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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, August 18, 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, Volume 107, August 18, 1894" ***

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


VOL. 107.

AUGUST 18, 1894.


(_A Legend of the Results of the School Board._)

The Committee sat waiting patiently for candidates. Although the papers
had been full of advertisements describing the appointments the
_réclames_ had had no effect. There were certainly a number of persons
in the waiting-room, but the usher had declared that they did not
possess the elementary qualifications for the post that the Committee
were seeking to fill with a suitable official.

"Usher," cried the Chairman at length with some impatience; "I am sure
you must be wrong. Let us see some of the occupants of the adjoining

The usher bowed with a grace that had been acquired by several years
study in deportment in the Board School, and replied that he fancied
that most of the applicants were too highly educated for the coveted

"Too highly educated!" exclaimed the representative of municipal
progress. "It is impossible to be too highly educated! You don't know
what you're talking about!"

"Pardon me, Sir," returned the Usher, with another graceful inclination
of the head, "but would not 'imperfectly acquainted with the subject of
your discourse' be more polished? But, with your permission, I will obey

And then the official returned to usher in an aged man wearing
spectacles. The veteran immediately fell upon his knees and began to
implore the Committee to appoint him to the vacant post.

"I can assure you, Gentlemen, that, thanks to the School Board, I am a
first-rate Latin and Greek scholar. I am intimately acquainted with the
Hebrew language, and have the greatest possible respect for the Union
Jack. I know all that can be known about mathematics, and can play
several musical instruments. I am also an accomplished waltzer; I know
the use of the globes, and can play the overture to _Zampa_ on the
musical-glasses. I know the works of SHAKSPEARE backwards, and----"

"Stop, stop!" interrupted the Chairman. "You may do all this, and more;
but have you any knowledge of the _modus operandi_ of the labour
required of you?"

"Alas, no!" returned the applicant; "but if a man of education----"

"Remove him, Usher!" cried the Chairman; and the veteran was removed in

A second, a third, and a fourth made their appearance, and disappeared,
and none of them would do. They were all singularly accomplished.

At length a rough man, who had been lounging down the street, walked
into the Council-chamber.

"What may you want, Sir?" asked the Chairman, indignantly.

"What's that to you?" was the prompt reply. "I ain't a going to tell
everyone my business--not me--you bet!"

"Ungrammatical!" said Committee Man No. One. "Very promising."

"Uncouth and vulgar!" murmured Committee Man No. Two.

"Where were you educated?" queried the Chairman.

"Nowheres in particular. I was brought up in the wilds of Canada.
There's not much book learning over there," and the rough fellow
indulged in a loud hoarse laugh.

"Ah! that accounts for your not having enjoyed the great advantages of
the School Board. Have you seen the circular--have you read the details
of the proposed appointment?"

"Me read!" cried the uncouth one; "oh, that is a game! Why I can't read
nor yet write!"

"Better and better," said Committee Man No. One.

"First rate," murmured Committee Man No. Two. "I think we have at length
found our ideal."

Then the usher read the advertisement.

"What! shake the hall mat!" cried the candidate. "Why I could do that
little job on my head!"

So there being no other applicant for the post, the backwoods' ignoramus
was appointed office-sweeper at a couple of hundred pounds a year.

"Rather high wages," said the Chairman to himself, as he went home on
the top of an omnibus; "but what can one expect when we educate all the
children at the cost of the rates. Last year there was an additional
farthing; this year we have to pay five shillings, and goodness only
knows how much it will be hereafter!"

And as he thought this, the Chairman (in the names of the rest of the
ratepayers) heartily cursed the School Board.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RETURNED EMPTY.

_Old Mayfly_ (_who had dropped his Flask further down stream, and has
just had it returned to him by Honest Rustic_). "DEAR ME! THANK YOU!
THANK YOU!" (_Gives him a Shilling._) "DON'T KNOW WHAT I SHOULD HA' DONE
WITHOUT IT!" (_Begins to unscrew top._) "MAY I OFFER YOU A----"


       *       *       *       *       *


    [A writer in the _Lancet_ draws attention to the fact that the
    regular hospital nurse's uniform is now worn as ordinary ladies'

There's no doubt my new costume is _very_ becoming. I like the idea or
the cape, and the apron is just perfect, while the little bonnet suits
me to a T. Met cousin FRED, who said it was "fetching," and that "they
wanted some of my sort at the hospitals." I said I thought the patients
had good enough nurses at present; he replied "he didn't mean the
patients--he meant the doctors." Of course I couldn't stand the drudgery
of a nurse's life; but that's no reason why I shouldn't appropriate the
uniform, is it?

Walking down street. Met another nurse--a real one, I suppose. She
stared, turned red, and then looked horribly offended. I believe she
must have made some sign to me that I didn't understand. Are Nurses
Freemasons, I wonder? Quite a secret society, it seems. Really that sort
of thing oughtn't to be allowed. It makes things so awkward for the
impost--the imitators, I mean.

Just got home after _dreadful_ incident! I was in a Bayswater Square,
when suddenly a man driving round a corner in a cart got upset, and was
pitched on to the road close to me. A small crowd gathered immediately,
and evidently expected _me_ to help. One man shouted "Hi! Come and bind
up his head, Miss!" And his head was actually bleeding! I couldn't do
anything, except feel awfully inclined to faint, and then the mob began
to hiss and jeer! Somebody said I must know how to render "first aid to
the injured," and if I didn't come quick the man would bleed to death. I
was so frightened I ran away, and the mob ran after me, and I had to
take shelter in a shop, and ask the shopman to explain to the crowd that
I was not really a nurse at all. Then they used dreadful expressions,
and I had to be got out by a back way. I don't think the costume is half
as becoming as it seemed this morning; I'm going to sell it as a
"cast-off garment." Lucky for me it wasn't a torn-off garment!

       *       *       *       *       *

Scott on the New Woman.

(_As the Wizard of the North would have written now._)

  New Woman! in our hours of ease
  A smoking rival hard to please,
  Wishing to put Man in the shade,
  Collar his togs and take his trade;
  When pain and anguish wring the brow,
  A swaggering, "spanking" _Pipchin_ thou!

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


(_Adapted freely from the Old Royal Repartee._)

_Middle-aged would-be Mountaineer (loq.)._

  Fain would I climb, but,--well, my belt's too small.

            _Mr. Punch (in reply)._

  If your girth grows, Sir, _do not climb at all_!
  Your Alpen-stock put by, ere the world mock.
  And you become an (Alpine) Laughing-stock.
  Though Alps on Alps arise _you_ stop in bed,
  And let a younger man yon glaciers tread.
  The dangers of steep slides and deep crevasses
  Are not for elderly donkeys, but young asses.
  The Himalayas woo you still to pant on?
  Well, treat 'em as you would an arch young wanton,
  Think of your legs, the boys, the girls, the Missus,
  And do not play the elderly Narcissus.
  To witch the world with noble "Icemanship"
  Is tempting, yes, but if you chance to slip,
  Your bones a fathomless abyss may strew,
  An Alpine death,--and they'll all pine for you.
  Man after fifty fits not the sublime,
  So stay at home nor seek a foreign climb.
  The plague of guide, and chum, and wife and daughter,
  Is Senex who will climb and didn't oughter.
  Stick to your Alpine Club, but like old foodles,
  Pay, stop at home, and play at whist at Boodles'.
  Decline with the old mania to be bitten,
  And you will own this tip is diamond-written
  (Like good Queen Bess's repartee on glass),
  And that you're saved from being an old ass!

       *       *       *       *       *



         In the gardens at Kew
         It were certainly sweet
         To be wand'ring with you,
         Far from city and street;
  'Twere the one thing, dear NELLIE, my joy and content to complete
         In the gardens at Kew.

         In the gardens at Kew,
         If my way I might take
         By the water with you,
         Oh! how merry we'd make,--
  I am sure you would dote on the dear little ducks in the lake
         In the gardens at Kew.

         In the gardens at Kew,
         Having tea _à la fraises_,
         We would cheerfully stew
         'Neath the fierce solar rays,
  And in "eloquent silence" you'd meet my affectionate gaze
         In the gardens at Kew.

         In the gardens at Kew
         We would sit in the shade
         For an hour or two,
         Without chaperone's aid,
  And your head on my shoulder (who knows?) might be lovingly laid
         In the gardens at Kew.

         In the gardens at Kew,
         Far away from the crowd,
         Though I'm longing for you,
         To stern Fate I have bowed:
  For it grieves me, dear NELLIE, to tell you, "_No dogs are allowed_"
         In the gardens at Kew!

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["The Emperor (of China) is still cursed with the violent temper of
    his adolescence, and "breaks things."--_"Times" Correspondent at

 Oh! is this announcement plain truth?
   Or is it mere genial mockery?
 And _what_ does this choleric youth
   Of China thus break--is it crockery?
 It does seem unfitting, you know--
   At least as we Westerners see things--
 That the lord of Souchong and Pekoe
   Should be guilty of smashing up tea-things!
 Of course, if he had an idea
   Of breaking the Japanese bondage,
 Or breaking their hold on Korea,--
   Well, youth is a fiery and fond age,
 And old age _might_ find an excuse
   For breaking the peace; but kind wishes
 Can hardly invent an excuse
   For breaking the plates and the dishes.
 He is youthful, like little AH SID,
   It would be very mean to malign a
 Mere boy; yet a true Chinese kid
   Should not start with the smashing of China!

       *       *       *       *       *

The Cry of the (Literary) Croakers.

 Batrachians may doubt if King Stork or King Log
   Be the Frog-pond's most suitable lord and controller;
 But Grub Street's unfortunate _un_lauded frog
   Loathes the rule of the new King Log-Roller!

       *       *       *       *       *


 With "brain-fag" our swift, feverish age is rife,
 And death is oft the mere "fag-end" of life.

       *       *       *       *       *

SOMETHING LIKE A "PACKED MEETING."--The meeting of the various Arctic
Expeditions in the Polar Ice Pack.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Now that we are close upon the silly season, when it is
most difficult to get interesting "copy" for the columns of the daily
papers, may I be permitted to make a suggestion? No doubt you have seen
an account of the examination of CASERIO SANTO by the President of the
Court on the occasion of his trial. Could not the idea be naturalised in
London by the Metropolitan Police Magistrates? I would not, of course,
propose to apply the method in cases of a serious character, but used in
what are known as "the night charges," the practice would become very
interesting. To better explain my meaning. I will imagine that a
prisoner who has been arrested on a charge of being "drunk and
incapable" is standing in front of his worship.

_Magistrate_ (_with sarcasm_). You are sober now.

_Prisoner_ (_in the same tone_). As a judge.

_Magistrate_ (_indignantly_). Judges are always sober.

_Prisoner_ (_with a laugh_). How should _you_ know?--you, who are only a


_Magistrate._ You insult me! But that will not serve you. Drink is the
curse of the country!

_Prisoner._ You have tried it? It has been a curse to you!

    [_Cries of disapproval._

_Magistrate._ You are young to bandy words with one old enough to be
your father!

_Prisoner._ My father! You my father! What an honour!

_Magistrate._ I do not envy him! Nor your mother!

_Prisoner_ (_excitedly_). You shall not speak of my mother. My mother is
sacred. She shall not be referred to in the tainted atmosphere of a
Court of Justice.


_Magistrate._ This hypocrisy shall not serve you. You never loved your

    [_Prolonged sensation._

_Prisoner._ Your worship, you are a liar!

    [_Loud cheers._

_Magistrate._ This to the Bench from the gutter! For you know
you were found drunk and incapable in the gutter. What were you
doing there?

_Prisoner_ (_tearfully_). I was dreaming of my mother, my loved

    [_Sympathetic applause._

_Magistrate._ You do not deserve to have a mother!

    [_Prolonged sensation._

_Prisoner_ (_scornfully_). Only a magistrate could make such a
cold-blooded observation!


_Magistrate._ For all that you are fined five shillings and costs!
Remove the wretched prisoner!

    [_The accused was then removed amidst expressions of sympathy from
    the body of the Court._

There, Sir, would not that be far better reading than paragraphs
about gigantic gooseberries and leaders upon the sea serpent?
Perhaps my suggestion may be adopted in the proper quarter.
Hoping that this may be the case, the police case,

 I remain,

 Yours respectfully,


       *       *       *       *       *


(_New Version._)

 "Let Art and Commerce, Laws and Learning die,
 But leave us still our Old Nobility!"
 Without them, in our democratic day,
 Who will the part of princely patriot play?
 Who else will keep a splendid Family Seat,
 And claim--for its defence--a mighty Fleet?
 Who else will make Bank Holidays a joy
 To wandering workman and to wondering boy?
 Who else will rear big fortunes upon Rent,
 Or palaces on Unearned Increment?
 Monopolise art's treasures and life's pleasures,
 And throw out dangerous democratic measures?
 Who else will keep up England's glorious name?
 Who else preserve her prestige--and her game?
 Who else will wear the purple and the ermine,
 And proudly stamp out Socialistic vermin?
 Who else in one grand field-day, 'midst the Peers,
 Undo the labours of _ig_noble years?
 Who else in solemn ranks, like three-tailed Turks,
 Defend the power of Privilege and Perks?
 And 'tis these most magnanimous Mamelukes,
 Our patriot Earls and foe-defying Dukes,
 A traitorous Chancellor would dare to--_Tax_!!!
 Ah! where's the dungeon, and oh! where's the axe?
 _Noblesse oblige!_ But sure the obligation
 Cannot involve that horror, Graduation!
 Is't not enough to rule, and guide, and bless,
 And soar as shining samples of Success?
 While with our Nobles England's glory waxes,
 The Proletariat's proud to--pay the Taxes!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Story in Scenes._)


SCENE XII.--_The Amber Boudoir at Wyvern--immediately after_ Lady
CANTIRE _and her daughter have entered._

_Lady Cantire_ (_in reply to_ Lady CULVERIN). Tea? oh yes, my dear;
anything _warm_! I'm positively perished--that tedious cold journey and
the long drive afterwards! I always tell RUPERT he would see me _far_
oftener at Wyvern if he would only get the Company to bring the line
round close to the Park Gates, but it has _no_ effect upon him! (_As_
TREDWELL _announces_ SPURRELL, _who enters in trepidation_.) Mr. JAMES
SPURRELL! Who's Mr.----? Oh, to be sure; _that_'s the name of my
interesting young poet--_Andromeda_, you know, my dear! Go and be
pleasant to him, ALBINIA, he wants reassuring.

_Lady Culverin (a trifle nervous)._ How do you do, Mr.--ah--SPURRELL?
(_To herself._) I _said_ he ended in "'ell"! (_Aloud._) So pleased to
see you! We think so much of your _Andromeda_ here, you know. Quite
delightful of you to find time to run down!

_Spurrell (to himself)._ Why _she_'s chummy, too! Old Drummy pulls me
through everything! (_Aloud._) Don't name it, my la--hum--Lady CULVERIN.
No trouble at all; only too proud to get your summons!

_Lady Culv. (to herself)._ He doesn't seem very revolutionary!
(_Aloud._) That's so sweet of you; when so many must be absolutely
fighting to get you!

_Spurr._ Oh, as for that, there _is_ rather a run on me just now, but I
put everything else aside for _you_, of course!

_Lady Culv. (to herself)._ He's soon _reassured_. (_Aloud, with a touch
of frost._) I am sure we must consider ourselves most fortunate.
(_Turning to the_ Countess.) You _did_ say cream, ROHESIA? Sugar, MAISIE

_Spurr. (to himself)._ I'm all right up to now! I suppose I'd better say
nothing about the horse till _they_ do. I feel rather out of it among
these nobs, though. I'll try and chum on to little Lady MAISIE again;
she may have got over her temper by this time, and she's the only one I
know. (_He approaches her._) Well, Lady MAISIE, here I _am_, you see.
I'd really no idea your aunt would be so friendly! I say, you know, you
don't mind _speaking_ to a fellow, do you? I've no one else I can go
to--and--and it's a bit strange at first, you know!

_Lady Maisie (coloured with mingled apprehension, vexation, and pity)._
If I can be of any help to you, Mr. SPURRELL----!

_Spurr._ Well, if you'd only tell me what I ought to _do_!

[Illustration: "My keys! Why, what do you want _them_ for?"]

_Lady Maisie._ Surely that's very simple; do _nothing_; just take
everything quietly as it comes, and you _can't_ make any mistakes.

_Spurr. (anxiously)._ And you don't think anybody'll see anything odd in
my being here like this?

_Lady Maisie (to herself)._ I'm only too afraid they _will_! (_Aloud._)
You really _must_ have a little self-confidence. Just remember that no
one here could produce anything a millionth part as splendid as your
_Andromeda_! It's _too_ distressing to see you so _appallingly_ humble!
(_To herself._) There's Captain THICKNESSE over there--he MIGHT come and
rescue me; but he doesn't seem to care to!

_Spurr._ Well, you _do_ put some heart into me, Lady MAISIE. I feel
equal to the lot of 'em now!

_Pilliner_ (_to_ Miss SPELWANE). Is _that_ the Poet? Why, but I
say--he's a _fraud_! Where's his matted head? He's not a bit ragged, or
rusty either. And why don't he dabble? Don't seem to know what to do
with his hands quite, though, _does_ he?

_Miss Spelwane (coldly)._ He knows how to do some very exquisite poetry
with _one_ of them, at all events. I've been reading it, and _I_ think
it perfectly marvellous!

_Pill._ I see what it is, you're preparing to turn his matted head for
him? I warn you you'll only waste your sweetness. That pretty little
Lady MAISIE'S annexed _him_. Can't you content yourself with _one_

_Miss Spelw._ Don't be so utterly idiotic! (_To herself._) If MAISIE
imagines she's to be allowed to monopolise the only man in the room
worth talking to!----

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself, as he watches_ Lady MAISIE). She is
lookin' prettier than ever! Forgotten me. Used to be friendly enough
once, though, till her mother warned me off. Seems to have a good deal
to say to that Poet fellow; saw her colour up from here the moment he
came near; he's _begun_ Petrarchin', hang him! I'd cross over and speak
to her if I could catch her eye. Don't know, though; what's the use? She
wouldn't thank me for interruptin'. She likes these clever chaps;
don't signify to her if they _are_ bounders, I suppose. _I_'m not
intellectual. Gad, I wish I'd gone back to Aldershot!

_Lady Cant. (by the tea-table)._ Why don't you make that woman of yours
send you up decent cakes, my dear? These are cinders. I'm afraid you let
her have too much of her own way. Now, tell me--who are your party?
VIVIEN SPELWANE! Never have that girl to meet me again, I can't _endure_
her; and that affected little ape of a Mr. PILLINER--h'm! Do I see
Captain THICKNESSE? Now, I don't object to _him_. MAISIE and he used to
be great friends.... Ah, how do you _do_, Captain THICKNESSE? Quite
pleasant finding you here; such ages since we saw anything of you! Why
haven't you been near us all this time?... Oh, I may have been out once
or twice when you called; but you might have tried again, _mightn't_
you? There, _I_ forgive you; you had better go and see if you can make
your peace with MAISIE!

_Capt. Thick. (to himself, as he obeys)._ Doosid odd, the Countess
comin' round like this. Wish she'd thought of it before.

_Lady Cant. (in a whisper)._ He's always been such a favourite of mine.
They tell me his uncle, poor dear Lord DUNDERHEAD, is _so_ ill--felt the
loss of his only son so terribly. Of course it will make a great
difference--in many ways.

_Capt. Thick._ (_constrainedly to_ Lady MAISIE). How do you do? Afraid
you've forgotten me.

_Lady Maisie._ Oh no, indeed! (_Hurriedly._) You--you don't know Mr.
SPURRELL, I think? (_Introducing them._) Captain THICKNESSE.

_Capt. Thick._ How are you? Been hearin' a lot about you lately.
_Andromeda_, don't you know; and that kind of thing.

_Spurr._ It's wonderful what a hit she seems to have made--not that I'm
_surprised_ at it, either; I always knew----

_Lady Maisie (hastily)._ Oh, Mr. SPURRELL, you haven't had any tea! _Do_
go and get some before it's taken away.

    [SPURRELL _goes_.

_Capt. Thick._ Been tryin' to get you to notice me ever since you came;
but you were so awfully absorbed, you know!

_Lady Maisie._ Was I? So absorbed as all that! What with?

_Capt. Thick._ Well, it looked like it--with talkin' to your poetical

_Lady Maisie (flushing)._ He is not _my_ friend in particular; I--I
admire his poetry, of course.

_Capt. Thick. (to himself)._ Can't even speak of him without a change of
colour. Bad sign that! (_Aloud._) You always _were_ keen about poetry
and literature and that in the old days, weren't you? Used to rag me for
not readin' enough. But I do now. I was readin' a book only last week.
I'll tell you the name if you give me a minute to think--book
everybody's readin' just now--no end of a clever book.

    [Miss SPELWANE _rushes across to_ Lady MAISIE.

_Miss Spelw._ MAISIE, dear, how are you? You look _so_ tired!
That's the journey, I suppose. (_Whispering._) Do tell me--is that
really the author of _Andromeda_ drinking tea close by? You're a
_great_ friend of his, I know. Do be a dear, and introduce him to me!
I declare the dogs have made friends with him already. Poets have
such a wonderful attraction for animals, haven't they?

    [Lady MAISIE _has to bring_ SPURRELL _up and introduce him:_ Captain
    THICKNESSE _chooses to consider himself dismissed_.

_Miss Spelw. (with shy adoration)._ Oh, Mr. SPURRELL, I feel as if I
_must_ talk to you about _Andromeda_. I _did_ so admire it!

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Another of 'em! They seem uncommonly sweet on
"bulls" in this house! (_Aloud._) Very glad to hear you say so, I'm
sure. I've seen nothing to touch her myself. I don't know if you noticed
all her points----?

_Miss Spelw._ Indeed, I believe none of them were lost upon me; but my
poor little praise must seem so worthless and ignorant!

_Spurr. (indulgently)._ Oh, I wouldn't say _that_. I find some ladies
very knowing about these things. I'm having a picture done of her.

_Miss Spelw._ Are you really? _How_ delightful! As a frontispiece?

_Spurr._ Eh? Oh no--full length, and sideways--so as to show her legs,
you know.

_Miss Spelw._ Her legs? Oh, of _course_--with "her roseal toes cramped."
I thought that such a _wonderful_ touch!

_Spurr._ They're not more cramped than they ought to be; she never
turned them _in_, you know!

_Miss Spelw. (mystified)._ I didn't mean that. And now tell me--if it's
not an indiscreet question--when do you expect there'll be another

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Another addition! _She_'s cadging for a pup now!
(_Aloud._) Oh--er--really--couldn't say.

_Miss Spelw._ I'm sure the first must be disposed of by this time. I
shall look out for the next _so_ eagerly!

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Time I "off"ed it. (_Aloud._) Afraid I can't say
anything definite--and, excuse me leaving you, but I think Lady CULVERIN
is looking my way.

_Miss Spelw._ Oh, by all _means_! (_To herself._) I might as well praise
a pillar-post! And after spending quite half an hour reading him up,
too! I wonder if BERTIE PILLINER was right; but I shall have him all to
myself at dinner.

_Lady Cant._ And where is _Rupert_? too busy of _course_ to come and
say a word! Well, some day he may understand what a sister is--when it's
too late. Ah, here's our nice unassuming young poet coming up to talk to
you. Don't _repel_ him, my dear!

_Spurr. (to himself)._ Better give her the chance of telling me what's
wrong with the horse, I suppose. (_Aloud._) Er--nice old-fashioned sort
of house this, Lady CULVERIN. (_To himself._) I'll work round to the
stabling presently.

_Lady Culv. (coldly)._ I believe it dates from the Tudors--if that is
what you mean.

_Lady Cant._ My dear ALBINIA, I _quite_ understand him; "old-fashioned"
is _exactly_ the epithet. And I was born and brought up here, so perhaps
I should know.

    [_A footman enters, and comes up to_ SPURRELL _mysteriously._

_Footman._ Will you let me have your keys, if you please, Sir?

_Spurr. (in some alarm)._ My keys! (_Suspiciously._) Why, what do you
want _them_ for?

_Lady Cant. (in a whisper)._ Isn't he _deliciously_ unsophisticated?
Quite a child of nature! (_Aloud._) My dear Mr. SPURRELL, he wants your
keys to unlock your portmanteau and put out your things; you'll be able
to dress for dinner all the quicker.

_Spurr._ Do you mean--am I to have the honour of sitting down with all
of _you_?

_Lady Culv. (to herself)._ Oh, my goodness, what _will_ RUPERT say?
(_Aloud._) Why, of course, Mr. SPURRELL; how can you ask?

_Spurr. (feebly)._ I--I didn't know, that was all. (_To_ Footman). Here
you are, then. (_To himself._) Put out my things? he'll find nothing to
put out except a nightgown, sponge bag, and a couple of brushes! If I'd
only known I should be let in for this, I'd have brought dress-clothes.
But how _could_ I? I--I wonder if it would be any good telling 'em
quietly how it is. I shouldn't like 'em to think I hadn't got any. (_He
looks at_ Lady CANTIRE _and her sister-in-law, who are talking in an
undertone._) No, perhaps I'd better let it alone. I--I can allude to it
in a joky sort of way when I come down!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_By Our Dyspeptic Poet._)

 When the doctor's stern decree
 Rings the knell of libertee,
   And dismisses from my sight
   All the dishes that delight;
 When my temperature is high--
 When to pastry and to pie
   Duty bids me say farewell,
   Then I hail thy fragrant smell!

 When the doctor shakes his head,
 Banning wine or white or red,
   And at all my well-loved joints
   Disapproving finger points;
 When my poultry too he stops,
 Then, reduced to taking "slops,"
   I, for solace and relief,
   Fly to thee, O Tea of Beef!

 But--if simple truth I tell--
 I can brook thee none too well;
   Thy delights, O Bovine Tea,
   Have no special charm for me!
 Though thou comest piping hot,
 Oh, believe I love thee not!
   Weary of thy gentle reign--
   Give me oysters and champagne!

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["FRY of Wadham," illustrious all-round athlete of Oxford, holds
    that Golf is no better than "glorified Croquet."]

 Oh, FRY of Wadham, you've opened your mouth,
 And "put your foot in it!" Here in the South,
 Talked to death by wild golfers, we're likely to cry
 Hooray, to see Link-lovers roasted by FRY.
 Golf-glorification's a terrible tax on
 The muscular Cricketing, Footballing Saxon,
 To whom the game seems just a little bit pokey.
 But FRY of Wadham, Sir, "glorified Croquet"!
 Champion of Champions, you're going to catch it!
 Each man loves his sport, swears no other can match it
 _Chacun à son goût!_ And he's rather to blame
 Who's prompt to make game of another man's Game!

       *       *       *       *       *


DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Thanks to the action of the Circulating Libraries, it
seems that the old-fashioned three-volume novel is doomed to become a
work of the past. Most of the popular writers have abandoned it, and now
the publishers are beginning to fight shy of it. The principal argument,
I believe, in favour of its retention is that it gives a chance to "the
little read." The Circulating Libraries are called upon to fill boxes
intended for the edification of subscribers in the country, and in these
receptacles of light literature I believe the unpopular authors have
their greatest chance. But as a matter of fact, although a romance may
be sent to a peruser, it is not within the scope of civilisation to
cause that romance to be read. According to statistics I believe about
sixty per cent of the second and third rate is only sampled by the
recipients of the aforesaid boxes. The last couple of pages of the third
volume are largely read, whilst the remainder of the work is saved from
the labours of the paper-knife. As this is so, would it not be as well
to give a "common form" _finale_ to serve as a model for novels _in
extremis_? To make my meaning plainer I will give an example.


Let me suppose that the country subscriber has received a novel per
parcels post called _The Deed in Drab_. Instead of having to cut some
nine hundred pages, he finds gummed to the inside of the cover what I
may call


And so amidst the joy bells of the old church and the songs of the
nightingales, and the pleasant laughter of the little children, EDWIN
and ANGELINA were married. As they passed under the oaken porch the Duke
gave them his blessing. Need it be said they lived happily--like a
prince and a princess in fairy tale--for ever after?

Captain MONTMORENCY GUILT, kicked out of his club and warned off the
Turf at Newmarket, left England with his ill-gotten gains for Cairo.
Arrived in Egypt, he disappeared into the Soudan. Those of the Arabs who
came from the desert declare that there is a white ruler in Khartoum.
Whether it be he, who knows? Still, the stories of cruelty brought back
by the swarthy traders are not unsuggestive of the man who brought poor
PAULINE to her grave and broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.

EDWARD WATTS _did_ marry MARY BEETLES, and they are now doing well at
Little Pannington. The village all-sorts shop has grown into a "Stores,"
and those who are in the know say that at a near date it will be
converted into a "Company, Limited." Be this as it may, EDWARD and MARY
drive to chapel in their own gig.

And what became of PAUL PETERSON? Overwhelmed with the secret sorrow
that could never be shared by another, he went his way to the wilds of
Australia. And there, under the starlight influence of the Southern
Cross, and amidst the glorious glaciers of the Boomerang Mountains, he
tries to forget the terrible and half-forgiven details of the "Deed in


There, Sir, you have the ending of ninety-nine novels out of
a possible hundred. In the hands of an experienced writer the
sentences might be so adapted as to meet the requirements of the
book completing the century. Surely the suggestion is worthy of
the attention of a MUDIE, and the consideration of a W. H. SMITH.

 Yours faithfully,


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SUPPRESSIO VERI.



       *       *       *       *       *



AIR--"_Ye Mariners of England._"


 Ye Gentlemen of Holland
   That guard your native stumps,
 Ye come to bat on wickets damp,
   And block the ball that bumps.
 The "glorious game" you play amain,
   And may you match the foe;
 And smite left and right,
   While the balls for "boundaries" go;
 While your batsmen run 'em fast and long,
   And the balls for "boundaries" go!


 The spirits of your fathers
   Should watch you from the wave!--
 The brine, it was their field of fame;
   On turf you're just as brave.
   Your manly breasts must glow
 As you smite left and right,
   While the balls for "boundaries" go;
 Whilst the batsmen run 'em fast and long,
   And the balls for "boundaries" go!


 BRITANNIA loves to encounter
   Her ancient foes--in peace.
 Our march is to the wickets green,
   Our home is at the crease.
 With volleys from her native wood
   She meets the friendly foe,
 As they smite left and right,
   And the balls for "boundaries" go;
 While the batsmen run 'em fast and long,
   And the balls for "boundaries" go!


 The willows of old England,
   Dutch willows shall not spurn!
 Your team we'll cheer when they depart,
   We'll welcome their return!
 Then, then ye willow-warriors,
   Our song and feast shall flow
 To the fame of your name,
   When to Holland back ye go;
 When the shout "How's that?" is heard no more,
   And to Dutchland back ye go!

       *       *       *       *       *


_Or, The Wilful Markee._

    ["The House of Lords, for some reason, always assumes special care
    of Ireland, a fact which may account for a few of the curiosities of
    Irish political and domestic economy."--_Mr. Punch's Essence of
    Parliament, June 3, 1861._]

AIR--"_Widow Machree."_

 Wilful Markee, it's loike thunder ye frown,
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
 Faith ye'd plase yer proud Parthy by kicking _me_ down,
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
 How haughty your air,
 As you kick me down-stair!
 Faix, I wondher ye dare
   In this oisle of the free!
 Och, ye autocrat churl,
 Me poor head's in a whirl.
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_

 Wilful Markee, Oireland's chance is now come,
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
 Whin everything smoiles must the Tories look glum?
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
 Sure the Commons, wid prayers,
 Have sint me upstairs;
 Who is it that dares
   Wid me form disagree?
 _Don't_ haughtily pish
 At ould Oireland's last wish!
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_

 Wilful Markee, whin a Bill enters in.
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
 To be kicking it out in this stoyle is a sin.
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
 Surely hammer and tongs
 To bad ould days belongs;
 Far betther sing songs
   Full of family glee.
 Oireland's bad bitter cup
 Do not harshly fill up,
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_

 And do ye not know wid yer bearing so bould,--
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
 How ye're kaping the poor tinants out in the could?
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
 Wid such sins on your head,
 Sure your peace will be fled;
 Could you slape in your bed
   Widout thinking to see
 My ghost or my sprite
 That will wake ye each night
     Groaning _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_

 Then take my advice haughty Wilful Markee,
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
 And loike "Compensation Bill" do not trate _me_!
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
 Of stroife we all tire,
 Then why stir the ould fire?
 Sure hope is no liar
   In whisperin' to me,
 Hate's ould ghost will depart
 When you win Oireland's heart!
     _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_
       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "PUTTING HIS FOOT IN IT."]

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


(_Per favour of Mr. Punch._)

_Mr. Punch._ So you've not been signalling to Mother Earth, after
all, my noble Warrior?

_Mars (with a wink)._ What do _you_ think? Why should I dig
canals 100 miles wide, and 2,000 miles long, or build bonfires as big
as Scotland, when I can always communicate what I may have to say
through you?

 Because Mars looks spotty or misty,
 Some dreamers, with intellects twisty,
    Imagine, old horse,
    Mars is playing at Morse!
 All bosh! You ask DYSON or CHRISTIE.

_Mr. Punch._ Mr. MAUNDER "has you under his special charge," hasn't he?

_Mars._ Much obliged to Mr. MAUNDER, I'm sure! Wants to take my photo,
doesn't he? As if I were a mere politician, a popular comedian, or
'ARRIET at the seaside on a Bank Holiday!

_Mr. Punch._ Have you any Bank Holidays in your planet?

_Mars._ Thank Sol, _Mr. Punch_, we have outlived the epoch of taking our
pleasure in spasms, like your cockney victims of the vulgar voluptuary's
St. Vitus's dance!

_Mr. Punch._ Don't be uppish, old man! 'Tis an ill-bred age of Kodaks,
and Interviews, and other phases of popular Paul Pryism. But you've had
your ignominious moments, Mars. If a "snap-shot" could have been taken
at you when held prostrate, chained, and captive, at the feet of Otus
and Ephialtes, or, still worse, when caught with Venus in the iron net
of Vulcan:--

 All heaven beholds, imprison'd as they lie,
 And unextinguish'd laughter shakes the sky.

_Mars._ Spare me, excellent _Punch_. Eugh! Thank heaven Olympus knew no
Kodaks then, or "the gay Apollo" would yet longer have had the laugh of

_Mr. Punch._ Pardon me for awaking unpleasant memories! But even gods
should not be bumptious, especially when, like the _Second Mrs.
Tanqueray_, they "have a past."

_Mars._ Well, anyhow I've been able to baffle the camera-wielders up to
now. My ruddy countenance and "bluish radiance" have beaten Greenwich,
and even licked the Lick! As they themselves admit, "Mars up to the
present has defied cameral detection."

_Mr. Punch._ But what about those "bright spots"?

_Mars._ Have you no "bright spots" even on your dull and foggy old
planet? I have often noticed one at 85, Fleet Street. In June and
December it emits thousands of brilliant sparks of a "bluish radiance,"
too. But I don't jump to the conclusion that you are "signalling" to me.
Look, the naked eye can see the Punchian "_projection lumineuse_" even
from here!

_Mr. Punch._ I do not have to "signal" my messages to "Hellas" or
"LOCKYER'S Land" by canals or "ten million arc lights of 100,000
candle-power apiece." Like the Sun, I am self-luminous, and do not, like
the finest planets, shine by reflected light.

_Mars._ True for you. And from your own intellectual observatory, like
TEUFELSDROECKH "alone with the stars," you ofttimes scan the heavens
when, as LONGFELLOW says:--

 "----the first watch of night is given
 To the red planet Mars."

_Mr. Punch._ Precisely!

    [_Murmurs musingly._

 And earnest thoughts within me rise
   When I behold afar,
 Suspended in the evening skies
   The shield of that red star.

 A star of strength! I see thee stand
   And smile upon my pain;
 Thou beckonest with thy mailéd hand,
   And I am strong again.

 The star of the unconquered will
   He rises in my breast.
 Serene, and resolute and still,
   And calm, and self-possessed.

_Mars._ Ah yes! that's all very pretty and poetical, and I'm much
obliged to HENRY WADSWORTH and the other bards who have lyrically
glorified me. But _Punch_, old man, _you and I know better_! Mother
Earth has ever paid, and payeth still, far too much worship to Mars--the
Mars of her own militant fancy. To tell you the truth, _Punch_, I'm sick
of my old _métier_, especially since Science stepped in and bedevilled
it past bearing with her big guns, and dynamite-bombs, and treacherous
torpedoes; weapons more fit for grubby Vulcan's subterranean Cyclops
than a god, a gentleman and a soldier like me.

_Mr. Punch._ Hoho! That's the way the (LOCKYER'S) land lies, eh?

_Mars._ Exactly, _I_ wasn't signalling to your stupid, conservative,
bellicose old world, which, like the Bourbons, learns nothing and
forgets nothing. Could I write in plain Titanic capitals across a
thousand square miles of my smoothest surface Mars's Straight Tip to
Mother Earth, viz.:--


what effect would it have on any of you, from civilised England, with
you to enlighten it, to the furious fighting dragons who are tearing
each other in the eastern seas? None! But if any of your quidnuncs
really want to know what I _would_ say if I _did_ signal, tell them old
Mars, grown wiser, has turned up War; has nailed his raven to a
barn-door as a warning; has made a pet of Peace's soft-plumed dove; and
strongly advises the belligerent boobies on earth who take his old name
in vain, and play his abandoned game still, to--_go and do likewise_!!!

_Mr. Punch._ By the cestus of Venus, and so I will!!!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_By a Sympathetic, but Superficial Observer._)

 Oh! the hardest of hearts some compassion must feel
 For that modern Ixion, the Man on the Wheel!
 See him scouring the roads on his spindly-spoked spider,
 Dust-hid till you scarce tell the "bike" from its rider;
 His abdomen shrunken, his shoulders up-humped,
 With the gaping parched lips of one awfully pumped.
 _Could_ a camel condemned to the treadmill look worse?
 Sure those lips, could he close them, would shape to a curse
 On his horrible doom! As I gaze and stand by,
 With a pang at my heart, and a tear in my eye,
 I think of Ixion, the Wandering Jew,
 That Cork-leggèd Dutchman--the Flying One, too,
 And other poor victims of pitiless speed;
 And I own, while _their_ cases were frightful indeed,
 The Bicyclist's fate is the worser by far.
 Poor soul!!! The small "pub," and a "pull" at the "bar,"
 Appear your best comfort. Imagine the cheer
 Of a slave of the "bike" whose sole solace is beer!
 You can't see the prospect; your eyes are cast down
 Like BUNYAN'S _Muck-raker_; your brows in a frown
 Of purposeless effort are woefully knit;
 Of Nature's best charms you perceive not a bit.
 The hedge your horizon, the long, dusty road
 Is your sole point of sight. Wretched victim, what goad
 Of Fate, or sheer folly, thus urges you on?
 Old torments--like poor Io's gadfly--are gone,
 And yet, like Orestes, the Fury-whipped, you
 Wheel on, as some comet wheels on through the blue
 In billion-leagued cycles less dreary than is
 The cycle on which round the wide world you whiz!
 Eh? _Cutting a record?_ You _like_ it? The goose!!!
 A task without pleasure, a toil without use!
 Poor soul! You are worse than Ixion, I feel,
 For _he_ was not tied _by himself_ to the wheel!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CONJUGAL EGOTISM.


       *       *       *       *       *

The Plaint of the Unwilling Peer.

 From my M.P.'s seat I--oh, the pity!--must move.
   I am one of Rank's sorrowful heirs;
 For the Commons Fate bids me dissemble my love,
   But _why_ did she kick me upstairs?

       *       *       *       *       *

ON TICK.--The Modern Novel is a blend of the Erotic, the Neurotic, and
the Tommy-rotic.

       *       *       *       *       *


 _Antwerp_--if you are not tired of Exhibitions.
 _Boulogne_--if you don't mind the mud of the port.
 _Cologne_--if you are not particular about the comfort of your nose.
 _Dieppe_--if you like bathing in the foreign fashion.
 _Etretat_--if solitude has commanding charms.
 _Florence_--if you are partial to 100° in the shade.
 _Genoa_--if you have no objection to mosquitoes.
 _Heidelberg_--if you are not tired of the everlasting castle.
 _Interlacken_--if the Jungfrau has the advantage of novelty.
 _Java_--if you wish to eat its jelly on the spot.
 _Kandahar_--if you are not afraid of Afghan treachery.
 _Lyons_--if you are fond of riots and _émeutes_.
 _Marseilles_--if you are determined to do the Château D'If.
 _Naples_--if you are anxious to perform an ante-mortem duty.
 _Ouchy_--if you like it better than Lausanne.
 _Paris_--if you have not been there for at least a fortnight.
 _Quebec_--if you are qualifying for admission to a lunatic asylum.
 _Rome_--if you have never had the local fever and want to try it.
 _Strasbourg_--if you are hard up for an appropriate destination.
 _Turin_--if it is the only town you have not seen in Italy.
 _Uig_--if you affect the Isle of Skye in a thunder-storm.
 _Venice_--if you scorn stings and evil odours.
 _Wiesbaden_--if you can enjoy scenery minus gambling.
 _Yokohama_--if you are willing to risk assault and battery.
 _Zurich_--if you can think of no other place to visit.


N.B.--The above places are where to go on the keep-moving-tourist plan.
But when you want to know "WHERE TO STAY,"--we reply, "AT HOME."

       *       *       *       *       *


(_To be Translated as Required._)

Why have you thrown my boxes down with such violence that their contents
have become distributed on the platform?

Why is it necessary to strike me on the head with a stick because I am
taking my proper place at the ticket-office?

Why have you refused to give me change for a sovereign, minus the
eighteenpence you have the right to charge for my fare?

Why do you close the door of communication when I offer a remonstrance?

Why can I not obtain redress upon complaint to the station-master?

Why am I chased off the premises by a private policeman when I am
anxious to catch the next train?

Why is my luggage being placarded with places that certainly do not
correspond with my desired destination?

Why can I not have my tea cool enough to drink? and why I am hurried out
of the refreshment-room before I can discuss my bread and butter?


Why must I pay half-a-crown for comestibles valued on the card at less
than a shilling?

Why am I forced into a carriage already overcrowded with aged females,
sickly children, and snarling spaniels?

Why can I not have a seat, considering I have paid the full fare, and
amply tipped the guard?

Why can I not have a window open, considering that the glass stands at
ninety in the shade?

Why can I not smoke, having chosen a smoking carriage?

Why should I be dictated to by a disagreeable and elderly stranger, who
snores half the journey, and helps herself to ardent spirits in the

Why should I be threatened with imprisonment, and be only pardoned by
repaying my fare because I have lost my ticket?

And, lastly (for the present), why have I been carried to Little
Peddlington-on-the-Ditch when I desired to reach the British Coast _en
route_ for Paris?

       *       *       *       *       *



(_Being a Record of the 12th._)

 It was an ancient poacher-man,
   Bronzed as a penny-bun;--
 "By thy beady eye, now tell me why,
   Thou offspring of a gun,

 O tell me why beneath thy
   Exceeding hoary tuft
 Precisely half a brace of grouse chin's
   Hangs, admirably stuffed?"

 He blinked his beady eye; his voice
   Was singularly clear;
 And as I listened to his tale
   I could not choose but hear.

 "Mon, ye mun ken I have not aye
   Been sec a feckless loon;
 In me behold the wreck of what
   Was once The MCAROON.

 Oft have I made a merrie bag
   Across my native heath;
 Shot o'er my ain ancestral dawgs
   Or aiblins underneath.

 Until lang syne, a monie year--
   Ye couldna weel be born--
 The blessed twalfth of August fell
   Upon a Sawbath morn.

 Braw were the birds, my gun was braw,
   My bluid was pipin' hot;
 I thocht it crime to gie 'em time--
   Allowance like a yacht.

 Scarce had I bagged but ane wee bird,
   There was the de'il to pay:
 It's unco deadly skaith wi' Scots
   To break the Sawbath day.

 The billies wha the nicht before
   Were fou at my expense,
 They deaved the meenister aboot
   My verra bad offence.

 An' a' the Kirk declared the work
   Was perfect deevilrie,
 An' hung the bird by this absurd
   Arrangement whilk ye see.

 Twal' month an' mair my shame I bear
   Beneath the curse o' noon,
 A paltry wraith of what was once
   The Laird o' MCAROON.

 An' aye when fa's the blessed twalfth
   Upo' the Sawbath day,
 I bear the bird in this absurd
   An' aggravatin' way."

 The ancient ceased his sorry tale,
   And craved a trifling boon,
 To wet the whistle of what was once
   The Laird o' MCAROON.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *

Ditto to Mr. Courtney.

 As after jackdaw chatter and owl-hooting,
 Gratefully follows Philomel's dulcet fluting;
 So, after HANBURY'S gibes and HEALY'S jeers,
 COURTNEY'S cool reason gladdens patriot ears.
 _O, si sic omnes!_ But though his sole voice
 Sound "in the wilderness," yet _some_ rejoice
 To hear, 'midst blare of venomed wrath and vanity,
 The moving tones of brave, sound-hearted sanity.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_By Our Imaginary Interviewer._)

I found The great man surrounded by plans and models of any number of
wonderful inventions. Here was a clever scheme for spending a week's
holiday in the Mountains of the Moon, there a recipe for removing the
spots from the face of the sun. It would take too long to give an
inventory of all the marvels. Enough to say their name was legion.

"And so you have discovered the secret of aërial navigation?" I asked,
after I was comfortably seated.

The great man smiled. He evidently had solved the difficult problem.

"I suppose that now you and all will be able to do without ships and
railways? I presume we shall be independent of cabs and omnibuses?"


Once more there was a smile. I was answered. "Of course," I continued,
"you will be able to take your aërial contrivances to all the countries
of the earth? What is there to prevent you from starting flying-machines
from London to Paris, or Berlin, or even Timbuctoo?" Again there was a
pleasant smile. Evidently my guess was a good one.

"You will be able to travel thousands of miles without the assistance of
rails? You will dispense with land and water? All you will require will
be the atmosphere, and that is always with us--always at our service."

Again my suggestions remained uncontradicted.

"It is truly marvellous," I remarked; "truly marvellous! And you have
commenced? You have been able to float through the air for a dozen, a
hundred feet?" There was a smile once again.

"And yet, perhaps, as railways and steamships are still 'firm' on the
Stock Exchange, it may be just as well to allow our holdings in those
securities to remain undisturbed? What do you think? It is scarcely time
to speculate for a fall?" Once more he smiled, and as smiling is
infectious, I joined him in his merriment.

       *       *       *       *       *


    [At Clifton, on Aug. 9, in Gloucestershire _v._ Middlesex, Dr. W. G.
    GRACE completed his 1000 runs in first-class matches this summer.
    The other players who share this distinction are ABEL, ALBERT WARD,
    and BROCKWELL.]

 Well hit! _Mr. Punch_ chalks it up once more--
   Your ten-hundredth run between the "creases"!
   Why, this (at twenty-two yards apiece) is
 Twelve-miles-and-a half for this season's score!

 But stay! we've no business to "notch" each mile!
   With your cuts and draws, and your drives and trick hits,
   You've only to stand still before the wickets,
 And straight to the boundary "fours" compile!

 With ABEL, WARD, BROCKWELL, you hold your own,
   As '94 cricket now nears its finish;
   We'll hope your four figures will ne'er diminish--
 As "Grand Old Bat" you shall e'er be known!

       *       *       *       *       *

be true that at a place called Onehunga, in New Zealand, they have
a lady as Mayor? Surely this is altogether "_ultra vires_," as well
as being ultra-virile! My legal knowledge--which is considerable--convinces
me that there is a fatal flaw in the so-called election of a
woman to the chief post in a municipality, even in New Sheland--I
mean New Zealand. It's quite settled law that a _femme sole_ cannot
be a Corporation; then how, I should like to know, can she preside
over a Corporation? Possibly some legal readers will say if their
opinion coincides with mine.


       *       *       *       *       *



_House of Lords, Monday Night, August 6._--MARKISS expected to continue
to-night that speech around the Budget he didn't commence on second
reading of the Bill. Sat mysteriously quiet on that occasion.
Unexpectedly broke out at following sitting, wanting to know what
HERSCHELL meant by saying Judicial Committee of Privy Council had
arrived at conclusion that Lords had no power to amend a money bill.
"Where's your report?" he asked. "Produce it."

LORD CHANCELLOR didn't happen to have it in his waistcoat pocket or
secreted in wig. MARKISS gave notice that he would to-night formally
move for production of report. Flutter of interest in House. Commons
flocked in prepared for some fresh "blazing indiscretion." Found the
MARKISS sitting on woolsack chatting with LORD CHANCELLOR. Held book
between them, as young persons about to marry are wont to do when
attending morning or evening service. Vague idea that presently they
would rise and sing a hymn. LORD CHANCELLOR quite equal to it, being a
big gun at the Bar Musical Society and very fond of the Opera. Nothing
however came of it, at least, not in that direction. When hour for
public business arrived MARKISS left woolsack carrying the tune book
with him. His motion for report of Judicial Committee stood half way
down Orders of the Day. When it was reached MARKISS said nothing.
Naturally other peers were silent, and whilst commoners accustomed to
other ways of transacting business were marvelling as to what had
happened, and what would follow, House adjourned, practically for a

"Well," said SARK for once nonplussed; "certainly if there is a place in
the world where 'e don't know where 'e are, it's the House of Lords.
When a peer is expected to speak he sits dumb. When arrangements have
been made for a quiet sitting, the MARKISS or some other big gun is sure
to go off unexpectedly with alarming consequences."

_Business done._--Irish Evicted Tenants Bill passed Report Stage in

_Tuesday._--It is the unexpected that happens in the House of Commons.
Befel to-night with dramatic suddenness. Third reading of Evicted
Tenants Bill moved. At eleven o'clock JOSEPH resumed his seat with
pleased consciousness of having cast some balm, in the shape of vitriol,
over Irish Question. House crowded; DEVONSHIRE, in depression and dinner
dress, looked down from Peers' Gallery. Over the clock sat SANDHURST,
presently to move first reading of Bill in House of Lords. Arranged Bill
should finally leave Commons to-night. Only one hour in which PRINCE
ARTHUR might speak, and JOHN MORLEY reply. JOSEPH having despatched his
final arrow at his old friends the Irish Members, the shaft being barbed
with points composing pleasing legend, "Violence, Agitation,
Dishonesty," PRINCE ARTHUR rose, with evident intent of showing, as has
happened several times this Session, how the same sort of thing may be
said with better effect in quite another way.

[Illustration: The Macgregor proposes to "toss the Caber"--next

Simultaneously from below gangway uprose the tall figure of JOHN DILLON.
Opposition roared with despairing indignation. Everything settled, to
last button on the gaiter; JOSEPH had had his half-hour; Prince ARTHUR
would take his, honourably leaving JOHN MORLEY his thirty minutes. Then
Division called; Bill read third time; sent on to Lords; Commons
comfortably home by half-past twelve. And here was JOHN DILLON claiming
the right to reply to attacks and inuendos of the genial JOSEPH!

Tumult rose; DILLON folded his arms and faced it. A bad sign
that gesture. Remember it in years gone by, when all things were
topsy-turvey; when FORSTER was Chief Secretary, and, next to PARNELL,
the hope of the Irish Members fighting for Home Rule was JOSEPH

DILLON in that attitude evidently immoveable; various suggestions
offered. Evade the Twelve o'Clock Rule, and sit till all was over;
adjourn the Debate. Finally agreed that Debate should be adjourned till
to-morrow--to-morrow, the day on which, at end of last real fight of
Session, most Members were off on the delayed holiday.

Out of this dilemma PRINCE ARTHUR delivered a grateful House. Had
prepared his speech through long sitting; doubtless had many bright
things to say; but what was one speech among so many? Perish his speech,
rather than the whole arrangements of Parliamentary week be upset. So
gracefully stood aside; DILLON took his half hour; JOHN MORLEY followed
in vigorous fighting form, marking fresh step in steady improvement as
Parliamentary debater; and before midnight all was over.

_Business done._--Evicted Tenants Bill read third time by 199
votes against 167.

_Wednesday._--M. de Londres--the Hangman, as blunt Britons put
it--called to-day. House engaged on Committee of Equalisation of Rates
Bill; seat found for Monsieur under Gallery, where private secretaries
of ministers and heads of public offices sit when Bills affecting their
departments are under discussion.

"Monsieur has something to do with the Home Office, _n'est ce pas?_" I
asked SARK. "Looked in, I suppose, to help ASQUITH?"

"No," said the Member for SARK. "It's not that. He's heard House intends
to suspend the Standing Orders. Wants to see how _we_ go to work. Not
above taking a wrinkle even from amateurs."

"Ah," said W. P. JACKSON, throwing up his hands with gesture of despair.
"Knew it would come to this under present Government. First the
guillotine, then the gallows."

_Business done._--Quite a lot.

_Thursday._--Southerners long heard of pleasurable hours spent in
Committee-room upstairs, where Scotch Members been engaged for weeks in
Grand Committee on their Local Government Bill. Such badinage! such
persiflage! not omitting refreshing influences of another kind familiar
in _Noctes Ambrosianæ_. 'Tis said, when conversation flagged quite usual
thing for J. B. BALFOUR and CHARLES PEARSON to strip off coats and
waistcoats, place two umbrellas crosswise on floor, and go through
sword-dance, TREVELYAN in the chair leading off colourable imitation of
bagpipe accompaniment, in which Committee joined in mad chorus.

Not sure about that. Absolutely no doubt that on last day of meeting all
the members stood on chairs, with one foot on the table, and, holding
hands, sang "_Auld Lang Syne_." Bound to say they seem to have exhausted
all their hilarity in Committee-room. PARKER SMITH still a good deal to
say; HOZIER not uncommunicative; and WALTER M'LAREN enjoys keen
satisfaction of insisting on Division that presents smallest minority of
the series. But, on the whole, House seems filled with what SARK tell me
Edinburgh, occasionally suffering from the visitation, calls "an
easterly haar."

Through the cold, wet, white fog, comes one gleam of light. JOHN MORLEY
brings in a Bill making further provision with respect to Irish
Congested Districts Board. SPEAKER puts customary question, "Who is
prepared to bring in this Bill?" "Mr. ARTHUR BALFOUR and myself,"
responds the CHIEF SECRETARY; and the House gratefully goes off into a
fit of laughter.

"Lovely in life," exclaims DAVID PLUNKET, looking with almost equal
affection on his two right hon. friends, "on the Congested Districts
Board (Ireland) Bill they are not divided."

_Business done._--Scotch Local Government Bill.

_Friday._--Another "Nicht wi' BURNS." Sadder even than the last. But
sooner over. By eleven o'clock report stage agreed to. "Shall we take
third reading now, or would you like a third night with the Bill?" asked

A shudder ran through the House; when it was over Bill hurried past
final stage.

_Business done._--Winding-up rapidly.

       *       *       *       *       *


  "There is nothing new under the sun."
    So said the proverbial preacher.
  But surely 'twas only his fun!
    A modern and up-to-date teacher
  Would tell him that Humour, and Art,
    And Daughters, and Wives, and Morality,
  All aim to make a fresh start
    In novel (and nauseous) reality;
  And the wail of the Wise Man will be, pretty soon,
    "There is nothing _old_ under the sun--or the moon!"

[Transcriber's Note:

Alternative spellings retained.

Punctuation normalized without comment.]

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, August 18, 1894" ***

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