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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, February 20, 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, February 20, 1892" ***

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VOL. 102.

February 20, 1892.



    [In which GINGER JIMMY gives his views of Lazarus, Dives,
    Dirt, Mother Church, Slum-Freeholders and "Freedom of

  "The Golgotha of Slumland!" That's a phrase as I am told
  Is made use of by a party,--wich that party must be bold,--
  In the name of Mister LAZARUS, a good Saint Pancrage gent,
  Wot has writ a book on Slumland, and its Landlords, and its Rent.[1]

  He's a Member of the "Westry 'Ealth Committee," so it seems,
  And the story wot he tells will sound, _to some_, like 'orrid
  But, lor bless yer! _we_ knows better, and if sech 'cute coves as
  Want to ferret hout the _facks_, they might apply to GINGER JIM.

  There's the mischief in these matters; them as knows won't always
  Wy, if you want to spot a "screw," or track up a bad smell,
  You've got to be a foxer, for whilst slums makes topping rent,
  There will always be lots 'anging round to _put yer off the scent_!

  I can tell yer arf the right 'uns even ain't quite in the know,
  And there's lots o' little fakes to make 'em boggle, or go slow.
  Werry plorserble their statements, and they puts 'em nice and plain,
  And a crockidile _can_ drop 'em when 'e once turns on the main.

  All the tenants' faults; they likes it, dirt, and scrowging, and
          damp walls!
  They _git used to_ 'orrid odours! O the Landlord's tear-drop falls.
  Werry often, when collecting of his rents, to see the 'oles
  Where the parties as must pay 'em up _prefers_ to stick, pore souls!

  No compulsion, not a mossel! Ah, my noble lords and gents
  Who are up in arms for Libbaty--that is, of paying rents--
  You've rum notions of Compulsion. NOCKY SPRIGGINS sez, sez 'e,
  While you've got a chice of starving, or the workus, ain't ye

  Free? O vus, we're free all round like; there ain't ne'er a
          bloomin' slave,
  White or black, but wot is free enough--to pop into 'is grave;
  Though if they ketch yer trying even _that_ game, and yer _fail_,
  Yer next skool for teaching freedom ain't the workus, but the jail!

  'Andcuffs ain't the sole "Compulsion," nor yet laws ain't, nor yet
  There is sech things as 'unger, and yer starving kids' white lips,
  And bizness ties, a hempty purse, bad 'ealth, and ne'er a crust;
   Swells may swear these ain't Compulsion, but _we_ know as they
          means _must_.

  Ah! wot precious rum things _words_ is, 'ow they seems to fog the
  If they'd only come and look at _things_, that is with their hown
  And not filantropic barnacles _or_ goldian giglamps--lor!
  Wot a lob of grabs and gushers might shut up their blessed jor!

  The nobs who're down on workmen, 'cos on "knobsticks" _they_ will
  Has a 'arty love for Libbaty--when keepin' wages down.
  Contrack's a sacred 'oly thing, freedom carnt 'ave _that_ broke,
  But Free Contrack wot's _forced_ on yer--wy, o'course, that sounds
          a joke.

  If they knowed us and our sort, gents, they would know Free
          Contrack's fudge,
  When one side ain't got a copper, 'as been six weeks on the trudge,
  Or 'as built his little bizness up in one pertikler spot,
  And if the rent's raised on 'im must turn hout, and starve or rot!

  Coarse words, my lords and ladies! Well, yer may as well be dumb,
  As talk pooty on the questions wot concerns hus in the Slum.
  There ain't nothink pooty in 'em, and I cannot 'elp but think
  Some of our friends 'as spiled our case by piling on the pink.

  Foxes 'ave 'oles, the Book sez; well, no doubt they feels content,
  For they finds, or makes, their 'ouses, and don't 'ave to pay no
  But _our_ 'oles--well, someone builds 'em for us, such, in course
          is kind,
  But it ain't a bad investment, as them Landlords seems to find.

  The Marquiges and Mother Church pick lots of little plums,
  And the wust on 'em don't seem to be their proputty in slums.
  Oh, I'd like to take a Bishop on the trot around our court,
  And then arsk 'ow the Church spends the coin collected from our

  Wot's the use of pictering 'errors? Let 'im put 'is 'oly nose
  To the pain of close hinspection; lot his venerable toes
  Pick a pathway through our gutter, let his gaiters climb our stairs;
  And when 'e kneels that evening, I should like to 'ear 'is prayers!

  I'm afraid that in Rats' Rents he mightn't find a place to kneel
  Without soiling of his small clothes. Yus, to live in dirt, I feel
  Is a 'orrid degradation; but one thing I'd like to know,
  Is it wus than living _on_ it? Let 'im answer; it's his go.

  "All a blowing" ain't much paternised, not down our Court, it ain't.
  Wich we aren't as sweet as iersons, not yet as fresh as paint!
  For yer don't get spicy breezes in a den all dirt and dusk,
  From a 'apenny bunch o' wallflower, or a penny plarnt o' musk.

  Wot do _you_ think? Bless yer 'earts, gents, I wos down some
          months ago
  With a bout o' the rheumatics, and 'ad got so precious low
  I wos sent by some good ladies, wot acrost me chanced to come--
  Bless their kindness!--to a 'evvin called a Convalescent 'Ome.

  Phew! Wen I come back to Rats' Rents, 'ow I sickened of its smells,
  Arter all them trees and 'ayfields, and them laylocks and
  And sometimes I think--pertikler when I'm nabbed by them old pains--
  Wot a proper world it might be if it weren't for dirt and drains.

  Who's to blame for Dirt? Yer washups, praps it ain't for me to say,
  But--I don't think there'd be much of it if 'twasn't made to _pay_!
  _Who_ does it pay? The Renters or the Rented? I've no doubt
  When you spot _who_ cops the Slum-swag--wy, yer won't be so fur out!

[Footnote 1: _Landlordism_, by HENRY LAZARUS.]

       *       *       *       *       *


"We are getting on by leaps and bounds," remarked Mr. WILDEY WEIGHT,
during a recent case. Whereat there was "laughter." But Mr. HORACE
BROWNE, for Plaintiff, "objected to remarks of this kind." Then Mr.
Justice COLLINS begged Mr. W. WRIGHT "not to make such picturesque
interjections." Later on, Mr. HORACE BROWNE said to a Witness (whose
name, "BURBAGE," ought to have elicited from Judge or Counsel some
apposite Shakspearian allusion--but it didn't), "Then you had him on
toast." This also was received with "laughter." But Mr. WILDEY WRIGHT
did not object to this. No! he let it pass without interruption,
implying by his eloquent silence that such a remark was neither a
"picturesque interjection," nor sufficiently humorous for him to take
objection to it. The other day, in a County Court, a Barrister refused
to go on with a case until the Judge had done smiling! But--"This is
another story."

       *       *       *       *       *


  Two out of three, my GRACE! That sounds a drubber.
  No chance for England now to "win the rubber."
  We deemed you romping in, that second Cable;
  But your team didn't. Fact is, 'twasn't ABEL
  (Though ABEL in himself was quite a team).
  Well, well, your SHEFFIELD blades met quite the cream
  Of Cornstalk Cricketers. Cheer up, cut in!
  And when March comes, make that Third Match a Win!
  We're sure that while you hold the Captain's place,
  Your men will win or lose with a good GRACE!

       *       *       *       *       *

GIRLS.--The Story of the Glittering Plain.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "STRAY SHEEP."

(_As illustrated by Mr. Chamberlain in his Speech in the House on
Thursday, February 11._)


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PERFECTLY PLAIN.



[_And then her Questioner began softly playing the old Air, "Nobody
axed you."_]]

       *       *       *       *       *


    [Mr. JOHN MORLEY was, on Feb. 6, at Newcastle-on-Tyne,
    initiated a Hon. Member of the Loyal Order of Ancient
    Shepherds, and afterwards, in a speech in the People's
    Palace, sharply criticised Mr. CHAMBERLAIN's plan for Old
    Age Pensions, expressing his preference for "more modest
    operations" in the direction of relaxing and enlarging the
    provisions of the Poor Law.]

_To the Tune of Burns's "The Twa Herds."_

  O, all ye poor and aged flocks,
  Dealt with in fashion orthodox
  By Bumble bodies hard as rocks,
            And stern as tykes;
  And treated like mere waifs and crooks,
            Or herded Smikes!

  Two brother Shepherds, as men thought,
  Have somehow fallen out and fought,
  Though each your welfare swore he sought;
            Flock-herding elves,
  What can this bickering have brought
            Between themselves?

  O, earnest JOHN and jocund JOE,
  How could two Shepherds shindy so.
  Old Light and New Light, _con._ and _pro_?
            Now dash my buttons!
  A squabbling pastor is a foe
            To all poor muttons.

  O Sirs, whoe'er would have expected
  That crook and pipe you'd have neglected,
  By foolish love of fight infected
            Concerning food?
  As though the sheep would have rejected
            Aught that is good!

  What herd like JOSEPH could prevail?
  His voice was heard o'er hill and dale;
  He knew each sheep from head to tail
            In vale or height,
  And told whether 'twas sick or hale
            At the first sight.

  But JOE had a new-fangled plan
  For feeding ancient sheep. The man
  Posed as a true Arcadian,
            With a great gift
  For zeal humanitarian,
            Combined with thrift.

  But JOHN replied, "Pooh-pooh! Your scheme
  Is but an optimistic dream,
  Whose 'shadowy incentives' seem
            The merest spooks.
  Better the ancient plans, I deem,
            Food, folds, and crooks.

  "You do not grapple with the case
  Of poorest sheep, a numerous race.
  As to the black ones, with what face
            Claim care for such?
  'Tis hungry old sheep of good race
            _My_ feelings touch.

  "Your scheme will cost no end--and fail.
  No sheep who ever twitched a tail
  So foolish is--I would not rail!--
            As _such_ a 'herd.'
  I'd 'modest operations' hail,
            But yours?--absurd!

  "Better reform, relax, extend
  The old provisions. I commend
  Plenty of food, and care no end,
            For all poor sheep;
  But flocks would not _get_ poor, my friend,
            _Had they good keep!_"

  Fancy how JOE would cock a nose
  At "Cockney JOHN," as certain foes
  Called JOSEPH's rival. Words like those
            Part Shepherd swains.
  Sad when crook-wielders meet as foes
            On pastoral plains!

  Such two! O, do I live to see
  Such famous pastors disagree,
  Calling each other--woe is me!--
            Bad names by turns?
  Shall we not say in diction free
            With BOBBIE BURNS?

  "O! a' ye flocks, owre a' the hills
  By mosses, meadows, moors and fells.
  Come join your counsels and your skills
            To cowe the lairds.
  And get the brutes the power themsels
            _To choose their herds!_"

       *       *       *       *       *


  There is a good Justice named GRANTHAM,
  Who tells lawyers truths that should haunt 'em.
      There are seeds of reform
      In his speech, wise as warm,
  And long may he flourish--to plant 'em!

       *       *       *       *       *

STRANGE BUT TRUE.--When does a Husband find his Wife out? When he
finds her at home and she doesn't expect him.

       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_On the Lagoons. CULCHARD and PODBURY's gondola is
    nearing Venice. The apricot-tinted diaper on the façade of
    the Ducal Palace is already distinguishable, and behind its
    battlements the pearl-grey summits of the domes of St. Mark's
    shimmer in the warm air. CULCHARD and PODBURY have hardly
    exchanged a sentence as yet. The former has just left off
    lugubriously whistling as much as he can remember of "Che
    faro," the latter is still humming "The Dead March in Saul,"
    although in a livelier manner than at first._

_Culch._ Well, my dear PODBURY, our--er--expedition has turned out
rather disastrously!

_Podb._ (_suspending the Dead March, chokily_). Not much mistake about
_that_--but there, it's no good talking about it. Jolly that brown and
yellow sail looks on the fruit-barge there. See?

[Illustration: "Reads with a gradually lengthening countenance."]

_Culch._ (_sardonically_). Isn't it a little late in the day to be
cultivating an eye for colour? I was about to say that those two
girls have treated us infamously. I say deliberately, my dear PODBURY,

_Podb._ Now drop it, CULCHARD, do you hear? I won't hear a word
against either of them. It serves us jolly well right for not knowing
our own minds better--though I no more dreamed that old BOB would--Oh,
hang it, I can't talk about it yet!

_Culch._ That's childishness, my dear fellow; you _ought_ to talk
about it--it will do you good. And really, I'm not at all sure, after
all, that we have not both of us had a fortunate escape. One is very
apt to--er--overrate the fascinations of persons one meets abroad.
Now, neither of those two was _quite_--

_Podb._ (_desperately_). Take care! I swear I'll pitch you out of this
gondola, unless you stop that jabber!

_Culch._ (_with wounded dignity_). I am willing to make great
allowances for your state of mind, PODBURY, but such an expression
as--as _jabber_, applied to my--er--well-meant attempts
at consolation, and just as I was about to propose an
arrangement--really, it's _too_ much! The moment we reach the hotel,
I will relieve you from any further infliction from (_bitterly_) what
you are pleased to call my "jabber!"

_Podb._ (_sulkily_). Very well--'m sure _I_ don't care! (_To
himself._) Even old CULCHARD won't have anything to do with me now! I
must have _somebody_ to talk to--or I shall go off my head! (_Aloud_).
I say, old _chap_! (_No answer_.) Look here--it's bad enough as it is
without _our_ having a row! Never mind anything I said.

_Culch._ I _do_ mind--I _must_. I am not accustomed to hear myself
called a--a _jabberer_!

_Podb._ I _didn't_ call you a jabberer--I only said you _talked_
jabber. I--I hardly know what I _do_ say, when I'm like this. And I'm
deuced sorry I spoke--there!

_Culch._ (_relaxing_). Well, do you withdraw jabber?

_Podb._ Certainly, old chap. I _like_ you to talk, only not--not
against Her, you know! What were you going to propose?

_Culch._ Well, my idea was this. My leave is practically unlimited--at
least, without vanity, I think I may say that my Chief sufficiently
appreciates my services not to make a fuss about a few extra days. So
I thought I'd just run down to Florence and Naples, and perhaps catch
a P. & O. at Brindisi. I suppose _you're_ not tied to time in any way?

_Podb._ (_dolefully_). Free as a bird! If the Governor had wanted me
back in the City, he'd have let me know it. Well?

_Culch._ Well, if you like to come with me, I--I shall be very pleased
to have your company.

_Podb._ (_considering_). I don't care if I do--it may cheer me up a
bit. Florence, eh?--and Naples? I shouldn't mind a look at Florence.
Or Rome. How about Rome, now?

_Culch._ (_to himself_). Was I wise to expose myself to this sort of
thing _again_? I'm almost sorry I-- (_Aloud._) My dear fellow, if
we are to travel together in any sort of comfort, you must leave all
details to _me_. And there's one thing I _do_ insist on. In future we
must keep to our original resolution--not to be drawn into any chance
acquaintanceship. I don't want to reproach you, but if, when we were
first at Brussels, you had not allowed yourself to get so intimate
with the TROTTERS, all this would never--

_Podb._ (_exasperated_). There you go again! I can't stand being jawed
at, CULCHARD, and I won't!

_Culch._ I am no more conscious of "jawing" than "jabbering," and if
_that_ is how I am to be spoken to--!

_Podb._ I know. Look here, it's no use. You must go to Florence by
yourself. I simply don't feel up to it, and that's the truth. I shall
just potter about here, till--till _they_ go.

_Culch._ As you choose. I gave you the opportunity--out of kindness.
If you prefer to make yourself ridiculous by hanging about here, it's
no concern of mine. I daresay I shall enjoy Florence at least as well
by myself.

    [_He sulks until they arrive at the Hotel Dandolo, where they
    are received on the steps by the Porter._

_Porter_. Goot afternoon, Schendlemen. You have a bleasant dimes at
Torcello, yes? Ach! you haf gif your gondoliers vifdeen franc? Zey
schvindle you, oal ze gondoliers alvays schvindles eferypody, yes!
Zere is som ledders for you. I vetch zem. [_He bustles away._

_Mr. Bellerby_ (_suddenly emerging from a recess in the entrance, as
he recognises CULCHARD_). Why bless me, there's a face I know! Met
at Lugano, didn't we? To be sure--very pleasant chat we had too! So
you're at Venice, eh? I know every stone of it by heart, as I needn't
say. The first time I was ever at Venice--

_Culch._ (_taking a bulky envelope from the Porter_). Just so--how are
you? Er--will you excuse me?

    [_He opens the envelope and finds a blue official-looking
    enclosure, which he reads with a gradually lengthening

_Mr. B._ (_as CULCHARD thrusts the letter angrily into his pocket_).
You're new to Venice, I think? Well, just let me give you a word of
advice. Now you _are_ here--you make them give you some tunny. Insist
on it, Sir. Why, when I was here first--

_Culch._ (_impatiently_). I know. I mean, you told me that before. And
I _have_ tasted tunny.

_Mr. B._ Ha! well, what did you think of it? _Delicious_, eh?

_Culch._ (_forgetting all his manners_). Beastly, Sir, _beastly!
[Leaves the scandalised Mr. B. abruptly, and rushes off to get a
telegram form at the bureau._

_Mr. Crawley Strutt_ (_pouncing on PODBURY in the hall, as he
finishes the perusal of his letter_). Excuse me--but surely I have
the honour of addressing Lord GEORGE GUMBLETON? You may perhaps just
recollect, my Lord--?

_Podb._ (_blankly_). Think you've made a mistake, really.

_Mr. C.S._ Is it possible! I have come across so many people while
I've been away that--but surely we have met _somewhere_? Why, of
course, Sir JOHN JUBBER! you must pardon me, SIR JOHN--

_Podb._ (_recognizing him_). My name's PODBURY--plain PODBURY, but
you're quite right. You _have_ met me--and you've met my bootmaker
too. "Lord UPPERSOLE," eh? That's where the mistake came in!

_Mr. C.S._ (_with hauteur_). I think not, Sir; I have no recollection
of the circumstance. I see now your face is quite unfamiliar to me.

    [_He moves away; PODBURY gets a telegram form and sits down
    at a table in the hall opposite CULCHARD._

_Culch._ (_reading over his telegram_). "Yours just received. Am
returning immediately."

_Podb._ (_do., do._). "Letter to hand. No end sorry. Start at once."
(_Seeing CULCHARD._) Wiring to Florence for room, eh?

_Culch._ Er--no. The fact is, I've just heard from my Chief--a--a
most intemperate communication, insisting on my instant return to my
duties! I shall have to humour him, I suppose, and leave at once.

_Podb._ So shall I. No end of a shirty letter from the Governor. Wants
to know how much longer I expect him to be tied to the office. Old
humbug, when he only turns up twice a week for a couple of hours!

_The Porter_. Peg your bardons, Schendlemen, but if you haf qvide done
vid ze schtamps on your ledders, I gollect bostage schtamps, yes.

_Culch._ (_irritably flinging him the envelope_). Oh, confound it all.
take them. _I_ don't want them! (_He looks at his letter once more._)
I say, PODBURY, it--it's worse than I thought. This thing's a week
old! Must have been lying in my rooms all this time--or else in that
infernal Italian post!

_Podb._ Whew, old chap! I say, I wouldn't be _you_ for something!
Won't you catch it when you _do_ turn up? But look here--as things
are, we may as well travel _home_ together, eh?

_Culch._ (_with a flicker of resentment_). In spite of my tendency to
"jaw" and "jabber"?

_Podb._ Oh, never mind all that now. We're companions in misfortune,
you know, and we'd better stick together, and keep each other's
spirits up. After all, you're in a much worse hat than _I_ am!

_Culch._ If _that's_ the way you propose to keep my spirits up!--But
let us keep together, by all means, if you wish it, and just go and
find out when the next train starts, will you? (_To himself, as
PODBURY departs._) I must put up with him a little longer, I suppose.
Ah me! _How_ differently I should be feeling now, if HYPATIA had only
been true to herself. But that's all over, and I daresay it's better
so ... I daresay!

    [_He strolls into the hotel-garden, and begins to read his
    Chief's missive once more, in the hope of deciphering some
    faint encouragement between the lines._


       *       *       *       *       *



  So in the village inn the Poet dwelt.
  His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch,
  His cousin's work, her empty labour, left.
  But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung
  And lingered all about the broidered flowers.
  Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch,
  "Smoke plug, mon," whom he looked at doubtfully.
  Then came the grocer, saying, "Hae some twist
  At tippence," whom he answered with a qualm.
  But when they left him to himself again,
  Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room
  Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell
  Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt
  His fancies with the billow-lifted bay
  Of Biscay, and the rollings of a ship.

  And on that night he made a little song,
  And called his song "_The Song of Twist and Plug_,"
  And sang it: scarcely could he make or sing.

  "Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain;
  And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain;
  I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

  "Plug, art thou rank? Then milder twist must be;
  Plug, thou art milder; rank is twist to me.
  O Twist, if plug be milder, let me buy.

  "Rank twist, that seems to make me fade away,
  Rank plug, that navvies smoke in loveless clay,
  I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

  "I fain would purchase flake, if that could be;
  I needs must purchase plug, ah woe is me!
  Plug and a cutty, a cutty, let me buy."

       *       *       *       *       *

COMPLICATED CASE.--The other day, an Italian Organ-grinder was
arrested for having shot one GIUSEPPE PIA. "He admitted the charge"
(we quote the _Globe_), "but said the gun went off accidentally."
When a Gentleman "admits the charge" (though indeed it was the other
one who did _that_), how the gun went off seems to be a matter of
secondary importance.

       *       *       *       *       *

after his address to the Liberal and Radical Association, was earned
by a Wapping Majority.

       *       *       *       *       *





  Valentines plebeian
    Cannot fix an Earl--
  I'm as you may see, an
    Ardent Yankee girl.
  Nothing "soft" you'll find here,
    No old-fashioned lay;
  Say then, you'll be mine, dear,
    In the modern way.

  _You_ (we haven't met as
    Yet I must record)
  Figure in _Debrett_ as
    Out-and-out a Lord:
  Ancestors, a thousand,
    Dignities, a score--
  Hear my bashful vows, and
    Think this matter o'er.

  I don't in for Pa go;
    Pa despised New York;
  Porpa in Chicago
    Cultivated pork:
  Ma was born a Gerald;
    Birth was Morma's pride--
  As the _New York Herald_
    Mentioned when she died.

  Well, my pile's a million,
    That's a fact, you bet:
  I'm in our cotillon
    Quite the Broadway Pet:
  I can sing like PATTI;
    And to win I went
  For the Cincinnati
    Tennis Tournament.

  I've a lovely right hand;
    For my face I've sat
  By electric light--and
    Elegant at that!
  I enclose the photo,
    Just for you to see,
  But deny _in toto_
    That it flatters me.

  _You_, I've read, are rather
    "Up the Spout" for cash,
  Owing to your father
    Having been so splash:
  _I_ from debt could free you,
    And in Politics
  Calculate to see you
    Bagging all the tricks.

  Any Earl who marries
  Will (except in Paris)
    Get his little way,
  Fear no interference;
    Relatives remain,--
  But their disappearance
    Beats me to explain.

  THOMAS, I adore thee!--
    "THOMAS" _is_ thy name,
  Isn't it?--the more the
    Scandal and the shame!
  All I ask you, TOM, is
    Just one loving line,
  One type-written promise
    Publishing you mine.

  Matrimony's heart is
    Houselike, "half-detached,"
  Seldom save at parties
    Or in papers matched--
  Answer "Yes," or break'll
    This poor heart of mine.
  Be my _Fin-de-Siècle_,
    Be my Valentine!

       *       *       *       *       *

QUERY BY A DEPRESSED CONVALESCENT.--"This Influenza is nothing new,
nor is the Microbe. Wasn't MICROBIUS an ancient classic writer? Didn't
he treat this subject historically? There's evidently some confusion
of ideas somewhere. As _Hamlet_ says:--

            'O, cursed spite
  That ever I was born to set it right.'

But I beg pardon, that 'set it right' shows that _Hamlet_ was a
Surgeon, not a Physician. Excuse me. 'To bed! To bed!'"

       *       *       *       *       *

SAD THOUGHT IN MY OWN LIBRARY.--I am a stranger among books. Resting
on their shelves, they all turn their backs on me. _En revanche_, if I
find among them a new one, a perfect stranger to me, I cut him.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TRUE HOSPITALITY.

(_Sir Bonamy Croesus gives seven Dinner Parties a week, and expects
his Friends to come and choose their own day, and inscribe their Names
and the Date on the Dinner-Book in the Hall_.)

_Fair Visitor_. "Look, George! Wednesday, the 17th, the Fetterbys
are coming. That'll do capitally!" (_Writes down "Mr. and Mrs. Topham
Sawyer, Feb. 17th."_) "And There's room for one more. Let's drive
round to Emily's, and get her to come and put her Name down for the
same Day!"]

       *       *       *       *       *



_House of Commons, Monday, February 8_.--The coming of Prince ARTHUR
anxiously looked for as Members gathered for last Session of a
memorable Parliament. When, in August last, he, with the rest of us,
went away, OLD MORALITY still sat in Leader's place. He was, truly,
just then absent in the flesh, already wasting with the dire disease
that carried him off. It was JOKIM who occupied the place of Leader;
Prince ARTHUR, content to sit lower down. It seemed to some that when
vacancy occurred JOKIM, that veteran Child of Promise, would step in,
and younger men wait their turn. But youth of certain quality must
come to the front, as BONAPARTE testified even before he went to
Italy, and as PITT showed when the Rockingham Administration went to

Prince ARTHUR came in shortly after four o'clock. House full,
especially on Opposition Benches; faint blush suffused ingenuous cheek
as welcoming cheer arose. Seemed to know his way to Leader's place,
and took it naturally. Pretty to see JOKIM drop in on one side of
him with MATTHEWS on the other, buttressing him about with financial
reputation and legal erudition. _Tableau_ quite undesigned, but none
the less effective. Prince ARTHUR, young, hot-tempered and, though not
without parts, prone to commit errors of judgment. But with JOKIM at
his left shoulder, and HENRY MATTHEWS at his right, humble citizens
looking on from opposite Benches, felt a sweet content. On such a
basis, the Constitution might stand any blast.

In absence of Mr. G., who still dallies with the sunshine of Riviera,
SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, fresh from hunting in the New Forest, more than
fills the place of Leader of Opposition. A favourable opportunity for
distinguishing himself marred by accidental prevalence of funereal

"The Squire," said PLUNKET--watching him as, with legs reverently
crossed, and elbow sympathisingly resting on box, carefully
suggestive of life-sized figure of tombstone-mourner, he intoned his
lamentation--"is not fitted for the part, and consequently overdoes
it. _L'Allegro_ is his line. _Il Penseroso_ does not suit him."

Everyone glad when, sermon over, and the black-edged folios put aside,
the Squire began business. Happy enough in his attack on JOKIM, always
a telling subject in present House of Commons.

"He is," says SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE, drawing upon his theatrical
experiences, "like the Policeman in the Pantomime; always safe for a
roar of laughter if you bonnet him or trip him up over the doorstep."

For the rest, as Prince ARTHUR pointed out when he came to reply,
Squire's speech had very little to do with the Address, on which
it was ostensibly based. Couldn't resist temptation of enlarging on
financial science for the edification of the unhappy JOKIM.

"Finance," observed DICKY TEMPLE, "is HARCOURT's foible."

"Yes," said JENNINGS, whom everyone is glad to see back in better
health, "and funeral sermons are his forte."

Through nearly hour and half the Squire mourned and jibed, Prince
ARTHUR listening attentively, all unconscious of the Shades hovering
about the historic seat in which he lounged, as nearly as possible,
at full length--OLD MORALITY, kindly generous, pleased in another's
prosperity; STAFFORD NORTHCOTE, marvelling at the madness of a world
he has not been loth to quit; DIZZY tickled with the whole situation,
though perhaps a little shocked to see a Leader of the House resting
apparently on his shoulder-blades in the seat where from 1874 to
1876 there posed an upright statuesque figure with folded arms and
mask-like face, lit up now and then by the gleam of eyes that saw
everything whilst they seemed to be looking no whither. PAM was there,
too, with slightly raised eyebrows as they fell on the youthful form
already installed in a place he had not reached till he was almost
twice the age of the newcomer. JOHNNY RUSSELL, scowled at the intruder
under a hat a-size-and-half too big for his legs. CANNING looked on,
and thought of his brief tenure of the same place whilst the
century was young. Still further in the shade PITT joined the group.
[Illustration: "THE COMING OF ARTHUR."



"Well at least _he_ was even younger when he came to our place," PAM
whispered in DIZZY's ear, startling him as he inadvertently touched
his cheek with the straw he still seems to hold in his teeth, as he
did when JOHN LEECH was alive.

Prince ARTHUR, facing the crowded Opposition Benches, of course saw
nothing of this; lounged and listened smilingly as the Squire, having
shaken up JOKIM and his one-pound notes, went oft to Exeter to pummel

_Business done._--Address moved.

_Wednesday._--Evidently going to be an Agricultural Labourer's
Session. Small Holdings Bill put in forefront of Programme. District
Councils hinted at. In this situation it was stroke of genius, due I
believe to the MARKISS, that such happy selection was made of Mover of

"It's trifles that make up the mass, my dear nephew," the MARKISS
said, when this matter was being discussed in the Recess. "No detail
is so small that we can afford to omit it. It was a happy thought of
yours, perhaps a little too subtle for some intellects, to associate
CHAPLIN with Small Holdings. In this other matter, let me have my way.
Put up HODGE to move the Address. It will be worth 10,000 votes in the
agricultural districts. I suppose he wouldn't like to come down in
a smock frock with a whip in his hand? Don't know why he shouldn't;
quite as reasonable as a civilian getting himself up as a Colonel or
an Admiral. With HODGE in a smock frock moving the Address we'd sweep
the country. But that I must leave to you; only let us have HODGE."

So it was arranged. But Member for Accrington wouldn't stand the
smock-frock. Insisted upon coming out in war-like uniform. Trousers
a little tight about the knees, and jacket perhaps a trifle too
tasselly. But made very good speech in the circumstances.

[Illustration: Orator Hodge (in mufti).]

_Business done._--Bills brought in by the half hundred.

_Thursday Night._--Things been rather dull hitherto. House as it were
lying under a pall, "Every man," as O'HANLON says, "not knowing what
moment may be his next." Still on Debate on Address. When resumed
to-night, CHAMBERLAIN stepped into ring and took off his coat. When
Members saw the faithful JESSE bring in sponge and vinegar-bottle,
knew there would be some sport. Anticipation not disappointed. JOE in
fine fighting form. Went for the SQUIRE OF MALWOOD round after round;
occasionally turned to aim a "wonner" at his "Right Hon. Friend" JOHN
MORELY. Conservatives delighted; had always thought just what JOE
was saying, but hadn't managed to put their ideas into such easily
fleeting, barbed sentences. Only once was there any shade on the faces
of the country gentlemen opposite. That spread when JOE proposed to
quote the "lines of CHURCHILL."

"No, no," said Lord HENRY BRUCE in audible whisper, "he'd better leave
GRANDOLPH alone. Never knew he wrote poetry. If he did, there's lots
of others. Why, when we're going on so nicely, why drag in CHURCHILL?"

Depression only momentary. Conservative cheers rose again and again as
JOE, turning a mocking face, and shaking a minatory forefinger at the
passive monumental figure of the guileless SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, did,
as JOHN MORLEY, with rare outburst of anger, presently said, from his
place in the centre of the Liberal Camp, "denounce and assail Liberal
principles, Liberal measures, and his old Liberal colleagues."

After this it was nothing that, some hours later, O'HANLON, rising
from a Back Bench, and speaking on another turn of the Debate, should
observe, in loud voice, with eye fixed in fine frenzy on the nape of
the Squire's neck, as he sat on the Front Bench with folded arms, "I
do not believe in the Opposition Leaders, who have split up my Party,
and are now living on its blood."

_Business done._--JOSEPH turns and rends his Brethren.

_Friday Night._--In Commons night wasted by re-delivery of speeches
made last year by Irish Members pleading for amnesty for Dynamitards.
JOHN REDMOND began it. No Irish Member could afford to be off on
this scene, so one after another they trotted out their speeches of

Lords much more usefully occupied in discussing London Fog. MIDDLETON
moved for Royal Commission. MARKISS drew fine distinction. "What
you really want to remedy," he said, "is not the fog itself, but
its colour." Rather seemed to like the fog, _per se_, if only his
particular fancy in matter of colour gratified. Didn't mention what
colour he preferred; but fresh difficulty looming out of the fog
evident. Tastes differ. If every man is to have his own particular
coloured fog, our last state will be worse than the first.

_Business done._--None.

       *       *       *       *       *



      Oh, we've none coddlin',
        Cod, cod, coddlin';
      Oh, we've none coddlin'.
        At our house at home!

  Ha!--my Father has a cough--
    Now--my Mother has a wheeze;
  What!! my Brother has a pain
    In forehead, arms, chest, back and knees.
        So--we've three coddlin', &c.

  How my eldest Sister aches
    From her forehead to her toes!
  And my second Brother's eyes
    Are weeping either side his nose.
        So--we've five coddlin', &c.

  There's my eldest Brother down
    With a pain all round his head,
  Ah! I'm the only one who's up--
    Oh!... Oh!... I'll go to bed!
        So--we're all coddlin', &c.

  As the Doctor orders Port,
    Orders Burgundy, Champagne,
  Good living and good drinking,
    Why we none of us complain,
        While we're--all coddlin',
          Cod, cod, coddlin',
        While we're all coddlin'
          At our house at home!

       *       *       *       *       *

BY A SMALL WESTERN.--Orientals take off their shoes on entering a
Mosque. We remove our hats on entering a Church. Both symbolical; one
leaves his understanding outside; the other enters with a clear head.

       *       *       *       *       *




  New vessel, now returning ship
  From this thy tried and trial trip,
    Refit in dock awhile: I fear
    Your ballast looks a trifle queer.

  Your rigging ("rigging" is a word
  By other folk than seamen heard)
    Has got a little loose; you need
    An overhaul, you do indeed.

  Your sails (or purchases?) should stay
  The stress--and Press--that on them weigh:
    This constant playing to the gods
    Will scarcely weather blustering odds.

  In vain to blazon "London's Heart"
  As figure-head, if thus you part
    Unseaworthy; in vain to boast
    Your "boom"--a cranky boom at most.

  We rate you, _we_ who pay your rates:
  Beware the overhauling fates,
    Beware lest down you go at last
    The sport and puppet of the blast.

  I always voted you a bore,
  But never quite so much before
    Besought you with a frugal mind
    To sail not quite so near the wind.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. R. AGAIN.--To our excellent old lady, being convalescent, her
niece was reading the news. She commenced about the County Council,
the first item in the report being headed, "An Articulated Skeleton."
"Ah!" interrupted the good lady, "murder will out! And where did they
find the skeleton of the Articulated Clerk?"

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


PROFESSOR HUBERT HERKOMER has "dried his impressions," and given them
to the public in a handsome volume brought out by MACMILLAN & CO. It
is all interesting even to a non-artistic laic, for there is much "dry
point" of general application in the Professor's lectures. Yet, amid
all his learning and his light-hearted style, there is occasionally
a strain of melancholy, as when he pictures himself to us as
"etching and scratching on a bed of burr." Painful, very; likewise
Dantesque,--infernally Dantesque. But there is another and a more
cheerful view which the Baron prefers to take, and that is, the
word-picture which the Professor gives us of his little room in his
Bavarian home, where he says, "Under the seat by the table are my
bottles"--ah! quite Rabelaisian this!--"with the mordants, and my
dishes for the plates." Isn't this rare! "I should add, there is a
stove near the door." O Sybarite! Doesn't this suggest the notion of a
delightful little dinner _à deux_! With "the mordants,"--which is, of
course, a generic name for sauces of varied piquancy,--and with his
"dishes" artistically prepared and set before "the plates," as in due
order they should be, he is as correct as he is original. A true _bon
vivant_. The Baron highly commends the book, which only for the rare
etchings it contains, is well worth the attention of every amateur of
Art, and that he, the Baron, may, one of these days, dine with him,
the Professor, is the sincere wish of his truly, and everybody else's


       *       *       *       *       *

"STUFF AND (NO) NONSENSE!"--"Begorra, 'tis an ill wind that blows
nobody any good," said The O'GORMAN DIZER, when he heard that on
account of the Influenza there was a Papal dispensation from fasting
and abstinence throughout the United kingdom.

       *       *       *       *       *


At a meeting of the Drury Lane Lodge of Freemasons, said the _Daily
Telegraph_, "with all due solemnity was Mr. S.B. BANCROFT installed in
the Chair of King SOLOMON." This, whether an easy chair or not, ought
to be the seat of wisdom. Poor SOLOMON, the very much married man, was
not, however, particularly wise in his latter days, but, of course,
this chair was the one used by the Great Grand Master Mason before
it was taken from under him, and he fell so heavily, "never to rise
again." How fortunate for the Drury Lane Masons to have obtained this
chair of SOLOMON's. No doubt it was one of his wise descendants,
of whom there are not a few in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, who
consented to part with this treasure to the Masonic Lodgers. So here's
King SOLOMON BUSY BANCROFT's good health! "Point, left, right! One,
two, three!" (_They drink._)

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *

A QUERY BY "PEN."--There was a "Pickwick Exam." invented by CALVERLEY
the Inimitable. Why not a "Pendennis" or "Vanity Fair" Exam.? _À
propos_, I would just ask one question of the Thackerayan student, and
it is this:--There was one _Becky_ whom everybody knows, but there was
another BECKY as good, as kind, as sympathetic, and as simple, as the
first _Becky_ was bad, cruel, selfish, and cunning. Where is BECKY the
Second to be found in W.M. THACKERAY's Works?

       *       *       *       *       *

HER NOTE AND QUERY.--Mrs. R. was listening to a ghost-story. "After
all," observed her nephew, "the question is, is it true? True, or not
true 'there's the rub!'" "Ah! 'there's the rub!'" repeated our old
friend, meditatively. "I wonder if that expression is the origin of
the proverb, 'Truth is stranger than Friction?'"

       *       *       *       *       *

LOCAL COLOUR.--"I should like to give all my creditors a dinner,"
quoth the jovial and hospitable OWEN ORLROUND. "Where shall I have
it?" "Well," replied his old friend JOE KOSUS, "have it at Duns

       *       *       *       *       *

CITY MEN.--"Hope springs eternal," and the motto for a probable
Lord Mayor in the not very dim and distant future must be "_Knill

       *       *       *       *       *

DOGS AND CATS--(CORRESPONDENCE.)--Sir,--A recent letter to the
_Spectator_ mentions the case of a man who "barked like a dog in his
sleep." The writer would like to know if anyone has ever had a similar
experience. Well, Sir, I knew a whole family of BARKERS, but I never
heard them bark. I knew three CATTS, sisters, who kept a shop, and
came from Cheshire; yet they were very serious persons, and never
grinned. Since this experience I have doubted the simile of the
Cheshire specimen of the feline race being founded on fact.--Yours,


       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


SIR,--Acquiescence in the state of the weather is no longer _comme
il faut_. Bombarding the Empyrean is as little regarded as throwing
stones at monkeys, that they may make reprisals with cocoa-nuts; yet
the success of the rain-makers is very doubtful. Their premisses even
are disallowed by many considerable authorities. The little experiment
which I propose to submit to the meteorological officials is founded
on a fact of universal experience, and, if successful, would be of
immense utility. Every smoker must be aware that the force of the wind
varies inversely as the number of matches. On an absolutely still day,
with a heavy pall of fog over the streets, the striking of the last
match to light a pipe is invariably accompanied by a breeze, just
strong enough to extinguish the nascent flame. Now if two or three
thousand men simultaneously struck a last match, the resulting wind
would be of very respectable strength--anemometer could tell that.

My proposal then, is this. When anticyclonic conditions next prevail,
and the great smoke-cloud incubates its cletch of microbes, let some
5,000 men, provided at the public expense with a pipe of tobacco and
one match each, be stationed in the City, at every corner and along
the streets, like the police on Lord Mayor's Day. At a given signal,
say the firing of the Tower guns, each man strikes his match. Judging
from the invariable result in my own case, this would be followed by
5,000 puffs of wind of sufficient strength to extinguish the lights,
or, better still, to give the 5,000 men some thirty seconds of intense
anxiety, while the wind plays between their fingers and over their
hands and round the bowls of their pipes. Multiplying the men by the
seconds (5,000 x 30) you get approximately the amount of the wind, in
wear and tare and tret. If this experiment were conducted on a duly
extensive scale round London; say at Brixton, Kensington, Holloway and
Stepney; there can be no doubt that a cyclone would be established,
and the fog effectually dissipated. The cost would be slight, and the
pipe of tobacco would afford a welcome treat to many a poor fellow out
of work in these hard times.

Yours obediently, PETER PPIPER.

_The Cave, Æolian Road, S.W._

       *       *       *       *       *


I hopes as I shall not be blamed for my hordacity in writin as I am
writin, but it's reelly all the fault of my good-natred Amerrycan
frend. He says as it's my bounden dooty to do so, if ony to prove the
trooth of the old prowerb that tells us, "that Waiters rushes in where
Docters fears to tread!" He's pleased to say as he has never bin in
better helth than all larst Jennewerry at the Grand Hotel, and that he
owes it all to my sage adwice.


"Allers let Nater be your Dick Tater!" In depressin times like these
here, keep the pot a bilin' so to speak; and stand firm to the three
hesses, Soup, Shampane, and Sunlight.

The Soup must be Thick Turtel, such as Natur purwides in this here
cold seeson, not the Thin Turtel of Summer. The Shampane must be Rich
Clicko, or the werry best Pummery, sitch as you can taste the ginerous
grapes in, not the pore dry stuff as young Swells drinks, becoz
they're told as how it's fashnabel; and the Sunlight can ginerally be
got if you knows where to look for it. For instance now, in one of the
cold foggy days of last month, my Amerrycan frend said to me, "What
on airth, ROBERT, can a gentleman find to do on sitch a orful day
as this?" So sez I, "Take a Cab to Wictoria Station, and go to the
Cristel Pallis, wark about in the brillient sunshine as you will find
there a waiting for you, for about two howers, not a moment longer,
then cum strait back, and you shall find a lovly lunch."

And off he went, a larfing to think how he would emuse himself when he
came back by pitching into pore me. But it does so happen as Waiters
ain't not quite so deaf as sum peeple thinks 'em, and I've offen 'erd
peeple say, that amost always, if you sees the Sun a trying for to
peep thro the fog, and see how we all gits on without him, a leetle
way out of town, on an 'ill, you will see him a shining away like fun!

Well, xacly at 2:30, in cums my frend, a grinnin away like the fablus
Chesher Cat, and he says, says he, why Mr. ROBERT, you're a reglar
conjurer! It was all xacly as you prosefied! I had two hours' glorious
stroll in the Cristel Pallis Gardings in the lovly sunshine!

Hin ten minutes' time he was seated at a purfekly luvly lunch, and a
peggin away with sitch a happytight as princes mite enwy!

In times like these, dine out reglar either two or three times a week,
and drink generusly, but wisely, not too well, and on receiving the
accustomed At, think of the ard times the pore Waiter has had to pass
through lately, and dubble, or ewen tribbel the accustumd Fee. You'll
never miss it, but, on the contrairy, will sleep all the sounder for

Never read no accounts in Noosepapers of hillnesses and sich-like,
and keep a few little sixpences in your ticket pocket; then if a pore
woman arsks you if you have a penny to spare, say no, but praps this
will do as well, and give her a sixpence, and then see her look of
estonished rapcher, aye, and ewen share it to some small degree.

Check a frown, and encouridge a smile, and the one will wanish away,
and the other dewelope into a larf. Let your principle virtues be
ginerosity and ope, and allers look on the brite side of ewerythink,
as the Miller said to the Sweep.


       *       *       *       *       *

A HUMAN PARADOX.--The man who gives away his friends without losing

       *       *       *       *       *

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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