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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, August 25, 1894

Author: Various

Editor: F. C. Burnand

Release date: July 24, 2014 [eBook #46395]

Language: English

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


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI VOLUME 107, AUGUST 25, 1894 ***




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






Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 107, August 25, 1894

edited by Sir Francis Burnand




TO A SURREY HOSTESS.

(_A Parodic Vote of Thanks to a Town Matron, who took a House in the
Country._)

[Illustration]

  LADY CLARA SHERE DE SHERE,
    Through me you now shall win renown;
  It nearly broke my country heart
    To come back to the dusty town.
  In kindliest way, you bade me stay
    And nothing better I desired,
  But Duty with a great big D
    Called far too loud, and I retired.

  Lady CLARA SHERE DE SHERE
    I wonder if you'll like your name!
  Oh! how you all began to chaff
    And laugh the moment that I came.
  Yet would I take more for the sake
    Of your dear daughter's girlish charms.
  A simple maiden not yet four
    Is good to take up in one's arms.

  Lady CLARA SHERE DE SHERE,
    Some newer pupil you must find,
  Who, when you pile his plate sky-high,
    Will meekly say he does not mind.
  You sought to beat my power to eat,
    An empty plate was my reply.
  The cat you left in Grosvenor Square
    Is not more hungry now than I.

  Lady CLARA SHERE DE SHERE,
    You sometimes took a mother's view,
  And feared lest winsome DOROTHY
    Should learn too much from me--or you.
  Indeed I heard one bitter word
    That scarce were fit for her to hear;
  Our language had not that repose
    Which rightly fits a SHERE DE SHERE.

  Lady CLARA SHERE DE SHERE,
    The marriage bells rang for the Hall.
  The flags were flying at your door;
    You spoke of them with curious gall.
  How you decried the pretty bride
    And swore her dresses weren't by WORTH,
  And gaily went to church to stare
    At her of far too noble birth.

  Trust me, _Clara Shere de Shere_,
    The man I saw who's rather bent,
  The grand old gardener at your house
    Prefers the bride of high descent.
  Howe'er that be, it seems to me
    'Tis all important what one eats.
  Milk pudding's more than caviare,
    And simple food than coloured sweets.

  CLARA, CLARA SHERE DE SHERE,
    If time be heavy on your hands,
  And there are none within your reach
    To play at tennis on your lands,
  Oh! see the tennis court is marked,
    And take care that it doesn't rain,
  Then stay at Shere another month
    And ask me down to stay again.

       *       *       *       *       *

A VOICE FROM "THE UPPER SUCKLES."

MY GOOD MR. PUNCH,--I notice that in spite of all London being out of
town, a number of persons have been holding, or propose holding, a
meeting condemnatory of the House of Lords. I fancy, regardless of
the close of the season, the site chosen has been or will be Hyde
Park. Perhaps, under these circumstances, you, as the representative
of the nation--equally of the aristocracy and the democracy--will
allow me a few lines' space in which to express my sentiments.

My good Sir, I am considerably past middle age, and yet, man and boy,
have been in the House of Peers quite half-a-dozen years. I cannot
say that I was added to the number of my colleagues because I was an
eminent lawyer, or a successful general, or a great statesman. I
believe my claim to the distinction that was conferred upon me,--now
many summers since,--was the very considerable services I was able to
afford that most useful industry the paper decoration of what may be
aptly termed "the wooden walls of London." When called upon to select
an appropriate territorial title, I selected, without hesitation, the
Barony of Savon de Soapleigh. Savon is a word of French extraction,
and denotes the Norman origin of my illustrious race. Not only was I
able to assist at the regeneration of the "great unwashed," but also
to do considerable service to the grand cause with which my party in
politics is honourably associated. I was able to contribute a very
large sum to the election purse, and having fought and lost several
important constituencies, was amply rewarded by the coronet that
becomes me so well, the more especially when displayed upon the
panels of my carriage.

You will ask me, no doubt (for this is an age of questions), what I
have done since I entered the Upper Chamber? I will reply that I have
secured a page in _Burke_, abstained from voting, except to oblige
the party whips, and, before all and above all, pleased my lady wife.
And yet there are those who would wish to abolish the House of Peers!
There are those who would do away with our ancient nobility! Perish
the thought! for in the House of Peers I see the reflection of the
nation's greatness.

[Illustration]

But you may ask me, "Would I do anything to improve that Chamber?"
And I would answer, "Yes." I would say, "Do not increase its numbers;
it is already large enough."

It is common knowledge that a gentleman of semi-medicinal reputation,
who has been as beneficial, or nearly as beneficial, to the proprietors
of hoardings as myself, wishes to be created Viscount Cough of Mixture.
Yet another of the same class desires to be known to generations yet
unborn as Lord Tobacco of Cigarettes; whilst a third, on account of
the attention he has paid to the "understandings" (pardon the
_plaisanterie_) of the people, is anxious to figure on the roll of
honour as "Baron de Boots."

My good _Mr. Punch_, such an extension of the House of Peers merely
for the satisfaction of the vanity of a number of vulgar and puffing
men would be a scandal to our civilisation. No, my good Sir, our
noble order is large enough. I am satisfied that it should not be
extended, and when I am satisfied the opinions of every one else are
(and here I take a simile from an industry that has given me my
wealth) "merely bubbles--bubbles of soap."

And now I sign myself, not as of old, plain JOE SNOOKS, but Yours
very faithfully,

  SAVON DE SOAPLEIGH.

P.S.--I am sure my long line of ancestors would agree with me. When
that long line is discovered you shall hear the result.

       *       *       *       *       *

BYGONES.

[Illustration]

  The midsummer twilight is dying,
    The golden is turning to gray,
  And my troublesome thoughts are a-flying
    To the days that have vanished away,
  When life had no crosses for me, love,
    But Proctors and bulldogs and dons,
  And I used to write sonnets to thee, love,
    In the dreamy old garden of John's.

  By Jove! What a time we just had, love,
    That week you were up for Commem.!
  The dances and picnics--egad, love,
    How strange to be thinking of them!
  How we laughed at the dusty old doctors,
    And the Vice with his gorgeous gold gown,
  And you thought it a shame that the Proctors
    Were constantly sending me down.

  We danced and we dined and we boated,
    Did the lions all quite _comme il faut_,
  And I felt a strange thrill when you voted
    Old JOHNNIE'S the best of the show.
  I remember your eager delight, love,
    With our garden and chapel and hall--
  And oh, for that glorious night, love,
    When we went to the Balliol ball!

  There is very poor pleasure in dancing
    In a stuffy hot ball-room in June--
  And the Balliol lawn looked entrancing
    In the silvery light of the moon.
  I fancy the thought had occurred, love,
    To somebody else besides me,
  For I managed, with scarcely a word, love,
    To get you to smile and agree.

  We sat on the Balliol lawn, love,
    And the hours flew as fast as you please,
  Till the rosy-tipped fingers of dawn, love,
    Crept over the Trinity trees.
  A stranger might say he had never
    Heard trash in a vapider key;
  But no conversation has ever
    Been half so delicious to me.

  I seemed to be walking on air, love;
    And oh, how I quivered when you
  Snipped off a wee lock of your hair, love,
    And said you were fond of me too.
  I clasped it again and again, love,
    To my breast with a passionate vow.
  There ever since it has lain, love,
    And there it is lying just now.

  --But my heart gives a horrible thump, love,
    I find myself gasping for air,
  For my throat is choked up with a lump, love,
    Which surely should never be there.
  And I sadly bethink me that life, love,
    Won't always run just as we will--
  For you are another man's wife, love,
    And I am a bachelor still.

       *       *       *       *       *

Common (Gas) Metre.

  "Light metres" there are many,
    The lightest of the lot
  Is what is called "the Penny-in-the-Slot!"

       *       *       *       *       *

EMBARRAS DE RICHESSES.

    ["The Bank Return shows considerable additions to the reserve and
    the stock of bullion."--_"Times," on "Money Market."_]

  Richer Old Lady you'll not meet,
  Than this one, of Threadneedle Street.
  Nicer Old Lady none, nor neater,
  But, like the boy in _Struwwelpeter_,
  That whilom chubby, ruddy lad,
  The dear old dame looks sour and sad;
  Nay, long time hath she seemed dejected,
  And her once fancied fare rejected.
    She screams out--"Take the gold away!
    Oh, take the nasty stuff away!
    I won't have any gold to-day."

  This Dame, like Danaë of old
  Has long been wooed in showers of gold,
  By Jupiters of high finance;
  But, sick of that cold sustenance,
  Or surfeited, or cross, or ill,
  The dear Old Lady cries out still--
    "Not any gold for me, I say!
    Oh, take the nasty stuff away!!
    I _won't_ have any more to-day!!!"

  And on my word it is small wonder,
  For in her spacious house, and under,
  Of bullion she hath boundless store,
  And scarcely can find room for more.
  Filled every pocket, purse, safe, coffer,
  And still the crowds crush round and offer
  Their useless, troublesome deposits,
  To cram her cupboards, choke her closets.
    What marvel then that she should say--
    "Oh, take the nasty stuff away!
    I won't have any more to-day!!"

  The poor Old Lady once felt pride as
  A sort of modern _Mrs. Midas_;
  For all she touches turns to gold
  Within her all-embracing hold;
  Gold solid as the golden leg
  Of opulent _Miss Kilmansegge_,
  But, like that lady, poor-rich, luckless,
  She values now the yellow muck less,
  Though once scraped up with assiduity,
  Because of its sheer superfluity.
  It blocks her way, it checks the breath of her;
  She dreads lest it should be the death of her.
  With bullion she could build a Babel,
  So screams, as loud as she is able,--
    "Not any more, good friends, I say!
    For goodness gracious go away!!
    I _won't_ take any more to day!!!"

  They beg, they pray, they strive to wheedle
  The Old Lady of the Street Threadneedle.
  The cry is still they come! they come!
  Men worth a "million" or a "plum,"
  The "goblin," or the "merry monk";
  Constantly chinketh, chink-chank-chunk!
  In "Gladstone" or in canvas bag;
  But sourly she doth eye the "swag,"
  Peevishly gathers round her skirt,
  As though the gold were yellow dirt.
  Crying, "Oh, get away now, _do_!
  I'm really getting sick of you.
  The proffered 'stuff' I _must_ refuse;
  I have far more than I can use.
  I've no more need or wish for money
  Than a surfeited bee for honey.
  Money's a drug, a nauseous dose.
  At cash the Market cocks its nose.
  'Tis useless as the buried talent,
  Or the half-crown to a poor pal lent;
  As gilded oats to hungry nag.
  Away with bulging purse and bag!
  They are a bother and a pest.
  I _will_ not store, I _can't_ invest.
  With your 'old stocking' be content,
  _I_ can't afford you One per Cent.
  Bullion's a burden and a bore.
  I cannot do with any more!
    Not any more for me, I say
    Oh, take the nasty stuff away
    I _won't_ have any gold to-day!!!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EMBARRAS DE RICHESSES.

_The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street._ "GO AWAY! GO AWAY WITH YOUR
NASTY MONEY! I CAN'T DO WITH ANY MORE OF IT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ON THE SAFE SIDE.

_Brown._ "BY GEORGE, JONES, THAT'S A HANDSOME UMBRELLA! WHERE DID YOU
GET IT?"

_Jones._ "I DECLINE TO ANSWER UNTIL I'VE CONSULTED MY LAWYER!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW AIR.

(_To an Old Tune._)

  O RAYLEIGH now, this _raelly_ strange is
    This New Nitrogen!
  Air that into water changes
    Seem not new to men,
  (All our atmosphere this summer
    Has been "heavy wet,")
  But sheer solid air seems rummer,
    More Munchausenish yet!
  New things now are awfully common;
    And it seems but fair,
  With New Humour, Art, and Woman,
    We should have New Air.
  "Lazy air," one calls it gaily;
    Seasonable, very!
  Will it quiet us, dear RAYLEIGH,
    Soothe us, make us merry?
  Still the flurry, cool the fever,
    Calm the nervous stress?
  If it be so, you for ever
    _Punch_ will praise and bless.
  Will the New Air set--oh! grand Sir!--
    Life to a new tune?
  Lead us to a Lotos-Land, Sir,
    Always afternoon?
  One per cent. seems rather little!
    Can't you make it more?
  When 'tis solid is it brittle?
    Liquid, does it _pour_?
  RAYLEIGH? No? You don't say so!
  What lots of funny things you know!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A BAD GERMAN BAND AND A BEATEN CRICKET
TEAM.--One fails to play in time and the other to "play out time."

       *       *       *       *       *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PART VIII.--SURPRISES--AGREEABLE AND OTHERWISE.

SCENE XIII.--_The Amber Boudoir._ Sir RUPERT _has just entered._

_Sir Rupert._ Ha, MAISIE, my dear, glad to see you. Well, ROHESIA,
how are you, eh? You're _looking_ uncommonly well! No idea you were
here!

_Spurrell (to himself)._ Sir RUPERT! He'll have me out of this pretty
soon, I expect!

_Lady Cantire (aggrieved)._ We have been in the house for the best
part of an hour, RUPERT--as you might have discovered by
inquiring--but no doubt you preferred your comfort to welcoming a
guest who was merely your sister!

_Sir Rup. (to himself)._ Beginning already! (_Aloud._) Very
sorry--got rather wet riding--had to change everything. And I knew
ALBINIA was here.

_Lady Cant. (magnanimously)._ Well, we won't begin to quarrel the
moment we meet; and you are forgetting your other guest. (_In an
undertone._) Mr. SPURRELL--the Poet--wrote _Andromeda_. (_Aloud._)
Mr. SPURRELL, come and let me present you to my brother.

_Sir Rup._ Ah, how d'ye do? (_To himself, as he shakes hands._) What
the deuce am I to say to this fellow? (_Aloud._) Glad to see you
here, Mr. SPURRELL--heard all about you--_Andromeda_, eh? Hope you'll
manage to amuse yourself while you're with us; afraid there's not
much you can do _now_ though.

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Horse in a bad way; time they let me see it.
(_Aloud._) Well, we must see, Sir; I'll do all _I_ can.

_Sir Rup._ You see, the shooting's _done_ now.

_Spurr. (to himself, professionally piqued)._ They might have waited
till I'd seen the horse before they shot him! After calling me in
like this! (_Aloud._) Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Sir RUPERT. I wish
I could have got here earlier, I'm sure.

_Sir Rup._ Wish we'd asked you a month ago, if you're fond of
shooting. Thought you might look down on Sport, perhaps.

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Sport? Why, he's talking of _birds_--not the
horse! (_Aloud._) Me, Sir RUPERT? Not _much_! I'm as keen on a day's
gunning as any man, though I don't often get the chance now.

_Sir Rup. (to himself, pleased)._ Come, he don't seem strong against
the Game Laws! (_Aloud._) Thought you didn't look as if you sat over
your desk all day! There's hunting still, of course. Don't know
whether you ride?

_Spurr._ Rather so, Sir! Why, I was born and bred in a sporting
county, and as long as my old uncle was alive, I could go down to his
farm and get a run with the hounds now and again.

_Sir Rup. (delighted)._ Capital! Well, our next meet is on
Tuesday--best part of the country; nearly all grass, and nice clean
post and rails. You must stay over for it. Got a mare that will carry
your weight perfectly, and I think I can promise you a run--eh, what
do you say?

_Spurr. (to himself, in surprise)._ He _is_ a chummy old cock! I'll
wire old SPAVIN that I'm detained on biz; and I'll tell 'em to send
my riding-breeches down! (_Aloud._) It's uncommonly kind of you, Sir,
and I think I can manage to stop on a bit.

_Lady Culverin (to herself)._ RUPERT must be out of his senses! It's
bad enough to have him here till Monday! (_Aloud._) We mustn't
forget, RUPERT, how valuable Mr. SPURRELL'S time is; it would be too
selfish of us to detain him here a day longer than----

_Lady Cant._ My dear, Mr. SPURRELL has already said he can _manage_
it; so we may all enjoy his society with a clear conscience. (Lady
CULVERIN _conceals her sentiments with difficulty._) And now,
ALBINIA, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go to my room and rest a
little, as I'm rather fatigued, and you have all these tiresome
people coming to dinner to-night.

    [_She rises, and leaves the room; the other ladies follow her
    example._

_Lady Culv._ RUPERT, I'm going up now with ROHESIA. You know where
we've put Mr. SPURRELL, don't you? The Verney Chamber.

    [_She goes out._

_Sir Rup._ Take you up now, if you like, Mr. SPURRELL--it's only
just seven, though. Suppose you don't take an hour to dress, eh?

_Spurr._ Oh dear no, Sir, nothing like it! (_To himself._) Won't
take me two minutes as I am now! I'd better tell him--I can say
my bag hasn't come. I don't believe it _has_, and, any way, it's a good
excuse. (_Aloud._) The--the fact is, Sir RUPERT, I'm afraid that
my luggage has been unfortunately left behind.

_Sir Rup._ No luggage, eh? Well, well, it's of no consequence.
But I'll ask about it--I daresay it's all right.

    [_He goes out._

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to_ SPURRELL). Sure to have turned up, you
know--man will have seen to that. Shouldn't altogether object to a
glass of sherry and bitters before dinner. Don't know how _you_
feel--suppose you've a soul _above_ sherry and bitters, though?

_Spurr._ Not at this moment. But I'd soon _put_ my soul above a
sherry and bitters if I got a chance!

_Capt. Thick. (after reflection)._ I say, you know, that's rather
smart, eh? (_To himself._) Aw'fly clever sort of chap, this, but not
stuck up--not half a bad sort, if he _is_ a bit of a bounder.
(_Aloud._) Anythin' in the evenin' paper? Don't get 'em down here.

_Spurr._ Nothing much. I see there's an objection to _Monkey-tricks_
for the Grand National.

_Capt. Thick. (interested)._ No, by Jove! Hope they won't carry
it--meant to have something on him.

_Spurr._ I wouldn't back him myself. I know something that's safe to
win, bar accidents--a dead cert, Sir! Got the tip straight from the
stables. You just take my advice, and pile all you can on _Jumping
Joan_.

_Capt. Thick. (later, to himself, after a long and highly interesting
conversation)._ Thunderin' clever chap--never knew poets _were_ such
clever chaps. Might be a "bookie," by Gad! No wonder MAISIE thinks
such a lot of him!

    [_He sighs._

_Sir Rup. (returning)._ Now, Mr. SPURRELL, if you'll come upstairs
with me, I'll show you your quarters. By the way, I've made inquiries
about your luggage, and I think you'll find it's all right. (_As he
leads the way up the staircase._) Rather awkward for you if you'd had
to come down to dinner just as you are, eh?

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Oh, lor, my beastly bag _has_ come after all!
Now they'll _know_ I didn't bring a dress suit. What an owl I was to
tell him! (_Aloud, feebly._) Oh--er--very awkward indeed, Sir RUPERT!

_Sir Rup. (stopping at a bedroom door)._ Verney Chamber--here you
are. Ah, my wife forgot to have your name put up on the door--better
do it now, eh? (_He writes it on the card in the door-plate._)
There--well, hope you'll find it all comfortable--we dine at eight,
you know. You've plenty of time for all you've got to do!

_Spurr. (to himself)._ If I only knew _what_ to do! I shall never have
the cheek to come down as I am!

    [_He enters the Verney Chamber dejectedly._

SCENE XIV.--_An Upper Corridor in the East Wing._

_Steward's Room Boy_ (_to_ UNDERSHELL). This is your room, Sir--you'll
find a fire lit and all.

_Undershell (scathingly)._ A fire? For me! I scarcely expected such
an indulgence. You are _sure_ there's no mistake?

_Boy._ This is the room I was told, Sir. You'll find candles on the
mantelpiece, and matches.

_Und._ Every luxury indeed! I am pampered--_pampered_!

_Boy._ Yes, Sir. And I was to say as supper's at ar-past nine, but
Mrs. POMFRET would be 'appy to see you in the Pugs' Parlour whenever
you pleased to come down and set there.

_Und._ The Pugs' Parlour?

_Boy._ What we call the 'Ousekeeper's Room, among ourselves, Sir.

_Und._ Mrs. POMFRET does me too much honour. And shall I have the
satisfaction of seeing your intelligent countenance at the festive
board, my lad?

_Boy (giggling)._ Lor, Sir, I don't set down to meals along with the
_upper_ servants, Sir!

_Und._ And I--a mere man of genius--_do_! These distinctions must
strike you as most arbitrary; but restrain any natural envy, my young
friend. I assure you I am not puffed up by this promotion!

_Boy._ No, sir. (_To himself, as he goes out._) I believe he's a bit
dotty, I do. I don't understand a word he's been talking of!

_Und. (alone, surveying the surroundings)._ A cockloft, with a
painted iron bedstead, a smoky chimney, no bell, and a text over the
mantelpiece! Thank Heaven, that fellow DRYSDALE can't see me here!
But I will not sleep in this place, my pride will only just bear the
strain of staying to supper--no more. And I'm hanged if I go down to
the Housekeeper's Room till hunger drives me. It's not eight yet--how
shall I pass the time? Ha, I see they've favoured me with pen and
ink. I will invoke the Muse. Indignation should make verses, as it
did for JUVENAL; and _he_ was never set down to sup with slaves!

    [_He writes._

SCENE XV.--_The Verney Chamber._

_Spurr. (to himself)._ My word, what a room! Carpet all over the
walls, big fourposter, carved ceiling, great fireplace with blazing
logs,--if this is how they do a _vet_ here, what price the _other_
fellows' rooms? And to think I shall have to do without dinner, just
when I was getting on with 'em all so swimmingly! I _must_. I can't,
for the credit of the profession--to say nothing of the firm--turn up
in a monkey jacket and tweed bags, and that's all _I_'ve got except a
nightgown!... It's all very well for Lady MAISIE to say "Take
everything as it comes," but if she was in _my_ fix!... And it isn't
as if I hadn't _got_ dress things either. If only I'd brought 'em
down, I'd have marched in to dinner as cool as a----(_he lights a
pair of candles._) Hullo! What's that on the bed? (_He approaches
it._) Shirt! white tie! socks! coat, waistcoat, trousers--they _are_
dress clothes!... And here's a pair of brushes on the table! I'll
swear they're not _mine_--there's a monogram on them--"U.G." What
does it all mean? Why, of course! regular old trump, Sir RUPERT, and
naturally he wants me to do him credit. He saw how it was, and he's
gone and rigged me out! In a house like this, they're ready for
emergencies--keep all sizes in stock, I daresay.... It isn't "U. G."
on the brushes--it's "G. U."--"Guest's Use." Well, this is what I
call doing the thing in style! _Cinderella_'s nothing to it! Only
hope they're a decent fit. (_Later, as he dresses._) Come, the
shirt's all right; trousers a trifle short--but they'll let down;
waistcoat--whew, must undo the buckle--hang it, it _is_ undone! I
feel like a hooped barrel in it! Now the coat--easy does it. Well,
it's _on_; but I shall have to be peeled like a walnut to get it off
again.... Shoes? ah, here they are--pair of pumps. Phew--must have
come from the Torture Exhibition in Leicester Square; glass slippers
nothing to 'em! But they'll have to do at a pinch; and they _do_
pinch like blazes! Ha, ha, that's good! I must tell that to the
Captain. (_He looks at himself in a mirror._) Well, I can't say
they're up to mine for cut and general style; but they're passable.
And now I'll go down to the Drawing Room and get on terms with all
the smarties!

    [_He saunters out with restored complacency._

[Illustration: "I say, you know, that's rather smart, eh?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

SOCIETY FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF LITERATURE

[Illustration]

The first annual meeting of this society, which, as our readers will
remember, has been in process of formation for some years past, was
held yesterday. We cannot congratulate the society on its decision to
exclude reporters. It is true that our representative, on seeking
admission, was informed that his presence would be unnecessary, as
members of the society, having for some time past done their own
reviewing, intended for the future to report themselves. The public,
however, whose eager interest in literature is sufficiently attested
not only by the literary page of democratic newspapers, but by the
columns which even reactionary journals devote to higher criticism
and literary snippets--the public, we say, will not brook this absurd
plea, and will refuse to accept any but an impartial report of a
gathering such as was held yesterday. This we have obtained, and we
now proceed to publish it for the benefit of the world.

The meeting opened with a prayer of two thousand words specially
written for the occasion by Mr. RICHARD L- G-LLI-NNE in collaboration
with Mr. ROBERT B-CH-N-N. As this is shortly to be published in the
form of a joint letter to the _Daily Chronicle_ it is only necessary
to say at present that it combines vigour of expression with delicacy
of sentiment and grace of style in the very highest degree. By the
way, we may mention that the new Prayer-book of the Society is to be
published by Messrs. E-K-N M-TTH-WS and J-HN L-NE, at the "Bodley
Head," before the end of the year. It will be profusely illustrated
by MESSRS. A-BR-Y B-ARD-L-Y and W-LT-R S-CK-RT, who have also
designed for it a special fancy cover. Only three hundred copies will
be issued. To return, however, to the meeting.

After harmony had been restored, Mr. W-LT-R B-S-NT asked leave to say
a few words. His remarks, in which he was understood to advocate the
compulsory expropriation of publishers, were at first listened to
with favour. Happening incautiously to say a word or two in praise of
a Mr. DICKENS and a Mr. THACKERAY he was groaned down after a sturdy
struggle. Mr. DICKENS and Mr. THACKERAY were not, we understand,
present in the room at the time.

Mr. H-B-RT CR-CK-NTH-RPE rose and denounced the previous speaker.
Literature, he declared, must be vague. What was the use of knowing
what you were driving at? What was the use of anyone knowing
anything? Personally he didn't mean to know more than he could help,
and he could assure the meeting that he could help a great deal; yes,
he could help his fellow-creatures to a right understanding of the
value of patchwork and jerks. That was the religion of humanity.

Mr. N-RM-N G-LE said he wasn't much good speaking, but he could do
something in the dairy and orchard style. He then gave the following
example:--

  Enter CELIA, robed in white,
    CELIA'S been a-milking.
  CELIA daily doth indite
    Praises to the Pill-king.

  CELIA'S flocks and CELIA'S herds
    (Only she can teach 'em)
  All produce their cream and curds,
    Helped by Mr. B-CH-M.

A loud cheer greeted the recital of this charming pastoral, and one
editor, who is not often a victim to mere sentiment, said it reminded
him of his happy childhood, when he used to take Dr. GREGORY'S
powders after a day spent in the neighbouring farmer's orchard.

The next speaker was G-ORGE EG-RT-N. All women, she said, must be
GEORGES. GEORGE SAND and GEORGE ELIOT were women she believed. GEORGE
MEREDITH was an exception, but that only proved her rule. Women were
a miserable lot: it was their own fault. Why marry? ("Hear, hear,"
from Mrs. MONA CAIRD.) Why be born at all? She paused for a reply.

At this point Mr. W. T. ST-AD entered the room and offered to talk
about "JULIA in Chicago," but the meeting broke up in confusion,
without the customary vote of thanks to the Chair.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW IT WILL BE DONE HEREAFTER.

(_A Serene Ducal Romance of the Future._)

His Highness was smoking a pipe at the close of the day in the fair
realm of Utopia. He had finished dinner, and was discussing his
_lager_ beer, which had quite taken the place of coffee.

"Dear me," said the Duke, rather anxiously, as he noticed the Premier
was seating himself in a chair in his near neighbourhood; "I am
afraid I am in disgrace."

"Not at all, Sir," replied the Minister, graciously. "On the
contrary, in the name of the people of Utopia, I beg to offer you my
sincere thanks."

"For what?" queried the Duke.

[Illustration]

"For doing your duty, my liege. Not that that is a novelty, for, as a
matter of fact, you are always doing it."

"I am pleased to hear you say so," observed His Highness; "as I was
under the impression that I had rather shirked my engagements."

"Not at all, Sir--not at all. If you consult your memory, you will
find you carried out to-day's programme to the letter."

"Had I not to lay a foundation stone, or something, this morning?"

"Assuredly; and you touched a cord as you were getting up, and
immediately the machinery was set in motion, and the stone was duly
laid. Much better than driving miles to have to stand in a drafty
marquee."

"And had I not to open an exhibition?"

"Why, yes. And you opened it in due course. Your equerry represented
you and ground out your speech from the portable phonograph."

"Well, really, that was very ingenious," remarked His Highness. "But
was I not missed?"

"You would have been, Sir," returned the Premier, "had we not had the
forethought to send down the lantern that gives you in a thousand
different attitudes. By revolving the disc rapidly the most life-like
presentment was offered immediately."

"Excellent! and did I do anything else?"

"Why your Highness has been hard at work all day attending reviews,
opening canals, and even presiding at public dinners. Thanks to
science we can reproduce your person, your speech, your very presence
at a moment's notice."

"Exceedingly clever!" exclaimed His Highness. "Ah, how much better is
the twentieth century than its predecessor!"

And no doubt the sentiment of His Highness will be approved by
posterity.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HOLIDAY CHARACTER SKETCHES.

LITTLE BINKS LOVES CLARA PURKISS, WHO LOVES BIG STANLEY JONES, WHO
LOVES HIMSELF AND NOBODY ELSE IN THE WORLD!

WHICH IS THE MOST TO BE PITIED OF THE THREE?]

       *       *       *       *       *

COUNTING THE CATCH.

_A Waltonian Fragment._

_First Piscator_, R-S-B-RY. _Second Piscator_, H-RC-RT.

_First Piscator._ Oh me, look you, master, a fish, a fish!

    [_Loses it._

_Second Piscator._ Aye, marry, Sir, that was a good fish; if I had
had the luck to handle that rod, 'tis twenty to one he should not
have broken my line as you suffered him; I would have held him, as
you will learn to do hereafter; for I tell you, scholer, fishing is
an art, or at least it is an art to catch fish. Verily that is the
second brave Salmon you have lost in that pool!

_First Piscator._ Oh me, he has broke all; there's half a line and a
good flie lost. I have no fortune, and that Peers' Pool is fatal
fishing.

_Second Piscator._ Marry, brother, so it seemes--to you at least!
Wel, wel, 'tis as small use crying over lost fish as spilt milk; the
sunne hath sunk, the daye draweth anigh its ende; let us up tackle,
and away!

_First Piscator._ Look also how it begins to rain, and by the clouds
(if I mistake not) we shal presently have a smoaking showre. Truly it
has been a long, rough day, and but poorish sport.

_Second Piscator._ Humph! I am fairly content with _my_ catch, and
had all been landed that have been hookt--but no matter! "Fishers
must not rangle," as the Angler's song hath it.

_First Piscator._ Marry, no indeed! (_Sings._)

  O the brave fisher's life
    It is the best of any!
  He who'd mar it with mere strife
    Sure must be a zany.
        Other men,
        Now and then,
        Have their wars,
        And their jars;
        Our rule stil
        Is goodwill
    As we gaily angle.
  We have hooks about our hat,
    We have rod and gaff too;
  We can cast and we can chat,
    Play our fish and chaff too.
        None do here
        Use to swear,
        Oathes do fray
        Fish away.
        Our rule still
        Is goodwill.
    Fishers must not rangle.

_Second Piscator._ Well sung, brother! Oh me, but even at our
peaceful and vertuous pastime, there bee certain contentious and
obstructive spoil-sports now. These abide not good old Anglers' Law,
but bob and splash in other people's swims, fray away the fish they
cannot catch, and desire not that experter anglers should, do muddy
the stream and block its course, do net and poach and foul-hook in
such noisy, conscienceless, unmannerly sort, that even honest angling
becometh a bitter labour and aggravation.

_First Piscator._ Marry, yes brother! the Contemplative Man's
Recreation is verily not what it once was. What would the sweet
singer, Mr. WILLIAM BASSE, say to the busy B's of our day; DUBARTAS
to B-RTL-Y, or Mr. THOMAS BARKER, of pleasant report, to TOMMY
B-WL-S?

_Second Piscator._ Or worthy old COTTON to the cocky MACULLUM MORE?

_First Piscator._ Or the equally cocky BRUMMAGEM BOY?

_Second Piscator._ Or Dame JULIANA BERNERS to B-LF-UR?

_First Piscator._ Or Sir HUMPHREY DAVY to the haughty autocrat of
H-TF-LD?

_Second Piscator._ Wel, wel, I hate contention and obstruction and
all unsportsmanlike devices--when I am fishing.

 _First Piscator._ And so say I. (_Sings._)
                         The Peers are full of prejudice,
                           As hath too oft been tri'd;
                             High trolollie lollie loe,
                               high trolollie lee!

 _Second Piscator._ The Commons full of opulence,
                           And both are full of pride.
                             _Then care away_
                               _and fish along with me!_

_First Piscator._ Marry, brother, and would that I could always do
so. But doomed as we often are to angle in different swims, I may not
always land the big fish that you hook, or even----

_Second Piscator._ Wel, honest scholer, say no more about it, but let
us count and weigh our day's catch. By Jove, but that bigge one I
landed after soe long a fight, and which you were so luckie as to
gaff in that verie snaggy and swirly pool itselfe, maketh a right
brave show on the grassie bank! And harkye, scholer, 'tis a far finer
and rarer fish than manie woule suppose at first sight!

     [_Chuckleth inwardly._

_First Piscator._ You say true, master. And indeed the other fish,
though of lesser bigness, bee by no manner of meanes to be sneezed
at. Marry, Master, 'tis none so poor a day's sport after
all--considering the weather and the much obstruction, eh?

_Second Piscator._ May bee not, may bee not! Stil, I could fain wish,
honest scholer, you had safely landed those two bigge ones you lost
in Peers' Pool, out of which awkward bit of water, indeed, I could
fain desire we might keep _all_ our fish!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: COUNTING THE CATCH.

ROSEBERY. "NOT SUCH A BAD DAY AFTER ALL!"

HARCOURT. "NO! WISH YOU'D LANDED _THOSE OTHERS_ ALL THE SAME!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A WOULD-BE AUTHORESS.

  Though, MAUD, I respect your ambition,
    I fear, to be brutally plain,
  No proud and exalted position
    Your stories are likely to gain;

[Illustration]

  And, frankly, I cannot pretend I
    Regard with the smallest delight
  The vile _cacoëthes scribendi_
    Which led you to write.

  Your talk is most charming, I know it,
    You readily fascinate all,
  But yet as a serious poet
    Your worth, I'm afraid, is but small;
  Your features, though well-nigh perfection,
    Of the obstacle hardly dispose
  That you haven't the faintest conception
    Of how to write prose!

  You think it would be so delightful
    To see your productions in print?
  Well, do not consider me spiteful
    For daring discreetly to hint
  That in this too-crowded profession,
    Where prizes are fewer than blanks,
  You'll find the laconic expression,
    "Rejected--with thanks."

  And so, since you do me the pleasure
    To ask for my candid advice,
  Allow for your moments of leisure
    Some other pursuit to suffice;
  And, if you would really befriend me,
    One wish I will humbly confess,--
  Oh, do not continue to send me
    Those reams of MS.!

       *       *       *       *       *

A MODERN TRAGEDY.

  Our hostess told us off in pairs,
    I had not caught my partner's name,
  But learned, when half way down the stairs,
    She long had been a Primrose Dame;
  And, ere the soup was out of sight,
    She'd found, and left behind, her text on
  A speech, if I remember right,
    Attributed to Mr. SEXTON.

  And I--I sat and gasped awhile,
    And only when we reached the pheasant,
  Assuming my politest smile,
    And with an air distinctly pleasant,
  Attempted firmly to direct
    Her flow of talk to other channels,
  Books--shops--the latest stage-effect--
    The newest ways of painting panels.

  I tried in vain. "Ah, yes," she said,
    "And that reminds me--this Dissent"--
  And thereupon began, instead,
    Discussing Disestablishment!
  The case was clearly hopeless, so
    I hazarded no more suggestions,
  But merely answered Yes or No
    At random, to her frequent questions.

  Yet, while that gushing torrent ran,
    I made a solemn private vow
  That, though no ardent partisan,
    Those Ministers I'll vote for now
  Who'll introduce a drastic bill
    To bring about her abolition,
  To banish utterly, or kill
    The modern lady-politician!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OYSTER AND THE SPARROW.

_A Pessimistic Tale._

  At Whitstable one summer day,
    An oyster gave his fancy wings;
  He very indolently lay
    In bed, and thought of many things;

  Of what his life had been; of weeks
    All spent in having forty winks--
  You know an oyster never speaks,
    But lies awake in bed, and thinks.

  He thought, with pardonable pride,
    That he had never worked--a plan
  Which showed, it cannot be denied,
    That he was quite a gentleman.

  He lived more calmly in his sea
    Than any Bishop; never crossed
  In any sort of wishes, he
    Had never loved, and never lost.

  No cruel maid had ever spurned
    His heart, such grief no oyster knows;
  Nor hatred ever in him burned
    Against the rival whom she chose.

[Illustration]

  Yet, when considered, all appeared
    Too softly calm, too free from strife;
  He thought, and, sighing, stroked his beard,
    "There does not seem much use in life."

  By chance, upon this very day
    A London sparrow, for a minute,
  Was thinking somewhat in this way
    Of life, and what the deuce was in it,

  And how he fluttered up and down,
    Like Berthas, Doras, Trunks, or Yankees--
  His nest was far above the town,
    Upon the buildings known as Hankey's.

  He thought, with pardonable pride,
    Unlike a pampered, gay canary,
  He worked--it cannot be denied
    That "_Laborare est orare_."

  He worked with all his might and main,
    Yet now he chirped with some misgiving,
  "Shoot me if I know what I gain,
    There does not seem much use in living."

  Soon after this the bird and fish
    Were slain by old, relentless foes,
  When death was near, each seemed to wish!
    To keep his life--why, no one knows.

  The bird was knocked upon the head--
    A crack no gluing could repair;
  The oyster rudely dragged from bed,
    Died from exposure to the air.

  They helped in one great work, at least,
    To make some greedy beings fat;
  The oyster graced a City feast,
    The bird was eaten by the cat.

[Illustration]

  Thus, though they led such different lives,
    One fat from sloth, from work one thinner,
  Their end was that for which man strives,
    And mostly ends his days with--dinner!

       *       *       *       *       *

VERSES TO THE WEATHER MAIDEN.

    Lady, the best and brightest of the sex,
      Whose smile we value, and whose frown we fear,
    Let me proclaim the miseries that vex
      The numerous throng who all esteem you dear;
      'Tis not that you habitually appear
    Serenely contemplating the Atlantic
      In raiment which, if fashionable here,
    Would greatly shock the properly pedantic,
  Make Glasgow green with rage, and Mrs. GRUNDY frantic;

    Your classical costume a true delight is
      To all who study you from day to day,
    And even if it hastens on bronchitis
      It serves your graceful figure to display:
      But now your thousand fond admirers pray
    Amid the tumult of the London traffic
      And in each rural unfrequented way--
    "O weather-goddess, look with smile seraphic
  And prophesy 'Set Fair' within the _Daily Graphic_!"

    Too long, too long, each worshipper relates,
      You've told of woe with melancholy glance,
    Predicted new "depressions" from the States,
      Or "V-shaped cyclones" nearing us from France;
      Our summer flies, oh, herald the advance
    Of decent weather ere its course be ended,
      Put your umbrella down, and if by chance
    PISCATOR grumble, let him go unfriended,
  Heed not his selfish moan, but give us sunshine splendid!

    Our confidence towards you never flinches,
      Let others be unceasingly employed
    In working out the barometric inches,
      Or tapping at the fickle aneroid,
      Wet bulb and dry we equally avoid,
    In you, and you alone, our hopes remain,
      Then be not by our forwardness annoyed,
    Nor let our supplications rise in vain,--
  Oh, _Daily Graphic_ maid, smile, smile on us again!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE YELLOW RIDING-HABIT.

  Chang, he had a yellow jacket
    Fitting rather nice and slick;
  When the garment got the sack, it
    Made him simply deathly sick;
  And he swore, with objurgations,
    It was due--or he'd be hung--
  To the fiendish machinations
    Of a man who rhymed with Bung.

  But his lord in mild, celestial,
    Manner moralised and said--
  "There are other really bestial
    Things I might have done instead;
  Might, in point of fact, have tied you
    To a poplar with a splice,
  And explicitly denied you
    Every claim to Paradise.

  Nay, I even wondered whether
    I should play another card,
  And reduce your dorsal tether
    By a matter of a yard;
  Or curtail your nether raiment,
    (This I waived as rather coarse,)
  Or appropriate your payment
    As a marshal of the force.

  But I gave you just a gentle,
    If humiliating, shock,
  Much as any Occidental
    Castigates the erring jock,
  Who in place of freely plugging
    At a reasonable rate,
  By irregularly lugging
    Lets a rival take the plate.

  Thus I delicately hinted
    It was time to jog your gee;
  And the proper view is printed,
    In the pagan _P. M. G._,
  Namely, that you might be chary
    Of a deal of sultry dirt,
  And do better in an airy
    Waistcoat with a cotton shirt.

  Doubtless habits have a lot to
    Do with character as such,
  Yet the prophet warns us not to
    Trust in colour very much;
  And indeed your yellow custard
    Came to smack of rotten cheese,
  Since they took to making mustard
    Books and Asters over-seas."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PEARLS BEFORE SWINE.

_The Vicar._ "WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT BURGUNDY? IT'S THE
LAST BOTTLE OF SOME THE DEAR BISHOP GAVE ME. IT COST HIM _EIGHTEEN
SHILLINGS A BOTTLE_!"

_The Major._ "VERY NICE! BUT I SHOULD JUST LIKE YOU TO TRY SOME
_I GAVE TWELVE SHILLINGS A DOZEN FOR_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

Noble Half Hundred!!!

  "We mean to keep our Empire in the East!"
    So sang the music halls with noisy _nous_,
  Well, one thing now is very clear at least,
    Our Empire in the East can't keep--a House!
  Is our Indian Government fairly cheap? men ask
    Are Anglo-Indian rulers wise and thrifty?
  The Commons meet to tackle that big task,
    And FOWLER'S speech is listened to by--_Fifty_!

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT AT GRINNIDGE.

[Illustration]

How werry particklar sum peeple is in having it adwertised where they
have gone to spend their summer holliday. I wunce saw it stated,
sum years ago, that the Markis of SORLSBERRY had gone with the
Marchoness to Deep, I think it was, and then follered the staggering
annowncement that Mr. Deputy MUGGINS and Mrs. MUGGINS was a spending
a hole week at Gravesend! I'm a having mine at Grinnidge, and had the
honner last week of waiting upon the Ministerial Gents from
Westminster, and a werry jowial lot of Gents they suttenly seems to
be.

I likes Grinnidge somehow; it brings back to fond memmory the appy
days when I fust preposed to my Misses ROBERT in Grinnidge Park, and
won from her blushing lips a fond awowal of her loving detachment for
me!

Ah! them was appy days, them was, and never cums more than wunce to
us; no, not ewen in Grinnidge Park.

I'm told as how as Appy Amsted is not at all a bad place for this
sort of thing; but I cannot speak from werry much pussonal xperience
there myself.

Having a nour or two to spare before the Westminster Dinner, I took a
strol in the butiful Park. Not quite the place for adwenters, but I
had a little one there on that werry particklar day as I shant soon
forget.

I was a setting down werry cumferal on a nice cumferal seat, when a
nice looking Lady came up to me, and setting herself down beside me
asked me wery quietly if I coud lend her such a thing as harf a
crown! I was that estonished that I ardly knew what to say, when to
my great surprise she bust out a crying, and told me as how as she
had bin robbed, and had not a penny to take her home to London! What
on airth coud I do? I coudn't say as I hadn't no harf crown coz I had
one, and I carnt werry well tell a hunblushing lie coz I allers
blushes if I tries one, so I said as how as it was the only one as I
had, and so I hoped as she woud return it to me to-morrow, and I told
her my adress, when she suddenly threw her arms round my neck and
acshally kist me, and then got up and ran away! and I have lived ever
since in a dredful state of dowt and unsertenty for fear as she shoud
call when I was out and tell Mrs. ROBERT the hole particklers! and
ewen expect her to believe it!

 ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEXT WAR.

(_Fragment from a Romance of the Future._)

[Illustration]

The successful General, after winning the great victory, acted with
decision. He cut all the telegraph wires with his own hands, until
there was but one left in the camp--that which had its outlet in his
own tent. He called for the special correspondents. They came
reluctantly, writing in their note-books as they approached him.

"Gentlemen," said he, with polite severity, "I have no wish to deal
harshly with the Press. I am fully aware of the services it does to
the country. But, gentlemen, I have a duty to perform. I cannot allow
you to communicate to your respective editors the glorious result of
this day's fighting. For a couple of hours you must be satisfied to
restrain your impatience."

"It will yet be in time for the five o'clock edition," murmured one
of the scribes.

"And I shall be able to get it into the Special," murmured another.

Then the General bowed and retired to his own tent. At last he was
alone. Over the receiver to the telephone was a board inscribed with
various numbers, with names attached thereto. He saw that 114 stood
for "Wife," 12,017 for "Mother-in-law," and 10 for "Junior United
Service Club." But he selected none of these.

"No. 7," he cried, suddenly applying his lips to the receiver and
ringing up, "are you there?"

"Why, certainly; what shall I do?"

"Why, buy 30,000 Consols for me," was the prompt reply. And then the
General a few minutes later added, "Have you done it?"

"I have--for the next account."

And then the warrior smiled and released the Press-men. Nay, more, he
ordered the telegraph wires to be repaired. All was joy and
satisfaction. The glorious news was flashed in a thousand different
directions. The name of the general received immediate immortality.

And the great commander was more than satisfied. His fortune was
assured. Before allowing the news to be spread abroad he had taken
the precaution to do a preliminary deal with his stockbroker!

       *       *       *       *       *

AN ALPINE RAILWAY.

  Abominable work of man,
  Defacing nature where he can
      With engineering;
  On plain or hill he never fails
  To run his execrable rails;
  Coals, dirt, smoke, passengers and mails,
      At once appearing.

  To Alpine summits daily go
  The locomotives to and fro.
      What desecration!
  Where playful kids once blithely skipped,
  Where rustic goatherds gaily tripped,
  Where clumsy climbers sometimes slipped,
      He builds a station.

  Up there, where once upon a time
  Determined mountaineers would climb
      To some far _châlet_;
  Up there, above the carved wood toys,
  Above the beggars, and the boys
  Who play the _Ranz des Vaches_--such noise
      Down in the _Thal_, eh?

  Up there at sunset, rosy red,
  And sunrise--if you're out of bed--
      You see the summit,
  Majestic, high above the vale.
  It is not difficult to scale--
  The fattest folk can go by rail
      To overcome it.

  For nothing, one may often hear,
  Is sacred to the engineer;
      He's much too clever.
  Well, I must hurry on again,
  That mountain summit to attain,
  Good-bye. I'm going by the train.
      I climb it? Never!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD."

_Tourist from London (to young local Minister)._ "HOW QUIET AND
PEACEFUL IT SEEMS HERE!"

_Minister._ "EH, FRIEND, IT SEEMS PEACEFU'. WHA WAD THINK WE WERE
WITHIN SEVEN MILES O' PEEBLES!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

AN ANGLO-RUSSIAN ECHO.

    [At Baku, on the Caspian, a Society has been formed to abolish
    hand-shaking and kissing, on the ground that bacilli are propagated
    by such personal contact. The ladies, however, have protested
    against this to the Governor-General.

                                                  _Daily Telegraph._]

  Baku is a place that is pretty well Grundyfied,
  Where the good folks have all frolic and fun defied,
  Where I'd be shunned, if I'd
  Play at Whit-Mondayfied
  Games such as "Catch-can" and Kiss-in-the-ring!

  For the greybeards, it seems, of this naptha-metropolis
  (Really, their reason about to o'ertopple is)
  All o'er the shop'll hiss,
  Hollering, "Stop! Police!
  Hi, there! hand-shaking the mischief will bring!"

  And kissing, they think, only leads to diphtheria--
  Well, I should say, such a dread of bacteria
  Quite beyond query, amounts to hysteria!
  No, it won't "wash"--they don't either, I fear!

  But SONIA and OLGA and VERA are mutinous,
  Rightly, I think, at such nonsense o'erscrutinous.
  "_This_ rot take root in us?
  No, keep salutin' us!"
  Echo our MABELS and MAUDS over here!

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TORY, M.P.

_House of Lords. Monday, August 13._--Sorry I didn't hear the Duke of
ARGYLL. Have been told he is one of finest orators in House; a type
of the antique; something to be cherished and honoured.

"Were you ever," SARK asked, "at Oban when the games were going on?
Very well then, you would see the contest among the pipers. You have
watched them strutting up and down with head thrown back, toes turned
out, cheeks extended, and high notes thrilling through the shrinking
air. There you have Duke of ARGYLL--God bless him!--addressing House
of Lords. He is not one piper, but many. As he proceeds, intoxicated
with sound of his own voice, ecstatic in clearness of his own vision,
he competes with himself as the pipers struggle with each other until
at last he has, in a Parliamentary sense of course, swollen to such a
size that there is no room in the stately chamber for other Peers.
Nothing and nobody left but His Grace the Duke of ARGYLL. Towards end
of sixty minutes spectacle begins to pall on wearied senses; but to
begin with, it is almost sublime. For thirty-two years, he told
ROSEBERY just now, he had sat on the opposite benches, a Member of
the Liberal Party. He sat elsewhere now, but why? Because he was the
Liberal Party; all the rest like sheep had gone astray. Pretty to see
the MARKISS with blushing head downcast when ARGYLL turned round to
him and, with patronising tone and manner, hailed him and his friends
as the only party with whom a true Liberal might collogue. In some
circumstances, this bearing would be insupportably bumptious. In the
Duke, with the time limit hinted at, it is delightful. He really
unfeignedly believes it all. Sometimes in the dead unhappy night,
when the rain is on the roof (not an uncommon thing in Inverary) he
thinks in sorrow rather than in anger of multitudes of men hopelessly
in the wrong; that is to say, who differ from his view on particular
subjects at given times."

_Business done._--Second Reading of Evicted Tenants Bill moved in
Lords.

_Tuesday._--For awhile last night, whilst LANSDOWNE speaking,
CLANRICARDE sat on rear Cross Bench immediately in front of Bar where
mere Commoners are permitted to stand. Amongst them at this moment
were TIM HEALY, O'BRIEN, and SEXTON, leaning over rail to catch
LANSDOWNE'S remarks. Before them, almost within hand reach, certainly
approachable at arm's length with a good shillalegh, was the bald
pate of the man who, from some points of view, is The Irish Question.
CLANRICARDE sat long unconscious of the proximity. SARK, not usually
a squeamish person, after breathlessly watching this strange
suggestive contiguity, moved hastily away. This is a land of law and
order. Differences, if they exist, are settled by judicial processes.
But human nature, especially Celtic nature, is weak. The bald pate
rested so conveniently on the edge of the bench. It was so near; it
had schemed so much for the undoing of hapless friends in Ireland.
What if * * *

To-night CLANRICARDE instinctively moved away from this locality.
Discovered on back bench below gangway, from which safe quarter he
delivered speech, showing how blessed is the lot of the light-hearted
peasant on what he called "my campaign estates."

The MARKISS and CLANRICARDE rose together. It was ten o'clock, the
hour appointed for Leader of Opposition to interpose; in anticipation
of that event the House crowded from floor to side galleries
garlanded with fair ladies. Privy Councillors jostled each other on
steps of Throne; at the Bar stood the Commons closely packed; TIM
HEALY, anxious not again to be led into temptation, deserted this
quarter; surveyed scene from end of Gallery over the Bar. The MARKISS
stood for a moment at the table manifestly surprised that any should
question his right to speak. According to Plan of Campaign prepared
beforehand by Whips now was his time; ROSEBERY to follow; and
Division taken so as to clear House before midnight. CLANRICARDE
recks little of Plans of Campaign: stood his ground and finally
evicted the MARKISS; cast him out by the roadside with no other
compensation than the sympathy of HALSBURY and of RUTLAND, who sat on
either side of him.

When opportunity came the MARKISS rose to it. Speech delightful to
hear; every sentence a lesson in style. Hard task for young Premier
to follow so old and so perfect a Parliamentary hand. MARKISS spoke
to enthusiastically friendly audience. ROSEBERY recognised in himself
the representative of miserable minority of thirty; undaunted,
undismayed, he played lightly with the ponderous personalities of
ARGYLL, and looking beyond the heads of the crowd of icily
indifferent Peers before him, seemed to see the multitude in the
street, and to hear the murmur of angry voices.

_Business done._--Lords throw out Evicted Tenants Bill by 249 votes
against 30.

_Thursday, Midnight._--Spent restful evening with Indian Budget.
There is nothing exceeds indignation with which Members resent
postponement of opportunity to consider Indian Budget, except the
unanimity with which they stop away when it is presented. Number
present during FOWLER'S masterly exposition not equal to one per ten
million of the population concerned. Later, CHAPLIN endeavoured to
raise drooping spirits by few remarks on bi-metallism. Success only
partial. CLARK did much better. Genially began evening by accusing
SQUIRE OF MALWOOD of humbugging House. That worth at least a dozen
votes to Government in Division that followed. TIM HEALY, who can't
abear strong language, was one who meant to vote against proposal to
take remaining time of Session for Ministers. After CLARK'S speech,
voted with and for the SQUIRE.

CLARK closed pleasant evening by insisting on Division upon Statute
Law Revision Bill running through Committee.

"Will the hon. Member name a teller," said Chairman, blandly.

"Mr. CONYBEARE," responded CLARK, instinctively thinking of Member
for Camborne as most likely to help in the job he had in hand.

But CONYBEARE is a reformed character. Even at his worst must draw
line somewhere. Drew it sharply at CLARK. Appeared as if game was up.
On the contrary it was WEIR. Deliberately fixing a pair of
cantankerous pince-nez that seem to be in chronic condition of
strike, WEIR gazed round angered Committee. With slowest enunciation
in profoundest chest notes he said, "I will tell with the hon.
Member."

Committee roared with anguished despair; but, since procedure in case
of frivolous and vexatious Division seems forgotten by Chair, no help
for it. If there are two Members to "tell," House must be "told." But
there tyranny of two ceases. You may take horse to water but cannot
make him drink. Similarly you may divide House, but cannot compel
Members to vote with you. Thus it came to pass that after Division
CLARK and WEIR marched up to table with confession that they had not
taken a single man into the Lobby with them. They had told, but they
had nothing to tell.

"They're worse off by a moiety than the Squire in the _Canterbury
Tales_," said SARK--

  "Him who left half told
  The story of Cambuscan bold."

"Yes, poor needy Knife-grinders," said the other SQUIRE; "if they'd
only thought of it when asked by the Clerk, 'How many?' they might
have answered, Members, God bless you, we have none to tell.'"

_Business done._--Indian Budget through Committee.

_Friday._--Something notable in question addressed by BRYN ROBERTS to
HOME SECRETARY. Wants to know "whether he is aware that the Mr.
WILLIAMS, the recently appointed assistant inspector, who is said to
have worked at an open quarry, never worked at the rock but simply,
when a young man, used to pick up slabs cast aside by the regular
quarrymen, and split them into slates; and that, _ever since_, _he
has been engaged as a pupil teacher and a schoolmaster_."

Shall put notice on paper to ask BRYN ROBERTS whether the sequence
therein set forth is usual in Wales, and whether picking up slabs and
splitting them into slates is the customary pathway to pupil
teachership.

Long night in Committee of Supply; fair progress in spite of WEIR and
CLARK. TIM HEALY sprang ambush on House of Lords: moved to stop
supplies for meeting their household expenses. Nearly carried
proposal, too. Vote sanctioned by majority of nine, and these drawn
from Opposition.

_Business done._--Supply.

       *       *       *       *       *

A HAWARDEN PASTORAL;

_Or, The Grand Old Georgic._

    ["The whole care of poultry, the production of eggs, care of bees,
    and the manufacture of butter--of itself a most important branch of
    commerce--are really included within the purposes of this little
    institution."--_Mr. Gladstone on "Small Culture," at the Hawarden
    Agricultural and Horticultural Fête, August 14, 1894._]

[Illustration: _G. O. Meliboeus sings:_--]

  What am I piping about to-day?
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  What shall I praise in my pastoral way?
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  Here I am, smiling, afar from strife,
  (Indifferent substitute, true, for my wife!)
  Discussing, as though they'd absorbed my life:
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

  A Georgic, my lads, is my task this time,
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  HORACE I've Englished in so-so rhyme,
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  To-day I am in a Virgilian vein,
  My pastoral ardour I cannot restrain;
  And so I will sing, like some Mantuan swain,
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

  Home Rule? Dear me, no! Not at all in the mood!
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  (Though Irish butter, you know, is good.)
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  I hear they're yet wrangling down Westminster way;
  The "Busy B's" there are still having their say.
  Now the care of _those_ B's--but that is not _my_ lay.
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

  "The frugal bee," (as the Mantuan sings),
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  Is valued for honey, and not for stings,
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  Poor HARCOURT'S hive has a good many drones,
  And more sting than honey. Eh! Who's that groans?
  Well, well, let me sing, in mellifluous tones,
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

  The ladies have taken to speeches of late,
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  Serious matter, dear friends,--for the State!
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  On Female Suffrage I hardly dote,
  But ladies may speak, while they have not the vote.--
  Beg pardon! That's hardly the pastoral note!
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

  Not only to flowers we look, but fruits;
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  Nay, not to them only, but also to _roots_.
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  The root of the matter, in Irish affairs,
  Of course is Home Rule--but there, nobody cares
  For such subjects here! Let's sing poultry, and pears,
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

  This "little culture"'s the theme I'd touch,
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  (Tories pooh-pooh it!--they've none too much!)
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  But "mickles" soon merge into "muckles" you know,
  And from "little cultures" big aggregates grow,
  Just as small majorities--Woa, there, woa!--
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

  Hawarden's example will do much good,--
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  Nay, friends, I am not in a militant mood,--
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  So I don't mean _mine_, but your own example.
  The powers of the soil are abundant and ample;
  _You_'ll teach men to furnish--and up to sample--
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

  I'm a little bit tired--in a physical sense--
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  But my pleasure in pastoral things is immense,
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_
  My Georgic to-day I must cut short, I fear,
  But--if you desire--and we're all of us here,
  I may give you a much longer Eclogue--next year!
    _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

       *       *       *       *       *

RHYME TO ROSEBERY.

(_On his Revival of the Ministerial Whitebait
Dinner at the "Ship," Greenwich, Wednesday,
August 15, 1894._)

  GOOD, PRIMROSE! If not a fanatical "Saint,"
    At least you're a genial "Sinner."
  At the thought of a Race--and a Win--you won't faint,
    Nor squirm at a loss--with a Dinner!
  Pluck, patience, and cheer make good Statesmanlike form.
    We trust that you relished the trip, Sir!
  If not--_yet_--"the Pilot who weathered the Storm,"
    You're the Skipper who stuck by the "Ship," Sir!

       *       *       *       *       *

The Old (Parliamentary) Adam.

(_On the Eve of Prorogation._)

_Would-be Abdiel (M.P.) loquitur:_--

  With rest-thirst and holiday-yearning to grapple
    I strive, but in August begin to despair.
  I pity poor EVE with the thirst at her thrapple,
  Though what tempted her was a snake and an apple,
    My lures are "a brace" and a "pair."

[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI VOLUME 107, AUGUST 25, 1894 ***


    

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