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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, April 15, 1893
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, April 15, 1893" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

VOL. 104, APRIL 15, 1893***


PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 104

APRIL 15th 1893

Edited by Sir Francis Burnand



[Illustration: PERILOUS POSITION OF A GALLANT OFFICER OF VOLUNTEERS.

_On a recent March, who_ (_ever thoughtful for the comfort of his
hired Charger_) _chooses the cooling waters of the Ford in preference
to the Bridge_.

"HERE! HI! HELP, SOMEBODY! HOLD ON! I MEAN HALT! HE WON'T COME OUT,
AND HE WANTS TO LIE DOWN, AND I BELIEVE HE'S GOING TO REAR!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

POLITICAL MEETINGS.

  A CROWDED, gas-lit, stuffy hall,
    A prosy speaker, such a duffer,
  A mob that loves to stamp and bawl,
    Noise, suffocation--how I suffer!

  What is he saying? "Mr. G.
    Attacks the British Constitution,
  It therefore--er--er--falls to me
    To move the first--er--resolution:

  "That--_er_--the Shrimpington-on-Sea
    United Primrose Habitations
  Pronounce ('_Hear, hear!_') these Bills to be
    Iniquitous (_cheers_) innovations."

  I'll bear this heat and noise no more;
    _My_ constitution would be weaker.
  I hurry out, and find, next door,
    Another meeting and its speaker;

  Another crowded, stuffy hall,
    A frantic shouter, greater duffer,
  A mob more prone to stamp and bawl,
    Noise, suffocation still I suffer.

  What is _he_ saying? "Mr. G.,
    Despite drink's cursed coalition,
  Dooms publicans (_groans_), as should be,
    On earth, as elsewhere, to perdition!

  "I move, the Shrimpington-on-Sea
    United Bands of Hope, with pleasure,
  Pronounce the Veto Bill to be
    A great (_cheers_), good (_shouts_), just (_roars_) measure."

  Enough! O frantic fools who rave
    And call it "Temperance"! This body
  Would drive me to an early grave;
    I'll hurry home and get some toddy.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADVICE TO A YOUNG PARTY SCRIBE.

  YOU may, an it please you, be dull,
    (For Britons deem dulness "respectable");
  Stale flowers of speech you may cull,
    With meanings now scarcely detectable;
  You may wallow in saturnine spite,
    You may flounder in flatulent flummery;
  Be sombre as poet YOUNG'S "_Night_,"
    And dry as a Newspaper "Summary";
  As rude as a yowling Yahoo,
    As chill as a volume of CHITTY;
  But oh, Sir, whatever you do,
    You must _not_ be witty!

  Plod on through the sand-wastes of Fact,
    Long level of gritty aridity;
  With pompous conceit make a pact,
    Be bondsman to bald insipidity;
  Be slab as a black Irish bog,
    Slow, somnolent, stupid, and stodgy;
  Plunge into sophistical fog,
    And the realms of the dumpishly dodgy.
  With trump elephantine and slow,
    Tread on through word-swamps, dank and darkling;
  But no, most decidedly _no_,
    You must _not_ be sparkling!

  Be just as unjust as you like,
    A conscienceless, 'cute special-pleader;
  As spiteful as _Squeers_ was to _Smike_,
    (You may often trace _Squeers_ in a "leader.")
  Impute all the vileness you can,
    Poison truth with snake-venom of fable,
  Be fair--as is woman to man,
    And kindly--as CAIN was to ABEL.
  Suggest what is false in a sneer,
    Suppress what is true by confusing;
  Be sour, stale, and flat as small-beer,
    But _don't_ be amusing!

  Party zealots will pardon your spite,
    If against their opponents it sputters,
  The way a (word) foeman to fight,
    Is to misrepresent all he utters.
  That does not need wisdom or wit,
    (Ye poor party-scribes, what a blessing!)
  No clean knightly sword, but a spit
    Is the weapon for mangling and messing;
  Wield that, like a cudgel-armed rough
    Blent with ruthless bravo,--such are numerous!--
  Lie, slander, spout pitiful stuff,
    But--beware of the humorous!

  For if you should fall into fun,
    You might lapse into manly good-nature,
  And then--well _your_ course would be run!
    No,--study up spleen's nomenclature;
  Learn all the mad logic of hate,
    And then, though your style be like skilly,
  Your sense frothy Styx in full spate.
    And your maxims portentously silly;
  You will find party scope for your pen,
    Coin meanness and malice to money;
  _But_ sour dulness must keep to his den,
    And _never_ be funny.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE FOX AND THE GUINEA-PIGS.]


THE FOX AND THE GUINEA-PIGS.

_(A Financial Fable.)_

    ["There are dozens of Companies now existing with the Duke of
    PUFFBALL, Sir BONUS BARE-ACRES, Bart., Major GUINEA PIG, M.P.,
    and the like, figuring upon the Board of Directors. A
    short, but drastic Act, making all such figureheads directly
    responsible, would go far to prevent similar occurrences, and
    to abolish a delusive, if not a fraudulent system."--_Herbert
    T. Reid's Letter to the Times_.]

  SMART Mr. FOX, whose brain no conscience troubles,
  Floated a Company--for blowing bubbles!
  "Bubbles?" the duller creatures cried in chorus,
  "Are you not coming nursery nonsense o'er us?
  What is the use of bubbles--save to boys?"
  "Hush!" cried 'cute Reynard. "Do not make a noise!
  Bubbles--if bright--are cunning's best decoys.
  Bubbles are only wind plus soap and water;
  But well-stirred suds, and well-blown flatulence,
  In this fool world, have influence immense,
  And draw unthinking dupes from every quarter.
  Eloquence is but Wind, yet flowery trope
          Is Humbug's favourite lure;
  And what is Diplomatic Skill but soap?
          Trust me! Success is sure!
  Bubbles are bright, bewitch the mob, float far,
          And cost the blower little.
  The watery sphere _looks_ like a world, a star,
  And when it bursts, being exceeding brittle,
  Where it explodes (as at the rainbow's foot)
  There's hidden treasure--for the clever brute
  Who knows that gulls are the great wealth-bestowers,
  Bubbles mean solid bullion--for the blowers!"

  The shrewder animals applauded. Lupus
  Cried, "We are with you, so you do not dupe us!"
  Ursus and Taurus also, Bull and Bear,
  Were eager in the game to take a share.
  Said Vulpus to the assembled quadrupeds,
  "Company Boards, like ships, need figureheads,
  Wooden but ornamental! Eh? You twig?
  Sweet are the uses of--the Guinea Pig!
  Dull, but respectable and decorative,
  That tribe, to whom credulity is native.
  They'll sit around our Board in solemn row,
  And never, never 'want to know, you know,'
  Beyond convenient limits. Their proud presence
  Will fill our flock with faith; their acquiescence,
  So readily secured by liberal fees,
  Will make the mob accept our schemes with ease.
  Behold them! They will give us little trouble
  By wanting--well, to analyse the Bubble;
  So they get something for themselves more solid,
          They'll sit serene and stolid
  In titled sloth and coronetted slumber.
  I can secure them, friends, in any number;
  For Guinea Pigs are numerous and prolific
  And as decoys their influence is mirific.
  So whilst we work our Bubble-blowing rigs,
          Hurrah, for Guinea Pigs!
  They'll take our fees, assent to our suggestions,
  And ask no awkward questions."

MORAL.

  The rank's the guinea's stamp, says Scotland's ROB,
  But if you want to bubble, juggle, job,
  You'll find, with Vulpus, the Promoter big,
  Rank is the stamp of the true Guinea Pig!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE NEW CHIMNEY.

_Mike._ "FAITH, TIM, YE HAVEN'T GOT UT STRAIGHT AT ALL! IT LANES OVER
TO THE ROIGHT!"

_Tim._ "OH, YE'RE WRONG. IT'S PLUMB EX-HACT! IT'S MYSELF THAT PLUMBED
UT MOSHT CAREFUL. INDADE, IF UT HAS A FAULT, IT LANES OVER AN INCH OR
TEW TO THE LEFT, WHEN YE LOOK AT UT FROM BEHOIND!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE POOR MAN AND HIS BEER.

    [Mr. CHAMBERLAIN, at Birmingham, said, "We know that the
    Government propose to deprive the working classes of their
    beer." ("_Shame!_" _and a Voice_, "_They don't!_")]

  "ROB the poor Workman of his glass of beer!!!"
  And can that clap-trap, then, still raise a cheer?
  The British Workman has a thirsty throat,
  The British Workman also has a Vote,
  One will protect the other--if it cares to.
  But if he'd close, by vote, the shops such snares to
  His tipple-tempted and intemperate throttle
  He robs _himself_ of access to the bottle,--
  If robbery it's called--'tis not another,
  (Who is a swell, with cellars) his poor brother
  Deprives of that long-hackneyed, much-mouthed "glass."
  The British Workman is not quite an ass,
  And where he wants to whet (with beer) his throat,
  Where are you like to get your two-thirds Vote?
  Whether there's wisdom in this vaunted Veto,
  Is quite another question sense must see to.
  And general justice judge. But those who cheer
  The stale old fudge about the Poor Man's Beer,
  Should learn it is a dodge of vested pelf,
  And, rich or poor, a man can't rob himself.
  It is the poor who suffer from temptation,
  And drink's detestable adulteration,
  That crying ill which no one dares to tackle!
  Whilst Witlers howl, and Water-zealots cackle.
  The poor are poisoned, not by honest drink,
  But lethal stuff that might scour out a sink.
  The Poor Man's Beer, quotha! Who'll keep it _pure?_
  Not rich monopolists, nor prigs demure,
  Those shriek for freedom, these for prohibition,
  "Vend the drugged stuff sans scrutiny or condition!"
  Cries Vested Interest. "Close, by law or Vote,
  The Witler's tavern and the Workman's throat!"
  Shouts the fanatic. Which, then, fad or pelf,
  Cares really, solely, for the Poor Man's self?
  Nay; the Monopolist fights for his money,
  The Monomaniac for his craze. How funny
  To hear one shout for _freedom_, t'other cheer
  The poisoner's cant about the Poor Man's Beer!

       *       *       *       *       *

WHY is it evident that Mr. ARTHUR BALFOUR didn't know much of Ireland
until last Monday week, April 3? Because 'twas then he went to Larne.

       *       *       *       *       *


OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Statesmen, Historians, and such, may think that, between the years
1871 and 1876, "the Egyptian Question" turned upon the extravagance of
ISMAIL PASHA, and the financial complications that followed thereupon.
Readers of the _Recollections of an Egyptian Princess_ (BLACKWOOD)
will know better. The real Egyptian Question of that epoch was,
whether the English Governess of the Khedive's daughter should get her
mistress's carriage at the very hour she wanted it; whether she should
have the best rooms in any palace or hotel she might chance to be
located in; and whether she should have her meals served at the time
and in the fashion she had been accustomed to in the family mansion
at Clapton or Camberwell. Many stirring passages in the book deal with
these and cognate matters. None delights my Baronite more than one
in which a driver named HASSAN figures. HASSAN, ordered for eight
o'clock, sometimes came at nine. Occasionally at six. "He asked for
'backseesh,' which" Miss CHENNELLS writes, "I did not consider myself
bound to give, as he never did anything for me." On two occasions,
her heart warming, she coyly pressed a florin into his hand, with dire
results. "He was," she records, "much worse after it" (the florin,
which he seems to have taken neat), "and would, when driving, stoop
down, and look through the front window of the brougham, shouting
'Backseesh!'" However, Miss CHENNELLS got even with HASSAN. She
followed her usual course when things went ill. She complained to her
pupil, the Princess. Next morning, when the unsuspecting HASSAN drove
into the court-yard, "he was told by the Eunuchs to descend from the
box, was conducted to an inner receptacle, and," Miss CHENNELLS grimly
adds, "then and there bastinadoed." Incidentally, in connection with
the English Governess's struggle for supremacy in the City of the
Pharaohs, we get pictures of life in the Harem, and glimpses of the
lavish magnificence of the Khedieval Court, with its French embroidery
on Eastern robes. It was with the object of describing these scenes,
viewed from a rare vantage point, that the story was written. But not
the least interesting character is that, unconsciously drawn, of the
prim, practical, precise English Governess, pushing her way through
the crowd of courtiers and Ethiopian slaves, peering through
gold-rimmed eyeglasses into the recesses of the Harem, and glaring
angrily at the hapless Eunuchs, who, going their morning rounds, visit
her bedroom, regardless of the twine with which, before entering on
her virgin slumbers, she had sedulously fastened the lockless door.
Altogether a delightful book, says PASSIM PASHA, the accredited
representative of the Baron DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

Those who like "Just a tale by twilight, When the lights are low, And
the glittering shadows Softly come and go," will do well to expend the
comparatively small sum of one shilling, which, in certain ready-money
quarters, is reduced to tenpence, or even ninepence, on _Grim Tales_,
written by E. NESBIT, of which "The Ebony Frame" (which should
have been called "The Speaking Likeness,") "The Mystery of the
Semi-Detached," "Life-size, in Marble," and "A Mass for the Dead,"
are the best, the last-mentioned being the only one that ends, as all
otherwise purposeless tales should end, happily. The Stories are
grim enough, in all conscience, but they are told in a hearty sort of
fashion, which, while relieving them of some of their weirdness, is
calculated to impress the reader with an idea of the honesty and _bona
fides_ of the narrator. Thus far,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE PENALTY OF FAME.

_Small Boy_ (_with shrill voice_).

  "'FIGHTIN'--WITH--THE SEV'NTH--ROYAL FUSILIERS--THE
              FAMOUS FUSILIERS--THE
              FIGHTIN' FUSILIERS,'" &C., &C.

_Irritable War-Office Clerk._ "CON-FOUND THE SEVENTH ROYAL FUSILIERS!
I'M SICK OF 'EM! BLEST IF I DON'T PACK 'EM OFF TO THE CHANNEL
ISLANDS!" (_Does so._)]

       *       *       *       *       *

MEM. FOR THE NEXT EPSOM MEETING,--WHY is the Winner of the Derby
always like a _Table d' hôte_?--Because he's so much ahead.

       *       *       *       *       *

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS FOR A CRIMINAL COLLEGE.

(_Suitable for Use at the Prison University, Elmira._)

_Question._ What is a crime?

_Answer._ A discovered breach of the law.

_Q._ And a virtue?

_A._ Its antithesis--the same thing unsuspected.

_Q._ What should be the chief occupation of a criminal?

_A._ A serious study of the law, with a view to its successful
evasion.

_Q._ Is there a law for the rich and a law for the poor?

_A._ Certainly not; but a well-feed Q.C. is more than a match for a
briefless Counsel whose professional sustenance is "soup."

_Q._ What is now generally considered to be the highest line of crime?

_A._ The malpractice that is frequently inseparable from holding of
important positions on the Boards of bogus public Companies.

_Q._ What is necessary to secure a livelihood out of burglary?

_A._ A clear head, a knowledge of chemistry and kindred subjects, and
a fair amount of capital.

_Q._ Why is ready money necessary?

_A._ Because the calling of a burglar nowadays is attended by various
compulsory expenses. A successful burglar should be able to purchase
skeleton-keys and "jemmies" of the most exquisite and delicate
quality. Moreover, he should be able to entertain largely, and to keep
a yacht.

_Q._ Is swindling ever known to be legal?

_A._ Scarcely; still it can often be practised with impunity on the
Stock Exchange and the Turf.

_Q._ Is petty larceny lawful?

_A._ Only when practised on the belongings of your wife, and even in
this case it is well to keep her in ignorance of the provisions of the
Married Woman's Property Act.

_Q._ What are the advantages of a sojourn in the newly organised
Elmira establishment?

_A._ An inmate is taught a trade, or even a profession.

_Q._ And now, in conclusion, considering that a breach of the law
is necessary to secure admission to the University, what would you
consider the most appropriate motto for the Institution?

_A._ "Honesty is not (at first) the best policy."

       *       *       *       *       *

"BACK US UP!"--It is stated that, on the new School Board for the
Henley-in-Arden district, a Mr. H. BACCHUS has been elected. May
BACCHUS (and the classic "fat venison") never be absent from this
Board! Probably, nowadays, BACCHUS is a strong supporter of the
Temperance Movement, if not himself a Total Abstainer.


LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

No. XVIII.--TO FAILURE.

SIR,--Hitherto, I seem to have been submitting to you examples that
cannot properly be described as failures. This was not my purpose.
I wished rather to describe one or two characters whose ruin, to a
greater or smaller degree, you have compassed by your influence.
But some sprite seemed to take possession of my pen; my efforts were
unsuccessful, and I was led away from my original purpose. Perhaps
that is one of the penalties of addressing you. We shall see! In any
case let me proceed with my task as best I may.

It happened to me once--the date is immaterial--that after a
considerable absence, I returned to London. You know, perhaps, how it
fares with those who, for any length of time, become exiles from their
native land. All the institutions, the small no less than the great,
that go to make up our varied social life at home, become glorified as
it were, and loom larger through the mist of absence. They become part
and parcel of a traveller's patriotism, even if in his home-life he
took no part in them. I was due to return at the end of May, in time
for the Derby-day. I am not a racing-man. I had never seen the Derby
run, chiefly, I fancy, because I had never had any desire to see it.
But I remember that amongst my brother-exiles, I was being eternally
congratulated on the good luck that took me home in time for this
great national event. "What, you are going to be back by the end of
May," one of them would say; "why you'll be able to go to the Derby?"
So that in time, I came to accept this possibility as a specially
enviable feature of my home-coming. From that, to making up my mind to
go to the Derby was but a step, I took it, and on the great day I made
one of the mighty crowd on Epsom Downs. I don't remember much about
the race. I met many friends who asked me, as is common in such cases,
if I was back already; a question to which it seems difficult to find
a suitable reply, if one's bodily presence is not to be accepted as a
sufficient evidence of the fact. Many others volunteered to put me
on to various absolute certainties, and one man chilled my newly-born
racing-patriotism by observing, that he would as soon have thought of
seeing FRED ARCHER at a meeting of the British Association.

[Illustration]

I don't mean to describe the scene on the Downs. One crowd is much
like another; and, when you have said something of the proverbial
good-nature of a British crowd, you have done all that can be justly
required of you, after seeing a hunted wretch all but torn in pieces
by a mob of blackguards worse than himself. However, I think I enjoyed
myself well enough. Others enjoyed themselves more, and amongst these
was a party of roystering, jovial fellows, who ate a hearty luncheon,
and drank much champagne, on the top of a hired drag. One of them
particularly attracted my attention. Somewhere, I knew, I had seen
that curious, clean-shaved, bull-frog face before. It was perfectly
familiar to me, but, for the life of me, I couldn't recall the
circumstances in which I had previously set eyes on it. He appeared
to be the leader of the revels, and kept his companions in fits of
laughter at his sallies. I beat my brains to remember him, but all
in vain. All that I could arrive at was a sense of incongruity, an
impression of the unexpected in the spectacle I had witnessed.

In the evening I went to the "Frivolity," to see the latest rays of
the lamp of burlesque. That scene, at any rate, was familiar.
There, in all their spotless panoply of expressionless face, and
irreproachable shirt-front, sat the golden lads of the Metropolis
in their rows, images of bored stupidity, stiffly cased in black
and white. There too, were to be seen the snowy shoulders and the
sparkling jewels of the ladies both of the smart and of the higher
half world, with here and there an extensive dowager to add weight and
decorum to the throng. The curtain drew up on one of the usual scenes
of rejoicing. Shapely ladies, in tights, chorused their delight at the
approaching nuptials of a great lord's daughter. Then the contented
peasantry of the surrounding district stepped forward to swell the
joyful strains, and to be regaled with draughts of sparkling
emptiness from the inexhaustible beaker wielded by the landlord of
the neighbouring inn. And there, under the broad hat of one of these
rejoicing peasants, I recognised the bull-frog face that had puzzled
me that day at Epsom. In a flash I remembered him and all the scenes
in which he had played a humble part. Far back from the dimness of
some of my earliest theatrical experiences, up to the present moment,
I followed him on his career, simulating joint merriment, bearing one
of many banners, carrying a pike or a halberd in an army similarly
armed, conspiring in a mantle, draining a brimming goblet, but
never--at least within my recollection--taking a part of any
individuality, or one that gave him a chance of singing or speaking a
single line by himself. He had been one of the ruck when I had first
seen him, and now, after at least twenty years, the ruck still claimed
him for its own. I remember I had woven a sort of romance about him.
There, I had thought to myself, is a man who, no doubt, began his
stage career with high aspirations, and noble ambitions. It cannot
have been his aim to figure for ever merely as one of a crowd. And I
had pictured him gradually losing hope, and wearing his heart out
in the bitterness of deferred ambition as he walked gloomily through
life, with the stamp of failure on his brow. The picture was a
pathetic one, you must admit, worthy to take its place on the line
with the well-known fancy sketch of the Clown who, after making the
masses split their sides, goes home to a private life of penury and
despair.

Well, that day I had seen a piece of my friend's private life
at Epsom. Nothing could have been farther removed from misery. A
light-hearted gaiety reigned in his face and ruled his every gesture.
His companions seemed to bow to him, as to their leading humorist and
mirth-maker. I was stimulated by the collapse of my elaborate illusion
to make inquiries about him. I found that he had been born almost on
the stage, and had taken part in stage-life from his earliest years.
He never had any ambition: so long as he could be on the stage,
and take part in its life, his desires were satisfied. He lived an
absolutely contented life, smoked infamous tobacco out of clay-pipes,
and was in high repute amongst his intimates as a singer of jovial
songs, and a teller of brisk theatrical anecdotes. There was not a
spark of envy in his nature. He honoured the great actors, and was
always ready to do all he could to smooth the path of any nervous
youngster with excellent advice and cheerful help. He is still acting.
Anybody who wishes can see him on any night, helping to troll forth
the chorus of a song of Mexican warriors in the great spectacular
drama of _Montezuma_. There is no more perfectly-satisfied being in
existence. On that I am prepared to stake my life. Let this tale then
be a warning to those who are over-hasty to construct romances of
pathetic contrast on an insufficient foundation. One hugs such stories
to one's heart, and it is something of a wrench to have to give them
up in the light of a fuller knowledge.

And here I am, having all but reached the limits of my appointed
space, without apparently having gone one step nearer to the
fulfilment of the task on which I set out. I can only ask you to
take the will for the deed in the meantime. And after all, if this
unambitious actor had only been what I imagined him to be, I could not
have produced an apter example. But he had the impertinence to live
his life in his own way, and that did not happen to accord with the
theories I had been led to form about it. Shall I never be able to
come to the point? I have not yet given up all hope?

Yours as usual,

D. R.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE UNIVERSAL VENT.

(_For Vacuity, Vanity, Verbosity, Virulence, and Venom._)

  IF you've been burning the midnight taper,
  And of new policies deem yourself shaper;
  If at the world you're a green-gosling gaper,
  Or of old "JUNIUS," juvenile aper;
  Bumptious Scotch Duke, or irate Irish Draper,
  Crammed with conceit, which must publicly caper;
  Angry old woman, or frivolous japer;
  Thraso or termagant, Tadpole or Taper,
  To blow off your steam, or your gas, or your vapour,
  There's one fool-loved fashion--'tis _write to the paper!_

       *       *       *       *       *

"I AM in a state of suspense," said a Clergyman. "I am sorry to hear
it," replied his friend. "Why are you suspended?"



[Illustration: PROPER PRIDE.

_He._ "WASN'T THAT THE COUNTESS OF MOHAIR THAT JUST WENT BY? I THOUGHT
YOU TOLD ME SHE WAS A FRIEND OF YOURS!"

_She._ "OH, WE MEET OCCASIONALLY, AND ALL THAT,--BUT I'VE REALLY BEEN
OBLIGED TO _DROP_ LADY MOHAIR, I'M SORRY TO SAY!"

_He._ "DEAR ME,--REALLY! WHAT FOR?"

_She._ "OH, WELL,--SHE ALWAYS DELIBERATELY TURNS HER BACK ON ME WHEN I
TRY TO SPEAK TO HER, AND LOOKS ANOTHER WAY WHEN I BOW, OR ELSE COOLLY
STARES ME IN THE FACE AND TAKES NO NOTICE WHATEVER,--SO NOW I MAKE A
POINT OF _CUTTING HER DEAD_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

(_Fragments of a Discourse, delivered under the similitude of a Dream,
but of symbolic and purely secular significance._)

       *       *       *       *       *

Now, at the end of this Valley of Obstruction was another, called
the Valley of the Shadow of Disunion; and the Pilgrim must needs go
through it, because the way to the Plain of Progress and the Pinnacle
of Passage lay through the midst of it.

Now this Valley is a very perilous place,--a place where none care to
dwell, and which few attain to pass through. And here the Pilgrim was
worse put to it than in his previous encounter with the Apollyon of
Obstruction.

I saw then in my dream that when the Pilgrim was got to the borders
of the Shadow of Disunion, there met him certain men, aforetime his
fellow-travellers, making haste to go back; to whom the Pilgrim spake
as follows:---

_Pilgrim._ Whither are you going?

_Men._ Back again! And we would have you do so too, if either life,
peace, or honour is prized by you.

_Pilgrim._ Why, what's the matter?

_Men._ Matter? We were going that way as you are going, and went as
far as we durst; and indeed we were almost past coming back.

_Pilgrim._ But what have you met with?

_Men._ Why, we were almost in the Valley of the Shadow of Disunion,
where abide Disruption, Dishonour, and Disaster, but that, by good
hap, keeping a BRIGHT look-out, we looked before us, and saw the
danger ere we came to it.

_Pilgrim._ But what have you seen?

_Men._ Seen? Why the Valley itself, which is as dark as pitch; we
also saw there the hobgoblins, bogies, and dragons of the pit; we also
heard in that Valley a continual howling and yelling, as of a people
under unutterable misery, who there sat bound in affliction and
chains; and over that Valley hang the discouraging clouds of
Confusion; Discord, also, doth always spread its wings over it. In a
word, it is every whit dreadful, being utterly without Law and Order.

_Pilgrim._ Nevertheless I perceive not yet, by what you have said, but
that this is my way to the desired haven.

_Men._ Be it thy way--we will not choose it for ours!

So they parted, and the Pilgrim went on his way, but still with his
sword drawn in his hand, for fear lest he should be assaulted.

       *       *       *       *       *

I saw then in my dream, as far as this Valley reached, there was on
the right hand a very deep ditch, that, to wit, dismally known to
some as the Last Ditch, whereinto the blind have oftentimes urged
the blind, even threatening therein to plunge and perish, rather
than acknowledge certain things which subsequently they nevertheless
proceeded pretty peaceably to accept. Again, behold, on the left hand,
there was a very dangerous quag or bog, into which if even a good, or
grand, man falls, he finds no bottom for his foot to stand on.

The pathway was here also exceedingly narrow, and therefore the
Pilgrim was the more put to it; for when he sought, in the dark, to
shun the ditch on the one hand, he was ready to tip over into the bog
on the other; also, when he sought to escape the bog, without great
carefulness, he would be ready to fall into the ditch. Thus he went
on, and I heard him sigh bitterly, for, besides the dangers mentioned
above, the pathway was here so dark that ofttimes, when he lifted up
his foot to go forward, he knew not where or upon what he should set
it next.

[Illustration: A PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.]

"Now," thought the Pilgrim, "what shall I do?" And ever and anon the
flame and smoke would come out in such abundance, with sparks and
hideous noises (things that cared not for the Pilgrim's sword) that he
was forced to put up his blade, and betake himself to another weapon
called Tactics. Thus he went on a good while, yet still the flames
would be reaching towards him; also, he heard doleful voices, and
rushings to and fro, so that sometimes he thought he should be torn in
pieces, or trodden down like mire in the streets. This frightful sight
was seen, and these direful noises were heard by him for a long while
together; and coming to a place where he thought he heard a great
company of fierce opponents (as it were a numerous and influential
Deputation, or a prodigious Procession) coming forward to meet him,
he stopped, and began to muse what he had best to do. Sometimes he had
half a thought to go back; then again he thought he might be half-way
through the Valley. He remembered, also, how he had already vanquished
many a danger, and that the peril of going back might be much
more than to go forward. So he resolved to go on; yet the bogies,
hobgoblins, and dragons of the pit seemed to come nearer and nearer,
besetting him with boding warnings, angry expostulations, and menacing
outcries from both sides of his strait and perilous pathway, as well
from the bog that was on the one hand, as from the ditch that was on
the other.

       *       *       *       *       *

And here, as it seemed, my Dream did lapse and intermit, and I lost
sight, for a while, of the Pilgrim and his perils, much musing whether
he, though verily valiant and of manifest good will, were wise in
making this dangerous adventure, or at all like to fare safely through
and escape the ditch, the bog, the darkness, and the demoniac denizens
of this dismal Valley of the Shadow of Disunion.

       *       *       *       *       *

OPERA DRURIOLANA.

[Illustration]

May success attend the preliminary Operatic canter which Sir
DRURIOLANUS is taking with such preliminary cantors as he has got
together at Drury Lane. _Faust_ was effectively given, with ESTHER
PALLISER as a gentle _Marguerite_, Signor GIANNINI as a very robust
_Faust_--quite a _tenore robusto_--and Signor CASTELMARY as the very
deuce of a _Mephistopheles_, with eyebrows and moustachios sufficient
to frighten even the gay and festive _Marta_, played with spirit by
Mlle. BIANCOLI. "Mons." DUFRICHE represented the _Mons_ who laboured
hard to please, and who, as _Valentine_, did well and died well. Herr
FELD conducted. "Well Felded!"

Then out came the ever fresh, the ever free _Bohemian Girl_. Never
was such a girl! Quite a NINON DE L'ENCLOS! Beautiful for ever! Still
dreaming of Marble Halls (Music Halls nowadays) "with vassals and
serfs by her si-i-ide," and no better Bohemian Girl to be seen just
now than Madame ALBU as _Arline_. So "Arl in to begin!" and see and
hear BALFE'S pretty little Girl of Bohemia while she is still visible
and audible at Drury Lane. Mr. EADIE a trifle gawky as _Thaddeus_, but
then he finds himself in an awkward situation, especially when he has
to fumble for the documentary evidence of his birth, attested at a
Bohemian Registry Office. CARL ARMBRUSTER conducted this, and then up
got Herr FELD "with his little lot," represented by the unrivalled and
unequalled _Cavalleria Rusticana_. Ah! _Cavalleria_ is a treat, even
when its performance is not absolutely perfect. The music is charming
from first to last; ever fresh and delightful.

That wonderful _Intermezzo_ was excellently given, and
enthusiastically encored. As yet the _Intermezzo_ has had no
successful rival. It stands alone, and is, of all compositions, the
most--well, words fail me--it is a whole dramatic story, within a few
bars' compass--it is sweetness and sadness, and then it soothes you to
rest, and so you drop off quietly to sleep, until you are awoke by
the cessation of sound, when you rouse yourself, with an effort, to
applaud, and to beg that you may have just one more delicious dose
of it--and doze from it. Saturday finishes with _Carmen_, and _Sic
transit gloria Operatica_ for the past week. All right up to now!

MUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

SPORTING ANSWERS.--CANINE.

SPECTATOR.--A very curious and interesting little story. We ourselves
once had a dog who on returning home from a walk always chained
himself up in the back-kitchen and bit the butler. He would then howl
bitterly, slip his collar, and run to the nearest police station,
where he gave himself into custody and insisted on cleaning out his
own cell and appearing on the following morning before the Magistrate.
This shows that dogs can reason. Our dog eventually died of being
constantly quoted by Curates a Temperance Lectures. This was
disappointing, as we had never grudged him either attention or
butlers. One of our butlers had a cork leg,--but that is another
story.

SUB SILENTIO.--(1) A dog's chief value is conversational. At afternoon
teas such an animal is a wonderful resource after you have exhausted
the picture-shows, the theatres, and all the scandals. You can lead
off about his pedigree. "He's champion bred on both sides," always
sounds well. A funny man is sure to say, "Champion bread-and-butter
you mean. Ha! ha!" at the same time offering the animal some from the
tea-table, to mark his point. This may be previously arranged, if you
prefer it. Throw in a few stories about his wonderful intelligence in
distinguishing the baker's boy from the mistress of the house, to the
detriment of the former, and wind up by narrating how he once found
his way home to Piccadilly from Pekin. All dogs do this in one way or
another, so you will be quite safe. Then everybody else contributes
his own special Spectatorial dog-story, and your tea will pass off
without a dull or an accurate moment.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW NOT TO DO IT.

(_Act from a Farce ready for Performance pending the settlement of the
Labour Question._)

SCENE--_Interior of a Provided Work Office._ Benevolent Organiser
_discovered looking over a list_.

_Ben. Org._ Yes, I think this will do very well indeed. New pump,
fresh road. Ought to keep them going comfortably through the rest of
the winter. (_Enter_ Unemployed.) Well, my good man, and what do you
want?

_Unemployed_ (_in a whining tone_). Me and my mates, Sir, are out of
work. It's no fault of ours, and----

_Ben. Org._ Well, we will see what we can do.

_Unem._ Thankee kindly, Sir, I'm sure 'arf a sufferin, or even 'arf a
dollar----

_Ben. Org._ (_ignoring this suggestion_). Now, let me see--what's your
trade?

_Unem._ A watch-maker. So you see, as the Press says, you can't send
me to mend roads, or build pumps.

_Ben. Org._ No, no. I have overlooked your class. But stay--I think I
can forward you to a friend. Let me see, what time is it? (_Produces
watch, and lets it fall._) Dear me! It has stopped, as I live! (_With
vivacity._) My dear fellow, here is a chance for you. You shall mend
it.

_Unem._ (_freshening up_). Only too pleased to take your watch.

[_Possesses himself of the time-piece, and exit hurriedly._

[Illustration]

_Enter_ Constable _with_ Unemployed _in custody_.

_Constable._ This your watch, Sir?

_Unem._ (_rapidly_). Which was given to me by the kind gentleman to
mend. But I gladly return it, as me and my mates have determined not
to do any more work for fear that we should injure our brothers who
are doing nothing. [_Exit._

_Constable._ Lucky I kept my eye upon him, Sir. If I hadn't, you would
never have seen him again--nor your watch either.

_Ben. Org._ Is there so much guile in the world?

_Con._ Yes, Sir, a pretty fine lot. But I can't stand palavering or
those rowdies loafing around will pull the house about our ears. When
the Unemployed are idle, the police have enough to do! Ponder over it,
Sir; ponder over it! [_Curtain, and_ Ben. Organiser _left pondering_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A VELL VORN MOTTO.--In his sound and sensible reply to a
congratulatory address, H. E. Cardinal VAUGHAN suggested _"Amare et
servire"_ as the motto for the Christian capitalist. To the first verb
the capitalist would, it is probable, make no objection; but as to the
second, he would be inclined to move as an amendment, that, "for '_i_'
in _servire_ should be substituted '_a_'." At all events, _Amare et
servare_ is the narrower view taken on the broader of the two roads in
life.

       *       *       *       *       *

AUTHOR! AUTHOR!--Mr. J. L. TOOLE advertises that in consequence of
"the Phenomenal Success" of _Walker--London_, it is to be kept going
throughout the season. Excellent. But, for the sake of Mr. J. M.
BARRIE, its talented author, it is to be hoped that the conditions
of the performance of his popular play are not "fee nominal." But for
this J. L. T.--which initials stand for Jenerous Lavish TOOLE--will
have already made ample provision.


[Illustration: WAYS AND MEANS.

_Kitty._ "WELL, VIOLA, I THINK IT'S A PERFECTLY LOVELY PHOTOGRAPH! THE
WORST OF VANBRANDT IS THAT HE'S SO AWFULLY EXPENSIVE. WHAT DID YOU PAY
FOR THESE?"

_Viola._ "OH, I DIDN'T PAY ANYTHING. THEY TOOK ME AS A TYPE OF ENGLISH
BEAUTY, AND GAVE ME HALF-A-DOZEN FOR MYSELF."

_Kitty._ "WHAT A SPLENDID IDEA! I THINK I'LL BE DONE ON THOSE TERMS!"]



DOUBLE BALLADE OF PROPER NAMES.

  I've met (in wax) VOLTAIRE,
    The atheist, TOM PAINE,
  The "blatant beast," HÉBERT,
    Called also "Père DUCHÊNE";
    The bluff Sir HARRY VANE,
  The boys' delight, DEFOE,
    Brave ABRAHAM DUQUESNE,
  And "BAYARD" OUDINOT.

  Fell "JEAN qui rit" BARRÈRE,
    The Tartar, TAMERLANE,
  The "sea-green" ROBESPIERRE,
    The sportive "Pea-Green" HAYNE.
    The boxer, "Big Ben" BRAIN,
  The convert, BENDIGO,
    The social WALTER CRANE,
  And gay BOCCACCIO.

  The gloomy BAUDELAIRE,
    The wise Professor BAIN,
  Truth-loving LABOUCHERE,
    The anatomic QUAIN,
    The dramatist, SEDAINE;
  The polished MARIVAUX,
    The able critic, TAINE,
  And keen LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.

  The learnèd brothers HARE,
    The "mummer," JOHN MACLEAN,
  The dismal poet, BLAIR,
    The funny CORNEY GRAIN;
    That "innocent," MARK TWAIN,
  The Spaniard, CANDAMO,
    The gentle JULIAN FANE,
  And EDGAR ALLAN POE.

  The perjured knight, MACAIRE,
    The recreant BAZAINE,
  The pious LACORDAIRE,
    The Anglophobist, BLAINE;
    The rebel Gen'ral WAYNE,
  The gen'rous WATERLOW,
    The "good time coming" SWAIN,
  And wise old CICERO.

  The Dutch sea-dog, LE MAIRE,
    The warlike Prince EUGÈNE,
  The gallant Earl of STAIR;
    Grim PHILIP, King of Spain,
    Our Saxon ATHELSTANE,
  The false queen, ISABEAU,
    The nine days queen, Queen JANE,
  And Madame D'HOUDETOT.

    My Lady CASTLEMAINE,
  The ghostly Mrs. CROWE,
    The fleshy EVELEEN RAYNE,
  And Mrs. BEECHER STOWE.

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Thursday, April 6._--Met again after so-called
Easter Holidays. Mr. G. early in his place, looking as blooming as the
Spring flower in his buttonhole. "The BRIGHT 'UN from Brighton," was
MARJORIBANKS'S way of announcing the Chief, as he entered from behind
SPEAKER'S Chair. Spoke for hour-and-half on moving Second Reading of
Home-Rule Bill. General impression is everything possible been already
said on subject. This conviction so deeply impressed that Members will
not come back to resume Debate. Benches only half full whilst Mr. G.
delivering what will rank as historic speech. Situation accepted to
extent that ten days or fortnight must be given up to Second-Reading
Debate. Wouldn't be respectful, or even decent, to dispose of stage
of such a measure in less time. Well known that this Sahara of
observation will not influence single vote. If arrangements had been
made with due notice to take division to-night, after Mr. G. had
urged Second Reading of Bill, and HICKS-BEACH had moved rejection, the
majority would have been exactly the same as it will be a fortnight
hence, when end is reached after multitudinous talk. Not by a vote
more, nor a vote less, will Government majority be varied. Still,
usual thing to talk for week or fortnight upon Bill of this kind.
House will not fail in its duty to QUEEN and Country. A dolorous
prospect, judging from to-night's experience. Mr. G. kept audience
well together. Members increased as he spoke; but when ST. MICHAEL
rose, audience dispersed like leaves in wintry weather.

"An excellent fellow BEACH," said CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, "But in his House
of Commons speech always gives one the idea that, through a blameless
existence, he has been rolled upon by the melancholy ocean."

[Illustration: "THE POLITICAL SANDOW."

HOW MUCH MORE WILL HE BEAR?]

Certainly his speech has depressing effect. Members, with one consent,
go out to think over what he is probably going to say. Convenient
arrangement for them, but does not add to hilarity of proceedings, or
vary impression CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN'S figure of speech conveys.

After BEACH, BIRRELL, with a new chapter of _Obiter Dicta_. Some of
the smartest things addressed to the empty seat where CHAMBERLAIN
should have been on view. But JOSEPH not yet come up out of Egypt. Had
he been here, and House a little fuller, the new chapter would have
gone off capitally. As things turned out, there was a fatal unreality
in situation, which House quick to realise. Pretty to see Members, as
BIRRELL struggled with his notes, involuntarily sniffing, as if they
recognised familiar whiff of midnight lamp.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE UPPER G."

   "When the fair land of Poland
    Was ploughed by the hoof
  Of the ruthless invader until
    The down-trodden serfs
    With small hope and no 'oof'
  Demanded a great Home-Rule Bill!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"Worst of these impromptus prepared beforehand," said ST. JOHN
BRODRICK, himself a master of spontaneous speech, "is, you never know
in what circumstances they may have to be delivered."

Towards midnight, some refreshment in the incursion of SWIFT MACNEILL.
Came up smiling; handing himself round, as it were, for inspection,
as sample of kind of persecution of Protestants that would follow
in Ulster on enactment of Home-Rule Bill. "I'm a Protestant, Mr.
SPEAKER," he shouted, beaming on the Chair, "and I'm sent here by
a majority of 2,500 Catholic peasants to represent an Ulster
Constituency."

SWIFT MACNEILL'S smile infectious. It illumined with something of
saintly halo the depressed figure of Dr. BARTON, who, again breaking
his vow of silence, confessed that yesterday he had been enrolled
as Member of an Organisation in Ulster sworn to resist Home-Rule. "I
don't know, Mr. SPEAKER," he said, in hoarse whisper, "what that
act may involve, and I don't care. It may lead to my spending the
remainder of my days in penal servitude." Whereat the jaded House
merrily laughed.

_Business done._--Second Reading Home-Rule Bill moved.

_Friday._--A dull night, my masters. Still harping on Home Rule.
Second night's debate on Second Reading. Naturally supposed to be
in heyday of vigour. But Benches empty; level of oratory third-rate;
STANSFELD a hoary Triton among the Minnows; ELLIS ASHMEAD BARTLETT
(Knight) gloomily views the scene. "Thought you were going to speak
to-night?" I said, "Read the announcement in the papers." Never forget
the haughty, withering glance of ELLIS ASHMEAD.

"Sir," he said, "I talk only with my peers."

So suppose we shall have him one day next week, when CHAMBERLAIN,
GRANDOLPH, and BALFOUR take part in fray. Begins to look as if, for
all practical purposes, might as well have deferred meeting of House
till Monday.

"Mr. G. a great man," says DAVITT. "Insisted upon us coming back on
Thursday, to debate Home-Rule Bill. He can do most things; he can
bring a horse to the water, but he can't make him debate."

_Business done._--Eight hours' talk round Home-Rule Bill.

[Illustration: The Hattitude of Dr. Tanner, Thursday morning, April 6.]

       *       *       *       *       *

QUEER QUERIES.

[Illustration]

INFLUENCE OF MUSIC.--I recently noticed a paragraph in a Medical
Journal advising persons suffering from Insomnia to try a musical box
in their bed-rooms; and I therefore purchased a rather expensive one,
which plays six tunes, with drum and trumpet accompaniment. Something
seems to have gone wrong with the mechanism, as, after being fully
wound up, it remains obstinately silent for an hour or so, at the
end of which period it suddenly starts off at break-neck speed, and
repeats one of the tunes backwards over and over again. Nothing that
I can do will stop it. Could some musical expert kindly advise in
this case? After a most agitated night, due to the vagaries of the
instrument, I took it into bed with me, hoping to drown the noise; but
the vibration of the drums under the bed-clothes was terrific! I
then placed the machine in my bath, and covered it with water; but it
continued to play with undiminished vigour. It is still playing. Some
Museum, or a Government engaged in sub-marine experiments, might like
to have it; or it might be suited for a Deaf and Dumb Asylum. It will
be sold cheap.

  ST. CECILIAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sedantary!

    ["Several carriage-makers in London have, it is said, received
    orders of late for Sedan chairs."--_Daily Paper._]


  WHAT wonder if our hansom-hiring Fair
    Should now adopt a coach distinctly rarer?
  As Cabby often treats them like a bear,
    Henceforth our ladies may prefer a bearer!

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE SILVER SHELL."--Mr. H. J. W. DAM'S new Play (the initial letters,
save the name--and as to the name, _absit omen!_) treats of Russian
life. There is a "toff" in it, played by Mr. KENDAL, whose name is
_Prince Karatoff_, which reminds us of the _Duke of Turniptop_. Or,
if he is an _insouciant_ sort of person, he would more properly be
titled, _Prince Don't-Kar-a-toff_. Unfortunate name, too, is _Boris
Ivanitch_. Perhaps a Big Bore is _Ivanitch_; and as to the family
title, Ivanitch--well, considered theatrically, it sounds unpleasantly
like belonging to a scratch company. There's a bomb in it, which, we
were informed, in a _D. T._ note, "appears as part of the furniture
of a drawing-room." The entire furniture-covering is made, we are
privately informed, of "bombazine," and the explosion may be expected
to be terrific. For the sake of the clever Managers of the Court,
not forgetting their H. J. W. DAM clever author, we trust _The Silver
Shell_ will be, for many months to come, an occasion for the public to
silver shell out.



       *       *       *       *       *



Transcibers note:

   Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected.

   Page 178: 'fou' corrected to 'you'. (What did you Pay for these?)





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