Title: Punch or the London Charivari, Vol.107,  September 1, 1894
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 107.

SEPTEMBER 1, 1894.



[Illustration: "CONTRIBUTIONS THANKFULLY RECEIVED."

_Lardy-Dardy Swell (who is uncertain as to the age of Ingénue he is
addressing)._ "YOU'RE GOING TO GIVE A BALL. WILL YOU PERMIT ME TO SEND
YOU A BOUQUET? AND IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU WOULD LIKE?"

_Ingénue._ "O, THANKS! THE BOUQUET WOULD BE _DELIGHTFUL_!
AND"--(_hesitating, then after some consideration_)--"I'M SURE MAMMA
WOULD LIKE THE ICES AND SPONGE CAKES!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TALE OF TWO TELEGRAMS.

ANOTHER DOLLY DIALOGUE.

(_By St. Anthony Hope Carter._)

The redeeming feature of the morning batch of letters was a short note
from Lady MICKLEHAM. Her ladyship (and ARCHIE) had come back to town,
and the note was to say that I might call, in fact that I _was_ to call,
that afternoon. It so happened that I had two engagements, which seemed
to make that impossible, but I spent a shilling in telegrams, and at
4.30 (the hour DOLLY had named) was duly ringing at the Mickleham town
mansion.

"I'm delighted you were able to come," was DOLLY'S greeting.

"I wasn't able," I said; "but I've no doubt that what I said in the two
telegrams which brought me here will be put down to your account."

"No one expects truth in a telegram. The Post-Office people themselves
wouldn't like it."

DOLLY was certainly looking at her very best. Her dimples (everybody has
heard of DOLLY'S Dimples--or is it DOLLY DIMPLE; but after all it
doesn't matter) were as delightful as ever. I was just hesitating as to
my next move in the Dialogue, which I badly wanted, for I had promised
my editor one by the middle of next week. The choice lay between the
dimples and a remark that life was, after all, only one prolonged
telegram. Just at that moment I noticed for the first time that we were
not alone.

Now that was distinctly exasperating, and an unwarrantable
breach of an implied contract.

"Two's company," I said, in a tone of voice that was meant to
indicate something of what I felt.

"So's three," said DOLLY, laughing, "if the third doesn't count."

"_Quod est demonstrandum._"

"Well, it's like this. I observed that you've already published
twenty or so 'Dolly Dialogues.'" (The dimples at this period were
absolutely bewitching, but I controlled myself.) "So it occurred to
me that it was my turn to earn an honest penny. Allow me to
introduce you. Mr. BROWN, Mr. CARTER--Mr. CARTER, Mr. BROWN."

I murmured that any friend of Lady MICKLEHAM'S was a friend of mine,
whereat Mr. BROWN smiled affably and handed me his card, from which I
gathered that he was a shorthand writer at some address in Chancery
Lane. Then I understood it all. I had exploited DOLLY. DOLLY was now
engaged in the process of exploiting me.

"I hope," I observed rather icily, "that you will choose a respectable
paper."

"You don't mean that."

"Perhaps not. But if we are to have a Dialogue, perhaps we might begin.
I have an engagement at six."

"Telegraph, and put the contents down to my account."

I noticed now that DOLLY had a pile of papers on her table, and that she
was playing with a blue pencil.

"Yes, Lady MICKLEHAM," I said, in the provisional way in which judges
indicate to counsel that they are ready to proceed.

"Well, I've been reading some of the Press Notices of the Dialogues, Mr.
CARTER."

I trembled. I remembered some of the things that had been said about
DOLLY and myself, which hardly lent themselves, it appeared to me, to
this third party procedure.

"I thought," pursued DOLLY, "we might spend the time in discussing the
critics."

"I shall be delighted, if in doing that we shall dismiss the reporter."

"Have you seen this? It's from a Scotch paper--Scottish? you
suggest--well, Scottish. 'The sketches are both lively and elegant, and
their lightness is just what people want in the warm weather.'"

"It's a satisfaction to think that even our little breezes are a source
of cool comfort to our fellow-creatures."

"Here's another criticism. 'It's a book which tempts the reader----'"

"It must have been something you said."

"'----a book which tempts the reader to peruse from end to end when once
he picks it up.'"

"'Read at a Sitting: A Study in Colour.'"

"Please, Mr. BROWN, don't take that down."

"Thank you, Lady MICKLEHAM," said I. "_Litera scripta manet._"

"You are not the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr. CARTER, and you must
break yourself of the habit."

"The next cutting?"

"The next says, 'For Mr. CARTER, the hero or reporter----'"

"It's a calumny. I don't know a single shorthand symbol."

"Let me go on. 'Reporter of these polite conversations, we confess we
have no particular liking.'"

"If you assure me you did not write this yourself, Lady MICKLEHAM, I
care not who did."

"That, Mr. BROWN," said DOLLY, in a most becoming frown,
"must _on no account_ go down."

"When you have finished intimidating the Press, perhaps you
will finish the extract."

"'His cynicism,'" she read, "'is too strained to commend him to
ordinary mortals----'"

"No one would ever accuse you of being in that category."

"'----but his wit is undeniable, and his impudence delicious.'
Well, Mr. CARTER?"

"I should like the extract concluded." I knew the next sentence
commenced--"As for DOLLY, Lady MICKLEHAM, she outdoes all the
revolted daughters of feminine fiction."

Then an annoying thing happened. ARCHIE'S voice was heard,
saying, "DOLLY, haven't you finished that Dialogue yet? We
ought to dress for dinner. It'll take us an hour to drive there."

So it had been all arranged, and ARCHIE knew for what I had been
summoned.

Yet there are compensations. DOLLY sent the Dialogue to the only
paper which I happen to edit. I regretfully declined it. But the
fact that she sent it may possibly explain why I have found it so
easy to give this account of what happened on that afternoon when
I sent the two telegrams.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Cry of Chaos.

  "_Vive l'Anarchie?_"--Fools! Chaos shrieks in that cry!
  _Did_ Anarchy live soon would Anarchists die.
  One truth lights all history, well understood,--
  Disorder--like Saturn--devours its own brood.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: UNEARNED INCREMENT.

_Experienced Jock (during preliminary canter, to Stable-boy, who has
been put up to make the running for him)._ "NOW, YOUNG 'UN, AS SOON AS
WE'RE OFF, YOU GO TO WORK AND MAKE THE PACE A HOT 'UN!"

_Stable-boy (Irish)._ "BEGORRA THIN OI'M THINKIN' IT'S MESELF _ROIDES_
THE RACE, AND YOU POCKETS ALL THE CREDIT O' WINNIN'!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"ROOM FOR A BIG ONE!"

    ["Mr. HERBERT GLADSTONE, as First Commissioner of Works, informed
    the house that 'no series of historical personages could be complete
    without the inclusion of CROMWELL,' and though he had no sum at his
    disposal for defraying the cost of a statue this year, Sir WILLIAM
    HARCOURT, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, had promised to make the
    necessary provision in the estimates for next year."--_Spectator._]

  Room for the Regicide amongst our Kings?
   Horrible thought, to set some bosoms fluttering!
  The whirligig of time does bring some things
   To set the very Muse of History muttering.
  Well may the brewer's son, uncouth and rude,
   Murmur--in scorn--"I hope I don't intrude!"

  Room, between CHARLES the fair and unveracious,--
   Martyr and liar, made comely by VANDYKE,--
  And CHARLES the hireling, callous and salacious?
   Strange for the sturdy Huntingdonian tyke
  To stand between Court spaniel and sleek hound!
   Surely that whirligig hath run full round!

  Exhumed, cast out!--among our Kings set high!
   (Which were the true dishonour NOLL might question.)
  The sleek false STUARTS well might shrug and sigh Make room--for
      _him_?
   A monstrous, mad suggestion! O Right
  Divine, most picturesque quaint craze, How art thou fallen upon evil
      days!

  What will White Rose fanatics say to this?
   Stuartomaniacs will ye not come wailing;
  Or fill these aisles with one gregarious hiss
   Of angry scorn, one howl of bitter railing?
  To think that CHARLES the trickster, CHARLES the droll,
   Should thus be hob-a-nobbed by red-nosed NOLL!

  Methinks I hear the black-a-vised one sneer "Ods bobs,
   Sire, this is what I've long expected!
  If they had _him_, and not his statue, here
   Some other 'baubles' might be soon ejected.
  Dark STRAFFORD--I mean SALISBURY--_might_ loose
   More than his Veto, did he play the goose.

  "He'd find perchance that Huntingdon was stronger
   Than Leeds with all its Programmes.
  NOLL might vow That Measure-murder should go on no longer;
   And that Obstruction he would check and cow.
  Which would disturb MACALLUM MORE'S composure;
   The Axe is yet more summary than the Closure!

  "As for the Commons--both with the Rad 'Rump'
   And Tory 'Tail' alike he might deal tartly.
  He'd have small mercy upon prig or pump;
   I wonder what he'd think of B-WL-S and B-RTL-Y?
  Depend upon it, NOLL would purge the place
   Of much beside Sir HARRY and the Mace."

  Your Majesties make room there--for a Man!
   Yes, after several centuries of waiting,
  It seems that Smug Officialism's plan
   A change from the next Session may be dating.
  You tell us, genial HERBERT GLADSTONE, that you
   _May_ find the funds, next year, for CROMWELL'S Statue!

  Room for a Big One! Well the STUART pair
   May gaze on that stout shape as on a spectre.
  Subject for England's sculptors it is rare
   To find like that of England's Great Protector;
  And he with bigot folly is imbued,
   Who deems that CROMWELL'S Statute _can_ intrude!

[Illustration: "ROOM FOR A BIG ONE!"

_Cromwell._ "NOW THEN, YOUR MAJESTIES, I HOPE I DON'T INTRUDE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"OH, YOU WICKED STORY!"

(_Cry of the Cockney Street Child._)

Speaking of our Neo-Neurotic and "Personal" Novelists, JAMES PAYN says:
"None of the authors of these works are storytellers." No, not in his
own honest, wholesome, stirring sense, certainly. But, like other
naughty--and nasty-minded--children, they "tell stories" in their own
way; "great big stories," too, and "tales out of school" into the
bargain. Having, like the Needy Knife-grinder, no story (in the true
sense) to tell, they tell--well, let us say, tara-diddles! Truth is
stranger than even _their_ fiction, but it is not always so "smart" or
so "risky" as a loose, long-winded, flippant, cynical and personal
literary "lie which is half a truth," in three sloppy, slangy, but
"smart"--oh, yes, decidedly "smart"--volumes!

       *       *       *       *       *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PART IX.--THE MAUVAIS QUART D'HEURE.

SCENE XVI.--_The Chinese Drawing Room at Wyvern._

TIME--7.50. Lady CULVERIN _is alone, glancing over a written list._

_Lady Cantire (entering)._ Down already, ALBINIA? I _thought_ if I made
haste I should get a quiet chat with you before anybody else came in.
What is that paper? Oh, the list of couples for RUPERT. May I see? (_As_
Lady CULVERIN _surrenders it_.) My dear, you're _not_ going to inflict
that mincing little PILLINER boy on poor MAISIE! That really _won't do_.
At least let her have somebody she's used to. Why not Captain
THICKNESSE? He's an old friend, and she's not seen him for months. I
must alter that, if you've no objection. (_She does._) And then you've
given my poor Poet to that SPELWANE girl! Now, _why_?

_Lady Culverin._ I thought she wouldn't mind putting up with him just
for one evening.

_Lady Cant._ Wouldn't _mind_! Putting up with him! And is that how you
speak of a celebrity when you are so fortunate as to have one to
entertain? _Really_, ALBINIA!

_Lady Culv._ But, my dear ROHESIA, you must allow that, whatever his
talents may be, he is not--well, not _quite_ one of Us. Now, _is_ he?

_Lady Cant._ (_blandly_). My dear, I never heard he had any connection
with the manufacture of chemical manures, in which your worthy Papa so
greatly distinguished himself--if _that_ is what you mean.

_Lady Culv._ (_with some increase of colour_). That is _not_ what I
meant, ROHESIA--as you know perfectly well. And I do say that this Mr.
SPURRELL'S manner is most objectionable; when he's not obsequious, he's
horribly familiar!

_Lady Cant._ (_sharply_). I have not observed it. He strikes me as well
enough--for that class of person. And it is intellect, soul, all that
kind of thing that _I_ value. I look _below_ the surface, and I find a
great deal that is very original and charming in this young man. And
surely, my dear, if I find myself able to associate with him, _you_ need
not be so fastidious! I consider him my _protégé_, and I won't have him
slighted. He is far too good for VIVIEN SPELWANE!

_Lady Culv._ (_with just a suspicion of malice_). Perhaps, ROHESIA, you
would like him to take _you_ in?

_Lady Cant._ That, of course, is quite out of the question. I see you
have given me the Bishop--he's a poor, dry stick of a man--never forgets
he was the Headmaster of Swisham--but he's always glad to meet _me_. I
freshen him up so.

_Lady Culv._ I really don't know whom I _can_ give Mr. SPURRELL. There's
RHODA COKAYNE, but she's not poetical, and she'll get on much better
with ARCHIE BEARPARK. Oh, I forgot Mrs. BROOKE-CHATTERIS--she's sure to
_talk_, at all events.

_Lady Cant._ (_as she corrects the list_). A lively, agreeable
woman--she'll amuse him. _Now_ you can give RUPERT the list.

    [Sir RUPERT _and various members of the house-party appear one by
    one;_ Lord _and_ Lady LULLINGTON, _the_ Bishop of BIRCHESTER _and_
    Mrs. RODNEY, _and_ Mr. and Mrs. EARWAKER, _and_ Mr. SHORTHORN _are
    announced at intervals; salutations, recognitions, and commonplaces
    are exchanged_.

_Lady Cant._ (_later--to the_ Bishop, _genially_). Ah, my dear Dr.
RODNEY, you and I haven't met since we had our great battle about--now,
was it the necessity of throwing open the Public Schools to the lower
classes--for whom of course they were originally _intended_--or was it
the failure of the Church to reach the Working Man? I really forget.

_The Bishop_ (_who has a holy horror of the_ Countess). I--ah--fear
I cannot charge my memory so precisely, my dear Lady CANTIRE.
We--ah--differ unfortunately on so many subjects. I trust, however, we
may--ah--agree to suspend hostilities on this occasion?

_Lady Cant._ (_with even more bonhomie_). Don't be too sure of _that_,
Bishop. I've several crows to pluck with you, and we are to go in to
dinner together, you know!

_The Bishop._ Indeed? I had no conception that such a pleasure was in
store for me! (_To himself._) This must be the penance for breaking my
rule of never dining out on Saturday! Severe--but merited!

_Lady Cant._ I wonder, Bishop, if you have seen this wonderful volume of
poetry that everyone is talking about--_Andromeda_?

_The Bishop_ (_conscientiously_). I chanced only this morning, by way of
momentary relaxation, to take up a journal containing a notice of that
work, with copious extracts. The impression left on my mind
was--ah--unfavourable; a certain talent, no doubt, some felicity of
expression, but a noticeable lack of the--ah--reticence, the discipline,
the--the scholarly touch which a training at one of our great Public
Schools (I forbear to particularise), and at a University, can alone
impart. I was also pained to observe a crude discontent with the
existing Social System--a system which, if not absolutely perfect,
cannot be upset or even modified without the gravest danger. But I was
still more distressed to note in several passages a decided taint of the
morbid sensuousness which renders so much of our modern literature
sickly and unwholesome.

_Lady Cant._ All prejudice, my dear Bishop; why, you haven't even _read_
the book! However, the author is staying here now, and I feel convinced
that if you only knew him, you'd alter your opinion. Such an unassuming,
inoffensive creature! There, he's just come in. I'll call him over
here.... Goodness, why does he shuffle along in that way!

_Spurrell_ (_meeting_ Sir RUPERT). Hope I've kept nobody waiting for
_me_, Sir RUPERT. (_Confidentially._) I'd rather a job to get these
things on; but they're really a wonderful fit, considering!

    [_He passes on, leaving his host speechless._

_Lady Cant._ That's right, Mr. SPURRELL. Come here, and let me present
you to the Bishop of BIRCHESTER. The Bishop has just been telling me he
considers your _Andromeda_ sickly, or unhealthy, or something. I'm sure
you'll be able to convince him it's nothing of the sort.

    [_She leaves him with the_ Bishop, _who is visibly annoyed._

_Spurr._ (_to himself, overawed_). Oh, Lor! Wish I knew the right way to
talk to a Bishop. Can't call _him_ nothing--so doosid familiar.
(_Aloud._) _Andromeda_ sickly, your--(_tentatively_)--your Right
Reverence? Not a bit of it--sound as a roach!

_The Bishop._ If I had thought my--ah--criticisms were to be repeated--I
might say misrepresented, as the Countess has thought proper to do, Mr.
SPURRELL, I should not have ventured to make them. At the same time, you
must be conscious yourself, I think, of certain blemishes which would
justify the terms I employed.

_Spurr._ I never saw any in _Andromeda_ myself, your--your Holiness.
You're the first to find a fault in her. I don't say there mayn't be
something dicky about the setting and the turn of the tail, but that's a
trifle.

_The Bishop._ I did not refer to the setting of the tale, and the
portions I object to are scarcely trifles. But pardon me if I prefer to
end a discussion that is somewhat unprofitable. (_To himself, as he
turns on his heel._) A most arrogant, self-satisfied, and conceited
young man--a truly lamentable product of this half-educated age!

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). Well, he may be a dab at dogmas--he don't know
much about dogs. _Drummy_'s got a constitution worth a dozen of _his_!

_Lady Culv._ (_approaching him_). Oh, Mr. SPURRELL, Lord LULLINGTON
wishes to know you. If you will come with me. (_To herself, as she leads
him up to_ Lord L.) I do _wish_ ROHESIA wouldn't force me to do this
sort of thing!

     [_She presents him._

_Lord Lullington_ (_to himself_). I suppose I _ought_ to know all
about his novel, or whatever it is he's done. (_Aloud, with
courtliness._) Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. SPURRELL;
you've--ah--delighted the world by your _Andromeda_. When are we to look
for your next production? Soon, I hope.

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). He's after a pup now! Never met such a doggy
lot in my life! (_Aloud._) Er--well, my lord, I've promised so many as
it is, that I hardly see my way to----

_Lord Lull._ (_paternally_). Take my advice, my dear young man, leave
yourself as free as possible. Expect you to give us your best, you know.

     [_He turns to continue a conversation._

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). _Give_ it! He won't get it under a five-pound
note, I can tell him. (_He makes his way to_ Miss SPELWANE.) I say, what
do you think the old Bishop's been up to? Pitching into _Andromeda_ like
the very dooce--says she's _sickly_!

_Miss Spelwane_ (_to herself_). He brings his literary disappointments
to _me_, not MAISIE! (_Aloud, with the sweetest sympathy._) How
dreadfully unjust! Oh, I've dropped my fan--no, pray don't trouble; I
can pick it up. My arms are so long, you know--like a kangaroo's--no,
what _is_ that animal which has such long arms? You're so clever, you
_ought_ to know!

_Spurr._ I suppose you mean a gorilla?

_Miss Spelw._ How crushing of you! But you must go away now, or else
you'll find nothing to say to me at dinner--you take me in, you know. I
hope you feel privileged. I feel----But if I told you, I might make you
too conceited!

_Spurr._ Oh, no, you wouldn't.

     [Sir RUPERT _approaches with_ Mr. SHORTHORN.

_Sir Rupert._ VIVIEN, my dear, let me introduce Mr. SHORTHORN--Miss
SPELWANE. (_To_ SPURRELL.) Let me see--ha--yes, you take in Mrs.
CHATTERIS. Don't know her? Come this way, and I'll find her for you.

     [_He marches_ SPURRELL _off._

_Mr. Shorthorn_ (_to_ Miss SPELWANE). Good thing getting this rain at
last; a little more of this dry weather and we should have had no grass
to speak of!

_Miss Spelw._ (_who has not quite recovered from her disappointment_).
And now you _will_ have some grass to speak of? _How_ fortunate!

_Spurr._ (_as dinner is announced, to_ Lady MAISIE). I say, Lady MAISIE,
I've just been told I've got to take in a married lady. I don't know
what to talk to her about. I should feel a lot more at home with you.
Couldn't we manage it somehow?

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). What a fearful suggestion--but I simply
_daren't_ snub him! (_Aloud._) I'm afraid, Mr. SPURRELL, we must both
put up with the partners we have; most distressing, isn't it--_but_!

     [_She gives a little shrug._

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_immediately behind her, to himself_). Gad,
_that_'s pleasant! I knew I'd better have gone to Aldershot! (_Aloud._)
I've been told off to take you in, Lady MAISIE, not _my_ fault, don't
you know.

_Lady Maisie._ There's no need to be so apologetic about it. (_To
herself._) Oh, I _hope_ he didn't hear what I said to that wretch.

_Capt. Thick._ Well, I rather thought there _might_ be, perhaps.

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). He _did_ hear it. If he's going to be so
stupid as to misunderstand, I'm sure _I_ shan't explain.

     [_They take their place in the procession to the Dining Hall._

[Illustration: "I'd rather a job to get these things on; but they're
really a wonderful fit, considering!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

RATIONAL DRESS.

(_A Reformer's Note to a Current Controversy._)

[Illustration]

  OH, ungallant must be the man indeed
  Who calls "nine women out of ten" "knock-kneed"!
  And he should not remain in peace for long,
  Who says "the nether limbs of women" are "all wrong."
  Such are the arguments designed to prove
  That Woman's ill-advised to make a move
  To mannish clothes. These arguments are such
  As to be of the kind that prove too much.
  If Woman's limbs in truth unshapely grow,
  The present style of dress just makes them so!

       *       *       *       *       *

QUEER QUERIES.--A QUESTION OF TERMS.--I am sometimes allowed, by the
kindness of a warder, to see a newspaper, and I have just read that some
scientific cove says that man's natural life is 105 years. Now is this
true? I want to know, because I am in here for what the Judge called
"the term of my natural life," and, if it is to last for 105 years, I
consider I have been badly swindled. I say it quite respectfully, and I
hope the Governor will allow the expression to pass. Please direct
answers to Her Majesty's Prison, Princetown, Devon.--No. 67.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOLUME I.--_Awakening._

AND so the work was done. BELINDA, after a year's hard writing, had
completed her self-appointed task. _Douglas the Doomed One_ had grown by
degrees into its present proportions. First the initial volume was
completed; then the second was finished; and now the third was ready for
the printer's hands. But who should have it? Ah, there was the rub!
BELINDA knew no publishers and had no influence. How could she get
anyone to take the novel up? And yet, if she was to believe the
_Author_, there was plenty of room for untried talent. According to that
interesting periodical publishers were constantly on the lookout for
undiscovered genius. Why should she not try the firm of Messrs. BINDING
AND PRINT? She made up her mind. She set her face hard, and muttered,
"Yes, they _shall_ do it! _Douglas the Doomed One_ shall appear with the
assistance of Messrs. BINDING AND PRINT!" And when BELINDA made up her
mind to do anything, not wild omnibus-horses would turn her from her
purpose.

[Illustration]

VOLUME II.--_Wide Awake._

Messrs. BINDING AND PRINT had received their visitor with courtesy. They
did not require to read _Douglas the Doomed One_. They had discovered
that it was sufficiently long to make the regulation three volumes. That
was all that was necessary. They would accept it. They would be happy to
publish it.

"And about terms?" murmured BELINDA.

"Half profits," returned Mr. BINDING, with animation.

"When we have paid for the outlay we shall divide the residue," cried
Mr. PRINT.

"And do you think I shall soon get a cheque?" asked the anxious
authoress.

"Well, that is a question not easy to answer. You see, we usually spend
any money we make in advertising. It does the work good in the long run,
although at first it rather checks the profits."

BELINDA was satisfied, and took her departure.

"We must advertise _Douglas the Doomed One_ in the _Skatemaker's
Quarterly Magazine_," said Mr. BINDER.

"And in the _Crossing Sweeper's Annual_," replied Mr. PRINT. Then the
two partners smiled at one another knowingly. They laughed as they
remembered that of both the periodicals they had mentioned they were the
proprietors.

VOLUME III.--_Fast Asleep._

The poor patient at Slocum-on-Slush moaned. He had been practically
awake for a month, and nothing could send him to sleep. The Doctor held
his wrist, and as he felt the rapid beats of his pulse became graver and
graver.

"And you have no friends, no relatives?"

"No. My only visitor was the man who brought that box of books from a
metropolitan library."

"A box of books!" exclaimed the Doctor. "There may yet be time to save
his life!"

The man of science rose abruptly, and approaching the casket containing
the current literature of the day, roughly forced it open. He hurriedly
inspected its contents. He turned over the volumes impatiently until he
reached a set.

"The very thing!" he murmured. "If I can but get him to read this he
will be saved." Then turning to his patient he continued, "You should
peruse this novel. It is one that I recommend in cases such as yours."

"I am afraid I am past reading," returned the invalid. "However, I will
do my best."

An hour later the Doctor (who had had to make some calls) returned and
found that his patient was sleeping peacefully. The first volume of
_Douglas the Doomed One_ had the desired result.

"Excellent, excellent," murmured the medico. "It had the same effect
upon another of my patients. The crisis is over! He will now recover
like the other. Insomnia has been conquered for the second time by
_Douglas the Doomed One_, and who now shall say that the three-volume
novel of the amateur is not a means of spreading civilisation? It must
be a mine of wealth to somebody."

And Messrs. BINDING AND PRINT, had they heard the Doctor's remark,
would have agreed with him!

       *       *       *       *       *

All the Difference.

  "THE SPEAKER then called Mr. LITTLE to order."
  Quite right in our wise and most vigilant warder.
  He calls us to order! Oh that, without fuss,
  The SPEAKER could only call Order to us!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RES ANGUSTA DOMI.

(_In a Children's Hospital._)

"MY PORE YABBIT'S DEAD!"

"HOW SAD!"

"DADDA KILLED MY PORE YABBIT IN BACK KITCHEN!"

"OH DEAR!"

"I HAD TATERS WIV MY PORE YABBIT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"A LITTLE TOO PREVIOUS!"

    ["I desire to submit that this is a very great question, which will
    have to be determined, but upon a very different ground from that of
    the salaries of the officers of the House of Lords.... If there is
    to be a contest between the House of Lords and the House of Commons,
    let us take it upon higher ground than this."--_Sir William
    Harcourt._]

  There was a little urchin, and he had an old horse-pistol,
    Which he rammed with powder damp and shots of lead, lead, lead;
  And he cried "I know not fear! I'll go stalking of the deer!"
    For this little cove was slightly off his head, head, head.

  This ambitious little lad was a Paddy and a Rad,
    And himself he rather fancied as a shot, shot, shot;
  And he held the rules of sport, and close season, and, in short,
    The "regulation rubbish" was all rot, rot, rot.

  He held a "bird" a thing to be potted on the wing,
    Or perched upon a hedge, or up a tree, tree, tree;
  And, says he, "If a foine stag I can add to my small bag,
    A pistol _or_ a Maxim will suit me, me, me!"

  And so upon all fours he would crawl about the moors,
    To the detriment of elbows, knees, and slack, slack, slack;
  And he says, "What use a-talking? If I choose to call this 'stalking,'
    And _I bag my game_, who's going to hould me back, back, back?"

  Says he, "I scoff at raisons, and stale talk of toimes and saisons;
    I'm game to shoot a fox, or spear a stag, stag, stag;
  Nay, I'd net, or club, a salmon; your old rules of sport are gammon,
    For wid me it's just a question of the bag, bag, bag!

  "There are omadhauns, I know, who would let a foine buck go
    Just bekase 'twas out of toime, or they'd no gun, gun, gun;
  But if oi can hit, and hurt, wid a pistol--or a squirt--
    By jabers, it is all the betther fun, fun, fun!"

  So he scurryfunged around with his stomach on the ground
    (For stalking seems of crawling a mere branch, branch, branch).
  And he spied "a stag of ten," and he cried, "Hurroo! Now then,
    I fancy I can hit _him_--in the haunch, haunch haunch!

  "Faix! I'll bag that foine Stag Royal, or at any rate oi'll troy all
    The devoices of a sportshman from the Oisle, Oisle, Oisle.
  One who's used to shoot asprawl from behoind a hedge or wall,
    At the risks of rock and heather well may smoile, smoile, smoile!"

  But our sportsman bold, though silly, by a stalwart Highland gillie,
    Was right suddenly arrested ere he fired, fired, fired.--
  "Hoots! If you'll excuse the hint, that old thing, with lock of flint,
    As a weapon for _this_ sport can't be admired, mired, mired!

  "It will not bring down _that_ quarry, your horse-pistol! Don't _you_
        worry!
    That Royal Stag _we_'ll stalk, boy, in good time, time, time;
  But to pop at it just now, and kick up an awful row,
    Scare, and _miss_ it were a folly, nay a crime, crime, crime!

  "Be you sure 'Our Party' will this fine quarry track and kill;
    Our guns need not your poor toy blunderbuss, buss, buss.
  This is not the time or place for a-following up this chase;
    So just clear out and leave this game to us, us, us!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "A LITTLE TOO PREVIOUS!"

H-RC-RT. "NO, NO, MY LAD! THAT WON'T HURT HIM! YOU MUST LEAVE HIM TO
_US_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

IN MEMORIAM.

    [Baron MUNDY, the founder of the valuable Vienna Voluntary Sanitary
    Ambulance Society, mighty foe of disease and munificent dispenser of
    charity, shot himself on Thursday, August 23, on the banks of the
    Danube, at the advanced age of 72.]

  Great sanitary leader and reformer,
  Disease's scourge and potent pest-house stormer;
  Successful foe of cholera aforetime,
  Perfecter of field-ambulance in war-time;
  Dispenser of a fortune in large charity;
  _Vale!_ Such heroes are in sooth a rarity.
  Alas, that you in death should shock Dame GRUNDY!
  That we should sigh "_Sic transit gloria_ MUNDY!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A CLOTHES DIVISION (OF OPINION).--It is said that Woman cannot afford to
alter her style of dress, since her limbs are "all wrong." Clear,
therefore, that however much Woman's Wrongs need redressing, All-Wrong
Women don't!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Q. E. D.

"WHAT'S UP WI' SAL?"

"AIN'T YER ERD? SHE'S MARRIED AGIN!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"AUXILIARY ASSISTANCE" IN THE PROVINCES.

(_A Tragedy-Farce in several painful Scenes, with many unpleasant
Situations._)

LOCALITY--_The Interior of Country Place taken for the Shooting Season.
Preparations for a feast in all directions. It is Six o' Clock, and the
household are eagerly waiting the appearance of_ MONTAGU MARMADUKE, the
Auxiliary Butler, _sent in by Contract. Enter_ MONTAGU MARMADUKE, _in
comic evening dress._

_Master_ (_looking at_ MONTAGU _with an expression of disappointment on
his face_). What, are _you_ the man they have sent me?

_Montagu._ Yessir. And I answers to MONTAGU MARMADUKE, or some gentlemen
prefers to call me by my real name BINKS.

_Master._ Oh, MONTAGU will do. I hope you know your duties?

_Mon._ Which I was in service, Sir, with Sir BARNABY JINKS, for
twenty-six years, and----

_Master._ Very well, I daresay you will do. I suppose you know about the
wine?

_Mon._ Yessir. In course. I've been a teetotaler ever since I left Sir
BARNABY'S.

_Master_ (_retiring_). And mind, do not murder the names of the guests.

    [_Exit._

    [_The time goes on, and Company arrive._ MONTAGU _ushers them
    upstairs, and announces them under various aliases._ Sir HENRY
    EISTERFODD _is introduced as_ Sir 'ENERY EASTEREGG, _&c., &c._
    _After small talk, the guests find their way to the dining-room._

_Mon._ (_to_ Principal Guest). Do you take sherry, claret, or 'ock, my
Lady?

_Principal Guest_ (_interrupted in a conversation_). Claret, please.

    [MONTAGU _promptly pours the required liquid on to the table-cloth._

_Master._ I must apologise, but our Butler, who is on trial, is very
short-sighted.

_P. Guest._ Evidently.

    [_The wine is brought round;_ MONTAGU _interrupting the conversation
    with his hospitable suggestions, and pouring claret into champagne
    glasses, and champagne into sherries._

_Nervous Guest_ (_in an undertone to_ MONTAGU). Do you think you could
get me, by-and-by, a piece of bread?

_Mon._ Bread, Sir, yessir! (_In stentorian tones._) Here, NISBET, bring
this gent some bread!

    [_The unfortunate guest, who is overcome with confusion at having
    attracted so much attention, is waited upon by_ NISBET.

_Master_ (_savagely_). Can't you go about more quietly?

_Mon._ (_hurt_). Certainly, Sir. When I was with Sir BARNABY----
(_Disappears murmuring to himself, and returns with entrée, which he
lets fall on dress of_ Principal Guest). Beg pardon, my Lady, but it was
my stud, which _would_ come undone. Very sorry, indeed, Mum, but if you
will allow me----

    [_Produces a soiled dinner-napkin with a flourish._

_P. Guest_ (_in much alarm_). No thanks!

    [_General commiseration, and, a little later, disappearance of
    ladies. After this,_ MONTAGU _does not reappear except to call
    obtrusively for carriages, and tout for tips._

_P. Guest_ (_on bidding her host good-night_). I can assure you my gown
was not injured in the least. I am quite sure it was only an accident.

_Master_ (_bowing_). You are most kind. (_With great severity._) As a
matter of fact, the man only came to us this afternoon, but, after what
has happened, he shall not remain in my service another hour! I shall
dismiss him to-night!

    [_Exit_ Principal Guest. Master _pays_ MONTAGU _the agreed fee for
    his services for the evening. Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A PHILANTHROPIST.

  You ask me, Madam, if by chance we meet,
  For money just to keep upon its feet
  That hospital, that school, or that retreat,
                              That home.

  I help that hospital? My doctor's fee
  Absorbs too much. Alas! I cannot be
  An inmate there myself; he comes to me
                              At home.

  Do not suppose I have too close a fist.
  Rent, rates, bills, taxes, make a fearful list;
  I should be homeless if I did assist
                              That home.

  I must--it is my impecunious lot--
  Economise the little I have got;
  So if I see you coming I am "not
                              At home."

  My clothes are shabby. How I should be dunned
  By tailor, hatter, hosier, whom I've shunned,
  If I supported that school clothing fund,
                              That home!

  I'd help if folks wore nothing but their skins;
  This hat, this coat, at which the street-boy grins,
  Remind me still that "Charity begins
                              At home."

       *       *       *       *       *

Kiss versus Kiss.

  On the cold cannon's mouth the Kiss of Peace
  Should fall like flowers, and bid its bellowings cease!--
  But ah! that Kiss of Peace seems very far
  From being as strong as the _Hotch_kiss of War!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: QUALIFIED ADMIRATION.

_Country Vicar._ "WELL, JOHN, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF LONDON?"

_Yokel._ "LOR' BLESS YER, SIR, IT'LL BE A FINE PLACE _WHEN IT'S
FINISHED_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

PAGE FROM "ROSEBERY'S HISTORY OF THE COMMONWEALTH."

(_With Mr. Punch's Compliments to the Gentleman who will have to design
"that statue."_)

"You really must join the Army," said the stern old Puritan to the Lord
Protector. "The fate of this fair realm of England depends upon the
promptness with which you assume command."

OLIVER CROMWELL paused. He had laid aside his buff doublet, and had
donned a coat of a thinner material. His sword also was gone, and
hanging by his side was a pair of double spy-glasses--new in those
days--new in very deed.

"I cannot go," cried the Lord Protector at last, "it would be too great
a sacrifice."

"You said not that," pursued IRETON--for it was he--"when you called
upon CHARLES to lose his head."

"But in this case, good sooth, I would wish a head to be won, or the
victory to be by a head;" and then the Uncrowned King laughed long and
heartily, as was his wont when some jest tickled him.

"This is no matter for merriment," exclaimed IRETON sternly. "OLIVER,
you are playing the fool. You are sacrificing for pleasure, business,
duty."

"Well, I cannot help it," was the response. "But mind you, IRETON, it
shall be the last time."

"What is it that attracts you so strongly? What is the pleasure that
lures you away from the path of duty?"

"I will tell you, and then you will pity, perchance forgive me. To-day
my horse runs at Epsom. With luck his chance is a certainty. So
farewell." Then the two old friends grasped hands and parted. One went
to fight on the blood-stained field of battle, and the other to see the
race for the Derby.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON A CLUMSY CRICKETER.

  At TIMBERTOES his Captain rails
    As one in doleful dumps;
  Oft given "leg before"--the bails,
    Not bat before--the stumps.
  The Genevese Professor YUNG
    Believes the time approaches
  When man will lose his legs, ill-slung,
    Through trams, cars, cabs, and coaches;
  Or that those nether limbs will be
    The merest of survivals.
  The thought fills TIMBERTOES with glee,
    No more he'll fear his rivals.
  "Without these bulky, blundering pegs
    I shall not fail to score,
  For if a man has got no legs,
    He _can't_ get 'leg-before.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

SITTING ON OUR SENATE.

SIR,--It struck me that the best and simplest way of finding out what
were the intentions of the Government with regard to the veto of the
Peers was to write and ask each individual Member his opinion on the
subject. Accordingly I have done so, and it seems to me that there is a
vast amount of significance in the nature of the replies I have
received, to anyone capable of reading between the lines; or, as most of
the communications only extended to a single line, let us say to anyone
capable of reading beyond the full-stop. Lord ROSEBERY'S Secretary, for
example, writes that "the Prime Minister is at present out of town"--_at
present_, you see, but obviously on the point of coming back, in order
to grapple with my letter and the question generally. Sir WILLIAM
HARCOURT, his Secretary, writes, "is at Wiesbaden, but upon his return
your communication will no doubt receive his attention"--_receive his
attention_, an ominous phrase for the Peers, who seem hardly to realise
that between them and ruin there is only the distance from Wiesbaden to
Downing Street. Then Mr. MORLEY "sees no reason to alter his published
opinion on the subject"--_alter_, how readily, by the prefixing of a
single letter, that word becomes _halter_! I was unable to effect
personal service of my letter on the ATTORNEY-GENERAL, possibly because
I called at his chambers during the Long Vacation; but the fact that a
card should have been attached to his door bearing the words "Back at 2
P.M." surely indicates that Sir JOHN RIGBY will _back up_ his leaders in
any approaching attack on the fortress of feudalism! Then surely the
circumstance that the other Ministers to whom my letters were addressed
_have not as yet sent any answer_ shows how seriously they regard the
situation, and how disinclined they are to commit themselves to a too
hasty reply! In fact, the outlook for the House of Lords, judging from
these Ministerial communications, is decidedly gloomy, and I am inclined
to think that an Autumn Session devoted to abolishing it is a most
probable eventuality.

  Yours,

  FUSSY-CUSS EXSPECTANS.

SIR,--The real way of dealing with the Lords is as follows. The next
time that they want to meet, cut off their gas and water! Tell the
butcher and baker _not_ to call at the House for orders, and dismiss the
charwomen who dust their bloated benches. If _this_ doesn't bring them
to reason, nothing will.

HIGH-MINDED DEMOCRAT.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN PRAISE OF BOYS.

(_By an "Old One."_)

    ["A Mother of Boys," angry with Mr. JAMES PAYN for his dealings with
    "that barbarous race," suggests that as an _amende honorable_ he
    should write a book in praise of boys.]

  In praise of boys? In praise of boys?
  Who mess the house, and make a noise,
  And break the peace, and smash their toys,
  And dissipate domestic joys,
  Do everything that most annoys,
  The BOBS and BILLYS, RALPHS and ROYS?--
  Just as well praise a hurricane,
  The buzzing fly on the window-pane,
  An earthquake or a rooting pig!
  No, young or old, or small or big,
  A boy's a pest, a plague, a scourge,
  A dread domestic demiurge
  Who brings the home to chaos' verge.
  The _only_ reason I can see
  For praising him is--well, that he,
  As WORDSWORTH--so his dictum ran--
  Declared, is "father to the man."
  And even then the better plan
  Would be that he, calm, sober, sage,
  Were--_born at true paternal age_!
  Did all boys start at twenty-five
  I were the happiest "Boy" alive!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A LITTLE "NEW WOMAN."

_He._ "WHAT A SHAME IT IS THAT MEN MAY ASK WOMEN TO MARRY THEM, AND
WOMEN MAYN'T ASK MEN!"

_She._ "OH, WELL, YOU KNOW, I SUPPOSE THEY CAN ALWAYS GIVE A SORT OF
_HINT_!"

_He._ "WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY A _HINT_?"

_She._ "WELL--THEY CAN ALWAYS SAY, 'OH, I DO _LOVE_ YOU SO!'"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PULLMAN CAR.

(AIR--"_The Low-backed Car._")

  I rather like that Car, Sir,
    'Tis easy for a ride.
      But gold galore
      May mean strife and gore.
    If 'tis stained with greed and pride.
  Though its comforts are delightful,
    And its cushions made with taste,
  There's a spectre sits beside me
    That I'd gladly fly in haste--
  As I ride in the Pullman Car;
  And echoes of wrath and war,
    And of Labour's mad cheers,
    Seem to sound in my ears
  As I ride in the Pullman Car!

       *       *       *       *       *

QUEER QUERIES.--"SCIENCE FALSELY SO CALLED."--What is this talk at the
British Association about a "new gas"? Isn't the old good enough? My
connection--as a shareholder--with one of our leading gas companies,
enables me to state authoritatively that no new gas is required by the
public. I am surprised that a nobleman like Lord RAYLEIGH should even
attempt to make such a thoroughly useless, and, indeed, revolutionary
discovery. It is enough to turn anyone into a democrat at once. And what
was Lord SALISBURY, as a Conservative, doing, in allowing such a subject
to be mooted at Oxford? Why did he not at once turn the new gas off at
the meter?

INDIGNANT.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

From HENRY SOTHERAN & CO. (so a worthy Baronite reports) comes a second
edition of _Game Birds and Shooting Sketches_, by JOHN GUILLE MILLAIS.
Every sportsman who is something more than a mere bird-killer ought to
buy this beautiful book. Mr. MILLAIS' drawings are wonderfully delicate,
and, so far as I can judge, remarkably accurate. He has a fine touch for
plumage, and renders with extraordinary success the bold and resolute
bearing of the British game-bird in the privacy of his own peculiar
haunts. I am glad the public have shown themselves sufficiently
appreciative to warrant Mr. MILLAIS in putting forth a second edition of
a book which is the beautiful and artistic result of very many days of
patient and careful observation. By the way, there is an illustration of
a Blackcock Tournament, which is, for knock-about primitive humour, as
good as a pantomime rally. One more by-the-way. Are we in future to
spell Capercailzie with an extra l in place of the z, as Mr. MILLAIS
spells it? Surely it is rather wanton thus to annihilate the pride of
the sportsman who knew what was what, and who never pronounced the z. If
you take away the z you take away all merit from him. Perhaps Mr.
MILLAIS will consider the matter in his third edition.

THE BARON DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

WET-WILLOW.

A SONG OF A SLOPPY SEASON.

(_By a Washed-Out Willow-Wielder._)

AIR--"_Titwillow._"

  In the dull, damp pavilion a popular "Bat"
    Sang "Willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!"
  And I said "Oh! great slogger, pray what are you at,
    Singing 'Willow, wet-willow, wet-willow'?
  Is it lowness of average, batsman," I cried;
  "Or a bad 'brace of ducks' that has lowered your pride?"
  With a low-muttered swear-word or two he replied,
    "Oh willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!"

  He said "In the mud one can't score, anyhow,
    Singing willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!
  The people are raising a deuce of a row,
    Oh willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!
  I've been waiting all day in these flannels--they're damp!--
  The spectators impatiently shout, shriek, and stamp,
  But a batsman, you see, cannot play with a Gamp,
    Oh willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!

  "Now I feel just as sure as I am that my name
    Isn't willow, wet-willow, wet-willow,
  The people will swear that I don't play the game,
    Oh willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!
  My spirits are low and my scores are not high,
  But day after day we've soaked turf and grey sky,
  And I shan't have a chance till the wickets get dry,
    Oh willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!!!"

       *       *       *       *       *

INVALIDED!

_Deplorable Result of the Forecast of Aug. 23 on the "D. G." Weather
Girl._

[Illustration: FORECAST.--Fair, warmer. WARNINGS.--None issued. ACTUAL
WEATHER.--Raining cats and dogs. _Moral._--Wear a mackintosh over your
classical costume.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A Question of "Rank."

  "His Majesty King Grouse, noblest of game!"
    So toasted Host. Replied the Guest, with dryness,--
  "I think that in _this_ house the fitter name
    Would be His Royal _Highness_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, August 20._--ASHMEAD-BARTLETT (Knight) is the
CASABIANCA of Front Opposition Bench. All but he have fled. Now his
opportunity; will show jealous colleagues, watchful House, and
interested country, how a party should be led. Had an innings on
Saturday, when, in favourite character of Dompter of British and other
Lions, he worried Under Secretaries for Foreign Affairs and the
Colonies. Didn't get much out of them. In fact what happened seems to
confirm quaint theory SARK advances.

Says he believes those two astute young men, EDWARD GREY and SYDNEY
BUXTON, "control" the Sheffield Knight. They are active and ambitious.
Still only juniors. Moreover, things are managed so well both at
Foreign Office and Colonial Office that they have no opportunity of
distinguishing themselves. The regular representatives on the Front
Opposition Bench of Foreign Affairs and Colonies say nothing;
patriotically acquiescent in management of concerns in respect of which
it is the high tradition of English statesmanship that the political
game shall not be played. In such circumstances no opening for able
young men. But, suppose they could induce some blatant, irresponsible
person, persistently to put groundless questions, and make insinuations
derogatory to the character of British statesmen at home and British
officials abroad? Then they step in, and, amid applause on both sides of
House, knock over the intruder. Sort of game of House of Commons
nine-pins. Nine-pin doesn't care so that it's noticed; admirable
practice for young Parliamentary Hands.

_Invaluable to Budding Statesmen._]

This is SARK'S suggestion of explanation of phenomenon. Fancy much
simpler one might be found. To-night BARTLETT-ELLIS in better luck.
Turns upon ATTORNEY-GENERAL; darkly hints that escape of JABEZ was a
put-up job, of which Law Officers of the Crown might, an' they would,
disclose some interesting particulars. RIGBY, who, when he bends his
step towards House of Commons, seems to leave all his shrewdness and
knowledge of the world in his chambers, rose to the fly; played
BASHMEAD-ARTLETT'S obvious game by getting angry, and delivering long
speech whilst progress of votes, hitherto going on swimmingly, was
arrested for fully an hour.

_Business done._--Supply voted with both hands.

_Tuesday._--A precious sight, one worthy of the painter's or sculptor's
art, to see majestic figure of SQUIRE OF MALWOOD standing between House
of Lords and imminent destruction. Irish members and Radicals opposite
have sworn to have blood of the Peers. SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE is
taking the waters elsewhere. In his absence do the best we can. Sat up
all last night, the Radicals trying to get at the Lords by the kitchen
entrance; SQUIRE withstanding them till four o'clock in the morning.
Began again to-night. Education Vote on, involving expenditure of six
millions and welfare of innumerable children. Afterwards the Post Office
Vote, upon which the Postmaster-General, ST. ARNOLD-LE-GRAND, endeavours
to reply to HENNIKER-HEATON without betraying consciousness of bodily
existence of such a person. These matters of great and abiding interest;
but only few members present to discuss them. The rest waiting outside
till the lists are cleared and battle rages once more round citadel of
the Lords sullenly sentineled by detachment from the Treasury Bench.

When engagement reopened SQUIRE gone for his holiday trip, postponed by
the all-night sitting, JOHN MORLEY on guard. Breaks force of assault by
protest that the time is inopportune. By-and-by the Lords shall be
handed over to tender mercies of gentlemen below gangway. Not just now,
and not in this particular way. CHIEF SECRETARY remembers famous case of
absentee landlord not to be intimidated by the shooting of his agent. So
Lords, he urges, not to be properly punished for throwing out Evicted
Tenants Bill by having the salaries of the charwomen docked, and BLACK
ROD turned out to beg his bread.

Radicals at least not to be denied satisfaction of division. Salaries
of House of Lords staff secured for another year by narrow majority
of 31.

_Business done._--Nearly all.

_Wednesday._--The SQUIRE OF MALWOOD at last got off for his well-earned
holiday. Carries with him consciousness of having done supremely well
amid difficulties of peculiar complication. As JOSEPH in flush of
unexpected and still unexplained frankness testified, the Session will
in its accomplished work beat the record of any in modern times. The
SQUIRE been admirably backed by a rare team of colleagues; but in House
of Commons everything depends on the Leader. Had the Session been a
failure, upon his head would have fallen obloquy. As it has been a
success, his be the praise.

"Well, good bye," said JOHN MORLEY, tears standing in his tender eyes as
he wrung the hand of the almost Lost Leader. "But you know it's not all
over yet. There's the Appropriation Bill. What shall we do if WEIR comes
up on Second Reading?"

"Oh, dam WEIR," said the SQUIRE.

JOHN MORLEY inexpressibly shocked. For a moment thought a usually
equable temper had been ruffled by the almost continuous work of twenty
months, culminating in an all-night sitting. On reflection he saw that
the SQUIRE was merely adapting an engineering phrase, describing a
proceeding common enough on river courses. The only point on which
remark open to criticism is that it is tautological.

_Business done._--Appropriation Bill brought in.

_Thursday._--GEORGE NEWNES looked in just now; much the same as ever;
the same preoccupied, almost pensive look; a mind weighed down by
ever-multiplying circulation. Troubled with consideration of proposal
made to him to publish special edition of _Strand Magazine_ in tongue
understanded of the majority of the peoples of India. Has conquered
the English-speaking race from Chatham to Chattanooga, from Southampton
to Sydney. Now lo! The poor Indian brings his annas, and begs a boon.

Meanwhile one of the candidates for vacant Poet Laureateship has broken
out into elegiac verse. "NEWNES," he exclaims,

  "NEWNES, noble hearted, shine, for ever shine;
  Though not of royal, yet of hallowed line."

That sort of thing would make some men vain. There is no couplet to
parallel it since the famous one written by POPE on a place frequented
by a Sovereign whose death is notorious, a place where

  Great ANNA, whom three realms obey,
  Did sometimes counsel take and sometimes tea.

The poet, whose volume bears the proudly humble pseudonym "A Village
Peasant," should look in at the House of Commons and continue his
studies. There are a good many of us here worth a poet's attention. SARK
says the thing is easy enough. "Toss 'em off in no time," says he.
"There's the SQUIRE now, who has not lately referred to his Plantagenet
parentage. Apostrophising him in Committee on Evicted Tenants Bill one
might have said:--

  SQUIRE, noble hearted, shine, for ever shine;
  Though not of hallowed yet of royal line."

_Business done._--Appropriation Bill read second time. WEIR turned up.
Sir WILFRID LAWSON and others said "Dam."

_Saturday._--Appropriation Bill read third time this morning.
Prorogation served with five o'clock tea.

"Parleyment!" said one of the House of Commons waiters loitering at the
gateway of Palace Yard and replying to inquiring visitor from the
country. "Parleyment's horff." So am I.

_Business done._--All.

[Illustration: THE IMPERIAL SHEFFIELD NINE-PIN.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO DOROTHY.

(_My Four-year-old Sweetheart._)

  To make sweet hay I was amazed to find
    You absolutely did not know the way,
  Though when you did, it seemed much to your mind
                  To make sweet hay.

  We wandered out. It was a perfect day.
    I asked if I might teach you. You were kind
  Enough to answer, "Why, _of course_, you may."
    I kissed your pretty face with hay entwined,
  We made sweet hay. But what will Mother say
    If in a dozen years we're still inclined
                  To make sweet hay?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber's Note:

Alternative spellings retained.

Punctuation normalised without comment.

Spelling regularised without comment.]





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch or the London Charivari, Vol.107,  September 1, 1894" ***

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