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Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, April 2, 1892
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 102, April 2, 1892" ***

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VOL. 102.

April 2, 1892.


[Illustration: "Knock'd 'em!"]

"What's in an 'at without an 'ed?" DISTAFFINA DE COCKAIGNE was wont
to inquire, and "what's an 'all" (of Music like the London Pavilion)
"without a NED" in the shape of Mr. EDWARD SWANBOROUGH, the
all-knowing yet ever-green Acting Manager at this place of
entertainment, who possessing the secret of perpetual youth in all the
glory of ever-resplendent hat and ever-dazzling shirt-front, ushers
us into the Stalls in time to hear the best part of an excellent
all-round show. It is sad to think that, probably as we were disputing
with the cabman, the celebrated Miss BOOM-TE-RÉ-SA, alias LOTTIE
COLLINS, Serio-Comic and Dancer, was "booming" and "teraying" before
the eyes of a delighted audience. Strange that we should not yet
have heard the great original. But as she is not (so to adapt a line
from the "_Last Rose of Summer_") "left booming alone," we have
not escaped hearing several of her male and female imitators who,
by her kind permission and that of her publishers, trade on her
present exceptional success. However, when we entered the Stalls,
Miss BOOM-TE-RÉ-SA had disappeared, and somebody with a song had
"intervened"--a mode of proceeding not necessarily limited to the
Queen's Proctor--before the object of our visit walked on to the
stage, and when he did come a pretty object he was too, seeing that
it was Mr. ALBERT CHEVALIER, the unequalled and inimitable Comedian
of the Costermongers. He is a thorough artist in this particular
line, and no indifferent one in others; but his Coster ballads are
artistically first rate. The fashion of calling English singers by
Italian names is on the wane, otherwise Mr. ALBERT CHEVALIER, of
French extraction, would find an excellent Italian alias, closely
associated with the operatic and musical professions, and most
appropriate to the line he has adopted, in the name of "SIGNOR COSTA."
The melody of Mr. CHEVALIER's "_Coster's Serenade_," of which, I
rather think, he is the composer as well as librettist, is as charming
as it is strikingly original. After the _Chevalier sans peur et sans
approche_ had retired, clever and sprightly Miss JENNY HILL gave as
a taste of lodging-house-keeperism, following whom came the Two MACS
belabouring each other in their old hopelessly idiotic, but always
utterly irresistible style; and then Lieutenant W. COLE--King COLE
we "crowned him long ago"--gave his ventriloquial entertainment, who,
with his troop of talking dolls, should have his address at Dollis
Hill. There were many "turns" yet to follow when we left, at a
comparatively early hour; "and so," to quote old PEPYS, "home with
much content."

       *       *       *       *       *


  Big promises and Party scoldings
  Won't cure "Small Savings" by "Small Holdings."

       *       *       *       *       *


    SCENE--_Interior of Small Box containing telephone with book
    of addresses. Enter hurriedly_ Impatient Subscriber.

_Impatient Subscriber_ (_turning over leaves of address-book_).
Of course I can't find it! Ah! here it is! 142086. (_Rings bell
of telephone, and listens with receivers to his ear._) Now I have
forgotten it! (_Puts back receivers on rests, and refers again to
book. Telephone bell rings in answer. He hurries back and calls._)
One hundred and forty-two nought eighty-six.

_First Voice_ (_from telephone_). One hundred and forty-two?

_Imp. Sub._ Yes, and nought eighty-six.

_First Voice_. Which do you want?

_Imp. Sub._ Why, both.

_First Voice_. You can't. Must have one at a time.

_Imp. Sub._ It's only one. One four two nought eight six.

_First Voice_. One four two nought eight six?

_Imp. Sub._ Yes, please. One four two nought eight six.

_First Voice_. Very well. Why didn't you give the number before?

_Imp. Sub._ (_angrily_). Well, I have given it now. (_He listens
intently, exclaiming now and again_, "_Are you there_?" _and then
rings_.) One four two nought eight six, please.

_First Voice_ (_after a pause_). What!

_Imp. Sub._ One four two nought eight six, please.


_First Voice_ (_as if the number is now heard for the first time_).
One four two nought eight six?

_Imp. Sub._ Yes, please. And look sharp!

_First Voice_. What?

_Imp. Sub._ One four two nought eight six.

_First Voice_. I hear. One four two nought eight six. [_The
communication is cut off for a couple of minutes._

_Imp. Sub._ (_for the sixth time_). Are you there?

_Second Voice_. Yes. Who is it?

_Imp. Sub._ I am BOSH, BOODLE & CO.

_Second Voice_. RUSH, RUDDLE & CO.?

_Imp. Sub._ No. BOSH, BOODLE & CO.

_First Voice_. Have you finished?

_Imp. Sub._ No, no--we are still speaking. I want to know if you have
sent that case of champagne to BUMBLETON?

_Second Voice_. What? I can't hear you.

_Imp. Sub._ (_speaking very slowly, as if dictating to imperfectly
educated infants_). Have--you--sent--that--case--of--cham--pagne--to

_Second Voice_ (_puzzled_). Sent a case of champagne?

_First Voice_ (_interposing_.) Have you finished?

_Imp. Sub._ No, we are still speaking. Yes--have you sent a case of
champagne to BUMBLETON?

_Second Voice_. Sent a case of champagne to BUMBLETON? No; why should

_Imp. Sub._ Because you promised TICKLEBY you would.

_Second Voice_ (_evidently perplexed_). Promised TICKLEBY?

_Imp. Sub._ (_in a tone of reproach_). Yes, promised TICKLEBY.

_First Voice_ (_interposing_.) Have you finished?

_Imp. Sub._ No, we are still speaking; please don't cut us off.
(_Returning to the champagne subject_). Yes, you promised TICKLEBY you
would send the case of champagne to BUMBLETON. (_With inspiration._)
You are the Arctic Wine Company, aren't you?

_Second Voice_. No. I am Secretary of the Curate's Papier Mâché Church

_Imp. Sub._ (_in a tone of sorrow_). Aren't you one four two nought
eight six?

_Third Voice_ (_coming from somewhere_). Mind and bring a gun with
you, and--.

_Second Voice_. No. We are two four eight nought six seven. Good

_First Voice_. Have you finished?

_Imp. Sub._ (_angrily_). I have not begun! You have put me on the
wrong number!

_First Voice_ (_calmly_). What number do you want?

_Imp. Sub._ (_angrily_). One four two nought eight six.

_First Voice_. Two four two nought eight six?

_Imp. Sub._ (_with suppressed rage_). No, _one_ four two nought eight

_First Voice_. Very well. One four two nought eight six.

_Imp. Sub._ Yes, and don't make a mistake.

    [_Long pause, during which he asks_, "_Are you there?_" _at

_Fourth Voice_. What is it?

_Imp. Sub._ Are you Arctic Wine Company?

_Fourth Voice_. Yes, all right! What is it?

_Imp. Sub._ (_joyfully_). Have you sent a case of champagne to

_Fourth Voice_. What? I can't hear you.

_First Voice_. (_interposing_). Have you finished?

_Imp. Sub._ No, we are still speaking. Have you sent a case of
champagne to BUMBLETON?

_Fourth Voice_. We can't hear you. Send a messenger.

_First Voice_. Have you finished?

_Imp. Sub._ (_shouting_). Yes! (_Is cut off._) Shorter to have done so
at once!

    [_Uses intemperate language, and hurries off to get a
    Messenger. Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *




  The Cabman's thrifty fares,
  Who would seek suburban airs,
    Desire, of course, a more extended "radius;"
  But, Cabby, it is clear,
  Thinks quite otherwise. I fear
    The controversy's growing rather "taydious."
  Whether by night or day,
  A fair fare the fare should pay,
    And Cabby should not overcharge unduly;
  But _this_ is what riles _me_,
  When churl Cabby _will_ not see
    A would-be fare, but just ignores him coolly.


  "_Hi! hi! Cab! Hi_!" Oh, no!
  On the sullen brute will go;
  When he _wants_ a fare, he's clamorous and unruly;
  But if he wants a _drink_,
  With a sneer or with a wink,
  He'll rumble on and just ignore you coolly.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


_Lady Di._ (_who has been trying a Horse with a view to purchase_).




       *       *       *       *       *



Scarcely had the tintinabulum fixed on the altitude of the clock tower
of the ecclesiastical building known to fame and rowing men as Putney
Church sounded out the merry chimes of eleven in the forenoon, when
the wielders of the sky-blue (or dark-blue) blades were observed by
the eager frequenters of the tow-path carrying their trim-built ship
to the water's edge. Not many moments were cut to waste before each
man had safely ensconced himself on the thwart built for him under the
experienced eyes of the champion boat-builder. The men looked, it must
in all fairness be admitted, in the high level of condition. In each
eye there blazed a stern determination to do or die on every possible
occasion. When the signal to start was given, the boat was observed
to move with the bounding speed of a highly-trained greyhound. The
oars dipped into the water like one man, though a marked inclination
was observed on the part of two or three of the oarsmen to "hurry,"
while the rest seemed equally disposed to be "late." A few fatherly
words from the prince of modern coaches soon had the desired effect
of placing matters on a more completely satisfactory footing. The
suggestion often made in these columns that a swifter rate of striking
should be introduced, was acted upon. The boat moved with perfect
evenness, while the wavelets played round her like young dolphins out
for a holiday.

I need only add that our old friend Jupiter Pluvius proved once again
to be a kind friend to those who tempted the dangers of the foaming
tide in Putney Reach. In conclusion, it must be observed that the
stroke was sometimes "short" and occasionally "long," but the "slides"
moved like things of life, and contributed greatly to the pleasure of
a very enjoyable outing.

       *       *       *       *       *



  "To Lion-Hearted Hercules," the strong,
  Sounded the clarion of Homeric song.
  "Alcides, forcefullest of all the brood
  Of men enforced with need of earthly food."
  _Punch_ will sing gallant Herschelles, than whom
  Who was more worthy of Alcmene's womb
  Or Jovian parentage? Behold him stand
  With lion-hide on loins, and club in hand!
  Forceful and formidable to all foes,
  But fatal most especially to those
  Of Hydra presence and Stymphalian beak,
  Whose quarry is unseasoned youth, who seek
  By subtle snares the Infant's steps to trip,
  And catch the Minor in their harpy grip.
  To his Twelve Labours, against monsters grim,
  Who might have lived in safety but for him,
  To snare, to slay, to humbug, and to cozen,
  Herschelles, just to make a baker's dozen,
  Adds a Thirteenth!
                     A wily, wicked wight,
  Dwelling in noxious nooks as dark as night,
  Beyond the radius of the housemaid's broom,
  And thence dispensing dire disgrace and doom
  Long time our homes hath haunted. Greedy Ghoul,
  As furtive of advance as fierce of soul,
  The Money-lending Spider is his name,
  And grim and gruesome was his little game.
  Of swollen body, of protuberant beak,
  He knew that Youths were green, and Infants weak,
  And spun his web, invisible but strong,
  Where'er GRAY's well-named "little triflers" throng,
  Who, verily unmindful of their doom,
  He watched from forth his grubby haunts of gloom,
  And strove by sinister device to lure,
  Till, 'midst his viscous mazes once secure,
  Them he might seize and suck.
                                The Birds, the Boar,
  The Lion, or the Bull, all whom before
  Great Herschelles had tackled, were not worse
  Than the Colossal Spider, Albion's curse,
  The scourge of childish Wealth and youthful Rank,
  The Moloch of our Minors! Fathers, thank
  Our new Alcides, who, with legal club,
  Could dare the web assault, the Spider drub!
  Worse than Tarantula venom hath the bite
  Of this Conkiferous Ogre, which to fight
  Herschelles did adventure! Thump! Bang! Whack!
  The web is burst, the Spider's on his back,
  All impotently spluttering poisonous spleen
  Let's hope such monster may no more be seen.
  And let us hail great Herschelles, whose skill
  The high-nosed horror hath availed to kill.
  Blow, Infants, blow the pipe, and thump the tabor,
  In honour of the hero's Thirteenth Labour!

       *       *       *       *       *



No pursuit is more sedentary, if one may talk of a sedentary pursuit,
and none more to my taste, than trout-fishing as practised in the
South of England. Given fine weather, and a good novel, nothing can he
more soothing than to sit on a convenient stump, under a willow, and
watch the placid kine standing in the water, while the brook murmurs
on, and perhaps the kingfisher flits to and fro. Here you sit and
fleet the time carelessly, till a trout rises. Then, indeed, duty
demands that you shall crawl in the manner of the serpent till you
come within reach of him, and cast a fly, which usually makes him
postpone his dinner-hour. But he will come on again, there is no need
for you to change your position, and you can always fill your basket
easily--with irises and marsh-marigolds.

[Illustration: "I wade in as far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe
with the rod."]

Such are our county contents, but woe befall the day when I took to
salmon-fishing. The outfit is expensive, "half-crown flees" soon mount
up, especially if you never go out without losing your fly-book. If
you buy a light rod, say of fourteen feet, the chances are that it
will not cover the water, and a longer rod requires in the fisherman
the strength of a SANDOW. You need wading-breeches, which come up
nearly to the neck, and weigh a couple of stone. The question has been
raised, can one swim in them, in case of an accident? For _one_, I can
answer, he can't. The reel is about the size of a butter-keg, the line
measures hundreds of yards, and the place where you fish for salmon
is usually at the utter ends of the earth. Some enthusiasts begin in
February. Covered with furs, they sit in the stern of a boat, and are
pulled in a funereal manner up and down Loch Tay, while the rods fish
for themselves. The angler's only business is to pick them up if a
salmon bites, and when this has gone on for a few days, with no bite,
Influenza, or a hard frost with curling, would be rather a relief.
This kind of thing is not really angling, and a Duffer is as good at
it as an expert.

Real difficulties and sufferings begin when you reach the
Cruach-na-spiel-bo, which sounds like Gaelic, and will serve us as
a name for the river. It is, of course, extremely probable that you
pay a large rent for the right to gaze at a series of red and raging
floods, or at a pale and attenuated trickle of water, murmuring
peevishly through a drought. But suppose, for the sake of argument,
that the water is "in order," and only running with deep brown swirls
at some thirty miles an hour. Suppose also, a large presumption, that
the Duffer does not leave any indispensable part of his equipment
at home. He arrives at the stream, and as he detests a gillie, whose
contempt for the Duffer breeds familiarity, he puts up his rod,
selects a casting line, knots on the kind of fly which is locally
recommended, and steps into the water. Oh, how cold it is! I begin
casting at the top of the stream, and step from a big boulder into a
hole. Stagger, stumble, violent bob forwards, recovery, trip up, and
here one is in a sitting position in the bed of the stream. However,
the high india-rubber breeks have kept the water out, except about a
pailful, which gradually illustrates the equilibrium of fluids in the
soles of one's stockings. However, I am on my feet again, and walking
more gingerly, though to the spectator, my movements suggest partial
intoxication. That is because the bed of the stream is full of
boulders, which one cannot see, owing to the darkness of the water.
There was a fish rose near the opposite side. My heart is in my mouth.
I wade in as far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe with the rod. A
frantic tug behind, crash, there goes the top of the rod! I am caught
up in the root of a pine-tree, high up on the bank at my back. No
use in the language of imprecation. I waddle out, climb the bank,
extricate the fly, get out a spare top, and to work again, more
cautiously. Something wrong, the hook has caught in my coat, between
my shoulders. I must get the coat off somehow, not an easy thing to
do, on account of my india-rubber armour. It is off at last. I cut
the hook out with a knife making a big hole in the coat, and cast
again. That was over him! I let the fly float down, working it
scientifically. No response. Perhaps better look at the fly. Just my
luck, I have cracked it off!

Where is the fly-book? Where indeed? A feverish search for the
fly-book follows--no use: it is not in the basket, it is not in my
pocket; must have fallen out when I fell into the river. No good in
looking for it, the water is too thick, I _thought_ I heard a splash.
Luckily there are some flies in my cap, it looks knowing to have
some flies in one's cap, and it is not so easy to lose a cap, without
noticing it, as to lose most things. Here is a big Silver Doctor that
may do as the water is thick. I put one on, and begin again casting
over where that fish rose. By George, there he came at me, at least
I think it must have been at me, a great dark swirl, "the purple wave
bowed over it like a hill," but he never touched me. Give him five
minutes law, the hook is sure to be well fastened on, need not bother
looking at that again. Five minutes take a long time in passing, when
you are giving a salmon a rest. Good times and bad times and all times
pass, so here goes. It is correct to begin a good way above him and
come down to him. I'm past him; no, there is a long heavy drag under
water, I get the point up, he is off like a shot, while I stand in a
rather stupid attitude, holding on. If I cannot get out and run down
the bank, he has me at his mercy. I do stagger out, somehow, falling
on my back, but keeping the point up with my right hand. No bones
broken, but surely he is gone! I begin reeling up the line, with a
heavy heart, and try to lift it out of the water. It won't come, he
is here still, he has only doubled back. Hooray! Nothing so nice
as being all alone when you hook a salmon. No gillie to scream out
contradictory orders. He is taking it very easy, but suddenly he moves
out a few yards, and begins jiggering, that is, giving a series of
short heavy tugs. They say he is never well hooked, when he jiggers.
The rod thrills unpleasantly in my hands, I wish he wouldn't do that.
It is very disagreeable and makes me very nervous. Hullo! he is off
again up-stream, the reel ringing like mad: he gets into the thin
water at the top, and jumps high in the air. He is a monster. Hullo!
what's that splash? The reel has fallen off, it was always loose, and
has got into the water. How am I to act now? He is coming back like
mad, and all the line is loose, and I can't reel up. I begin pulling
at the line to bring up the reel, but the reel only lets the line
out, and now he is off again, down stream this time, and I after him,
and the line running out at both ends at once, and now my legs get
entangled in it, it is twisted all round me. He runs again and jumps,
the line comes back in my face, all slack, something has given. It
is the hook, it was not knotted on firmly to start with. He flings
himself out of the water once more to be sure that he is free, and I
sit down and gnaw the reel. Had ever anybody such bad fortune, but it
is just my luck!

I go back to the place where the reel fell in, and by pulling
cautiously I extract it from the stream. It shan't come off again; I
tie it on with the leather lace of one of my brogues. Then I reel up
the slack, and put on another fly, out of my cap, a Popham. Then I
fish down the rest of the pool. Near the edge, in the slower part of
the water, there is a long slow draw, before I can lift the point of
the rod, a salmon jumps high out of the water at me,--and is gone!
I never struck him, was too much taken aback at the moment; did not
expect him then. Thank goodness, the hook is not off this time.

The next stream is very deep, strong and narrow; the best chance is
close in on my side. By Jove, here he is, he took almost beside the
rock. He sails leisurely out into the strength of the stream, if he
will come up, I can manage him, but if he goes down, the water is
very swift and broken, there are big boulders, and then a sheer wall
of rock difficult to pass in cold blood, and then the Big Pool. He
insists on going down, I hold hard on him, and refuse line. But he
leaps, and then, well he _will_ have it; down he rushes, I after him,
over the stones, scrambling along the rocky face; great heavens! _the
top joint of the rod is loose_; I did not tie it on, thought it would
hold well enough. But down it runs, right down the line; it must be
touching the fish. It is; he does not like it, he jiggers like a mad
thing, rushes across the Big Pool, nearly on to the opposite bank.
Why won't the line run? The line is entangled in my boot-lace. He is
careering about; I feel that I am trembling like a leaf. There, I knew
it would happen; he is off with my last casting-line, hook and all. A
beauty he was, clear as silver and fresh from the sea. Well, there is
nothing for it but a walk back to the house. I have lost one fly-book,
two hooks, a couple of casting-lines, three salmon, a top joint, and I
have torn a great hole in my coat. On changing my dress before lunch,
I find my fly-book in my breast pocket, where I had not thought of
looking for it somehow. Then the rain comes, and there is not another
fishing day in my fortnight. Still, it decidedly was "one crowded hour
of glorious life," while it lasted. The other men caught four or five
salmon apiece; it is their Red Letter Day. It is marked in black in my

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["It is a noteworthy fact that while debates have been
    languishing at Westminster, at Tooting there have been Members
    enough to 'make a House' any day during the past fortnight,
    so keen an interest is the 'Royal and Ancient' game
    exciting."--_Daily Telegraph._]

  What's the use of hooting.
  Or cir-cum-lo-cuting?
      M.P.'s off
      To play at Golf.
  All the way to Tooting!

  Petty points PAT's mooting!
  Chances not computing,
      M.P. slips,
      (Despite the Whips)
  Off to Golf at Tooting!

  Landlords _may_ be looting,
  Tenants _may_ be shooting;
      Where's the fun
      In _that_? Let's run
  Off to Golf at Tooting!

  So M.P.'s are "scooting,"
      Cut the House
      (It shows their _nous_)
  For the Links at Tooting!

  There is joy in shooting,
  Wine-ing or cherooting,
      Dinners, Moors,
      Weeds--_all_ are bores,
  Compared with Golf at Tooting!

       *       *       *       *       *



_The Admiral._ "TELL IT ME, TOMMY."


       *       *       *       *       *


    ["FIFTY POUNDS Reward will be gratefully paid to any Lady
    or Gentleman who will ASSIST in RECOVERING a valuable
    HEIRLOOM.... Anyone with wealthy or influential friends can at
    once secure above reward. Address, &c."]


I am an impecunious young man, and, the other day, on seeing this
Advertisement in the _Times_, I was seized with a wild desire to "at
once secure above reward." Said I to myself, "I have 'wealthy and
influential friends.' There is my cousin's uncle, who has, I believe,
thirty thousand a-year, though I never saw any part of it, or of him,
for the matter of that; and there is my own aunt by marriage, whose
second husband is a K.C.B., but I forget his name, and do not know
where he lives." So I sat and thought about it for a time with my
eyes shut, and then I started. The train was so full, that I imagined
it must be market-day in some neighbouring town, but the station was
so much fuller, that I could hardly get out of the train. At last,
edgeways, I reached a pale and melancholy ticket-collector, and asked
him where I should find the address mentioned. He turned a pitying
eye upon me, and, pointing to the crowd that filled the station, said,
wearily, "They're all a-goin' there. I know, cos they've all arst me.
You'd better foller 'em."

This statement filled me with desperation; I fought and struggled
through the vast crowd of persons "with wealthy and influential
friends" until I reached the open street. By that time I was
exhausted, and, finding that the street was even fuller than the
station had been, I gave up the attempt. I saw that the reserve
of gold at the Bank of England would not have sufficed to pay each
applicant the promised £50. In any case I felt sure that by that time
the whole of the money in the town must have been used up. So, without
hat or umbrella, and with my coat as much divided up the back as
up the front, I returned--to consciousness, and went on reading the

       *       *       *       *       *


  All the greatest swells
    Of the U.S.A.
  Come to see a new,
    Fascinating play.
  Verses by a Lord!
    Music by a Knight!
  Just the thing in which
    Democrats delight.
  When the hearty praise
    Bursts from Yankee lips,
  "Pass and blush the news
    Over glowing ships;"
  What are "glowing ships"?
    That I've never guessed,
  "Pass the happy news,
    Blush it thro' the West;"
  This I simply quote
    From the poet's muse;
  Hang me if I know
    How you "blush the news"!
  Anyhow, you do,
    If the lines will scan,
  "Till the red man dance,"
    Do you think he can?
  "And the red man's babe
    Leap beyond the sea."
  Active sort of child,
    Surely, that must be!
  "Blush from West to East,"
    Blush from left to right,
  "Till the West is East,"
    And the black is white,
  DALY is the man!
    Daily is the play,
  "Dailies" puff it up,
    In the kindest way.

       *       *       *       *       *

MORE APPROPRIATE.--The Senate House, where the Degree Examinations
take place, might well be termed "The Spinning House." It is there
that unfortunate Candidates are "spun."

       *       *       *       *       *



_Mrs. Foote_ (_who is anxious to show her matronly consideration for

       *       *       *       *       *



    ["Far from taking up and developing the new mode of
    communication thus given into its hands, it (the Post Office)
    could not forget its attitude of hostility to the innovation,
    or conceive any larger policy than one of repressing the
    telephone in order to make people stick to the telegraph....
    The result is that England lags far behind all other civilised
    countries in the use of the telephone."--_Times_.]


  _Cinderella_, you sit and look sober,
    _Cinderella_, you mope and look queer--
    You mope, and look dolefully queer;
  As chill as JOHN MILLAIS' "_October_,"
    As you have done, this many a year.
  It is hard on you; MOZART or AUBER
    Might fail your depression to cheer--
  Had you taken the draught named of Glauber,
  You could scarce look duller, my dear


  Our times, dear, are truly Titanic,
    Perfection seems Science's goal--
    Dim, distant, dark Science's goal--
  But we're still a bit given to panic.
        Monopolies moodily roll--
        Monopolies restlessly roll--
  That's why there's a movement volcanic
    That stirs us from pole unto pole--
  A moaning that's vainly volcanic,
    In the realms of the (Telegraph) pole.


  Deputations are serious and sober,
    Officials look palsied and sere--
    They indulge in rhetoric small-beer
  (Instead of sound sparkling October)
    They're frightened about _you_, my dear--
    (You, at present in two senses, dear!)
  They would scan the far future, and probe her,
    But can't--and it makes them feel queer;
  As you sit by the fire, looking sober,
    You make _them_ sit up and feel queer.


  Your sisters, whose airs are unpleasant,
    Regard you with arrogant scorn--
    With arrogant, uneasy scorn--
  True, they have the pull, for the present,
    But fear you, the fair youngest born.
  They know that your glory is crescent,
    And, though each uplifteth her horn,
  Each feels that _her_ glory's senescent,
    In spite of their duplicate scorn.


  _Miss Telegraph_, lifting her finger,
    Says--"Sadly this minx I mistrust--
    Her manners I strangely mistrust--
  She'll distance us, dear, if we linger!
    Ah, haste!--let us haste!--for we must!
  She'll eclipse us--that _would_ be a stinger!
    She'll rise, and our business is "bust"--
  My dear, we must snub her, and bring her
    Presumptuous pride to the dust--
    Till she sorrowfully sinks in the dust."


  _Post_ replies--"Oh, it's nothing but dreaming,
    Her hoping to put out _our_ light!--
    Our brilliant and duplicate light!
  What did FERGUSSON say, blandly beaming
    Upon the tired House t'other night?
    He said _he_ would make it all right.
  Ah, we safely may trust to his scheming--
    Be sure he will lead us aright--
  He won't let the damsel there dreaming
    Despoil us of what is our right--
    The monopoly plainly _our_ right!"


  Yet watch _Cinderella_, and list her!
    She yet will emerge from her gloom--
    Time will conquer her fears and her gloom.
  Before her she hath a bright vista.[1]
    The fairy Godmother will come!
    Redtape shall not long seal her doom.
  What is written is written! No "sister,"
    (Though scorning her beauty, and broom)
    Shall shroud her bright light in the tomb
    Which yet the whole land shall illume!


  She's "some pumpkins"--though now she looks sober--
    She's brilliant; she is "no small beer."
    No, no, _Cinderella_, my dear!
    Your envious "sisters" may jeer,
    And sit on you yet, for a year;
    Redtape your advancement may fear,
    And Monopoly's patrons look queer;
  But, as sure as the month of October
    Is famous for sound British beer,
  Vested Interest time shall prove _no_ bar
    To your final triumph, my dear!

[Footnote 1: POE, not _Mr. Punch_, should have the credit of this and
certain other Cockney rhymes.]

       *       *       *       *       *

"HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE."--"The competition for the Evill Prize
also took place yesterday" (i.e., last Thursday. _Vide Times_). The
prize so Evilly named was won by Mr. PHILIP BROZEL, of the Royal
Academy of Music, who must have expressed himself as being at least
deucedly delighted, even if he did not use some much stronger and
wronger expression. Henceforth PHILIP BROZEL has an Evill reputation.
Let us hope he will live up to it, and so live it down.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_The Front of the House. In the Boxes and Dress-circle
    are friends and relations of the_ Author. _In the Stalls are a
    couple of Stray Critics who leave early, actors and actresses
    "resting" more friends and relations. In the Pit, the front
    row is filled by the_ Author's _domestic servants, the
    landladies of several of the performers, and a theatrical
    charwoman or two, behind them a sprinkling of the general
    public, whose time apparently hangs heavily on their hands.
    In a Stage-box is the_ Author _herself, with a sycophantic_
    Companion. _A murky gloom pervades the Auditorium; a scratch
    orchestra is playing a lame and tuneless Schottische for
    the second time, to compensate for a little delay of fifteen
    minutes between the first and second Tableaux in the Second
    Act. The orchestra ceases, and a Checktaker at the Pit door
    whistles "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!" Some restless spirits stamp

[Illustration: "Sir, a roughly-dressed stranger ... requests a few

_The Author._ I wish they would be a _little_ quicker. I've a good
mind to go behind myself and hurry them up. The audience are beginning
to get impatient.

_Her Companion._ But that shows how _interested_ they are, _doesn't_
it, dear?

_Author._ I think it _ought_ to interest them, but I _did_ expect they
would have shown a little more enthusiasm over that situation in the
last _tableau_--they're rather a _cold_ audience!

_Comp._ It's above their heads, dear, that's where it is--plays are
such rubbish nowadays, people don't appreciate a really _great_ drama
just at first. I do hope Mr. IRVING, Mr. HARE and Mr. BEERBOHM TREE
will come in--I'm sure they'll be only too _anxious_ to secure it!

_Author._ I don't know that I should care for it to come out at the
Lyceum, but of course if the terms were very--oh, they're beginning
at last! I hope this light comedy scene will go well. (_Curtain
rises: Comic dialogue--nothing whatever to do with the plot--between a
Footman and a Matinée Maidservant in short sleeves, a lace tucker, and
a diamond necklace; depression of audience. Serious characters enter
and tell one another long and irrelevant stories, all about nothing.
When the auditor remarks,_ "Your story is indeed a sad one--but go
on," _a shudder goes through the house, which becomes a groan ten
minutes later when the listener says:_ "You have told me _your_
history--now hear _mine_!" _He tells it; it proves, if possible,
duller and more irrelevant than the other man's. A love-scene follows,
characterised by all the sparkle and brilliancy of "Temperance
Champagne"; the House witnesses the fall of the Curtain with apathy._)

_Author._ That love-scene was perfectly _ruined_ by the acting! She
_ought_ to have turned her head aside when he said, "Dash the teapot!"
but she never _did_, and he left out _all_ that about dreaming of her
when he was ill with measles in Mashonaland! I wish they wouldn't have
such long waits, though. We timed the piece at rehearsal, and, with
the cuts I made, it only played about four hours; but I'm afraid it
will take longer than that to-day.

_Comp._ I don't care _how_ long it is--it's so _beautifully_ written!

_Author._ Well, I put my whole _soul_ into it, you know; but it's not
till this next Act that I show my full power. [_Curtain rises on a
drawing-room, furnished with dingy wrecks from the property-room--the
home of_ JASPER, the Villain, _who is about to give an evening party.
Enter a hooded crone._ "Sir JASPER, I have a secret of importance,
which can only be revealed to your private ear!" (_Shivers of
apprehension amongst the audience._) _Sir J._ "Certainly, go
into yonder apartment, and await me there." (_Sigh of relief from
spectators_.) _A Footman._ "Sir, the guests wait!" _Sir J._ (_with
lordly ease_). "Bid them enter!" (_They troop in unannounced and
sit down against the wall, entertaining one another in dumb-show._)
_Footman_ (_re-entering_). "Sir, a roughly-dressed stranger, who says
he knew you in Norway, under an _alias_, requests a few words." _Sir
J._ "Confusion!--one of my former accomplices in crime--my guests
must not be present at this interview!" (_To Guests._) "Ladies and
Gentlemen, will you step into the adjoining room for a few minutes,
and examine my collection of war-weapons?" (_Guests retire, with
amiable anticipations of enjoyment. The Stranger enters, and tells
another long story._) "I smile still," he concludes--"but even a
_dead_ man's skull will smile. Allow me then the privileges of death!"
(_At this an irreverent Pittite suddenly guffaws, and the Audience
from that moment perceives that the piece possesses a humorous side.
The Stranger goes; the Guests return. Re-enter Footman_). "Sir, an
elderly man, who was acquainted with your family years ago, insists
on seeing you, and will take no denial!" _Villain_ (_with presence
of mind--to Guests._) "Ladies and Gentlemen, will you step into the
neighbouring apartment, and join the dancers?" (_The Guests obey. The_
Elderly Man _enters, and denounces_ JASPER, _who mendaciously declares
that he is his own second cousin_ JOSEPH; _whereupon the visitor
turns down his coat-collar, and takes off a false beard._) "Do you
know me now, JASPER SHOPPUN?" he cries. "_I_ am JOSEPH--your second
cousin!"... "What, ho, Sir Insolence!" the Villain retorts. "And so
you come to deliver me to Justice?"... "Not so," says JOSEPH. "Long
years ago I swore to my dying Aunt to protect your reputation, even
at the expense of my own. I come to warn you that"--&c., &c. (_The
Audience, who are now in excellent spirits, receive every incident
with uncontrollable merriment till the end of the Act. Another long
wait, enlivened by a piccolo solo._)

_Author._ LAVINIA, it's _too_ disgraceful--it's a deliberate
conspiracy to turn the piece into ridicule. I never thought my _own
relations_ would turn against me--and yet I might have known!

_Comp._ It wasn't the _play_ they laughed at, dear--that's lovely--but
it's so ridiculously _acted_, you know!

_Author._ Of course the acting _is_ abominable--but they might make
allowances for _that_. It _is_ so unfair! [_The Play proceeds. The
Heroine's jealousy has been excited by the Villain, for vague purposes
of his own, and the Hero is trying to disarm her suspicions._ _She._
"But why are you constantly going from Paris to London at the beck
and call of that man?" _He_ (_aside_). "If she only knew that I do it
to shield my second cousin, JASPER--but my oath!--I cannot tell her!
(_To her._) The reason is very simple, darling--he is my Private
Secretary!" (_Roars of inextinguishable laughter, drowning the Wife's
expressions of perfect satisfaction and confidence. The Hero wants to
go out; the Wife begs him to stay; she has 'a presentiment of evil--a
dread of something unseen, unknown.' He goes: the Villain enters in
evening dress._) _Villain._ "Your husband is false to you. Meet me
in half an hour at the lonely hut by the cross-roads, and you shall
have proof of his guilt." (_The Wife departs at once, just as she is.
Villain, soliloquising._) "So--my diabolical schemes prosper. I have
got JOSEPH out of the way by stratagem, decoyed his wife--my early
love--to a lonely hut, where my minions wait to seize her. Now to
abduct the child, destroy the certificate of vaccination which alone
stands between me and a Peerage, set fire to the home of my ancestors,
accuse JOSEPH of all my crimes, and take my seat in the House of
Lords as the Earl of Addelegg! Ha-ha--a good night's work! a good--"
_Joseph_ (_from back_). "Not so. I have heard all. I will _not_ have
it. You _shall_ not!" (_&c., &c._) _Villain._ "You would thwart my
schemes?" _Joseph_ (_firmly_). "I would. My wife and child shall
_not_--" (_&c., &c._) _Villain_ (_slowly_). "And the oath you swore
to my Mother, your dying Aunt, would you break that?" _Joseph_
(_overcome_). "My oath! my Aunt! Ah, no, I cannot, I _must_ not break
it. JASPER SHOPPUN, I am powerless--you must do your evil will!" (_He
sinks on a settee: Triumph of Villain, tableau, and Curtain._)

_Author._ I wouldn't have _believed_ that a modern audience would
treat heroic conduct like that as if it was _laughable_. It's enough
to make one give up play-writing altogether!

_Comp._ Oh, I wouldn't do _that_, dear. You mustn't punish Posterity!
[_The Play goes on and on; the Villain removes inconveniently
repentant tools, and saddles the Hero with his nefarious deeds. The
Hero is arrested, but reappears, at liberty, in the next Act (about
the Ninth), and no reference whatever is made to the past. Old serious
characters turn up again, and are welcomed with uproarious delight.
At the end of a conversation, lasting a quarter of an hour, the
Lady's-maid remarks that "her Mistress has been very ill, and must
not talk too much." Cheers from Audience. General joy when the Villain
returns a hopeless maniac. Curtain about six, and loud calls for

_Author._ Nothing will _induce_ me to take a call after the shameful
way they've behaved! And it's all the fault of the acting. When we
get home, I'll read the play all through to you again, and you'll see
now it _ought_ to have been done! A hundred and twenty pounds simply
thrown away!

    [_Retires, consoled by her_ Companion, _and the consciousness
    that true genius is invariably unappreciated._

       *       *       *       *       *



_House of Commons, Monday, March 21._--Uneasy feeling spread through
House to-night consequent on question addressed by MACINNES to
attention has been called to the increase of drinking among Natives
in the Coast Towns?" CAUSTON particularly depressed.

[Illustration: "Sir, I am not--"]

[Illustration: "--an Agricultural Labourer."]

"I sat for Colchester for five years, you know," he said, "and grew
into habit of regarding the Natives as my constituents. For five years
never swallowed one without thinking I was reducing the number on
the Register. Used to excuse myself on the ground that the particular
bivalve that had disappeared must have been a Conservative, or it
would never have been so stupid as to leave its comfortable bed to
embark on such a journey. My interest in the oyster is now secondary.
They don't flourish in Southwark; whelks more in our way down there.
Still one cannot forget old associations, and confess I'm rather
knocked over to hear this report MACINNES has brought up. Can't
imagine anything more distressing than the spectacle of a drunken
oyster--probably with dishevelled beard--coming home late at night and
trying to get into another Native's shell under impression that he has
recognised his own front door. Must see WILFRID LAWSON about this; get
up an Oyster Temperance Society; framed certificates, blue ribbon, and
all that, if the thing spreads, we shall have oysters emitting quite a
rum-punch flavour when we add the lemon."

Gloom dissipated two hours later by appearance of BOBBY SPENCER at the
Table. BOBBY doesn't often witch the House with oratory. Content with
important though to outsiders obscure position he occupies in Party
administration. His is the hand that pulls the strings to which
Liberal Party dance. SCHNADHORST gets some credit, but everybody knows
BOBBY's the man. To see these two political strategists in conference
is sufficient to reassure the Liberal Party on the possible issues of
the General Election.

SCHNADHORST complains that BOBBY has a trick, after addressing him
through the ear-trumpet he (S.) carries in reminiscence of JOSHUA
REYNOLDS, of putting his ear to the trumpet as if he expected the
answer to arrive through that medium.


"Very embarrassing." SCHNADHORST says, "to have a fellow first putting
his mouth and then his ear to other end of your trumpet. Sometimes
I say to him, sharply, '_I_ don't speak through the trumpet.' 'Oh,
no, of course not,' he says, 'I beg your pardon,' and draws away.
Presently he's back again, politely, as I speak, applying his ear
to the trumpet. But it's only the absence of mind that arises from
preoccupation in matters of State."

BOBBY, besides being the political director of the strategy of the
Liberal Party, is a County Member. It was in this last capacity
he appeared at Table to-night in Debate on Second Reading of Small
Holdings Bill. House received him with hearty cheer. No one more
popular than BOBBY. Delight uproariously manifested when, daintily
pulling at his abundant shirt-cuff, and settling his fair young
head more comfortably upon summit of his monumental collar, he
deprecatingly observed--

"Mr. SPEAKER, Sir, I am not an Agricultural Labourer."

The speech a model of Parliamentary debating, full of point, resting
on sound argument, lucidly stated, and all over in five minutes.
_Business done._--Debate on Small Holdings Bill.

_Tuesday_.--Morning Sitting. SEXTON at length worked off the speech
on Irish Education Bill, that has hung over House like cloud since
Bill was introduced in earliest days of Session. Wasn't in his place
the first night; so friends and colleagues wore out the sitting to
preserve his opportunity. When this next presented itself, SEXTON
thought the hour and condition of House unsuitable for person of his
consequence; declined to speak. To-day, his last chance, things worse
than ever. Benches empty, as usual at Morning Sitting. But now or
never, and at least there would be long report in Irish papers. So
went at it by the hour. Finished at a quarter to five. At Morning
Sitting, debate automatically suspended at ten minutes to seven;
two hours and five minutes for everyone else to speak. SINCLAIR long
waiting chance to thrust in his nose. Found it at last; but House
wearied and worn out; glad when seven o'clock approached, and Bill
read First Time.


At Evening Sitting, Lawyers had it all to themselves. ROBERTSON opened
Debate on Law of Conspiracy in admirable speech. Later came LOCKWOOD,
speaking disrespectfully of "B." Then SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, girding at
SOLICITOR-GENERAL; MATTHEWS followed, with plump assertion that Squire
had not been talking about the Resolution. Finally CHARLES RUSSELL,
with demonstration that "the Right Hon. Gentleman (meaning MATTHEWS)
had displayed a complete misconception of the character and objects of
the Resolution." Being thus demonstrated upon unimpeachable authority
that nobody knew anything about the Resolution, House proceeded
to vote upon it. For, 180; against, 226. Ministerialists cheered;
Opposition apparently equally delighted. So home I to bed, everyone
determined first thing in morning get hold of newspaper, and see what
the Resolution really was about. _Business done_.--Miscellaneous.

_Wednesday_.--"I wonder," said SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE, curiously
regarding CHAMBERLAIN discoursing on the Eight Hours Bill, "whom JOE
meant by his reference at Birmingham on Saturday night to 'the funny
man of the House of Commons,'--'A man who has a natural taste for
buffoonery, which he has cultivated with great art, who has a hatred
of every Government and all kinds of restraint, and especially, of
course, of the Government that happens to be in office.' Couldn't be
HENEAGE, and I don't suppose he had JESSE in his mind at the moment.
Pity a man can't make his points clearly. JOE used to be lucid enough.
But he's falling off now in that as in other matters. Made me rub my
eyes when I read his remarks about House of Lords, and remembered what
he used to say on subject when he and I ran together. Certainly JOE
is a man of courage. There are topics he might, with memory of past
speeches, easily avoid or circumnavigate. But he goes straight at
'em, whether fence or ditch, takes them at a stride regardless of
his former self, splashed with mud in the jump, or smitten with the
horse's hoof. Makes me quite sentimental when I sit and listen to him,
and recall days that are no more. _Mrs. Gummidge_ thinking of the
Old 'Un is nothing to me thinking of the Young 'Un who came up from
Birmingham in 1876, and who from '80 to '85 walked hand in hand with

  We were patriots together.--Ah! placeman and peer
    Are the patrons who smile on your labours to-day;
  And Lords of the Treasury lustily cheer
    Whatever you do and whatever you say.
  Go, pocket, my JOSEPH, as much as you will,
    The times are quite altered we very well know;
  But will you not, will you not, talk to us still,
    As you talked to us once long ago, long ago?

  We were patriots together!--I know you will think
    Of the cobbler's caresses, the coalheaver's cries,
  Of the stones that we throw, and the toasts that we drink
    Of our pamphlets and pledges, our libels and lies!
  When the truth shall awake, and the country and town
    Be heartily weary of BALFOUR & CO.,
  My JOSEPH, hark back to the Radical frown,
    Let us be what we were, long ago, long ago!"

"Bless me," I cried, "how beautiful! I didn't know that, among your
many accomplishments, you were given to dropping into poetry."

"Tut, tut!" said the SAGE, blushing, "it isn't all my own; written
years ago by MACKWORTH PRAED, about JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE. I've only
brought it up to date."

_Business done_.--Eight Hours' Bill thrown out on a Division.

_Thursday_.--Private O'GRADY, of the Welsh Fusiliers, the hero of the
hour. His annals short and simple. Got up early in the morning of St.
Patrick's Day; provided himself with handful of shamrock, which he
stuck in his glengarry. (_Note_.--O'GRADY, an Irishman, belongs to a
Welsh Regiment, and, to complete the pickle, wears a Scotch cap.) The
ignorant Saxon officer in command observing the patriot muster with
what he, all unconscious of St. Patrick's Day, thought was "a handful
of greens" in his cap, instructed the non-commissioned officer to
order him to take it out.

"I won't do't," said gallant Private O'GRADY, the hot Celtic blood
swiftly brought to boiling pitch by this insult to St. Patrick. Irish
Members vociferously cheered when STANHOPE read the passage from
Colonel's report. Another non-commissioned officer advancing from the
rear, repeated order.

"I won't do't!" roared the implacable Private O'GRADY.

Once more the Irish Members burst into cheering, whilst a soldier
in uniform in Strangers' Gallery looked on and listened. Would like
to hear his account of scene confided to comrades in privacy of

When STANHOPE finished reading report of officer commanding battalion,
Irish Members leaped to their feet in body, each anxious to stand
shoulder to shoulder with Private O'GRADY defying the Saxon. NOLAN,
who had set ball rolling, might have got in first, but was so
excited as to be momentarily speechless; could only paw at the air in
direction of Treasury Bench where STANHOPE sat, PAT O'BRIEN, ARTHUR
O'CONNOR, the wily WEBB, and the flaccid FLYNN, all shouting together.
But SEXTON beat them all, and will duly figure in Parliamentary Report
as Vindicator of Nationality, Defender of St. Patrick, and Patron of
Private O'GRADY.

"There's nothing new about Ireland," said POLTALLOCH, talking the
matter over later in the Lobby. "'Tis the most distressful country
that ever yet was seen, Where they punish T. O'GRADY For the wearing
of the Green."

_Business done_.--Small Holdings Bill read Second Time.

_Friday Night_.--House behaved nobly to-night; FENWICK brought forward
Motion proposing payment of Members. House arbiter of situation; might
have voted itself anything a year it pleased. Only say the word, and
JOKIM would have been bound to find the money. Members flocked down in
large numbers: CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, seated on Front Opposition Bench,
declares he could distinctly hear smacking of lips of Hon. Members
below Gangway when FENWICK observed he thought £365 a year would be
reasonable allowance. However insidious temptation may have been, it
was nobly resisted. Of nearly 400 Members who took part in Division,
only 162 reached out their hand for the pittance, 227 lofty souls
going into other Lobby.

_Business done_.--Private Bill Procedure Bill brought in.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "'SAFETY MATCHES' FOR LIFE.--The following notice has
been issued by the Salvation Army: 'Safety matches are now made by the
Social Wing without sulphur or phosphorus, which will flame without
striking. What do we mean? Just this. That if you are unmarried, and
do not know where to chose a partner, you can communicate with Colonel
BARKER, Matrimonial Bureau, 101, Queen Victoria Street, E.C., and
he will most probably supply you with just what you want--somebody
loveable and good.'"]

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that the
    life of a Peer is not a happy one."--_Mr. Chamberlain, before
    the Jewellers' and Silversmiths' Association at Birmingham_.]

  The Orchid is a thoughtful plant--it loves the lordly hot-house,
  And naturally reprobates poor gilliflowers as "pot-house;"
  'Tis rich, exotic, somewhat miscellaneously florid;
  The rough herbaceous annuals it vulgar deems, and horrid.

  With all that's forced and precious it should fraternise in reason,
  With luscious fruits and rarest roots, and produce out of season;
  It may perhaps at primroses a condescending hand point;
  It might be friends with stocks--but from a pure commercial

  And yet--it is a thoughtful plant--though such a growth fastidious,
  The proud but simple strawberry still seems to it invidious;
  Those ducal leaves that shine and twine around the nation's garden,
  It fancies more delectable than all the blooms of Hawarden.

  This orchid's bosom bleeds to feel that, while he flaunts in colour,
  The chaplet of the strawberry should duller pine and duller,
  That obsoleteness, though delayed, should still be on the _tapis_,
  That, pending its extinction, its existence isn't happy.

  O courtly leaves of strawberries, old England's grace and glory,
  Emblazoned o'er the castle-keeps that moulder nigh and hoary,
  What comfort for your drooping days, what balm in dire dejection,
  That yonder orchid spruce extends his shelter and protection.

  But, garland sere of Vere de Vere, wan ornaments of Fable,
  The orchid is a thoughtful plant, and likes a gorgeous table;
  And, should from out your coronals one berry bright be shining,
  His patronage may snap it up--to save it from declining!

       *       *       *       *       *

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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Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.