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Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, March 12, 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, March 12, 1892" ***

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VOL. 102.

March 12, 1892.




_The Usual Elderly Lady_ (_who judges every picture solely by
its subject_). "No. 9. Portrait of Mrs. BRYANSTON of Portman. By
GAINSBOROUGH." I don't like that at all. Such a _disagreeable_
expression! I can't think why they exhibit such things. I'm sure
there's no _pleasure_ in looking at them!

_Her Companion_ (_who finds no pleasure in looking at any of them_).
No, I must say I prefer the Academy to these old-fashioned things. I
suppose we can get a cup of _tea_ here, though?

_An Intelligent Person_. "Mrs. BRYANSTON of Portman." Sounds like a
made-up name rather, eh? Portman Square, and all that, y'know!

[Illustration: "My dear fellow, as if it was possible to mistake his

_His Friend_ (_with a touching confidence in the seriousness of the
authorities_). Oh, they wouldn't do that sort of thing _here_!

_A Too-impulsive Enthusiast_. Oh, JOHN, _look_ at that lovely tiger up
there! _Isn't_ the skin marvellously painted, and the eyes so natural
and all! It's a Landseer of _course_!

_John_. Catalogue says STUBBS.

_The Enth._ (_disenchanted_). STUBBS? I never heard of him. But it's
really rather well done.

_The Man who is a bit of a Connoisseur in his way_ (_arriving at a
portrait of Mrs. BILLINGTON_). Not a bad Romney, that.

_His Friend_ (_with Catalogue_). What makes you think it's a Romney?

_The Conn._ My dear fellow, as if it was possible to mistake his
touch. (_Thinks from his friend's expression, that he had better
hedge._) Unless it's a Reynolds. Of course it _might_ be a Sir Joshua,
their manner at one period was very much alike--yes, it might be a
Reynolds, certainly.

_His Friend_. It might be a Holbein--if it didn't happen to be a

_The Conn._ (_effecting a masterly retreat_). Didn't I _say_
Gainsborough? Of course that was what I _meant_. Nothing like
Reynolds--nor Romney either. Totally different thing!


_Mr. Ernest Stodgely_ (_before JAN STEEN's "Christening"_). Now look
at this, FLOSSIE; very curious, very interesting. Gives you such an
insight into the times. This man, you see, is wearing a hat of the
period. Remarkable, isn't it?

_Miss Featherhead_. Not so remarkable as if he was wearing a hat of
some _other_ period, ERNEST, is it?

_The Elderly Lady_ (_before a View of Amsterdam, by Van der Heyden_).
Now, you really _must_ look at this, my dear--isn't it wonderful? Why,
you can count every single brick in the walls, and the tiny little
figures with their features all complete; you want a magnifying-glass
to _see_ it all! How conscientious painters were in those days!
And _what_ a difference from those "Impressionists," as they call

_Her Comp._ (_apathetically_). Yes, indeed; I wonder whether it would
be better to get our tea here, or wait till we get outside?

_The Eld. L._ Oh, it's too early yet. Look at that poor hunted stag
jumping over a dining-room table, and upsetting the glasses and
things. I suppose that's LANDSEER--no, I see it's some one of the name
of SNYDERS. I expect he got the _idea_ from LANDSEER, though, don't

_Her Comp._ Very likely indeed, dear; but (_pursuing her original
train of thought_) you get rather nice tea at some of these aërated
bread-shops; so perhaps if we waited--(_&c., &c._)


_Two Pretty Nieces with an Elderly Uncle_ (_coming to "Apollo and
Marsyas," by Tintoretto_). What was the _story_ of Apollo and Marsyas,

_The Uncle_. Apollo? Oh, come, you've heard of _him_,
the--er--Sun-God, Phoebus-Apollo, and all that?

_His Nieces_. Oh, yes, we know all _that_; but who was Marsyas, and
what does the Catalogue mean by "Athena and three Umpires?"

_The Uncle_. Oh--er--hum! Didn't they teach you all that at school?
Well they _ought_ to have, that's all? Where's your Aunt--where's your

_Mr. Ernest Stodgely_ (_before the Portrait of the Marchesa Isabella
Grimaldi_). There, FLOSSIE, don't you feel the greatness of that now?
I'm curious to know how it impresses you!

_Miss Featherhead_. Well, I rather like her frock, ERNEST. How funny
to think aigrettes were worn so long ago, when they've just gone out
_again_, don't you know. It must have been difficult to kiss a person
across one of those enormous ruffs, though, don't you think?


_Mr. Schohorff_ (_loudly_). Ah, _that's_ a picture I know well; seen
it many a time in the Octagon Boudoir at dear old HATCHMENT's. But
it looks better lighted up. I remember the last time I was down there
they told me they'd been asked to lend it, but the Countess didn't
seem to think (_&c., &c._).

_Mrs. Frivell_ (_before "Death of Dido," by Liberale da Verona_). Why
is she standing on that pile of furniture in the courtyard, though?

_Mr. F._ Because Æneas had jilted her, and so she stabbed herself on a
funeral pyre after setting fire to it, you see.

_Mrs. F._ (_disapprovingly_). How _very_ odd. I thought they only did
that in India. But who are all those people looking-on?

_Mr. F._ Smart people of the period, my dear. Of course Dido would
send out invitations for a big function like that--Wind-up of the
season--Farewell Reception--sure to be a tremendous rush for cards.
Notice the evident enjoyment of the guests. They are depicted in the
act of remarking to one another that their hostess is doing all in
_her_ power to make the thing go off well. Keen observer of human
nature, old LIBERALE!

_Mrs. F._ Selfish creatures!


_Mrs. Townley-Ratton_ (_about to leave with her husband, encounters
her cousins, the Miss RURAL-RATTONS, who have just arrived_). Why,
SOPHY, MARY! _how_ are you? this is _too_ delightful! When _did_ you
come up? How long are you going to be in town? _When_ can you come and
see me?

_Miss Sophy Rattan_ (_answering the two last questions_). Till the end
of the week. What will be the best time to find you?

_Mrs. T.R._ (_warmly_). Oh, _any_ time! I'm almost _always_ in--except
the afternoons, of course. I'm going out to tea or something every day
this week!

_Miss Sophy R._ Well, how would some time in the morning--

_Mrs. T.R._ The morning? No, I'm afraid--I'm _afraid_ it _mustn't_ be
the morning _this_ week--so many things that one _has_ to see to!

_Mr. T.R._ (_lazily_). You'd better all come and dine quietly some

    [_He yawns, to tone down any excess of hospitality in this

_Mrs. T.R._ (_quickly_). No, that would be _too_ cruel, when I know
they'll want to go to a theatre every night! And besides, I really
haven't a single free evening this week. But I must see if we can't
_arrange_ something. You really must drop me a line _next_ time
you're coming up! Good-bye, dears, we mustn't keep you from the
pictures--such a fine collection this winter! Love to your Mother,
and say I shall try to call--if I _possibly_ can!

_Mr. T.R._ (_as they descend the stairs_). I say, SELINA, you forgot
to ask 'em where they are. Shall I run back and find out, eh?

_Mrs. T.R._ Not on _any_ account. They're probably at the Grand as
usual, and if they're not, it will be a very good excuse if I can't
call. You are such a _fusser_, ALFRED!

_Miss Sophy_ (_to_Miss MARY_). What a let-off! I wouldn't have minded
lunch so much--but _dinner_--no, thank you, my dear!

_Miss Mary_ (_gloomily_). She may call on Mother and ask us all yet.

_Miss Sophy_. She doesn't know where we are, and I took good care not
to tell her. It's getting too dark to see much, but we'll just walk
through the rooms, to say we've done it--shall we? [_They do._

       *       *       *       *       *

A SETTLER FOR MR. WOODS.--Mrs. RAM does not at all wonder at Amateurs
being able to "pick up old pieces of china at CHRISTY's," for she has
often heard that you've only got to go to King Street, where anyone
may see them "knocked down under a hammer."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "OFF HIS FEED."


       *       *       *       *       *


_Mr. Foozler_ (_who, while waiting for the last Train, has wandered
to the end of the Platform, opened the door of the Signal-box, and
watched the Signalman's manipulations of the levers for some moments
with hazy perplexity, suddenly_). "ARF O' BURT'N 'N BIRRER F' ME,

       *       *       *       *       *


    SCENE--_The St. Stephen's Stables. Stall of the Favourite,
    "Majority," who is being inspected by the great "Vet."
    (S-L-SB-RY) in presence of the Groom (B-LF-R), and the
    Stable-help (CH-PL-N)._

_Stable-help_ (_anxiously_). Why, he used to be a stunner, and a
          safe and steady runner,
    And we trusted him, most confident, for landing us the Stakes
   Now, what can the cause of _this_ be? He's a-looking queer and
    And his off fore leg seems shaky, and the rest ain't no _great_

_Groom_ (_sharply_). Not too much of it, you HARRY! You are here
          to fetch and carry,
    And not to pass opinions in the presence of the Vet.
   But he _does_ look dicky, Mister; I've tried bolus, I've tried
    But I haven't got him up to his old form by chalks, Sir, _yet_!

_Vet._ (_dubiously_). You're a bit new at the "biz.," lad, and I
          tell you what it is, lad,--
     These thoroughbreds aren't managed like a dray-horse, don'tcher
  They want very careful feeding, and Sangrado purge or bleeding
     Won't suit our modern strain--of man _or_ horse. Steady, lad!
          Woa! [_Examines him._

_Groom_ (_rather sulkily_). Well, Sir, what do you make it?

_Vet._                   Off his feed?

_Groom_.                            Well, he don't take it.
    Not voracious, so to speak, Sir, as he do when cherry ripe.

_Vet._ Ah-h-h! May want a change of diet. Eye is neither bright
          _nor_ quiet,
    And his coat seems dull and roughish, though he's sound in pulse
          and pipe.

_Stable-help_. Don't take kindly to his fodder, and, what _I_
          thinks even odder,
    With a temper like a hangel, gits a bit inclined to kick.
  Landed _'Art Dyke_ a fair wunner!

_Groom_ (_testily_).        Well, you are an eighty-tonner
    At superfluous patter, HARRY!

_Stable-help_ (_aside_).    Lor! _His_ temper's gitting quick!
  What has been and popped the acid in his style so prim and placid?
    Doesn't shine like what he thought to as head-groom. Yus,
          there's the rub!

_Vet._ (_looking at sieve_). Seem to shy _that_ feed!

_Groom_.                  I mixed it with the greatest care, and
          fixed it
    With an eye to tempt his appetite, but there, he's off his grub!

_Vet._ (_to Stable-help_). Takes your green stuff better?

_Stable-help_.           True, Sir!

_Groom_.                            But too much o' that won't do,
     Can't live on tares entirely! (_Aside._) This here boy's too
          full of beans.

_Vet._ Ah! I see the whole position. He's a bit out of condition,
    Wants a tonic and skilled treatment. Yes, no doubt that's what
          it means.
  With an appetite that's picksome comes a temper tart and tric
     But a pick-me-up--I'll send one--will, I'm sure set all that
  And if there's further wasting, then, without too headlong hasting,
    Give him, as soon as possible--a little _Country Air_!

       *       *       *       *       *


  She's as bad as can be, but she's "Precious" to me,
    Though her conduct cannot be called free from a flaw;
  For in spite of blackmail, I have vowed ne'er to fail
    In the duty I owe to my Mother-in-law.

  There have been flippant sneers and conventional jeers,
    At a worthy relation that I hold in awe;
  Though it angers my wife, all the joy of my life
    Comes from drawing big cheques--for my Mother-in-law.

  Peccadilloes she had, but she isn't all bad,
    And the folks who have sneered shall their libels withdraw;
  To our dance she shall come, and the world be struck dumb
    At the way that I've whitewashed my Mother-in-law.

  She shall rise from the slime of what people called crime,
    To a virtuous height, for I always foresaw
  'Twould be wise to proclaim to all ages the fame
    Of that much-maligned female--a Mother-in-law.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


Rather alarmed by reading in paper about "explosive buttons." Seems
that combs, collars, cuffs, buttons and things made to imitate ivory
and tortoiseshell are really highly combustible. Lady in West of
England had her dress ignited by sudden explosion of a "fancy" button!
In consequence, advise my wife "to use that new hairbrush I gave her
very gingerly, or she'll be blown up." She wants to know "why I didn't
find that out before buying it." Difficult to find suitable reply.
Result--nobody blown up so far, except myself.

Combing my few remaining locks. No harm in comb, I suppose, as maker
assured me it was "only made of celluloid." Comb suddenly driven a
couple of inches into my head, with loud report! In bed for three
weeks. Write to maker, who says, "Didn't I know celluloid was mixture
of camphor and gun-cotton?" No, I didn't.

Playing billiards, when sufficiently recovered. Just executing
fiftieth spot-stroke in succession, when--an explosion! Cue driven out
of my hand, and half-way down marker's throat. Turns out that ball was
a mixture of Turkish Delight and nitroglycerine, and objected to my
hitting it. Marker brings action, and gets damages out of me.

Little later. New fancy waistcoat. Buttons like pearl. Rub one, to
give extra polish--Bang!--explosion. Where am I? In the middle of next
week, on which date I write this.

       *       *       *       *       *

CON. BY A WELSHER.--Why has Wales more Clerks than England?--Because
it has a _Penman more_.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_An Effort in the Spasmodic-Obscure, after the American Original
quoted by Mr. James Payn in "Our Note-Book."_)

  Two Spooks, swirled fast along the Vast,
    Meeting each other "at the double,"
  Collided, squirmed, then howled aghast,
    Each to the other, "What's _your_ trouble?"

  "Alas!" one whined, "Rymed Rot I read,
    Affected to admire, and quote it!"
  The other wailed, with shame-bowed head,
    "My case is even worse,--_I wrote it_!"

       *       *       *       *       *



The two Convicts were tried at the same Assizes, put in the same dock
and sentenced by the same Judge. So a companionship sprang up between
them considering that one was by birth and education a Gentlemen, and
the other was not. And they went to the same prison, and listened
to the same words of the same Chaplain, and took their occasional
exercise in the same practising yard. And as luck would have it, they
served the same time, and were liberated at the same moment.

"I am afraid I must say good-bye, GILES," said ST. JAMES, as they
emerged into freedom from the portals of the gaol. "Good fellow as you
are, GILES, you do not belong to my set, and your presence would be

"Oh, would it!" returned GILES, who had already recognised some of his
friends. "Well, I don't want to press my company on anyone."

"No offence!" exclaimed ST. JAMES, "I beg you--no offence! But we have
both to begin life again, and union is not strength in a case such as

"Oh, no offence!" acquiesced GILES, as he accompanied some of his pals
to a neighbouring public-house.

ST. JAMES, left to his own devices, hurried to the Chambers that he
used to rent before he went to prison. They were "To Let." He rang the
bell, and the porter started back when he saw him.

"Hope you don't want to enter, Sir," said he; "but the Guv'nor gave
strict orders, as if you called, that you was not to go in. It ain't
my fault, Sir, but the Guv'nor is the Guv'nor!"

Disheartened by this rebuff, he tried the house of a friend, but
was so scornfully received, that he made up his mind never to visit
another acquaintance. Of course he found that his name had been
removed from his Clubs, and not a single individual would recognise
him. He was an outcast, and a ruined man. So he walked about the
streets until his shoes were in holes, and his last penny exhausted.
Then he lay down to sleep. But this was against the regulations, and
so he was hustled from pillar to post, until at last he found himself
in a very low part of town. He was trudging past a public-house,
when who should emerge from its cheerful-looking recesses but GILES.
"Hallo!" cried the young man, who seemed the picture of health, "are
_you_ down?"

"Yes--very," returned ST. JAMES. "I haven't a friend in the world, and
no one will have anything to say to me."

"What a shame!" cried the other. "Why, with me, I have had a rare old
time! Everybody has been pleased to see me."

"But hasn't your conviction injured you?"

"Not particularly. I have lots of people who support me. Why, if we
were _too_ particular with one another, we shouldn't have a pal in the
world! Hope there's nothing wrong."

"Why, don't you call this wrong? Here are you, as jolly as possible,
and I--a miserable man!"

"Can't be helped. We are in the same box."

"Are we?" said the semi-genteel Convict. "Well, I should have scarcely
believed it! Then, I suppose I must comfort myself with the thought
that the same law applies to the rich as the poor."

"Does it?" returned the commoner Convict. "Then all I can say is, that
whatever the law may be, the punishment is never the same." And ST.
JAMES, with a bitter sigh, wished he could change places with his more
fortunate dock-mate.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CHEF'S NEW DISH FOR TRAVELLERS.--"_Insurance of Passengers'
Luggage_."--Bravo, THOMAS COOK AND SON! Not "too many Cooks," but
"just Cooks enough!" Hitherto the traveller had only to present
himself ready "dressed" to be thoroughly Cook'd, and done throughout,
to a turn. Now, in addition, his baggage can be book'd and Cook'd;
and, should any "_Gravy delictum_" happen to it, the value of the lost
portmanteau and boxes will be handed over to the aggrieved passenger.

       *       *       *       *       *

ALEXANDER.--"He is running WILDE at the St. James's Theatre.--Yours,

       *       *       *       *       *



Whist, it seems to me, is an affair of eyes, memory, and calculative
ratiocination. As to eyes, I have a private theory that mine are
bewitched. It is not mere short sight. At school and college I have
seen Greek words on the printed page, and translated them correctly,
and come to grief, because these words, on inspection, were somehow
not there. Explain this I cannot, but it is a fact. The same with
Whist; I see spades where clubs are, and diamonds for hearts, and a
cold world accuses me of revoking and of carelessness, but it is _not
_ carelessness. It is something gone askew in phenomena. Thus, when
I am a witness as to facts in a trial, perjury is the softest word
for my testimony, so the Court thinks, because the Court is blessed
with the usual relations between objective facts, and subjective
impressions. I admit that I am less fortunate, but when I try to go
into this, I am interrupted. However, this is why I revoke.


Then as to memory, I have none, for cards. It is extremely difficult,
indeed impossible, to recall who played what, after the cards are once
out of sight. I could tell you, like the man in the story, that such
and such a statement is on the ninety sixth page of the fifth volume
of GIBBON, the page on the left, half-way down; useless things of that
sort I remember: cards, not. As to calculation and inferences, I give
it up. I just first play out all my kings, then all my aces, I lead
trumps, if I have a bunch of them, and then it is my partner's turn
to make his little points. I return his lead when I happen to think
of it, which is not often. That is all _I_ have to confess, but I
have a friend, a brilliant player _I_ call him, and he permits me to
contribute his experiences, as mine are short and simple. To my mind,
Whist would not be a bad game, if the element of skill were excluded;
but give me Roulette. If foreign ladies would not snatch up my
winnings, I should be a master at Roulette, where genius is really
served, for I play on inspiration merely. But let me turn to the
confessions of my friend, my Mentor, I may call him, a man who is a
Member of the Burlington itself, one who has had losses, go to! Hear
him speak:--

"I have always sympathised," he says, "with _Mr. Pickwick_, in regard
to his experiences at Whist; that is to say, his experience on the
second occasion narrated in his history. The first time, it will be
remembered, all went well, when, owing to unfortunate lapses on the
part of 'the criminal Miller,' who omitted to 'trump the diamond'
and subsequently revoked, he and the fat gentleman were worsted in an
encounter with _Mr. Wardle's_ mother and the immortal hero.

"But at Bath there was a different tale to tell, the _Dowager Lady
Snuphanuph_ and _Mrs. Colonel Wugsby_, proved too able for him and
_Miss Bolo_, who when he played a wrong card, which, like me, he
probably did every other time, looked a small armoury of daggers,
and subsequently in a beautiful instance of the figure known to the
grammarian as Hendiadys, went home in tears and a Sedan chair."

Bearing in mind the advice attributed to TALLEYRAND, I have
conscientiously endeavoured to become a Whist-player; but it is
becoming increasingly obvious to me, that owing to the malison
pronounced at my birth, my room is generally preferred to my company.
And yet I have studied the subject according to my lights. Every
instance of Whist in fiction which comes under my notice receives my
undivided attention, and when I read Miss BROUGHTON, such a sentence
as, "I suppose," she said, "that it's the right thing to play out all
one's aces first? Her partner conscientiously endeavoured to veil the
expression of extreme dissent which this proposition called forth,
and with such success that the ace of hearts instantly and confidently
followed his brother."

When I read hints like these, I garner them up for my own future use.
I have pored over every known text-book on the subject, from MATTHEWS
and HOYLE to CAVENDISH. I once went so far as to learn the proper
leads by rote, forgetting them all within a week; and owing to my
inveterate habit of endeavouring to justify the most flagitious acts
by a supposed reference to authority, have earned for myself the name
of "Pole."

There are some with whom I play, who contrive to make me feel more at
my ease than do others, and even look upon me in virtue of my playing
with "those men at the Club" as one having authority; for among
the blind the one-eyed man is king. There is my Mother-in-law for
instance, now I really enjoy a rubber with _her_. We sit down after
dinner at a table scant of cloth, and either much too small or so
inconveniently large that I cannot see the trump at the other end of
it. She usually begins operations by misdealing, which is precisely
what always happens to me with a new pack; nor do I yet understand
how it is that the expert manages to deal at about sixty miles an hour
without a mistake, whereas when my turn comes every other card seems
to get stuck to its neighbour by a very superior kind of glue, so that
they all come out in batches of twos and threes as it were, instead of
one by one.

But when the deal has come right, her next step is to sort her cards,
which she does by placing all her trumps apart from the others between
her third and fourth fingers; I can thus tell how many she has, and am
further assisted by her generally dropping one or two in the process
face upwards on the table. This would be punishable at the Club; but
as she would consider it "mean" were any allusions made to it, nothing
happens. Towards the end of the hand her attention is apt to wander,
and owing to her abstraction play comes to a dead halt. When a hint
is offered that we are waiting for her, with prompt and business-like
alacrity but regardless of the rigorous formula, "Place your cards,
please," she will say, "Who led a spade?" there being at the time a
club, a heart, and a diamond on the table. Then, being the only one
who has a card of the leader's suit left, she revokes but is not found
out. When she leads out of turn, as happens on an average four or
five times every rubber, if I am against her, I call a suit from her
partner, upon which she says, flaring up, "Is _that_ the way you play
at the Club? 'Cheats never thrive.'" Nor do we, for the simple reason,
that she seldom holds less than three honours in each suit, and from
five to six trumps besides!

This, as I said, is the sort of Whist I rather enjoy; but when it
comes to playing in sober earnest at the Club, there is a different
tale to tell.

(_This different tale will be told in the Duffer's next._)

       *       *       *       *       *

"AIRY FAIRY LILLY UN!"--One day last week, MR. W.S. LILLY--i.e.
W. "SHIBBOLETHS" LILLY--delivered an excellent lecture on the
Papal-Italian question, and although at Birmingham, it was by no means
a brummagem discourse. But to quote the immortal ballad of _Billy
Taylor_, "When the Captain he come for to hear on't, He werry much
applauded what she'd done," and, to apply the lines to the present
instance, "When the POPE he comes for to hear on't," _will_ he "werry
much applaud," the opinions honestly and courteously enough expressed
in this lecture? By the way, "LEO and the Lilly" would make a fine
subject for a historical cartoon. The learned Lecturer took care to
observe, with all the true modesty of the humble flower from which
his name is derived, that he spoke only the opinion of a party, which
party, whether small, considerable, or large, his audience could judge
for themselves with the unclothed optic, as the party in question was,
not to put too fine a point on it, Himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DANCING MEN.



       *       *       *       *       *


    [It is proposed that 450,000 colliers belonging to the Miners'
    Federation should cease work for a week or a fortnight. This,
    it is said, is regarded as an "amicable" Strike, not against
    the Masters, but to raise the price of coal by producing an
    artificial scarcity, and thus avoiding a threatened reduction
    of wages consequent upon over-production. This the Miners
    call, "Going on Play."]

_Out-of-Worker to Out-on-Player_:--

  Who talks of "Solidarity of Labour,"--
    A favourite shibboleth in these our days?--
  To recognise one's duty to one's neighbour
    Is that which all--in theory--will praise.
  And Unions are upheld, and "Blacklegs" scouted--
    Friends of Fraternity _their_ heads must break
  To prove their loyal brotherhood undoubted!--
    But _here_ there seems to be some slight mistake.

  Going on Play, mate, you of the broad shoulders?
    Take holiday awhile from pick and lamp?
  Well your hard toil impresses all beholders,
    Sweating amidst black seams and choking "damp."
  A "holiday," for rest and recreation,
    None would begrudge you. But at the expense
  Of every other worker in the nation?
    I don't quite see it! Maybe I am dense.

  A "friendly" Strike, you call it; "amicable"!
    Nice sounding words! Strikes mostly mean hot war.
  But in to-day's wild Socialistic Babel
    Blest if I always know just where we are.
  But if I'm out of work, or out of fuel,
    Me and a many thousand like me, mate,
  Your "friendly" conflict seems a _leetle_ cruel
    To us, with idle hands or empty grate.

  I'd like to taste the sweets of "solidarity"
    In this connection; so would my pale friend;
  He's a poor Clerk. I fancy human charity,
    _All round_, a lot of bitter strife would end;
  And if _that_'s "solidarity," I'm for it;
    But in your "play" _are_ you considering _us_?
  No need for snivelling bunkum; I abhor it;
    But does fraternity shape itself _thus_?

  Must fight for your own hand? Oh, ah! precisely.
    Only that's ISHMAEL, after all, right out.
  Maybe that for yourself you're acting wisely,--
    Though even that seems open to some doubt,--
  But if your self-advancement means a smasher
    To mill-hand, poor mechanic, labourer, clerk,
  Without a fire to fry his slender "rasher,"
    Fraternity's outlook still looks rather dark.

  With Coal two bob a hundred, and still rising,
    Poor folk who buy it by the fourteen pound,
  (Dukes at St. James's Hall, this sounds surprising,
    But if you'd understand it, just look round!)
  Dockers and Brickies, charwomen and "childer,"
    With such small deer, mate, as my friend and me,
  Find one more "Social Question" to bewilder
    The small brains left us by chill poverty.

  Fighting _our_ battle? Humph! A rather roundabout
    Way of so doing! P'r'aps your Masters, too,
  Would claim the same--there _are_ such Bosses found about;
    Westminsters, Liveseys, Norwoods, and that crew,
  All for our good, not only Strike-Committees,
    But Rate-payers' Defence Leagues, and the like!
  Oh, the poor Propertied Classes! How one pities
    Those victims of the School Board, Council, Strike!

  If Miners and Mine-Owners pull together
    To raise the price of Coal--well, it may suit
  Both them and you. But, in this bitter weather,
    Your "Solidarity" brings _us_ bitter fruit.
  When our pinched fire dies down to its last ember,
    The picture of you "making holiday" thus
  Won't warm our wives and kids. Strike!--but remember
    That what is "Play" to you means death to us!

       *       *       *       *       *

A POSER FOR MR. WEATHERBY.--Mrs. RAM is not in the least astonished at
its being said that certain horses turn out "regular flyers," because,
she says, "she has often heard of mares' nests."

       *       *       *       *       *

"MINER PREMISES."--In the Coal Districts.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "A LITTLE HOLIDAY!!"

  POOR CLERK.     }     TO _YOU_ IS _DEATH_ TO _US_."

       *       *       *       *       *


In an interesting description (that appeared in the _Times_ for
Saturday, February 27) of the working of the "Jacquard Card-Preparing
Machine," which is, it appears, "a machine for superseding the human
brain, eye, and hand"--(so that soon all who can afford it will be
fitted up with these machines, and keep their brains, eyes, and hands
in reserve for very special occasions)--it was stated that "the blank
cards are automatically fed to the punches." That punches should be
spelt without the capital P is of course a Printer's error, deserving
capital punishment. _Mr. P._ thinks it right to state in answer to
numerous inquiries, that all his _Punches_ speak by the card. But
as to even the smallest of the _Punch_ family being "fed" on cards,
or getting his or her living by cards, the statement is utterly at
variance with the facts. _Mr. P._ is quite sure that the "Jacquard
Automatic Reading and Punching Syndicate" will at once retract
the injurious statement, or the youthful, vigorous and pugnacious
_Punches_ will be inquiring of _Mr. P._, as _Sam Weller_ did of _Mr.
Pickwick_ when that gentleman's great name was apparently taken in
vain, "Ain't nobody to be whopped for takin' this here liberty?" that
is, adapting the question to the present occasion, "Ain't nobody's
head to be Punch'd for this mis-use of an ancient and honourable

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NAIL-MAKERS' STRIKE.--They refuse to work unless higher wages are
paid "down on the nail."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A "HUNTING FIXTURE."


       *       *       *       *       *




    ["In consequence of the rumour that,... American stocks
    declined heavily.... The rumour proved totally without
    foundation."--_Any Money-article; any day._]


  There is little that goads us with fiercer despair
  (Those who buy, you perpend, stock, debenture or share,
  Such as speculate mainly; investors are rare--)
  Than this growl ill-conditioned of pestilent Bear!

  With a craftiness planned and a malice unfair,
  Improvising a scare unsubstantial as air--
  Now it's "war," now "disease," and the world must prepare
  For the death of, say, GOULD, or a Chilian flare;

  Or the "cutting of rates:" I am quite unaware
  What it means, I declare, but it's "cutting," I swear,
  To a person like me, not a flush millionaire
  Who must "realise" scrip,--and the canker of care.

  It would seem, we could e'er so conveniently spare
  From a world too competitive, blarneyed with blare,
  Both the Yankee of Wall-Street, his London _confrère_,
  And all criers of "Lost!" when no losses are there;

  All the wreckers, whose lair is secure past compare,
  All who batten on bones with a maw debonair,
  And the carcase of Poverty torture and tear
  With historical fraud, and benevolent glare.

  Who will join me in sport that is novel--who'll dare
  In his prosperous pit to go baiting the "Bear,"
  Who will lead him a dance, who his talons will pare,
  And make summary work of this ursine affair?

       *       *       *       *       *


    SCENE--_The War Office. Present Mr. STANHOPE; to him enter
    Inspector-General PUNCH.

_Mr. Stanhope_. Ah, Sir, glad to see you. Can I do anything for you?

_Inspector-General_. Well, not for me--but you may and must do
something for those I represent--the Volunteer Officers.

_Mr. Stan._ Oh, you have come about them, have you? Well, you saw what
I said about them in my Memorandum the other day?

_In.-Gen._ I noticed what you did _not_ say--you hoped during the
present year to see some practical proposals.

_Mr. Stan._ Well, what do you want more?

_In.-Gen._ The proposals themselves.

_Mr. Stan._ They will come in good time.

_In.-Gen._ No time in this matter will be good--except the present.

_Mr. Stan._ Oh, you leave it to me, you will see it will be all right.

_In.-Gen._ No--unless you attend to the matter at once--now--at this

_Mr. Stan._ How you do take me up! What a hurry you are in!

_In.-Gen._ Shilly-shallying to the rear--action to the front. Now,
then, produce your proposals.

_Mr. Stan._ (_reluctantly producing a paper from a pigeon-hole_).
Well, here they are--(_giving them_)--what do you think of them?

_In.-Gen._ (_after a hurried perusal_). Humph! At any rate let them
he published at once, that those interested may be able to come to
an immediate decision as to their utility. Do you hear, Sir? Adieu!

    (_And if the SECRETARY of STATE for WAR is a wise man, he
    will act upon the hint thus offered him._)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GRAND OLD ENERGY.

[It is stated that Mr. GLADSTONE feels very much the want of exercise
since his return to Parliamentary duties.]]

       *       *       *       *       *


    [Mr. JOHN MORLEY having said that he would be sorry for the
    country whose young men ceased to dream dreams, Lord RANDOLPH
    CHURCHILL twitted him with having described the Progressive
    party as young men who dream dreams, and added, "They are
    words which I will never let die."]

  Dreams, my dear Lord? Well, there are dreams _and_ dreams,
  Are those of BURNS much worse than those of WEMYSS?
  Are WESTMINSTER's vain visions, though mature
  The dreamer, less absurd or more obscure
  Than those of some "young man" who dares to hope
  That he with crowded London's ills can cope?
  "Behold this dreamer cometh!" So of old
  The sons of JACOB, envious, scornful, cold,
  And fearful for their privilege of birth
  And of possession, in derisive mirth,
  Cried at young JOSEPH's coming. A "young man,"
  O reverend oracle! Yet his wit outran,
  His wisdom far outsoared, for all their boast,
  The _nous_ collective of the elder host;
  And PHARAOH, when his "wise men" vainly schemed,
  Found statesmanship in a young man who dreamed.
  You will not let them die? Well, as you list!
  The words, Sir, with a Machiavellian twist,
  Tickle the ears of those smart word-fence blinds,
  And garbled catch-words win unwary minds,
  And, maybe, witless votes. Poor London dreams
  Of--many things most horrible to WEMYSS!
  The nightmare-incubus of old abuse
  Propertied privilege, expense profuse
  Of many lives for one, the dead-hand's grip
  On the slow generations, the sharp whip
  Of a compulsory poverty, the gloom
  Of that high-rated den, miscalled a Home!
  All these it knows, and many miseries more,
  And dreams of--Betterment! You'll "never let die.
  JOHN MORLEY's words?" You cannot, though you try.
  In vain 'gainst dreaming youth you feign to scream,
  Because you're yet a Young Man--and you Dream!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: VERY LITERAL.



       *       *       *       *       *



[Illustration: Lord Elcho.]

_House of Commons, Monday, February 29._--Mr. G. looked in to-night
from the Riviera; greeted with rousing cheer from Opposition; didn't
expect to see him to-day; just arrived from Mediterranean _viâ_ Paris;
most men in such circumstances would have gone straight home, read
their letters, had quiet dinner, "and so to bed," as the late Mr.
PEPYS occasionally remarked.

"That's all very well for you elderly fellows, TOBY," said Mr.
G., beaming with health and smiles. "ARMITSTEAD, for example, went
straight off home. I was careful to see about that; he's a fine
fellow, and I humoured him by letting him suppose he was looking after
me as far as Biarritz, and on to Pau. In no other way could I have
got him to make a holiday. Think I rather wore him out at St. Raphael.
When a man gets over sixty he doesn't care about his ten or fifteen
mile walk before luncheon. However, I brought ARMITSTEAD back all
right, and, packing him off home at Charing Cross, just popped in here
to see how you are getting on."

In respect of business, not getting on at all. Things going awry.
Ministerialists won't come up to scratch in Division Lobby; Majority
that used to flash forth a hundred-candlelight strong, now flickered
down to a score. Opposition growing jubilant and aggressive; Irish
Members, long quiescent, waking up as of yore. To-night Prince ARTHUR,
stung to quick by remarks from JOHN DILLON, made rattling speech
defending his Irish policy; poured contumely and scorn on heads of
Irish Members.

"You," he said, with gesture of passionate scorn, "see no source of
regeneration for Ireland but in refusal of tenants to pay their rent."

Lord ELCHO and other young bloods on Ministerial Bench cheered; old
stagers looked grave.

"Ah, ah!" said CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, looking on from the Front
Opposition Bench, "I spy the beard of the Irish Secretary under the
muffler of the Leader of the House."

"Dear me," said ESSLEMONT, who overheard the remark; "I don't remember
BALFOUR with a beard when he was at the Irish Office. You're not
mixing him up with GRANDOLPH?"

"Get thee to a nunnery, worthy draper," said CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, "and
in that leisurely retirement read your SHAKSPEARE."

"A nunnery!" cried ESSLEMONT, more than ever bewildered; "why they
wouldn't let me in. I suppose you mean a monastery; but man and boy
for fifty years I've gone to Kirk, and nothing would--" By this time
CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN was out of hearing.

_Business done_.--One Vote in Committee of Supply.

_Tuesday_.--The MARKISS not in his place in Lords to-night. Looked in
at Arlington Street to inquire if absence was due to illness.

"Not at all, TOBY," said the MARKISS who, indeed, looked quite fit.
"There was nothing particular on the paper to-night, so I didn't go
down. It's necessary for Nephew ARTHUR to be regular in his attendance
on the Commons. But in the Lords it's different. A happy fortune
places the Leader there in a position that relieves him from strain
of unbroken attendance. With STRATHEDEN AND CAMPBELL looking after
foreign policy, and DENMAN taking charge of home affairs, my post is
really a sinecure. They talk about ending or mending of the House of
Lords; but as long as we are blessed with this remarkable combination
of legislative and administrative capacity we can laugh at the idle

It was DENMAN who took the floor to-night; moved Second Reading of
a Bill, the simple and comprehensive object of which was to repeal
Local Government Acts of England and Scotland. These passed only a
Session or two ago by continuous united effort of both Houses of
Parliament. DENMAN been closely watching them in operation. Finds
them disappointing, and so would have them repealed. House fully
constituted, with LORD CHANCELLOR on Woolsack, Mace on Table, and
quorum present; gravely listens, whilst tall, white-haired, sad-faced
man rambles on in plaintive voice, urging proposition which, if
carried out, would arrest machinery of Local Government throughout
the Kingdom, leaving all to be gone over again. No one smiles, much
less winks or wags the head. It is just as solemn and as orderly as
if it were the MARKISS himself submitting a Resolution or making
a statement. Only, when the plaintive voice ceases and the tall
figure is reseated on the Bench, nobody proposes to continue the
conversation. LORD CHANCELLOR rapidly gabbles shibboleth in which
"content" stumbles over "not content."

"Notcontentshaveit," says LORD CHANCELLOR, by way of last word;
leaves Woolsack; the few Peers slowly pass out. It seems the House has
adjourned, DENMAN's Motion being negatived without Division, and Local
Government in England and Scotland will proceed to-morrow as it has
gone on to-day.

_Business done_.--House of Commons, having agreed to meet at two
o'clock to-morrow instead of twelve, makes up for it by getting itself
Counted Out at eight o'clock.

_Wednesday_.--Came across LOCKWOOD this afternoon in remote part
of corridor, gesticulating whilst he recited some lines. Fancy he's
getting up that lecture on the "Lawyers in _Pickwick_," announced for
delivery in York on the 15th. Most interesting undertaking. As CHARLES
RUSSELL says, "_Coke-upon-Lyttleton_ will have to take a back shelf in
the Law libraries when _Lockwood-upon-Dickens_ is in circulation."

Wonder how he finds time for these excursions into the bye-paths
of literature? Hands full at the Bar; frequent attendant here; and
yet he has time to discover _Pickwick_! He tells me great secret of
capability for this kind of work is plain living and regular habits.

"A chop or steak at eight o'clock with a potato (boiled in its jacket)
and a tumbler of toast-and-water; that's my regular dinner; leaves me
clear-headed and free for a couple of hours' work at my briefs before
I go to bed. Except when kept down at House, rarely out of bed after
eleven. Up at five; cold bath; dry toast; hot milk; another grind
at my briefs; ride down to Court; at it all day, with intervals for
Abernethy biscuit when Court adjourns; and so the mill goes round."

"Don't you think," said BOB REID, "it's a little unprofessional of
LOCKWOOD going into this _Pickwick_ business? The cases were never,
that I know of, reported in the _Law Journal_. Good fellow LOCKWOOD,
but a little apt to stray outside the ropes. Now he's started
lecturing, there's no knowing how far he'll go. We may see him on the
stage bowling BEERBOHM TREE out as _Hamlet_, or even with his face
corked, dancing a breakdown at St. James's Hall. What does he want to
go a-lecturing for? Do you think he'll draw?"

"Draw!" I cried. "Why, he's always drawing; he's drawn for _Punch_."
That shut up Master BOB. When you want to hear disparaging remarks
about a man, nothing like going to his bosom friend. _Business

[Illustration: "Monumental Suavity."]

_Thursday_.--Mr. G. in fine form to-night; delivered two speeches,
each in highest form of Parliamentary Debate. Infinite variety in
manner. Before dinner, Prince ARTHUR moved to take Morning Sittings
on Tuesdays and Fridays for rest of Session. That means virtual
appropriation on very threshold of Session of time belonging to
private Members. They furious; Mr. G. in benignest mood; shocked, he
must confess, at Prince ARTHUR's unparalleled greed; but not disposed
to turn a deaf ear to his importunity. "If you'd make it Easter, now,"
he said, with winning voice and manner, "limit the scope of resolution
to that date, I'm not sure that I should feel disposed to say you

Prince ARTHUR jumped at proposal. Sufficient unto Easter are the
Morning Sittings thereof. If he wanted more he could ask again.
Meanwhile he was in possession of what he wanted.

House looked on in amazement at this little scene. Opposition expected
Mr. G. would have thundered forth denunciations of Prince ARTHUR's
audacity. Here he was making terms with the enemy; doing it all, too,
with imposingly judicial manner that was irresistible. Before House
quite knew where it was, everything was settled.

"'Now I'm furnished, Now I'm furnished, for my flight'--of oratory."

It was BLUNDELL MAPLE chanting this line, sung in another place
by _Hecate_. Flight didn't amount to more than asking question as
to whether audiences at unlicensed places of entertainment (in
neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road or elsewhere) open for Radical
or Liberal entertainments, are duly protected from fire? Members went
off to dinner, pondering on this conundrum. Came back to find Mr. G.
on his legs again, denouncing proposition to vote £20,000 for survey
of railway from Mombasa to Nyanza. A splendid piece of invective;
almost literally shrivelled up poor JOKIM, at whom some of the
scorching flame was pointed with outstretched forefinger. For more
than half an hour, at period of night when most gentlemen of his
years are snugly tucked up in bed, Mr. G. held the audience entranced,
thunderous cheers rolling forth in rapid succession from Liberal
ranks, now and then answered by low growl from Ministerialists.

[Illustration: The Man who Owns a Mountain.]

"What a man it is!" cried KENRICK, looking on with monumental suavity;
"almost sorry he left us. Sometimes, at his best, he equals our JOE."
_Business done_.--A couple of Votes in Supply.

_Friday_.--BRYCE at last got access to mountains in Scotland.

Been wandering round foot of them through many Sessions, and several
Parliaments. Always something happened to prevent his reaching the
top. Don't believe he'd have got there to-night, only for FARQUHARSON.

When F. came forward to second Motion, incidentally observing, "I'm
the proprietor of a mountain myself," we felt something must be done,
and BRYCE's Motion was agreed to.

FARQUHARSON, for rest of evening, object of respectful regard. Some
inquiry as to where he kept his mountain. Did he bring it to Town
with him when he came up for the Session? And, when at home, was he in
habit of leaving it out all night?

"Don't happen to have it about you, I suppose?" WILFRID LAWSON asked,
eyeing his trousers' pockets.

FARQUHARSON very reticent on subject. Rumour, just before House
adjourned, that his mountain is one of those situated in the Moon--but
this only envy.

_Business done_.--Access secured to FARQUHARSON's mountain and others
in Scotland.

       *       *       *       *       *

is to be produced at DALY's, New York, and simultaneously, to secure
copyright, by one performance only, at the Lyceum. We never thought
TENNYSON a plagiarist before this, but here is proof positive he's at
it now,--Lord TENNYSON's _robbing Hood_!!

       *       *       *       *       *

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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