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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, June 4, 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, June 4, 1892" ***

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.



June 4, 1892.



LOST LUGGAGE.

(_OR THE EXPERIENCES OF A "VACUUS VIATOR."_)

_At the Douane, Ostend._--Just off _Princesse Henriette_; passengers
hovering about excitedly with bunches of keys, waiting for their
luggage to be brought ashore. Why can't they take things quietly--like
_me_? _I_ don't worry. Saw my portmanteau and bag labelled at
Victoria. Sure to turn up in due time. Some men when they travel
insist on taking hand-bags into the carriage with them--foolish, when
they might have them put in the van and get rid of all responsibility.
The _douaniers_ are examining the luggage--don't see mine--as yet.
It's all _right_, of course. People who are going on to Brussels and
Antwerp at once would naturally have their luggage brought out first.
Don't see the good of rushing about like that myself. I shall stay the
night here--put up at one of the hotels on the Digue, dine, and get
through the evening pleasantly at the Kursaal--sure to be _something_
going on. Then I can go comfortably on by a mid-day train to-morrow.
Meanwhile my luggage still tarries. If I was a nervous man--luckily
I'm _not_. Come--that's the _bag_ at all events, with everything I
shall want for the night.... Annoying. Some other fellow's bag....
No more luggage being brought out. Getting anxious--at least, just a
shade uneasy. Perhaps if I asked somebody--Accost a Belgian porter;
he wants my baggage ticket. They never gave me any ticket. It _did_
occur to me (in the train) that I had always had my luggage registered
on going abroad before, but I supposed _they_ knew best, and didn't
worry. I came away to get a rest and avoid worry, and I _won't_
worry.... The Porter and I have gone on board to hunt for the things.
They aren't _there_. Left behind at Dover probably. Wire for them at
once. No idea how difficult it was to describe luggage vividly and
yet economically till I tried. However, it will be sent on by the next
boat, and arrive some time in the evening, so it's of no consequence.
Now for the Hotel. Ask for the bus for the _Continental_. The
_Continental_ is not open yet. Very well, the _Hôtel de la Plage_,
then. Closed! All the hotels facing the sea _are_, it seems.
Sympathetic Porter recommends one in the town, and promises to come
and tell me as soon as the luggage turns up.

[Illustration: "Please, de tings!"]

_At the Hotel._--Find, on getting out of the omnibus, that the Hotel
is being painted; entrance blocked by ladders and pails. Squeeze past,
and am received in the hall by the Proprietress and a German Waiter.
"Certainly they can give me a room--my baggage shall be taken up
immed--" Here I have to explain that this is impracticable, as my
baggage has unfortunately been left behind. Think I see a change in
their manner at this. A stranger who comes abroad with nothing but
a stick and an umbrella cannot _expect_ to inspire confidence, I
suppose. I remark to the Waiter that the luggage is sure to follow me
by the next boat, but it strikes even myself that I do not bring this
out with quite a sincere ring. Not at all the manner of a man who
possesses a real portmanteau. I order dinner--the kind of dinner,
I feel, that a man who did not intend to pay for it _would_ order.
I detect this impression in the Waiter's eye. If he dared, I know
he would suggest tea and a boiled egg as more seemly under the
circumstances.

_On the Digue._--Thought, it being holiday time, that there would
be more gaiety; but Ostend just now perhaps a little lacking in
liveliness--hotels, villas, and even the Kursaal all closely boarded
up with lead-coloured shutters. Only other person on Promenade a
fisher-boy scrooping over the tiles in _sabots_. I come to a glazed
shelter, and find the seats choked with drifting sand, and protected
with barbed wire. This depresses me. I did not want to sit down--but
the barbed wire _does_ seem needlessly unkind. Walk along the
sand-dunes; must pass the time somehow till dinner, and the arrival of
my luggage. Wonder whether it really _was_ labelled "Ostend." Suppose
the porter thought I said "Rochester" ... in that case--I will _not_
worry about it like this. I will go back and see the town.

I have; it is like a good many other foreign towns. I am melancholy.
I _can't_ dismiss that miserable luggage from my mind. To be alone
in a foreign land, without so much as a clean sock, is a distressing
position for a sensitive person. If I could only succeed in seeing a
humorous element in it, it would be _something_--but I can't. It is
too forlorn to be at all funny. And there is still an hour and a half
to get through before dinner!

I have dined--in a small room, with a stove, a carved buffet, and a
portrait of the King of the BELGIANS; but my spirits are still low.
German Waiter dubious about me; reserving his opinion for the present.
He comes in with a touch of new deference in his manner. "Please,
a man from de shdation for you." I go out--to find the sympathetic
Porter. My baggage has arrived? It has; it is at the Douane, waiting
for me. I am saved! I tell the Waiter, without elation, but with
what, I trust, is a calm dignity--the dignity of a man who has been
misunderstood, but would scorn to resent it.

_At the Station._--I have accompanied the Porter to the Terminus, such
a pleasant helpful fellow, so intelligent! The Ostend streets much
less dull at night. Feel relieved, in charity with all the world, now
that my prodigal portmanteau is safely reclaimed. Porter takes me
into a large luggage-room. Don't see my things just at first. "Your
baggage--_ere!_" says the Porter, proudly, and points out a little
drab valise with shiny black leather covers and brass studs--the kind
of thing a man goes a journey with in a French Melodrama! He is quite
hurt when I repudiate it indignantly; he tries to convince me that
it is mine--the fool! There is no other baggage of any sort, and mine
can't possibly arrive now before to-morrow afternoon, if then. Nothing
for it but to go back, luggageless, to the Hotel--and face that
confounded Waiter.

Walk about the streets. Somehow I don't feel quite up to going back
to the Hotel just yet. The shops, which are small and rather dimly
lighted, depress me. There is no theatre, nor _café chantant_ open
apparently. If there were, I haven't the heart for them to-night. Hear
music from a small _estaminet_ in a back street; female voice, with
fine Cockney accent, is singing "_Oh, dem Golden Slippers!_" Wonder
where _my_ slippers are!

_In my Bedroom._--I have had to come back at last, and get it
over with the Waiter. If he felt _any_ surprise, I think it was
to see me back at all. I have had to ask him if he could get me
some sleeping-things to pass the night in. _And_ a piece of soap.
Humiliating, but unavoidable. He promised, but he has not brought
them. Probably this last request has done for me, and he is now
communicating with the police....

A tap at my door. "Please, de tings!" says the Waiter. I have wronged
him. He has brought me _such_ a nightgown! Never saw anything in the
least like it before. It has flowers embroidered all down the front
and round the cuffs, and on every button something is worked in tiny
blue letters, which, on inspection, turns out to be "Good-night." I
don't quite know why, but, in my present state, I find this strangely
consoling, and even touching--like a benediction. After all, he _must_
believe in me, or he would hardly confide his purple and fine linen to
me like this. Go to bed gorgeous, and dream that my portmanteau, bag,
and self-respect are all restored to me by the afternoon boat....
There must be something in dreams, for, oddly enough, this is exactly
what _does_ happen.

Next morning, at breakfast, I am handed a mysterious and, at first
sight, rather alarming telegram from the Station-master at Dover.
"Your bones will be sent on next boat." Suspect the word in the
original was "_boxes_." But they may call them what they like, so
long as I get them back again.

       *       *       *       *       *

"_The Campaign against the Jebus. Gallant Advance of the British._"
Dear old Mrs. RAM wants to know "who is commanding the British forces
in the campaign against the Jebus" (which she spells "Gibus")?
_Mr. Punch_ is glad to inform his estimable correspondent that the
principal officers commanding in the Gibus Campaign are Generals
WIDE-AWAKE, BILLICOCK, JIMCROW, POTT, and BELTOPPER. Their strategical
movements are worthy of the First Nap.

       *       *       *       *       *

CONSIDERATE.--Arrangements are to be made for all Standing Committees
in future to sit at certain hours. "For this relief, much thanks," as
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, M.P., observed.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RECIPROCAL.

_Sporting Gentleman._ "WELL, SIR, I'M VERY PLEASED TO HAVE MADE YOUR
ACQUAINTANCE, AND HAD THE OPPORTUNITY OF HEARING A CHURCHMAN'S VIEWS
ON THE QUESTION OF TITHES. OF COURSE, AS A COUNTRY LANDOWNER, I'M
INTERESTED IN CHURCH MATTERS, AND--"

_The Parson._ "QUITE SO--DELIGHTED, I'M SURE. ER--BY THE BYE, COULD
YOU TELL ME _WHAT'S WON TO-DAY_?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BURIAL OF THE "BROAD-GAUGE."

MAY 23, 1892.

    ["Drivers of Broad-Gauge Engines wandering disconsolately
    about with their engine-lamps in their hands; followed by
    their firemen with pick and shovel over their shoulder,
    waiting in anxious expectation of the time when that
    new-fangled machine, a narrow-gauge engine, should come down
    a day or two after."--_Times' Special at Plymouth on Death of
    Broad Gauge._]

  Not a whistle was heard, not a brass bell-note,
    As his corse o'er the sleepers we hurried;
  Not a fog-signal wailed from a husky throat
    O'er the grave where our "Broad-Gauge" we buried.

  We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
    The sod with our pickaxes turning,
  By the danger-signal's ruddy light,
    And our oil-lamps dimly burning.

  No useless tears, though we loved him well!
    Long years to his fire-box had bound us.
  We fancied we glimpsed the great shade of BRUNEL,
    In sad sympathy hovering round us.

  Few and gruff were the words we said,
    But we thought, with a natural sorrow,
  Of the Narrow-Gauge foe of the Loco. just dead,
    _We_ should have to attend on the morrow.

  We thought, as we hollowed his big broad bed,
    And piled the brown earth o'er his funnel,
  How his foe o'er the Great-Western metals would tread,
    Shrieking triumph through cutting and tunnel.

  Lightly they'll talk of him now he is gone,
    For the cheap "Narrow Gauge" has outstayed him,
  Yet BULL _might_ have found, had he let it go on,
    That BRUNEL's Big Idea would have paid him!

  But the battle is ended, our task is done;
    After forty years' fight he's retiring.[1]
  This hour sees thy triumph, O STEPHENSON;
    Old "Broad Gauge" no more will need firing.

  The "Dutchman" must now be "divided in two"!--
    Well, well, they shan't mangle or mess _you_!
  Accept the last words of friends faithful, if few:--
    "Good-bye, poor old Broad-Gauge, God bless you!"[2]

  Slowly and sadly we laid him down.
    He has filled a great chapter in story.
  We sang not a dirge--we raised not a stone,
    But we left the "Broad Gauge" to his glory!

[Footnote 1: The Royal Commission appointed to inquire into the
  uniformity of railway gauges, presented their report to Parliament
  on May 30, 1846.]

[Footnote 2: Words found written on one of the G.-W. rails.]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A DEAR YOUNG FEMININE FRIEND, WHO SPELT "WAGON" AS "WAGGON."

  Bad spelling? Oh dear no! So tender, she
  Wished that the cart should have an extra "_gee_."

       *       *       *       *       *

KILLING NO MURDER.

(_TO THE EDITOR OF "PUNCH."_)

MY DEAR SIR,--I have just been reading with a great deal of surprise
"_The Life and Letters of Charles Samuel Keene_, by GEORGE SOMES
LAYARD." Seeing the name of one of your colleagues as the first line
of the "Index," I turned to page 74 and looked him out. I found him
mentioned in an account given by Mr. M.H. SPIELMANN of the _Punch_
Dinner, which Mr. GEORGE SOMES LAYARD had extracted from _Black and
White_, no doubt to assist in making up his book. The following is
the quotation:--"The Editor, as I have said, presides; should he be
unavoidably absent, another writer--usually, nowadays, Mr. ARTHUR
A'BECKETT--takes his place, the duty never falling to an artist."
Then, to show how thoroughly Mr. GEORGE SOMES LAYARD is up to date,
he adds to the name of Mr. ARTHUR A'BECKETT (after the fashion of
_Mr. Punch_ in the drama disposing of the clown or the beadle), "since
dead." Now Mr. ARTHUR A'BECKETT is not dead, but very much alive.
Do you not think, Sir, it would be better were gentlemen who write
about yourself and your colleagues, to verify their facts before they
attempt to give obituary notices, even if they be as brief as the one
in question?

  Yours, truly,
    MORE GAY THAN GRAVE.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW AND APPROPRIATE NAME FOR MODERN PUGILISM.--The "Nobble" Art.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE BURIAL OF THE "BROAD-GAUGE."]

       *       *       *       *       *

STUDIES IN THE NEW POETRY.

The world is of course aware by this time that a New Poetry has
arisen, and has asserted itself by the mouths of many loud-voiced
"boomers." It has been _Mr. Punch's_ good fortune to secure several
specimens of this new product, not through the intervention of middle
men, but from the manufacturers themselves. He proposes to publish
them for the benefit and enlightenment of his readers. But first a
word of warning. There are perhaps some who believe that a poem should
not only express high and noble thoughts, or recount great deeds, but
that it should do so in verse that is musical, cadenced, rhythmical,
instinct with grace, and reserved rather than boisterous. If any
such there be, let them know at once that they are hopelessly
old-fashioned. The New Poetry in its _highest_ expression banishes
form, regularity and rhythm, and treats rhyme with unexampled
barbarity. Here and there, it is true, rhymes get paired off quite
happily in the conventional manner, but directly afterwards you may
come upon a poor weak little rhyme who will cry in vain for his mate
through half a dozen interloping lines. Indeed, cases have been known
of rhymes that have been left on a sort of desert island of a verse,
and have never been fetched away. And sometimes when the lines have
got chopped very short, the rhymes have tumbled overboard altogether.
That is really what is meant by "impressionism" in poetry carried to
its highest excellence. There are, of course, other forms of the New
Poetry. There is the "blustering, hob-nailed" variety which clatters
up and down with immense noise, elbows you here, and kicks you there,
and if it finds a pardonable weakness strolling about in the middle of
the street, immediately knocks it down and tramples upon it. Then too
there is the "coarse, but manly" kind which swears by the great god,
Jingo, and keeps a large stock of spread eagles always ready to swoop
and tear without the least provocation.

However, _Mr. Punch_ may as well let his specimens speak for
themselves. Here, then, is

NO. I.--A GRAVESEND GREGORIAN.

BY W.E. H-NL-Y. (_CON BRIO._)

  Deep in a murky hole,
  Cavernous, untransparent, fetid, dank,
  The demiurgus of the servants' hall,
  The scuttle-bearing buttons, boon and blank
  And grimy loads his evening load of coals,
  Filled with respect for the cook's and butler's rank,
  Lo, the round cook half fills the hot retreat,
  Her kitchen, where the odours of the meat,
  The cabbage and sweets all merge as in a pall,
  The stale unsavoury remnants of the feast.
  Here, with abounding confluences of onion,
  Whose vastitudes of perfume tear the soul
  In wish of the not unpotatoed stew,
  They float and fade and flutter like morning dew.
  And all the copper pots and pans in line,
  A burnished army of bright utensils, shine;
  And the stern butler heedless of his bunion
  Looks happy, and the tabby-cat of the house
  Forgets the elusive, but recurrent mouse
  And purrs and dreams;
  And in his corner the black-beetle seems
  A plumed Black Prince arrayed in gleaming mail;
  Whereat the shrinking scullery-maid grows pale,
  And flies for succour to THOMAS of the calves,
  Who, doing nought by halves,
  Circles a gallant arm about her waist,
  And takes unflinching the cheek-slap of the chaste
  And giggling fair, nor counts his labour lost.
  Then, beer, beer, beer.
  Spume-headed, bitter, golden like the gold
  Buried by cutlassed pirates tempest-tossed,
  Red-capped, immitigable, over-bold
  With blood and rapine, spreaders of fire and fear.
  The kitchen table
  Is figured with the ancient, circular stains
  Of the pint-pot's bottom; beer is all the go.
  And every soul in the servants' hall is able
  To drink his pint or hers until they grow
  Glorious with golden beer, and count as gains
  The glowing draughts that presage morning pains.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: QUITE UNANSWERABLE.

_Ethel._ "MAMMY DEAR! WHY DO YOU POWDER YOUR FACE, AND WHY DOES THOMAS
POWDER HIS HAIR? I DON'T DO EITHER!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

EPISCOPACY IN DANGER.--_Mr. Punch_ congratulates Dr. PEROWNE, Bishop
of Worcester, on his narrow fire-escape some days ago, when his lawn
sleeves (a costume more appropriate for a garden-party than a pulpit)
caught fire. It was extinguished by a bold Churchwarden. In future let
Churchwardens be prepared with hose whenever a prelate runs any chance
of ignition from his own "burning eloquence." If _Mr. Punch's_ advice
as above is acted upon, a Bishop if "put out" may probably mutter,
"Darn your hose." But this can be easily explained away.

       *       *       *       *       *

BETTER AND BETTER.--The Report last week about Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN
was that "he hopes to go to the country shortly." So do our political
parties. Sir ARTHUR cannot restrain himself from writing new and
original music at a rapid pace. This, is a consequence of his having
taken so many composing draughts.

       *       *       *       *       *

"OUR BOOKING OFFICE."--Not open this week, as the Baron has been
making a book. Interesting subject, "On the Derby and Oaks." Being
in sporting mood, the Baron adopts as his motto King SOLOMON's
words of wisdom, out of his (King SOLOMON's) own mines of golden
treasures,--"And of book-making there is no end." He substitutes
"book-making" for "making of books," and with the poetic CAMPBELL
(HERBERT of that ilk) he sings, "it makes no difference."

       *       *       *       *       *

AFTER THE EVENT.--Last Sunday week was the one day in the year when
ancient Joe Millers were permissible. It was "Chestnut Sunday." We
didn't like to mention it before.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Royal General Theatrical Fund Dinner, held last Thursday, will be
remembered in the annals of the Stage as "ALEXANDER's Feast."

       *       *       *       *       *

HORACE IN LONDON. TO A COQUETTE. (AD PYRRHAM.)

[Illustration]

  What stripling, flowered and scent-bedewed,
  Now courts thee in what solitude?
  For whom dost thou in order set
  Thy tresses' aureole, Coquette.

  "Neat, but not gaudy"?--Soon Despond
  (Too soon!) at flouted faith and fond,
  Soon tempests halcyon tides above
  Shall wreck this raw recruit of Love;

  Who counts for gold each tinsel whim,
  And hopes thee always all for him,
  And trusts thee, smiling, spite of doom
  And  traitorous breezes! Hapless, whom

  Thy glamour holds untried. For me,
  I've dared enough that fitful sea;
  Its "breach of promise" grim hath curst
  Both purse and person with its worst.

  My "dripping weeds" are doffed; and I
  Sit "landed," like my wine, and "dry;"
  What "weeds" survive I smoke, and rub
  My hands in harbour at my Club!

       *       *       *       *       *

OPERATIC NOTES.

_Monday._--_L'Amico Fritz_ at last! Better late than never. A Dramatic
Operatic Idyl. "Nothing in it," as _Sir Charles Coldstream_ observes,
except the music, the singing, and the acting of Signor DE LUCIA as
_Fritz_ Our Friend, of M. DUFRICHE as the _Rabbi_ of Mlle. GIULIA
RAVOGLI as _Boy Beppe_, of Mlle. BAUERMEISTER as _Caterina_, and of
Madame CALVÉ as _Suzel_. Not an indifferent performer or singer among
them, and not an individual in the audience indifferent to their
performance. Cherry-Tree Duet, between _Suzel_ and _Fritz_, great hit.
Admirably sung and acted, and vociferously encored. Nay, they would
have had it three times if they could, but though Sir DRURIOLANUS sets
his face against encores, allowing not too much encore but just encore
enough, he, as an astute Manager, cannot see why persons who have
paid to hear a thing only once should hear it three times for the same
money. No; if they like it so much that they want it again, and must
have it, and won't be happy till they get it, then let them encore
their own performance of paying for their seats, and come and hear
their favourite _morçeaux_ over and over again as often as they like
to pay. He will grant one encore no more. Sir DRURIOLANUS is right. Do
we insist on Mr. IRVING giving us "To be or not to be," or any other
soliloquy, all over again, simply because he has done it once so well?
Do we ask Mr. J.L. TOOLE to repeat his author's good jokes--or his own
when his author has failed him? No; we applaud to the echo, we laugh
till, as Mr. CHEVALIER says, "we thort we should ha' died," but
we don't encore the comic jokes, telling situations, or serious
soliloquies as rendered by our accomplished histrions.

[Illustration: The Rabbinical-Hat-Beer-Jug.]

Were a collection of pictures made of Mlle. BAUERMEISTER in different
characters, it would, for interest and variety, become a formidable
rival of the CHARLES MATHEWS series now in the possession of the
Garrick Club. To-night she is the busy, bustling _Caterina_, _Friend
Fritz's_ housekeeper, who, as she has to provide all the food for
their breakfast, and set it on the table, might be distinguished as
_Catering Caterina_. No one now cares to see an Opera without Mlle.
BAUERMEISTER in it, whether she appear as a dashing lady of the Court,
probably in a riding-habit, or as a middle-class German housekeeper,
or as Cupid God of Love, or as _Juliet's_ ancient nurse, or as an
impudent waiting-maid, or as an unhappy mother, or as,--well,--any
number of characters that I cannot now recall, but all done
excellently well. Never have I heard of her being either "sick or
sorry." Some few seasons ago I drew public attention to this most
useful and ornamental _artiste_, and now I am glad to see that here
and there a critic has awoke to the fact of her existence, and has
done her tardy justice. Long may the Bauermeistersinger be able to
give her valuable assistance, without which no Covent Garden Opera
Company could possibly be perfect.

[Illustration: Bob-Cherry Duet.]

As to _L'Amico Fritz_, I should suggest that it be played in one
Scene and two Acts. That this one Scene should be the Exterior of
Cherry-Tree Farm (which should be _Fritz's_, not the _Rabbi's_)
and that instead of lowering the Curtain, the _intermezzo_--not I
venture to opine equal to the marvellous _intermezzo_ in _Cavalleria
Rusticana_--should be played. _L'Amico_ is certain of an encore, and
this will give the singers a rest. It could then commence at nine--a
more convenient hour to those who would like to hear every note of it,
than 8:15, and it would be over by eleven sharp. A nod is as good as a
wink to Sir DRURIOLANUS, but all the same, Heaven forefend I should
be guilty of either indiscretion in the Imperial Operatorial presence.
Thus much at present.

_Friday._--"It's the smiles of its AUGUSTUS and the heat of its
July"--adapted quotation from "Old Song." "I cannot sing the old
song"--except under a sense of the deepest and most unpardonable
provocation; and when I do!!--_Cave canem, ruat coelum!_ I bring down
the house as Madame DELILAH's SAMSON did. To-night _Manon_ is indeed
warmly welcomed. "A nice Opera," says a young lady, fanning herself.
"I wish it were an iced Opera," groans WAGSTAFF, re-issuing one of
his earliest side-splitters. M. VAN DYCK strong as the weak _Des
Grieux_, but Madame MRAVINA apparently not strong enough. "What made
author-chap think of calling her _Manon_?" asks languid person in
Stalls. WAGSTAFF, revived after an iced B.-and-S., is equal to the
occasion. "Such a bad lot, you know--regular man-catcher; hooked a
_man on_, then, when he was done with, hooked another man on. Reason
for name evident, see?" The _Cavalleria Rusticana_ is the favourite
for Derby Night. All right up to now, Sir DRURIOLANUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

TENNER SONG FOR DERBY DAY.--"_He's got it on!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST (THE SMALL AND SUSCEPTIBLE ONE) HAS TO
PUT UP WITH.

_Miss Binks._ "PRAY, MR. TITMOUSE, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DRAW SUCH
IMMENSELY TALL WOMEN?"

_Our Artist._ "WELL, MISS BINKS, I SUPPOSE IT'S BECAUSE I'M SUCH A
TINY LITTLE MAN MYSELF. CONTRAST, YOU SEE!"

_Miss Binks._ "AH, YES, CONTRAST! THAT IS HOW WE TINY LITTLE WOMEN
ALWAYS ATTRACT ALL THE FINE TALL MEN! THAT'S HOW _WE_ SCORE!"

_Our Artist._ "EXACTLY. I ONLY WISH TO GOODNESS YOU'D ATTRACT THAT
VERY FINE TALL MAN AWAY FROM MISS JONES--THEN _I_ MIGHT HAVE A CHANCE,
PERHAPS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A VERY "DARK HORSE."

    ["The Country knows ... what it is we desire to do. What the
    Right Hon. Gentleman (Mr. GLADSTONE) desires to do no human
    being knows. If we have done our part, as we have done, to
    clear the issues, all we can ask him is to do his part, to
    lay before the electorate of this country in the same plain,
    unmistakable outline, the policy which he desires to see
    adopted."--_Mr. Balfour on Second Reading of Irish Local
    Government Bill._]

    SCENE--_The Paddock, before the Great Race. Rising Young
    Jockey_, ARTHUR BALFOUR, _mounted on the Crack Irish Horse.
    Enter Grand Old Jockey, at the moment minus a mount._

_Grand Old Jockey_ (_aside_). Humph! Don't look so bad, now, despite
          the dead set
    That against him we've made since his very first running,
  Do they mean him to win after all? Artful set,
    That Stable! It strikes me they've been playing cunning.
  One wouldn't have backed him, first off, for a bob.
    His owner concerning him scarcely seemed caring.
  Eugh! No one supposed he was fair "on the job";
    A mere trial-horse, simply "out for an airing."
  When he first stripped in public he looked such a screw,
    He was hailed with a general chorus of laughter;
  Young BAL seemed abashed at the general yahboo!
    And pooh-poohed his new mount! What the doose is he after?
  I'm bound to admit the Horse _looks_ pretty fit,
    And the boy sits him well, and as though he meant _trying_.
  I say, this won't do! I must bounce him a bit.
    Most awkward, you know, if his "slug" takes to _flying_!

_Rising Young Jockey_ (_aside_). Hillo! There's Old WILLIAM! He's out
          on the scoot.
    The artful Old Hand! Hope he'll like what he looks on!
  He slated this nag as a peacocky brute,
    Whose utter collapse they've been building their books on.
  How now, my spry veteran? Only a boy
    On a three-legged crock? Well, I own you are older,
  And watching your riding's a thing to enjoy;
    There isn't a Jock who is defter _and_ bolder;
  Your power, authority, eloquence--yes,
    For your gift of the gab is a caution--are splendid;
  But--the youngster _may_ teach you a lesson, I guess,
    As to judgment of pace ere the contest is ended.

_Grand Old Jockey_ (_aloud_). Well, ARTHUR my lad, in the saddle
          again!
    Is _that_ your crack mount?

_Rising Young Jockey._ The identical one, WILL.

_Grand Old Jockey._ Dear, dear, what a pity! It quite gives me pain
    To see you so wasted.

_Rising Young Jockey._ That's only your fun, WILL.

_Grand Old Jockey._ Nay, nay, not at all! Don't think much of his
          points.
    He's not bred like a true-blood, nor built like a winner.
  Not well put together, so coarse in his joints,
    In fact--only fit for a hunting-pack's dinner!

_Rising Young Jockey_ (_laughing_). Oh! "Cat's-meat!" is your cry, is
          it, WILLIAM? Well, well!
    We shall see about that when the winning-post's handy.

_Grand Old Jockey._ _You_ won't, my brave boy; that a novice could
          tell.
    You'll be left in the ruck at the end, my young dandy,

_Rising Young Jockey._ Perhaps! Still the pencillers haven't,--as
          yet--
    Quite knocked the nag out with their furious fever
  Of hot opposition. Some cool ones still bet
    On his chance of a win.

_Grand Old Jockey_ (_contemptuously_). Ah, you're wonderful clever.
  But we have got one in _our_ Stable, my lad,
    Who can--just lick his head off!

_Rising Young Jockey_ (_drily_). Now have you indeed, WILL?
  I fancy I've heard that before. Very glad
    That your lot are in luck; and I hope you'll succeed, WILL,
  But bless me! yours seems such a _very_ Dark Horse!
    Oh! there, don't fire up so! Your word I won't doubt, WILL.
  You say so, and one must believe you, of course;
    But--_isn't_ it time that you _brought the nag out_, WILL?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A VERY "DARK HORSE."

OLD JOCKEY. "DON'T THINK MUCH OF HIS POINTS! WE'VE ONE IN OUR STABLE
CAN LICK HIS HEAD OFF!"

YOUNG JOCKEY. "_HAVE_ YOU? THEN WHY DON'T YOU _BRING HIM OUT_?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

HISTORY AS SHE IS PLAYED!

_Questioner._ Why should M.V. SARDOU be called the Historian of the
  French Revolution?

_Answerer._ Because in _Thermidor_ he has given an entirely new
  version of the "Reign of Terror."

_Q._ Was the "Reign of Terror" very terrible?

_A._ Not very. At the Opéra Comique it had its comic side.

_Q._ How was that?

_A._ For instance, _les tricoteuses_ were represented by comely,
  albeit plump maidens, who seemed more inclined to dance round a
  Maypole than haunt a scaffold.

_Q._ Were ROBESPIERRE, ST. JUST, and the rest, cruel and vindictive?

_A._ I should say not; and I found my conclusion on the fact that they
  engaged an actor given to practical joking as an officer of the Public
  Security.

_Q._ From this, do you take it that ROBESPIERRE must have had a subtle
sense of humour?

_A._ I do; and the impression is strengthened by his order for a
  general slaughter of Ursuline Nuns.

_Q._ Why should he order such a massacre?

_A._ To catch the heroine of _Thermidor_, a lady who had taken the
  vows under the impression that her lover had been killed by the enemy.

_Q._ Had her lover been killed?

_A._ Certainly not; he had preferred to surrender.

_Q._ Can you give me any idea of the component part of a revolutionary
  crowd?

_A._ At the Opéra Comique, a revolutionary crowd seems to consist of
  a number of mournful loungers, who have nothing to do save to take
  a languid interest in the fate of a tearful maiden, and a few _gens
  d'armes_ a little uncertain about their parade-ground.

_Q._ How do the mournful loungers express their interest in the fate
  of the tearful maiden?

_A._ By pointing her out one to another, and when she is ordered off
  to execution removing their hats, and fixing I their attention on
  something concealed behind the scenes.

_Q._ What is your present idea of the Reign of Terror?

_A._ My present idea of the Reign of Terror is, that it was the
  mildest thing imaginable. In my opinion, not even a child in arms
  would have been frightened at it.

_Q._ Do you not consider M. MAYER deserving of honour?

_A._ Certainly I do. For has he not removed (with the assistance of M.
  SARDOU and the Opéra Comique) several fond illusions of my youth?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: NATURE V. ART.

_Æsthetic Friend._ "YES, THIS ROOM'S RATHER NICE, ALL BUT THE WINDOW,
WITH THESE LARGE BLANK PANES OF PLATE-GLASS! I SHOULD LIKE TO SEE SOME
SORT OF PATTERN ON THEM--LITTLE SQUARES OR LOZENGES OR ARABESQUES--"

_Philistine._ "WELL, BUT THOSE LOVELY CHERRY BLOSSOMS, AND THE LAKE,
AND THE DISTANT MOUNTAIN, AND THE BEAUTIFUL SUNSETS, AND THE PURPLE
CLOUDS--ISN'T THAT PATTERN ENOUGH?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MORNING OF THE DERBY.--_Hamlet_ considering whether he shall go
to Epsom for the great race or not, soliloquises, "Der-_be_ or not
Der-_be_, that is the question." [N.B.--As to the other lines, go as
you please. "The rest is silence."]

       *       *       *       *       *

"MARRIED AND SINGLE" should be played by Lady-Cricketers. No single
young person under seventeen should be permitted an innings, as any
two sweet sixteens would be "not out," and there would be no chance
for the other side. Match-makers are only interested in the Single.

       *       *       *       *       *

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--For the first time have I seen myself in print!--and
I must say I think it very becoming--and so nice and cool too this
hot weather! You are indeed a sweet creature for adopting my idea
so readily--and I really must say that if these obstinate Members of
Parliament who oppose Women's Suffrage would only alter their views,
it would be much better for the Country--or worse--I don't know which!

[Illustration]

Sir MINTING BLOUNDELL, whose criticism on my contribution to your
well-written journal I invited, complimented me on my style, and
suggested that when giving my selections it might be as well to
refer to the "Home Trials" of the horses mentioned--but I venture
to disagree with him! Goodness knows we all have home trials enough!
(Lord ARTHUR and I frequently do not speak for a week unless someone
is present)--but I do not think these things should be made public,
and besides, it is an unwritten law amongst "smart" people to avoid
subjects that "chafe"--which sounds like an anachronism--whatever that
means! Having an opportunity of a "last word" on the Derby, I should
like to say that, although my confidence in my last week's selection,
_La Flêche_, is unshaken, I wish to have a second "arrow" to my bow
in _Llanthony_--of whom a very keen judge of racing (Lord BOURNEMOUTH
to wit) has formed the opinion that--in his own words--"he will be
on the premises"! The premises in question being Epsom Downs, there
will undoubtedly be room for him without his filling an unnecessarily
prominent position, so I will couple _Llanthony_ with _La Flêche_ to
supply the probable last in the Derby.

Meanwhile, I must say a word or two about the Ladies' Race at Epsom
on Friday next. There is absolutely no knowing what will start for
the Oaks nowadays until the numbers go up--and no Turf Prophet will
venture a selection until the morning of the race--and _this_ is where
the perspicuity of an Editor like yourself, _Mr. Punch_, scores a
distinct hit--for such a paltry consideration as "knowing nothing
about it" is not likely to daunt a woman who takes as her motto the
well-known line from SHAKSPEARE: "Thus Angels rush where Cowards fear
to tread!"--so herewith I confidently append my verse selection for
the last Mare in the Oaks!

  Yours devotedly,
    LADY GAY.

THE TIP.

  'Tis the voice of the Sluggard, I hear him complain,
    You have waked me too soon--an unpleasant surprise!
  In an hour or so later pray call me again,
    When, if feeling refreshed, I will straightway "_Arise!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

QUITE IN KEEPING.--The Earl of DYSART has left the ranks of the
Liberal Unionists and become a Gladstonian Home-Ruler. "What more
natural?" asked one of his former Unionist friends. "Of course he's
dysarted us!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A MISUNDERSTANDING.

_He._ "OH, IF I'D ONLY BEEN A 'BEAR'!"

_She._ "IF YOU HAD BEEN, YOU COULDN'T GROWL WORSE THAN YOU DO!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, May 23._--REDMOND, Junior, said really
funny thing just now. Rising to take part in resumed Debate on Irish
Local Government Bill, he announced in loud angry tone that it would
be waste of time to discuss a Bill the Government evidently did not
intend to press through this Session, and he for one would be no party
to such a farce. Then he went on to talk for half an hour.

[Illustration: "Joe!"]

Debate on the whole something better than last week's contribution.
O'BRIEN delivered himself of glowing denunciation full of felicitous
phrases, all got through in half an hour. CHAMBERLAIN followed;
has not yet got over startling novelty of his interposition in
Debate being welcomed by loud cheers from Conservatives; thinks
of old Aston-Park days, when the cheering was, as WEBSTER (not
Attorney-General) says, "on the other boot." Now, when JOSEPH gets
up to demolish his Brethren sitting near, Conservatives opposite
settle themselves down with the peculiar rustling motion with which
a congregation in crowded church or chapel arrange themselves to
listen to a favourite preacher. Pretty to watch them as CHAMBERLAIN
goes forward with his speech, delighting them with surprise to find
how much better is their position than they thought when it was
recommended or extolled from their own side. JOSEPH not nearly so
acrimonious to-night as sometimes. Still, as usual, his speech
chiefly directed to his former Brethren who sit attentive, thinking
occasionally with regret of the fatal shallowness of the pit, and
the absence of arrangement for hermetically sealing it. If only--But
that is another story. COURTNEY at end of Bench is thinking of still
another, which has the rare charm of being true. It befel at a quiet
dinner where JOSEPH, finding himself in contiguity with Chairman of
Committees, took opportunity of rebuking him for his alleged laxity
in repressing disorder.

[Illustration: The Fighting Colonel.]

"I should like to know," he asked, "whether, supposing I were to fire
a pistol across the House, you would call it a breach of order."

"I don't think, CHAMBERLAIN," said Prince ARTHUR, who was sitting at
the other side of the table, "that if you were going to fire a pistol
in the Commons, you would point it across the House." TIM HEALY just
back from Dublin, where he's been appearing in his favourite character
of pacificator; followed CHAMBERLAIN, and later came SAUNDERSON. But
even he suffered from prevailing tone of dulness, and WILFRID LAWSON,
fast asleep in the corner by Cross Benches, did not miss much.
_Business done._--More talk on Local Government Bill.

_Tuesday._--If anyone looking on at House of Commons at three o'clock
this afternoon had predicted that within an hour it would be teeming
with life, brimming over with human interest, he would have been
looked upon with cold suspicion. NOLAN had taken the floor, and was
understood to be expressing his deliberate opinion on merits of Irish
Local Government Bill. He was certainly saying something, but what it
might be no man could tell. LYON PLAYFAIR, who is up in all kinds of
statistics, tells me 120 words per minute is the average utterance
of articulate speech. NOLAN was doing his 300, and sometimes exceeded
that rate. Not a comma in a column of it. A humming-top on the subject
would have been precisely as instructive and convincing. Some twenty
Members sat there fascinated by the performance. It was not delivered
in a monotone, in which case one could have slept. NOLAN was evidently
arguing in incisive manner, shirking no obstacle, avoiding no point
in the Bill, or any hit made by previous speaker. His voice rose and
fell with convincing modulation. He seemed to be always dropping into
an aside, which led him into another, that opened a sort of Clapham
Junction of converging points. One after the other, the Colonel, with
full steam up, ran along; when he reached terminus of siding, racing
back at sixty miles an hour; and so up and down another. Only guessed
this from modulation of his voice and the intelligent nodding of the
head with which he compelled the attention of ATTORNEY-GENERAL for
IRELAND. For just over half an hour he kept up this pace, and, saving
a trot for the avenue, fell back into his seat gasping for breath,
having concluded a sentence nine hundred words long worked off in
three minutes by the astonished clock.

[Illustration: THE GLADSTONIAN BAGMAN.

["I regard myself as a commercial traveller."--_Speech by Sir William
Harcourt at Bristol, May_ 11, 1892.]]

[Illustration: "T.W."]

An interval of T.W. RUSSELL, with one of his adroitly-argued,
lucidly-arranged speeches. Then Mr. G. and transformation scene. House
filled up as if by magic. In ten minutes not a seat vacant on floor;
Members running into Side Gallery, nimbly hopping over Benches, to get
on front line so as to watch as well as hear the last and the greatest
of the old Parliamentarians. As suddenly and swiftly as the House had
filled, the limp lay figure of the Debate throbbed with life. Scene of
the kind witnessed only once or twice in Session. Six hundred pair of
eyes all turned eagerly upon figure standing at Table, denouncing with
uplifted arm, and voice ringing with indignation, the iniquities of
the MARKISS, safely absent, and of his nephew, Prince ARTHUR, serenely
present.

A great speech; an achievement which, if it stood alone, sufficient to
make a reputation. And yet, when result of Division announced, it was
found that majority of an iniquitous Government had run up to 92!

Everyone delighted to hear the interesting news from 27, St.
James's Place, which gives an heir to the Spencer Earldom, and has
spread a feeling of joy and contentment throughout Althorpe and
Mid-Northamptonshire. The latest news, brought down just now by
MARJORIBANKS, is "BOBBY is doing as well as can be expected."
_Business done._--Irish Local Government Bill read Second Time, by
339 votes against 247.

_Wednesday._--Hail! Sir HENRY WIGGIN, Bart, M.P.; B.B.K., as ARTHUR
ORTON called himself when resident in the wilds of Australia, and
explained that the style imported Baronet of the British Kingdom.
_Now_ we know what was the meaning of that foray upon the House the
other day, when, with the Chairman in the Chair, and Committee fully
constituted, the waggish WIGGIN walked adown the House, with his
hat cocked on one side of his head, in defiance of Parliamentary
etiquette. The Birthday Gazette was even then being drafted, and
to-day the wanton WIGGIN is Sir HENRY, Baronet of the United Kingdom.
_Not_ a more popular announcement in the list. An honest, kindly,
shrewd WIGGIN it is, with a face whose genial smile all people,
warming under it, instinctively return.

_Business done._--WIGGIN made B.B.K.

_Thursday._--Quite a long time reaching Vote on Account; two hours
taken for discussion of Birmingham Water Bill; Gentlemen in Radical
camp much exercised about size of fish in streams annexed for purposes
of Birmingham water supply. CHAMBERLAIN, who has charge of Bill, says
he never caught one longer than two inches. DILLWYN protests that
fishing in same waters he rarely caught one less than a pound weight.
Evidently a mistake somewhere. House perplexed, finally passed Bill
through Committee.

[Illustration: The Noble Baron.]

Then Rev. SAM SMITH wants to know more about Polynesian Labour
Traffic. The NOBLE BARON who has charge of Colonial affairs in
Commons, whilst controverting all his statements, says "everyone must
admit that the Hon. Member has spoken from his heart." "Which," NOVAR
says, "it reminds me of the couplet _Joe Gargery_ meant to put on the
tombstone of his lamented father, 'What-sume'er the failings on his
part, Remember, reader, he were that good in his hart.'"

At length in Committee of Supply; Vote on Account moved; Mr. G. on his
feet wanting to know you know; doesn't once mention the Dissolution;
but puts it to Prince ARTHUR whether, really, the time hasn't come
when House should learn something with respect to intentions of
Government touching finance, their principal Bills, and, in short, "so
far foreshadowing the probable termination of the Session?" Wouldn't
on any account hurry him; any day he likes will do; only getting time
something should be said. Prince ARTHUR, gratefully acknowledging
Mr. G.'s kind way of putting it, agreed with his view. Some day he
will tell us something; to-day he will say nothing. A pretty bit
of by-play; excellently done by both leading Gentlemen; perfectly
understood by laughing House.

_Business done._--Shadow of Dissolution gathering close.

_Friday._--I see TAY PAY, in the interesting Sunday journal he
admirably edits, reproaches me because, in this particular page
of history, "Mr. SEXTON," he says, "is derided constantly and
shamefully." _Anglicè_: Occasionally when, in a faithful record of
Parliamentary events, SEXTON's part in the proceedings must needs be
noticed, it is gently hinted that among his many admirable qualities
terseness of diction is not prominent. In fact he has been sometimes
alluded to by the playful prefix WINDBAG. If TAY PAY had been
content to administer reproof, it would have been well. But he
goes on to discuss SEXTON's parliamentary style, and comes to this
conclusion:--"Mr. SEXTON's one fault as a speaker is that he does
not proportion his observations sufficiently at certain stages in his
speeches; and that preparation sometimes has the effect of tempting
him to over-elaboration." If TAY PAY likes to put it that way, no one
can object. Only, space in this journal being more valuable, the same
thing is said in a single word.

_Business done._--Small Holdings Bill sent on to the Lords.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OVERHEARD AT EARL'S COURT.

_Old Buffer._ "UGH! I'M TIRED TO DEATH OF BEING HUNTED! BLESSED IF
I'LL RUN AWAY FROM THOSE BLANK CARTRIDGES AGAIN!"

_Broncho._ "YES, YOU BET! AND I'VE MADE UP MY MIND TO QUIT BUCKING.
IT'S PERFECTLY SICKENING HAVING TO DO IT FROM YEAR'S END TO YEAR'S
END!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

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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