk,</p>
<p>When zealot's recognize that "drink"</p>
<p class="i2">Is <em>not</em> identical with "drunk."</p>
<p>Difference may be as great you see,</p>
<p class="i2">'Twixt U and I as You and Me!</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">Wordsworth for Witlers.</span>—"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page186" id="page186"></a>[pg 186]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter1" style="width: 450px;"><a href="images/186-990.png"><img src="images/186-320.png" width="320" height="483" alt="SOCIAL AGONIES." /></a>
<h3 class="sans">SOCIAL AGONIES.</h3>
<p><i>Anxious Musician</i> (<i>in a whisper, to Mrs. Lyon Hunter's butler</i>). "<span class="sc">Where's my 'Cello?</span>"</p>
<p><i>Butler</i> (<i>in stentorian tones, to the room</i>). "<span class="sc">Signor Weresmicello!</span>"</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>THE NEW ENGLISH ART CLUB.</h3>
<p>The other day I went to this exhibition of
sublime masterpieces. I was about to write
a few comments, full of strange epithets and
gushing praise, when a small girl came in
with a lady. The child spoke so freely that
I paused to listen. This was her criticism.
"Oh, mother, what's that meant for? I
can't see anything. Look at that lady! She's
got no face at all. Oh, look at that other!
She's funnier. What is she? A Spanish
dancer? Do all Spanish dancers have knobbly
faces like you might make out of a potato?
What are those people skating on? Is it
cotton wool? Oh, mother, look there! What
an ugly lady! Why's she put all that red
on her cheeks? What's all that other red
there? Is it another lady? A church in
Venice? What Olympia where you took me
two years ago? Oh, mother, it can't be a
church! Unless it's upside down. Or perhaps
all the paints have run into one another
like mine do. Oh, look! There's a picture
of a washstand. Is it an advertisement of a
furniture shop? Or is it meant for what
father calls a slight wash in his water-colour
drawings? What are those ladies dancing in
sheets for? Is it sheets they've got on?
Oh what a red face that gentleman's got!
I don't think they paint very pretty ladies or
gentlemen here. Oh, mother, look at that!
Why it's the funniest of all! Who are the
two ladies? Why are their clothes slipping
down? Why are their faces all crooked, and
their eyes sideways? Are they meant to be
pretty? I don't think they are. What do
you say it is? Meant to be painted on the
wall of a room? Is that why they look so
funny? Why they look like Aunt <span class="sc">Kitty</span>,
when she's going to have a sea bath, and
when——" Here the little maiden was suddenly
dragged out of the room, and her shrill
voice was heard no more. But her winged
words are not forgotten by</p>
<p class="author"><span class="sc">A Crushed Critic</span>.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>AN EASTER 'OLIDAY.</h3>
<p class="title2">(<i>A Siesta Song, from the Burlesque Opera
"Little Liberal Majority," performed at the
Theatre Royal, St. Stephen's.</i>)</p>
<p class="title2a"><span class="sc">Air</span>—"<i>Lazily, Drowsily.</i>"</p>
<div class="poem width24"> <div class="stanza">
<p>When gaily dances the Easter sun,</p>
<p class="i2">And shelved is each bothersome Bill,</p>
<p>Then work and talk for a time are done,</p>
<p class="i2">And the lobbies are hushed and still.</p>
<p class="i10">Lazily, lazily,</p>
<p class="i10">Drowsily, drowsily,</p>
<p class="i8">Home goes every one;</p>
<p class="i10">Lazily, lazily,</p>
<p class="i10">Drowsily, drowsily,</p>
<p class="i8">Under the April sun.</p>
<p class="i8">Old St. Stephen's closes;</p>
<p class="i8">Parliament reposes,</p>
<p class="i10">Lazily, lazily,</p>
<p class="i10">Drowsily, drowsily,</p>
<p class="i8">Forty winks, or fun!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>When the sunlight falls on the Heath's green breast,</p>
<p class="i2">And blue are the skies above,</p>
<p>Each seeks the rest that he loves the best,</p>
<p class="i2">Or the sport he doth chiefly love.</p>
<p>Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,</p>
<p class="i2">Donkey riding's fun!</p>
<p>Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,</p>
<p class="i2">Dawdling under the sun!</p>
<p class="i2"> <span class="sc">Harcourt's</span> eyelid closes,</p>
<p class="i2"> <span class="sc">Balfour</span> blandly dozes;</p>
<p>Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,</p>
<p class="i2">Under the Easter sun!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Joggle and jolt! <i>These</i> mokes won't bolt!</p>
<p class="i2">Each flops like an empty sack</p>
<p>On the broad back, shaggy as Shetland colt.</p>
<p class="i2">No donkey boy on <i>their</i> track!</p>
<p>Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,</p>
<p class="i2">Carelessly jogging on!</p>
<p>Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,</p>
<p class="i2">Under an Easter sun!</p>
<p class="i2">Lotos-Land discloses</p>
<p class="i2">No more bland reposes.</p>
<p>Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,</p>
<p class="i2">Dawdle they under the sun!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>"That <span class="sc">Labby</span> was often a bore!" sighs <span class="sc">Will</span>,</p>
<p class="i2">Groans <span class="sc">Arty</span>, "And so was <span class="sc">Joe</span>!</p>
<p>To drive <i>these</i> donkeys demands small skill!</p>
<p class="i2">Would Westminster mokes were so!</p>
<p>Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily!</p>
<p class="i2">Riding like this is fun!</p>
<p>Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily!</p>
<p class="i2">Bless us! Who <i>wants</i> to run?</p>
<p class="i2">'Appy 'Ampstead dozes!</p>
<p class="i2">Mokes are beds of roses!</p>
<p>Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,</p>
<p class="i2">Jog we—till holiday's done!"</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center">"<span class="sc">The Objection to Euclid</span>" of which
we have heard so much recently is of very
ancient standing, and is shared by nearly
every schoolboy.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">Parliamentary Proverb.</span>—There's many
a slip 'twixt the M.P. and the "Whip"!</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page187" id="page187"></a>[pg 187]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"><a href="images/187-1200.png"><img src="images/187-400.png" width="400" height="454" alt="AN EASTER 'OLIDAY." /></a>
<h2>AN EASTER 'OLIDAY.</h2>
<p><i>Duet</i> (<span class="sc">'Arcourt</span> <i>and</i> <span class="sc">Harthur</span> <i>sing while being jolted</i>).</p>
<p>"LA-A-ZI-LY LA-A-ZI-LY! DROW-OW-OW-SILY! DROW-OW-OW-SILY!" &c.</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page188" id="page188"></a>[pg 188]</span><br /></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page189" id="page189"></a>[pg 189]</span></p>
<h3 class="sans">MR. PUNCH AT A PICTURE SHOW.</h3>
<p class="title2">(<i>The Collection of Sir John Tenniel's
Drawings at the Fine Art Society's
Gallery.</i>)</p>
<p class="title2a"><span class="sc">Air.</span>—"<i>My Old Friend John.</i>"</p>
<div class="poem width24"> <div class="stanza">
<p>'Tis forty years, my dear Sir <span class="sc">John</span>,</p>
<p class="i2">Since you and I first met.</p>
<p>Lord, how the fleeting hours have flown!</p>
<p class="i2">But we foregather yet,</p>
<p>I gaze on this brave show with pride—</p>
<p class="i2">Fine art, still in full feather!</p>
<p>By Jove, it seems but yesterday</p>
<p class="i2">Since we were "boys" together.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Since we were boys, merry, merry boys,</p>
<p class="i2">At our old Board together!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>There's gladness in remembrance, <span class="sc">John</span>;</p>
<p class="i2">Your pencil-strokes struck true;</p>
<p>Through all the shifts of party life,</p>
<p class="i2">No pause that pencil knew.</p>
<p>We've missed old comrades one by one;</p>
<p class="i2">Our friendship moults no feather;</p>
<p><i>Can</i> forty years and more have run</p>
<p class="i2">Since we were "boys" together?</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Since we were boys, merry, merry boys,</p>
<p class="i2">At our old Board together!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>I gaze and proudly ponder, <span class="sc">John</span>;</p>
<p class="i2">I've seen them all before—</p>
<p><span class="sc">Gladstone, Bright, Dizzy, Bull!</span>—Well done!!!</p>
<p class="i2">Fresh as in days of yore</p>
<p>The Big Cuts gleam. By sea and stream,</p>
<p class="i2">Moor, mountain, ice-field, heather.</p>
<p>Force, grace, fair fun mark all you've done,</p>
<p class="i2">Since we were "boys" together.</p>
</div> </div>
<p class="title1"><i>Chorus all "Round the Mahogany
Tree."</i></p>
<div class="poem width24"> <div class="stanza">
<p>Since we were boys, merry, merry boys!</p>
<p class="i2">So meet we, in full feather,</p>
<p>For many sunny years, Sir <span class="sc">John</span>,</p>
<p class="i2">Still boys—at heart—together!</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"><a href="images/189a-900.png"><img src="images/189a-330.png" width="330" height="461" alt="FANCY PORTRAIT." /></a>
<h3 class="sans">FANCY PORTRAIT.</h3>
<p class="center">SIR G-RGE L-W-S.</p>
<div class="poem width27"> <div class="stanza">
<p>"<span class="sc">Bold of your worthiness, we single you</span></p>
<p><span class="sc">As our best-moving fair solicitor.</span>"</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i10"><i>Love's Labour's Lost</i>, Act II., Sc. 1.</p>
</div> </div></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3 class="sans">THE LAY OF THE LITTLE MINORITY.</h3>
<p class="title2"><span class="sc">Air</span>—"<i>Little Buttercup.</i>"</p>
<div class="poem width24"> <div class="stanza">
<p>I'm bumptious Minority—cocky Minority</p>
<p class="i2">(Though I can hardly tell why),</p>
<p>My work is to worry poor weary Majority,</p>
<p class="i2">Giving him one in the eye.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>On Board or on Council I swagger and bounce 'll,</p>
<p class="i2">And badger 'em out of their lives.</p>
<p>I claim all the graces, and all the best places;</p>
<p class="i2">Thus cocky Minority thrives!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Majorities little of claim have no tittle</p>
<p class="i2">To getting <i>their</i> own wicked way;</p>
<p>But cocky Minority has such authority,</p>
<p class="i2"><i>His</i> should be absolute sway.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>If things are at evens at—well, say St. Stephen's,</p>
<p class="i2">Spring Gardens, wherever you like,</p>
<p>Tis a mere deadlock (like New Woman wedlock),</p>
<p class="i2">And against Progress we strike.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>If a Majority (small) claims authority</p>
<p class="i2">To make the tiniest move,</p>
<p>Then to prevent it, obstruct, circumvent it,</p>
<p class="i2">Must be my labour of love.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>But a Minority's superiority</p>
<p class="i2">Is just as clear as the day.</p>
<p>Majorities (small) have one duty, that's all,</p>
<p class="i2">'Tis—<i>to let the Minority sway!</i></p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Then yield to Minority—cocky Minority,</p>
<p class="i2">On Boards or of Council or School!</p>
<p>Hooray for Minority—bumptious Minority!</p>
<p class="i2">Come—let Minority rule!</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>OUR NEXT LITTLE BATTLE.</h3>
<p class="title1">(<i>From our Prophetic Reporter, a trifle
in advance.</i>)</p>
<p><span class="sc">Nowhar</span>, <i>April 1</i>.—Wett River crossed
yesterday in most brilliant style. Dashaway
Regiment carried landing at point of bayonet,
the Muffs keeping up
well-directed fire during
the entire operation.
However, they seemed
to feel effect of our artillery
and Maxims.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"><a href="images/189b-280.png"><img src="images/189b-100.png" width="100" height="154" alt="" /></a></div>
<p>When landing effected,
Sapping Miners
constructed iron bridge
(with glass covering to
protect the troops from
the rain) within five-and-twenty
minutes.
During the construction
Muffs fired continuously
at working parties. Flag-staffs riddled with
shot, consequently colours could not be run
up. A round from couple of quick-firing
guns cleared heights of human obstructions.</p>
<p>On completion of bridge, two troops of 147th
Irregular Prancers charged enemy with much
dash. As gallant horsemen approached
Muffs (numbering about twenty thousand)
concentrated their fire. For few minutes
Irregulars had to pass through perfect fog
of bullets. This ordeal did not damp their
courage; soon came to close quarters with
foe. In a moment Muffs were in confusion,
flying, before pursuing sabres. Irregulars
followed retreating enemy for many miles
with complete success.</p>
<p>While these operations being carried out
17th Battalion of Cutandthrust Regiment
made assault on fortress protecting right
flank of Muffs. Enemy opposed charge with
well-sustained artillery fire, which had it been
more judiciously directed might have caused
considerable annoyance. As it was, many
Cutandthrusts lowered their heads to allow
of undisturbed passage of shrapnell. On
reaching walls redcoats hopped over like
birds. Garrison stubbornly defended position.
Cutandthrusts extended, advancing in
their new formation. With wild cheer they
again charged. Although this advance caused
Muffs to fall back, they still retained their
ground. At this moment machine-guns of
battalion were brought into play with best
results. A couple of rounds immediately
broke up enemy's columns and put them to
flight. Muffs were then routed by 53rd Regiment
of Indian Tiger Eaters.</p>
<p>By midday position secured. At invitation
of bugles exploring party "ceased firing,"
and prepared for mess.</p>
<p><i>Later.</i>—I have just received a return of
killed and wounded on both sides, which I
here give:—<i>Muffs.</i>—Killed, about 20,000;
wounded, twice as many more. <i>British.</i>—Killed,
none; wounded, No. 35,604,821
Private <span class="sc">Smith</span> (Cutandthrust Regiment),
slight scratch on fourth finger of left hand.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">New Name for It</span> (<i>by Brother Bung</i>).—Local Hop-shun!</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>ALL THE DIFFERENCE.</h3>
<div class="poem width24"> <div class="stanza">
<div class="figright" style="width: 60px;"><a href="images/189c-200.png"><img src="images/189c-60.png" width="60" height="171" alt="All the difference." /></a></div>
<p>If half the things that <span class="sc">Chloe</span> says to me,</p>
<p>If half the pretty kindnesses she shows,</p>
<p class="i2">By <span class="sc">Phyllida</span> were shown or said,</p>
<p>Without a tremor I would stake my head</p>
<p class="i2">That I securely might propose</p>
<p class="i4">That she my bride would be.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Yet why? I know full well that <span class="sc">Chloe</span> means</p>
<p>Nothing at all. 'Tis but her buoyant way,</p>
<p class="i2">Her frank "The best of friends, that's all."</p>
<p>And yet the stricter <span class="sc">Grundy</span> 'twould appal</p>
<p class="i2">To hear the tender things we say</p>
<p class="i4">Between our quarrel-scenes.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>If one full-leaping pulse's beat</p>
<p class="i2">Beyond the coldest courtesy's demand</p>
<p class="i2">I trespass on sweet <span class="sc">Phyllida's</span> coy hand,</p>
<p>The thrill is shivered by her quick retreat,</p>
<p>Her fingers stiffen like a fossil fin,</p>
<p>And I again, a <span class="sc">Sisyphus</span>, begin</p>
<p>The task of charming her reserve austere,</p>
<p class="i2">Palsied by Love's false fear,</p>
<p>Which drives the lover's chances down to zero.</p>
<p>While some cadaverous and long-chinn'd hero</p>
<p>Talks from a height rais'd by his own conceit,</p>
<p>And my white goddess listens at his feet.</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page190" id="page190"></a>[pg 190]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/190-1500.png"><img src="images/190-600.png" width="600" height="430" alt="PREHISTORIC PEEPS." /></a>
<h3 class="sans">PREHISTORIC PEEPS.</h3>
<p><span class="sc">There were Seasons (corresponding to our Easter, &c.) when the Inhabitants of one accord gave themselves up to Relaxation and Amusement!</span></p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page191" id="page191"></a>[pg 191]</span></p>
<h3>LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES.</h3>
<p class="title2">THE LAND OF DREAMS.</p>
<div class="poem width21"> <div class="stanza">
<p>There's a wondrous fairy kingdom</p>
<p class="i2">Whither all may take a trip—</p>
<p>Quite an inexpensive journey,</p>
<p class="i2">It is not by rail or ship—</p>
<p>For it lies just where you fancy,</p>
<p class="i2">And a pleasant thing it seems</p>
<p>For a man to sojourn sometimes</p>
<p class="i2">In the land of dreams.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>'Tis the land where man attaineth</p>
<p class="i2">To the end of his desire,</p>
<p>Where the minor poet warbles</p>
<p class="i2">And the laurel crowns his lyre:</p>
<p>It is there the sucking statesman</p>
<p class="i2">Works out Machiavellian schemes,</p>
<p>And young <span class="sc">Briefless</span> is a leader</p>
<p class="i2">In the land of dreams.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>'Tis the land of fur and feather,</p>
<p class="i2">'Tis the paradise of sport,</p>
<p>Where the runs beat all recounted</p>
<p class="i2">O'er the walnuts and the port:</p>
<p>It is there the pheasant rockets,</p>
<p class="i2">It is there the covert teems,</p>
<p>And your powder's always straightest</p>
<p class="i2">In the land of dreams.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>There with ease the patient golfer</p>
<p class="i2">Plays a record medal-round,</p>
<p>And the batsman get his hundred,</p>
<p class="i2">Hitting clean all round the ground;</p>
<p>There old <span class="sc">Izaak's</span> keen disciple</p>
<p class="i2">Thrashes quite ideal streams,</p>
<p>For he angles most "compleatly"</p>
<p class="i2">In the land of dreams.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>'Tis a land where someone meets you</p>
<p class="i2">You may never meet elsewhere,</p>
<p>'Tis a land where words are whispered</p>
<p class="i2">You may whisper only there;</p>
<p>'Tis the home of youth and sunshine</p>
<p class="i2">Where you taste of joy's extremes,</p>
<p>For, of course, there's someone loves you</p>
<p class="i2">In the land of dreams.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>'Tis a land of peace and quiet,</p>
<p class="i2">Free from yelling paper-boys,</p>
<p>And from Germany's musicians,</p>
<p class="i2">And offensive kinds of noise:</p>
<p>There the organ-grinder grinds not,</p>
<p class="i2">There no restive infant screams.</p>
<p>Oh, to spend one's whole existence</p>
<p class="i2">In the land of dreams!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>'Tis a land where rates and taxes</p>
<p class="i2">Never need be brooded on,</p>
<p>And the cupboard is unfurnished</p>
<p class="i2">With the homely skeleton:</p>
<p>There the roses all are thornless,</p>
<p class="i2">Life is destitute of seams,</p>
<p>And, in short, its worth the living</p>
<p class="i2">In the land of dreams.</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>TO A PRETTY GIRL.</h3>
<p class="title2">(<i>Who accepted some verses.</i>)</p>
<div class="poem width30"> <div class="stanza">
<div class="figright" style="width: 150px;"><a href="images/191a-350.png"><img src="images/191a-150.png" width="150" height="171" alt="To a pretty girl." /></a></div>
<p>You take my lines, and say that you</p>
<p class="i2">Appreciate my humble verses.</p>
<p>That's more than editors will do,</p>
<p class="i2">Or publishers, with bloated purses.</p>
<p>To gain your thanks in such a way,</p>
<p>I'd write you verses night and day.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p><i>You</i> don't return them, saying you</p>
<p class="i2">Regret you cannot now accept them.</p>
<p>Or, scrawled with marks in blatant blue,</p>
<p class="i2">To show that, ruined, you have kept them.</p>
<p>If you would pay me with a smile,</p>
<p>I'd write you verses by the mile.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>If you could only say that you</p>
<p class="i2">Would like me for my admiration,</p>
<p>To sing your charms till all was blue</p>
<p class="i2">Would be delightful occupation.</p>
<p>If I could hope to win a kiss,</p>
<p>I'd write you fifty miles like this.</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<div class="figcenter1" style="width: 520px;"><a href="images/191b-1200.png"><img src="images/191b-400.png" width="400" height="474" alt="First Boy. 'Give us a Bite of your Apple, Bob.'" /></a>
<table summary="layout" border="0">
<tr>
<td class="left"><i>First Boy.</i> "<span class="sc">Give us a Bite of your Apple, Bob.</span>"</td>
<td class="left1"><i>Second Boy.</i> "<span class="sc">Shan't.</span>"</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left"><i>First Boy.</i> "<span class="sc">What for?</span>"</td>
<td class="left1"><i>Second Boy.</i> "<span class="sc">'Cos yer axed me!</span>"</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class="center2">(<i>After a pause.</i>)</p>
<p class="less"><i>Small Boy.</i> "<span class="sc">Gi' me a Bite, Bob. I never axed yer!</span>"</p></div>
<hr class="medium" />
<h2 class="sans">ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.</h2>
<p class="title">Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.</p>
<p><i>House of Commons, Monday Night,
April 8.</i>—House to-night presented that
appearance seen only on big occasions.
Long unfamiliar in slough of despond in
which present House been steeped since
Session opened. Every seat on either side
occupied. Members sitting on Gangway
steps, flooding the side galleries, blocking
the Bar, peopling even the steps of the Chair.
<span class="sc">Arthur Peel</span> is leaving historic stage graced
through eleven years in fashion that has
added fresh fame to an illustrious name.
On ordinary occasions when <span class="sc">Speaker</span> rises
to address House on current topics of business,
Members who chance to have their hats
on keep them there. Now, when the stately
figure is discovered standing under the
canopy of the Chair, Members without concert,
but with one accord, bare their heads.
Throughout a moving scene, which crammed
much into fifteen minutes, nothing more
striking than this simultaneous, swift uncovering
of the head, and the transformation
that followed when the rare sunlight, streaming
in from western windows, fell upon five
hundred unshaded faces all turned towards
the tall, gowned figure standing by the
Chair.</p>
<p>The speech will be read to-morrow by
millions, who will find it word for word and
sentence by sentence in the newspapers.
But the reader will gain but faint idea of
the impression the delivery produced. The
historic place, the animated scene, the electric
current of such a gathering, were much.
The effect was perfected by the elocution of
the <span class="sc">Speaker</span>, perhaps the most perfect development
of an attractive but dangerous art
possessed by living man.</p>
<p>What possibilities underlie its possession
were wonderingly recognised in the last
days of the late Parliament, when the directors
of the Cambrian Railway Company
were brought to the Bar of the House in
connection with the dismissal of a station-master
who had given unwelcome evidence
before a Select Committee. House in the
ludicrous pickle which invariably follows
on Privilege proceedings. Directors summoned
to attend were somewhere in the
lobby. If it had been permissible to follow
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page192" id="page192"></a>[pg 192]</span>
<i>Dogberry's</i> example in similar circumstances—to
take no note of directors, but let them go and presently
call the rest of the watch together, and
thank God they were rid of the knaves—it would
have been well. But, directors being solemnly
summoned, must needs be adequately dealt with.
Finally resolved that <span class="sc">Speaker</span> should admonish
them. Amid much giggling on part of hysterically
uneasy House, conscious of its own ludicrous
position, directors brought in and ranged at Bar.
Then <span class="sc">Speaker</span> stood up and "most seriously admonished"
them.</p>
<p>No one present will forget the awesome mien,
the terrible voice, with which the task was performed.
At a touch farce was transformed into
tragedy. Dignity of House, sorely imperilled,
triumphantly vindicated. To-night the <span class="sc">Speaker's</span>
phrasing was perfect. Its setting in the delivery
is untranslateable in speech or written word.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 200px;"><a href="images/192a-500.png"><img src="images/192a-200.png" width="200" height="486" alt="Farewell to Mr. Speaker Peel." /></a>
<p class="center">Farewell to Mr. Speaker Peel.</p></div>
<p><i>Business done.</i>—Speaker announces resignation.
<span class="sc">Squire of Malwood</span> brings in Local Veto Bill.</p>
<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—"Poof!" said <span class="sc">Sark</span>, mopping his
brow; "glad that's over. No knowing where it
might have ended. Danger of last scene in <span class="sc">Speaker's</span>
leave-taking closing amid burst of irritated laughter.
When I was first returned, we thought two leaders
enough for one House. There was the Government
man on the Treasury Bench, the Leader of Opposition
on bench opposite. When ceremonial business
to be done, these two spoke and the whole House
agreed that its opinions had found expression.
House rapidly growing into position akin to home
forces of Prince of <span class="sc">Monaco</span>. Nearly as many captains
as privates."</p>
<p>These remarks wrung from troubled breast by
long, at one anxious moment apparently interminable,
procession of orators in support of resolution
thanking retiring <span class="sc">Speaker</span> for services in Chair.
<span class="sc">Squire of Malwood</span> said right thing in admirable
way. <span class="sc">Prince Arthur</span>, less ornate in phrase, supplied
a perfect second. These speeches voiced feeling of Ministerialists
and Opposition. Some reasonableness in <span class="sc">Justin McCarthy's</span>
interposition, he being leader of distinct party which, as he
hinted, had in earlier days done battle with <span class="sc">Speaker</span>. But really,
when it came to <span class="sc">Joseph</span> saying a few words for his
merry men, and <span class="sc">John Redmond</span> tuning afresh the
Irish harp on behalf of his, prospect grew alarming.
If these leaders of sections within a division felt
called upon to make speeches on such occasion, why
not <span class="sc">John Burns</span> as a Labour Leader, with <span class="sc">Keir
Hardie</span> to follow as captain of the Independent
Labour Party; <span class="sc">Osborne Morgan</span>, purged of profligacy,
speaking for Wales, followed by <span class="sc">Lloyd-George</span>
from below the Gangway; <span class="sc">Wilfrid Lawson</span>
for the Temperance party; Private <span class="sc">Hanbury</span>
as representing the land forces of the Busy B's;
Cap'en <span class="sc">Tommy Bowles</span> the naval; <span class="sc">Jacob Bright</span>
returning thanks for the ladies, <span class="sc">Walter M'Laren</span>
speaking specially for the section who desire to
marry their deceased husband's brother? Domesticity
thus trenched upon, Baron <span class="sc">de Worms</span>, with
wistful "Long-Lost-Dear-Father" look on his face,
might close the list by a few words spoken on behalf
of the family circle.</p>
<p>To-day stopped a little short of this; but shall
doubtless go the whole way next time opportunity
presents itself. <i>Business done.</i>—Thanks of House
voted to <span class="sc">Speaker</span>.</p>
<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—By contrast with ordered speech-making
of yesterday afternoon scene that took place
in earliest moments of the new day's birth prettier
by far. For upwards of an hour Members passing
out homewards stopped to shake the <span class="sc">Speaker's</span> hand
and bid him farewell. Just before quarter of hour
chimed after midnight, <span class="sc">Arthur Peel</span> spoke his last
words in House of Commons.</p>
<p>"The question is," he said, "that this House do
now adjourn."</p>
<p>As he turned to leave the Chair, Members present
sprang to feet, cheering continuously till <span class="sc">Arthur
Peel</span>, for the last time robed in Speaker's wig and
gown, passed out of sight.</p>
<div class="poem width21"> <div class="stanza">
<p>For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more.</p>
<p>We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.</p>
</div> </div>
<p><i>Le roi est mort. Vive le roi.</i> <span class="sc">William Court Gully</span> elected
Speaker by majority of 11 in House of 559 Members.</p>
<p><i>Business done.</i>—Elect new Speaker, and immediately give him ten
days' holiday. Adjourn till Monday 22nd.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>A STUDY IN ETHNOLOGY.</h3>
<div class="poem width21"> <div class="stanza">
<p>Upon my luck I still reflect,</p>
<p class="i2">That led us to the same Museum:</p>
<p>I greeted you with staid respect,</p>
<p class="i2">But my heart sang its own <i>Te Deum</i>,</p>
<p>And blessed your Uncle, ere I wist,</p>
<p>For being an ethnologist!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>On old Assyrian spoils intent,</p>
<p class="i2">Our very presence he forgot,</p>
<p>While we o'er strings of wampum bent—</p>
<p class="i2">We saw them and we saw them not.</p>
<p>He lived within a past long dead,</p>
<p>We, in the seconds as they sped.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Within a carven mirror old,</p>
<p class="i2">Suddenly, as we wandered by,</p>
<p>You looked upon your hair of gold</p>
<p class="i2">And flushing face, and so did I.</p>
<p>Then on we passed: a vault we found,</p>
<p>And <span class="sc">Pharaoh's</span> coffin, underground.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>Oh, if his phantom ever stood</p>
<p class="i2">Beside the coffin made for him,</p>
<p>And saw you in your joyous mood,</p>
<p class="i2">With your bright eyes and figure slim,</p>
<p>King <span class="sc">Pharaoh</span> might have envied us</p>
<p>Beside his old sarcophagus!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>But, <span class="sc">Pharaoh</span>, we, remembering</p>
<p class="i2">The ancient creed that souls of men</p>
<p>May see the summer and the spring,</p>
<p class="i2">May live again, and love again,</p>
<p>A moment wished the tale were true,</p>
<p>Because—it seemed so hard on you!</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">Wanted in the World of "Art."</span>—A
Spring Clean!</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<h3>TO A YOUNG ACTRESS.</h3>
<div class="poem width24"> <div class="stanza">
<div class="figright" style="width: 150px;"><a href="images/192b-320.png"><img src="images/192b-150.png" width="150" height="216" alt="To a young actress." /></a></div>
<p>You regret that all you do</p>
<p>Is to be a lady who</p>
<p>Just walks on—a smile or two,</p>
<p class="i6">Then you're gone;</p>
<p>For you think that any gawk</p>
<p>Would be good enough to walk,</p>
<p>You undoubtedly should talk</p>
<p class="i6">When you're "on."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>You are but a sort of show.</p>
<p>Silence for a girl is slow,</p>
<p>Speech is woman's right, I know</p>
<p class="i6">That is true,</p>
<p>And although your pretty face</p>
<p>Charms beholders by its grace,</p>
<p>You would like a higher place,</p>
<p class="i6">Wouldn't you?</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p>But we cannot all have "leads,"</p>
<p>Nicely suited to our needs,</p>
<p>To excel in words and deeds,</p>
<p class="i6">Don't you see?</p>
<p>So, if you desire to speak,</p>
<p>I am not so far to seek,</p>
<p>I would listen for a week—</p>
<p class="i6">Talk to me.</p>
</div> </div>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind"><span class="sc">Something Yet!</span>—"Mr. G." is a proficient
in several languages. In Italian, as well as
in Latin, in ancient and modern Greek, he
can, we believe, converse fluently, when anyone
gives him a chance. With Russian he
may be acquainted, for, as this is "caviare to
the general," it may be equally so to an ex-prime-minister.
With Spanish Mr. G. is,
probably, not on speaking terms, though, no
doubt he is well up in the niceties of the language;
and there are many spoken languages
of which he possesses more than a smattering.
But the accomplished scholar has yet something
to learn from one <span class="sc">Richard Cumberland</span>,
a bishop in the last century, not the playwright,
of whom it is on record that, being a
proficient in most ancient and modern languages,
he "began to learn Coptic at the age
of eighty-three!" Although Mr. G. has
gone very far north, yet has he not at present
got up to <span class="sc">Cumberland</span>.</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="ind2"><span class="sc">A Suggestion.</span>—There are two excellent
waters, Apollinaris and Johannis, known to
everyone as "'Polly" and "Jo." Might
not the two companies amalgamate, and
reproduce the success of "<span class="sc">My 'Pol' and
my Partner 'Jo.'</span>"</p>
<hr class="medium" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">Latest Equivalent for "the East
Wind," as Replenishment for Hungry
Stomachs.</span>—The Royal Commission on the
Aged Poor.</p>
<hr />
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44707 ***</div>
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