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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, August 8, 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 101, August 8, 1891" ***

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VOL. 101.

August 8, 1891.


Sir,--Certainly throw open all our Town Halls for gratuitous concerts
and dances! But that's not half enough. Some of us don't care for
dancing, and abhor music. What I propose is that Free Billiard-tables
should be established in each parish. Billiards is much better
exercise than sitting still on a chair listening to singing. Then
there ought to be places where one could get municipal tobacco
without paying for it. Tobacco is just as much a necessary of life
as education--more so, in fact, in my opinion. On winter evenings it
would also be nice to be able to step over to one's Town Hall and have
a glass or two of free ale, or "wine from the wood"--also from the
rates. I don't pay rates myself, as I happen to live in a flat, but
I am sure the ratepayers will immediately recognise the justice of my


Sir,--By all means let us try to give more pleasure to the people. The
pleasure, however, should be of a distinctly elevating kind. I would
advocate throwing open the South Kensington Natural History Museum in
the evening. This would be most useful, especially to people living
at the East End, and the amusement thus afforded, though perhaps not
rollicking, would at all events be solid. To keep out undesirable
characters, it would be as well to admit nobody who could not produce
his baptismal certificate, and a recommendation from the clergyman
of his parish, countersigned by a resident J.P. I am sure that people
would jump at a chance of an evening among the _Coleoptera_.


Sir,--I cannot understand why people should ask for more amusement
than they get at present. Have not they the Parks to walk about in? In
wet weather they can take shelter under trees. In winter they ought
to stay at home in the evenings, and enjoy reading aloud to their
families. I would even go so far as to allow an occasional game at
draughts. Chess is too exciting, and of course backgammon is out of
the question, because of the deadly dice-box. For the frivolously
inclined, "Puss in the Corner" is a harmless indoor game. I throw out
these observations for what they may be worth, and trusting that they
will not be regarded as dangerously subversive of morality, I remain,

  Yours grimly, HOME, SWEET HOME!

Sir,--The movement for turning our Town Halls into places of amusement
is an excellent one. What I would like to suggest is, that the
Vestrymen should themselves take part in the entertainments. Why not
have weekly theatrical performances, with parts found for all local
Authorities? I feel convinced that _Hamlet_, played by our Vestry,
would be worth going miles to see. The Dust Contractor could play
the _Ghost_, while minor characters could be sustained by the Medical
Officer of Health, the Chaplain of the Workhouse, and others; the
Chairman, of course, would figure in the title _rôle_. A topical comic
song, by the Board of Guardians, with breakdown, might serve as a
pleasing interlude; breakdowns in local matters are, I believe, not
unknown already. The idea is worth considering. I think the Vestrymen
owe something to the ratepayers in return for the votes we give them.


       *       *       *       *       *

BRUISERS AND BOLUSES.--A "Champion" pugilist is even more presumptuous
than a popular Pill. He claims to be "Worth a Thousand Guineas a

       *       *       *       *       *




  Farewell! since the Season is over,
    Ah me, but its moments were sweet!
  You are oft', _viâ_ Folkestone or Dover,
    To some Continental retreat.
  On Frenchman and German you'll lavish
    The smiles that can madden me still;
  While I, with the gillie McTavish,
    Am breasting the heather-clad hill.

  Oh, do you remember the dances,
    The dearest were those we sat out,
  How I frowned when detecting your glances
    On others, which caused you to pout?
  You are changeful and coy and capricious,
    A weathercock easily blown;
  But when shall I hear the delicious
    One word that proclaims you my own?

  They say that an eloquent passion
    Has long become quite out of date,
  That true love is never the fashion,
    And marriage a wearisome state.
  They conjure up many a bogie,
    To guard a man's bachelor life,
  And keep him a selfish old fogey,
    And stop him from taking a wife.

  They vow that a wife needs a carriage,
    And opera-boxes and stalls,
  That money's the one thing in marriage,
    And cheques are as common as calls.
  They say women shy (like some horses)
    At vows made to love and obey;
  They tell you drear tales of divorces,
    And scandals, the talk of the day.

  But hang all those cynical railings,
    Just write me one exquisite line
  To say you'll look over my failings,
    And promise me you will be mine.
  And though I'm aware it's the merest
    Small matter of detail, to clear
  The ground, I may mention, my dearest,
    I've full thirty thousand a year.

       *       *       *       *       *

BACON AND A MOUTHFUL.--Last Friday His Honour Judge BACON had to
decide a case which was headed in the papers "Cagliostromantheon."
What a mouthful! Mrs. CHURCHILL-JODRELL, who was a fair defendant, won
the case; and His Honour--this appeal having been made to His Honour
by Mr. B. PLAYFAIR, an excellent name for any gentleman, on or off the
stage, but especially for one described as "an actor,"--decided that
His Honour was satisfied. Peace with His Honour!

       *       *       *       *       *



    ["The last reliance of the Tories in extremity is the policy
    of 'Dishing.'"--_Sir W. Harcourt_.]

  Hey diddle diddle,
  The voters we'd fiddle
    With Free Education--that "boon."
  But Wisbech birds laugh
  At such plain party "chaff,"
    And the "Dish"--at the polls--proves a "Spoon."

       *       *       *       *       *


Oh, for one hour of the Amphytrion! I can't even send you a digest
of the news generally, for my power to digest is already becoming
seriously impaired. Here, indeed, as say the Witches in _Macbeth_ (I
think it's the Witches, but haven't my _Shakspeare_ handy, I mean
my _Handy Shakspeare_, with me--wish I had), "Fowl is Fare." Send my
Pilgrim's Scrip next week. Till then, Yours ever, GRANDOLPH.

       *       *       *       *       *



    [An urgent appeal is made on behalf of the Royal National
    Lifeboat Institution, which is declared to be "in dire
    financial straits," the deficit for last year being £33,000.
    Subscriptions and donations will be thankfully received
    by CHARLES DIBDIN, Esq., Secretary, R.N.L.I., 14, St. John
    Street, Adelphi, London, W.C.]

  True "tuneful CHARLEY is no more,"
    As DIBDIN's Monument informs us;
  But memory of the man who bore
    That honoured name still stirs and warms us.
  And here's another of his name,
    Who still the British Sailor's serving;
  Then who could see without sore shame
    JOHN BULL from _his_ plain duty swerving?

  Thirty-three Thousand to the bad,
    Our Lifeboat Service, once our glory?
  Nay, JOHN, that will _not_ do, my lad;
    Next year must tell a different story.
  Think, what would "tuneful CHARLEY" say
    To such a thing? In racy lingo,
  Upon our backs his lash he'd lay,
    And give the slothful Britons "stingo."

  Thirty-five thousand lives they've saved,
    Our Life-boat rescuers, already.
  The seas around our shores they've braved,
    With valour prompt and patience steady.
  Shall they be floored for _L.S.D._,
    Because JOHN BULL his pockets buttons?
  Then the old keepers of the Sea
    Must be, in pluck, as dead as muttons.

  True, lads, on such a text as this
    "We sadly miss old CHARLEY's line;"
  But were we mute, Neptune would hiss
    His sons degenerate off the brine.
  Old "CHARLEY" spins his yarns no more!
    He's dead, as _Scrooge_ declared old _Marley_.
  What then? Wake up, from shore to shore,
     And--send your guineas to _Young_ CHARLEY!

       *       *       *       *       *


    [Extorted, by circumstances beyond his control, from a stolid
    but unsuccessful Saxon Shootist at Bisley and Wimbledon, after
    the match at the latter place between picked twenties of the
    London Scottish and the London Rifle Brigade, won easily by
    the former team.]

  Oh! the Scot lot are all cracks at a shot,
  And extremely successful at Hunting the Pot.
  This particular "Saxon" the hump has got,
  Being licked by a team which is Picked _and_ Scot.

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["Never," said the CZAR, at the Imperial dinner to which
    the Officers of the French Fleet were invited, "could I have
    believed that Republican Sailors, that Republican Soldiers,
    could have such a bearing."--_Times_.

    "The CZAR has, at the instance of the United States, ordered a
    temporary relaxation of the measures for the expulsion of the
    Jews from Russia."--_Times_.]


  "How happy could I be with either?"
    Humph! N-n-o-o, I can hardly say _that_!
  Yet here we are, tripping together,
    Republics and proud Autocrat!
  Two cats and a Boreal Bruin!--
    So satire will say, I've no doubt.
  And some will declare it must ruin
    The Russdom once ruled by the knout.
  I wonder--I very much wonder--
    What NICK to this sight would have said--
  I fear he'd have looked black as thunder,
    And savage as RURIC the Red.
  For this did we lose the Crimea?
    For this did we larrup the Jews?
  I really had not an idea
    Republics could rule--and amuse.
  Miss FRANCE looks extremely coquettish.
    How well Miss COLUMBIA can coax!
  The Teuton, no doubt, will look pettish,
    The Briton will grumble "a hoax."
  Aha! I can snub a Lord Mayor,
    And give shouting Emperors a hint;
  I back _La Belle France_. Her betrayer
    My meaning must see, plain as print.
  My reply to the great Guildhall grumble
    Had less of politeness than pith,
  But--well I've no wish so to humble
    My friend Mr. EMORY SMITH,
  Or CRAWFORD, the Consul. No thank ye,
    _Persona gratissima_, he;
  And therefore I yield to the Yankee
    The boon I refused to J.B.
  But yet, all the same, it _is_ funny
    To see Three like us in One Boat.
  COLUMBIA looks dulcet as honey,
    Miss F.'s every glance is a gloat.
  I never imagined Republics
    Could have such a "bearing" as these.
  Enjoyingly as a bear cub licks
    The comb sweetly filled by the bees,
  I list to their flattering-chatter;
    Their voices are pleasant--in praise;
  But--well, though it seems a small matter,
    I _don't_ like that dashed "_Marseillaise_."
  And "_Israel in Egypt_" sounds pointed
    I'd Pharaoh the miscreants--but stay,
  My soliloquy's getting disjointed,
    I've promised! COLUMBIA looks gay,
  _La Belle France_ displays a _grande passion_;
    My arms they unitedly press.
  One thing though; the Phrygian fashion
    Is not _my_ ideal of dress.
  They swear that they both love me dearly,
    Their "best of old Autocrat Chaps!"
  They are setting their Caps at me, clearly,
    But,--well, _I don't quite like the Caps!_

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["The plaintiff gave evidence that she was engaged as a sort
    of house and parlour-maid ... and was discharged after she
    had been there nine days, because she refused to wear a
    cap ... His Honour: I do not think she was bound to wear a
    cap."--_Daily Paper_.]

    What shall we do with our Maid?
      How shall we treat her best?
  Shall the gems that are rare be strewed in her hair?
      And shall she in silks be drest?
    Shall we make her a gift of gold?
      Shall we make her our queen? Perhaps.
  But whatever we make her, wherever we take her,
      We never must make her wear caps.

    Imperious, capless, supreme,
      Do just as you please evermore;
  And wear what you will, for we shall be
      And never complain as before.
    We may put all our money in mines,
      We may put all our cheese into traps,
  But we put, it is clear, our foot in it, dear,
      When we try to put you into caps.

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["It needs no argument to show that in the summer of 1893
    Mr. GLADSTONE is less likely to take an active part in any
    electoral contest than he can be in the spring or autumn of
    1892."--_Mr. Edward Dicey, on "The Next Parliament."_]

  "Time's on our side," said GLADSTONE. DICEY, too,
  Takes Edax Rerum as his friend most true.
  GLADSTONE Time's "Hour Glass" trusts; but DICEY's blithe
  Because _his_ hopes are centred on Time's _scythe_.
  Faith lives in Life, but Fear's most vigorous breath
  Lives "in the sure and certain hope"--of Death!

       *       *       *       *       *


  "Fire! Fire!"
  "Where? where?'
  SHAW's resigned.
  Then find
  Another one!
  Many gone?
  Fire! Where?
  Here's a scare!!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Vide "Liverpool Daily Post," July 23 1891._)]

       *       *       *       *       *



  Oh, limp and leathery type of Social Sham,
      And Legislative Flam!
  Which cunning CUNNINGHAME and MATTHEWS cool
      (Both prompt to play the fool,
  In free-lance fashion or official form)
      Prattled of, 'midst a storm
  Of crackling laughter, and ironic cheers,
      And sniggering, "Hear, hears!"--
  Thou summest well the humbug of our lives.
      The fistic "bunch of fives"
  Is not like JULIA's jewelled "palm of milk"
      Shrouded in kid or silk,
  But JULIA was a sensuous little "sell,"
      And SMITH and PRITCHARD--well,
  One would not like a clump upon the head
      From the teak-noddled "TED,"
  Or e'en a straight sockdollager from "JEM;"
      But somehow "bhoys" like them,
  Who mill three rounds to an uproarious "house,"
      And only nap "a mouse,"
  Though one before the end of the third bout
      Is clean "knocked out,"--
  Such burly, brawny buffetters for hire,
      Who in ten minutes tire,
  And clutch the ropes, and turn a Titan back
      To shun the impending thwack,--
  Such "Champions" smack as much of trick and pelf
      As venal JULIA's self.
  GRAHAM may be a "specialist," no doubt,
      And "What _is_ a knock-out?"
  _May_ mystify ingenuous MATTHEWS much;
      But Truth's Ithuriel touch
  Applied to pulpy "JEM" and steely "TED,"
      (Of "slightly swollen" head)
  As well as unsophisticated COBB,
      (If Truth were "on the job,")
  Might find False Show and Pharisaic "Stodge,"
      And Law-evading dodge,
  Dissimulating "Innocence," sham bravery,
      Blind Justice, lynx-eyed knavery,
  All the material the Satirist loves,
      In those same "four-ounce gloves"!

       *       *       *       *       *



Portrait of William Hatley, Black-Eye'd Susan, and Captain Crosstree,

Portrait of Tom Bowline. Also a picture of Davy Jones, to be presented
by Mr. Frederick Locker.

A Horse Marine, A.D. 1815.

Portrait of William Taylor, as a gay young fellow. Also his affianced
bride, as "William Carr," after she had "dabbled her lily-white hands
in the nasty pitch and tar."

Picture of somebody, name unknown, inquiring of Benjamin Bolt whether
or no he happened to remember "Sweet Alice, sweet Alice with hair so
brown, who wept with delight when you (B.B.) gave her a smile, and
trembled with fear at your (B.B.'s) frown?" The portrait also of the
aforesaid Alice, evidently rather a weak-minded young person.

Also pictures of "Pol" and "Partner Joe;" and a likeness of "Black
Brandon," very rare, in "penny plain" form, or "twopence coloured."

       *       *       *       *       *


In order to satisfy myself as to truth in conflicting reports about
Bournemouth as a summer resort, I take express 12·30 from Waterloo,
and go straight away to my terminus, stopping, if I remember rightly,
only twice on the road. First-rate run, through lovely scenery, with
the London and South-Western Pack; found at Waterloo, and, with the
exception of a slight check of only three minutes at Southampton
Water--scent generally lost where water is, I believe--and another
of a few seconds at Brockenhurst, ran into our quarry at Bournemouth
Station West, in just two hours and a half. [_Happy Thought_.--Lunch
_en route_, between 12·30 and 3. Pullman cars attached to some trains,
not all. Certainly recommend Pullman, where possible; all comforts at
hand for eating and drinking: likewise smoking-room, &c., &c.]

[Illustration: "WELCOME THE COMING--"

"There, my dear Sir; there's your room, and I'm only charmed to have
your company."--_Extract from Speech of the Hearty Hotel-Proprietor to
Un-illustrious Visitor_.]

Generally understood that Bournemouth is the Monte Carlo, or Nice,
or Monaco, or Riviera of England. May be it is; if so, Monte Carlo,
and the rest can't be so hot in summer as they are painted, for
Bournemouth just now is (I speak of the last week in July) at a
delightfully mean temperature,--if I may be allowed to use the word
"mean" without implying any sort of disrespect for the Bournemouthers.

Bournemouth apparently crowded. Do not remember it on any previous
occasional visit, in autumn or spring, so crowded as at this present
moment. Odd!

"Not at all," explains flyman; "British Medical Association here. All
sorts of festivities. Hotels all crowded. Lodgings too."

If the worst come to the worst, I shall have to spend a night in a
bathing-machine. Not bad: if fine. Can be called early; then sea-bath;
also man to bring hot water and towels. While speculating on this
probability, we arrive at

_Royal Bath Hotel_.--Flag flying, showing that British Medical
Association Family are at home. Other flags elsewhere express same
idea. B.M.A. at home everywhere, of course. Array of servants in
brown liveries and gilt buttons in outer hall, preparing to receive
visitors. Pleasant and courteous Manager--evidently Manager--with
foreign accent receives me smilingly. "Any difficulty about rooms?"
I ask, nervously. "None whatever in your case," returns courteous
Manager, bowing most graciously as he emphasises the possessive
pronoun. In the hall are trim young ladies, pleasant matronly ladies,
chorus of young porters and old porters, all smiling, and awaiting
my lightest bow and heaviest baggage. I am "to be shown up." (_Absit
omen!_) However, I am shown up. Charming room: sea-view, nearly all
the views from the windows of Royal Bath are sea-views, take the Bath
which way you will; and the welcome is so warm, it ought to be The
Warm Bath Hotel.

I am looking for something which has probably been left in the hall.
"Let me see," I say, musingly, to myself, as I look round; "where's my
waterproof with two capes? I've missed--er--" I hesitate, being still

A sprightly Boots is going hurriedly out of the room. He pauses in
his swift career, as if catching my last words. I hear him repeat,
"Missed--er--" and then "Capes." To this he adds, sharply, "Yes, Sir,
I'll tell him," and vanishes.

"_Tell him?_" Oh, probably he means that he will tell the other
Boots to bring up my waterproof with the double capes. But to make
assurance doubly sure, I go to the top of the stairs and call out,
"Wrapper--with two capes--probably in the hall--don't see it here."
To which, from somewhere down below in obscurity, the voice of the
Boots comes up to me, "Capes in the hall," then something inaudible,
finishing with, "up there."

I return to my apartment. Lovely view. Open window. Balmy and
refreshing breeze. Becoming aware of the fact that I have left the
door open, expecting return of Boots with waterproof wrapper, I am
turning to shut it, when "to me enters" as the old stage-directions
have it, a distinguished-looking gentleman, bearded and moustached,
white-vested, and generally "in full fig."--(_Mem._--Write to _Notes
and Queries, Unde derivatur_--"Full fig?") who advances briskly but
quietly towards me. My visitor has evidently made some mistake in the
number of his room. At least, I hope the mistake isn't on _my_ part,
or on the urbane Manager's part, in putting me up here. Smart visitor
bows. I am about to explain that he is in error, and that this is my
room, when he deprecates any remark by saying, "Delighted to meet you;
my name is CAPES. The porter told me you wished to see me. I am sure,
Sir, I am more than delighted to see _you_!" and he proffers his hand,
which I take and shake heartily, at the same time wondering where on
earth we have met before, and why he should be so effusively joyful
at seeing me again. Suddenly, as I release his hand, I see where the
mistake is, and how it has arisen. A brilliant flash of memory recalls
to my mind that in an advertisement I have read how this hotel belongs
to Mr. CAPES,--Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, F.R.G.S., &c., &c. This amiable
gentleman who bids me welcome so heartily is the Proprietor himself. I
also am delighted. "Very kind of him to take this trouble," I say.

"Not at all," he won't hear of there being any special kindness on his
part. And as to trouble!--well, he scouts that idea with an energetic
wave of his hand. Now, he wants to know, what will I do, where will I
go, what will I take? Section A. of the Medical Association is meeting
in the Town Hall, but I shall be late for that; or "perhaps," suggests
the considerate Proprietor, "you would like to rest a bit before
dinner at seven. Then there's the Concert afterwards. I have tickets
for you, and no doubt on your return you'll have a cigar in the
smoking-room with your friends, and be glad to get to bed."

I thank him: most kind. I say, smilingly, that "No doubt, shall meet
some friends;" a remark which seems to tickle him immensely. As a
matter of fact, however, I confide to him that I should prefer keeping
myself quiet this evening, as I have so much to do to-morrow morning.

"Of course you have," assents the Proprietor most sympathetically.
"And you'd like to rest as much as possible to-night after your
journey. You'd like a table to yourself a little later. No--no--no
thanks, I'm only too delighted."

And, so saying, the kind Proprietor leaves me to see to the
hundred-and-one things he has to do to-day, only stopping the Boots,
who now arrives with the double-caped waterproof I had sent him for,
to point me out to him, and to tell him to order a private table
for me in the _salle à manger_ "at--at?"--he queries--and I reply by
inquiring if I may fix it for 7·45, as the room will be quieter then.
"Certainly," says Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, without making the slightest
difficulty about it. Then, turning to Boots, he says, "7·45,"
whereupon Boots repeats the mystic formula. And thus 'tis arranged.

Delightful gardens of Hotel. Stroll out on to cliff. Beautiful air,
not the least enervating. On the contrary, refreshing. Returning
later on to dress, I see the _salle à manger_ full to overflowing.
The Medicals are all feeding well and wisely, as Medicals ought to
do. A pleasant company. Only a few of the younger and idler spirits
remain when I sit down to my dinner about eight. Excellent _cuisine_.
Couldn't be better. Salmon-trout from Christchurch, Poole pickles,
beef from Boscombe, Hampshire ham with Bournemouth beans. For wine,
Peter Pommery '80; and the whole to finish with Corfe Castle
Korffee, a Lyndhurst liqueur, and cigar in the sea-garden, or garden
o'erlooking the sea.

Lovely night. Then, after a stroll, "to bed," as _Lady Macbeth_
observes. Sensible person, _Lady Mac_.

On second thoughts will look at papers in smoking-room. Am alone at
first, but in a few minutes room crowded. Medical Association has
returned in force. I catch occasional bits in conversation:--

"Pity MCSIMMUM (or some name very like this) couldn't come. Great
pity; missed him immensely." (Here several stories about MCSIMMUM, all
evidently more or less good, and all interesting. I myself begin to
wish that MCSIMMUM had arrived. He would have been an acquisition.)
More medical men of various ages and with variety of spectacles.
All enjoying themselves thoroughly,--quite medical boys out for
a holiday,--but every one of them, individually and collectively,
intensely regretting the absence of Dr. MCSIMMUM. I hear the voice of
my friend Mr. CAPES in the passage. I will ask Mr. CAPES about this
celebrated Dr. MCSIMMUM, whom evidently I ought to know, at least by
repute. Perhaps I have known him by sight for years; perhaps he is a
man with whom I often dine at the Club, and who entertains us in the
smoking-room with strange stories of odd patients. His name I have
heard long ago. Was it MCSIMMUM? Not unlikely. Can't remember.

Mr. CAPES is energetically explaining and protesting to everybody.
Amid the hum and buzz of voices, I catch what he is saying. It is, "My
dear Sir, Dr. MCSIMMUM _is_ here. I've seen him. He dined alone. He
said he preferred it, as he had so much to do to-morrow." Then several
exclaim, "But _where_ is he _now_?"

"I don't know," replies the Proprietor. "Most likely, being tired,
he has gone to bed. I myself showed him to his room, No. 142, on his

Heavens! The number of my room--is 142! Not another man in _there_!
No.... I see it all now, _I am Dr. MCSIMMUM!_ The real MCSIMMUM hasn't
arrived, and he hasn't sent a message. This accounts for my welcome,
and the absence of all difficulty in obtaining a room. But if he
arrives now! where shall _I_ be?

"What's that about MCSIMMUM?" says a jovial voice, coming right into
the midst of them.

To which inquiry responds a chorus, "He's here! Mr. CAPES says so, but
no one's seen him."

"And no one's likely to." returns the cheery speaker. "He's staying
with some friends a little way out of the town. He has just sent me a
note by hand to say that he won't occupy his room till to-morrow, and
will be much obliged if Mr. CAPES will forward by bearer a bag that
was labelled and addressed to the room taken for him here, No. 142."

[Illustration: "---- Speed the Parting Guest."]

"But--" exclaims the Proprietor, aghast, "but--"

At this moment I catch sight of the man with the cheery voice. Saved!
I know him. It is my old friend, Sir JOHN HARTLEY, M.D., who, years
ago, told me there was nothing the matter with me, only I must take a
holiday and go abroad to get better (most excellent advice, and I've
never been quite well since), and who now exclaims, with all his old
breadth of manner, "What _you_ here! Bravo! We'll make you an honorary

The Proprietor looks at me, and I at the Proprietor. I know what is
passing through the mind of Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, F.R.G.S. and P.R.B.H.
I hasten to relieve his anxiety by saying, "Thanks; I'm here only for
the night; I'm off to-morrow. I've just come down here to look for a
house. By the way, I rather think that Dr. MCSIMMUM's bag must be in
my room. Let's see."

So I depart with the Proprietor. Explanations _en route_. Dr.
MCSIMMUM's bag has been placed in my room, I should say in _his_ room.
But I've got the apartment, and if it hadn't been for the mistake, I
should have been homeless and houseless, and a wanderer on the face
of the sand at Bournemouth. Must write to that best of all doctors,
MCSIMMUM, and thank him for not coming to-night.

As it is I spend a delightful evening with the Members of the B.M.A.
here assembled, in the smoking-room. The conversation is chiefly
about the use of alcohol and tobacco as poisons. The decision arrived
at towards one o'clock A.M., or, more correctly speaking, the
Inn-decision, is that, on this particular occasion, one glass more of
something or other, and just one last pipe or cigar, cannot possibly
hurt anybody. This is carried _nem. con._: and so, subsequently, we
adjourn, not carried but walking, soberly and honestly, to bed.

Next morning up with the lark, indeed a trifle earlier, and after
examining Bournemouth and finding excellent residences up above in
beautiful air where it must always be breezy, I thank Mr. NORFOLK
CAPES, F.R.G.S. and P.R.B.H for the Hospitality shown me in his
exceptionally pleasant house, and I return by the swift 2·5 P.M.
train, which lands me at Vauxhall at 4·30 to the moment. Of course I
am now expecting my diploma as Honorary Member of the British Medical

       *       *       *       *       *

ANOTHER JUBILEE.--That of the Old Stagers at Canterbury. Free List
entirely suspended at the Theatre, with the exception of just _A Scrap
Of Paper_ in the house.

       *       *       *       *       *



  Indignant we spoke out, and any amount
  Of strong language we used when we read the account,
  And a tear slowly rolled down our cheek when we heard
  Of the youthful Miss G. and the Kidnapping Kurd.

  We sat in our chairs, and, quite reckless of life,
  We wiped out the insult with war to the knife;
  And it only redoubled our anger to read
  That the girl--so they said--had abandoned her creed.

  Such a thing was absurd, and, of course, wasn't true;
  Much perplexed, we all wondered what we ought for to do,
  Though we heard with delight they were on the girl's track,
  And we wept in our joy when we knew she was back.

  But the wonderful ending remains to be told,
  For the maiden was fond of the warrior bold,
  And embracing her husband (as is usual with brides)
  Mrs. AZIZ embraced his religion besides.

  So our tears were all wasted, our threats all in vain,
  We can now feel quite calm and collected again.
  At the fate of the lady we all should rejoice,
  She is happy with AZIZ, the man of her choice.

  Good luck to the bridegroom! Good luck to the bride!
  Good luck to the knot they have hastily tied!
  With all due respect, let us venture to say
  That we hope from her Kurd she will not run away!

       *       *       *       *       *


Well, I have seen some grandly hinteresting sites in my time, I have,
but never, no never, did I see anythink to ekal the picter as I seed
on the werry larst day of July larst week, when, by such a series
of good lucks as I ardly ever had afore, I was priveledged for to
see the Rite Honerable the Lord MARE prepare hisself, with his two
lately benighted Sheriffs, in the most scrumptious of their many rich
dresses, and with the solid gold Carsket as was guv to the HEMPERER of
GARMANY about a fortnight ago, and had most misteriously cum back from
abroad, all for to be photograffed altogether in one big grupe, with
all the Aldermen as they coud find handy in their rich crimson silk
dresses, and several werry Common Counsellers and Town Clarks and
Remembrensers, et setterer, in horder as the longing world may see
what sorts of Gents they was, and how they all looked when in their
werry best close, and with their lovely solid gold deckorations on (as
the HEMPERER and the Prince of WALES begged and prayed as they might
have one a-peace) who arranged and carried out the grandest show
of modern times, wiz, when the GERMAN HEMPEROR and his wife cum to
Guildhall. Oh, wasn't they a long wile before the Gent coud get 'em
all into good places, and didn't they all look sollem, when he said,
"Quite steddy, please!"


But not noboddy as reddily gives a ginny for a mere coppy of what I
saw dun, will see all I saw without paying no ginny, and that was,
to see the hole grand picter built up, as it were, beginning with the
Lord MARE in his white hermine robe of poority and his black Cocked
Hat of Power all most bewtifoolly and kindly arranged for him by the
hartistic Sheriff.

And then what a lesson on trew humility, to see the Lord MARE, in all
his glory, retire to the Committee's dressing-room, and there strip
hisself to his werry shirt-sleeves and clothe hisself in the mere
hordnary close of common humanety!

Ah! I henvys no man his persession of the bewtifool Photygraff, for
I, almost alone, can say, tho but a pore hed Waiter, I saw the grand
pictur grow like' a bewtifool dream, and then saw it fade away like a
strawbery hice on a Summer's Day!


       *       *       *       *       *

LA POLITESSE DE PORTSMOUTH.--The French Fleet may depend upon a
courteous welcome at Portsmouth by the Mayor, who is the "Pink" of

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


    ["Our Session began before last year was closed. It has been
    a Session full of anxiety, full of fatigue. I am thankful to
    agree with your Lordship in thinking that the people of this
    country will recognise that it has been a Session of hard and
    valuable work."--_Lord Salisbury at the Mansion House_.]

  Don't talk about WEED, FINNEY, FISHER, or DALTON;
    As Long Distance Swimmer our SOLLY stands first,
  His wild watery way never tempted to halt on,
    Undaunted by cold as by hunger or thirst.
  Nine months in the waves, though, no man may enjoy;
  So he's glad that at last he's in sight of the buoy.

  In November last year he first entered the water,
    To start on this special, most arduous swim,
  It was cold, with the wind in a winterly quarter,
    But winds, like the waves, have small terrors for him.
  You remember accounts that the papers then gave
  (Here's an extract) concerning this King of the Wave.

"SOLLY (of Hatfield), and SMIFF (who hails from Greenlands), started
yesterday (November 25), for a second attempt--the first having been
a failure--to swim from Tithes Pier to Purchase Point Buoy. It was
an unfavourable time of the year for such an unprecedented feat of
natation, but the Hatfield Champion was confident of success. He is a
perfect whale at long-distance immersions, and has been heard to talk
of 'twenty years of resolute' swimming against stream as a comparative
trifle. His 'pal and pardner,' SMIFF--more commonly known as the
Sanguine Old 'Un--was equally confident. Two boats accompanied the
Champion, in one of which was his trusty Pilot, SMIFF, and in the
other a Party of their 'Mutual Friends.' One thing, indeed, was in the
Hatfield man's favour; his lately cocky and contemptuous competitors
had been 'weeded out' by a fortuitous series of adverse circumstances,
including what SOLLY, in a spirit of cynical but excusable elation,
subsequently called 'that beneficent disease, the Influenza.' The
Irish Contingent, which not long ago looked dangerous, had become so
thoroughly demoralised by mutual hostilities and disputes between
them and their backers, that there was not a single 'Paddy' prepared
to enter the water when the signal 'gun' fired for the start. SOLLY,
therefore, had it all to himself; the performance practically resolves
itself into a trial of his skill and endurance, and the 'Scythe
Bearer' is the only enemy against whom the Great Swimmer has to
measure himself. Indeed, he covered what may be called the first stage
of his long journey with ease, and in an unexpectedly short time.
Nevertheless, it is to be feared that 'later on' he will have to
contend against cold, little or no sun, northerly breezes, &c.; the
'flowing tide' will assuredly not always be with him, and before he
gets to the end of his briny journey, even the Hatfield Wonder will
probably have 'had enough of it.'"

  True prognostication! But skilful natation
    Despite some "anxiety" and much "fatigue,"
  Has "pulled SOLLY through" to his "pardner's elation."
    Together they've plodded o'er many a league
  Of big tumbling billows. See those in the rear!
  They were ridden with skill, though regarded with fear.

  "The flowing tide" fails him, but side-stroke and breast-stroke
    Alternately serve him; fatigued but unhurt,
  Like CÆSAR, he swims. "Now mate, put on your best stroke!"
    Sings out faithful SMIFFY, his pilot. "One spurt,
  My SOL! Two or three more strong strokes and 'tis done;
  Our Long Swim, for the Buoy is at hand, and we've won!"

       *       *       *       *       *

OPERATIC BIRDS.--M. MAUREL can sing but didn't wish to sing in Mr.
ISIDORE DE TRA-LA-LARA's new Opera, _The Light of Asia_. Where was
TRA-LA-LARA when _The Light of Asia_ didn't come out? M. MAUREL
seems to have said, that, if the Opera were produced this season,
he'd be blowed if he sang, and the Opera would probably be damned,
theatrically and operatically speaking. That's the Moral or MAUREL
of the story. _The Light of Asia_ mustn't be snuffed out altogether,
but it may want trimming a bit, in order to shine as brightly as
TRA-LA-LARA expects it to do next season. There's a good time coming,
and good tunes too, we hope.

       *       *       *       *       *

AMENDE HONORABLE.--In making up the list of outside contributors, _Mr.
Punch's_ Private Secretary regrets having omitted the name of JOHN
HOLLINGSHEAD, the friend of the Bloomsburians, and the determined
foe of Mud Salad Market and Monopolisers. "J.H.," or, to reverse the
initials, "HONEST JOHN," will now be satisfied.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "A LONG DISTANCE SWIM."


       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_The Crystal Palace. The Nave is filled with a dense
    throng of Pleasure-seekers. Every free seat commanding the
    most distant view of a Variety Performance on the Great Stage,
    has been occupied an hour in advance. The less punctual stand
    and enjoy the spectacle of other persons' hats or bonnets.
    Gangs of Male and Female Promenaders jostle and hustle to
    their hearts' content, or perform the war-song and dance
    of the Lower-class 'ARRY, which consists in chanting "Oi
    tiddly-oi-toi; hoi-toi-oi!" to a double shuffle. Tired women
    sit on chairs and look at nothing. In the Grounds, the fancy
    of young men and maidens is lightly turning to thoughts of
    love; the first dawn of the tender passion being intimated,
    on the part of the youth, by chasing his charmer into a corner
    and partially throttling her, whereupon the maiden coyly
    conveys that his sentiments are not unreciprocated by thumping
    him between the shoulders. From time to time, two champions
    contend with fists for the smiles of beauty, who may usually
    be heard bellowing inconsolably in the background. A small
    but increasing per-centage have already had as much liquid
    refreshment as is good for them, and intend to have more.
    Altogether, the scene, if festive, might puzzle an Intelligent
    Foreigner who is more familiar with Continental ideas of

_A Damsel_ (_in a ruby plush hat with a mauve feather_). Why, if they
yn't got that bloomin' ole statute down from Charin' Cross! What's
_'e_ doin' of down 'ere, I wonder?

_Her Swain_ (_whose feather is only pink and white paper_). Doin' of?
Tykin' 's d'y orf--like the rest of us are tykin' it.

_The Damsel_ (_giggling_). You go on--you don't green _me_ that w'y--a

_Swain_. Well, 'yn't this what they call a "Statutory" 'Oliday, eh?

_Damsel_ (_in high appreciation of his humour_). I'll fetch you _sech_
a slap in a minnit! 'Ere, let's gow on the Swissback.

_Another Damsel_ (_in a peacock-blue hat with orange pompons_). See
that nekked young man on the big 'orse, ALF? It says "Castor" on the
stand. 'Oo was _'e_?.

_Alf_. Oh, _I_'d 'now. I dessay it'll be 'im as invented the Castor

_The Damsel_ (_disgusted_). Fancy their puttin' up a monument to

_Superior 'Arry_ (_talking Music-halls to his Adored One_). 'Ave you
'eard her sing "_Come where the Booze is Cheapest_"?

_The Adored_. Lots o' toimes. I _do_ like _'er_ singing. She mykes
sech comical soigns--and then the _things_ she sez! But I've 'eard
she's very common in her tork, and that--_orf_ the styge.

_The S.A._ I shouldn't wonder. Some on 'em _are_ that way. You can't
'ave _everythink_!

_His Adored_. No, it _is_ a pity, though. 'Spose we go out, and pl'y
Kiss in the Ring? [_They do._


_Wife of British Workman_ (_spelling out placard under Hottentot
Group_). "It is extremely probable that this interesting race will be
completely exterminated at no very distant period." Pore things!

_British Workman_ (_with philosophy_). Well, _I_ shan't go inter
mournin' for 'em, SAIRER!


_Lambeth Larrikin_ (_in a pasteboard "pickelhaube," and a false
nose, thoughtfully, to BATTERSEA BILL, who is wearing an old grey
chimney-pot hat, with the brim uppermost, and a tow wig, as they
contemplate a party of Botocudo natives_). Rum the sights these 'ere
savidges make o' theirselves, ain't it, BILL?

_Batt. Bill_ (_more thoughtfully_). Yer right--but I dessay if you and
me 'ad been born among that lot, _we_ shouldn't care _'ow_ we looked!

_Vauxhall Voilet_ (_who has exchanged headgear with CHELSEA
CHORLEY--with dismal results_). They _are_ cures those blackies! Why,
yer carn't 'ardly tell the men from the wimmin! I expect this lot'll
be 'aving a beanfeast. See, they're plyin' their myusic.

_Chelsea Chorley_. Good job we can't _'ear_ 'em. They say as niggers'
music is somethink downright horful. Give us "_Hi-tiddly-hi_" on that
mouth-orgin o' yours, will yer?

    [_VAUXHALL VOILET obliges on that instrument; everyone in
    the neighbourhood begins to jig mechanically; exeunt party,

_A Pimply Youth_. "Hopium-eater from Java." That's the stuff they gits
as stoopid as biled howls on--it's about time we went and did another
beer. [_They retire for that purpose._


_Chorus of Spectators_. There's another lot o' bloomin' rockets gowin
orf! Oo-oo, 'ynt that lur-uvly? What a lark if the sticks come down
on somebody's 'ed! There, didyer see 'em bust? Puts me in mind of a
shower o' foiry smuts. Lor, so they do--what a fancy you _do_ 'ave,
&c., &c.


_An Old Gentleman_ (_who has come out with the object of observing
Bank Holiday manners--which he has done from a respectful distance--to
his friend, as they settle down in an empty first-class compartment_).
There, now we shall just get comfortably off before the crush begins.
Now, to _me_, y'know, this has been a most interesting and gratifying
experience--wonderful spectacle, all that immense crowd enjoying
itself in its own way--boisterously, perhaps, but, on the whole, with
marvellous decorum! Really, very exhilarating to see--but you don't
agree with me?

_His Friend_ (_reluctantly_). Well, I must say it struck me as rather
pathetic than--

_The O.G._ (_testily_). Pathetic, Sir--nonsense! I like to see people
putting their _heart_ into it, whether it's play or work. Give me a

    [_As if in answer to this prayer, there is a sudden irruption
    of typical Bank Holiday-makers into the compartment._

_Man by the Window_. Third-class as good as fust, these days! There's
ole FRED! Wayo, FRED, tumble in, ole son--room for one more standin'!

    [_"OLE FRED" plays himself in with a triumphal blast on a tin
    trumpet, after which he playfully hammers the roof with his
    stick, as he leans against the door._

_Ole Fred_. Where's my blanky friend? I 'it 'im one on the jaw, and
I ain't seen 'im since! (_Sings, sentimentally, at the top of a
naturally powerful voice._) "Com-rides, Com-rides! Hever since we was
boys! Sharin' each other's sorrers. Sharin' each hother's--beer!"

    [_A "paraprosdokian," which delights him to the point of

_The O.G._ Might I ask you to make a little less disturbance there
Sir? [_Whimpers from over-tired children._

_Ole Fred_ (_roaring_). "I'm jolly as a Sandboy, I'm 'appy as a king!
No matter what I see or 'ear, I larf at heverything! I'm the morril
of my moth-ar, (_to O.G._) the himage of _your_ Par! And heverythink I
see or 'ear, it makes me larf 'Ar-har!'"

    [_He laughs "Ar-har," after which he gives a piercing
    blast upon the trumpet, with stick obbligato on the roof._

_The O.G._ (_roused_). I really _must_ beg you not to be such an
infernal nuisance! There are women and children here who--

_Old Fred_. Shet up, ole umbereller whiskers! (_Screams of laughter
from women and children, which encourage him to sing again._) "An'
the roof is copper-bottomed, but the chimlies are of gold. In my
double-breasted mansion in the Strand!" (_To people on platform,
as train stops_.) _Come_ in, oh, lor, _do_! "Oi-tiddly-oi-toi!

    [_The rest take up the refrain--"'Ave a drink an' wet your
    eye," &c., and beat time with their boots._

_The O.G._. If this abominable noise goes on, I shall call the
guard--disgraceful, coming in drunk like this!

_The Man by the Window_. 'Ere, dry up, Guv'nor--_'e_ ain't 'ad enough
to 'urt 'im, _'e_ ain't!

_Chorus of Females_ (_to O.G._). An' Bank 'Oliday, too--you orter to
be _ashimed_ o' yerself, you ought! 'E's as right as right, if you
on'y let him alone!

_Old Fred_ (_to O.G._). Ga-arn, yer pore-'arted ole choiner boy!
(_Says, dismally_), "Ow! for the vanished Spring-time! Ow! for the
dyes gorn boy! Ow! for the"--(_changing the melody_)--"'omeless,
I wander in lonely distress. No one ter pity me--none ter caress!"
(_Here he sheds tears, overcome by his own pathos, but presently
cheers up._) "I dornce all noight! An' I rowl 'ome toight! I'm a
rare-un at a rollick, or I'm ready fur a foight." Any man 'ere
wanter foight me? Don't say no, ole Frecklefoot! (_To the O.G., who
perspires freely_.) Oh, I _am_ enj'yin' myself! [_He keeps up this
agreeable rattle, without intermission, for the remainder of the
journey, which--as the train stops everywhere, and takes quite
three-quarters of an hour in getting from Queen's Road, Battersea, to
Victoria--affords a signal proof of his social resources, though it
somewhat modifies the O.G.'s enthusiasm for the artless gaiety of a
Bank Holiday._

       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Dream of the Dentist's Chair._)]

       *       *       *       *       *


  "A CHEQUE-MATE's a husband who's found a good catch,"
    So lisp rosy lips that romance little reck.
  Yes, and many a close "matrimonial" match
    Is won by "perpetual cheque."

       *       *       *       *       *


In "The New Yachting," a discursive paper, pleasantly written by
Sir MORELL MACKENZIE, M.D., in _The Fortnightly_ for this month, the
author quotes a verse from the old song of "Jim Collins," or, as he
writes it, "John Collins" (by way of proving that the drink known by
that name was originated by this individual) but quotes it, to the
best of our knowledge and belief, inaccurately. It was set to the air
of "Jenny Jones," and thus it ran:--

  "My name is JIM COLLINS,
    'Ead-vaiter at Limmers',
  The corner of Conduck Street,
    'Anover Square.

  "And my hokkipashun
    Is sarvin' out liquors
  To such sportin' covies
    As chance to come _there_."

This, we venture to assert, savours more of the old bar and the
ancient sanded floors, more of the by-gone Cider Cellars and extinct
Vauxhall Gardens, more of the early mornings and late nights, more of
the rough-and-ready "P.R." times, than the veneered version for the
drawing-room given us by Sir M.M., M.D. We may be wrong, but--we don't
think we are.

       *       *       *       *       *



    ["There are numerous instances of Members of the legal
    profession having acquired habits of intemperance in
    consequence of the facilities for procuring alcoholic drinks
    in the building, and the difficulty of obtaining tea and
    coffee."--_Cobb, on the Refreshment Bars of the Law Courts_.]

    SCENE--_Apartment in the Chancery Division. Time, 2·15 P.M.
    Judge, Bar, Solicitors, and Public discovered in a state
    more easily imagined (by Mr. COBB) than described._

_Judge_ (_thickly_). What want t'know--what-do-next? (_Smiles._) Very
hot! Very hot indeed! [_Frowns._

_First Q.C._ (_rising unsteadily_). P'raps m'Lord let m'explain! Case
of _Brown_-versus-_Smith_, should say--course--_Smith_-versus-_Brown_.
(_Smiles._) Absurd! Can't-say-more! [_Sits down abruptly._

_Judge_ (_angrily_). Very irregular this! Commit--contempt--Court!

_Second Q.C._ (_leaning luxuriously on desk_). P'raps m'Lord let me
explain. Learned friend--drunk! [_Disappears under his seat._

_Judge_ (_angrily, to Second Q.C._) So you! so everybody! (_With
maudlin tenderness_.) Must respect Court! (_Savagely._) You are all
disgusting--disgustingly--'tosticated! Adjourn--morrow mornin'. Usher,
brandy sodah! [_Scene closes in--fortunately!_

       *       *       *       *       *



_House of Commons, Monday, July 27_.--Quite like old times to-night.
Public business interrupted, and private Member suspended. The victim
is ATKINSON, Member for Boston; been on the rampage all last week; a
terror to the Clerks' table; haunting the SPEAKER's Chair, and making
the Sergeant-at-Arms's flesh creep. Decidedly inconvenient to have
a gentleman with pale salmon neck-tie and white waistcoat, suddenly
popping his head round SPEAKER's Chair, and crying, "Ah, ah!" "No, you
don't!" "Would you, then?" and other discursive remarks. Curious how
ATKINSON, indulging in these luxuries himself; hotly resents attempts
by others to enjoy similar exotics of conversation. Narrating his
grievances just now, he dwelt with especial fervour on one of them.
"One of the Clerks," he told the House, "when I showed him a Motion,
said, 'Oh! oh!' I said, 'Don't say "Oh! oh!" to me.'"

[Illustration: "No Hankey-Pankey with me."]

"Why not?" asked HANKEY, with that direct, almost abrupt manner that
becomes a Magistrate for Surrey and Chairman of the Consolidated Bank.
"Why not? Are you to have monopoly of this simple interjection? Are
you to appropriate all the O's in the alphabet? Is not a Clerk at the
Table a man and a brother, and why may he not, if the idea flashes
across his active brain, say, 'Oh! oh!'?"

That rather floored ATKINSON; brought him (so to speak) to his senses.
Told me afterwards he had never looked on matters in that light. Great
advantage having a man like HANKEY going round prepared at moment's
notice to take common-sense view of situation and depict it in terse
language. Sobering effect on ATKINSON only momentary. Whilst SPEAKER
was narrating circumstances on which he had based charge against him
of frivolous and vexatious conduct, Member for Boston was bouncing
about on seat like parched pea, shouting out, "Oh! oh!" "Ah! ah!" "No
you don't!" and offering other pertinent but fragmentary remarks.


"Reminds me," said Member for SARK, "of the scene in the Varden
household, when _Miss Miggs_ returns expecting to be re-instated in
her old place of predominance, near the person of _Dolly's_ mother.
You remember how, when she finds the game is up, she turns rusty, and
betrays her mistress's ability to 'faint away stone dead whenever she
had the inclinations so to do?' 'Of course,' _Miss Miggs_ continues,
'I never see sich cases with my own eyes. Ho, no! He, he, he! Nor
master neither! Ho, no! He, he, he!'"

So ATKINSON kept up a running commentary on observations of successive
Members, including SQUIRE of MALWOOD and JOKIM. JOKIM at one time,
startled by "Oh! oh!" sounding in his right ear as he was making
very ordinary observation, nearly fell over the folded hands he was
nervously rubbing. Situation growing embarrassing. ATKINSON popping
up with ever-increasing vivacity; his "Oh! oh's!" and his "No! no's!"
growing in frequency and stormy intensity. Must be got rid of somehow;
but supposing he won't go? Must JOKIM and the Squire, as Mover and
Seconder of Motion for expulsion, lead him bodily forth? or would the
Sergeant-at-Arms be called on, and should we see revival of the old
game, when BRADLAUGH and dear old friend GOSSET used to perform a
_pas de deux_ between the gaping doorway and the astonished Mace?
Happily ATKINSON (still like _Miss Miggs_, as SARK insists) suddenly

"It is usual," observed the SPEAKER, "at this point for an Hon. Member
to withdraw."

"Oh! Oh!" said ATKINSON, "withdraw? Then I withdraw. But," and here he
dropped his voice to impressive whisper, "_I will come back._" Then,
gathering up his papers, he tripped lightly forth, and the Varden
household--I mean the House of Commons, dropped once more into

[Illustration: Nothing if not critical.]

_Business done._--ATKINSON expelled for a week.

_Tuesday._--SQUIRE of MALWOOD dropped into poetry, and was much
pleased with little exercise. Backed up JOKIM in Motion suspending
Twelve o'Clock rule, so as to sit to all hours of the night, and wind
up business of Session. "We may," he observed, "apply, with a little
variation, the late Mr. MOORE's verse:--

  "The best of all ways to shorten our days
  Is to steal a few hours from the night."

"That doesn't scan," said CHILDERS, who is nothing if not critical.

"Of course it doesn't," said the SQUIRE, testily; "there are a pair
of feet left out. But _you_ know, TOBY, how they run. The last line
should be, 'Is to steal a few hours from the night, my Love.' Now,
theoretically, and in accordance with order, all our observations
are directed personally to the SPEAKER. Imagine what would have been
said if I had completed the quotation! I should have been accused of
frivolity, and perhaps suspended, like ATKINSON. No, Sir, I know what
I'm about, even when quoting poetry."

Mention this to illustrate the state of terrorism existing in House
just now, after blow that fell on ATKINSON. Only man who prattles on
unconscious of impending doom is MORTON. ALPHEUS CLEOPHAS not at all
satisfied with condition of affairs. ATKINSON has stolen march on
him; left him nowhere. Determined to-night to pull up lost way. In
Committee on Irish Votes moved to reduce charge for Dublin Police by
£1000; proposed to show at some length charge is excessive. Committee
thought Irish Members might be left to look after that for themselves.
Howled at ALPHEUS continuously for space of ten minutes; then he sat
down, moving reduction in dumb show.

Pity Prince of NAPLES hadn't chosen this time for visit; would have
given him much livelier impression of the place than he gained when
he sat in Gallery just after Questions, listening to CLARK discoursing
about Scotch Crofters to audience of nineteen, including SPEAKER.
_Business done._--Committee of Supply.

_Wednesday._--House rapidly thinning; AKERS-DOUGLAS has hard work to
keep his men together; falling off like leaves in wintry weather. Been
a long Session, and a weary one. Only sense of duty to our QUEEN and
Country kept us here unto this last.

"And now I'm off," said SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE. "I don't know how
you'll get on without me, dear boys."

"We'll try, we'll try," murmured the Conservatives gathered in the
smoke-room for the last cigarette.

"You see," the SAGE continued, "some lives are valuable to the
country, and must be cared for, whatever violence is done to private
feeling. For my part, I would much rather be here, but RUSTEM ROOSE,
He-who-is-to-be-Obeyed, has ordered me to Marienbad, and I go. 'But,'
like ATKINSON and another ancient Roman (of whom you may have read in
school-books), 'I return.' In the meanwhile, take care of Mr. G. Don't
let him overwork himself, or ruthlessly endanger his health. It is
precious to all of us, more especially to some of his colleagues on
the Front Bench. I often think of what will happen when he retires
from the scene. I fancy there will be a kind of Suttee. There are
quite a lot of old wives in his political establishment, who cannot
resist, what must, indeed, be their natural inclination, the call to
immolate themselves on the funeral pyre. There's ----, and ----, and
---- ----." (Wild horses couldn't drag these names from me. Anyone
interested should write to the SAGE, _Poste Restante Marienbad_.)
"They could not think of lingering on the political scene after the
retirement of the head of the family. I shall certainly attend the
Suttee. It will be an interesting and ennobling spectacle. It will,
moreover, make some room on the newly constructed Treasury Bench."

_Business done_.--SAGE goes off by the Club train. The two muffled-up
figures seen in the background of the station are emissaries of
AKERS-DOUGLAS charged with the mission of ascertaining whether he's
really gone.

[Illustration: An Idea.]

_Saturday_.--House sitting to-day. Should have prorogued yesterday at
latest; but, somehow, drifting on; Members, for their part, drifting
off; affairs reached lowest level; business practically wound up; but
House must needs sit another week in order that Appropriation Bill may
be got through all its stages, and so the Constitution saved.

Looking round the dull and deadly scene, discover WADDY, Q.C., with
legs engagingly intertwined, and the forefinger that has wagged
a verdict out of many juries resting on his massive brow. "Got a
headache?" I asked, that being the most natural thing under the

"No, I've got an idea. I'll pair go off for my well-earned holiday,
leaving others to look after the Appropriation Bill."

"So will I," I said, suddenly caught and borne away by that enthusiasm
which has so often influenced amount of damages in breach of promise
cases. _Business done._--Practically finished. TOBY, M.P., pairs for
remaining days of Session.

       *       *       *       *       *



    [Alderman GRAY is to be the next Lord Mayor, unopposed, on
    retirement of Alderman EVANS.]

  When SAVORY has ruled a twelvemonths to a day,
  Guid EVANS he'll withdraw to give place to lucky GRAY;
  To Auld-(er)-man GRAY, who shall rule in the Ci-tee,
  GRAY was clearly born to be great--and I am he!
  I gang like a host, though 'tis airly to begin;
  I try not to be prood, for that wad be a sin,
  But I will do my best a guid Lord MAYOR to be,
  For Auld-(er)-man GRAY will soon rule in the Ci-tee!

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.--_Legal Fiction._--The Lord Chief Justice
was certainly a little severe in his remarks on Stock Exchange
morality, and it is natural that you should feel hurt at the ignorant
criticism of a mere outsider. As you remark, there can be no question
but that the Stock Exchange affords the highest example in this
country of a school of honour and virtue. What is called "Legal
Intelligence" is often very defective.

       *       *       *       *       *

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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