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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, September 16th, 1893
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, Vol. 105, September 16th, 1893" ***

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



       *       *       *       *       *

Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, September 16th 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

       *       *       *       *       *



[Illustration: A CROWDED HOUSE.

_Angry Voice (from a backseat)._ "EARS OFF IN FRONT THERE, PLEASE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE STRIKER'S VADE MECUM.

_Question._ You think it is a good thing to strike?

_Answer._ Yes, when there is no other remedy.

_Q._ Is there ever any other remedy?

_A._ Never. At least, so say the secretaries.

_Q._ Then you stand by the opinions of the officials?

_A._ Why, of course; because they are paid to give them.

_Q._ But have not the employers any interests?

_A._ Lots, but they are not worthy the working-man's consideration.

_Q._ But are not their interests yours?

_A._ Yes, and that is the way we guard over them.

_Q._ But surely it is the case of cutting off the nose to spite the
mouth?

_A._ And why not, if the mouth is too well fed.

_Q._ But are not arguments better than bludgeons?

_A._ No, and bludgeons are less effective than revolvers.

_Q._ But may not the use of revolvers produce the military?

_A._ Yes, but they can do nothing without a magistrate reading the
Riot Act.

_Q._ But, the Riot Act read, does not the work become serious?

_A._ Probably. But at any rate the work is lawful, because
unremunerative.

_Q._ But how are the wives and children of strikers to live if their
husbands and fathers earn no wages?

_A._ On strike money.

_Q._ But does all the strike money go to the maintenance of the hearth
and the home?

_A._ Of course not, for a good share of it is wanted for the
baccy-shop and the public-house.

_Q._ But if strikes continue will not trade suffer?

_A._ Very likely, but trade represents the masters.

_Q._ And if trade is driven away from the country will it come back?

_A._ Most likely not, but that is a matter for the future.

_Q._ But is not the future of equal importance to the present?

_A._ Not at all, for a day's thought is quite enough for a day's work.

_Q._ Then a strike represents either nothing or idleness?

_A._ Yes, bludgeons or beer.

_Q._ And what is the value of reason?

_A._ Why, something less than smoke.

       *       *       *       *       *

A NOVEL SHOW.

    ["A popular place of entertainment is arranging a Burglars'
    Exhibition."--_Daily Telegraph._]

  Oh, gladly will the public pay
    Its shillings for admission,
  To study in a careful way
  This most original display,
    The Burglars' Exhibition.

  Professor SIKES will here explain,
    With practical instruction,
  How best to break a window-pane,
  Through which his classic form may gain
    Judicious introduction.

  The jemmies, and revolvers, too,
    Will doubtless prove enthralling,
  And all the implements we'll view
  With which these scientists pursue
    Their fascinating calling;

  The most efficient type of gag
    To silence all intrusion,
  The latest kind of carpet-bag
  Wherein to bear the bulky "swag"
    To some remote seclusion.

  Then, by this exhibition's aid,
    The art will spread to others,
  And those who ply this busy trade
  Will, in a year or two, be made
    A noble band of brothers.

  The thief of olden time we'll see
    As seldom as the dodo;
  The burglar's future aim will be
  To join the _fortiter in re_
    And _suaviter in modo_!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MOST UNPARDONABLE "MISUSE OF WORDS."--Making after-dinner
speeches.

       *       *       *       *       *

CONVERSION À LA MODE.

SCENE--_A Government Office. A_ Government Official _discovered_.

_To him enter a_ Petitioner.

_Petitioner._ I really think, Sir, that the time has arrived for a
grant.

_Official._ Impossible, my dear Sir, impossible. I can assure you the
reports are greatly exaggerated.

_Pet._ But do you know that the ports cannot properly be guarded
without further financial assistance?

_Off._ Very likely; at least, that may be the general opinion.

PET. And Science could be far more certain did the funds permit--you
are aware of that?

_Off._ Faddists never consider the cost of anything.

_Pet._ And I suppose you are aware that it is marching towards the
metropolis?

_Off._ When it gets there it will be time to consider the situation.

_Pet._ Then you have not heard of the recent affair in Westminster?

_Off._ In Westminster! Why that is close to the Houses of Parliament!

_Pet._ And if I tell you that it has been traced to the Lobby of the
Commons.

_Off._ Don't say another word, my dear Sir, not another word. What,
appeared in the House of Commons! Why, several millions shall be
granted at once!

[_Scene closes in upon preparations of the most active character._

       *       *       *       *       *

ANNOUNCEMENT.--_The Heavenly Twins_ has had a success. It will
be followed by a treatise on gout by Mrs. SARAH GAMP, M.D., to be
entitled _The Uneavenly Twinge._

       *       *       *       *       *

"SOCIAL TEST-WORDS."

    [An American writer in _The Critic_ has an article on this
    subject.]

  Two "social questions" soon, we may expect.
    Will, in two continents, raise a social storm:--
  "Is it _correct_ to say a thing's 'correct'"?
    "Is it _good form_ to use the phrase 'good form'"?
  Or will both go, with those who finely feel,
  The way of "gentlemanly," and "genteel"?
  Shall _Punch_ attempt to settle it? No, thankee!
  He rather thinks he'll leave it to the Yankee.
  What matters it about _our_ played-out tongue?
  (In which some good things _have_ been said and sung.)
  Let those the war of "Saxon _versus_ Slang" wage,
  Who have the charge of "the American Language."
  That _has_ a future (HOWELL'S law, and Fate's!)
  "The language of the Great United States"
  (Unless through cant and coarseness it goes rotten)
  The world will speak when "English" is forgotten.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Coming Fall.

  The Autumn comes. We welcome it--
    A change from Summer heat appalling.
  The birds once more begin to flit
    To warmer climes, the leaves are falling.
  But portent clear as clear can be,
    We know that Autumn comes by reasoning
  "Look all the papers that we see
    Are daily stuffed with silly seasoning."

       *       *       *       *       *

"A QUIET PIPE."

[Illustration]

  "One touch of nature" kins To-day
  With classical Arcadia.
    This faun-like "nipper,"
  Tree-perched, is tootling, tootling on,
  Though Pan be dead, Arcadia gone,
  And wild "Kazoos" are played upon
    By the cheap tripper.

  Half imp, half animal, behold
  The 'ARRY of the Age of Gold
    In this young satyr!
  Lover of pleasure and of "lush"
  (Silenus at the slang might blush),
  Of haunted Nature's holy hush
    Irreverent hater.

  Mischief and music, mockery,
  Swift eyes oblique in goblin glee,
    And nimble finger;
  Sardonic lips that slide with speed
  Athwart the rangéd pastoral reed;
  Upon these things will fancy feed,
    And memory linger.

  Imp-urchin of the budding horn,
  Native to Nature's nascent morn,
    The same quaint pranks
  You played 'midst the Arcadian shade,
  By satyrs of to-day are played;
  Their nether limbs in "tweeds" arrayed
          Not shaggy shanks.

  Not cheap tan kids and KINO'S best
  Can hide the frolic faun confest,
          Or coarse Silenus;
  Like SPENSER'S satyrs, they attack us,
  With rompings rouse, with noises rack us,
  Brutes in the train of beery Bacchus,
          And vulgar Venus.

  'ARRY'S mouth-organ is, indeed,
  Far shriekier than your shrilling reed,
          Pan-fathered piper;
  While his tin-whistle!--a wood-god,
  Whose tympanum _that_ sound should prod,
  Would start, and shriek, as though he trod
    Upon a viper.

  Ah, yes, my little satyr-friend,
  Better Arcadia than Southend
    On a Bank-Holiday!
  You and your Pan-pipe _might_ appear,
  And tootle, yet not rend my ear.
  Or with a novel Panic fear
    Upset a jolly day.

  Aperch upon your branch, you carry
  A certain likeness to our 'ARRY,
    Yet 'tis but slight.
  He could not sit, the noisy brute!
  And natural music mildly flute,
  Till the assembled nymphs were mute
    With sheer delight.

  He'd want the banjo and the bones,
  And rowdy words, and raucous tones,
    And roaring chorus.
  Urchin, I've done you grievous wrong!
  No echoes of Arcadian song
  Sound in the screech the holiday throng
    Rattle and roar us.

  To your shrill flutings I could listen
  When on the grass-blades dewdrops glisten,
          And morn is ripe.
  Could sit and hear your pastoral reed,
  In peace, and do myself, indeed
  (Fair laden with "the fragrant weed"),
          "A Quiet Pipe!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HIGHLAND "CADDIE."

    [There has been a strike among the Golf Caddies.]

AIR--"_The Blue Bells of Scotland._"

  Oh! where, and oh! where is your Highland "Caddie" gone?
  He's gone to join the Strike, and now "Caddie" I have none;
  And it's oh! in my heart that I wish the Strike were done!

  Oh! what, and oh! what does your Highland "Caddie" claim?
  He wants sixpence for a round of nine holes. It is a shame,
  And it's oh! in my heart that I fear 'twill spoil the game.

  And what, tell me what, are your Highland Caddie's tricks?
  He has "picketed the links" just to keep out all "knobsticks,"
  And it's oh! in my heart, that I feel I'm in a fix!

  Suppose, oh! suppose that all Highland Caddies strike!
  I might have to turn up golf, and to tennis take, or "bike,"
  But it's oh! in my heart that I do not think 'tis like!

       *       *       *       *       *

"NAME! NAME!"--In a recent report from the East occurs the
delightfully-suggestive name of "SEYD BIN ABED." Of course he is a
relative to "SEYD IM GOTUP AGEN." Or perhaps he has changed his
name from "SEYD UAD BIN ABED" to "SEYD IMON SOPHA." If "Seyd" be not
pronounced as "Seed" but as "Said," the above titles can be altered to
match. True or not, yet "so it is Seyd." The news in which this name
occurs appears to have reached the correspondent through a person
called "RUMALIZA." Can anything coming from a female styled "RUM
ELIZA" be credible?

       *       *       *       *       *

OUT OF COURT.--A sharp young lady listening to a conversation about
witnesses being sworn in Court, interrupted with "I don't know much
about kissing the book, but if I didn't like him, I'd soon bring the
kisser to book."

       *       *       *       *       *

AT THE SHAFTESBURY.

The few theatres now open seem to be doing uncommonly good business.
The Shaftesbury, with _Morocco Bound_, was as nearly full as it could
be in the first week of September, when the cry is not yet "They are
coming back," but they are remaining away. Another week will make all
the difference. _Morocco Bound_ is not a piece at all, but a sort of
variety show, just held together by the thinnest thread of what, for
want of a better word, may be temporarily dignified as "plot." Mr.
CHARLES DANBY is decidedly funny in it. Mr. TEMPLAR SAXE is a pretty
singer. Mr. GEORGE GROSSMITH well sustains the eccentric reputation
of his family name; and, if any opposition manager could induce the
present representative of _Spoofah Bey_ to appear at another house,
it would be "all up" with _Morocco Bound_, as such a transfer would
entirely take "the Shine" out of _this_ piece. Miss JENNIE MCNULTY
does nothing in particular admirably; and Miss LETTY LIND, charming
in her _entr'acte_ of skirt-dancing, is still better in her really
capital dance with the agile CHARLES DANBY. This entertainment has
reached its hundred and fiftieth night (!!!), and all those who are
prevented from going North to stalk the wily grouse may do worse than
spend a night among the Moors in _Morocco Bound_. Oddly enough, but
quite appropriately, the acting-manager in front, who looks after
the fortunes of Morocco and its Moors, is Mr. A. BLACKMORE. Out of
compliment he might have let in an "a" after the "k," dropped the
final "e," and given himself a second "o." Still, in keeping with the
fitness of things, he has done well in being there.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANCIENT SAWS RESET.

"All work and no pay makes JACK a striking boy."

"All pay and no work makes JACK'S employer go without a shirt."

       *       *       *       *       *

During the recent tropical weather, Mrs. R. observed that it was the
only time in her life when she would have given anything "just to have
got a little cold."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ON HIS HONEYMOON TOO!

_Man with Sand Ponies._ "NOW THEN, MISTER, YOU AN' THE YOUNG LADY, A
PONY APIECE? 'ERE Y'ARE!"

_Snobley (loftily)._ "AW--I'M NOT ACCUSTOMED TO THAT CLASS OF ANIMAL."

_Man (readily)._ "AIN'T YER, SIR? NE' MIND." (_To Boy._) "'ERE, BILL,
LOOK SHARP! GENT'LL HAVE A DONKEY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE BOOK THAT FAILED."

    [A publisher writes to _The Author_ to say that, for the first
    time in his experience, the writer of a book which was not a
    success has sent him an unsolicited cheque to compensate him
    for the loss he has sustained by producing it.]

AS THINGS ARE TO-DAY.

_Publisher (nastily)._ I tell you that it's no earthly use your asking
about profits, because there are none.

_Author (amazed)._ No profits! And you really mean to tell me that
the public has not thought fit to purchase my shilling work of
genius--_The Maiming of Mendoza?_ By our agreement only a paltry six
thousand copies of the work had to be bought before my royalty of a
penny a volume began.

_Publisher._ I am quite aware of it. The sale of the six thousand
copies would just about have repaid us for cost of production. As
a matter of fact, only three thousand have been sold. We've lost
heavily, and very much regret we were ever induced to accept the work.

_Author._ And you really ask me to believe that after such a sale
as that a loss on your part is possible? Why, if you take price of
printing at----

  [_Goes elaborately into cost of production._

_Publisher._ Yes, but you see the price of everything has gone up in
our trade. Binding is now ten per cent. dearer, composing is----

  [_Also goes into precise and prolonged details._

_Author (turning desperate at last)._ Oh, let us end this chatter! You
really say that no cheque whatever is due to me for all my labours?

_Publisher._ Not a single penny. It's the other way about.

_Author (leaving)._ And you call this "the beneficial system of
royalties," do you? Good day! And if I don't set the Society of
Authors at you before I am a day older, then my name's not BULWER
MAKEPEACE DEFOE SMITH!

  [_Exit tempestuously._

AS THEY MAY BE TO-MORROW.

_Utterly Unknown Novelist._ Then I am afraid that my last
three-volumed work of fiction, in spite of the cordial way in which it
was reviewed by my brother-in-law in the _Weekly Dotard_, my maternal
uncle in the _Literary Spy_, and a few other relatives on the daily
press, has not upon the whole been a decided success?

_Publisher._ Well, it's useless to conceal the fact, that from a
mere base material point of view, the publication of _The Boiling of
Benjamin_ has not quite answered our expectations. In fact, we have
lost a couple of thousand pounds over it. But (_more cheerfully_) what
of that? It is a pleasure to lose money over introducing good work to
the public; a positive privilege to be sacrificed on such an altar as
_The Boiling of Benjamin_. So say no more on _that_ head!

_U. U. Novelist (enthusiastically)._ Good and generous man! But I
will say more! You recollect that the terms you made with me were a
thousand pounds down, and a hundred pounds a month for life or until
the copyright expired?

_Publisher (groaning slightly)._ Oh, yes! I remember it very well.

_U. U. Novelist._ And that I have already received cheques for one
thousand and five hundred pounds, without your mentioning a word about
the loss you have been nobly and silently enduring?

_Publisher._ An agreement's an agreement, and you are only
experiencing one result of the beneficial system of royalties.

_U. U. Novelist._ Quite so! But if there is to be division of
profits, there should be division of losses as well. So (_taking out
chequebook, and hurriedly writing in it_) there! Not a word of thanks!
It's merely repaying you the fifteen hundred I've received, with
another thousand to compensate you for the loss on production.

_Publisher (melted into tears)._ Oh, thanks, thanks! You have averted
ruin from my starving little ones! And if you _should_ wish to bring
out any other work of ----. He is gone, to escape my gratitude!
(_Takes up cheque._) By far the best thing he ever wrote!

  (_Curtain._)

       *       *       *       *       *

POLITICAL PARALLEL.--Mr. CHAMBERLAIN declared the other day the
Government were in a hole. Was it in reference to this that the Duke
of ARGYLL spoke in the Lords of Lord ROSEBERY'S "Pitt"?

       *       *       *       *       *

A GLASS TOO MUCH (FOR OUTSIDERS LAST WEDNESDAY).--_Isinglass._

       *       *       *       *       *

UNDER THE ROSE.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

SCENE II.--_Same as preceding._ Mr. TOOVEY _is slowly recovering from
the mental collapse produced by the mention of the word "Eldorado."_

_Mrs. Toovey._ ALTHEA is out of the room, Pa, so there is no reason
why you should not speak out plainly.

_Mr. Toovey (to himself)._ No reason--oh! But I must say _something_.
If only I knew whether it was my Eldorado--but, no, it's a mere
coincidence! (_Aloud--shakily._) CHARLES, my boy, you--you've shocked
me very much indeed, as you can see. But, about the name of this
establishment, now--isn't it a curious one for--for a _music-hall_,
CHARLES? M--mightn't it be confused with--well--say a _mine_, now?

_Mrs. T._ THEOPHILUS, this is scarcely the tone----. I expected you to
give this misguided boy a solemn warning of the ruin he may incur by
having anything to do with such a haunt.

_Mr. T. (to himself)._ Ah, I'm afraid I'm only too well qualified to
do that. (_Aloud._) I do, CHARLES, I _do_--though at the same time, I
can quite understand how one may, unwittingly--I mean, you might not
be aware of----

_Mrs. T._ You, Pa, of all people in the world, trying to find excuses
for his depravity! The very name of the place is enough to indicate
its nature!

_Mr. T. (hastily)._ No, my love, surely not. _There_ I think you go
too far--too far altogether!

_Mrs. T._ I appeal to Mr. CURPHEW to say whether such a place is a
proper resort for _any_ young man.

_Curphew (to himself)._ Wish I was well out of this! (_Aloud._) I--I
really don't feel qualified to give an opinion, Mrs. TOOVEY. Many
young men _do_ go to them, I believe.

_Charles (to himself)._ Is this chap a prig, or a humbug? I'll
draw him. (_Aloud._) I suppose, from that, you never think of going
yourself?

_Mrs. T._ Mr. CURPHEW'S tastes are rather different from yours,
CHARLES. I am very sure that he is never to be seen among the audience
at any music-hall, are you, Mr. CURPHEW?

_Curph. (to himself)._ Could I break it to her gently, I wonder.
(_Aloud._) Never--my professional duties make that impossible.

_Charles (to himself)._ I knew he was a muff! (_Aloud._) I should have
thought you could easily get a pass to any place you wanted to go--in
your profession.

_Curph. (to himself)._ He suspects something. (_Aloud._) Should you?
Why?

_Charles._ Oh, as you're on a newspaper, you know. Don't they always
have a free pass for everywhere?

_Curph._ If they have, I have never had occasion to make use of it.

_Charles._ Well, of course you may turn up your nose at music-halls,
and say they're not intellectual enough for you.

_Curph._ Pardon me, I never said I turned up my nose at them, though
you'll admit they don't profess to make a strong appeal to the
intellect.

_Charles._ If they did, you wouldn't catch _me_ there. But I can tell
you, it's not so bad as you seem to think; every now and then they get
hold of a really good thing. You might do worse than drop into the El.
or the Val., the Valhalla, you know, some evening--just to hear WALTER
WILDFIRE.

_Curph._ Much obliged; but I can't imagine myself going there for such
a purpose.

_Mrs. T._ CHARLES, if you suppose Mr. CURPHEW would allow himself to
be corrupted by a boy like you----

_Charles._ But look here, Aunt. WALTER WILDFIRE'S all right--he is
_really_; he was a gentleman, and all that, before he took to this
sort of thing, and he writes all his own songs--and ripping they
are, too! His line is the Broken-down Plunger, you know. (Mrs. T.
_repudiates any knowledge of this type_.) He's got one song about a
Hansom Cabby who has to drive the girl he was engaged to before he
was broke, and she's married some other fellow since, and has got her
little daughter with her, and the child gives him his fare, and--well,
somehow it makes you feel choky when he sings it. Even Mr. CURPHEW
couldn't find anything to complain of in WALTER WILDFIRE!

_Althea (who has entered during this speech)._ Mamma, I can't find
your spectacles anywhere. Mr. CURPHEW, who is this WALTER WILDFIRE
CHARLES is so enthusiastic about?

_Mrs. T. (hastily)._ No one that Mr. CURPHEW knows anything of--and
certainly not a fit person to be mentioned in _your_ hearing, my dear,
so let us say no more about it. Supper must be on the table by this
time; we had better go in, and try to find a more befitting topic
for conversation. CHARLES, have the goodness to put this--this
_disgraceful_ paper in your pocket, and let me see no more of it. I
shall get your Uncle to speak to you seriously after supper.

_Mr. T. (aloud, with alacrity)._ Yes, my love, I shall certainly speak
to CHARLES after supper--very seriously. (_To himself._) And end this
awful uncertainty!

_Curph. (to himself, as he follows to the Dining-room)._ "Not a fit
person to be mentioned in her hearing!" I wonder. Would _she_ say
the same if she knew? When shall I be able to tell her? It would be
madness as yet.

SCENE III.--_The Study._ Mr. TOOVEY and CHARLES _are alone together_.
Mr. TOOVEY _has found it impossible to come to the point_.

_Charles (looking at his watch)._ I say, Uncle, I'm afraid I must
trouble you for that wigging at once, if I'm going to catch my train
back. You've only seven-and-a-half minutes left to exhort me in, so
make the most of it.

_Mr. T. (with embarrassment)._ Yes, CHARLES, but--I don't wish to be
hard on you, my boy--we are all liable to err, and--and, in point of
fact, the reason I was a little upset at the mention of the Eldorado
is, that a very dear old friend of mine, CHARLES, has lately lost a
considerable sum through investing in a Company of the same name--and,
just for the moment, it struck me that it might have been the
music-hall--which of course is absurd, eh?

_Charles._ Rather! He couldn't possibly have lost it in the
_music-hall_, Uncle; it's ridiculous!

_Mr. T. (relieved)._ Just what I thought. A man in
his--ah--responsible position--oh no. But he's lost it in this other
Company. And they've demanded a hundred and seventy-five pounds over
and above the five hundred he paid on his shares. Now _you_ know the
law. Can they _do_ that, CHARLES? Is he legally liable to pay?

_Charles._ Couldn't possibly say without knowing all the facts. It's a
Limited Company, I suppose?

_Mr. T._ I--I don't know, CHARLES, but I can show you the official
document which--ah--happens to be in my hands. I'm afraid I didn't
examine it very carefully--I was too upset. (_He goes to his
secrétaire, and returns with a paper, which he offers for_ CHARLES'S
_inspection_.) You won't mind my covering up the name? My--my friend
wouldn't care for it to be seen--I'm sure.

_Charles (glances at the top of the paper, and roars with laughter)._
I say, Uncle, your friend _must_ be a jolly old juggins!

_Mr. T. (miserably)._ I don't think he could be described as _jolly_
just now, CHARLES.

_Charles._ No, but I mean, not all there, you know--trifle weak in the
upper story.

_Mr. T. (with dignity)._ He never professed to be a man of business,
CHARLES, any more than myself, and his inexperience was shamefully
abused--_most_ shamefully!

_Charles._ Abused! But look here, Uncle, do you mean to say you don't
see that this is a dividend warrant!

_Mr. T._ I believe that is what they call it. And--and is he bound to
send them a cheque for it at once, CHARLES?

_Charles._ Send them a cheque? Great SCOTT! Why it _is_ a cheque!
They're paying _him_. It's the half-yearly dividend on his five
hundred, at the rate of seventy per cent. And he was going to----Oh,
Lord!

_Mr. T. (rising, and shaking C.'s hands with effusion)._ My _dear_
CHARLES; how can I thank you? If you _knew_ what a load you've taken
off my mind! Then the Company _isn't_ bankrupt--it's paying seventy
per cent.! Why, I needn't mind telling your Aunt. (_With restored
complacency._) Of course, my boy, I have never occupied myself with
City matters--but, none the less, I believe I can trust my natural
shrewdness--I had a sort of instinct, CHARLES, from the first, that
that mine was perfectly sound. I knew I could trust LARKINS.

_Charles._ _You_, Uncle! Then it was _you_ who was your friend all the
time? Oh, you're really _too_ rich, you know!

_Mr. T._ I have never desired it; but it will certainly be a very
useful addition to our--ah--modest income, CHARLES. But you should
check yourself, my boy, in this--ah--immoderate laughter. There is
nothing that I can see to cause such mirth in the fact of your Uncle's
having made a fortunate investment in a gold-mine.

_Charles (as soon as he can speak)._ But it _ain't_ a mine, Uncle,
it--it's the music-hall! Give you my word it is. If you don't believe
me, look at the address on the warrant, and you'll see it's the same
as on this programme. You're a shareholder in the Eldorado Palace of
Varieties, Piccadilly!

_Mr. T. (falling back)._ No, CHARLES! I--I acquired them in the most
perfect innocence!

[Illustration: "If I were you, I wouldn't mention this to Aunt."]

_Charles._ Innocence! I'd back you for that against an entire
Infant School, Uncle. But I say, I must be off now. If I were you, I
_wouldn't_ mention this to Aunt. And look here. I'd better leave you
this. (_He hands him the Eldorado programme._) It's more in your line
than mine now.

  [_He goes out, and is heard chuckling in the hall and down to the
  front gate._

_Mr. T. (alone)._ That ribald, unfeeling boy! _What_ a Sunday I've
had! And how am I ever to tell CORNELIA now? (_A bell rings._) That's
to call the servants up to prayers. (_He stuffs the programme into
his pocket hastily, and rises._) No, I can't. I _can't_ conduct family
prayers with the knowledge that I'm a shareholder in--in a Palace of
Varieties! I shall slip quietly off to bed.

_Ph[oe]be (entering)._ Missus wished me to tell you she was only
waiting for you, Sir.

_Mr. T._ PH[OE]BE, tell your mistress I'm feeling poorly again, and
have gone to bed. (_To himself._) If I could only be sure I don't talk
in my sleep!

  [_He shuffles upstairs._

END OF SCENE III.

       *       *       *       *       *

A (FREQUENTLY) RISING M.P.--Mr. T. G. BOWLES is quite "a new boy" in
the House, yet has he none of the diffidence of most other new boys.
His continuous questions and his easy oratory will win for him the
styles and titles of "The Flowing BOWLES" and "The Sparkling BOWLES."
If _Mr. P._ adopts him as a frequent and favourite subject for an
object lesson, such as were SIBTHORPE and some others in past times,
he may attain the very highest position as "BOWLES of _Punch_."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BREAKING IT GENTLY.

_Son of the House (who wishes to say something polite about our
friend's astounding shooting, but who cannot palter with the truth)._
"I SHOULD THINK YOU WERE AWFULLY CLEVER AT BOOKS, SIR!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

POLITICS IN SOUTH AMERICA.

(_From our Special Correspondent on the Spot._)

_Monday._--Everyone is afraid that the action of the Government in
imposing a tax upon cycles will have serious effects. Although the
fleet do not use the carriages thus surcharged, it is not unlikely the
armour-plated cruiser _Impartial_ may threaten to bombard the capital.
Altogether the situation is critical.

_Tuesday._--My fears were well-founded. The capital has been
bombarded, but not on account of the cycle tax, but to show that the
commander of the armour-plated cruiser _Impartial_ objects to the
proposed equalisation of Poor Rates. Fortunately the Government
torpedo-catcher _Cupid_ was able to beat off the _Impartial_ before
serious damage could be done. Still, the question of the acquisition
of the telegraphs is causing much excitement amongst the army.

_Wednesday._--My worst fears are realised. The General in command of
the garrison has made the Church Tithes question a _casus belli_. As
the Government insisted upon proceeding with the second reading, the
General thought it his duty to set fire to all the public offices.
This is considered to be an extreme step by many important members of
the Opposition.

_Thursday._--This morning dense bodies of troops arrived opposite the
House of Representatives, with a view to bringing pressure to bear
upon the opponents to the Public Baths and Wash-house Bill, which
it will be remembered passed through the Committee stage with the
assistance of a cavalry regiment and three batteries of artillery.

_Friday._--The Budget has disappointed both the fleet and the army,
the combined forces have taken possession of the capital, and the
Government is practically overturned.

_Saturday._--Matters are still unsettled. The capital is still
in possession of the insurgents. The Premier has been released on
condition that he promises to bring in a Bill for the improvement of
the Law of Bankruptcy early next Session. It is rumoured that a body
of fresh troops are on their way to the metropolis in charge of
a measure for the Abolition of Tithes, which they desire to carry
through the Upper House at the point of the bayonet.

_Sunday._--The Admiral commanding the fleet, having proclaimed himself
Dictator, attended church in state. On his way back to his palace
he was surrounded by the troops, and, after a tough engagement, was
forced to retire to his flag-ship with heavy loss. The garrison would
have attended the afternoon service _en grande tenue_ had not the
fleet opened fire upon the recently evacuated cathedral. In spite of
recent events the populace still exhibit uneasiness.

       *       *       *       *       *

FINE SUBJECT FOR HEROIC HISTORICAL CARTOON.--"'TOMMY' BOWLES
challenging a division." Imagine it! Grand! but unfortunately the
subject too late for pictorial treatment by one of _Mr. P.'s_ young
men this week. Think how many would go to make up a "Division"!!
Remember that TOMMY is but a Unit. "Unit is strength," says T. G. B.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE UNEXPECTED.--_Youthful Hereditary Legislator (seen for the first
time in the neighbourhood of Westminster last week, inquires of
Policeman)._ "Aw--can you--ar--direct me to the--aw--House of Lords?"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SEA-SIDE STUDIES.

_Wandering Minstrel._ "GURLS! I'M A DOOCID FINE CHA-APPIE!" &c., &c.]

       *       *       *       *       *

"OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY!"

    [Mr. GLADSTONE has gone on a visit to Mr. GEORGE ARMITSTEAD,
    at Black Craig Castle, Perthshire. Mr. HENRY GLADSTONE stated
    that the Prime Minister would receive no deputations, and that
    the holiday would be purely recuperative.]

_Pensive Premier museth_:--

  Purely recuperative! Ah! precisely.
  Leave me alone, and I shall manage nicely.
  How the bees boom amidst the purple heather!
  Better than BOWLES and BARTLEY! (_Yawn._) Wonder whether
  _They_'re "booming" still about Sir WILLIAM'S head;
  Buz-wuz! Buz-wuz! And raspy Russell, red
  With Orange rage, shakes he a towzled crest?
  Creaks he continual challenge, spear in rest?
  Wags he a menacing fore-finger still
  At me through stout Sir WILLIAM? Poor Sir WILL!
  How he'd like _this_! How little he likes _that_!
  Purely recuperative! Here I've sat
  Since luncheon--ruminating, reading, napping,
  Thank heaven I cannot hear Lord KELVIN clapping
  CASTLETOWN'S callow clap-trap. All is still.
  There's nothing near I wish to stalk or kill.
  Like Melancholy _Jaques_, I can note
  The branchy antlers and the dappled coat
  Of "poor sequestered stag," and yet not yearn
  To--make him venison. Yon brabbling burn
  Makes mellower music in my Scottish ears.
  Then the MACALLUM'S slogan. How the cheers
  Of SALISBURY must have fired him as he smote;
  Hacked at my character, hewed at my throat
  Like "sullen spearsman" upon Flodden field.
  The claymore, like his sires, he loved to wield.
  They lost their heads he says, for England's weal,
  And he--well, has he not lost _his_?

                                      I feel
  The mellow moorland air, gorse-scented, bland
  With heather odour, soothes me, like the hand
  Of gentle woman on an angry brow.
  Were the great-little Scotsman with me now,
  Like proud MCGREGOR on his native heath,
  Breathing pure-scented, honey-laden breath,
  How his cock-nose would drop, his flaming crest
  Droop and unruffle! He's a scold confest,
  A pedagogue incarnate; horn-book, tawse.
  Cramming and chastisement, not making laws,
  His talent and his temperament best befit.
  Yet--once he lent his eloquence and wit
  To aid the man he now maligns. Ah, me!
  "Tricky!"--"corrupt!"  What arrant fiddle-de-dee
  It sounds--upon these moors, beneath the blue
  Of unpolluted skies!

                          HOMER, to you
  I turn. ACHILLES in his wrath could rage,
  But scarce would stoop the wordy war to wage
  With poisoned epithet and shrewish flout
  Like scorpion-tongued THERSITES.

                          Here, no doubt,
  By Black Craig Castle party wasps would turn
  To honey-hiving bees. Oh, tinkling burn,
  You set my soul to music. HONEST JOHN,
  Valiant Sir WILLIAM, you must still fight on
  A little longer. Would ye both were here.
  ARMITSTEAD'S guests, like me, like me with cheer
  "Purely recuperative" holiday
  To take--"Over the Hills and Far Away!"

            [_Left lolling like a Lotus-eater._

       *       *       *       *       *

AN OLD FRIEND DUE NORTH.

For a really humorous drawing commend me to the picture in the _Daily
Graphic_ of Saturday, September 9, representing "the civic procession
to the luncheon given to Lord and Lady ABERDEEN by the Lord Mayor of
Liverpool." The stately party is preceded by a Piper--of course, it
is his worship the Mayor and common councillors who pay the piper
and call the tune on this occasion--who is stepping out jauntily.
But notice his glance; notice the Mayor's expression as he tries to
prevent himself laughing, and hides one eye with the sword of State;
notice Lord and Lady ABERDEEN, the latter looking a trifle annoyed,
while his Lordship is struggling with painfully suppressed merriment.
What is it that has nearly upset their gravity and spoilt the
procession? The explanation is at hand. On the left of the picture
in the foreground stands, _en evidence_ it is true, but with a
reverential air as of one who knows his place in society and keeps it,
our old friend and contributor, _Robert the Waiter_!! It must be he.
It is the very man, unless he has a Scotch double, or unless he was
born a twin, and the other ROBERT was a Scotchman. There he is. Get
the paper and see.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOAH'S ARK MASONRY.--For the first time _Mr. Punch_, G.A.U.W.G.M., and
Past Grand Everybody, met with mention of the "Royal Ark Mariners."
Do they belong to an offshoot, or rather an Olive Branch, of
Free-Masonry? "There are 3980 of them," says the _Daily Telegraph_.
Where do they meet? In an Ark? Do they enter in pairs? Of course,
NOAH himself was a Mason, seeing that aboard his own vessel _he_ was
Sailing Master of the Craft.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MAN IN THE SOUTH.

Having on some occasions during, I admit, the spring and autumn, spent
a few days at Pinemouth on the South-Western Coast, and having had
the enormous value of the place as an ultra salubrious health-restorer
most energetically impressed upon me from time to time by such
thoroughly disinterested persons as local members of the medical
profession who, as a rule, took their holiday during the summer
season, merely because they couldn't get the opportunity at any other
time--a fact in itself going a long way (as they themselves did--to
Switzerland and elsewhere) to prove the peculiar healthfulness of this
seaside resort, and the place having been further highly recommended
(by residents who, having houses to let for the summer, were quite
disinterested) as quiet and delightfully refreshing, and having, in
fact, heard all that could be said in favour of Pinemouth as a Summer
Resort by those who had only the welfare of their dear friends at
heart (and if such interest did put a little ready capital in their
pockets through taking their dear friends' houses--where is the
harm?), I, ROBINSON CRUSOE, Jun., "The Man of the First of August"
(that being the beginning of my tenancy) determined on trying
Pinemouth (a name that I find spelt with unpardonable familiarity in
some local guide-books, thus--"P'm'th"--an abbreviation leaving the
name scarcely a shred of its original character), and when I say so
boldly, "_I_ determined," any other Paterfamilias will at once know
what _that_ means.

[Illustration: Mr. Robinson Crusoe, Junior, deciding on where to spend
his few weeks' holiday.]

Of course, directly "P'm'th" was decided upon, some of our friends
shook their heads, others observed dubiously that "they _had_ heard it
wasn't such a _very_ bad place in August," while the majority bade me
farewell with forced cheeriness, expressed the heartiest hopes for our
health and happiness in the new climate we were going to try, and in
a general way our excellent friends and acquaintances were almost as
enthusiastic and hopeful on the score of our enjoying ourselves
and benefiting by the change, as were the American acquaintances of
_Martin Chuzzlewit_ and _Mark Tapley_ when those two emigrants were
starting for the great dismal swamp.

Finding that we had made all our arrangements, and had actually signed
and sealed the bond, and delivered ourselves over into the hands of
the "P'm'thians," our friends, who, as we subsequently ascertained,
had never been near the place, or, if they had, had been there at a
hopelessly wrong time, and had pitched their tents in an utterly wrong
quarter, made ill-disguised attempts at speaking gently and kindly of
"P'm'th," allowing that possibly "it might not, at this time of year,
be so hot as had been represented,"--a theory which, like one recently
put forward by a tender-hearted theologian, was immediately placed
in the _Index Expurgatorius_ by the Inevitable Uncompromising One who
professed a thorough knowledge of the climate, and who asserted that
in this particular year, when the Summer had been abnormally hot and
was going to be more abnormally hot than ever, we should find "P'm'th"
absolutely unbearable.

But, as the adventurous hero of "_Excelsior_" would listen to nobody,
so I (representing "we") refused to hear the prognosticators of woe,
and adhered manfully to my purpose. In the very hottest season, when
the thermometer in every London house went so high that it had to be
deluged with wholesome antiseptic Condyment, and doors and windows
were everywhere left open so as to obtain a through draught,--for
people lived on draughts of all sorts in those doggiest of dog-days
and on little else,--we, that is all the CRUSOES, were seated in our
garden looking on to the heather and the sea, open to all the winds
of heaven--and getting one of them, the south-east, blowing softly and
sweetly across our south-western height. Gracefully and gratefully
we arose to play tennis, and sat down again after the evening meal
to take our coffee and cigarettes. Bless thee, P'm'th! thou art
delicious! thou art refreshing! Hot in the hottest August ever known
thou certainly art, that is, at midday, down in your valley and your
town! But up above on the Western Heights, looking across an expanse
of purple and yellow, uninclosed by firs, pines, or larches, on to
the broad expanse of the deep blue sea, thou art all my fancy painted
thee, thou art cucumbery in thy coolness! and as I think of Royat and
Aix-les-Bains I smile a smile of gentle pitying wonder, and almost
feel inclined to piously pray for all poor bodies suffering from the
canicular heat, whether London doth still hold them in its toils, or
stifling, smelling Continental cities, are causing them to sigh for
the balmy breezes of Old England.

Thus then is it that "P'm'th"--that is "Pinemouth" in its abbreviated
form--is the place about which, as being comparatively unknown at this
season of the year, I beg to offer to _Mr. Punch_, and through him to
the world at large, for the ultimate benefit of way-worn travellers,
a few notes representing an uncommonly pleasant experience, which, by
the kind permission of "_Mr. P'n'h_" aforesaid, shall be "continued in
our next" by

  "THE MAN IN THE SOUTH."

       *       *       *       *       *

A WORD TO THE WEATHERWISE.

    [_Sir John Bridge_: Don't you think there is a great deal of
    chance as to the weather we are to have to-morrow? _Mr. Muir
    Mackenzie_: No. _Sir John Bridge_: The mass of mankind think
    there is. _Mr. Muir Mackenzie_: Unfortunately the mass
    of mankind are very ignorant.--Bow Street Police Court,
    Wednesday, September 6.]

  Oh, Mr. MUIR MACKENZIE! we're right glad
    To hear this news of meteorology.
  Farewell to all the many doubts we've had,
    The thing's as easy now as A B C.
  _You_ know to-morrow's weather at a glance,
    So, though we would not willingly o'ertask you,
  When next we seek the weather in advance,
    We'll simply drop a letter-card to ask you.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CURE.--"No," said Mrs. R., after some consideration, "although I
do feel a touch of rheumatism now and then, yet I do not fancy going
abroad for treatment. There's some place where you drink waters and
take a bath, and then are tucked up in bed for the remainder of
the day. It's in Germany, I fancy, and I think they call the place
_Underdelinen_."

       *       *       *       *       *

A HINT.

  You read my verse; the praises you bestow
    Can make innocuous the critic's curse,
  Vain his attack, unfelt his shrewdest blow,
        _You_ read my verse.

  You like the rhymes; think not their writer worse
    If just one hint he cannot well forego,
  The bard, to put it in a manner terse,
    Does not exist on praise alone, you know,
  And sympathy can hardly fill his purse;--
    You borrow, and you do not _buy_, although
        You read my verse!

       *       *       *       *       *

"GONE NAP!"--It is all up with Mr. G.! The distinguished M.P. for St.
Pancras, in whose lineaments _Mr. Punch_ traced a marked resemblance
to the features of the Great Emperor of the French, and there and
thenceforth raising him from the rank of Mr. PELL as he was formerly
known, immediately christening him "NAPOLEON BOLTONPARTY" (with
likeness drawn by LIKA-JOKO), even he has joined the Unionist
Opposition. He is no longer "Going Nap," he has gone. Doubtless,
Conservatives have their eye on him: but NAPOLEON BOLTONPARTY is too
wary to be caught "napping."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: INEXPENSIVE HOSPITALITY.

_Fussy Wife._ "MY DEAR, WHAT COULD HAVE INDUCED YOU TO INVITE ALL
THOSE PEOPLE? WHY, OUR LITTLE DINING-ROOM WON'T HOLD THEM! AND FOR A
SUNDAY, TOO!!"

_Sagacious Husband._ "MY DEAR, DON'T FUSS YOURSELF! THERE IS A SORT
OF A '_DON'T-DINE-OUT-ON-A-SUNDAY_' LOOK ABOUT THEM WHICH MADE IT
PERFECTLY SAFE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, September 4._--What happened to-night
in connection with the Blameless BARTLEY, Bart., should have useful
effect in checking the tendencies of the censorious. Having settled
business arrangements by moving Resolution, Mr. G. skipped out of
House to pack up for his journey to Scotland. No boy at end of term
more eager for holiday; none more thoroughly earned. In heat of
discussion going forward on details of Resolution Mr. G.'s departure
not generally noticed. Only one faithful eye--or, to be precise, a
couple--followed his passage behind SPEAKER'S chair. Eyes dimmed with
tears. For months, from early February to these young September days,
BARTLEY, Bart., has sat opposite Mr. G., has, so to speak, lived in
his large and magnificent eye. Now association about to be dissevered
by withdrawal of the stately presence from Treasury Bench. And only
the other day he had referred to BARTLEY as "the Hon. Baronet"!

For a while BARTLEY, Bart., sat silent and sorrowing. If it had been
the custom to wear sackcloth on the Opposition benches, and any ashes
had been handy, he would undoubtedly have endeavoured to discover what
secret consolation their use conveys. Nothing of the kind to be had
on the premises. After brooding for a while, he up and spoke. "Where's
the PRIME MINISTER?" he cried aloud. House hardly recognised in this
wailing voice the stern accents with which it is familiar from the
same quarter. "It is not proper that the House should sit without the
PRIME MINISTER."

SQUIRE OF MALWOOD (after all a kind-hearted man, quick to sympathy)
endeavoured to comfort the Bereaved. "Not proper," he exclaimed, "for
House to sit without presence of PRIME MINISTER! Why, for six years we
had no Prime Minister here."

"That's all very well, but," as BARTLEY, still weeping for the PREMIER
and not to be comforted, subsequently observed to Admiral FIELD, "you
can't mend a broken heart by a quip." HANBURY and TOMMY BOWLES did
their best to soothe him; walked him up and down the Terrace; gave him
a cup of tea, a bottle of smelling salts, and a cabinet portrait
of Mr. G. But it was only late at night, when House had got into
Committee, he so far recovered as to move to reduce a vote by £100,
in order to plead for some amelioration of the lot of the Treasury
Valuer.

_Business done._--Arrangements completed for Autumn Session.

[Illustration: LAST WEEK.

_Possible but improbable Scene in the Upper House, which perhaps Mr.
J-hn B-rns, M.P., may "regret he did not see._"]

_House of Lords, Tuesday._--Remember one night in years gone by,
whilst HARTINGTON was still with us in the Commons, he interrupted
one of his own speeches by a portentous yawn. Complimented him on the
feat; few men, I said, would have the pluck to do it; might yawn at
other people's speeches, but never at their own.

"Ah, TOBY," said COUNTY GUY, "you don't know how dem'd dull the speech
was. You only had to listen to some of it. I had to deliver it all."

Thought of this to-night listening to old friend in Lords, now
scarcely disguised as Duke of DEVONSHIRE. Spoke for nearly two hours.
Those who read it will find speech admirable; one of the best, most
weighty, indictments of Home Rule and the tactics that have brought it
into position of Ministerial measure. But alack! for those who heard
it, or, at least, sat through the two hours; not many, all told; an
hour enough for THE MACULLUM MORE; other Peers on both sides of House
folded their tents like the Arab, and as silently stole away. The
MARKISS gallantly kept his place, sitting for some time with closed
eyes, the better to concentrate his attention. PRINCE ARTHUR and JOEY
C.--lovely in the Commons, in the Lords not divided--stood sturdily
on either side of the Throne. "The Lion and the Unicorn supporting the
Crown," said ROSEBERY, glancing across at them.

[Illustration: Supporting the Crown.]

For the ladies in the gallery, mothers and daughters, DEVONSHIRE not
so attractive a _parti_ as was HARTINGTON. Still, he is a pillar of
the Union, a brand snatched from the burning pile to which the wicked
hand of Mr. G. applied the traitrous torch. So they sat and
listened--half an hour, three-quarters of an hour, an hour. Then was
heard the light rustle of dainty dresses; doors softly opened along
the Gallery; for a moment a fair figure stood framed in it, with
guilty glance around to see if she was observed; then, with winning
"back-in-five-minutes" look on innocent face, she hastily stepped out.

[Illustration: The Devonshire Yawn.]

The Duke saw none of these things nor cared for them. He had a duty
to perform, and long before OLD MORALITY was heard of, the CAVENDISHES
did their duty. He plodded on through the melancholy night; stolidly
turning over the pages of his notes; stubbornly repressing a growing
tendency to yawn; catching his voice up when it wearily sank to the
level of his boots; making most pathetic effort to keep it going.
Usually it fell away at the end of the third or fourth sentence, to be
pulled up with harsh jerk at commencement of one that followed. A
good man struggling with the adversity of having to make a speech on
a topic harried to death in the other House through course of over
eighty days.

"Yes," said the Member for Sark, waking up from gentle slumber
indulged in in corner seat at end of Gallery; "but why didn't he halve
his adversity? If he'd been content with an hour we should all have
been grateful, and he would have been spared a moiety of his anguish."

_Business done._--Second Reading of Home-Rule Bill moved in House of
Lords.

_Thursday._--Again a crowded assembly in Lords to-night to hear its
most brilliant Member. The Bishops, in great force, clustered, a group
of fluttering white lawn, on right of Woolsack. "The white flower of
a blameless Parliamentary life," the MARKISS says of them. Not an inch
of red benches visible on Opposition side. Even Ministerial benches
full, though, as was made clear in course of debate, not all who sit
there are Ministerialists. ROSEBERY, looking more boyish than ever,
sat amid the elders on Front Bench; makes no sign of intention
to follow SELBORNE; takes no note nor betrays other evidence of
uneasiness. SELBORNE preaches for hour and half. Understood to be
sermon worthy of his fame; we Commoners in gallery over bar could hear
only fragmentary portions of sentences. Reported that SELBORNE had
lost his notes; Member for Sark recognises most kindly interposition
of Providence.

"If he speaks for hour and half with only recollection of his notes
where would he have been if he had them?" Must get WEIR to put that
conundrum to CHANCELLOR of the Exchequer.

Grateful to ROSEBERY, since at least we can hear him, though he, too,
now and then falls into habit of dropping end of sentence. This
the less excusable, since none of them are heavy. A clever speech,
scarcely obscuring what seems to be difficult position. "Dancing among
the eggs," is BALFOUR OF BURGHLEY'S commentary. Of all listeners in
the brilliant throng none so attentive as the MARKISS. Seems, on the
whole, to like speech better than does SPENCER.

"Reminds me, TOBY," MARKISS says, "of what LOVELACE wrote to LUCASTA,
'on going to the wars.' How does it run?

  I could not love Home Rule so much
    Loved I not GLADSTONE more."

In the Commons pegging away at estimates; occasional explosions;
JOSEPH, popping in from Lords, said a few genial words just to keep
matters going, and disappeared again. Came back after midnight in time
to have a round with SQUIRE OF MALWOOD.

Uneasy feeling prevalent consequent on announcement made early in
sitting that charwoman employed in service of House has died of
cholera. This regarded as being exceedingly inconsiderate. Questions
usually every day about cholera at Grimsby and Hull. That all very
well; an incident possible to regard with philosophical mind. But
cholera in our own kitchen quite another sort of microbe.

"I'm a family man," said COBB. "It's no use denying it, and I will not
attempt it. Was thinking of staying to see this out; begin to think
the Session unduly prolonged. In short, if I may quote an old proverb
adapted to the occasion, I would say, When cholera comes in by the
window COBB goes out by the door." _Business done._--Third night
Home-Rule debate in Lords. Supply in Commons.

[Illustration: "Finished."]

_Saturday_, 1 A.M.--All up with Little Bill-ee. His worst fears are
realised. Whilst Captain WILLYUM: has been having a quiet, restful
time among the heather, Guzzling BOB and Gorging HARTY have worked
their wicked will on the Innocent. Snickersees have been drawn; blows
have been dealt; the hunger of Ulster has been satisfied; Little
Bill-ee has been killed and eaten.

"Just so," said the LORD CHANCELLOR from behind his wig; "a meal
eagerly partaken of. Now we've nothing to do but to wait awhile, and
see how it agrees with them. You remember, TOBY, the letters engraved
on the tomb of her late husband by the sorrowing widow in Ohio?

S. Y. L.

'See you later,' she explained to inquiring friends, was its portent.
S. Y. L., Little Bill-ee, S. Y. L.!"

_Business done._--Lords throw out Home-Rule Bill by 419 Votes against
41.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sartorial.

  "Naked and not ashamed" our "Interests" stand,
  "Scourge of our Toil, monopolist of our Land!"
  So someone says. But 'twill be found, if tested,
  These "naked" interests are mostly _vested_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A REAL "MAYOR'S NEST."--The platform (presided over by the Mayor of
Bristol) on the occasion of the opening of the Bristol Fine Art and
Industrial Exhibition. (See Illustrated Papers _passim_.)

       *       *       *       *       *

MOTTO FOR A MAN REPRIEVED FROM THE GALLOWS.--No noose is good news.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Note:

Damaged and missing punctuation has been repaired.

Page 122: 'fragant' corrected to 'fragrant'. '(Fair laden with "the
fragrant weed"), "A Quiet Pipe!"'

page 125: 'cruised' corrected to 'cruiser'. armour-plated cruiser
_Impartial_





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