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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 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, May 7, 1892" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

VOLUME 102, MAY 7, 1892***


VOL. 102

MAY 7, 1892


[Illustration: Our 'Arry Laureate.]

  DEAR CHARLIE,--Spring's on us at last, and a proper old April
          we've 'ad,
  Though the cold snap as copped us at Easter made 'oliday makers
          feel mad.
  Rum cove that old Clerk o' the Weather; seems somehow to take a
  In mucking Bank 'Oliday biz; seems as though it was out of sheer

  When we're fast with our nose to the grindstone, in orfice or
          fact'ry, or shop,
  The sun bustiges forth a rare bat, till a feller feels fair on the
  But when Easter or Whitsuntide's 'andy, and outings all round is
          in train,
  It is forty to one on a blizzard, or regular buster of rain.

  It's a orkud old universe, CHARLIE, most things go as crooked as Z.
  Feelosophers _may_ think it out, 'ARRY ain't got the 'eart, or the
  But I 'old the perverse, and permiskus is Nature's fust laws, and
          no kid.
  If it isn't a quid and bad 'ealth, it is always good 'ealth and
          _no_ quid!

  'Owsomever it's no use a fretting. I got one good outing--on wheels;
  For I've took to the bicycle, yus,--and can show a good many my
  You should see me lam into it, CHARLIE, along a smooth bit of
          straight road,
  And if anyone gets better barney and spree out of wheeling, I'm

  Larks fust and larks larst is _my_ motter. Old RICHARDSON's rumbo
          is rot.
  Preachy-preachy on 'ealth and fresh hair may be nuts to a sanit'ry
  But it isn't mere hexercise, CHARLIE, nor yet pooty scenery, and
  As'll put 'ARRY's legs on the pelt. No, yours truly is not sech a

  Picktereskness be jolly well jiggered, and as for good 'ealth,
          I've no doubt
  That the treadmill is jolly salubrious, wich that is mere turning
  Upon planks 'stead o' pedals, my pippin. No, wheeling _as_
          wheeling's 'ard work,
  And that, without larks, is a speeches of game as I always did

  _I_ ain't one o' them skinny shanked saps, with a chest 'ollered
          out, and a 'ump,
  Wot do records on roads for the 'onour, and faint or go slap off
          their chump.
  You don't ketch _me_ straining my 'eart till it cracks for a big
          silver mug.
  No; 'ARRY takes heverythink heasy, and likes to feel cosy and snug.

  Wy, I knowed a long lathy-limbed josser as felt up to champion form.
  And busted hisself to beat records, and took all the Wheel-World
          by storm,
  Went off like candle-snuff, CHARLIE, while stoopin' to lace up 'is
  Let them go for _that_ game as are mind to, here's one as it
          certn'y won't soot.

  But there's fun in it, CHARLIE, worked proper, you'd 'ardly
          emagine 'ow much,
  If you ain't done a rush six a-breast, and skyfoozled some
          dawdling old Dutch.
  Women don't like us Wheelers a mossel, espech'lly the doddering
          old sort
  As go skeery at row and rumtowzle; but, scrunch it! that makes
          a'rf the sport!

  'Twas a bit of a bother to learn, and I wobbled tremenjus at fust,
  Ah! it give me what-for in my jints, and no end of a thundering
  I felt jest like a snake with skyattica doubling about on the loose,
  As 'elpless as 'ot calf's-foot jelly, old man, and about as much

  Now I _don't_ like to look like a juggins, it's wot I carn't
          stand, s'elp my bob;
  But you know I ain't heasy choked off, dear old pal, when I'm fair
          on the job.
  So I spotted a quiet back naybrood, triangle of grass and tall
  Good roads, and no bobbies, or carts. Oh, I tell yer 'twas "go as
          yer please."

  They call it a "Park," and it's pooty, and quiet as Solsberry Plain,
  Or a hold City church on a Sunday, old man, when it's welting with
  Old maids, retired gents, sickly jossers, and studyus old stodges
          live there,
  And they didn't like me and my squeaker a mossel; but wot did _I_

  When they wentured a mild remonstration, I chucked 'em a smart bit
          o' lip,
  With a big D or two--for the ladies--and wosn't they soon on the
  'Twos my own 'appy 'unting ground, CHARLIE, until I could fair
          feel my feet;
  If you want to try wheels, take the Park; I am sure it'll do you a

  I did funk the danger, at fust; but these Safeties don't run yer
          much risk,
  And arter six weeks in the Park, I could treadle along pooty brisk;
  And _then_ came the barney, my bloater! I jined 'arf a dozen prime
  And I tell you we now are the dread of our parts, and espessh'lly
          the gals.

  No Club, mate, for me; that means money, and rules, sportsman
          form, and sech muck.
  I likes to pick out my own pals, go permiskus, and trust to
  A rush twelve-a-breast _is_ a gammock, twelve squeakers a going
          like one;
  But "rules o' the road" dump you down, chill yer sperrits, and
          spile all the fun.

  The "Charge o' the Light Brigade," CHARLIE? Well, mugs will keep
          spouting it still;
  But wot _is_ it to me and my mates, treadles loose, and a-chargin'
          down 'ill?
  Dash, dust-clouds, wheel-whizz, whistles, squeakers, our 'owls,
          women's shrieks, and men's swears!
  Oh, I tell yer it's 'Ades let loose, or all Babel a busting

  Quiet slipping along in a line, like a blooming girl's school on
          the trot,
  May suit the swell Club-men, my boy, but it isn't _my_ form by a
  Don't I jest discumfuddle the donas, and bosh the old buffers as
  Along green country roads at their ease, till they're scared by my
          squeak, or my 'owl?

  My "alarm" _is_ a caution I tell yer; it sounds like some shrill
          old macaw,
  Wot's bin blowed up with dynamite sudden; it gives yer a twist in
          the jaw,
  And a pain in the 'ed when you 'ear it. I laugh till I shake in my
  When I turn it on sharp on old gurls and they jump like a

  I give 'em Ta-ra-ra, I tell yer, and Boom-de-ray likewise, dear boy.
  'Ev'n bless 'im as started that song, with that chorus,--a boon
          and a joy!
  Wy, the way as the werry words worrit respectables jest makes me
  When you chuck it 'em as you dash by, it riles wus than the row
          and the dust!

  We lap up a rare lot of lotion, old man, in our spins out of town;
  Pace, dust and chyike make yer chalky, and don't we just ladle it
  And when I'm full up, and astride, with my shoulder well over the
  And my knickerbocks pelting like pistons, I tell yer I make the
          thing squeal.

  My form is chin close on the 'andle, my 'at set well back on my 'ed,
  And my spine fairly _'umped_ to it, CHARLIE, and then carn't I
          paint the town red?
  They call me "The Camel" for that, _and_ my stomach-capas'ty for
  Well, my motter is hease afore helegance. As for the liquor,--you

  There's a lot of old mivvies been writing long squeals to the
          _Times_ about hus.
  They call us "road-tyrants" and rowdies; but, lor! it's all
          fidgets and fuss.
  I'd jest like to scrumplicate some on 'em; ain't got no heye for a
  _I_ know 'em; they squawk if we scrummage, and squirm if we makes
          a remark.

  If I spots pooty gurls when out cycling, I tips 'em the haffable
  Wy not? If a gent carn't be civil without being scowled at, it's
  Ah! and some on 'em tumble, I tell yer, although they may look a
          mite shy;
  It is only the stuckuppy sort as consider it rude or fie-fie.

  We wos snaking along t'other day, reglar clump of hus--BUGGINS and
          MICK SHEE;
  All the right rorty sort, and no flies; when along comes a gurl on
          a 'orse.
  Well, we spread hout, and started our squeakers, and gave 'er a
          rouser, in course.

  'Orse shied, and backed into a 'edge, and it looked so remarkable
  That we _couldn't_ 'elp doing a larf, though the gurl wos
          pertikler yum-yum;
  We wos ready to 'elp, 'owsomever, when hup comes a swell, and he
  And--would you believe it, old pal?--went for BUGGINS, and give
          'im wot for!!!

  Nasty sperrit, old man; nothink sportsmanlike, surely, about sech
          a hact!
  Them's the sort as complains of hus Cyclists, mere crackpots as
          ain't got no tact.
  We all did a guy like greased lightning; you _can_ when you're
          once on your wheel--
  Stout bobbies carn't run down a "Safety," and gurls can do nothink
          but squeal.

  That's where Wheelin' gives yer the pull! Still it's beastly to
          think a fine sport
  And a smart lot of hathleets like hus must be kiboshed by mugs of
          that sort.
  All boko! dear boy, those _Times_ letters! I mean the new barney
          to carry,
  As long as the Slops and the Beaks keep their meddlesome mawleys orf


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE FORCE OF EXAMPLE.

Lady Clara Robinson (née Vere de Vere). "THANKS! HOW IS IT OMNIBUS


       *       *       *       *       *




    ["One can do nothing with Railways. You cannot write
    sonnets on the South-Eastern."--Mr. Barry Pain, "In the

  Earth has not anything to show less fair:
  Patient were he of soul who could pass by
  A twenty minutes' wait amidst the cry
  Of churlish clowns who worn cord jackets wear,
  Without one single, solitary swear.
  The low, unmeaning grunt, the needless lie,
  The prompt "next platform" (which is all my eye),
  The choky waiting-room, the smoky air;
  Refreshment-bars where nothing nice they keep,
  Whose sandwich chokes, whose whiskey makes one ill;
  The seatless platforms! Ne'er was gloom so deep!
  The truck toe-crusheth at its own sweet will.
  Great Scott! are pluck and common-sense asleep,
  That the long humbugged Public stands it still?

       *       *       *       *       *

REDDIE-TURUS SALUTAT.--A good combination of names is to be found in
an announcement of a forthcoming Concert at Prince's Hall, Piccadilly,
on the evening of May 11, to be given by Mr. CHARLES REDDIE and Mr.
A. TAYLOR. Briefly, it might be announced as "A. TAYLOR's REDDIE-made
Concert." If REDDIE-money only taken at door, will A. TATYOR give
credit? _Solvitur ambulando_--that is, Walk in, and you'll find out.
It is to be play-time for Master JEAN GERARDY, "Master G.," who
is going to perform on an Erard piano, when, as his REDDIE-witted
companion playfully observes, "The youthful pianist will out-Erard

       *       *       *       *       *



  To stave off Change, and check the loud Rad Rough rage,
    Conservatism is as shield and fetter meant;
  And now brave BALFOUR votes for Female Suffrage;
    And RITCHIE tells us he approves of "Betterment"!
  O valiant WESTMINSTER, O warlike WEMYSS,
  Is _this_ to be the end of all our dreams?

       *       *       *       *       *


    SCENE--Interior of a Foreign Law Court. Numerous officials in
    attendance performing their various duties in an apprehensive
    sort of way. Audience small but determined.

_Judge_ (_nervously_). Now are we really protected from disturbance?

_General in Command of Troops._ I think so. The Court House is
surrounded by an Army Corps, and the Engineers find that the place has
not been undermined to at least a distance of a thousand feet.

_Judge_ (_somewhat reassured_). Well, now I think we may proceed with
the trial. Admit the accused.

    [_The Prisoner is bowed into the dock, and accommodated with
    a comfortably cushioned arm-chair._

_Prisoner._ Good morning. (_To Judge._) You can resume your hat.

_Judge_ (_bowing to the Prisoner_). Accused, I am deeply honoured
by your courtesy. I trust you have been comfortable in the State
apartments that have been recently supplied to you.

_Prisoner_ (_firmly_). State apartment! Why it was a prison! You know
it, _M. le Juge_, and you, Gentlemen of the Jury and Witnesses.
(_The entire audience shudder apprehensively._) And, what is more, my
friends outside know it! They know that I was arrested and thrown into
prison. Yes, they know that, and will act accordingly.

_Judge_ (_tearfully_). I am sure none of us wished to offend you!

_Members of the Bar_ (_in a breath_). Certainly not!

_Prisoner._ Well, let the trial proceed. I suppose you don't want
any evidence. You have heard what I have said. You know that I regret
having caused inconvenience to my innocent victims. They would forgive
me for my innocent intentions. I only wished to save everybody by
blowing everybody up.

_The Court generally._ Yes, yes!

_Prisoner._ Well, I have just done. And now what say the Jury? Where
are they?

_Foreman of the Jury_ (_white with fear_). I am, Sir,--very pleased to
see you, Sir,--hope you are well, Sir?

_Prisoner_ (_condescendingly_). Tol lol. And now what do you say? am I
Guilty or Not Guilty?

_Foreman of the Jury._ Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. We will talk it over,
Sir--if you don't mind, Sir.

_Prisoner._ I need not tell you that my friends outside take the
greatest possible interest in your proceedings.

_Foreman_ (_promptly_). Why, yes, Sir! The fact is we have all had
anonymous letters daily, saying that we shall be blown out of house
and home if we harm you.

_Prisoner_ (_laughing_). Oh, be under no apprehension. It is merely
the circular of my friends. Only a compilation of hints for the
guidance of the Gentlemen of the Jury.

_Foreman._ Just so, Sir. We accepted it in that spirit.

_Prisoner._ You were wise. Now, Gentlemen, you have surely had time to
make up your minds. Do you find me Guilty or Not Guilty?

_Foreman_ (_earnestly_). Why, Not Guilty, to be sure.

_Judge._ Release the accused! Sir, you have my congratulations. Pray
accept my distinguished consideration.

_Prisoner_ (_coldly_). You are very good. And now adieu, and off to
breakfast with what appetite ye may!

_The Entire Court_ (_falling on their knees, and raising their hands
in supplication_). Mercy, Sir! For pity's sake, mercy!

_Ex-Prisoner_ (_fiercely_). Mercy! What, after I have been arrested!
Mercy! after I have been cast into gaol!

_Judge_ (_in tears._) They thought they were right. They were,
doubtless, wrong, but it was to save the remainder of the row
of houses! Can you not consider this a plea for extenuating

_Ex-Prisoner_ (_sternly_). No. It was my business, not theirs. It
was I who paid for the dynamite--not they. (_Preparing to leave the
Court._) Good bye. You may hear from me and from my friends!

_Judge_ (_following him to the door_). Nay, stay! See us--we kneel
to you. (_To audience._) Kneel, friends, kneel! (_Everybody obeys the
direction._) One last appeal! (_In a voice broken with emotion._) We
all have Mothers!

_Ex-Prisoner_ (_thunder-stricken_). You all have Mothers! I knew
not this. I pardon you! [_The audience utter shouts of joy, and
the Ex-Prisoner extends his hands towards them in the attitude of
benediction. Scene closes in upon this tableaux._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HESITATION.

Russian Recruiting Sergeant.. "NOW, MY GAY, GALLANT, BUT IMPECUNIOUS

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: No. 20. Japanese Jenny, the Female Conjuror, privately
practicing production of glass bowl full of water from nowhere in
particular; a subject not unnaturally associated with the name of
Waterhouse, A.]

[Illustration: No. 287. "Forgers at Work; or, Strike while the
Iron's hot!" Portrait of the recently elected Associate making a hit
immediately on his election. Stan'up, Stanhope Forbes, A. (and "A. 1,"
adds _Mr. P._), prepare to receive congratulations!]

[Illustration: No. 164. Watts the douche is this? A rainbow
shower-bath? by G.F. Watts, R.A.]

No. 16. It is called "_A Toast._ By AGNES E. WALKER." It should be
called "A Toast without a Song," as it seems to represent an eminent
tenor unavoidably prevented by cold, &c., when staying at home, and
taking the mixture as before.

No. 19. A musical subject, "_The Open C._" By HENRY MOORE, A.

No. 24. "_Food for Reflection; or, A (Looking) Glass too much._" Black
Eye'd SUSAN (hiding her black eye) after a row. The person who "calls
himself a Gentleman" is seen as a retiring person in another mirror.

No. 40. _Little Bo Peep after Lunch_, supported by a tree. Early
intemperance movement. "Let 'm 'lone, they'll come home, leave tails
b'ind 'em." JOHN DA COSTA.

No. 56. _Ben Ledi._ This is a puzzle picture by Mr. JAMES ELLIOT. Of
course there is in it, somewhere or other, a portrait of the eminent
Italian, BENJAMIN LEDI. Puzzle, to find him.

No. 83. "_The Coming Sneeze._" Picture of a Lady evidently saying, "Oh
dear! Is it influenza!!" THOMAS C.S. BENHAM.

No. 89. "_Handicapped; or, A Scotch Race from thiS TARTAN Point._"

No. 95. Large and Early Something Warrior, pointing to a bald-headed
bust, and singing to a maiden, "_Get your Hair Cut!_" RALPH PEACOCK.

No. 97. "_Toe-Toe chez Ta-Ta; or, Oh, my poor Foot!_" "Must hide it
before anyone else sees it." FRANK DICKSEE, R.A.

No. 102. "_Attitude's Everything; or, The Affected Lawn Tennis
Player._" By FREDERIC A. BRIDGMAN, probably a Lillie Bridge man.

No. 105. "_Dumb as a Drum with a hole in it._" _Vide Sam Weller._
"JOY! JOY! (G.W.) my task is done!"

No. 107. "_Outside the Pail; or, 'Nell' the Dairing Dairymaid._" Taken
in the act by R.C. CRAWFORD (give him several inches of canvas, and
he'll take a NELL) as she was about to put a little water out of the
stream into the fresh milk pail.

[Illustration: No. 212. "The Left-out Gauntlet." "Come as you
are, indeed! Nonsense. It's most annoying! Here am I got up most
expensively as a Knight in Armour, and I'm blessed if the confounded
cuss of a cusstumier hasn't forgotten to send my right gauntlet!" John
Pettie, R.A.]

[Illustration: No. 173. "A First Rehearsal." "The celebrated actor,
Mr. Gommersal of Astley's Amphitheatre, made up and attired as the
Great Napoleon, entered the Manager's room, where the author of the
Equestrian Spectacular Melodrama of 'The Battle of Waterloo' was
seated finishing the last Act. 'What do you think of this?' asked Mr.
G., triumphantly. 'Not a bit like it,' returned the author, sharply.
'What!' exclaimed the astonished veteran, 'do you mean to say my
make-up for Napoleon isn't good! Well I'm ----' 'You will be, if
you appear like that,' interrupted the author decisively,"--Vide
_Widdicomb's History of the Battle of Waterloo at Astley's_. W.Q.
Orchardson, R.A.]

[Illustration: No. 344. The Reeds' Entertainment. Gallery of
Illustration. Interval during change of costume. "Behold these
graceful Reeds!" Arthur Hacker.]

No. 130. _A (Sir Donald) Currie_, admirably done in P. and O. (Paint
and Oil) by W.W. OULESS, R.A.

[Illustration: No. 204. "Three Little Maids from School." A wealth of
colour. The subject is this:--After an ample school-feast, the girls
sat drowsily under an orange-tree, when they were suddenly startled
by the appearance of a snake. "Don't be frightened, Betsy Jane," cried
Anna Maria, the eldest; "'ee won't 'urt yer, 'ee only comes from the
Lowther Harkade." Sir Fred. Leighton, Bart., P.R.A.]

No. 211. "_Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind._"--_As You Like It._ But we
_don't_ like it--we mean, the wind, of course. Oh, so desolate and
dreary! We suppose that in order to keep himself warm, Sir JOHN must
have been thoroughly wrapped up in his work when he painted this. Sir
J.E. MILLAIS, Bart., R.A.

No. 228. "_The Great Auk's Egg._" "Auk-ward moment: is it genuine or
not? He bought it at an Auk-tion; it had probably been auk'd about
before, genuine or not There'll be a _great tauk (!)_ about it," says

  No. 238. "With a little pig here and a little cow here,
  Here a sheep and there a sheep and everywhere a sheep."

_Old Song_, illustrated by SIDNEY COOPER, R.A.

[Illustration: No. 458. "Peas and War." Club Committee ordering
dinner. See corner figure (L.H. of picture) with Cookery Book. The
Steward says, "We can't have peas." Mr. J.S. B-lf-r remonstrates
strongly, "What! not have peas? Nonsense!" That's how the row began,
and they "gave him beans." "A limner then his visage caught," and
managed the awkward subject so as to please everybody; which the
limner's name is Hubert Herkomer, R.A.]

No. 250. "_Ticklish Times; or, the First Small and Early in the Ear._"
"She sat, half-mesmerised, thinking to herself, 'Shall I have many
dances this season?' 'You've got a ball in hand,' whispered small and
early Eros Minimus. 'Ah,' she returned, dreamily, 'a bawl in the hand
is indeed worth a whisper in the ear.'" _From the Greek of Akephalos._

No. 272. _The Flying Farini Family._ Nothing like bringing 'em up to
the acrobatic business quite young. PHIL R. MORRIS, A.

No. 290. "_Sittin' and Satin._" IRLAM BRIGGS. [N.B.--_Mr. P._ always
delighted to welcome the immortal name of BRIGGS. Years ago, one of
JOHN LEECH's boys drew "BRIGGS a 'anging," and here he is,--hung!]

No. 310. First-rate portrait of a Railway Director looking directly at
the spectator, and saying, "Of course, I'm the right man in the right
place, _i.e., on the line_." Congratulations to HUBERT HERKOMER, R.A.

No. 311. _Popping in on them_, in not quite a friendly way, by Very

No. 317. "_Strong Op-inions._" A Political Picture by a Liberal

No. 342. _A Person sitting uprightly._ By BENTLEY.

No. 351. "_Only a Couple of Growlers, and no Hansom!_" By J.T.

No. 373. "_There is a Flower that bloometh._" The Mayor of AVON, as he
appeared 'avon his likeness (A 1) taken by PHIL R. MORRIS, A.

No. 412. "_Hush a bye, Bibby!_" Capital picture, speaks for itself. "I
know that man, he comes from--Liverpool." Brought here by LUKE FILDES,

[Illustration: No. 699. "Very Like a Whale," only it's a buoy not
caught yet. C.N. Henry.]

No. 440. "_Poppylar Error._" _Old Lady_ (_loq._). "Oh, dear! I've
eaten one o' them nasty stuck-up poppies, and I do feel so--Oh! I feel
my colour is gradually PALIN (W.M.)."

[Illustration: No. 989. La Seagull. Awful fight between a gull and a
boiled lobster. Allan J. Hook. [N.B.--Your eye is sure to be caught by
this Hook. But the picture must be looked at from our point of view,
from the opposite side of the room.]]

No. 502. "_What, no Soap!_" She may appear a trifle cracky, but no one
can say that this picture represents her as having gone "clean mad."

No. 553. _Margate Sands in Ancient Times_. Cruel conduct of an Ancient
Warrior towards a young lady who refused to bathe in the sea. Full of
life by E.M. HALE (and Hearty).

No. 575. "_Poor Thing!_" Touching picture of ideal patient in Æsthetic
Idiot Asylum. LUCIEN DAVIS.

No. 636. "_A Clever Examiner drawing him out._" [N.B.--This ought to
have been exhibited at A. TOOTH's Exhibition.] RALPH HEDLEY.

No. 686. _Upper part of Augustus Manns, Esq._ The Artist has, of
course, chosen the better part. "MANNS wants but little here below,"
but he doesn't get anything at all, being cut off, so to speak, in his
prime about the second shirt-button. Exactly like him as he was taken
before the Artist at "Pettie Sessions."

No. 1041. "_Every Dog must have his Dose; or, King Charles's
Martyrdom._" FRED HALL.

SCULPTURE.--The descriptions in the Guide are too painful. We prefer
not, to give any names, but here are specimens:--"Mr. So-and-so, _to
be executed in bronze_"; "The late Thingummy--_bust_!" These will
suffice. Then we have No. 1997. "_All Three going to Bath_" by GEORGE
FRAMPTON; and last, but not by any means least, a very good likeness
of our old friend J.C. HORSLEY, R.A., and while we think of it, we'll
treat him as a cabman and "take his number," which it's 1941, done by
JOHN ADAMS-ACTON, and so, with this piece of sculpture, we conclude
our pick of the Pictures with this display of fireworks; that is, with
_one good bust up! Plaudite et valete!_

       *       *       *       *       *


  Talking "ART" is so "smart" in the first week of May,
  That is "ART," which you start with a thundering A.
  Simple "art" must depart; that's an obsolete way.
  Some think "art" would impart all the work of to-day.

       *       *       *       *       *





       *       *       *       *       *


Mr. P.C. BULL, _loquitur_:--

  Humph! There you go, suspicious lurkers,
    From lands less free! I grudge you room
  Among my hosts of honest workers.
    Had I the settling of your doom,
  Your shrift were short, and brief your stay.
  As 'tis, I'll watch you on your way.

  A Land of Liberty! Precisely.
    And curs of that advantage take.
  But, if you want my tip concisely,--
    We hate the wolf and loathe the snake:
  And as you seem a blend of both,
  To crush you I'd be little loth.

  Freedom we love, and, to secure it,
    Take rough and smooth with constant mind.
  Espionage? We ill endure it,
    But Liberty need not be blind.
  Sorrow's asylum is our isle;
  But we'd not harbour ruffians vile.

  To flout that isle foes are not chary,
    When of its shelter not in need;
  But, when in search of sanctuary,
    They fly thereto with wondrous speed.
  Asylum? Ay! But learn--in time--
  'Tis no Alsatia for foul crime.

  Foes dub me sinister, satanic,
    A friend of Nihilists and knaves;
  Because I will not let mere panic
    Rob me of sympathy with slaves,
  And hatred of oppressors. Fudge!
  Their railings will not make me budge.

  I've taken up my stand for freedom,
    I'll jackal to no autocrat;
  But rogues with hands as red as Edom,
    Nihilist snake, Anarchist rat,
  I'd crush, and crime's curst league determine.
  I have no sympathy with vermin.

  Doors open, welcome hospitable
    For all, unchallenged, is my style;
  But trust not to the fatuous fable
    That _Caliban_'s free of my isle
  With prosperous _Prospero's_ free consent.
  Such lies mad autocrats invent.

  Such for some centuries they've been telling,
    Crime, like an asp, I'd gladly crush
  Upon the threshold of my dwelling,
    But shall not join a purblind rush
  Of panic-stricken fools to play
  The oppressor's game, for the spy's pay!

  But you, foul, furtive desperadoes,
    Who, frightened now by those you'd fright,
  Would fain slink off among the shadows,
    To plot out further deeds of night,
  Our isle's immunity you boast!--
  You're reckoning without your host.

  I'll keep my eye on you; my Juries
    I think you'll find it hard to scare;
  _We_ worship no Anarchic furies,
    For menace are not wont to care,
  Here red-caught Crime in vain advances
  "Extenuating Circumstances!"

       *       *       *       *       *


(After reading certain Press Comments on the Picture Show.)

  Philistine Art may stand all critic shocks
  Whilst it gives Private Views--of Pretty Frocks!

       *       *       *       *       *


MR. STEVENS, the American gentleman who rode round the world on a
bicycle, says, "The bicycle is now recognised as a new social force."
Possibly. But certain writers to the _Times_ on "The Tyranny of the
Road," seem to prove that it is also a new _anti_-social force, when
it frightens horses and upsets pedestrians. Adapting an old proverb,
we may say, "Set a cad on a cycle and he'll ride"--well, all over
the road, and likely enough over old ladies into the bargain. Whilst
welcoming the latest locomotive development, we must not allow the
"new social force" to develop into a new social despotism. To put it

  We welcome these new steeds of steel,
    (In spite of whistles and of "squealers,")
  But cannot have the common weal
    _Too_ much disturbed by common "Wheelers"!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ROYAL ACADEMY BANQUET.--After the Presidential orations, the
success of the evening was Professor BUTCHER's speech. His audience
were delighted at being thus "butchered to make" an artistic
"holiday." Prince ARTHUR BALFOUR expressed his regret that "the House
of Commons did not possess a Hanging Committee." Hasn't it? Don't we
now and again hear of a Member being "suspended" for some considerable
time? On such occasions, the whole House is a Hanging Committee. There
was one notable omission, and yet for days the air had been charged
with the all-absorbing topic. "Odd!" murmured a noble Duke to himself,
as, meditating many things, he stood by the much-sounding soda-water,
"Odd! a lot of speeches; and yet,--_not a word about Orme!_"

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration: {Young girl, posing.}]

All young girls should have definite ideas of the impression which
they wish to create. The natural girl is always either impolite
or impolitic. I am quite willing to allow that a girl who appears
artificial is equally detestable. To be unnatural, and to appear
natural, is the end at which the young girl should aim. Much, then,
will depend on the choice of a pose. It should be suitable; there
should be something in your appearance and abilities to support the
illusion. I once knew a fat girl, with red hair (the _wrong_ red), &
good appetite, and chilblains on her fingers; she adopted the romantic
pose, and made herself ridiculous; of course, she was quite unable
to look the part. If she had done the Capital Housekeeper, or the
Cheerfully Philanthropic, she might have married a middle-aged Rector.
She threw away her chances by choosing an unsuitable pose. At the same
time the reasons for your choice should never be obvious. There was
another case, which amused me slightly--a dark girl, with fine eyes.
She was originally intended to be a beauty, but she had some accident
in her childhood that had crippled her. She had to walk with a stick,
and her back was bent. She posed as a man-hater. The part suited her
well enough, for she had rather a pretty wit. "But," I said to her,
"it is too plainly a case of the fox and the grapes; you hate men
because you are a cripple, and can never get a man to love you." She
did not take this friendly hint at all nicely; in fact, since then she
has never spoken to me again; but what I said to her was quite true.
She was right in deciding that she had nothing to do with love; if you
ever have to buy yourself a wooden leg, you may as well get a wooden
heart at the same time. But her pose was too obvious--ridiculously
obvious. She would have done better with something in the way of a
religious enthusiasm--something very mystical. It would have been

In the matter of dress a girl can do very much towards supporting her
pose; but she must have the intuitions and perceptions of an artist.

The child-like type requires great care, for the young girl in
London is not naturally child-like. There should be a suggestion
of untidiness about the hair; the dress should be simple, loose and
sashed; nurse a kitten with a blue ribbon round its neck; say that you
like chocolate-creams; open your eyes very wide, and suck the tip of
one finger occasionally. Let your manner generally vary between the
pensive and the mischievous; always ask for explanations, especially
of things which cannot possibly be explained in public. Do not attempt
this pose unless your figure is _mignon_ and your complexion pink. Do
not be _too_ realistic; never be sticky or dirty--men do not care for

A capital pose for a girl with dark lines under the eyes, is that of
"the girl-with-a-past." These lines, which are mostly the result of
liver, are commonly accepted as evidence of soul. The dress should be
sombre, trailing, and rather distraught: there is a way of arranging
a _fichu_ which of itself suggests that the heart beneath it is
blighted. If you happen to possess a few ornaments which are not
too expensive, distribute them among your girl-friends; say, in a
repressed voice, that you do not care for such things any more. Let
it be known that there is one day in the year which you prefer to
spend in complete solitude. Have a special affection for one flower;
occasionally allow your emotions to master you when you hear music.
The hair-ornament belongs exclusively to the lower middle-classes, but
wear one article of jewellery, a souvenir, which either never opens or
never comes off. Smile sometimes, of course; but be careful to smile
unnaturally. On all festive occasions divide your time between your
bedroom and the churchyard.

Both these types demand some personal attractions; if you have
no personal attractions, you must fall back upon one of the
philanthropical types. The plainer you are, the more rigid will be
your philanthropy. Your object will be to disseminate in the homes
of the poor some of the luxuries of the rich; and, on returning, to
disseminate in the homes of the rich some of the diseases of the poor.
Everything about you must be flat; your hats, hair and heels must be
flat; your denials must be particularly flat. Always take your meals
in your jacket and a hurry, never with the rest of your family; never
have time to eat enough, but always have time to brag about it.

I cannot understand why any girl should object to the assumption of
a pose; and yet a girl told me the other day that she preferred to be
what she seemed to be. She was an exceptional case; I disbelieved in
her protestations that she was perfectly natural, and managed to get
some opportunities for observation when she did not know that she was
observed. I must own that she was quite truthful; she also managed to
get married--suburban happiness and no position--but, as I said, she
was exceptional. Personally, I feel sure that I should never have been
married if I had seemed to be what I really was. I cannot understand
this desire to be natural--it _is_ so affected.

My correspondence this week is not very interesting. In spite of my
disclaimer last week, I have been asked several questions which are
not connected with Sentiment and Propriety. "BELLADONNA" asks my
advice on rather a delicate case; she is almost engaged to a man, A.,
and her greatest friend is a girl, B. Happening, the other day, to
open B.'s Diary by mistake for her own, she discovered that B. is
also very much in love with A. What is "BELLADONNA" to do? I think
the most honourable course would be to report in her own Diary a
statement by A. that he loathes B., and then leave the Diary where B.
might mistake it for her own. This is checkmate for B., because she
cannot do anything nasty without thereby implying that she has read

       *       *       *       *       *


SCENE I.--_At the Haymarket.--Darkness visible. Out of it come

_First Voice_ (_probably on stage_). "_Who's there?_"

_Second V._ (_probably in auditorium_). I can't see. Is it TREE?

_Third V._ "_Nay, answer me: stand and unfold yourself._"

_Fourth V._ I wish I could unfold the seat to let people pass.

_Third V._ "_You come most carefully upon your hour._"

_Fourth V._ Why on earth can't people be more punctual?

_First V._ "_'Tis now struck twelve._"

_Fourth V._ About a dozen people have hit my head scrambling past in
the dark.

_Third V._ "_For this relief much thanks._"

_Fourth V._ They seem to have got in at last.

_Third V._ "_'Tis bitter cold._"

_Fifth V._ Oh, EDWIN, dear, I do wish they'd send away the ghost, and
turn up the lights.

_Third V._ "_Not a mouse stirring._" [_Crash._

_Sixth V._ There goes my opera-glass! Deuce of a job to find it.

_Third V._ "_Stand, ho!_"

_Seventh V._ Bless my soul, Ma'am, are you aware that you're standing
on my foot?

_Third V._ "BERNARDO _has my place._"

_Sixth V._ Here's someone taken my seat!

_First V._ "_What, is_ HORATIO _there?_"

_Eighth V._ Hullo, dear boy, how are you? Couldn't see you--but now
the light's a bit up--(_&c., &c._).

       *       *       *       *       *

A CRITERION OF MORALS.--Astutely doing "The Puff Preliminary" in a
letter to the papers before the production of _The Fringe of Society_
(i.e., _Le Demi-monde_ freely adapted), Mr. CHARLES WYNDHAM observes
that "there is no such class, in any recognisable degree, as the
_demi-monde_ in England." "Recognisable" is good, very good, it saves
the situation, as of course the _demi-monde_ is _not_, on any account,
to be recognised. Cheery CHARLES evidently belongs to that half of the
world which never knows what the other half is doing. If _The Fringe_,
as it at first went in to the Licenser, had to be trimmed, CHARLES our
Friend might have announced his latest version as re-"adapted from the

       *       *       *       *       *

"AILING AND CONVALESCENT,"--ORME. [No others count.]

       *       *       *       *       *




    (By THOMAS OF WESSEX, Author of "Guess how a Murder feels,"
    "The Cornet Minor," "The Horse that Cast a Shoe," "One in
    a Turret," "The Foot of Ethel hurt her," "The Flight of the
    Bivalve," "Hard on the Gadding Crowd," "A Lay o' Deceivers,"

    ["I am going to give you," writes the Author of this book,
    "one of my powerful and fascinating stories of life in modern
    Wessex. It is well known, of course, that although I often
    write agricultural novels, I invariably call a spade a spade,
    and not an agricultural implement. Thus I am led to speak in
    plain language of women, their misdoings, and their undoings.
    Unstrained dialect is a speciality. If you want to know the
    extent of Wessex, consult histories of the Heptarchy with


In our beautiful Blackmoor or Blakemore Vale, not far from the point
where the Melchester Road turns sharply towards Icenhurst on its way
to Wintoncester, having on one side the hamlet of Batton, on the
other the larger town of Casterbridge, stands the farmhouse wherewith
in this narrative we have to deal. There for generations had dwelt
the rustic family of the PEEPS, handing down from father to son
a well-stocked cow-shed and a tradition of rural virtues which
yet excluded not an overgreat affection on the male side for the
home-brewed ale and the homemade language in which, as is known,
the Wessex peasantry delights. On this winter morning the smoke rose
thinly into the still atmosphere, and faded there as though ashamed of
bringing a touch of Thermidorean warmth into a degree of temperature
not far removed from the zero-mark of the local Fahrenheit. Within,
a fire of good Wessex logs crackled cheerily upon the hearth. Old
ABRAHAM PEEP sat on one side of the fireplace, his figure yet telling
a tale of former vigour. On the other sat POLLY, his wife, an aimless,
neutral, slatternly peasant woman, such as in these parts a man may
find with the profusion of Wessex blackberries. An empty chair between
them spoke with all an empty chair's eloquence of an absent inmate.
A butter-churn stood in a corner next to an ancient clock that had
ticked away the mortality of many a past and gone PEEP.


[Illustration: {Bonduca Peep.}]

"Where be BONDUCA?" said ABRAHAM, shifting his body upon his chair
so as to bring his wife's faded tints better into view. "Like enough
she's met in with that slack-twisted 'hor's bird of a feller, TOM
TATTERS. And she'll let the sheep draggle round the hills. My soul,
but I'd like to baste 'en for a poor slammick of a chap."

Mrs. PEEP smiled feebly. She had had her troubles. Like other
realities, they took on themselves a metaphysical mantle of
infallibility, sinking to minor cerebral phenomena for quiet
contemplation. She had no notion how they did this. And, it must
be added, that they might, had they felt so disposed, have stood as
pressing concretions which chafe body and soul--a most disagreeable
state of things, peculiar to the miserably passive existence of a
Wessex peasant woman.

"BONDUCA went early," she said, adding, with a weak irrelevance.
"She mid 'a' had her pick to-day. A mampus o' men have bin after
her--fourteen of 'em, all the best lads round about, some of 'em wi'
bags and bags of gold to their names, and all wanting BONDUCA to be
their lawful wedded wife."

ABRAHAM shifted again. A cunning smile played about the hard lines
of his face. "POLLY," he said, bringing his closed fist down upon his
knee with a sudden violence, "you pick the richest, and let him carry
BONDUCA to the pa'son. Good looks wear badly, and good characters be
of no account; but the gold's the thing for us. Why," he continued,
meditatively, "the old house could be new thatched, and you and me
live like Lords and Ladies, away from the mulch o' the barton, all in
silks and satins, wi' golden crowns to our heads, and silver buckles
to our feet."

POLLY nodded eagerly. She was a Wessex woman born, and thoroughly
understood the pure and unsophisticated nature of the Wessex peasant.


Meanwhile BONDUCA PEEP--little BO PEEP was the name by which the
country-folk all knew her--sat dreaming upon the hill-side, looking
out with a premature woman's eyes upon the rich valley that stretched
away to the horizon. The rest of the landscape was made up of
agricultural scenes and incidents which the slightest knowledge of
Wessex novels can fill in amply. There were rows of swedes, legions of
dairymen, maidens to milk the lowing cows that grazed soberly upon the
rich pasture, farmers speaking rough words of an uncouth dialect, and
gentlefolk careless of a milkmaid's honour. But nowhere, as far as
the eye could reach, was there a sign of the sheep that Bo had that
morning set forth to tend for her parents. Bo had a flexuous and
finely-drawn figure not unreminiscent of many a vanished knight
and dame, her remote progenitors, whose dust now mouldered in many
churchyards. There was about her an amplitude of curve which, joined
to a certain luxuriance of moulding, betrayed her sex even to a
careless observer. And when she spoke, it was often with a fetishistic
utterance in a monotheistic falsetto which almost had the effect of
startling her relations into temporary propriety.


Thus she sat for some time in the suspended attitude of an amiable
tiger-cat at pause on the edge of a spring. A rustle behind her caused
her to turn her head, and she saw a strange procession advancing over
the parched fields where--[Two pages of field-scenery omitted.--ED.]
One by one they toiled along, a far-stretching line of women sharply
defined against the sky. All were young, and most of them haughty and
full of feminine waywardness. Here and there a coronet sparkled on
some noble brow where predestined suffering had set its stamp. But
what most distinguished these remarkable processionists in the clear
noon of this winter day was that each one carried in her arms an
infant. And each one, as she reached the place where the enthralled
BONDUCA sat obliviscent of her sheep, stopped for a moment and laid
the baby down. First came the Duchess of HAMPTONSHIRE followed at an
interval by Lady MOTTISFONT and the Marchioness of STONEHENGE. To
them succeeded BARBARA of the House of GREBE, Lady ICENWAY and Squire
PETRICK's lady. Next followed the Countess of WESSEX, the Honourable
LAURA and the Lady PENELOPE. ANNA, Lady BAXBY, brought up the rear.

BONDUCA shuddered at the terrible rencounter. Was her young life to
be surrounded with infants? She was not a baby-farm after all, and the
audition of these squalling nurslings vexed her. What could the matter
mean? No answer was given to these questionings. A man's figure,
vast and terrible, appeared on the hill's brow, with a cruel look of
triumph on his wicked face. It was THOMAS TATTERS. BONDUCA cowered;
the noble dames fled shrieking down the valley.

"Bo," said he, "my own sweet Bo, behold the blood-red ray in the
spectrum of your young life."

"Say those words quickly," she retorted.

"Certainly," said TATTERS. "Blood-red ray, Broo-red ray, Broo-re-ray,
Brooray! Tush!" he broke off, vexed with BONDUCA and his own imperfect
tongue-power, "you are fooling me. Beware!"

"I know you, I know you!" was all she could gasp, as she bowed herself
submissive before him. "I detest you, and shall therefore marry you.
Trample upon me!" And he trampled upon her.


Thus BO PEEP lost her sheep, leaving these fleecy tail-bearers to
come home solitary to the accustomed fold. She did but humble herself
before the manifestation of a Wessex necessity.

And Fate, sitting aloft in the careless expanse of ether rolled
her destined chariots thundering along the pre-ordained highways
of heaven, crushing a soul here and a life there with the tragic
completeness of a steam-roller, granite-smashing, steam-fed,
irresistible. And butter was churned with a twang in it, and rustics
danced, and sheep that had fed in clover were "blasted," like poor
BONDUCA's budding prospects. And, from the calm nonchalance of a
Wessex hamlet, another novel was launched into a world of reviews,
where the multitude of readers is not as to their external
displacements, but as to their subjective experiences.


       *       *       *       *       *


This is the place to see the "female form divine" of all shapes and
sizes. Walk up, walk up, and look at a few of the young Ladies:--

No. 13. "_White Roses._" E.J. POYNTER, R.A. Thorns here, evidently,
judging by the young woman's look of anguish. And this is the moral
POYNTER points.

No. 66. "_A War Cloud._" A Music-HALLÉ singing "_Rule Britannia!_"
with proper dressings.

No. 18. "_Paderewski._" Surely it ought to be PATTY REWSKY, with
"Miss" before the name. _Moral_, "Get your hair cut!"

No. 284. "_Nightfall in the Dauphinée._" "_Might_ fall," it ought to
be, and no wonder if she walked about on so dark a night with such a
load in her arms!

No. 165. "_Che sara sara._" A pedestrian match in the Metropolis. In
fact, _Walker, London_. A portrait of _Sarah_, after she has been
let down into the punt, the shock having dislocated her shoulder. She
might have kept _Col. Neal's_ clothes round her neck to hide her back.

No. 77. This is the gem of the collection. It is by FRNND KHNPFF. Our
Head Critic was so overcome by this great work that he went out to get
assistance, but unfortunately, in trying to pronounce the painter's
name, he dislocated his jaw, and is now in a precarious state.
Our Assistant Critic, Deputy Assistant Critic, Deputy Assistant
Sub-Critic, and a few extra Supernumerary Critics, then went in a
body and looked at this young woman's head, apparently taken after
an interview with Madame Guillotine. They looked at the head from all
sides, and finally stood on their own, but they could not make head
or tail of it. Any person giving information as to the meaning, and
paying threepence, will receive a presentation copy of this journal.

There are other portraits of the latest fashion in young Ladies, but
those mentioned above are the most remarkable in the New Girlery.

       *       *       *       *       *


  O woman, in our hours of ease,
  We smile, and say, "Go as you please!"
  But when there's prospect of a row,
  _You're_ best out of it anyhow.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "OH, THAT TUNE!"

A Sketch of an Unintentional and Unwilling Imitator of Miss Lottie

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TWO ARCHERS.--In the _P.M.G._ of Saturday last, WILLIAM ARCHER, in
a signed article, criticises a book on "_How to Write a Good Play_, by
FRANK ARCHER." In expressing his opinion of the book, WILLIAM becomes
Frank--unpleasantly Frank.

       *       *       *       *       *


  While Publishers their fortunes make
    And wax exceeding fat,
  The Author still is like a rake.
    Now, pray account for that.

       *       *       *       *       *



  Oh, what a smell from the kitchen to spur comers
    Out of this room, where we think more of ham
  Than HORSLEYS, of soup than STONES, hashes than HERKOMERS,
    Mix MILLAIS with mutton, and LEIGHTON with lamb,

  Think of salmon and cucumber, stilton and celery,
    And not of the drawings at which we should look;
  Reminded, when making a tour round this gallery,
    But little of "Gaze," and a great deal of "Cook."

       *       *       *       *       *



House of Commons, Monday, April 25.--Session resumed to-day after
Easter Recess. As TENNYSON somewhere says, Session comes but Members
linger. Not forty present when business commenced. "May as well go
on." said the SPEAKER, whom everybody glad to see looking brisk and
hearty after his holiday. "They'll drop in by-and-by."

So they did, but without evidence of overmastering haste or
enthusiasm. Only half-dozen questions on paper; very early got to
business in Committee on Indian Councils Bill; supposed to be measure
involving closest interests of the great empire that CLIVE helped to
make, and SEYMOUR KEAY now looks after. Appearance of House suggestive
rather of some local question affecting Isle of Sheppey or Romney
Marsh. Below Gangway, on Ministerial side, only MACLEAN present.
Member for Oldham a sizeable man, but seemed a little lost in space.
Above Gangway RICHARD TEMPLE on guard. Prince ARTHUR and GEORGIE
CURZON had Treasury Bench all to themselves. Opportunity for observing
how cares of office are beginning to tell on GEORGE. Growing quite
staid in manner, the weight of India adding gravity to his looks,
sicklying his young face o'er with pale cast of thought. Pretty to
see him blush to-night when SEYMOUR KEAY made graceful allusion to
his genius and statesmanlike conduct of affairs. "Approbation from Sir
HUBERT STANLEY," as he later observed, "is praise indeed."

[Illustration: "So-and-So."]

Only sign of life and movement displayed below and above Gangway
opposite. SCHWANN evidently in running for BRADLAUGH's vacant place
as Member for India. Fortunate in finding a party brimful of energy,
enthusiasm, eloquence, and encyclopædic knowledge--MORTON, SEYMOUR
OF CAMBORNE, who has been as far East as the Cape, and therefore knows
all about India.

Some Members looking across the waste place behind MACLEAN whilst
he was delivering vigorous speech, thought of poor LEWIS PELLY, who
really knew something about India, and therefore would probably not
have spoken had he been here to-night. A kindly, courteous, upright,
valiant gentleman, who took a little too seriously the joke House had
with him about the Mombasa business. Everyone recalls his luminous
speech on the question, with its graphic description of forced marches
"from So-and-so to So-on," dubious nights by night "from Etcetera to

PELLY was with us when the House adjourned. In recess he, too, has
made a forced march, passing from the ordinary So-on into the unmapped

MACLEAN's speech stirred up the dolorous desolate House. Only one
other movement. This when SEYMOUR KEAY, in one of several speeches
dropped the remark, "I am sure my friends near me will bear me out
when I say--" Instant commotion below Gangway. SWIFT MACNEILL on
his legs; SCHWANN tumbling over PICTON; CONYBEARE cannoning against
MORTON. All animated by desire to take up KEAY and carry him forth.
He breathlessly explained that it was merely a figure of speech, and,
they reluctantly resuming their seats, he went on to the bitter end.

Business done.--Practically none.

Tuesday.--Amid the pomps and vanities of a wicked world there is
something refreshing and reassuring in spectacle of SAGE OF QUEEN
ANNE'S GATE going about his daily business. One would describe him
as childlike and bland, only for recollection that combination of
harmless endearing epithet has been applied in another connection and
might be misunderstood. A pity, for there are no other words that
so accurately describe SAGE's manner when, just now, he rose to pose
Prince ARTHUR with awkward question about Dissolution. Wanted to know
whether, supposing Parliament dissolved between months of September
and December in present year, a Bill would be brought in to accelerate
Registration? Terms of question being set forth on printed paper, not
necessary for the SAGE to recite them. For this he seemed grateful.
It relieved him from the pain of appearing to embarrass Prince ARTHUR
by a reference to awkward matters. No one could feel acutely hurt
at being asked "Question No. 8." So the SAGE, half rising from his
seat--so delicate was his forbearance, that he would not impose his
full height on the eyesight of the Minister--"begged to ask the FIRST

Quite charming Prince ARTHUR's start of surprise when he looked at
the paper and saw, as if for the first time, the question addressed
to him. Dear me! here was a Member actually wanting to know something
about the date of the Dissolution, and what would follow in certain
contingencies. As a philosopher, Prince ARTHUR was familiar with the
vagaries of the average mind. He could not prevent the SAGE, in his
large leisure, untrammelled by no other consideration than that of
doing the greatest amount of good to the largest number, indulging
in speculations. But for Her Majesty's Ministers, the contingency
referred to was so remote and uncertain, that they had not even
contemplated taking any steps to meet it.

Then might the SAGE assume that, if the contingency arose, the
Government would act in the manner he had suggested?

No; on the whole, Prince ARTHUR, thinking the matter over in full view
of the House, concluded the SAGE might hardly draw that deduction from
what he had said.

[Illustration: Cap'n Birkbeck.]

The House, having listened intently to this artless conversation,
proceeded to business of the day, which happily included the adoption
of a Resolution engaging the Government to connect with the mainland,
by telephone or telegraph, the lighthouses and lightships that
twinkle round our stormy coasts. It was Cap'n BIRKBECK who moved
this Resolution, seconded from other side in admirable speech by

Business done.--Excellent.

Wednesday.--Much surprised, strolling down to House this afternoon,
to find place in sort of state of siege. Policemen, policemen
everywhere, and, as one sadly observed, "not a drop to drink." Haven't
seen anything like it since KENEALY used to shake the dewdrops
from his mane as he walked through Palace Yard, passing through
enthusiastic crowd into House of Commons, perspiring after his efforts
in Old Westminster Courts. Later, when BRADLAUGH used to-give dear old
GOSSET waltzing lessons, pirouetting between Bar and Table, scene was
somewhat similar.

"What's the matter. HORSLEY?" I asked, coming across our able and
indefatigable Superintendent striding about the Corridor, as NAPOLEON
visited the outposts on the eve of Austerlitz.

"It's them Women, Sir," he said. "Perhaps you've heard of them at
St. James's Hall last night? Platform stormed; Chairman driven off at
point of bodkin; Reporters' table crumpled up; party of the name of
BURROWS seized by the throat and laid on the flat of his back."

"A position, I should say, not peculiarly convenient for oratorical
effort. But you seem to have got new men at the various posts?"

"Yes, Sir," said Field-Marshal HORSLEY. lowering his voice to whisper;
"we've picked em out. Gone through the Force; mustered all the
bald-headed men. They say that at conclusion of argument on Woman's
Suffrage in St. James's Hall last night, floor nearly ankle-deep in
loose hair. They don't get much off _my_ men," said HORSLEY, proudly.

[Illustration: "So young and so iniquitous!"]

Very well, I suppose, to take those precautions. Probably they had
something to do with the almost disappointing result. Everything
passed off as quietly as if subject-matter of Debate had been India,
or Vote in Committee of Supply of odd Million or two. Ladies locked
up in Cage over SPEAKER's Chair, with lime-lights playing on placards
hung on walls enforcing "Silence!" Cunningly arranged that SAM SMITH
should come on early with speech. This lasted full hour, and had
marvellously sedative effect. Some stir in Gallery when, later,
ASQUITH demolished Bill with merciless logic. Through the iron bars,
that in this case make a Cage, there came, as he spoke, a shrill
whisper, "So young and so iniquitous!" Prince ARTHUR, dexterously
intervening, soothed the angry breast by his chivalrous advocacy of
Woman's Rights. As he resumed his seat there floated over the charmed
House, coming "So young and so as it were from heavenly spheres above
the iniquitous!" SPEAKER's Chair, a cooing whisper, "What a love of a

Business done.--Woman's Suffrage Bill rejected by 175 Votes against

Friday Night.--Little sparring match between Front Benches. Mr.
G. and all his merry men anxious, above all things, to know when
Dissolution will dawn? SQUIRE OF MALWOOD starts inquiry. Prince ARTHUR
interested, but ignorant. Can't understand why people should always
be talking about Dissolution. Here we have best of all Ministries, a
sufficient majority, an excellent programme, and barely reached the
month of May. Why can't we get on with our work, and cease indulgence
in these wild imaginings? Next week, on BLANE's Motion, there will
be opportunity for Mr. G. to explain his Home Rule scheme. Let him
contentedly look forward to pasturing on that joy, and not trouble
his head about indefinite details like Dissolutions.

This speech the best thing Prince ARTHUR has done since he became

Business done.--None.

       *       *       *       *       *


  The sunshine is cheerful, I'll call upon STELLA,
    The girl I am pledged to, and ask her for tea.
  It's a summer-suit day, I can leave my umbrella;
    Mother Nature smiles kindly on STELLA and me.
  With my silver-topped cane, and my boots (patent leather),
    My hat polished smoothly, a gloss on my hair,
  Yes, I think I shall charm her, and as to the weather,
    I am safe--the barometer points to "Set Fair."

  So I'm off--why, what's that? Yes, by Jove, there's a sputter
    Of rain on the pavement!--the sunshine retires;
  And I wish, oh, I wish that my tongue dared to utter
    The thoughts that this changeable weather inspires.
  Back, back to my rooms; I am drenched and disgusted;
    In thick boots and an ulster I'll tempt it again;
  And accurst be the hour when I foolishly trusted
    The barometer's index, which now points to "Rain."

  Well, I'll trudge it on foot with umbrella and "bowler,"--
    My STELLA thinks more of a man than his dress.
  I can buy her some bonbons or gloves to console her.
    Though I'm rigged like a navvy, she'll love me no less.
  Let the showers pour down, I am dressed to defy them--
    Bad luck to the rain, why, it's passing away!
  The streets are quite gay with the sunshine to dry them.
    Well, there, I give up, and retire for the day!

       *       *       *       *       *

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