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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, July 28th 1894
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. 107, July 28th 1894" ***

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

VOL. 107.
JULY 28, 1894.


                          BY G***GE M*R*D*TH.

                               VOLUME I.

This was a school. Small wonder if the boys, doubly sensitive under a
supercilious head-master of laughter-moving invention, poised for a
moment on the to and fro of a needless knockabout jig-face with chin and
mouth all a-pucker for the inquisitive contest. The stout are candid
puff-balls blowing in an open sea of purposeless panting, hard to stir
into an elephantine surging from arm-chairs; and these are for
frock-coats, and they can wear watch-chains. So these boys understood
it. MURAT here, MURAT there, MURAT everywhere, with SHALDERS a-burst at
the small end of a trumpet, cheeks rounded to the full note of an
usher's eulogy, like a roar and no mistake, arduous in the moment,
throbbing beneath a schoolmaster's threadbare waistcoat, a heart all
dandelions to the plucker, yellow on top with white shifts for
feather-fringe; or a daisy, transferring petulance on a bath-chair
wheezing and groaning--on the swing for the capture of a fare--or shall
it be a fair, that too a wheeze permitted to propriety hoist on a flaxy,
grinning chub. This was SHALDERS.

Lady CHARLOTTE EGLETT appeared. Hers was the brother, the Lord ORMONT we
know, a general of cavalry not a doubt, all sabretache, spurs and
plumes, dashing away into a Hindoo desert like the soldier he is, a born
man sword in fist. She wrote, "Come to me. He is said to be married."

He spoke to her. "My father was a soldier."

"He too?" she interposed.

Their eyes clashed.

"You are the tutor for me," she added.

"For your grandson," corrected he.

It was a bargain. They struck it. She glanced right and left, showing
the town-bred tutor her hedges at the canter along the main road of her


His admiration of the cavalry-brother rose to a fever-point. Not good
with the pen, Lady CHARLOTTE opined; hard to beat at a sword-thrust,
thought MATEY. "Be his pen-holder," put in the lady. "I _would_," said
he, smiling again. She split sides, convulsed in a take-offish murmur, a
roll here, a roll there, rib-tickling with eyes goggling on the
forefront of a sentence all rags, tags, and splutters like a
jerry-builder gaping at a waste land pegged out in plots, foundations on
the dig, and auctioneer prowling hither thither, hammer ready for the
"gone" which shall spin a nobody's land into a somebody's money passing
over counter or otherwise pocket to pocket, full to empty or almost
empty, with a mowling choke-spark of a batter-foot all quills for the
bean-feast. So they understood it.

MATEY then was Lord ORMONT'S secretary. A sad dog his Lordship; all the
women on bended knees to his glory. Who shall own him? What cares he so
it be a petticoat? For women go the helter-skelter pace; head-first they
plunge or kick like barking cuckoos. You can tether them with a dab for
Sir FRANCIS JEUNE. He will charge a jury to the right-about of a
crapulous fallow-ball, stiff as Rhadamanthus eyeing the tremblers. But
MATEY had met this one before. Memories came pouring. He gazed. Was she,
in truth, Lord ORMONT'S? The thought spanked him in the face. A wife?
Possibly. And with an aunt--AMINTA'S aunt. She has a nose like a trout
skimming a river for flies, then rises a minute and you not there,
always too late with rod and line for sport. But there was danger to
these two, and Lord ORMONT was writing his Memoirs. A mad splashing of
unnecessary ink on the foolscap made for his head, never more to wear
the plumed cocked hat in a clash of thunder-bearing squadrons.

                             END OF VOL. I.

                               * * * * *

                       A VADE MECUM FOR THE NAVAL

                      (_Compiled by a Pessimist._)

_Question._ Will the Naval Manoeuvres of 1894 have any novel features?

_Answer._ Only in the imagination of the special correspondents.

_Q._ Will there be the customary coloured fleets?

_A._ Yes, with the usual commanders, officers and men.

_Q._ Will the lesson that a fleet having speed equal to a pursuing
fleet, if given a start, will escape, be taught to all concerned?

_A._ Yes, to the great admiration of the authorities at Somerset House
and Whitehall.

_Q._ Will it be demonstrated that if a town on the coast is left
undefended, a hostile ironclad will be able to bombard it at pleasure?

_A._ Yes, to the satisfaction of every scientist in the United Kingdom.

_Q._ Will it also be made clear to the meanest comprehension that if the
night is sufficiently dark, and search-lights insufficient, a fleet will
get out of a harbour in spite of considerable opposition?

_A._ Yes, to the great appreciation of the world at large, and the
British public in particular.

_Q._ Will there be the customary secrecy about self-evident facts and
trivial details?

_A._ Yes, to the annoyance of the newspaper correspondents, and the
indignation of editors thirsting for copy.

_Q._ And, lastly, how may the Naval Manoeuvres be appropriately defined?

_A._ As the means of obtaining the minimum of information at the maximum
of expense.

                               * * * * *

                          A PAINFUL POSITION.

                  It is my base biographer
                    I've haunted all day long.
                  He's writing out my character,
                    And every word is wrong.

                  With the wrong vices I'm indued,
                    And the wrong virtues too;
                  My motives he has misconstrued
                    As only he could do.

                  I read the copy sheet by sheet
                    As it issues from his pen,
                  And this, this travesty complete
                    Will be my doom from men!

                  I've wrestled hard with psychic force--
                    It is in vain, in vain!
                  His nerves were ever tough and coarse,
                    Impervious his brain.

                  Ah, could a merely psychic spell
                    Ignite an earthly match!
                  Or could a hand impalpable
                    Material "copy" snatch!

                  I'm as incompetent as mist
                    The enemy to rack.
                  Ah, if a spiritual fist
                    An earthly eye could black!

                  A paper-weight it lies below,
                    It cannot be dispersed!
                  The publisher will never know
                    _Who_ read that copy first!

                  His gliding pen, for all my hate,
                    Has never gone awry;
                  "All rights reserved," they'll calmly state,
                    O'er me. And here am I!

                               * * * * *

                          GUESSES AT GOODWOOD.

(_By a Transatlantic Cousin, according to English ideas._)

That I shall get puppar to take me and mother down in real style.

That we will wake up sleepy old Europe, and show these insolent insulars
that we are above small potatos.

That I shall cut out the Britisher Misses, and make their mummars sit

That I shall take care that luncheon is not neglected, and see that all
my party, like the omnibuses, are full inside.

That I shall think very small of the races, so long as I get my boxes of

That I shall do credit to the best society of Boston and the seminaries
of New York by speaking through my nose a mixture of slang and nonsense.

That I shall call his Grace of Canterbury "Archbishop," and any owner of
strawberry leaves "Duke."

That I shall wear a gown trimmed with diamonds, and have my parasols
made of net and precious stones. That I shall conceal the fact that
puppar made his money out of the sale of wooden nutmegs and mother's
aunt was a laundress.

That I shall flirt with a Duke at the Races, marry him at St. George's,
and give up for ever the stars and stripes.

P.S. (_by a Transatlantic Cousin, according to American ideas_).--I
shall continue to wonder at an English girl's notions of her kinswomen
when there are so many charming specimens of refined Columbian
gentlewomen resettled in the old home of the Anglo-Saxon race.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE," &c.

SCENE--_Hounds on drag of Otter, which has turned up small tributary

_Miss Di (six feet in her stockings, to deeply-enamoured Curate, five
feet three in his, whom she has inveigled out Otter-hunting)._ "OH, DO

                   [_The Rev. Spooner's sensations are somewhat mixed._]

                               * * * * *


_Paris_ ... LORD R-S-B-RY. _Venus (à la Japonaise)_ ...
SIR EDW-N ARN-LD. _Juno_ ... L-W-S M-RR-S. _Minerva_ ... ALFR-D A-ST-N.]

                               * * * * *

                         THE APPLE OF DISCORD.

                   (_Modern Parliamentary Version._)

    [Replying to questions concerning the delay in filling up the
    post of Poet Laureate, Sir W. HARCOURT said, "This is a delicate
    question, and, amidst conflicting claims, I must shelter myself
    in the decency of the learned language, and I would reply,
    '_Poeta nascitur, non fit._' ... My hon. friend must remember
    what happened to the shepherd Paris when he had to award the
    apple, and the misfortunes which befel him and his
    partners--_spretæque injuria formæ_."]

                    _Unpoetical Statesman sings:_--

            I'm Paris the Shepherd, _pro tem._,
              And here are the three pseudo-goddesses!--
            Different, truly, from them
              Who appeared, without veils, skirts, or bodices,
            Unto oenone's false swain.
              Well, I've no oenone to wig me;
            _But_--at the first glance it's so plain,
              Paris can't give the fruit to--a pigmy.

            HERÉ? Ah! this must be she!
              A classico-Cambrian Juno!
            Propriety's pink _all_ must see;
              But what other claims has she? Few know!
            Dull decency's all very fine;
              She has a fine smack of the chapel;
            But, dash it, I still must decline
              To give Goddess Grundy the apple!

            I'm sure she's domestic and chaste,
              A virtuous, worthy old body;
            But--that's scarce a goddess's waist,
              Her tone, too, is--well, Eisteddfoddy.
            I fear, if I gave the award
              To this _ex_cellentest of old ladies,
            Apollo might send me--'twere hard!--
              To read one of her Epics--in Hades!

            Then Pallas! Well, Pallas looks proud,
              And I have no doubt might deserve a
            Big crown from a true Primrose crowd:
              But--she runs rather small for Minerva!
            Men _might_ mistake her for her owl.
              "Her rhymes," say swell Tories, "are rippin'!"
            But still, though the _Standard_ may scowl,
              I _can't_ award Pallas the pippin!

            And then Aphrodite! Oh my!
              In that dress she must feel rather freezy.
            There's confidence, though, in her eye,
              She is taking it quite Japanesy.
            That _musumé_ smile's quite a fetch,
              And yet--I acknowledge--between us--
            (They'll call me a cold-blooded wretch)
              I _can't_ stand a Japanese Venus!

            And so "the Hesperian fruit"
              I must really reserve--for the present.
            Yes. Heré will call me a brute,
              And Pallas say things most unpleasant,
            Aphrodite--won't _she_ give me beans!
              They all want the pippin--you bet it!
            To grab it each "goddess" quite means,
              And oh! don't they wish they may get it?

                               * * * * *

"The New Woman" (according to the type suggested by the 'Revolt
of the Daughters') should be known as "The Revolting Woman."

                               * * * * *

                      A BALLADE OF THREE VOLUMES.

                  O awful sentence that we read,
                  O news that really seems to stun,
                  For Messrs. MUDIE have decreed,
                  And also Messrs. SMITH AND SON,
                  Henceforth consistently to shun
                  The trilogies we value so,
                  And that, for thus the tidings run,
                  Three-volume novels are to go!

                  Reflect to what it soon must lead,
                  This rash reform which you've begun;
                  How can the novelist succeed
                  In packing tragedy and fun
                  Within the space of Volume One?
                  Already his returns are low,
                  Soon he'll be utterly undone--
                  Three-volume novels are to go!

                  And then for us, who humbly plead
                  For long romances deftly spun,
                  Will not these stern barbarians heed
                  Our concentrated malison?
                  Alas, your literary Hun
                  Nor sorrow nor remorse can know;
                  He cries in anger, "Simpleton,
                  Three-volume novels are to go!"


                  Prince, writers' rights--forgive the pun--
                  And readers' too, forbid the blow;
                  Of triple pleasure there'll be none,
                  Three-volume novels are to go!

                               * * * * *

Mrs. R. says she "quite understands the truth of the ancient proverb
which says that 'the man who has a family has given sausages to

                               * * * * *

                            LYRE AND LANCET.

                         (_A Story in Scenes._)

                    PART IV.--RUSHING TO CONCLUSIONS.

SCENE IV.--_A First-Class Compartment._

_Spurrell (to himself)._ Formidable old party opposite me in the furs!
Nice-looking girl over in the corner; not a patch on my EMMA, though!
Wonder why I catch 'em sampling me over their papers whenever I look up!
Can't be anything wrong with my turn out. Why, of course, they heard TOM
talk about my going down to Wyvern Court; think I'm a visitor there and
no end of a nob! Well, what snobs some people are, to be sure!

_Lady Cantire (to herself)._ So this is the young poet I made ALBINIA
ask to meet me. I can't be mistaken, I distinctly heard his friend
mention _Andromeda_. H'm, well, it's a comfort to find he's _clean!_
Have I read his poetry or not? I know I _had_ the book, because I
distinctly remember telling MAISIE she wasn't to read it--but--well,
that's of no consequence. He looks clever and quite respectable--not in
the least picturesque--which is fortunate. I was beginning to doubt
whether it was quite prudent to bring MAISIE; but I needn't have worried

_Lady Maisie (to herself)._ Here, actually in the same carriage! Does he
guess who _I_ am? Somehow----Well, he certainly _is_ different from what
I expected. I thought he would show more signs of having thought and
suffered; for he _must_ have suffered to write as he does. If Mamma knew
I had read his poems; that I had actually written to beg him not to
refuse Aunt ALBINIA'S invitation! He never wrote back. Of course I
didn't put my address; but still, he could have found out from the Red
Book if he'd cared. I'm rather glad now he _didn't_ care.

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Old girl seems as if she meant to be sociable;
better give her an opening. (_Aloud._) Hem! would you like the window
down an inch or two?

_Lady Cant._ Not on _my_ account, thank you.

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Broke the ice, anyway. (_Aloud._) Oh, _I_ don't
want it down, but some people are fond of fresh air.

_Lady Cant. (with a dignified little shiver)._ With a temperature as
glacial as it is in here! Surely not!

_Spurr._ Well, it _is_ chilly; been raw all day. (_To himself._) She
don't answer. I _haven't_ broken the ice.

                                   [_He produces a memorandum book._

_Lady Maisie (to herself)._ He hasn't said anything _very_ original yet.
So _nice_ of him not to pose! Oh, he's got a note-book; he's going to
compose a poem. How interesting!

    [Illustration: "He's going to compose a poem. How interesting!"]

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Yes, I'm all right if _Voluptuary_ wins the
Lincolnshire Handicap; lucky to get on at the price I did. When will the
weights come out for the City and Suburban? Let's see whether the Pink
'Un has anything about it.

                               [_He refers to the "Sporting Times."_

_Lady Maisie (to herself)._ The inspiration's stopped--_what_ a pity!
How odd of him to read the _Globe_! I thought he was a Democrat!

_Lady Cant._ MAISIE, there's quite a clever little notice in _Society
Snippets_ about the dance at SKYMPINGS last week. I'm sure I wonder how
they pick up these things; it quite bears out what I was told; says the
supper arrangements were "simply disgraceful; _no_ plovers' eggs, and
not nearly enough champagne; and what there was, undrinkable!" So _like_
poor dear Lady CHESEPARE; never _does_ do things like anybody else. I'm
sure _I've_ given her hints enough!

_Spurr. (to himself, with a suppressed grin)._ Wants to let me see _she_
knows some swells. Now _ain't_ that paltry?

_Lady Cant. (tendering the paper)._ Would you like to see it, MAISIE?
Just this hit here; where my finger is.

_Lady Maisie (to herself, flushing)._ I saw him smile. What _must_ he
think of us, with his splendid scorn for rank? (_Aloud._) No, thank you,
Mamma; such a wretched light to read by!

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Chance for _me_ to cut in! (_Aloud._) Beastly
light, isn't it? 'Pon my word, the company ought to provide us with a
dog and string apiece when we get out!

_Lady Cant. (bringing a pair of long-handled glasses to bear upon him)._
I happen to hold shares in this line. May I ask _why_ you consider a
provision of dogs and string at all the stations a necessary or
desirable expenditure?

_Spurr._ Oh--er--well, you know, I only meant, bring on _blindness_ and
that. Harmless attempt at a joke, that's all.

_Lady Cant._ I see. I scarcely expected that _you_ would condescend to
such weakness. I--ah--think you are going down to stay at Wyvern for a
few days, are you not?

_Spurr (to himself)._ I was right. What TOM said _did_ fetch the old
girl; no harm in humouring her a bit. (_Aloud._) Yes--oh yes,
they--aw--wanted me to run down when I could.

_Lady Cant._ I heard they were expecting you. You will find Wyvern a
pleasant house--for a short visit.

_Spurr (to himself). She_ heard! Oh, she wants to kid me she knows the
CULVERINS. Rats! (_Aloud._) Shall I, though? I daresay.

_Lady Cant._ Lady CULVERIN is a very sweet woman; a little limited,
perhaps, not intellectual, or quite what one would call the _grande
dame_; but perhaps _that_ could scarcely be expected.

_Spurr. (vaguely)._ Oh, of course not--no. (_To himself._) If she
bluffs, so can I! (_Aloud._) It's funny your turning out to be an
acquaintance of Lady C.'s, though.

_Lady Cant._ You think so? But I should hardly call myself an

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Old cat's trying to back out of it now; she
_shan't_, though! (_Aloud._) Oh, then I suppose you know Sir RUPERT

_Lady Cant._ Yes, I certainly know Sir RUPERT better.

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Oh, you do, do you? We'll see. (_Aloud._) Nice
cheery old chap, Sir RUPERT, isn't he? I must tell him I travelled down
in the same carriage with a particular friend of his. (_To himself._)
That'll make her sit up!

_Lady Cant._ Oh, then you and my brother RUPERT have met already?

_Spurr. (aghast)._ Your brother! Sir RUPERT CULVERIN your----! Excuse
me--if I'd only known, I--I do assure you I never should have dreamt of

_Lady Cant. (graciously)._ You've said nothing whatever to distress
yourself about. You couldn't possibly be expected to know who I was.
Perhaps I had better tell you at once that I am Lady CANTIRE, and this
is my daughter, Lady MAISIE MULL. (SPURRELL _returns_ Lady MAISIE'S
_little bow in the deepest confusion._) We are going down to Wyvern too,
so I hope we shall very soon become better acquainted.

_Spurr. (to himself, overwhelmed)._ The deuce we shall! I _have_ got
myself into a hole this time; I wish I could see my way well out of it!
Why on earth couldn't I hold my confounded tongue? I _shall_ look an ass
when I tell 'em.

                 [_He sits staring at them in silent embarrassment._

                SCENE V.--_A Second-Class Compartment._

_Undershell (to himself)._ Singularly attractive face this girl has; so
piquant and so refined! I can't help fancying she is studying me under
her eyelashes. She has remarkably bright eyes. Can she be interested in
me? does she expect me to talk to her? There are only she and I--but no,
just now I would rather be alone with my thoughts. This MAISIE MULL whom
I shall meet so soon; what is _she_ like, I wonder? I presume she is
unmarried. If I may judge from her artless little letter, she is young
and enthusiastic, and she is a passionate admirer of my verse; she is
longing to meet me. I suppose some men's vanity would be flattered by a
tribute like that. I think I must have none; for it leaves me strangely
cold. I did not even reply; it struck me that it would be difficult to
do so with any dignity, and she didn't tell me where to write to....
After all, how do I know that this will not end--like everything
else--in disillusion? Will not such crude girlish adoration pall upon me
in time? If she were exceptionally lovely; or say, even as charming as
this fair fellow-passenger of mine--why then, to be sure--but no,
something warns me that that is not to be. I shall find her plain,
sandy, freckled; she will render me ridiculous by her undiscriminating
gush.... Yes, I feel my heart sink more and more at the prospect of this
visit. Ah me!

                                                [_He sighs heavily._

_His Fellow Passenger (to herself)._ It's too silly to be sitting here
like a pair of images, considering that----(_Aloud._) I hope you aren't
feeling unwell?

_Und._ Thank you, no, not unwell. I was merely thinking.

_His Fellow P._ You don't seem very cheerful over it, I must say. I've
no wish to be inquisitive, but perhaps you're feeling a little
lowspirited about the place you're going to?

_Und._ I--I must confess I am rather dreading the prospect. How
wonderful that you should have guessed it!

_His Fellow P._ Oh, I've been through it myself. I'm just the same when
_I_ go down to a new place; feel a sort of sinking, you know, as if the
people were sure to be disagreeable, and I should never get on with

_Und. Exactly_ my own sensations! If I could only be sure of finding
_one_ kindred spirit, one soul who would help and understand me. But I
daren't let myself hope even for that!

_His Fellow P._ Well, I wouldn't judge beforehand. The chances are
there'll be _somebody_ you can take to.

_Und. (to himself)._ What sympathy! What bright, cheerful common sense!
(_Aloud._) Do you know, you encourage me more than you can possibly

_His Fellow P. (retreating)._ Oh, if you are going to take my remarks
like _that_, I shall be afraid to go on talking to you!

_Und. (with pathos)._ Don't--_don't_ be afraid to talk to me! If you
only knew the comfort you give! I have found life very sad, very
solitary. And true sympathy is so rare, so refreshing. I--I fear such an
appeal from a stranger may seem a little startling; it is true that
hitherto we have only exchanged a very few sentences; and yet already I
feel that we have something--much--in common. You can't be so cruel as
to let all intimacy cease here--it is quite tantalising enough that it
must end so soon. A very few more minutes, and this brief episode will
be only a memory; I shall have left the little green oasis far behind
me, and be facing the dreary desert once more--alone!

_His Fellow P. (laughing)._ Well, of all the uncomplimentary things! As
it happens, though, "the little green oasis"--as you're kind enough to
call me--_won't_ be left behind; not if it's aware of it! I think I
heard your friend mention Wyvern Court! Well, that's where _I_'m going.

_Und. (excitedly)._ You--_you_ are going to Wyvern Court! Why, then, you
must be----

                                               [_He checks himself._

_His Fellow P._ What were you going to say; _what_ must I be?

_Und. (to himself)._ There is no doubt about it; bright, independent
girl; gloves a trifle worn; travels second-class for economy; it must be
Miss MULL herself; her letter mentioned Lady CULVERIN as her aunt. A
poor relation, probably. She doesn't suspect that I am----I won't reveal
myself just yet; better let it dawn upon her gradually. (_Aloud._) Why,
I was only about to say, why then you must be going to the same house as
I am. How extremely fortunate a coincidence!

_His Fellow P._ We shall see. (_To herself._) What a funny little man;
such a flowery way of talking for a footman. Oh, but I forgot; he said
he _wasn't_ going to wear livery. Well, he _would_ look a sight in it!

                               * * * * *



                               * * * * *

to the "Hackney Training Schools."

                               * * * * *




                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "EVICTED TENANTS."



                                       [_Exeunt Bills, dejectedly._]

                               * * * * *

                           "EVICTED TENANTS."

    ["It is impracticable to proceed in the present Session with
    some of the great measures to which the Government is pledged,
    such, for example, as that relating to the Church in Wales, the
    Registration Bill, and the Local Veto Bill."--_Sir William

                    _Little Local Veto, loquitur:_--

  Oh, exactly! Just what I expected! And after such volumes of talk!
  My prospects you told me were brilliant, and here it all ends--in
    a baulk!
  O, won't I just work up Sir WILFRID, and won't I just wake Mister
  But there, you can't trust _anybody_, these times, that's
    exceedingly plain.
  And _you_ too, my own bringer-up, to turn _me_ out of house and of
  Oho, you unnatural parent! And where shall we wanderers roam--
  Poor Taffy, and young (Registration) Bill--look at him
    limping!--and Me?
  And the other ones tucked up inside, and especially that impudent
  The Irish, the Scotch, and the London boys, whom you so favour and
  Are laughing at us from the window. But, drat them, their turn may
    come yet.
  They may have to turn out, after all! BILLY BUDGET of course is
    all right,
  For you fought for your favourite che-ild, and, by Jingo, it _has_
    been a fight!
  But what have _I_ done to be rounded on? Call yourself boss of the
  Why, the BARTLEYS, and BOWLESES, and BOLTONS and BYRNES simply
    laugh in your face!
  What use to be landlord at all if you can't choose your tenants?
    Oh my!
  That odious Bung--one more B!--has the laugh of me still! I could
  But I _won't_. I will kick! I'm not meek, like those other two
    poor little BILLS;
  Look, how limp and dejected they go, though against their poor
    dear little wills!
  But _I_ am not going to be put upon. I'll make it awkward all round.
  You won't treat me so any more; you won't "chuck" me again, I'll
    be bound.
  And what Compensation have I, for Disturbance? Eh! what's that you
  "All right?"--"Reinstatement--next year?"--"Pass away, my dears,
    please, pass away?"--
  Ah! it's all very fine to look pleasant and promise fair
    things--at the door;
  But that's regular constable blarney, old boy, and _you've done it
  Meanwhile we're Evicted, worse luck! like the poor Irish Tenants
    whose case
  Those busy B's muster to fight over. Ah! you put on a bold face,
  But _we_ ain't the only Pill Garlics! No; some of 'em still left
  Will yet join us, out in the cold, as will p'raps be a pill to
    their pride!

                                               [_Exit with other Bills._

                               * * * * *

THE COLONEL AND THE QUIVER.--Our own Colonel SAUNDERSON, M.P., was never
better at his best than when, in the debate last Thursday night, he
said, "If the Bill passes, a quiver of horror will run through every
tenant, &c., &c." Of course the gallant Colonel meant "arrow" or "dart,"
not "quiver." A dart or an arrow will run through a person, piercing him
in front, and reappearing at back. But "quiver" doesn't do this sort of
thing. An arrow so transfixing a body may make it quiver--but this is
another matter. More power to the quivering elbow of the gallant

                               * * * * *

                          LA FEMME DE CLAUDE.

                When lovely woman stoops to folly,
                  You'll find, according to DUMAS,
                One certain cure for melancholy:--

                French law, that damns you in the letter,
                  In spirit _change tout cela_;
                They always manage matters better

                These are the lines to play the man on;
                  Take her defenceless, cry "_Holà!_"
                And trotting out the nimble cannon,

                Or take for choice the common cartridge;
                  Pop goes _le p'tit fusil, comme ça_!
                You bag her neatly like a partridge

                "_L'Homme-Femme_" may haunt the bosom British;
                  _Là France_ goes trolling "_Ça ira!_"
                And waives the question with a skittish

                No mutual recriminations,
                  No counterplea, _et cetera_;
                One solves too simply these equations

                So runs the play. We saw you foot it
                  Featly therein, _la belle Sara!_
                You were all there, or, so to put it,
                              _Toute là._

                And now you go, and, if you'll let us,
                  Reluctantly we say "Ta-ta!"
                Come back again, and don't forget us

                               * * * * *

THE NEW MOTTO (_by our own Irishman_).--England expects every man this
day to pay his own Death Duty.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: A ROYAL PROGRESS.

SCENE--_Crossing in Rotten Row during the height of the Season. Two
Policemen stopping Riders. Little Girl, wheeling p'ram., with Baby
inside, about to cross._

_Mary Hanne._ "LOR', IT'S JUS' AS IF WE WOS THE QUEEN!"]

                               * * * * *

                            AIRS RESUMPTIVE.

                        I.--THE GARDEN OF SLOTH.

      [Illustration: A]t the Court of the Earl, by the meeting of ways,
      Man planted a garden, a garden that pays;
      In the thick of the crowd, where they tread on your corn,
      It is there that a singular plant has been born.
      Hot days of desire and cool nights of disgust,
      They are mine when its bud keeps refusing to bust.
      O, Wheel of my weal! I am waiting forlorn,
      I am waiting, I say, with a crush on my corn.

      In the "Garden of London" where night-lights are spread,
      I watch Living Pictures, as old as the dead;
      While a Tow-er Gigantic stands gruesome and glum,
      By the shadow of Shows that are certain to come.
      Will _they_ shoot as _I_ shoot on sixpenny slides?
      Will _they_ want as _I_ want rotatory rides?
      O, plant of a plant! I would barter my skin
      For the chance of Ixion his regular spin!

                               * * * * *

                           By Our Schoolboy.

_Q._ ([Greek: a]) Explain the allusion "Quorum Pars." ([Greek: b]) Give

_R._ "Quorum" is a bench of magistrates who must be all Fathers of
Families, or Pa's. Hence the expression (which is a kind of Latin pun)
"Quorum Pars." ([Greek: b]) The references are numerous, and all highly

                               * * * * *

                           FOR ARMS OR ALMS?

An advertisement appears in a recent number of the _Athenæum_, headed
"Devon Volunteer Commemoration," in which "Drawings are invited for a
memorial of the fact that the Volunteer Movement of 1852 originated in
Devonshire." According to the regulations, "Drawings must be accompanied
by tenders for carrying out the work." Moreover, "the total cost,
including all charges for designing, carrying out, superintending, and
erecting the work, and surrounding the same with a suitable iron
railing, must not exceed £200." Now this is really a very fair sum, and
to assist one of our readers to win the prize, we allot the money in
appropriate items. Of course we can only give a rough estimate, but it
should be near enough to suit its purpose.


        Design (being a sovereign more than the
          sum offered for a second prize)                6 0 0
        Stone                                           10 0 0
        Engraving inscription                           30 0 0
        Gilding the names of the Committee, &c.,
          engaged in the work                           50 0 0
        Designer's charge for carrying out,
          superintending and erecting work               4 0 0
        Balance (to be used for surrounding
          memorial "with a suitable iron railing")     100 0 0
                                                      £200 0 0

And now, having shown how the thing may be done, we hope that
the best man may win. It is pleasant to find Art so greatly
appreciated in Devonshire--a county which apparently is as rich and
as generous as its own cream!

                               * * * * *

POST PRANDIAL.--If the geraniums and roses in my LOUISA'S garden could
speak, what celebrated dinner-giver would they name?--LOO! CULL US!

                               * * * * *

                        FAREWELL TO McGLADSTONE.

                   (_From the Heart of Midlothian._)

    ["I must here add, in explicit terms, the few decisive words to
    which, after all that has happened, I feel a natural reluctance
    to give utterance. It is not my intention, at the age I have now
    reached, to ask re-election (for Midlothian) when the present
    Parliament shall be dissolved."--_Mr. Gladstone's Farewell
    Letter to Midlothian._]

            [Illustration: AIR--"_Farewell to Mackenzie._"]

      Farewell to MCGLADSTONE, great Chief of the North!
      Midlothian remembers when first setting forth,
      The Chieftain she's mourning his course here began,
      Launching forth on wild billows his bark like a man,
      And stirring all hearts with his eloquent voice.--
      Farewell to MCGLADSTONE, the Chief of our choice!

      O swift was his galley, and hardy his crew,
      Her Captain was skilful, her mariners true.
      In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,
      Though the storms might arise, and the billows might boil,
      In the wind and the warfare _he_ seemed to rejoice.--
      Farewell to MCGLADSTONE, the Chief of our choice!

      Blow bland on his parting, thou sweet southland gale!
      Like the sighs of his sailors breathe soft on his sail;
      Be prolong'd as regret that his vassals must know,
      Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their woe:
      Be so soft, and so fair, and so friendly of voice,
      Wafting homeward MCGLADSTONE, the Chief of our choice!

      He was pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise,
      To measure the seas, and to study the skies;
      He would hoist all her canvas on Victory's tack,
      Kind Heaven crowd it fuller when wafting him back
      To his home in far Hawarden, where hearts will rejoice
      To welcome MCGLADSTONE, the Chief of our choice.

      _Midlothian no more!_ 'Tis a sorrowful cry,
      And we gaze on the waves, and we glance at the sky;
      We shall long, when clouds darken and wild waves o'erwhelm,
      For his voice through the gale, for his hand on the helm.
      Now we shout through the shadows, with tears in our voice:
      Farewell to MCGLADSTONE, great Chief of our choice!

      _Midlothian no more!_ Faith, we fancy we hear
      The cry of the Chieftain who never knew fear,
      Stout still through its sadness, "Keep up the good fight!
      Let Midlothian, let Scotland, still stand for the Right!"
      The last burden brave of the valorous voice
      Of dauntless MCGLADSTONE, great Chief of our choice!

      _Midlothian no more!_ In despite, Chief, of all,
      The Heart of Midlothian responds to your call.
      Its echoes shall live, though no longer your form
      Shall steer us to sunshine, or cheer us in storm.
      Then farewell to the presence, but not to the voice
      Of "Auld WULLIE" GLADSTONE, great Chief of our choice!

                               * * * * *

                       THE COPPERATION AT WINSER.

Oh, didn't the grand old Copperation have a grand treat last week at
Winser! Her grashus Majesty the QUEEN asked 'em all down to her butiful
Pallace to hear the sollem Recorder read to her their joyful feelings at
the birth of her dear little Great Grand Son! And then, to the great joy
of all on 'em, Her MAJESTY read such a delishus arnser as amost brort
tears to the eyes of some of the young uns of the Party, and sent 'em
away to the butiful Lunshon Room to refresh exhorsted natur with a
delicate Lunch, and sum exkisit Madeary, such as King GEORGE THE FOURTH
is said to have saved xpressly for simmilar glorius ocasions.

Don't let it be supposed as I wants peeple to beleeve as I was there;
but I had the hole account given by one as was, and I ain't ixagerated
it not a bit.

There is a sertain Body of gents in London as ewidently wonts to play
fust fiddel in the guvernment of our grand old City, but I havent heard
of their being asked down to Winser Carsel to congratulate her Most
Grayshus MAGESTY on the late appy ewent. Should they be so I should most
suttenly make a pint of seeing 'em all start, if it were only out of
curiosity to see what sort of State Mazerine Gownds they would all wear!

I had allmost forgot to menshun that the two Sherryffs, and the Chairman
of the big Tower Bridge, was all benighted, and came out of the presents
Chamber smiling like ancient Cherubs. I am told as how as the
Copperation was so werry much delited with their royal wisit to royal
Winser, that they has been and passed a werry similer wote of thanks to
the Dook and Dutchess of YORK, and arsked them to receeve 'em jest the
same as the QUEEN did, but they is both werry sorry to say, that their
Pallis not being near so big as Her MAJESTY'S, they hopes as only a
small Deppytation of Aldermen and C. C.'s will attend.

Oh won't there be jest a rush for places, as every one on 'em is
naterally anxious to show his loyelty on so hinteresting an ocasion, tho
of course they carnt expec to have heverything exacly the same as they
had at Royel Winser.


                               * * * * *

                              OPERA NOTES.

_Tuesday, July 17._--"The opera season will terminate July 30." To-night
VERDI'S opera of _Aïda_, "with the dotlets on the _i_." First appearance
of Madame ADINI, a spacious _prima donna_ who amply fills the part.
GIULIA RAVOGLI an excellent _Amneris_. Opera apparently not particularly
attractive, or more powerful attractions elsewhere.

_Saturday, 21._--_Pagliacci_ followed by new opera entitled _The Lady of
Longford_, though it would have been more polite had the Pagliacci
allowed the Lady to precede them. But Pagliacci will be Pagliacci. _The
Lady_'s Librettists are Sir DRURIOLANUS POETICUS and Mr. F. E.
WEATHERLY. The music is by EMIL BACH. The Gentlemen of Longford are
represented by Messrs. ALVAREZ and EDOUARD DE RESZKE, while _the_ Lady,
the big lady, is EMMA EAMES--"quite the lady"--and the little lady is
EVELYN HUGHES. This new Lady turns out to be our old friend the one-act
drama by TOM TAYLOR entitled _A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing_, set to music,
the comic characters being omitted, and the end made tragic instead of
happy. The music does not entitle BACH to take a front seat. EMMA EAMES
excellent; FANNY HUGHES funny; ALVAREZ good; JEAN DE RESZKE first-rate
all-round-head Colonel, but more like a Cathedral than a Kirk. Composer
and Librettists complimented; MANCINELLI conducted; house full. General

                               * * * * *

the Theatre Royal Drury Lane Company of Proprietors last Wednesday, Mr.
CHITTY is reported to have observed that "after putting £300,000 into
the building without receiving a farthing in return, they were now to
have their money confiscated by the law, but in such circumstances as
one would not have expected from a nobleman in the Duke of BEDFORD'S
position." Ahem! Why did not Sir DRURIOLANUS arise and, remembering the
_Barber of Seville_, sing "CHITTY, CHITTY, _piano! piano!_" But
naturally the Drury Laneites must feel a bit hurt.

                               * * * * *

                          THE "GRAND NATIONAL"

A Meeting has recently taken place at Grosvenor House to establish a
National Trust, the idea being to preserve places of historic interest
and natural beauty. Announced at the meeting that already a beautiful
cliff had been promised by a lady. We understand the following promises
have also been received:--

_The Duke of W-stm-nst-r._--A very handsome ground-rent. Intended to
support and sustain beautiful cliffs, &c.

_The Duke of D-v-nsh-re._--Ch-tsw-rth, which, owing to recent
legislation, he can no longer afford to keep up. Intends to take a small
cottage, it is believed, at some inexpensive town on the East Coast.
Several Distressed Dukes have also promised, on their death, to leave
their estates to the Trust.

_A Lover of Ozone._--A particularly bracing breeze. To be dedicated to
the public for ever.

_The London County Council._--The Shaftesbury Fountain. The L. C. C., we
understand, welcomes the prospect of handing over to the Trust the
responsibility attaching to this insoluble problem.

_A Hertfordshire Gentleman._--A thoroughly reliable right of way.

_Mr. Th-m-s B-ch-m._--A unique collection of signboards _in situ_. These
are placed in the midst of the most lovely natural scenery, and in
themselves will very soon, it is hoped, be of _historic_ interest.

_Sir Fr-d-r-ck P-ll-ck_ will arrange in every case to supply a good

_Mr. Punch_ heartily commends so patriotic a scheme to his readers. Any
beautiful cliffs, ground-rents, rights of way, &c., sent to him at 85,
Fleet Street will immediately be forwarded to the proper quarter.
N.B.--It is just possible an exception to this rule might be made in the
case of ground-rents.

                               * * * * *

                            HOW IT IS DONE.

                           (_An Art-Recipe._)

            [Illustration: QUID EST PICTURA?--VERITAS FALSA.


                  Take a lot of black triangles,
                    Some amorphous blobs of red;
                  Just a sprinkle of queer spangles,
                    An ill-drawn Medusa head;
                  Some red locks in Gorgon tangles,
                    And a scarlet sunshade, spread:
                  Take a "_portière_" quaint and spotty,
                    Take a turn-up nose or two;
                  The loose lips of one "gone dotty,"
                    A cheese-cutter chin, askew;
                  Pose like that of front-row "TOTTIE,"
                    Hat as worn by "COSTER LOO";
                  Take an hour-glass waist, in section,
                    Shoulders hunched up camel-wise;
                  Give a look of introspection
                    (Or a squint) to two black eyes;
                  Or a glance of quaint dejection,
                    Or a glare of wild surprise;
                  Slab and slop them all together
                    With a background of sheer sludge;
                  (Like a slum in foggy weather),
                    And this blend of scrawl and smudge
                  Vend as ART--in highest feather!--
                  Dupes in praise will blare and blether.
                    Honest _Burchells_ will cry--"FUDGE!!!"

                               * * * * *

                         A Demi-French Octave.

                   (_Picked up in a Dressing-room._)

                My razor, you're a true  _raseur_,
                  That is, you bore me badly!
                You're blunt, you gash--_de tout mon coeur_
                  I _bless_ you wildly, madly!
                _Vraiment, c'est vous qu' j'ai en horreur_
                  Each morn on rising sadly;
                Were't not that shaving's _de rigueur_,
                  In turn I'd cut _you_ gladly!

                                 * * *

IN VIEW OF HOLIDAYS. A HINT.--Of course if you're on pedestrian tours
bent--if you're a bicyclist you'll be still more bent--you cannot do
better than, as a pedestrian, get WALKER'S Maps. If you are going to
sail, or by steam, you are again referred to----"WALKER, London." There
is a good idea in these Maps which might be still further developed, and
that is not only to show the route and the manner of making your
journey, but by arrangement with the principal Steam-boat and Railway
Companies some sort of "itinerary" might be added to the Map, with
information as to the "means whereby," which to the toiler in search of
a brief holiday "by rail, by river, or by sea," and perhaps by all
three, would be most useful were it available as an almost
"instantaneous process" of reference.

                                 * * *


                          Pelt or drizzly,

                                 * * *

FINANCIAL PROBLEM (_the effect of reading the Budget Debates_).--Why is
the Income-Tax so sharply felt? Because, disguise it as you may, it's a
case of tin-tax!

                                 * * *

at Windsor. Will BOB (the only name by which his many friends know him)
henceforth be known as "the Queen's Shilling"?

                               * * * * *

                           RANELAGH IN RAIN.

            How sweet this road is, fringed by hedgerow elm,
              Where peeps in May the hawthorn's snowy bud,
            A fairy place that seems _Titania's_ realm!
                         By Jove, what mud!

            How sweet this turf, as soft as finest moss!
              Such "_gazon anglais_" we alone can get.
            Oh hang it, no! I cannot walk across,
                         It's soaking wet!

            How sweet that lake, where gentle eddies play!
              But all around seems lake, through rainfall dim.
            Why want a pond, when on dry (!) land to-day
                         We almost swim?

            How sweet--to get a Hansom home again,
              And leave this aguish, rheumatic damp!
            I do not love thee, Ranelagh, in rain,
                         Beneath a gamp.

                               * * * * *

                        WHAT'S IN A NAME INDEED?

              "Edward, Albert, Christian, George,
                Andrew, Patrick, David,
              Drink life's pleasures with free gorge!
                From its pains be savèd!"
              So said _Punch_ at the White Lodge,
                His old optics glistening,
              Sure such names ill-luck should dodge;
                Sure such names no babe e'er bore,
                Patron Saints! You've all the four
              To bless the Royal Christening!

                               * * * * *


                               * * * * *

                         ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.


_House of Commons, Monday, July 16._--The Blameless B. is translated
into the Breathless BARTLEY. Of eleven pages of Amendments to Budget
Bill standing for consideration when House met to-day, not less than
three contributed by this particular B. Embodied readjusted scale of
graduated taxation. Only objections to it presently stated by SQUIRE OF
MALWOOD: (1) It would necessitate total reconstruction of Bill (2)
resulting in loss of £643,000; (3) whole question had been thoroughly
threshed out in Committee. To raise it again at eleventh hour seemed too
much to ask even in connection with Budget Bill.

Nevertheless BARTLEY, not yet breathless, moved his multitudinous
Amendment. Resumed his seat with consciousness of man who had done his
duty. The SQUIRE would get up to answer him; debate would follow; at
least two hours would be pleasantly occupied. Instead of SQUIRE,
ATTORNEY-GENERAL rose. "Well," said BLAMELESS, throwing himself into
attitude of attention, "let's hear what he has to say."

Turned out to be exceedingly little. "Government scale has been attacked
and defended many times," said ATTORNEY-GENERAL. "I do not think it
necessary to defend it again; but," here he leaned on the table with
engaging look at the now BREATHLESS BARTLEY, "the hon. gentleman can
take a division if he thinks fit."

BARTLEY sat and audibly gasped. JOKIM gallantly protested against this
treatment of his hon. friend; threatened to move adjournment of debate.
PRINCE ARTHUR sent for; arrived almost as breathless as BARTLEY; thunder
boomed, lightning flashed round head of ATTORNEY-GENERAL, who is always
finding himself astonished. "The hon. and learned gentleman," said
PRINCE ARTHUR, with delightful assumption of anger, "has abused the
situation. The Opposition have no means of compelling him to talk sense,
but talk he must."

SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, who had fled before prospect of long speech from
BARTLEY, hastily brought back. Don't know where incident would have
ended had it not been for KENYON-SLANEY. Finding opening he slipped in.
Threw himself into easy oratorical attitude; proposed to consider
principle of graduation adopted in Bill. Would do so under three heads:
injustice to the poor, injustice to the middle-class, injustice to the

This too much even for Opposition. With groans of despair they rushed
into Division Lobby; BARTLEY'S scheme negatived by majority of 62.

_Business done._--Budget Bill passed Report stage.

_Wednesday._--ST. JOHN BRODRICK sitting on front Opposition Bench
through Committee of Supply on Army Estimates this afternoon, invested
neighbourhood with unwonted air of fashion. Not that there is, as a
rule, any lack of style on part of Leaders of Opposition regarded as a
body. Only something, _je ne sais quoi_, about BRODRICK that suggested
profoundest depths of POOLE. Couldn't help complimenting him on his turn

"Evidently you spare no expense," I said; "though why even a millionaire
should wear an overcoat a day like this seems wicked waste of property.
Hope you are not growing desperate in anticipation of Death Duties;
spending your money recklessly so that HARCOURT may be disappointed
when, for taxing purposes, he comes to aggregate your property?"

                [Illustration: "The Young Wales Party."]

"My dear boy," said BRODRICK, giving the overcoat a dexterous lift by
the lappels that added fresh grace to its fit at the back of the neck,
"you're out of it altogether. This is the thirteen-and-sixpenny coat
supplied to Tommy Atkins in which,--following the advice of Dr. JOHNSON,
wasn't it?--I, as I told the House the other day, took a walk down Bond
Street. The surtout underneath, which I will fully display when the
House gets a little fuller, cost seventeen-and-six net. You will observe
it is so made that you can button it across and so save a waistcoat. If
you must have a waistcoat, we can do it at eight-and-ninepence. As for
trousers, these cost me thirteen shillings." (Here he stretched out and
fondly regarded a manly leg.) "If I had taken a couple of pair, cut at
the same time you know, I could have had the two for 25_s._ I see your
eyes fixed on the boots. As you say, the shape of the foot may have
something to do with it. But apart from that, the article is equal to
what you pay thirty-five shillings for in Regent Street or Piccadilly.
Eleven-and-ninepence was the figure. Misfits, very popular with privates
newly joined, knock off the odd ninepence. Of course I don't wear this
suit every day. Can't afford that; put 'em on whenever House in
Committee on Army Supply or debate going forward on Army matters. It
encourages CAWMELL--BANNERMAN, you know; helps WOODALL in getting his
clothing vote; and, I believe, is rather liked by Tommy Atkins."

_Business done._--SQUIRE OF MALWOOD announces programme for remainder of
Session. A mere nothing. Only, as PRINCE ARTHUR says, in view of number
of Bills and their contentious character, more like what we are
accustomed to at beginning of Session, than to have dumped down in what
should be its last month.

_Thursday._--"JOSEPH," said the Member for SARK, dropping into one of
his tiresome didactic moods, "would do well in any circumstances.
Whether in Upper Egypt or Lower, he was sure to come to the top of the
well, however securely his brethren might have packed him in its lowest
depths. But, regarding him just now as he criticised the SQUIRE'S
arrangements for the Session, I could not help thinking what a loss the
auction-room has only partially survived by his turn into the field of
politics. If in early life, or even middle age, he had only taken to the
rostrum, the shade of the much over-rated ROBINS would have been dimmed
in glory. Observe how well he looks the part. See with what unconscious
effect he produces a stumpy piece of lead pencil, and looks round for
bids. Listen to the clear sharp notes of his voice. 'What shall we say,
gentlemen, for the Equalisation of Rates Bill? How many days will you
give for it? Name your own time, gentlemen. There is no reserve. Shall
we say six days? Does the tall, somewhat stout gentleman with a white
waistcoat, on the Treasury Bench, shake his head? Very well, we will say
four days. Going at four days;' and the pencil, scratching out six,
substitutes four. This may seem very easy when it's done; but it's art,
TOBY, even genius. If you think it's easy for a man discussing State
business, suddenly but completely to invest the high court of Parliament
with the tone and atmosphere of an auction-room, just reckon up how many
other men of first rank in public life could do it. Not to go further
afield, could PRINCE ARTHUR manage it, even after a week's training?
Very well; then don't minimise a successful effort because, thanks to
the commanding influence of native talent, its accomplishment seems easy
to a particular person."

_Business done._--HICKS-BEACH, complaining that Ministers have dropped a
large number of Bills for lack of time to pass them, and asserting that
the time remaining at their disposal for passing the poor balance is too
short, reduces it by three hours, in order that he and his friends may
lament the fact.

_Friday._--House heard with keen satisfaction that SZLUMPER is around
again. Not having seen in the newspapers any telegrams from him lately,
there was vague idea that he had succumbed to his exertions on occasion
of the happy event at White Lodge. Perhaps he was a little fatigued, for
SZLUMPER, in addition to being Mayor of Richmond, is almost human. No
man born of woman could with impunity fire off such a succession of
telegrams as on that memorable day SZLUMPER dealt out to his Sovereign,
the Heir Apparent to the Throne, the Crowned Heads of Europe, and his
ducal neighbours at the White Lodge. But on Royal Christening day
SZLUMPER was around again, with a little SZLUMPER carrying a bouquet of
flowers to be presented to the QUEEN, whilst SZLUMPER _père_, plumped on
his knees, welcomed his Sovereign within the gateway of ancient

"_Ah, ce_ SZLUMPER!" said SARK, "he delights me more and more. He
represents, if you think of it, the essence of our English social life.
He is part of the foundation of the British Constitution, which
everyone, especially those regarding it from a distance, regards as the
perfection of good government."

_Business done._--A dull night speechmaking on Irish Evicted Tenants

                               * * * * *

                      OXFORD AND YALE.--(JULY 16.)

        A very good fight! Come again to us, Yale!
        We know a true Yank knows not how to spell "fail."
        HICKOK and SHELDON can throw and can jump!
        And e'en in the racing you made our lads pump
        Come again, Yale, come again, and again;
        Victors or vanquished such visits aren't vain.
        One of these days you will probably nick us.
        We don't crow when we lick; we won't cry when you lick us!

                               * * * * *

Rise, Sir!

    "We are informed that the QUEEN has been pleased to confer the
    honour of a Baronetcy on Dr. JOHN WILLIAMS, of Brook Street. Dr.
    WILLIAMS is the Physician who attended the Duchess of
    YORK."--_Daily Paper, July 16._

We congratulate Sir JOHN, who is now a Sur-geon in every sense of the

                           Transcriber Notes:

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

Throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe".

Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the
speakers. Those words were retained as-is.

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.

Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, July 28th 1894" ***

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