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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, March 30th 1895
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. 108, March 30th 1895" ***

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VOL. 108.
MARCH 30, 1895.

[Illustration: "ANIMAL SPIRITS."


(_Vide Papers, March 22._)]

                               * * * * *

                          AN ELECTION ADDRESS.

    [Mr. RIDER HAGGARD has become the accepted Conservative
    candidate for a Norfolk constituency. The following is
    understood to be an advance copy of his Address.]

  Intelligent electors, may I venture to present
  Myself as an aspirant for a seat in Parliament?
  The views of those opponents who despise a novelist,
  Are but the foggy arguments of People of the Mist!

  No writer, I assure you, can produce a better claim,
  A greater versatility, a more substantial fame;
  My candidature, though opposed by all the yellow gang,
  Has won the hearty sympathy of Mr. ANDREW LANG.

  And if what my opinions are you'd really like to know,
  They're issued at a modest price by LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.;
  The Eight Hours Bill, for instance, I'm prepared to speak upon
  From a practical acquaintance with the Mines of Solomon.

  Whatever my intentions as to Woman's Rights may be,
  I yield to none in honouring the great immortal She;
  While, as to foreign policy, though Blue Books make you yawn,
  You'll find the subject treated most attractively in _Dawn_.

  When I am placed in Parliament, I'll speak with fluent skill,
  And show (like Mr. MEESON) I've a most effective will;
  And if there is a special point for which I mean to fight,
  It is for legislation to protect my copyright.

  If chance debate to matters in South Africa should tend,
  My anecdotes will cause the Speaker's wig to stand on end;
  And if an opportunity occurs, I'll rouse the lot
  By perorating finely in impassioned Hottentot!

  So, Gentlemen, I beg you, let my arguments prevail,
  Shame would it be if such a cause through apathy should fail,
  Shame on the false elector who his honest duty shirks!
            Believe me,        Yours.
                The Author of _She_, _Dawn_, and other works.

                               * * * * *


                               * * * * *

                     "WHEN ARTHUR FIRST AT COURT."

Last week the Court Theatre was advertised as a "Company, Limited." The
cast in the bill was given as Chairman, ARTHUR W. PINERO; First
Director, Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN (with a song?); Second Director, HERBERT
BENNETT (Director also of HARROD'S Stores, Limited, the success of which
establishment has been so great as to now out-HARROD HARROD); and then
ARTHUR CHUDLEIGH (who was jointly lessee at one time with Mrs. JOHN
WOOD), as Director and Acting Manager. The Solicitor is down as ARTHUR
B. CHUBB ("little fish are sweet"), and the Secretary is Mr. A.
(presumably ARTHUR?) S. DUNN. Most appropriate this name to finish with;
"and now my story's DUNN." Fortunate omen, too, that there are two "n's"
in DUNN, which otherwise is a word associated with a Court not quite so
cheerful as the Court Theatre.

But the curious note about it is the preponderance of "ARTHURS." ARTHUR
DUNN. If they have power to add to their number, why not take in ARTHUR
JONES, ARTHUR LLOYD, and ARTHUR ROBERTS? That would make the Dramatic
ARTHURS and the Musical ARTHURS about equal.

MATILDA CHARLOTTE WOOD is mentioned as having had an agreement with one
of the ARTHURS yclept CHUDLEIGH, and probably also a disagreement too,
as their once highly prosperous joint management came to an end. But now
"she will return," at least, everyone hopes so, as, after her capital
performance of the Sporting Duchess at Drury Lane, she has shown us that
she is as fresh and as great an attraction as ever. Some of the ARTHURS
will write for her, one ARTHUR will compose for her, two ARTHURS will
act and sing with her, and ARTHUR, the managing director, will direct
and manage her. May every success attend the venture! But how about
authors and composers offering their work to so professional a board of
directors? Doesn't _Sir Fretful Plagiary's_ objection to sending his
play in to the manager of Drury Lane, namely, that "he writes himself."
hold good nowadays? Hum. A difficulty, most decidedly; still, not
absolutely insuperable.

                               * * * * *

                           Which Settles It.

_Over-enthusiastic Person_ (_speaking confidentially of his absent
Friend to the young Lady to whom absent friend is going to propose_).
Everybody speaks in his praise. He is an exceptionally good man.

_Sharp Young Lady._ Ah, then he is "too good to be true." I shall refuse
him!                                             [_Exit separately._

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "MUSIC HATH CHARMS."


"The Duke of CAMBRIDGE takes the liveliest personal interest in the
proposal made by Mr. JOHN AIRD, and supported by Mr. HERBERT GLADSTONE,
First Commissioner of Works, that military bands should perform in the
Royal Parks on suitable occasions during the season."--_Daily Telegraph,
March 20._]

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: QUITE A CATCH.

_Young Splinter_ (_driving Nervous Old Party to Covert_). "YES, I LOVE A
[_Old Party begins to feel that "'E don' know where 'e are," or will be

                               * * * * *

                          "MUSIC HATH CHARMS."

                     A SONG FOR A SUMMER DAY, 1895.

                   (_A Very Long Way after Dryden._)

    ["Mr. HERBERT GLADSTONE, in reply to Mr. AIRD, said he was glad
    to tell the hon. gentleman that he had been informed by his
    Royal Highness the Duke of CAMBRIDGE that arrangements were
    being made for a military band to play in Hyde Park on certain
    days in summer."--_Parliamentary Report._]


    In harmony, in public harmony,
      This bit of pleasant news began.
    St. Stephen's underneath a heap
      Of burning questions lay.
    When HERBERT raised his head
    His tuneful voice was heard on high,
      And this is what it said:
    That Great GEORGE RANGER could descry
    A chance of making a big leap
          To pop-u-lar-i-ty.
    That Music's power should have full summer sway,
      And the bands begin to play!
    With harmony, with general harmony,
      Around the information ran
      That harmony, sweet harmony,
    Should stay mere rumpus with its rataplan,
    And make Hyde Park a pleasant place to Man!


    What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
    When HERBERT thumps the side-drum well
      The listening nursemaids well may stand around,
    A-wondering at that curly swell,
      A-worshipping the rattling sound.
    Less than a dook they think can hardly dwell
          In that drum major's toffy togs.
          He startles even the stray dogs!
    What passion cannot Music raise and quell?


          The populace charms,
        The kettledrum-banger
          The baby alarms.
        At the double, double, double beat
          Of young GLADSTONE'S drum
    The Socialist spouters from back street and slum
      Cry, "Hark! our foes come!
    Way oh! _We_'ad better retreat!"


      The shrill and sprightly flute
    Startles the seculurist spouts and shovers.
      The crowds of music-lovers
    Flock to its sound and leave tub-thumpers mute.


      Dark Anarchists proclaim
    Their jealous pangs and desperation,
      Fury, frantic indignation,
    Depths of spite and heights of passion.
      Music mars _their_ little game.


    Yes, Music's art can teach
      Better than savage ungrammatic speech.
    Young HERBERT let us praise,
    "The dear Dook" let us love.
      The weary wayfarer, the wan-faced slummer,
      Beneath the spell of Music and the Drummer,
    Feel rataplans and rubadubs to raise
          Their souls sour spleen above.


    "Orpheus could lead the savage race,
    And trees uprooted left their place,
        Sequacious of the lyre."--
    Precisely, Glorious JOHN! Yet 'twere no lark
    To see the trees cavorting round the Park.
        No! Our CECILIA'S aim is even higher.
    To soothe the savage (Socialistic) breast,
    Set Atheist and Anarchist at rest,
    And to abate the spouting-Stiggins pest
        Young HERBERT and grey GEORGE may well aspire.
      The "Milingtary Dook"'s permission's given
    That the Park-Public's breast, be-jawed and beered,
    May by the power of harmony be cheered,
      And lifted nearer heaven!

                             GRAND CHORUS.

                        (_By a Grateful Crowd._)

        "This 'ere's the larkiest of lays!
          Things _do_ begin to move!
        'ERBERT and GEORGY let us praise,
          And all the powers above.
        We've spent a reglar pleasant 'our
        Music like this the Mob devour.
        Yah! Anerchy is all my heye.
        That cornet tootles scrumptiously.
        Go it, young GLADSTING! Don't say die
        Dear Dook, but 'ave another try.
        'Armony makes disorder fly
        And Music tunes hus to the sky!

                               * * * * *

                 "THE 'KEY-NOTE'-ORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH."

[Illustration: The Dowdy Mrs. Ebbsmith makes it hot for her young man.]

MR. PINERO'S new play at the Garrick Theatre is a series of scenes in
dialogue with only one "situation," which comes at the end of the third
act, and was evidently intended to be utterly unconventional, dreadfully
daring, and thrillingly effective. "Unconventional?" Yes. "Daring?"
Certainly; for to burn a bible might have raised a storm of sibilation.
But why dare so much to effect so little? For at the reading, or during
rehearsal, there must have been very considerable hesitation felt by
everybody, author included, as to the fate of this risky situation--this
"_momentum unde pendet_"--and for which nothing, either in the character
or in the previous history of the heroine, has prepared us. Her earliest
years have been passed in squalor; she has made a miserable marriage;
then she has become a Socialist ranter, and hopes to achieve a triumph
as a Socialist demagogue. Like Maypole Hugh in _Barnaby Rudge_ she would
go about the world shrieking "No property! No property!" and when, in a
weak moment, she consents to temporarily drop her "mission," she goes to
another extreme and comes out in an evening dress--I might say almost
comes out _of_ an evening dress, so egregiously _décolleté_ is it--to
please the peculiar and, apparently, low taste of her lover, who is a
married man,--"which well she knows it," as Mrs. GAMP observes,--but
with whom she is living, and with whom, like GRANT ALLEN'S _The Woman
who did_ (a lady whom in many respects Mr. PINERO'S heroine closely
resembles), and who came to grief in doing it, she intends to continue
living. This man, her paramour, she trusts will be her partner in the
socialistic regeneration of the human race. At the close of the third
act _Mrs. Ebbsmith_, being such as the author of her being has made her,
is presented with a bible, and, in a fit of ungovernable fury, she
pitches it into the stove "with all her might and main"; and then it
suddenly occurs to her that she has committed some terrible crime (more
probably it occurred to the author that _he_ had committed the
unpardonable sin of offending his audience)--and so she shoots out her
arm into a nice, cool-looking stove (suggestive of no sort of danger to
her or the book), and drags out the pocket volume apparently quite as
uninjured as is her own hand at the moment, though this is subsequently
carefully bound up with a white handkerchief in the last act.
Well--that's all. There is _the_ situation. The Key-note-orious _Mrs.
Ebbsmith_ is supposed to repent of her sins against society; and off she
goes to become the companion of the unmarried parson and of the lively
widow his sister. What the result of this arrangement will be is pretty
clear. The Key-note-orious One will soon be the parson's bride; but
"that is another story."

To carry out this drama of inaction, as it is schemed, should occupy
eight persons something under two hours; but it takes thirteen persons
three hours to carry it along. Five of these _dramatis personæ_ are
superfluous; and much time is wasted on dialogues in Italian and French
that could be "faked up" from any conversation-book in several
languages, and evidently only lugged in under the mistaken impression
that thereby a touch of "local colour" is obtained.

As it is the audience wearies of the long speeches, and there is nothing
in the action that can rouse them as there was in _The Second Mrs.
Tanqueray_, a play that Mr. PINERO has not yet equalled, much less

But what is a real pleasure, and what will attract all lovers of good
acting, is, first of all, Mr. FORBES ROBERTSON'S admirable impersonation
of the difficult, unsympathetic _rôle_ of a despicably selfish,
self-conceited, cowardly prig; and, secondly, to a certain extent, the
rendering of the heroine by Mrs. PATRICK CAMPBELL, who, however, does
not come within measurable distance of her former self as _Mrs.
Tanqueray_--her "great stove scene" being about the weakest point in her
performance. But there cannot be a divided opinion as to the perfect
part given to Mr. JOHN HARE, and as to the absolutely perfect manner in
which it is played by this consummate artist in character. All the
scenes in which he appears are admirably conceived by the author, and as
admirably interpreted by the actor.

Mr. HARE'S performance of the _Duke of St. Olpherts_ is a real gem,
ranking among the very best things he has ever done, and I may even add
"going one better." It is on his acting, and on the acting of the scenes
in which he appears, that the ultimate popularity of the piece must
depend. The theatrical stove-cum-book situation may tell with some
audiences better than with others, but it is not an absolute certainty;
while every scene in which the _Duke of St. Olpherts_ takes part, as
long as this character is played by Mr. HARE, is in itself an absolute
isolated triumph. Mr. AUBREY SMITH, as the modern young English
moustached parson, _en voyage_, with his pipe, and bible in his pocket
(is he a _colporteur_ of some Biblical Society, with a percentage on the
sale? otherwise the book is an awkward size to carry about, especially
if he has also a _Murray_ with him), is very true to life, at all events
in manner and appearance; and Miss JEFFREYS, as his sister, who looks
just as if she had walked out of a fashion-plate in _The Gentlewoman_,
or some lady's journal, plays discreetly and with considerable
self-repression. Of course it will remain one of the notable pieces of
the year; but what will keep it green in the memory of playgoers is not
the story, nor its heroine, nor its hero, but the captivating
impersonation of the _Duke of St. Olpherts_ by Mr. JOHN HARE.

[Illustration: Transformation Scene. The Rowdy-Dowdy Mrs. Ebbsmith
fascinates the Dook.]

                               * * * * *

                         THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.

                     (_By One who has Played it._)

Assume that I am living in Yokohama Gardens (before the pleasant change
from winter to spring), and that I am conscious of the near approach of
the North Pole. The fires in the grates seem to be lukewarm, and even
the coals are frozen. My servants have told me that the milk had to be
melted before it could adorn the breakfast-table; and as for the butter,
it is as hard as marble. There is only one thing to do, to send for that
worthy creature Mr. LOPSIDE, an individual "who can turn his hand to

"Well Sir," Mr. LOPSIDE arrives and observes after a few moments spent
in careful consideration of the subject from various points of view, "of
course you feel the cold because there is five-and-twenty degrees of
frost just outside."

I admit that Mr. LOPSIDE'S opinion is reasonable; and call his attention
to the fact that a newspaper which is lying on the floor some five yards
from a closed door is violently agitated.

"I see Sir," says he promptly. "If you will wait a moment I will tell
you more about it."

He takes off his coat, throws down a bag of tools (his chronic
companion), and lies flat on the floor. Then he places his right ear to
the ground and listens intently, pointing the while to the newspaper
that has now ceased to suffer from agitation.

"There you are, Sir!" he exclaims triumphantly. "There's a draught
there. I could feel it distinctly."

He rises from the ground, reassumes his overcoat, and once more
possesses himself of his bag of useful instruments.

"Well, what shall I do?" I ask.

"Well, you see Sir, it's not for the likes of me to advise gentry folk
like you. I wouldn't think of presuming upon such a liberty."

"Not at all, Mr. LOPSIDE," I explain with some anxiety.

"Then Sir--mind you, if it's not taking too much of a liberty--I would,
having draughts, get rid of them. And you have draughts about, now
haven't you?"

I hasten to assure him that I am convinced that my house is a perfect
nest of draughts.

"Don't you be too sure until I have tested them," advises Mr. LOPSIDE.

Then the ingenious creature again divests himself of his overcoat and
workman's bag and commences his labours. He visits every door in the
house and tries it. He assumes all sorts of attitudes. Now he appears
like JESSIE BROWN at Lucknow listening to the distant slogan of the
coming Highlanders. Now like a colleague of GUY FAWKES noting the tread
of Lord MONTEAGLE on the road to the gunpowder cellar beneath the Houses
of Parliament. His attitudes, if not exactly graceful, are full of

"There are draughts everywhere," says Mr. LOPSIDE, having come to the
end of his investigations.

"And what shall I do?" I ask for the second time. Again my worthy
inspector spends a few minutes in self-communing.

"It's not for the likes of a poor man like me, Sir, to give advice; but
if I were you, Sir, I would say antiplutocratic tubing."

"What is antiplutocratic tubing?"

"Well, Sir, it's as good a thing as you can have, under all the
circumstances. But don't have antiplutocratic tubing because I say so. I
may be wrong, Sir."

"No, no, Mr. LOPSIDE," I reply, in a tone of encouragement. "I am sure
you are right. Do you think you could get me some antiplutocratic
tubing, and put it up for me?"

"Why, of course I could, Sir!" returns my worthy helper, in the tone of
a more than usually benevolent Father Christmas. Then he seems to lose
heart and become despondent. "But there, Sir, it's not for the likes of
me to say anything."

However, I persuade Mr. LOPSIDE to take a more cheerful view of his
position, and to undertake the job.

For the next three hours there is much hammering in all parts of the
house. My neighbours must imagine that I have taken violently to
spiritual manifestations. Wherever I wander I find my worthy assistant
hard at work covering the borders of the doors with a material that
looks like elongated eels in a condition of mummification--if I may be
permitted to use such an expression. Now he is standing on a ledge level
with the hall lamp; now he is reclining sideways beside an
entrance-protecting rug; now he is hanging by the bannisters midway
between two landings. The day grows apace. It is soon afternoon, and
rapidly becomes night. When the lights are beginning to appear in the
streets without, Mr. LOPSIDE has done. My house is rescued from the

"You won't be troubled much more, Sir," says he, as he glances
contemptuously at a door embedded in antiplutocratic tubing. "Keep those
shut and the draughts won't get near you--at least so I think, although
I may be wrong. Thank you, Sir. Quite correct. Good evening."

And he leaves me, muffled up in his overcoat, and still clinging to his
basket, with its burden of saws, hammers, chisels, and nails of various
dimensions. I enter the dining-room with an air of satisfaction as I
hear his echoing footsteps on the pavement without, and attempt to close
the door. It will do almost everything, but it won't shut. I give up the
dining-room, and enter my study. Again, I try to close the door. But no;
it has caught the infection of its neighbour and also declines to close.
I try the doors of the drawing-room, bedroom, and the dressing-room. But
no, my efforts are in vain. None of them will close. The wind howls, and
the draughts rush in with redoubled fury. They triumph meanly in my

There is only one thing to do, and I determine to do it. I must send for
Mr. LOPSIDE to take away as soon as possible his antiplutocratic tubing.
After all he was right when he had those, alas! unheeded misgivings. He
said "he might be wrong"--and was!

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: SO LIKELY!

SCENE--_Bar of a Railway Refreshment Room._

_Barmaid._ "TEA, SIR?"

_Mr. Boosey._ "TEA!!! ME!!!!"]

                               * * * * *




                               * * * * *


                   _Resentful Ratepayer loquitur:_--

  "Demand and Supply!" So economists cry,
    And one, they assure us, must balance the other.
  _I_ fancy their doctrines are just all my eye,
    But then I'm a victim of bad times and bother.
  At least, friend Aquarius, _you_'ll understand
    That Jack Frost and you have between you upset me.
  You are down on me--ah! like a shot--with Demand,
    But as to Supply--ah! that's just where you get me.

  Water? You frosty old fraud, not a drop,
    Save what I have purchased from urchins half frozen,
  I've had for six weeks for my house and my shop,
    And they tell me the six weeks _may_ swell to a dozen!
  Call _that_ Water-Supply, Mister Mulberry Nose?
    Why, your oozy old eyelids seem winking in mockery,
  My cisterns are empty, my pipes frozen close,
    I've nothing for washing my hands, clothes or crockery.

  As to flushing my drain-pipes, or sinks, why you know,
    I might as well trust the Sahara for sluicing.
  A bath? Yes, at tuppence a pailful or so.
    Good gracious! we grudge every tumbler we're using.
  Your stand-pipes and tanks compensate for such pranks?
    Get out! You _are_ playing it low down, Aquarius.
  Be grateful for mercies so small, Sir? No thanks!
    My wrongs at your hands have been many and various.

  But these last six weeks, Sir, are just the last straw
    That break the strong back of the rate-paying camel,
  I do not quite know what's the state of the law,
    But _if_ yours is all freedom, and mine is all trammel,
  If yours is Demand, and mine is _not_ Supply,
    As 'twould seem by the look of that precious rate-paper,
  Aquarius, old boy, I have plans in my eye
    For checking your pretty monopolist caper.

  Pay up, and look pleasant? Ah yes, that's my rule
    For every impost, from Poor Rate to Income.
  But paying for what you don't get fits a fool,
    Besides, you old Grampus-Grab, whence will the tin come?
  Supply discontinued? Aquarius, _that_ threat,
    Is losing its terrors. I don't care a penny,
  'Twon't frighten me now into payment, you bet,
    When for the last six weeks I haven't had any.

  Whose fault? Well, we'll see. But at least you'll agree
    When Supply's undertaken, and paid, in advance, for,
  A man expects _something_ for his L. S. D.
    Then what have you led me this doose of a dance for?
  That question, old Snorter, demands a prompt answer,
    And Taurus expects it of you, my Aquarius,
  Or else, Sir, by Gemini, _I_ shall turn Cancer,
    And then the monopolists mayn't look hilarious.

  How do the Water Rates come to my door?
    'Twould furnish a subject for some brand-new SOUTHEY.
  Your dunning Demand Notes are always a bore,
    But when one is grubby, half frozen and drouthy,
  When cisterns are empty and sinks are unflushed,
    And staircases sloppy, and queer smells abounding,
  To be by an useless Aquarius rushed
    For "immediate payment" is--well, it's astounding.

  How _will_ the water come down through the floor
    When mains are unfrozen and pipes are all "busting"?
  Why spurting and squirting, with rush and with roar,
    The wall-papers staining, the fire-irons rusting,
  And rushing, and gushing, and flashing and splashing,
    And making a sort of Aix douche of the bedroom,
  And comfort destroying, and every hope dashing,
    And leaving one scarce a square yard of dry head-room.

  'Twill leak, spirt and trickle, and, oh _such_ a pickle
    Will make of my dwelling, from garret to basement,
  Well, that's _after_ thaw. But, by Jove, it _does_ tickle
    My fancy, and fill me with angry amazement,
  To see you mere standing ice-cool, and demanding
    Prompt payment--for what? Why, long waterless worry!
  Aquarius, we _must_ have a fresh understanding;
    Till then--"Call again!" and _don't be in a hurry!_

                         [_Slams door, and retires in dudgeon._

                               * * * * *

MOTTO FOR STOCKBROKERS.--A mine in the Randt is worth two in the Bush.

                               * * * * *



                               * * * * *

                       THE WOMAN WHO WOULDN'T DO.

                          (_She-Note Series._)

The two were seated in an untrammelled Bohemian sort of way on the
imperturbable expanse of the South Downs. Beneath them was a carpet of
sheep-sorrel, its orbicular perianth being slightly depressed by their
healthy weight. In the distance they noticed thankfully the
saucer-shaped combes of paludina limestone rising in pleasant strata to
the rearing scarp of the Weald. PERUGINO ALLAN was the gentleman's name.
He had only met PSEUDONYMIA BAMPTON the day before, but already from
mere community of literary instincts they were life-long friends. She
had reached the trysting-place first. All true modest women do this.


"PSEUDONYMIA!" said PERUGINO, blushing easily to his finger-tips.

"PERUGINO!" said PSEUDONYMIA, blushing to hers. It was early, of course,
for Christian names, but then the Terewth had made them Free-and-Easy.

"PERUGINO!" said PSEUDONYMIA, bringing her eyes back from the infinite
to rest without affectation on her simple Greek chiton, "I have often
wanted to meet a real man who had written a book with a key to it on the
back of the cover. Now tell me frankly some more beautiful things about
our present loathsome system of chartered monogamy, so degrading to my
sex. Talk straight on, please, pages at a time. Never mind about
Probability. Terewth is stranger than Probability; and the Terewth, you
know, shall make you Free!"

PERUGINO sank back into the spongy turf, leaning his cheek against an
upright spike of summer furze of the genus _Ulex Europæus_. "Some
men," he began, "ignoble souls, 'look about' them before they marry.
Such are calculating egoists. Pure souls, of finer paste, are, so to
speak, _born married_. Others hesitate and delay. The difficulties of
teething, a paltry desire to be weaned before the wedding, reluctance
to being married in long clothes, the terrors of croup during the
honeymoon--these and other excuses, thinly veiling hidden depths of
depravity, are employed to defer the divine moment. I have known men to
reach the preposterously ripe age of one-and-twenty unwedded, protesting
that they dare not risk their prospects at the Bar. These men can never
mate like the birds, never be guide-posts to point humanity along the
path of Terewth."

"But," interrupted PSEUDONYMIA, rose-red to her quivering finger-tips
with shame at the bare mention of marriage; "but I thought you
disapproved of the debasing principle of wedlock."

"Do not interrupt," said PERUGINO, kindly; "I will come to that two or
three pages later on. To be prudent, I was going to say, is to be
vicious and cruel. Of course it is not given to all to be _born_
married. But this natal defect one can easily remedy. I knew a young
fellow who did. The indispensable complement crossed his path before it
was too late. He was still at his preparatory school; _he married the
matron_. True, there was disparity of age, but it was a step in the
right direction; though the head-master, a man of common conventional
ideas, gave the boy a severe rebuke.

"But to push on at once to contradictions. Marriage, I have said
elsewhere, is a degrading system, nurtured under the purple hangings of
the tents of iniquity. In _my_ gospel Love, like Terewth, should be
Free; ever moving on, moving on. Now, Italy is the home----"

"Ah!" cried PSEUDONYMIA, "Italy! That reminds me of sunburnt Siena. What
a wonderful Peruguinesque chapter that was in your book. Like a leaf
torn out of the live heart of BAEDEKER!"

"Italy," continued PERUGINO doggedly, "is the home of backgrounds. I
would like everyone to have a background--a past; the more pasts the
better. Is not that a beautiful thought? Ever moving on to something

"That has been the dream of my childhood," said PSEUDONYMIA, her white
Cordelia-like soul thrilled through and through with sacred convictions.
A ripe gorse-pod burst in the basking sunlight. ("I never remember
seeing sunlight bask before," she thought.) A bumble-bee said something
inaudible. "But why," she added, "did you never give this pure sentiment
to the world before? You who have written so many many books?"

"My child," replied the artist, "I was compelled to write down to the
public taste. One must consider one's prospects. This, you will say,
seems to clash with what I said before about calculating egoists. But
profession and practice are ever divorced under our depraved system of
civilisation. At last, having established myself, I rose superior to
sordid avarice, and wrote for once solely to satisfy my own taste and

"A noble sacrifice!" said PSEUDONYMIA, suppressing her dimples for the
moment. "As the physically weaker vessel, I could only have done it
under an assumed name. But tell me of one difficulty which you have so
cleverly avoided in your book. This question of the family. Will not a
confusion arise in another generation when nobody quite knows who and
how many his or her half-brothers and half-sisters are?"

"PSEUDONYMIA!" said PERUGINO, and his voice broke in two places, "I am
pained. I had thought that you, so pure, so emancipate, would have had a
soul above blithering detail. Besides, do you not see that in this way
the whole world will eventually become one family? _We_ may not live to
see this Millennium, but future Fabians may. What we want is a
protomartyr in the cause. SHELLEY promised well, but he ultimately
reverted to legal wedlock. As for me, I have been deemed unworthy of the
crown. I am, alas! happily married. But you, you are single; why should
you not set to all your sister-slaves a high example of that martyrdom
of which the glory, as well as the inconvenience, has been denied to

"Ah, dear PERUGINO!" she cried, visibly affected for the third time to
her finger-tips, "must it ever be so? Profession, as you say, divorced
from practice? Must one more noble name be added to the list of those
that shock the world so fearlessly with their books and live such
despicably blameless lives? I myself, too, am misleading in print. You
judged me by my pseudonymous publications to be single and unscrupulous.
But you were wrong. I also am unequal to the weight of that crown. How
can I be your martyr in the cause--I who these many years have
worshipped the very dust on which my husband deigns to tread? Can you
and I ever be forgiven for thus sinning against the light?"

PERUGINO rose to go, indignant, disillusioned. "_Et tu_, PSEUDONYMIA?"
he bitterly cried. (She had been at Girton and could follow the
original.) "Then I give you up. You are, I grieve to think, _a woman who
won't do_." And he made a she-note of it.

                               * * * * *

                         "WITH WHAT PORPOISE?"

     [A porpoise has been seen gambolling in the Thames at Putney.]

Such a sea on at the North Foreland! Glad to get out of it. Nice river
coming down from somewhere. Must explore it.

Near some town. No end of oysters about. Oysters say it's Whitstable.
Seem dreadfully depressed. Ask them if the late cold was too much for
them? No, it's not that, they say, but injurious stories have been
circulated about them by medical men. Been called "typhoidal." Nobody
patronises them, and they've "lost their season in town." What do they

Off Southend. Friendly sole advises me not to venture further. "Tempt
not the Barking Outfall," he says, and adds that the "water at London
will poison me, and I shall be made into boots." London! Always wanted
to see it. What's the good of being called "a kind of gregarious whale"
by the dictionaries if I avoid society?

Got past Barking safely! Who is it--BROWNING I think--wrote a poem about
"Sludge, the Medium." Must have written it near Barking. Arrived off
Wanstead Flats. See a respectable man on banks being chivied by a mob.
Told (by a sprat) that "it's Mr. HILLS, of the Thames Ironworks, who's
been helping the unemployed." Now the unemployed seem helping _him!_
Tower Bridge rather fine.

Westminster. Big building. Curious scent in air. Told it's the Houses of
Parliament, and scent is eucalyptus, "because of the influenza." Curious
word--wonder what it means.

Up at Putney. See University Boat-Race, if I can stay long enough. Feel
sleepy. Must be the amount of bad water I've drunk. Knock up against an
ice-floe. Two men in boat try to shoot me. _They_ seem unemployed. Do
they want to make me into soup for the poor? Not if I know it. Trundle
back seawards. Meet a sea-gull. Says somebody tried to hook him from
embankment. Says he "doesn't like London." Rather inclined to agree with

Back at sea. Know now what influenza means--because _I've caught it!_
Awful pains in my hide! Must consult a leech.

                               * * * * *

                        THE INTROSPECTIVE BARD.

  Persistent self-analysis,
    Perfected more and more,
  The mirror to my spirit is,
    Which it performs before.
  For "progress" let reformers pine,
    Let merchants toil for pelf--
  The study of a soul like mine
    Is certainly Itself!

  For girls who at my shrine will burn
    An incense delicate,
  I'll lightly probe the problems stern
    Of Love, and Life, and Fate;
  And as their darkness I disperse,
    I mark with interest
  The diverse chords that girls diverse
    Awaken in my breast.

  Not having known a broken heart,
    Nor any scathing pain,
  I can afford, in life and art,
    The pessimistic vein.
  In many a literary gem,
    Polished with care supreme,
  Mildly, but firmly, I condemn
    So poor a mundane scheme.

  And yet, a modest competence
    My pensive mood provides,
  My sentiments--like specimens
    On microscopic slides--
  When I on woven paper fair,
    In woven words illume,
  I make a kind of subtle, rare,
    And Esoteric Boom!

                               * * * * *

the eye."

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: IN THE VESTRY.

_Minister_ (_who has exchanged pulpits--to Minister's Man_). "DO YOU


                               * * * * *

                          A BYE-ELECTION LAY.

                      (_By a disappointed Western

  After a conflict such as this,
    Some moralising's due;
  And we in Bristol of the fight
    Can take a "bird's-eye" view.

  The poll we cannot truly call
    The pleasantest of pills;
  It's really rather sad our "won'ts"
    Should come so near our "WILLS."

  Yet there's some comfort in the fact,
    Some salve for spirits sore,
  That Bristol nobly has not shrunk
    From spilling of its "GORE."

                               * * * * *

A BALFOURIAN QUERY.--"No possibility of any return to the shareholders,"
was, in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, the heading of a report of a meeting of
the members of the "Liberator Company." What! no possibility of _any_
return? Yes, surely, the return of JABEZ. But even then--_cui bono?_ or
Cui Buenos Ayres? Who of the unfortunate losers would not far rather get
back something than get back somebody, and that somebody JABEZ.

                               * * * * *

THE EARLY BIRD.--Mr. GOSLING, British Minister, has demanded an
indemnity from the Nicaraguans of £15,000 for the expulsion of Mr.
HATCH, British Vice-Consul at Bluefields. GOSLING is no goose, that's
clear. He offers the Nicaragamuffins a Hatch-way out of the difficulty
of their own making.

                               * * * * *

                          OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"What so interests you?" asked the visitor. Replied the Baron, "_Japhet
in Search of a Father_. I have not read it since my school days." "You
find it old-fashioned, eh?" "Well," answered the Baron, "the first few
chapters are certainly old-fashioned, and recall to my memory the
italicised, punning style of THEODORE HOOK and of _Tom and Jerry_. But
Captain MARRYAT soon gets away from this sort of thing; and when he has
once fairly started his hero and his companion on their adventures, the
interest of the story is never allowed to flag for a minute. I may add
that I have not enjoyed any modern story of adventure so much as I have
this one--always barring the romances of RIDER HAGGARD, STEPHENSON,
'Q.,' SHORTHOUSE, and PARKER--as there is about it an old Georgian-era
flavour, with its duels, its gambling-houses, its _Tom-and-Jerry_
episodes, its occasional drop into melodrama, its varied characters of
the period, its animal spirits and 'go,' that makes it--to me, at
least--thoroughly fascinating." The illustrations, by H. M. BROCK--which
are specified as separately the property of Messrs. MACMILLAN--bring
vividly before the reader the manners and customs of the time. "In these
days of morbid yellow-jaundiced sensationalism, and of 'The New Woman,'
I am delighted," quoth the Baron, "to recommend, and strongly, too, this
first of the series of Captain MARRYAT'S works, now in course of
republication _chez_ MACMILLAN." The visitor thanked his noble friend,
and withdrew. Then the Baron finished the novel. "Good!" quoth the
Baron, closing the book with regret at parting with a long-forgotten but
now recovered friend; "but 'tis odd how one lives and learns. I do not
remember having ever heard that _Bottom_ the weaver had been christened
'WILLIAM' by SHAKSPEARE. Nor can I find that bully _Bottom_ was so
addressed by his friends. And if I have missed it, how came WILLIAM to
be the _prénom_ of the Athenian weaver in the time of _Theseus_ and
_Hippolyta_! I should as soon expect to discover that Hercules was known
to his companions as Henry Hercules. However, this by the way, and only
_à propos_ of a remark as to _William Bottom_, the weaver, made by
MARRYAT. I anticipate with pleasure re-making the acquaintance of _Jacob
Faithful_ and _Midshipman Easy_."

_The Banishment of Jessop Blythe_, written by JOSEPH HATTON, and
published by HUTCHINSON, belongs to the _Yellow Book_ series, only that
is as far as the cover is concerned, which is of a startlingly jaundiced
tone and does not in the least represent the kindly author's views of
life. The story is about the ropemakers by one who clearly "knows the
ropes." This industry, as will be gathered from the present romance, is
not confined to Ropemaker's Walk, E.C., but was for two centuries
carried on by Troglodytes or Cave-dwellers in Derbyshire. The hero
_Blythe_ is turned out from the roping community as a thriftless
drunkard, emigrates, is poor and wretched, but returns _Blythe_ and gay,
with a lot of money to find.... "But here," quoth the Baron, "I must
pause, or the surprise will be heavily discounted, and the reader's
pleasure spoilt. Thus far, no farther. '_Tolle; lege._'" So recommended
                                            JUDICIOUS BARON DE B.-W.

                               * * * * *

               Shakspeare and the A-br-y B-rdsl-y Yellow
                              "She" Book.

Divine WILLIAMS knew the kind of unwholesome woman above mentioned. In
_Love's Labour's Lost_ he makes _Biron_ say--

        "A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,
        With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;
        Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed,
        Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard."

Is not this the living picture of the woman who would, or could, but who
shouldn't and oughtn't?

                               * * * * *

CHOOSING THE SPEAKER.--A suggestion was made last week that the
competitors for the Speakership should draw lots. Now, if it came to
"drawing lots," all in the House and out of the House, having seen
"lots" of Sir FRANK BLOOKWOOD'S drawing, would of course place him
first. So the drawing lots plan was abandoned.

                               * * * * *

                       THE FLIRTGIRL'S REPLY.[1]

                       _A Poem of Common Sense._

  Dear Sir, I've read through your delectable lines--
    Though the cap doesn't fit, I will wear it;
  And hope (though I don't know your private designs)
    You regret that such verses were e'er writ!

  There's flirting _and_ flirting, you don't seem to know,
    Nor need a young woman be heartless,
  Who thinks that, by having _five_ strings to her bow,
    The four she rejects will thus smart less.

  Pray how can I help, if my features attract
    And my sympathy wins each fond lover?
  Alas, when they're conquered, I own 'tis the fact
    That their weak points I sadly discover!

  It may be, in spite of your captious alarm,
    I shall yet enjoy bliss hymeneal;
  If _this_ is my aim, not to jilt, where's the harm
    In my search for a husband ideal?

    [1] See page 141

                               * * * * *

                          "ALAS POOR YORICK!"

In "DICK GRAIN" all have lost a "fellow of infinite jest" and a friendly
critic who scourged our pleasant vices with such genial criticism that
everyone, hearing him, charitably applied the moral to his, or her,
neighbour. With Mrs. GERMAN REED, the Miss PRISCILLA HORTON of the
stage, and her son "TAFF REED," the old Gallery of Illustration Company
comes to an end. CORNEY GRAIN successfully succeeded JOHN PARRY.

  "C. G."   _Ci gît._

                               * * * * *

                               TO ISISTA.

                       (_A Topical Explanation._)

  Your dark blue eyes are doubtless very sweet,
    And I could hear without the least surprise
  That connoisseurs declare it hard to beat
                  Your dark blue eyes.

  How is it if so much of magic lies
    In your two "orbs" I deem them incomplete?
  Why with disdain--I'm going to poetise--
    Do I your "heavenly windows" ever treat?
  The explanation Saturday supplies.
    I'm Cambridge. That's why I'm so loth to meet
                  Your dark blue eyes.

    _Note._--"Dark blue." In view of the coming Boat Race this may
    be taken as a prophecy, or tip.

                               * * * * *

                            APPLIED SCIENCE.

SIR,--The following may be of service to your non-mathematical

_Q._ "The hands of a clock are between 2 and 3; and in ten minutes' time
the minute hand will be as much in front of the hour hand as it is now
behind it. What is the time?"

_A._ "Ask Policeman X."

The crass mediævalism of the Oxbridge don, I regret to say, failed to
see this solution, and I am again coaching with old DRUMMER.--Yours
theoretically and problematically,
                                                 PRACTICAL Y. Z.

                               * * * * *

CHANGE OF NAME.--In consequence of recent events crowded into one place,
the name of Throgmorton Street shall be changed into Throngmorton

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: UNKIND.



                               * * * * *

                         ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.


_House of Commons, Monday, March 18._--Navy Estimates on again, with the
First Lord listening patiently from otherwise empty Peers' Gallery, and
ROBERTSON making admirable play from Treasury Bench. Chivalrous soul of
Cap'en TOMMY BOWLES moved to admit that, after all, there had been worse
First Lords than SPENCER, and more uncivil Lords than ROBERTSON. Private
HANBURY thinks this is weakness. If his colleague in charge of the Navy
is to talk like that, he (the Private) will be expected, when the Army
Estimates came on, to say something nice about CAWMELL-BANNERMAN, to
acknowledge WOODALL'S keen grip over the business of his department, and
the courtesy with which he discharges his Ministerial duties.

ALLAN o'Gateshead on again with more "Rough Castings." Last time House
in Committee on Navy Estimates he spread feeling of genuine alarm by
denouncing the British boiler. "Who," he thundered, "is responsible for
the engines of the Royal Navy? Where is the _Hornet_ you trumpeted so
loudly a year ago? Where," he continued, bending beetling brows on Civil
Lord of the Admiralty, "are her boilers?"

"Bust," said GORST, with guilty look. Not that he had had anything to do
with the business, but because at this moment ALLAN o'Gateshead chanced
to fix a pair of flaming eyes upon his shrinking figure, seated almost
immediately opposite at end of Front Bench.

"Where is the _Hornet_ now? Why, lying in Portsmouth Yard, with her
boilers out of her, a useless hulk."

ALLAN is so big, so burly, wears so much hair, writes poetry, is
understood to be in the boiler business himself, and, withal, addresses
the Chairman with such terrific volume of voice, that a panic might have
ensued only for JOHN PENN. PENN head of great engineering firm of old
standing and high repute. Understood to have engined fleet of five ships
with which DRAKE made things hot for Spain along the coasts of Chili and
Peru. However that be, PENN now made it hot for ALLAN o'Gateshead.
Showed in quite business-like fashion that ALLAN'S poetic fancy had run
away with him. Convinced grateful Committee that British boiler, on
which safety of State may be said to rest, is all right. A model speech,
brief, pointed. A man with something to say, who straightway sits down
when he's said it. As the poet (not ALLAN o' Gateshead) says,

        He came as a boon and a blessing to men,
        The modest, the lucid, clear-pointed J. PENN.

_Business done._--Committee voted trifle over four millions as wages for

_Tuesday._--Alderman COTTON, once Lord Mayor of London, a prominent
and popular member of the DISRAELI Parliament, left behind him the
memory of one of those things we all would like to say if we could. In
the long series of debates on resolutions moved from Front Opposition
Bench challenging Jingo policy of the day, the Alderman interposed.
"Sir," he said, "this is a solemn moment. Looking towards the East we
perceive the crisis so imminent that it requires only a spark to let
slip the dogs of war."

[Illustration: _MacGregor_ (_as "The Dougal Creature"_). "I'll pass from
that point."]

That was, and remains, inimitable. But to-night the MACGREGOR came very
near its supreme excellence. Stirred to profoundest depths by demands
upon Naval Expenditure. Popping up and down like piston in the
engine-room of Clyde steamer; wrath grew as MELLOR, failing to see him,
called on other speakers. The MACGREGOR knew all about that; a reckless
corrupt Government, afraid of hearing the voice of honest criticism, had
suborned Chairman of Committees to prevent his speaking. But they didn't
know the MACGREGOR. After something like two hours physical exercise in
the way of jumping up and down he caught the Chairman's eye, and (in
Parliamentary sense, of course) punched it. Then "passing from point to
point," as he airily put it, he went for ROBERTSON. Asked the appalled
Civil Lord of the Admiralty what he supposed his constituents in Dundee
would say when they read his speech, in which bang went millions as if
they were saxpences? "What will the worthy citizens say, Mr. MELLOR?" he
repeated. "Why they will say, 'Ma conscience!'"

Never since _Dominie Sampson_ made this remark has so much fervour and
good Scotch accent been thrown in. "Where's the CHANCELLOR OF THE
EXCHEQUER?" MACGREGOR presently asked, evidently eager for fresh blood.

"That has nothing to do with the question," said the Chairman, severely.

"Oh, hasn't it?" jeered the MACGREGOR. "I want to ask him what he has
done with our money?"

Vision instantly conjured up before eyes of Committee of SQUIRE OF
MALWOOD prowling about town with his pockets loaded with £4,132,500.
voted to defray the charge for wages in the Navy, flinging the cash
about like JACK ashore, making the most of his time before Local Veto
became the law of the land.

It was later that the MACGREGOR came in unconscious competition with
Alderman COTTON. Leaving the Navy for a moment he surveyed the Continent
of Europe peopled with armed men. "Why!" he cried with comprehensive
sweep of his arm, "these great armies are like fighting cocks. The least
spark blows them up like magazines of powder."

Not quite so good it will be seen as the Alderman, but good enough for
these degenerate days. Effect on Admiral FIELD so exciting that he was
presently discovered chasing the SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE all over
House, desiring, as he said, to "pin him to his words."

_Business done._--Supplementary Estimates voted.

[Illustration: Admiral Field pinning the Hon. Member to his words.]

_Thursday._--Curious to note the coyness with which House approaches
real business. To-day Welsh Disestablishment Bill comes on for Second
Reading. Its passing this stage a foregone conclusion. The work of
criticism, correction, possible re-moulding, will be done in Committee.
Committee is the Providence that shapes the ends of Bills, rough hew
them how we may in the draughtsman's hands or on the second reading. For
all practical purposes second-reading debate might be concluded at
to-night's sitting. It extended over seven clear hours. Given twenty
minutes per speech, the maximum length for useful purposes, twenty-one
members, more than the House cares to hear, might have spoken. The time
saved, if necessary, added on to opportunity in Committee.

That, however, not the way we do business here. Disestablishment Bill a
measure of first importance; must be treated accordingly. So after
ASQUITH talks for an hour and a quarter, HICKS-BEACH caps him by speech
hour and half long, which nearly empties House. Afterwards a dreary
night. Papers on subject read by Members, who rise alternately from
either side. Few listen; newspaper reports cruelly curt; nevertheless,
it's the thing to do, and will go on through at least four sittings. On
last night men whom House want to hear will speak, as they might have
spoken on first night. Then the division, and minor Members who have
missed their chance will endeavour to work off their paper in Committee.

_Business done._--Second reading Welsh Church Disestablishment Bill

_Friday._--Shall M.P.'s be paid out of public purse? Dividing to-night
176 say Yes, 158 stern patriots say No. GEORGE CURZON, fresh from the
Pamirs and still later from a sick bed, leads opposition. SQUIRE OF
MALWOOD is in favour of payment: darkly hints that when the time comes
he will find the cash. This, though a little obscure, looks like

"I expect," said the Member for SARK, "we shall live to see the day
when, on Friday afternoons, Palace Yard will be crowded with Members
waiting to take their weekly money. Suppose they'll go the whole hog,
give us what the navvies call a 'sub,' that is, let us draw in middle of
the week something on account. Of course we shall have the full
privilege of strikes. We'll 'go out' if we think our wages should be
raised. Sure to be some blacklegs who will skulk in by central lobby and
offer to do a day's talking on the old terms. But we'll have pickets and
all that sort of thing. Sometimes we'll march in a body to Hyde Park,
and Baron FERDY will address us from a waggon on the rights of man and
the iniquity of underpaying M.P.'s. I see a high old time coming. Shall
put in early claim for a secretaryship. Always a good billet."

_Business done._--Welsh Disestablishment Bill threw a gloom over morning
sitting. GEORGE OSBORNE MORGAN, supporting Bill, mentioned that in
episcopal circles he is regarded as "a profligate"! There is, sometimes,
a naughty look about him. But this is really going too far, even for a

                           Transcriber Notes:

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

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

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

On page 149, "convined" was replaced with "convinced".

On page 149, "wont" was replaced with "won't".

On page 156, a period was added after "Tuesday".

On page 156, "covness" was replaced with "coyness".

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