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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, June 20, 1891
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, Volume 100, June 20, 1891" ***

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 100.



June 20, 1891.



ON THE RIVER.

[Illustration]

  A light canoe, a box of cigarettes,
          Sunshine and shade;
  A conscience free from love or money debts
          To man or maid;

  A book of verses, tender, quaint, or gay,
          DOBSON or LANG;
  Trim yew-girt gardens, echoing the day
          When HERRICK sang;

  A Thames-side Inn, a salad, and some fruit,
          Beaune or Hochheimer;--
  Are simple joys, but admirably suit
          An idle rhymer.

       *       *       *       *       *

A 'BUS 'OSS'S MEMS.

(_KEPT DURING A RECENT SOCIAL CRISIS._)

_Saturday, June 6_, 11 P.M.--Home after our last turn. Fancy from
several drinks had on the way, and the pace we had to put into that
last mile and a half, that something's up. Turned into stall nice and
comfortable, as usual.

_Sunday_.--Something is up with a vengeance. Hoorooh! We're on strike.
I don't know the rights of it, nor don't care, as long as I have my
bit of straw to roll in, and a good feed twice a day. I wonder, by
the way, if the fellow who looks after my oats is "off." Past feeding
time. Feel uneasy about it. Hang it all, I would rather work for _my_
living, than be tied up here doing nothing without a feed! Ha! here he
is, thank goodness, at last. However, better late than never. Capital
fun this strike.

_Monday_.--Am sent out in a loyal omnibus. Hooted at and frightened
with brickbats. Felt half inclined to shy. Halloa! what's this? Hit on
the ribs with a paving-stone. Come, I won't stand this. Kick and back
the 'bus on to the pavement. All the windows smashed by Company's men.
Passengers get out. Somebody cuts the traces, and I allow myself to be
led back to the stables. Don't care about this sort of fun. However,
feed all right.

_Tuesday_.--Hear that the men want thirteen and sixpence a day and
a seven hours' turn. Directors offer five and sixpence, and make the
minimum seventeen hours. Go it, my hearties! Fight away! Who cares?
You must feed _me_, that's quite certain. Still I don't care about
being cooped up here all day. Nasty feeling of puffiness about the
knees. Hang the strike!

_Wednesday_.--Puffiness worse. Vet. looks in and says I want exercise.
Take a bolus and am walked for half an hour or so up and down some
back-streets. Bless them!--that ain't no good.

_Thursday_.--Puffiness worse, of course. Bother it all, being shut up
here! What wouldn't I give just for a sight of dear old Piccadilly!
The fact is, if they don't soon let me have my run from King's Cross
to Putney, I shall "bust up"--and that's a fact. I feel it.

_Friday_.--Ah, they may well come to terms! Another day of this, and I
believe I should have been off the hooks "for ever and for aye." It's
all very well for Capital and Labour to get at loggerheads, but, as
DUCROW said, they must cut all their disputes short if they wish to
save anything of their business, and look sharp, and "come to the
'osses."

_Saturday, 13th_.--Strike over! We shall have to be in harness again
on Monday, and not a day too soon, in the interests of the men, the
Directors, the Public; and, last, but by no means least, specially
that of "the 'osses."

       *       *       *       *       *

IN MEMORIAM.

"OLD TO-MORROW."

THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN ALEXANDER MACDONALD, LATE PREMIER OF CANADA.

  Punch sympathises with Canadian sorrow
  For him known lovingly as "OLD TOMORROW."
  Hail to "the Chieftain!" He lies mute to-day,
  But Fame still speaks for him, and shall for aye.
  "To-morrow--and to-morrow!" SHAKSPEARE sighs.
  So runs the round of time! Man lives and dies.
  But death comes not with mere surcease of breath
  To such as him. "The road to dusty death"
  Not "all his yesterdays." have lighted. Nay!
  Canada's "OLD TO-MORROW" lives to-day
  In unforgetting hearts, and nothing fears
  The long to-morrow of the coming years.

       *       *       *       *       *

LEAVES FROM A CANDIDATE'S DIARY.

_Billsbury, Wednesday, May 28th_.--Great doings here to-day. For
weeks past all the Conservative Ladies of Billsbury have been hard at
work, knitting, sewing, painting, embroidering, patching, quilting,
crocheting, and Heaven knows what besides, for the Bazaar in aid of
the Conservative Young Men's Club and Coffee-Room Sustentation Fund.
You couldn't call at any house in Billsbury without being nearly
smothered in heaps of fancy-work of every kind. When I was at the
PENFOLDS' on Monday afternoon, the drawing-room was simply littered
with bonnets and hats, none of them much larger than a crown piece,
which Miss PENFOLD had been constructing. She tried several of them
on, in order to get my opinion as to their merits. She looked very
pretty in one of them, a cunning arrangement of forget-me-nots and
tiny scraps of pink ribbon. Mother promised some time ago to open the
Bazaar, though she assured me she had never done such a thing before,
and added that I must be sure to see that the doors moved easily, as
new doors were so apt to stick, and she didn't know what she should
do if she had to struggle over the opening. I comforted her by telling
her she would only have to say a few brief words on a platform,
declaring the Bazaar open. For the last week I have had a letter from
her by absolutely every post, sending draft speeches for my approval.
After much consideration I selected one of these, which I returned to
her. I heard from home that she was very busily occupied for some time
in learning it by heart. When cook came for orders in the morning, she
was forced to listen while Mother said over the speech to her. Cook
was good enough to express a high opinion of its beauties.

Yesterday evening Mother arrived, with the usual enormous amount of
luggage, including the inevitable _Carlo_. After dinner I heard her
repeat the speech, which went off very well. This is it:--"Ladies
and Gentlemen, I am so pleased to be here to-day, and to have the
opportunity of helping the dear Conservative cause in Billsbury. I am
sure you are all so anxious to buy as many of these lovely things as
you can, and I therefore lose no time in declaring the Bazaar open."
Simple, but efficient.

The opening to-day was fixed for 2:30, the Bazaar being held in the
large room of the Assembly Rooms, which had been arranged to represent
an Old English Tillage. At one o'clock Colonel and Mrs. CHORKLE,
Alderman and Mrs. TOLLAND, and one or two others, lunched with us, and
afterwards we all drove off together in a procession of carriages. I
insisted on _Carlo_ being left behind, locked up in Mother's bed-room,
with a dish of bones to comfort him, and an old dress of Mother's to
lie on. That old dress has been devoted to _Carlo_ for the last two
years, and no amount of persuasion will induce _Carlo_ to take another
instead. We tried him with a much better one a short time ago, but
he was furious, tore it to ribbons and refused his food until his old
disreputable dress had been restored to him.

The Bazaar proceedings began with a short prayer delivered by the
Bishop of BRITISH GUIANA, an old Billsbury Grammar-School boy, who
was appointed to the bishopric a month ago. Everybody is making a
tremendous fuss about him here of course. As soon as the prayer was
over, Colonel CHORKLE rose and made what he would call one of his
"'appiest hefforts." The influence of lovely woman, Conservative
principles, devotion to the Throne, the interests of the Conservative
Young Men's Sustentation Fund, all mixed up together like a hasty
pudding. Then came the moment for Mother. First, however, WILLIAMINA
HENRIETTA SMITH CHORKLE had to be removed outside for causing a
disturbance. Her father's speech so deeply affected this intelligent
infant, who had come under the protection of her nurse, that she burst
out into a loud yell and refused to be comforted. The Colonel's face
was a study--a mixture of drum-head Courts-martial and Gatling guns.
Mother got through with her little speech all right. As a matter
of fact she read it straight off a sheet of paper, having finally
decided that her memory was too treacherous. We both set to work and
bought an incredible amount of things. After half an hour I found
myself in possession of six bonnets made by Miss PENFOLD, three
knitted waistcoats, four hand-painted screens, two tea-tables also
hand-painted, a lady's work-basket, three fancy shawls, a set of glass
studs and a double perambulator, which I won in a raffle. Mother got
three dog-collars, a set of shaving materials (won in a raffle),
two writing cases, five fans, two pictures by a local artist, four
paper-knives, two carved cigar-boxes, a set of tea things, and five
worked table-covers.

When we got back, we found that _Carlo_ had nearly gnawed his way
through the bed-room door, and was growling horribly at the boots and
the chambermaid through the keyhole. Charming dog!

       *       *       *       *       *

SIMIAN TALK.

  Professor GARNERS, in the _New Review_
  Tells us that "Apes can talk." _That's_ nothing new;
  Reading much "Simian" literary rot,
  One only wishes that our "Apes" could _not_!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW TALE OF A TUB; OR, THE NOT-AT-HOME SECRETARY AND THE
LAUNDRESSES.

[Illustration: "CAN'T SEE YOU NOW, I'M WASHING--MYSELF."

"The Women are crying out for the protection of the Factory Acts,
which has hitherto been denied them, and which the Home Secretary
declines to pledge the Government to support."--_Daily Telegraph,
Friday, June 12th._]

_London Laundry-woman, to her Tub-mate, loquitur_:--

  They tell us the Tub is humanity's friend, and that Cleanliness is of
      closest kin
  To all things good. By the newest gospel 'tis held that Dirt is the
      friend of Sin.
  Well, I'm not so sure that the world's far wrong in that Worship of
      Washing that's all the rage;
  But we, its priestesses, sure might claim a cleanly life and a decent
      wage!

  Listen, BET, from your comfortless seat on the turned-up pail,--if
      you've got the time;
  Isn't it queer that Society's cleansers must pass their lives amidst
      muck and grime?
  Spotless flannels no doubt are nice--and snowy linen is "swell" and sweet,
  But steaming reek is around our heads, and trickling foulness about our
      feet.

  If the dainty ladies whose linen we lave, we laundress drudges, could
      look in _here_,
  Wouldn't their feet shrink back with sickness, and wouldn't their faces
      go pale with fear?
  White, well-ironed, all sheen and sweetness, that linen looks when it
      leaves our hands;
  But they little think of the sodden squalor that marks the den where
      the laundress stands.

  Scrub, scrub, scrub, at the reeking tub, for eighteen hours at a
      stretch, perchance,
  Till our bowed backs ache, and our knuckles smart, and the lights through
      the steam like spectres dance;
  Ankle-deep in the watery sludge, where the tile is loose or the drainage
      blocked!
  Oh, I haven't a doubt that the dainty dames--if they only knew!--would be
      sorely shocked.

  Typhoid! Terribly menacing word, the whisper of which would destroy our
      trade;
  But dirt, and damp, and defective drainage will raise that ghost on a
      world afraid;
  And at thirty years our strength is sapped by insidious siege of the
      stifling fume,
  Or what if we linger a little longer? Scant rays of comfort such life
      illume.

  Grievances, BET? Well, I make no doubt that the world of idlers is
      sorely sick
  Of the moans and groans of the likes of us. When the whip, the needle,
      the spade, the pick,
  Are all on strike for a higher wage, 'tis a worry, of course, to the
      well-to-do,
  And a sleek Home-Sec, must "decline to pledge" support official to me
      and you.

  Of course, of course! Who are we, my dear, to bother the big-wigs and
      stir their bile?
  Why, it's all along of our "discontent," and the Agitator's insidious
      guile.
  But Labour, BET, is agog just now to revise the old one-sided pacts,
  And even a Laundress may have an eye to the benefit of the Factory Acts.

  Those bad, bad 'Busmen, BET my girl, claim shorter hours, and a longer
      pay;
  Just think of such for the Slaves of the Tub! Why should we women not
      have our say
  In the Park o' Sunday, like DAN the Docker, or TOM the Tailor, or WILL
      the "Whip"?
  The Tub and the Ironing-board appear to have got a chance--which they
      mustn't let slip:

  An Object Lesson in Laundress Labour, may move the callous and shame
      the quiz.
  We dream of "Washing as well it might be"; we'll show them "Washing as
      now it is."
  _We_ know it, BET, in the sodden wet and the choking fume; with the
      aching back,
  The long, long hours, and the typhoid taint, the inverted pail and the
      hurried snack.

  There may--who knows?--be hope for us yet, for you and me, BET! Just
      think o' that!
  Oh, I know it is hard to believe it, my girl. The Sweater's strong, and
      appeal falls flat
  On official ears; and fine-lady fears, and household hurry against us go;
  But "evil is wrought by want of thought." says some poet, I think;--so
      we'll let them _know_!

  Ah! snowy sheets and sweet lavender scent of the dear old days in my
      village home!
  The breadths of linen a-bleach on the grass! How little I thought that
      to this I'd come
  Grand ladies of old to their laundry looked, and the tubs were white,
      and the presses fair;
  Now we cleansers clean in the midst of dirt, in a dank, dark den, with
      a noisome air.

  Sometimes I dream till the clouds of steam take the shadowy form of a
      spectral thing,
  A tyrant terror that threatens our lives, whilst we rub and scrub, whilst
      we rinse and wring.
  Well, cheer up, BET, girl, stiffen your lip, and straighten your back.
      You have finished your grub,
  So to work once more; if our champions score, we _may_ find a new end to
      this Tale of a Tub!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A CURE FOR INFLUENZA.

_Major O'Gourmand_. "SURE, ME DOCTHOR SAID A GLASS OR TWO OF DRY
CHAMPAGNE'LL DO ME GOOD! BEGORRAH, THE BOTTLE'S DRY ENOUGH BY THIS TIME!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

STRIKING INTELLIGENCE.--A PAGE FROM A LONDONER'S DIARY.

_Sunday_.--Can scarcely believe the news! What, no omnibuses! A
strike! What _shall_ we do? Fortunately always go to church on foot,
so no loss in that. Then subsequent parade in the Park--don't require
an omnibus for that, either. At the end of the day, can say that, take
one thing with another, state of affairs more comfortable than might
have been anticipated.

_Monday_.--Dreaded continuance of strike, but found, practically,
little inconvenience. Had to walk to the office, and enjoyed the
promenade immensely. Had no idea that a stroll along the Embankment
was so delightful. After all, one can exist without omnibuses--at
least, for a time.

_Tuesday_.--Find that people who were at their wits' end at the mere
suggestion of a strike, are becoming reconciled to the situation.
Streets certainly pleasanter without the omnibuses. Great, lumbering
conveyances, filling up the road, and stopping the traffic! London
looks twice as well without them! Tradesmen, too, say that the shops
are just as well attended now as when the two great Companies were in
full swing.

_Wednesday_.--Can't see what the omnibus people (both sides--Directors
and _employés_) are quarrelling about. No matter of mine, and the
Public are only too glad for a chance of a good walk. Fifty per cent.
better since I have been obliged to give up the morning 'bus. Asked
to-day to contribute something in support of the strikers. Certainly
not, the longer the strike lasts the worse for the Public.

_Thursday_.--Really the present state of affairs is delightful. I
have to thank the deadlock for teaching me to patronise the river
steamboats. Pleasant journey from Vauxhall to the Temple for a penny!
No idea that the Thames was so pretty at Westminster. View of the
Houses of Parliament and the Embankment capital.

_Friday_.--Strike continues. Well I do not complain. Hired a hansom
and find that considering the cab takes you up to door, it is really
cheaper in the long run. If you use an omnibus, you get jolted, and
run a chance of smashing your hat. If it rains you get splashed and
having to finish your journey on foot, you might just as well have
walked the whole way.

_Saturday_.--Strike arranged to cease on Monday! This is too much!
Just as we were getting comfortable, all the disgusting lumbering old
omnibuses are to come back again! It ought not to be allowed. Asked
to-day to contribute something in support of the strikers. Certainly,
the longer the strike lasts the better for the Public.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WHO'D HAVE THOUGHT IT?!!

_First Slender Invalid_. "I SAY, OLD MAN, WHAT A BEASTLY THING THIS
INFLUENZA IS, EH? I'M JUST GETTING OVER IT."

_His Wasting Friend_. "AH! YOU'RE RIGHT, MY BOY! I'VE HAD IT TOO, AND
THE WORST OF IT IS, IT _PULLS A FELLOW DOWN_ SO FEARFULLY!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

EXPLANATIONS À LA MODE.

(_A PROPHETIC FORECAST, BY A PROFESSIONAL PESSIMIST._)

1891. The Leader of the House explains, in answer to a question, that
no understanding exists between England and any Foreign country. No
treaty is in contemplation, and never has been suggested on either
side.

1892. The Government repeats that England is absolutely free from any
international engagements. It must not be thought for a moment that a
single battalion will be moved, or a solitary vessel dispatched abroad
with warlike intentions.

1893. The Representative of the Cabinet once more denies the
suggestion that, under any consideration whatever, will England
bind herself to accept European responsibility. This has been said
constantly for the last three years, and the Representative of
the Cabinet is not only surprised but pained at these frequent and
embarrassing interrogations.

1894. Once more, and for the last time, the PREMIER insists that
whatever may happen abroad, England will be free from interference.
It has been the policy of this great country for the last four years
to steer clear of all embarrassing international complications. The
other Great Powers are perfectly aware that, under no circumstances
whatever, will our Army and Fleet be employed in taking part in
the quarrels of our neighbours. The entire Cabinet are grieved at
questions so frequently put to them--questions that are not only
disquieting abroad, but a slur upon the intentions of men whose sole
duty is the safety and peace of the British Empire.

1895. General European War--England in the midst of it!

       *       *       *       *       *

VOCES POPULI.

BEFORE THE MECHANICAL MODELS.

A SKETCH AT THE ROYAL NAVAL EXHIBITION.

    SCENE--_The Grounds. A string of Sightseers discovered passing
    slowly in front of a row of glazed cases containing small
    mechanical figures, which are set in motion in the usual
    manner._

BEFORE A SCENE REPRESENTING A DYING CHILD.

_A Gallant Swain_. That's the kid in bed, yer see. Like to see it die,
POLLY, eh? A penny does it.

_Polly_ (_with a giggle_). Well, if it ain't _too_ 'arrowing. (_The
penny is dropped in, and the mechanical mother is instantly agitated
by the deepest maternal anxiety._) That's the mother kneeling by the
bed, I suppose--she do pray natural. There's the child waking up--see,
it's moving its 'ed. (_The little doll raises itself in bed, and then
falls back lifeless._) Ah, it's gone--look at the poor mother 'idin'
her face.

_The G.S._ Well, it's all over. Come along and see something more
cheerful.

_Polly_. Wait a bit--it isn't 'alf over yet. There's a angel got to
come and carry her away fust--there, the door's opening, that'll be
the angel come for it, I expect. (_Disappointed._) No, it's only
the doctor. (_A jerky and obviously incompetent little medical
practitioner puts his head in at the door, and on being motioned back
by the bereaved mother, retires with more delicacy than might have
been expected._) Well, he might ha' seen for himself if the child
_was_ dead! (_The back of the bed disappears, disclosing a well-known
picture of an angel flying upwards with a child._) I did think they'd
have a real angel, and not only a picture of one, and anyone can see
it's a different child--there's the child in bed just the same. I call
that a take-in!

_The G.S._ I dunno what more you expect for a penny.

_A Person on the Outskirts_ (_eagerly to Friend_). What happened? What
is it? I couldn't make it out over all the people's shoulders.

_His Friend_. Dying child--not half bad either. You go and put in a
penny, and you'll see it well enough.

_The P. on the O._ (_indignantly_). What, put in a penny for such
rubbish? Not me!

    [_He hangs about till someone else provides the necessary
    coin._

_A Softhearted Female_. No, I couldn't stand there and look on. I
never _can_ bear them pathetic subjects. I felt just the same
with that picture of the Sick Child at the Academy, you know.
(_Meditatively._) And you don't have to put a penny in for _that_,
either.

BEFORE ANOTHER BEDROOM SCENE REPRESENTING "THE DRUNKARD'S DELIRIUM."

_First Woman_. That's 'im in bed, with the bottle in his 'and. He
likes to take his liquor comfortable, _he_ do.

_Second Woman_. He's very neat and tidy, considering ain't he? I
wonder what his delirium is like. 'Ere, ROSY, come and put your penny
in as the gentleman give yer. (_ROSY, aged six, sacrifices her penny,
under protest._) Now, you look--you can't think what pretty things
you'll see.

    [_The little wooden drunkard sits up, applies the bottle to
    his mouth, and sinks back contentedly; a demon, painted a
    pleasing blue, rises slowly by his bed-side: the drunkard
    takes a languid interest in him; the demon sinks._

_A Gentleman with a bloated complexion_ (_critically_). 'Ooever
did that--well, I dessay he's a very clever man,
but--(_compassionately_)--he don't know much about 'orrors, _he_
don't!

_A Facetious Friend. You_ could ha' told him a thing or two, eh, JIM?

_The Bloated Gentleman_ (_contemptuously_). Well, if I never 'ad them
wuss than _that_!

    [_A small skeleton, in a shroud, looks in at the door._

_The F.F._ 'Ullo, 'ere's the King o' Terrors for yer! (_ROSY shows
signs of uneasiness; a blue demon comes out of a cupboard._) 'Ere's
another of 'em--quite a little party he's 'aving!

_A Gentleman, in a white tie_ (_as the machinery stops_). Well, a
thing like this does more real good than many a temperance tract.

_The Bloated G._ Yer right there, Guv'nor--it's bin a lesson to _me_,
I know that. 'Ere, will you come and 'ave a whiskey-sour along of me
and my friend 'ere'?

BEFORE A MODEL REPRESENTING AN EXECUTION.

_A Daughter_. But _why_ won't you 'put a penny into this one, Father?

_The Father_ (_firmly_). Because I don't approve of Capital
Punishment, my dear.

_A Cultivated Person_. An execution--"put a penny in; bell
tolls--gates open--scaffold shown with gallows. Executioner pulls
bolt--black flag"--dear, dear--most degrading, shocking taste! (_To
his Friend._) Oh, of course, I'll wait, if you want to see it--not got
a penny? Let me see--yes, _I_ can lend you one. (_He does; the penny
is put in--nothing happens._) Out of order, I suppose--scandalous! and
nobody to speak to about it--_most_ discreditable! Stop--what's
this? (_A sort of woolly beat is audible inside the prison; the C.P.
beams._) That's the bell tolling--it's all right, it's working! [_It
works._

_Another Spectator_. Very well done, that was--but they 'urried it
over a little too quick. I scarcely saw the man 'ung at all!

_His Companion_. Put in another penny, and p'raps you'll see him cut
down, old chap.

BEFORE THE FAIRY FORTUNE-TELLER'S GROTTO.

_Susan Jane_ (_to her Soldier_.) Oh, ain't that pretty? I should like
to know what _my_ fortune is. [_She feels in her pocket._

_The Soldier_ (_who disapproves of useless expenditure_). Ain't you
put in enough bloomin' pennies?

_Susan Jane_. This is the last. (_Reads Directions_.) Oh, you've got
to set the finger on the dial to the question you want answered, and
then put your penny in. What shall I ask her?

_Soldier_. Anyone would think you meant to go by the answer, to hear
you talk!

_Susan Jane_. P'raps I do. (_Coquettishly, as she sets the index to a
printed question._) Now, you mustn't look. I won't 'ave _you_ see what
I ask!

_Soldier_ (_loftily_). _I_ don't want to look, I tell yer--it's
nothing to me.

_Susan Jane_. But you _are_ looking--I saw you. [_A curious and deeply
interested crowd collects around them._

_Soldier_. Honour bright, I ain't seen nothing. Are you going to be
all night over this 'ere tomfoolery?

    [_SUSAN JANE puts in a penny, blushing and tittering; a faint
    musical tinkle is heard from the case, and the little fairies
    begin to revolve in a solemn and mystic fashion; growing
    excitement of crowd. A pasteboard bower falls aside, revealing
    a small disc on which a sentence is inscribed._

_Person in Crowd_ (_reading slowly over SUSAN JANE's shoulder_).
"Yus; 'e is treuly worthy of your love."

_Crowd_ (_delighted_). That's worth a penny to know, _ain't_ it, Miss?
_Your_ mind's easy now! It's the soldier she was meanin'. Ah,_'e_
ought to feel satisfied too, after that! &c., &c. [_Confusion of
SUSAN JANE._

_Soldier_ (_as he departs with S.J._). Well, yer know, there's
something _in_ these things, when all's said!

IN DEPARTING.

_A Pleased Pleasure-seeker_. Ah, that's something like, that is! I've
seen the 'Aunted Miser, and the Man with the 'Orrors, and a Execution,
and a Dyin' Child--they do make you _larf_, yer know!

_Second P.P._ Yes, it's a pity the rest o'the Exhibition ain't more
the same style, to my thinking!

_A Captious Critic_. Well, they don't seem to me to 'ave much to do
with anything _naval_.

_His Companion_. Why, it comes under machinery, don't it? You're so
bloomin' particular, you are! Wouldn't touch a glass o' beer 'ere,
unless it was brewed with salt-water, I suppose! Well, come on,
then--there's a bar 'andy!

    [_They adjourn for refreshment._

       *       *       *       *       *

PROVERBS PRO OMNIBUS.--Directly the Chairman of the General Omnibus
Company observed that if the men's demands were conceded the fares
would have to be raised, there was a rush to be the first out with
the old proverb about Penny wise and Pound foolish. However, "In for a
penny" remains as heretofore, the _employés_ having successfully gone
"in for a Pound." Let them now "take care of the pence," and they may
feel well assured that this particular POUND will be able to take care
of himself. Well, farewell the tranquillity of the streets of last
week! Henceforth not "chaos," but "'Bus 'os," has come again!

       *       *       *       *       *

NOLENS VOLENS.

[Illustration]

Dear MR. PUNCH,--I hear that some people are in a great state of mind
lest some blessed Bill brought in by the Government, should "destroy
Voluntary Schools." What howling bosh! Why, there _are no_ Voluntary
Schools! No, they're all Compulsory, confound 'em! or who'd attend
'em? Not Yours disgustedly,

A HUMAN BOY.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. WELLER & CO., AND THE 'BUS STRIKE.--Mr. SUTHERST seems to occupy,
as towards the 'Bus-drivers, a similar position to that filled by the
eminent _Mr. Solomon Pell_, the general adviser, and man of business
to the Elder _Mr. Weller_, and his professional coaching brethren. It
is to be hoped that the _Solomon Pell_ of the 'Bus-drivers has been
treated as liberally as was the real _Mr. Pell_, the friend of the
LORD CHANCELLOR, by _Mr. Weller_ Senior, the Mottle-faced Man, and
others.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

The most interesting book, one of the Baron's Retainers ("blythe and
gay,") has read this year is, _The Life of Laurence Oliphant_. If it
were not written by a reputable person, and published by so eminently
respectable a house as BLACKWOOD's, there would be difficulty about
accepting it as a true story of the life of a man whom some of us
knew, as lately living in London, wearing a frock coat, and even a
tall hat of cylindrical shape. Such a mingling of shrewd business
qualities and March madness as met in LAURENCE OLIPHANT is surely a
new thing. A man of gentle birth, of high culture, of wide experience,
of supreme ability, and, strangest of all, with a keen sense of
humour--that such an one should voluntarily step down from high social
position at the bidding of a vulgar, selfish, self-seeking, and,
according to some hints dropped here and there, grossly immoral man,
should, at beck of his fat forefinger, go forth to a strange land
to live amid sordid circumstances, and with uncongenial company, to
work as a common, farm-labourer, to peddle strawberries at a railway
station, passes belief. With respect to Mr. HARRIS, one feels inclined
to quote _Betsy Prig's_ remark touching one who may, peradventure,
have been a maternal relation. "I don't believe," said _Betsy_,
"there's no sich a person." But there was, and, stranger still,
there was a LAURENCE OLIPHANT to bend the knee to him. Not the least
striking thing in a book of rare value is the manner in which Mrs.
OLIPHANT has acquitted herself in a peculiarly difficult task. No man
would have had the restraining patience necessary to deal with the
HARRIS episodes as she has done.

The Assistant Reader has been refreshing himself with _Lapsus Calami_,
by J.K.S., published by MACMILLAN and BOWES. It is a booklet of light
verse, containing here and there some remarkably brilliant pieces
of satire and parody. The first of two parodies of ROBERT BROWNING
is unsurpassable for successful audacity. The last poem in the book
is "An Election Address," written for, but apparently not used by,
the present POSTMASTER-GENERAL, when he was Candidate for Cambridge
University, in 1882. He says of himself, after confessing to a dislike
for literature and science,--

  "But I have fostered, guided, planned
  Commercial enterprise; in me
  Some ten or twelve directors, and
  Six worthy chairmen you may see."

All the pieces are not so good as those cited--that would be too much
to expect--but "get it," say

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.

       *       *       *       *       *

MORTUARY.

  ANDREW LANGUAGE--no, LANG!--who the classics is pat in,
    Suggests to our writers, as test of their "style,"
  Just to turn their equivocal prose into Latin,
    As DRYDEN did. Truly the plan makes one smile!
  Reviewers find Novelists' nonsense much weary 'em.
      Writers of twaddle
      Take DRYDEN a model--
  Turn your books into some great "_dead_ language"--and _bury_ 'em!

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT THEY HAVE BEEN TOLD DOWN EAST;

_OR, A MAUVAIS JEW D'ESPRIT._

Will you, if you please, point out to me the way to the streets which,
I am told, are paved with gold?

Where shall I find the employer of labour who, I have been told, will
instantly get me occupation at a wage of 60 roubles the week?

Dear me! in this, then, your "White Chapel"? I was told it was a
luxurious quarter, famous for its Palaces.

Surely this horrid den is not one of your model work-rooms? I was told
that such things existed only in Russia!

And are these people who are scowling at and cursing me your typical
working population? Why, I was told that I should find them dear
brothers, waiting to welcome us with open arms.

And is this pittance you offer me all that you pay for making a coat?
I was told that it was quite twelve times as much as this.

Ah! I'm afraid I have been told, and have given credit to, a great
many things to which I never should have listened at all.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FELINE AMENITIES.

_Lady Godiva de Rougepott_. "I DON'T THINK ANY PAINTING LOOKS WELL IN
THIS HORRID ELECTRIC LIGHT!"

_Hostess_ (_nettled_). "DON'T YOU, DEAR? PERHAPS YOU WOULD PREFER TO
REMAIN IN THE DRAWING-ROOM, WHERE THE LAMPS AND SHADES ARE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FRUIT OF THE SESSION.

    "To the bi-monthly exhibition of the Royal Horticultural
    Society the Marquis of SALISBURY sent a magnificent
    collection--of strawberries especially. Mr. W.H. SMITH showed
    specimens of the same luscious fruit, for which he received
    the thanks of the Society."--_Daily Telegraph_.

_Head-Gardener_ SM-TH _soliloquiseth_:--

OHO! my beauty! If _you_ don't get a fust prize, and "receive the
thanks of the Society" I'm a cowcumber! "The Fruits of Early Industry
and Economy." Title of a picture by that splendid sample of the
industrious and the economical, GEORGE MORLAND, I believe. Yes, that's
it. My Industry and G-SCH-N's Economy.

  We are a moral family;
    We are, we are, we are!

All the cardinal virtues bound in--ahem! no matter.

Talk of the Gigantic Gooseberry! What is that apocryphal monstrosity
compared with this Brobdingnagian Berry? [_Sings._

  Bravo, my "British Queen"!
  Long live my "British Queen"!
    Brave "British Queen"!
  Send it victorious,
  First-Prizer glorious,
  Fill Rads censorious
    With envious spleen!

As you _will_, my Beauty! When did swaggering H-RC-RT's horticulture
produce such goodly fruits? Or sour-mug'd M-RL-Y's? Or leary L-BBY's?
Or Slawkenbergian M-ND-LLA's? Or even that of the Grand Old Grower,
GL-DST-NE himself, with all his fluent patter about British Pomona,
and the native Jam-pot?

I know the badly-beaten lot maintain that the plant is a "Sport" from
an old purchase of their own. Bless you, they claim _all_ the good
stocks--always did. Who cares? My young floricultural friend, JOE
of Birmingham, who knows a bit about fruits as well as concerning
orchids, let me tell you,--JOE, I say, laughs their preposterous
pretensions to scorn. Look at G-SCH-N's own particular plant there--a
bit late, but very promising, and probably destined to take a prize
before the season's over. Didn't JOE recommend the stock to GL-DST-NE
years ago? And didn't the haughty Hawarden horticulturist turn up his
nose at it as an "Unauthorised" intruder upon his own Prize Programme?
And, more by token, didn't JOE get the hump in consequence, cut the
old connection, and set up on his own account in the forcing-house
line, with a friendly leaning to our firm? Aha! "_Hinc illæ
lachrymæ_," as the Guv'nor would say. Hence, also, this Colossal
Strawberry!

Thanks of the Society? I should rayther think so! They may chaff
"OLD MORALITY" as much as they like--but morality _pays_, even in
strawberry-growing; and my duty to my (British) Queen has brought
about _this_ triumph. Early Industry started it, and careful
horticultural Economy brought it to its present pitch of perfection.
Look at it! Size, shape, sweetness, scent, all superb! If the Season
shouldn't produce another Prize-Winner, this alone ought to satisfy
SOLLY. And if G-SCH-N's seedling, "Gratis," _should_ turn out a
triumph later on, why we shall score tremendously. Wish G-SCH-N would
"sit up and snort" less, and smile more. Patience and plenty of sun!
That's the tip for a horticulturist. Standing at the door and shying
stones at your neighbour's glasshouses, won't make your own fruit
ripen, if GEORGE JOKIM could only see it. As H-RT D-KE says, _tu
quoques_ are a nuisance, and want fumigating off the face of the
earth. JOKIM and ARTHUR B-LF-R a bit too fond of 'em for _my_ fancy.
However, all the "you're anothers" on earth can't affect my Strawberry
now, thanks be! _The_ Fruit of the Season, though I say it who perhaps
shouldn't.

  (_Sings._) From "Greenlands" sunny garden,
                    And vista'd vitreous panes,
                  We mean to rival Hawarden,
                    In glories and in gains.
                  I have produced, Sweet WILL-I-AM,
                    This Giant Strawber-ry,
                  In horticultural skill I am
                    A match for W.G.! [_Left chortling._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE VERY LAST ON THE 'BUS STRIKE.--After the comparative quiet of last
week, the streets of London will now be as 'bussy as ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE FRUIT OF THE SESSION.

W.H. SM-TH (_Head Gardener and Prize Exhibitor_). "HAD TO NIP OFF A
LOT OF BLOOMS TO GET HIM UP TO THIS SIZE!!"

    "At the Bimonthly Exhibition of the Royal Horticultural
    Society ... Mr. W.H. SMITH showed specimens of the same
    luscious fruit"--strawberries--"for which he received the
    thanks of the Society."--_Daily Telegraph_, Wednesday, June 10.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SHORT-LIVED PLEASURE.

PORTRAIT OF A LITERARY FRIEND, WHO, LIVING IN A MAIN THOROUGHFARE,
WAS AN ARDENT SUPPORTER OF THE 'BUS STRIKE, SUBSCRIBED TO ITS FUNDS,
ADD HOPED IT MIGHT LONG CONTINUE. HE SAYS HE HASN'T HAD SUCH A QUIET
TIME WITH HIS BOOKS FOR YEARS. BUT ALAS! SINCE LAST SUNDAY HE HAS NOT
SMILED AGAIN.]

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. GINGHAM ON THE GREAT 'BUS QUESTION.

    "The demand for 'Buses is immensely stimulated by their
    presence, and when they are no longer there, the people who
    thought them indispensable get on very well indeed without
    them.... Under the influence of penny fares, Londoners are
    rapidly forgetting how to walk."--_The Times_.

  Ah! it's all very fine, my good Sir, whosomever you are as writes such,
  But of decent poor folk and their needs it is plain as you do not know
      much.
  Which I ain't quite so young as I was, nor as light, nor as smart on my
      feet,
  And you may not know quite what it is to be out late o' night and dead
      beat,
  Out Islington way, arter ten, with a bundle, a child, and a cage,
  As canaries is skeery at night, and a seven mile walk, at my age,
  All along of no 'Bus to be had, love or money, and cabs that there dear,
  And a stitch in my side and short breath, ain't as nice as you
      fancy,--no fear!
  Likeways look at my JOHN every morning, ah! rain, hail or shine, up to
      town,
  With no trams running handy, and corns! As I sez to my friend Mrs. BROWN,
  Bless the 'Buses, I sez, they're a boon to poor souls, as must travel
      at times,
  And we can't _all_ keep kerridges neither, wus luck! Penny Fares ain't
      no crimes,
  If you arsk me, as did ought to know. Which my feelings I own it does rouge
  To hear big-wigs a-sneering at 'Buses. There may be a bit of a scrouge,
  And the smell of damp straw mixed with pep'mint ain't nice to a dalicot
      nose,
  Likeways neat "Oh be Joyful's" a thing as with orange and snuff hardly
      goes.
  But we ain't all rekerky nor rich, we can't all afford sixpence a mile,
  And when we are old, late, and tired, or it's wet, we can't think about
      _style_.
  The 'Bus is the poor body's kerridge, young feller--and as for your talk
  About not never missing a lift, or forgetting--dear sakes!--_how_ to walk,
  And the nice quiet streets and all that; why it's clear _you_ ain't been
      a poor clerk
  With a precious small "screw," in wet weather. Ah! you wouldn't find it
      no lark
  With thin boots and a 'ard 'acking cough, and three mile every day to and
      thro',
  Or a puffy old woman like me, out at Witsuntide wisiting JOE,
  (My young son in the greengrocer line); or a governess, peaky and pale,
  As has just overslep herself slightly, and can't git by cab or by rail.
  "Ugly lumbering wehicles?" Ah! and we're ugly and lumbering too,
  A lot of us poor Penny 'Bus fares, as isn't high-born or true-blue.
  But the 'Bus is our help. Wery like some do ride as had far better walk,
  Whether tip-toppy swells or poor shop-girls. But all that is trumpery talk.
  What I arsk is, why shouldn't the 'Buses be kept a bit reglar, like Cabs,
  In the matter of fares and of distances? Oh, a old woman it crabs
  To hear of Perprietors pinching pore fellers as drive or conduck,
  While the "Pirates" play up merry mag with the poor helpless fare, as gets
      stuck
  Betwixt Dividend-grinders and Strikers? It ought to be altered, _I_ say.
  Whilst they talk of what 'Bus-folk should earn, they forget the pore
      Publick--who _pay_!

       *       *       *       *       *

LE PRINCE S'AMUSE.

_AN APOLOGETIC IDYL._

  My life is held to be a round of Pleasures;
  All I can say is, they who thus would rate it,
  For life's delights have most peculiar measures:
  For though in plainest English they don't state it,
  'Tis clear "no recreation" meets their views,
  Or why that sneering cry, "_Le Prince s'amuse?_"

  Or do they think a Prince, without repining,
  Foundation-stones unceasingly is laying,
  Rewarded with a glut of public dining,
  The pangs of hunger ever to be staying,
  Is recreation such as he would choose?
  If so--I understand "_Le Prince s'amuse!_"

  But how a world that notes his daily doings,
  The everlasting round of weary function,--
  The health-returnings, speeches, interviewings.
  Can grudge him some relief, without compunction,
  Seems quite to me "another pair of shoes!"
  Dyspeptic is that cry, "_Le Prince s'amuse!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MODERN BRIGAND.

(_FRAGMENT FROM THE ADVENTURES OF A RANSOMED PRISONER._)

I must confess I was agreeably surprised at the treatment to which I
was subjected by my capturers. Instead of being loaded with chains
and confined in a cell beneath the castle's moat, I was given perfect
liberty, and had quite a pleasant suite of rooms. I should scarcely
have known that I was in durance had not one of the less refined of
the brigands shown me a revolver, and playfully informed me that its
contents were intended for me if I attempted to escape. The Chief was
absolutely charming. He treated me in the most courteous manner, and
ended his first interview with me by requesting "the honour of my
company at dinner."

"You need not dress!" he observed, "although I like to put on a
tail-coat myself. But I know that you have had some difficulty with
my people about your luggage, and so I shall be only too delighted to
excuse _grande tenue_."

The "difficulty" to which my host referred was the seizing of my
portmanteau by the gang of thieves of which he was the acknowledged
head. I suggested that I might possibly recover some of its contents.

"I am afraid not," returned the Chieftain. "You see my people are very
methodical, and by this time I fear all the goods will have been sold.
The motto of the Club is 'small profits and quick returns.' We find no
difficulty in trading. As we carry on business on the most economical
principles, we can quote prices even cheaper than the Stores."

And this I found to be the case. Although the brigands were very civil
to me, I was unable to trace any of my property. However, as my host
in the kindest manner had allowed me to dispense with ceremony, I
ventured to appear at dinner-time in my ordinary tourist's dress.

"I am delighted to see you," said the Chief, speaking English for
the first time, "as you are now my guest, I must confess that we are
fellow countrymen."

"Indeed!" I replied, considerably astonished. "If you are really of
British nationality, how is it that I find you a professional thief?"

"You are mistaken," returned the Chief. "I merely belong to a society
for the redistribution of capital. You know we are all balloted for,
and I was myself afraid that I might get pilled."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed, in a tone of surprise. "Surely your
accomplishments--for I noticed, on my arrival, that you were a
first-rate hand at lawn tennis, and played the flute--would have
secured your admission?"

"Well," he returned with a smile, "I fancy they helped me with the
Committee. But unhappily my antecedents were bad--I had made a
fortune on the London Stock Exchange, and my books were scarcely as
satisfactory as our bandit auditors could have desired them to be.
However they took a kindly view of the case, and allowed me to pass
through. But pardon me, I see your ransom has arrived. I am afraid I
must say good bye. A pleasant journey."

And shaking me warmly by the hand, he helped me into the conveyance
that was to take me back to home and freedom. I have never seen him
since.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ALL-ROUND POLITICIANS.--HARTINGTONIANA.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A COY COLOSSUS.

PARIS, _June 15_.--It is stated here, on no authority whatever, that
when the CZAR was recently visiting the French Exhibition at Moscow,
his Imperial Majesty was heard to remark, "This makes me desire to see
the Boulevards again." A visit of the ruler of Russia to Paris during
the Summer is therefore considered to be certain. An offensive and
defensive Alliance between the two countries is said to be on the
point of signature.

A few evenings ago, in a low _café_ in Belleville, M. NOKASHIKOFF, who
left St. Petersburg lately to escape his creditors, and who conceived
the happy idea of raising a little money by walking to Paris in a sack
composed of the French and Russian national flags stitched together,
was entertained to supper by his Gallic admirers. The proceedings,
especially towards midnight, were very enthusiastic. Throughout the
festivities, constant cries of "_Vive l'Alliance Franco-Russe!_" were
raised. This incident is said to have placed the immediate signature
of the Treaty between the CZAR and President CARNOT beyond a doubt.

Last evening a foreigner, who by appearance would have been taken for
a Muscovite, was walking along the asphalte, when he was surrounded
by a crowd of persons crying "_Vive la Russie!_" The foreigner seemed
both surprised and annoyed by these attentions, and at length began to
use his fists and his boots liberally on the ringleaders of the mob.
This treatment, however, seemed only to increase their Russophil
ardour, and the stranger was soon hoisted on to the shoulders of some
of his foremost admirers, struggling violently. On the arrival of a
gendarme, he explained that he was an English book-maker, and that
"this bloomin' mob of boot-lickers had taken him for a bloomin'
Russian!" The crowd shortly afterwards dispersed. The completion
of the formal alliance between France and Russia is considered less
certain than it was a few days ago.

The Frenchman, M. TÊTE-BOIS, who recently attempted to walk on his
head from Paris to Moscow, in order to show the sympathy felt in
France for the Muscovite Empire, did not succeed in carrying out his
design. He was stopped shortly after crossing the Russian frontier,
imprisoned, and heavily ironed. After suffering in this way for
a week, he was told that he must leave Russian territory within
twenty-four hours, or else continue his journey to Siberia. On being
appealed to, the CZAR graciously extended the time given for quitting
Russia to forty-eight hours. This Imperial clemency has caused the
widest feeling of gratitude and satisfaction in France, and the
signature of the definitive Alliance between the two countries is
confidently expected at an exceedingly early date.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT.

(_Dedicated to Lord Chief Justice Coleridge._)

"THE LORD ARCHBISHOP OF NOVA SCOTIA, PRELATE OF THE ORDER OF THE SUN,"
CAUGHT CHEATING AT CARDS (HYPOTHETICALLY) BY THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE,
AND TAKEN, INSTANTANEOUSLY, BY OUR ARTIST.]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday Night, June 8_.--I knew DYKE first when
(good many years ago now) as DIZZY's whip he hunted in couple with
ROWLAND WINN; then always called HART DYKE. Like many other young men
he has in interval lost his HART, and now known as Sir WILLIAM DYKE.
Curious thing, as SARK reminds me, how absorbent is the name of
WILLIAM. Quite probable that before _Black-Eyed Susan's_ friend came
prominently on the stage he had some other Christian name, sunk when
he was promoted to shadow of yard-arm. Certainly there is an equally
eminent man sitting opposite DYKE in House to-night, who like him is
"Sir WILLIAM" to the present generation, and was VERNON HARCOURT to an
elder one.

DYKE, under whatever name, done excellently well to-night. Holding
comparatively minor appointment in Ministry, suddenly finds himself
in charge of principal measure of Session. Handicapped, moreover, with
recollections of time when he has uncompromisingly declared himself
against the very principle he now embodies in Bill, and invites House
to add to Statute Book.

That was first hedge for DYKE to take, and he went over in plucky
style that threw the scorner off his trail. Didn't live in close
communication with DIZZY through six long years for nothing. Not
likely to forget what happened in very earliest days of Parliament
of 1874, when DIZZY for first time found himself not only in office
but in power. During election campaign DIZZY, speaking in the safety
of Buckinghamshire, had made some wild statement about easing the
chains of Ireland. Simply designed to gain Irish vote; forgotten as
soon as spoken. But ROBERT MONTAGU--where, by the way, is ROBERT
MONTAGU?--treasured these things up in his heart, and when DIZZY
appeared in the House, Leader of triumphant majority, asked him what
he was going to do about it?

"It is sometime since the observations referred to were made," said
DIZZY, "and--er--a good deal has happened in the interval."

DYKE, recalling and admitting his former statements on Free
Education, did not attempt to minimise their import. "But." he said,
button-holing House as it were, and treating it quite confidentially,
"the fact is we all change our minds." House laughed at this as it
had laughed at DIZZY seventeen years ago, and DYKE, absolved and
encouraged, went forward with his speech.

Not a brilliant oration in any way; neither exordium nor peroration,
and the middle occasionally a little mixed. But a good sensible
straightforward speech, and if DYKE had done no more than show that
an important Ministerial measure could be explained within limit of an
hour, he would not have lived in vain.

_Business done._--Education Bill introduced.

_Tuesday_.--Nothing at first sight in personal appearance of HERBERT
THOMAS KNATCHBULL-HUGESSEN that suggests a swan. Fancy I have heard
something of these birds being addicted to the habit of breaking
forth into song when convinced of approaching dissolution. That, I
suppose, is how the swan was suggested to the mind when just now,
KNATCHBULL-HUGESSEN rose from behind Ministers, and began to chant his
threnody. Resolution on which Education Bill grafted brought up for
report stage; agreed to, and HART DYKE about to bring in his Bill.
Then from the back seat rose a sturdy yeoman figure, and a powerful
voice was uplifted in denunciation of the Bill and of a Ministry that
had betrayed the trust of the Conservative Party. It was, so the swan
sang, a step on the road to Socialism. He feared it had come to pass
that dangerous measures are more likely to emanate from the Treasury
Bench than from the Front Bench opposite.

Liberals roared with delighted laughter and cheers; the Conservatives
sat glum and ill-at-ease. OLD MORALITY's white teeth gleamed with a
spasmodic smile. As for JOKIM he folded his arms, and bit his lips and
frowned.

"What antiquated nonsense this is!" he muttered, "of course Free
Education is not a Conservative principle. They all protested against
it at the General Election. A year earlier I, who happened at the
time to be numbered in the Liberal ranks, put my back against the
wall, and, picturing the evils that would befall my country if its
institutions were thus demoralised, I said I would die before I would
lend a hand to free the schools. But you see, TOBY, _I haven't died_,
and that changes the whole situation. Not only enables me to retain
my place in Government bringing in Free Education, but permits
me, as CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER, actually to find the means
for carrying out the system. Can't understand a fellow like this
KNATCHBULL-HUGESSEN sticking to his principles when it becomes
expedient to swallow them. He's a disgrace to a family that counts
BRABOURNE as its head."

[Illustration: "A Progressive Conservative." (_Vide Dod._)]

"HUGESSEN's a good fellow," said ISAACSON; "wears well, but is
politically a fossil. Now _I'm_ a progressive Conservative, which I
think you'll find, TOBY, my boy, to be about the time of day."

_Business done_.--Assisted Education Bill; firmly led up to table by
HART DYKE.

_Wednesday_.--Lively fight round Deceased Wife's Sister Bill. Ascot
in vain held forth its attractions; supporters of the Bill hoped
opponents would go; opponents came down rather expecting HENEAGE's
virtue would have given way, and Ascot would have claimed him as its
own. But everybody there--MAKINS's men with long list of Amendments
warranted to keep things going till half-past five, when progress
must be reported, and chance of Bill for present Session lost. MAKINS
himself in high oratorical feather. OSBORNE-AP-MORGAN, having made a
proposition and subsequently withdrawn it, MAKINS, putting on severest
judicial aspect, observed, "It is all very well for the Right Hon.
and learned Gentleman to make a legal JONAH of himself and swallow his
opinions."

"Bless us all!" cried ROWNTREE, looking on with blank amazement,
"MAKINS evidently thinks that JONAH swallowed the whale." Bill
seemed to shatter friendships and dissever old alliances. SQUIRE of
MALWOOD naturally at home in the fray, but rather startling to find
HOME SECRETARY running amuck at CHAMBERLAIN. MATTHEWS in his most
hoity-toity mood; quivered with indignation; thumped the table; shook
a forensic forefinger at the undesignedly offending JOSEPH, and,
generally, went on the rampage. As for HENEAGE, he filled up any
little pause in uproar by diving in and moving the Closure. Once,
whilst GEDGE was opposing an Amendment hostile to Bill, HENEAGE dashed
in with his Closure motion. GEDGE's face a study; mingled surprise,
indignation, and ineffable regret mantled his mobile front.

[Illustration: "Bless us all!"]

"To think," he said afterwards, "that just when I was coming to
HENEAGE's help with an argument founded on profound study and pointed
with legal lore, he should suddenly jump up, lower his head, and, as
it were, butt me in the stomach with the Closure. It is more than I
can at the moment comprehend."

GEDGE so flurried that when Members returned, after Division on
Closure, he being, in accordance with the rule, seated and wearing his
hat, wanted to argue out the question with COURTNEY.

"I submit, Sir," he said, "that the Hon. Member, in moving the
Closure, controverted Rule 186."

The Chairman: "I think the Hon. Member can scarcely have read the
Rule."

Mr. GEDGE: "I have read the Rule, Sir. This is what it says--"

Chairman: "Order! Order!" and GEDGE subsided.

Then TOMLINSON fortuitously turning up on Treasury Bench, joined in
conversation. But COURTNEY turned upon him with such a thunderous
cry of "Order! Order!" that TOMLINSON visibly shrivelled up, and his
sentence, like the unfinished window in ALLADIN's Tower, unfinished
must remain.

Wrangling went on till a quarter past five, when TALBOT interposed,
and with most funereal manner moved to report progress. HENEAGE almost
mechanically lowered his head and had started to butt at TALBOT as
he had upset GEDGE when he was providentially stopped and convinced
that further struggle with obstruction was hopeless. So, Clause I.
agreed to, Bill talked out. MAKINS, growing increasingly delightful,
protested that a Bill that had been fifty years before the country,
was not to be rushed through the House on a Wednesday afternoon.
_Argal_, the more familiar the House is with the details of a measure,
the more necessary is it to debate it.

_Business done_.--Marriage with a Deceased Wife's Sister. Banns again
objected to.

_Saturday_, 1:25 A M.--Land Bill just through report stage. Nothing
left now but Third Reading. "Well, KNOX," said WINDBAG SEXTON, "that
will be our last opportunity, and we must make the most of it. In
meantime I think we've done pretty well. I'm especially pleased with
you. You're a boy of great promise. If anything happened to me--a
stray tack in the bench, or a pin maliciously directed, and the
wind-bag were to collapse--you'd do capitally, till I got it
repaired."

WINDBAG JUNIOR blushed. As OLD MORALITY remarks, Ingenuous youth
delights in the Approbation of Seasoned Seniority.

_Business done_.--Land at last--I mean Land Purchase Bill through at
last.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GENERAL OF THE FUTURE.

    SCENE--_Tent in rear of a Battle-field. Political Officer in
    attendance upon Army, waiting for Military assistance._

_Political Officer_ (_impatiently_). Now then, Orderly, have you not
been able to secure a General for me?

_Orderly_ (_saluting_). Beg pardon, Sir, but it's so difficult, since
they have passed that new Royal Warrant, to know which is which.

_Pol. Off._ (_more impatiently_). Nonsense!--any General Officer will
do. _Ord_. Very good, Sir.

    [_Exit. Political Officer stamps his foot irritably, when
    enter First General Officer, hurriedly._

_First Gen. Off._ Well, Sir, how can I assist you?

_Pol. Off._ (_cordially_). Glad to see you, General. Fact is,
supposing we arrange a treaty, do you think it would be wise to
surrender the fortress on the right side of the river, if we retain
the redoubt near the wood as a basis of operations? You see--

_First Gen. Off._ (_interrupting_). Very sorry, but don't know
anything about it.

_Pol. Off._ (_annoyed_). But aren't you a General?

_First Gen. Off._ Certainly. General-Surgeon. Ta, ta! [_Exit._

_Pol. Off._ Well of all the--(_Enter Second Gen. Off._) Well, Sir,
what is it? Who are you?

_Second Gen. Off._ I am a General Officer, and I was told you required
my poor services.

_Pol. Off._ So I do. The fact is, General, supposing we arrange a
treaty, do you think it wise for us to surrender the fortress--

_Second Gen. Off._ (_interrupting_). Alas! my dear friend, I fear I
can be of no help to you--it is entirely out of my line.

_Pol. Off._ (_annoyed_). But aren't you a General?

_Second Gen. Off._ Certainly. A General-Chaplain. Farewell, dear
friend. [_Exit._

_Pol. Off._ Well of all the--(_Enter Third General Officer._) Well,
Sir, who and what are you?

_Third Gen. Off._ (_briskly_). A General. Now then, look sharp! No
time to lose. Hear you require me. How can I help you?

_Pol. Off._ (_aside_). Ah, this is the sort of man I want! (_Aloud._)
Well then, General, we are arranging a treaty, and I want your advice
about retaining a fortress on the right of the river--

_Third Gen. Off._ (_interrupting_). Sorry. Can't help! Not my
province. Good bye! [_Exit._

_Pol. Off._ (_shouting after him_). But aren't you a General?

_Third Gen. Off._ (_voice heard in the distance_.) Yes.
General-Postman!

    [_Scene closes in upon political official language unfit for
    publication._

       *       *       *       *       *

MUSICAL NOTES.--_Saturday Afternoon_.--Albert Hall jubilant. M.
PLANCON or PLANÇON--the production of the "c" depending on the state
of his voice--was encored and "obliged again." So did Madame ALBANI,
who was in superb voice. But her accompanist, M. CARRODUS, who had
given us one violin _obbligato_, did _not_ obbligato again, and so
Madame sang, admirably of course, the ever-welcome "_Home, Sweet
Home_." GIULIA RAVOGLI gave her great _Orphéo_ song, and DRURIOLANUS,
practising courtly attitudes, as one preparing to receive a German
Emperor, smole beamingly on the gratified audience. At The Garden,
_Mireille_, revived on Wednesday last, hasn't much life in her, but
Miss EAMES charming.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed
Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.





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