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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, April 13, 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, April 13, 1895" ***

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Volume 108, APRIL 13, 1895

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_



[Illustration: "I'LL SING THEE SONGS OF ARABY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

IN PRAISE OF THE TRIANGLE.

[Illustration: In Praise of Try Angle.]

  Ye countless stars, both great and small,
    The poetic sky who spangle,
  Not one of you, that I recall,
    Has hymned the sweet triangle!

  With lyre and lute too long, too much,
    Ye've thrid love's mazy tangle,
  Yet unresponsive to your touch
    Have left the sweet triangle.

  And so the Muse commissions me
    A lay to newly fangle--
  I play the instrument, you see--
    In praise of my triangle.

  No tambourine, no minstrel bones
    Give forth what HILDA WANGEL
  Would call such "frightfully thrilling" tones
    As those of my triangle.

  No self-respecting band may try
    To play--'twould simply mangle--
  Good music, unassisted by
    The silver-tongued triangle.

  In vain does STREPHON with a lute
    Round PHYLLIS always dangle;
  She'd have him, if he urged his suit
    With passionate triangle.

  Full brave may bray the loud trombone,
    Full sweet the cymbals jangle,
  The bagpipes till they burst may drone,
    So I have my triangle.

  The stately cold piano may
    All depth of feeling strangle;
  To rouse deep feeling I essay,
    Nor fail, on my triangle!

  O'er rival claims of violin
    And 'cello some may wrangle--
  For pure expression nothing's in
    The hunt with my triangle.

  The diamond bracelet must exceed
    In worth the silver bangle--
  No instrument, string, wind, or reed,
    Compares with my triangle!

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE GRIFFIN.

(_By Calverlerius Rusticanus._)

[Illustration]

  GRIFFIN, who benignly beamest
    (So to speak) upon the Strand,
  To the rustic eye thou seemest
    Quite superlatively grand.

  Griffin, grim and grimy Griffin,
    Few, JOE tells me, will agree
  With my artless numbers, if in
    Undiluted praise of thee.

  Critics, so he says, by dozens
    Swear thou couldst not well be worse,
  Yet from one poor country cousin's
    Pen accept a tribute verse.

  Some of London's statues now are
    Fêted richly once a year;
  Some--it seems a shame, I vow--are
    Fated to oblivion there.

  Once a year a primrose bower
    Draws the folks around for miles,
  DIZZY blossoms into flower,
    Almost into "wreathèd smiles."

  Once a year by all the town o'er-
    -whelmed in bays is GORDON seen,
  Countless wreaths recording "BROWN (or
    JONES) thus keeps thy memory green."

  Once a year King CHARLES'S statue
    Paragraphs jocose invites,
  Wreathed with flowers by infatu-
    -ated modern Jacobites.

  Thus their substance people waste on
    This queer decorative fit--
  Wreaths are sometimes even placed on
    Mere nonentities like PITT.

  But--I cannot think what JOE meant--!
    No one--so he said to me--
  In his most expansive moment
    E'er has twined a wreath for thee!

  So I cast--in no derision--
    From my 'bus-top garden-seat
  These few violets, with precision,
    At what I must call thy feet.

  'Tis not that thy mien is stately,
    'Tis not that thy grace is rare,
  'Tis not that I care so greatly
    For thy quaint heraldic air;

  But contemptuous men neglect thee,
    Load thee with invective strange,
  So with violets I have decked thee,
    And with verses, as a change.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW DISCOVERY.--"Argon" is described as "a gaseous constituent."
In most constituencies can be found plenty of "Argons."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF; OR, THE MODERN ORACLE OF AMMON.

"The people (the Libyans) deeming themselves not Egyptians, and being
discontented with the institutions, sent to the Oracle of Ammon,
saying that they had no relation to the Egyptians. The god,
however, said, 'that all the country which the Nile irrigated was
Egypt.'"--_Herodotus_, II., 15. B.C. 452.

"I stated that, in consequence of these claims of ours and the claims
of Egypt in the Nile Valley, the British sphere of influence covered
the whole of the Nile waterway."--_Sir E. Grey in House of Commons_,
A.D. 1895.

_John Bull._ "YOU SEE, NILUS, THE FATHER OF HISTORY AND I ARE OF THE
SAME WAY OF THINKING. SO YOU'RE ALL RIGHT, MY BOY, WHILE I'M HERE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF;

_Or, The Modern Oracle of Ammon_.

  _Nilus_ (_referring to Parisian Press_).
    But--won't it make our French friends furious?

  _Mr. Bull._                              Gammon!

  _Nilus._ Are you, then, the new Oracle of Ammon?

  _Mr. Bull._ Well, ALEXANDER claimed the god his sire.
    So why not I?

  _Nilus._     I own I rather tire
    Of all these squabbles. Peace is what I want.
    Oh why did your intrusive SPEKE and GRANT*
    Disturb my forty centuries of quiet?
    Since then it's been all rumpus, and red riot.

  _Mr. Bull._ How about RAMESES, old cockalorum?

  _Nilus._ Oh! better all the Pharoahs in full quorum
    Than Condominiums. The Control called Dual----

  _Mr. Bull._ Oh, don't you bother! _That_ has got its gruel.

  _Nilus._ But these Exploring Expeditions?

  _Mr. Bull._                                  Bogey!
    Young GREY should reassure you, my old fogey.
    His words don't speak scuttle or shilly-shally
    "My 'sphere of influence' covers the Nile Valley."
    Isn't that plain enough? God Ammon's nod
    Was hardly more decisive. It is odd
    How very like the Oracle's straight tip
    Was to Sir EDWARD'S. A stiff upper lip
    Saves lots of talk. "Explorers" will prove skittish
    But the whole Nile's Egyptian (and thus British).
    Just as HERODOTUS tells us Ammon said.
    Sir EDWARD, my dear Nile, has an old head
    Upon young shoulders; courteous as a GRANVILLE,
    He comes down like a hammer on an anvil--
    Or Ammon on the Libyans--when 'tis needful.
    Of rumoured expeditions he is heedful
    But not afraid. Effective occupation?
    Why that's a ticklish point--for many a nation.
    But why define it? EDWARD has a shorter way;
    He claims for me the whole of your long waterway,
    And plainly says intrusion would be viewed
    As--well, "unfriendly." Should the FRANK intrude----

  _Nilus._ Ah! by the way, friend JOHN, whose head is yonder
  Protruding through the reeds?

  _Mr. Bull_ (_loudly_). Humph! Let him ponder
    What he, perchance, has overheard. No mystery!
    I simply hold with the great Sire of History.
    The _Times_ and old HERODOTUS quite agree.
    And both speak for the Oracle--J. B.,
    Or Jupiter Ammon. The _Débats_ may differ
    (At the French Press, at best, _I_ am no sniffer),
    But don't you be alarmed by spleenful splutter,
    Or what mere bouncing boulevardiers utter.
    From all intruders you'll be safe, if you
    But trust to the Old Oracle--and the New!
    Far cry, old boy, from PHAROAH to the GUELPH.
    Funny how History _does_ repeat itself!

* See Cartoon "Britannia Discovering the Source of the Nile," p. 233,
Vol. XLIV., June 6, 1863.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A STUDY IN "BIMETALLISM."

_Quotation from the Right Hon. Arth-r B-lf-r's Speech on this subject
last week._--"A GENERAL FALL IN PRICES WAS SAID TO BE GOOD FOR THE
CONSUMER."

Does it look like it in this instance? [*** _So far_ the Court is with
Mr. A. B-LF-R.]]

       *       *       *       *       *

To Corinna, angry.

  The fault was mine. With piercing pang
    My trespass I deplore;
  But, when 'tis I you ought to bang,
    Why do you bang the door?

       *       *       *       *       *

Q. E. D.--There is said to be a good deal of illness and absence from
lessons of the schoolboy population of London at present. Can there be
any connection between this phenomenon and a paragraph which is going
the round of the papers, headed, "An objection to Euclid"? What is
sport to us may be death to them!

       *       *       *       *       *

The Long and Short of It.

  _Ars longa est!_ All know what once that meant;
    But cranks corrupt so sickeningly have shindied
  About _their_ ART of late, 'tis evident
    The rendering now must be, "Art is long-winded!"
  For _Vita brevis_,--all true men must hope,
    Brief life for such base Art--and a short rope!

       *       *       *       *       *

MOTTO--SLIGHTLY MODIFIED FROM GRAY'S "ELEGY"--FOR STODDART'S
ELEVEN.--"Still in those 'ashes' live their wonted fire."

       *       *       *       *       *

SATURDAY NIGHT IN THE EDGWARE ROAD.

    _For over half a mile the pavement on the East side of the
    road is thronged with promenaders, and the curbstone lined
    with stalls and barrows, and hawkers of various wares.
    Marketing housewives with covered baskets oscillate
    undecidedly from stalls to shops, and put off purchasing to
    the last possible moment. Maids-of-all-work perambulate arm
    in arm, exchanging airy badinage with youths of their
    acquaintance, though the latter seem to prefer the society
    of their own sex. A man with a switchback skittle-board plays
    gloomy games by himself to an unspeculative group of small
    boys. The tradesmen stand outside their shops and conduct
    their business with a happy blend of the methods of a
    travelling showman and a clown._

_Burlesque Butcher._ Now then all o' _you_ there! Buy, buy, buy! Jest
give yer minds to spendin' yer money! (_In a tone of artless wonder._)
Where _does_ the Butcher git this _luverly_ meat? What can I do fur
_you_ now, Marm? (_Triumphantly, after selling the scrag-end of a neck
of mutton._) _Now_ we're busy!

_Farcical Fishmonger_ (_with two Comic Assistants_). Ahar! (_To
crowd._) Come 'ere, you silly young snorkers! I've the quali_tee!_
I've the quali_tay!_ _Keep_ takin' money!

_First Comic Assistant._ Ahye! Foppence a pound nice plaice! Kippers
two fur three 'apence. _We_'re the Perfeshnal Curers! What are yer all
goin' to _do?_ Sort 'em out cheap!

_Second C. A._ I don't mind. What care I? (_Bursting into song._)
"'Ow, she rowled me 'ed, and rumbled in the 'ay!" On me word, she did,
ladies!

    [_He executes a double shuffle, and knocks over several boxes
    of bloaters in the gaiety of his heart._

_A Hawker of Penny Memorandum Books_ (_to an audience of small boys_).
Those among you 'oo are not mechanics, decidedly you 'ave mechanical
_hideers!_

    [_He enlarges upon the convenience of having a note-book
    in which to jot down any inspirations of this kind; but his
    hearers do not appear to agree with him._

_A Lugubrious Vendor._ One penny for six comic pypers. Hevery one
different!

_A Rude Boy._ You ain't bin _readin'_ o' any on 'em, 'ave yer,
guv'nor?

[Illustration: 'You ain't bin a _readin'_ o' any on 'em, 'ave yer,
guv'nor?"]

_A Crockery Merchant_ (_as he unpacks a variety of vases of appalling
hideousness_). _I_ don't care--it's self-sacrifice to give away!
Understand, you ain't buyin' _common_ things, you're buyin' suthin'
_good!_ It 'appens to be my buthday to-night, so I'm goin' to let you
people 'ave the benefit of the doubt. Come on 'ere. I don't ask you to
b'lieve _me_--ony to jedge fur yerselves. I'm not 'ere to tell you no
fairy tales; and the reason why I'm in a position to orfer up these
vawses--all richly gilt, and decorated in three colours, the most
expensive ever made--the reason I'm able to sell them so cheap as I'm
doin' is this--(_he lowers his voice mysteriously_)--arf the stuff I
'ave 'ere we git _in very funny ways!_

    [_This ingeniously suggestive hint enhances the natural charm
    of his ware to such a degree that the vases are bought up
    briskly, as calculated to brighten the humblest home._

_A Sanctimonious Young Man_ (_with a tongue too large for his mouth,
who has just succeeded in collecting a circle round him_). I am only
'ere to-night, my friends, as a paid servant--for the purpose of
deciding a wager. Some o' you may have noticed an advertisement lately
in the _Daily Telegrawf_, asking for men to stand on Southwark Bridge
and orfer arf-suverings for a penny apiece. You are equally well aware
that it is illegal to orfer the Queen's coinage for money: and that is
_not_ my intention this evening. _But_ I 'ave 'ere several pieces
of gold, guaranteed to be of the exact weight of arf a suvering, and
'all-marked, which, in order to decide the wager I 'ave spoken of, I
shall now perceed to charge you the sum of one penny for, and no more.
I am not allowed to sell _more_ than one to each person----

    [_Here a constable comes up, and the decision of the wager is
    postponed until a more favourable opportunity._

_First "General"_ (_looking into a draper's window_). Look at them
coloured felt 'ats--all shades, and on'y sixpence three-fardens!

_Second "G."_ They _are_ reasonable; but I've 'eard as felt 'ats is
gone out o' fashion now.

_First "G."_ Don't you believe it, SARAH. Why, my married sister
bought one on'y last week!

_Coster_ (_to an old lady who has repudiated a bunch of onions after
a prolonged scrutiny_). Frorsty? So would _you_ be if _your_ onion 'ad
bin layin' out in the fields all night as long as these 'ave!

_First Itinerant Physician_ (_as he screws up fragments of candy in
pieces of newspaper_). That is Frog in your Froat what I'm doin' up
now. I arsk you to try it. It's given to me to give away, and I'm
goin' to _give_ it away--you understand?--that's all. And now I'm
goin' to tork to you about suthink else. You see this small bottle
what I 'old up. I tell you there's 'undreds layin' in bed at this
present moment as 'ud give a shillin' fur one of these--and I offer
it to you at one penny! It corrects all nerve-pains connected with
the 'ed, cures earache, toothache, neuralgy, noomonia, 'art-complaint,
fits, an' syhatica. Each bottle is charged with helectricity, forming
a complete galvanic-battery. Hall _you_ 'ave to do is to place the
bottle to one o' your nawstrils, first closing the other with your
finger. You will find it compels you to sniff. The moment you _tyke_
that sniff, you'll find the worter comin' into your heyes--and that's
the helectricity. You'll say, "_I_ always 'eard helectricity was a
_fluid_." (_With withering scorn._) Very _likely!_ You _'ave!_ An'
_why?_ Be-cawse o' the hignirant notions prevailin' about scientific
affairs! Hevery one o' these bottles contains a battery, and to heach
purchaser I myke 'im a present--a _present_, mind yer--of Frog in 'is
Froat!

_Susan Jane_ (_to_ LIZERANN, _before a stall where "Novelettes,
three a penny," are to be procured by the literary_). Shall we 'ave a
penn'orth, an' you go 'alves along o' me?

_Lizerann._ Not _me_. I ain't got no time to go improvin' o' _my_
mind, whatever _you_ 'ave!

_A Vendor of "'Ore'ound Tablets"_ (_he is a voluble young man, with
considerable lung-power, and a tendency to regard his cough-lozenges
as not only physical but moral specifics_). I'm on'y a young feller,
as you see, and yet 'ere I _am_, with my four burnin' lamps, and a
lassoo-soot as belonged to my Uncle BILL, doin' _wunnerful_ well. Why,
I've took over two pound in coppers a'ready! Mind you, I don't deceive
you; you may all on you do as well as me; on'y you'll 'ave to git two
good ref'rences fust, _and_ belong to a temp'rance society, like I do.
This is the badge as I've got on me at this minnit. I ain't always
bin like I am now. I started business four year ago, and was doin'
wunnerful well, too, till I got among 'orse-copers an' dealers and
went on the booze, and lost the lot. Then I turned up the drink and
got a berth sellin' these 'ere Wangoo Tablets--and now I've got a neat
little missus, and a nice 'ome, goin' on wunnerful comfortable. Never
a week passes but what I buy myself something. Last week it was a pair
o' noo socks. Soon as the sun peeps out and the doo dries up, I'm orf
to Yarmouth. And what's the reason? I've _enjoyed_ myself there. My
Uncle BILL, as lives at Lowestoft, and keeps six fine 'orses and
a light waggon, _he_'s doin' wunnerful well, and he'd take me into
partnership to-morrow, he would. But no--I'm 'appier as I am. What's
the reason I kin go on torkin' to you like this night after night,
without injury to my voice? Shall I tell yer? Because, every night
o' my life, afore I go to bed, I take four o' these Wangoo
Tablets--compounded o' the purest 'erbs. You take them to the nearest
doctor's and arsk 'im to analyse an' test them as he _will_, and you
'ear what _he_ says of them! Take one o' them tablets--after your
pipe; after your cigaw; after your cigarette. You won't want no more
drink, you'll find they make you come 'ome reglar every evening, and
be able to buy a noo 'at every week. You've ony to persevere for a bit
with these 'ere lawzengers to be like I am myself, doin' _wunnerful_
well! You see this young feller 'ere? (_Indicating a sheepish head in
a pot-hat which is visible over the back of his stall._) Born and bred
in Kenada, _'e_ was. And quite _right!_ Bin over 'ere six year, so o'
course 'e speaks the lengwidge. And _quite_ right. Now I'm no Amerikin
myself, but they're a wunnerful clever people, the Amerikins are,
allays inventin' or suthink o' that there. And you're at liberty to go
and arsk 'im for yourselves whether this is a real Amerikin invention
or not--as he'll tell yer it _is_--and quite right, too! An' it stands
to reason as _he_ orter to know, seein' he interdooced it 'imself and
doin' wunnerful well with it ever since. I ain't come 'ere to _rob_
yer. Lady come and give me a two-shillin' piece just now. I give it
her back. _She_ didn't know--thort it was a penny, till I told her.
Well, that just shows yer what these 'ere Wangoo 'Ore'ound Tablets
_are!_

    [_After this practical illustration of their efficacy, he
    pauses for oratorical effect, and a hard-worked-looking matron
    purchases three packets, in the apparent hope that a similar
    halo of the best horehound will shortly irradiate the head of
    her household._

_Lizerann_ (_to_ SUSAN JANE, _as they walk homewards_). On'y
fancy--the other evenin', as I was walkin' along this very pavement,
a cab-'orse come up beyind me, unbeknown like, and put 'is 'ed over my
shoulder and breathed right in my ear!

_Susan Jane_ (_awestruck_). You _must_ ha' bin a bad gell!

    [LIZERANN _is clearly disquieted by so mystical an
    interpretation, even while she denies having done anything
    deserving of a supernatural rebuke_.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

GENERAL ADYE has added to our national war story _Recollections of a
Military Life_ (SMITH, ELDER & CO.). Sir JOHN has not been in a hurry.
He began fighting more than forty years ago, and has since filled up
opportunity as it presented itself. These particular recollections are
chiefly occupied with the Crimean War and the Indian Mutiny, though
the old soldier has something to say about the Afghan War of 1878-9,
and the Egyptian War of 1882. My Baronite finds most interesting the
chapters about the Crimean War, certain incidents and episodes of
which are narrated with soldierlike directness and simplicity.
The story of the Balaclava Charge has been told in verse and prose
innumerable times. General ADYE did not actually see it, "a ridge of
intervening hills intercepting the view" as he rode back to the camp
from Balaclava. But he manages in a sentence or two vividly to impress
the scene on the mind of the reader. Among many good stories is one
about General HARRY JONES. PELISSIER, with a Frenchman's scorn of
any language but his own, got as near as he could to ordinary
pronunciation when he called him "General HAIRY-JOZE." He did better
when the gallant General was knighted, and was alluded to respectfully
by the French Commander-in-Chief as "SAIREY-JOZE" (Sir HARRY JONES).

  THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Quip.

Mr. ARTHUR TOLLER has been appointed to the Recordership of Leicester.
He is an able man. "_Argal_," as the Shakspearian Clown would say,
"the appointment is just Toller-able."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MAGNIFYING HIS CALLING.

_Peter._ "NA, LADDIE, THIS IS ANE O' THAE THINGS A BODY CAN NEVER
LEARN. THERE'S NO NAE USE IN A MAN TAKIN' TAE _THIS_ JOB UNLESS HE HAS
A NAITERAL BORN APTITUDE FOR 'D!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THREE MODES OF SPENDING A BANK HOLIDAY.

(_By a Confirmed Pessimist._)

_Plan the First._--Take to Volunteering. Be up at daybreak. Leave
your home after snatching a hasty breakfast of lukewarm tea and stale
bread-and-butter. Crowd into a railway-carriage, and travel a hundred
miles or so in the greatest discomfort. Fall in with your company.
March, counter-march, and stand at ease for ten hours or so in
sunshine, rain, fog, or snow. Stave off starvation with a packet of
sandwiches and a bottle of ginger ale. Dead beat, enter crowded train
a second time, and again travel a hundred miles or so in the greatest
discomfort. More dead than alive, stagger home, and wearily roll into
bed.

_Plan the Second._--Try a trip to the sea-side. Share a first-class
compartment with a dozen third-class passengers. Travel to
Shrimpington with the accompaniment of rank tobacco-smoke, comic
songs, and solos on the concertina. Get to your destination with a
splitting headache. Find that all the shops are shut, and all
the taverns open. Learn that Shrimpington, as represented by its
respectable inhabitants, goes away _en masse_ on a bank holiday.
Discover that there is but one hotel in the place. Ascertain that at
the solitary hostelry the rooms are filled with noisy excursionists,
greedily devouring "the shilling tea." Search for nourishment,
and fail in your search. Fall back upon stale buns at a third-rate
sweet-stuff shop. Catch your train back, and endure the torture of the
morning. Travel amongst the same company, under the like conditions.
Reach home hours later than you proposed on starting, and consider
whether the holiday has been a triumphant success or a dismal failure.

_Plan the Third_ (_highly recommended_).--Although desiring change,
remain at home, choosing the lesser of two evils.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. GULLY.--"WILLIAM COURT GULLY, M.P."--certainly "Caught GULLY" at
last. Now the question is, "WILL GULLY" be acceptable to all parties
"E-gully"?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GENTLE IRONY.

_'Bus Driver_ (_to ill-favoured Policeman, who has stopped him at a
crossing_). "WHEN ARE YER GOIN' TO LET ME 'AVE THAT PHOTO?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

NOT DONE YET.

A SONG OF ST. STEPHEN'S SCHOOL.

(_To the Air of the Harrow Song, "Fairies."_)

  When in the Springtime cold and bleak,
    In spite of wind and weather,
  The Blues and Buffs, the strong and weak
    Throng out of school together;
  Off to their homes alert and gay
    From long sederunts risen,
  Majors and minors rush to play,
    Live lags let loose from prison.
  There you behold "Big BILL," the bold!
    Hear how his heart rejoices--
  "Ho ho! ha ha! Tra-la-la-la!"--
    Booms his most bass of voices.

  He cocks a snook at slate and book.
    He's had his work _this_ term, boys,
  But has contrived, by hook or crook,
    To keep his footing firm, boys.
  He's had to fight, like DIBDIN'S tar,
    'Gainst many a would-be boarder.
  It needed wit as well as war
    To keep the school in order.
  But he has shown both wit and grit,
    And patience linked about it.
  "Ho ho! ha ha! Tra-la-la-la!"--
    Young ARTY hears him shout it.

  ARTY had hoped he could have coped
    With BILL, and licked him hollow;
  That JACK had kicked, and SANDY moped,
    And PAT refused to follow.
  But BILL has proved a dodgy one,
    As well as a hard hitter;
  And that has somewhat marred the fun,
    And disappointment's bitter.
  What wonder then BILL'S Tra-la-la
    Sets ARTY shouting shrilly,
  "Boohoo and pah! Yah-boo-yah-bah!
    You wait a bit, Big BILLY!

  "With spur and rein, whip-stroke and strain,
    Jehu _plus_ artful jockey,
  You've kept your team in tow again,
    And you look blessed cocky.
  Wait till the way shows sludge and clay,
    And you the pace would quicken!
  Over you'll roll long ere the goal,
    And _then_ the fun will thicken!"--
  BILL cocks his chins, and skips and grins
    Like any Jumping-Jingle.
  His loud Ha, ha! Tra-la-la-la!
    Sets ARTY'S blood a-tingle.

  "Bah! You've done fairly well this half:
    Think you'll survive another
  As the school's 'Cock,' you great fat calf?
    Look out for my Big Brother!
  When _he_ gets hold of you,--my eye!--
    You won't look quite so jolly.
  Think you've licked me! Wait till you try
    A round or two with SOLLY!
  He's waiting for a turn at you!
    _You_ think you're a smart smiter?
  'Tra-la-la-la'? Yah! bully! yah!
    _He_'ll show you who's cock fighter!"

       *       *       *       *       *

To Tara, My (Un-)Fair Neighbour.

(_"Moore"--where this comes from._)

  "The harp that once through TARA'S walls"
    Poor me disturbed in bed,
  Is nightly twang'd to feline squalls
    That wrack my aching head.
  I sleep not as in former days,
    Her voice cries "Sleep no more!"
  Ah, would she hadn't got this craze,
    And did not live next door!

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW LITERARY VENTURE.--In distinct opposition to the "Key-note
series" will be started a "Wed-lock-and-Key note series."

       *       *       *       *       *

"PRIDE AND PREJUDICE."

    ["Canada, unlike the mother-country, has the sense to be proud
    of its minor poets."--_Mr. Le Gallienne in "The Realm."_]

  Really this bitter and bold accusation of
    Conduct so culpable cannot be borne;
  Are we indeed but a barbarous nation of
    Philistines treating our poets with scorn?

  Are we contemptuous, then, in reality,
    Of the effusions our lyricists write--
  Singing sweet songs of the Modern Morality,
    Praising each other from morning to night?

  Modesty, clearly, is somehow availing to
    Burke them of glory which should be their own,
  Modesty, morbid, excessive--a failing to
    Which, it's notorious, poets are prone.

  Only, he tells us, in Canada's latitude
    Honour to singers is duly allowed:
  Nay, how can Britons be backward in gratitude,
    Having LE GALLIENNE, are they not proud?

  Yes, when we Englishmen boast of our national
    Glories and deeds, though the scoffers deride,
  This is the greatest and really most rational
    Source of supreme and legitimate pride--

  Not in the struggles or deeds of iniquity
    Wrought by our sires in desperate fray,
  Still less in SHAKSPEARE, or bards of antiquity,
    But in the poets amongst us to-day!

  Might we suggest, though, if, in the opinion of
    Mr. LE GALLIENNE, England's to blame,
  He and his comrades should seek the Dominion of
    Canada, where they'll be certain of fame?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: NOT DONE YET.

MASTER ARTY B-LF-R (_to_ MASTER BILL H-RC-T). "HA! YOU'VE BEEN PRETTY
COCKY THIS HALF, BUT WAIT TILL 'MY BIG BROTHER' GETS HOLD OF YER!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SO VERY CONSIDERATE.

_Stout Coster._ "WHERE ARE YER GOIN' TO, BILL?"

_Bill._ "INTER THE COUNTRY FOR A NICE DRIVE, BEIN' BANK 'OLIDY."

_Stout Coster._ "SAME 'ERE. I SY! DON'T YER THINK WE MIGHT SWOP
MISSESES JUST FOR A FEW HOURS? IT WOULD BE SO MUCH KINDER TO THE
HANIMILE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

CONCERNING A MISUSED TERM;

_viz._, _"Art" as recently applied to a certain form of Literature_.

  Is this, then, "Art"--ineffable conceit,
    Plus worship of the Sadi-tainted phrase,
  Of pseud-Hellenic decadence, effete,
    Unvirile, of debased Petronian ways?

  Is _this_ your "Culture," to asphyxiate
    With upas-perfume sons of English race,
  With manhood-blighting cant-of-art to prate,
    The jargon of an epicene disgrace?

  Shall worse than pornographic stain degrade
    The name of "Beauty," Heav'n-imparted dower?
  Are _they_ fit devotees, who late displayed
    The symbol of a vitriol-tinted flower?

  And shall the sweet and kindly Muse be shamed
    By unsexed "Poetry" that defiles your page?
  Has Art a mission that may not be named,
    With "scarlet sins" to enervate the age?

  All honour to the rare and cleanly prints,
    Which have not filled our homes from day to day
  With garbage-epigrams and pois'nous hints
    How æsthete-hierophants fair Art betray!

  If such be "Artists," then may Philistines
    Arise, plain sturdy Britons as of yore,
  And sweep them off and purge away the signs
    That England e'er such noxious offspring bore!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CRY OF THE FREE LIBRARY FREQUENTER.--A Cheap Loaf.

       *       *       *       *       *

"HOW TO CONTROL AND RECTIFY PUBLIC OPINION."

    ["It is impossible to bribe a French paper."--_Times, April 5,
    1895._]

    SCENE--_Sanctum of the_ Rédacteur en chef _of "Le Gamin de
    Paris."_ Rédacteur _discovered reading latest issue_.

_Rédacteur._ Dear me, this note about the pacific intentions of the
GERMAN EMPEROR is most interesting! I wonder how it got in. I did not
notice it when I glanced through the pages. Still, I have the most
unlimited confidence in my staff. (_Quoting from his paper._) "There
is no doubt that we can safely disarm, as Germany is our friend--the
best of our friends." Dear me! Most interesting!

    [_Enter menial, ushering in mysterious stranger._

_Stranger._ I trust I am not intruding?

_Rédacteur._ Certainly not. It is the duty of an editor to be always
at the service of those who seek his advice. No doubt you desire my
opinion upon some matter of importance?

_Stranger._ You have guessed rightly. Which do you prefer, a mansion
in town or a castle in the country?

_Rédacteur_ (_smiling_). Well, I am scarcely qualified to judge, for I
only possess a mansion in town. I have no castle in the country.

_Stranger._ Pardon me. You have one now.

    [_Gives_ Editor _title-deeds_.

_Rédacteur_ (_glancing at the documents_). What, the Château de St.
Querecs! One of the finest places in Brittany! You are really too
amiable!

_Stranger._ Not at all. And now tell me, do you prefer WAGNER to
VERDI, or MASCAGNI to MOZART?

_Rédacteur._ Again I am at a disadvantage. You see I go so seldom to
the Opera. The expense is----

_Stranger._ The expense is inconsiderable when you possess a _loge_
on the grand tier. (_Giving paper._) Allow me to present you with a
perpetual box.

_Rédacteur._ Your courtesy is simply charming! But why do you
overwhelm me with these obligations? We are unknown to one another.

_Stranger_ (_with a bow_). Not at all. You are famous. As for me--why
I am nothing. I am absolutely valueless.

_Rédacteur_ (_politely_). You do not do yourself justice. I will be
bound you are most valuable.

_Stranger._ Well, perhaps you are right. At any rate I can fill in a
cheque--yes, and with four or five figures! I will show you. Permit
me.

    [_Approaches writing materials, and rapidly completes draft._

_Rédacteur._ And for whom is that cheque?

_Stranger._ Read the name to whose order it is made payable.

_Rédacteur_ (_surprised but admiring_). Mine! This is simply
marvellous. And are you clever enough to write a leader?

_Stranger._ Assuredly. See I will compose one at once. (_Sits at
table, knocks off an article and hands it to_ Rédacteur). What do you
think of it?

_Rédacteur_ (_smiling_). I will give you my opinion when I see it in
type. You will find it in the _Gamin_ to-morrow. Good day!

    [_Scene closes in upon a tableau suggesting at once delicacy
    and the right understanding of commercial principles._

       *       *       *       *       *

HER LATEST.--"The silence was so great," said Mrs. R., "you could have
picked up a pin!"

       *       *       *       *       *

MINOR POETRY IN THE SERE AND YELLOW LEAF.

_A candid M.P. showeth cause._

  Fair Waitress at the A. B. C.,
    To which I most resort,
  Bring me a roll and cup of tea--
    No longer bards drink port.
  No more the lusty, generous vine
    In bardic veins makes summer;
  That's why Apollo's lyre divine
    Knows but the sorry strummer.

  No rich libation at the "Cock,"
    Degenerate race, we pour,
  And tea, not port, at five o'clock,
    Is what we all adore.
  In coffee, tea, and lemon squash
    The Muse ne'er dips her laurel,
  So what we write is either "wash,"
    Or hopelessly immoral.

  When life, each quarter, is made out
    Of still more jaundiced hue,
  The needy bard must join the shout,
    His verse be jaundiced too:
  But tea's the spell, these latter times,
    As of some fell narcotic,
  That makes us weave our random rhymes
    All rotten, or neurotic.

  We modern bardlets, tea-inspired,
    Condemn th' "old-fashioned gang,"
  And yet we miss the spark that fired
    The songs our fathers sang:
  Their tastes were healthier than their sons',
    Their rhymes were "none so dusty,"
  When bards ate beef instead of buns,
    And loved their fine old "crusty."

  This sere and yellow poesy
    Faint draws its sickly breath,
  And--doctors say--Society
    Will soon acclaim its death:
  No stone upon its grave we'll place,
    But tea-pots at each corner--
  Fair Waitress, you the scene shall grace
    As chief, and only, mourner.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

Le "Yellow Book"

(Africain) Officiel

ROMANS POUR LES ANGLOPHOBES

  Paris: Ribot, Hanotaux et C.^{ie}      GRATIS]

"M. HANOTAUX, Minister of Foreign Affairs, will shortly have
distributed in the Chamber and the Senate a _Yellow Book_ relative to
the conventions recently concluded between France and Great Britain
for the delimitation of their respective possessions on the West Coast
of Africa."

    _Our Artist could not be restrained from designing a Cover,
    which we respectfully offer to M. Hanotaux._

       *       *       *       *       *

The Jabez is Coming.

  The JABEZ is coming! Oh dear! how queer!
  Is JABEZ a-coming? What cheer? what cheer?
  There's nothing much left though to hear    We fear.
  We'll believe he has come when he's here.
  Hear! Hear!

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTE BY A HIGHLY CULTIVATED BUT UNSUCCESSFUL DRAMATIST.--About the
most fatal opinion that can be given on any play is to say that "it
_reads_ well." A play that is "a treat to read" is, as a rule, utter
boredom to see; for in proportion to the success in the study is, in
the majority of cases, the failure on the stage.

       *       *       *       *       *

GAMP TRIUMPHANT, AND JUSTICE TO AN OLD FRIEND AT LAST!!--In the
_Times'_ "Court Circular" lately appeared the information that "_Mrs.
Harris had the honour of dining with the Queen yesterday_." Now, and
henceforth, the immortal Mrs. GAMP, rising "morally and physically,"
can denounce any "bage creetur" who would dare to repeat Mrs. PRIG'S
"memorable and tremendous words," spoken of Mrs. HARRIS, the dear
friend of "SAIREY," "I don't believe there's no sich a person."

       *       *       *       *       *

ANACREONTICS FOR ALL.

SWIG UP THIS (COCOA) CUP!

AIR--"_Drink of this Cup._"

[Illustration]

  Swig up this cup--you will find there's a spell in
    Its depths for the ills and the aches of mortality.
  Drink! Of dyspepsia's dire woes you'll be well in
    A Yankee split second! (No fudge, but reality).
  Would you forget wine, or whiskey, or gin?
    Only skim off the film that will gather a-top of it,
  ('Tis merely the milk in coagulate skin,)
    Then stir it up briskly and drain every drop of it!
                  Swig up this cup, &c.

  Never was nectar-cup brewed with such power,
    Or philtre; while _here_ nought to injure or hurt is meant.
  Of Cocoa this is the pure pick and fine flower.
    There's no starch or fat in it (_vide_ Advertisement!).
  They who with this have their stomachs well filled,
    Are proof against hunger, fatigue, and bad weather.
  This wonderful draught is not brewed or distilled,
    But it licks all the liquors and cordials together.
                  Swig up this cup, &c.

  And though, perhaps,--but oh! breathe it to no one!--
    'Tis stodgy and runs to obesity awfully.
  If you've _no_ coat to your tum-tum, you'll grow one!
    (The rival advertisements tell us so--jawfully.)
  What though it tasteth insipid and tame?
    When tea is taboo, and when coffee's forbidden,
  Try cocoa from--well, let each fill up the _name_,
    There are fifty at least, and their light is _not_ hidden!
                  Swig up this cup, &c.

  So swig up the cup of--each "'Tiser" is telling
    In every paper, with great actuality,
  The fame of _his_ brand, with much swagger and swelling,
    Other ads. may be fiction, but _his_ is reality.
  So swig up the cup when you breakfast, tea, sup,
    Of so-and-so's (string of superlatives) cocoa!
  (I'd "give it a name," but I daren't try _that_ game,
    For fear of severe (editorial) Toko).
                  Swig up this cup, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

LATEST FROM PARIS.--"MOORE of Moore Hall, with nothing at at all,"
has _not_ "slain," nor has he "foughten with," nor given any kind of
"satisfaction" to, the Dragon of Wantley, represented (as the incident
is to be "relegated to the realms of comic opera") on this occasion
by the Wictorious "WHISTLER Coon." It is, however, reported that the
impressionist artist, animated by the sportsmanlike desire of getting
a shot at something or somebody, the MCNEIL, or JACQUES LE SIFFLEUR,
would like to engage a Moore for the shooting season. The most recent
wire reports, "No Moore at present. J. MCN. W." And, probably, here
closes the incident.

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

LAST WEEK'S BUSINESS.--Everything very much up in the City--especially
the pavement in Cannon Street.

       *       *       *       *       *

"TO PARIS AND BACK FOR NOTHING."

(_To the Editor of "Punch."_)

SIR,--A most excellent institution, run on moral lines, has recently
been advertising "A tour on the Continent" for £5. This modest sum is
to cover travelling and hotel expenses, and no doubt has been worked
out on the most virtuous principles. In these days of rapid progress,
however, we can never stand still, and the question arises, Cannot the
holiday be cheapened? I contend it can, and as your paper represents
the human race in general and the British public in particular, I
desire to make known my discovery through your columns. Of course
"Trips for nothing"--the journeys I wish to organise--cannot be
managed without a little thought and arrangement. For my purpose it
is best not to insist too harshly upon the importance of truth and
honesty. After all, both these words represent abstract ideas, that
may be necessary for publication, but need not be absolutely accepted
as a guarantee of good faith.

Without further preface I jot down my programme. Say that a would-be
traveller without means desires to visit the Capital of France
gratuitously. I would have him present himself at the Victoria
Station garbed in the uniform of a guard. The necessary costume, on
application, would be supplied to him by one of the agents of
the Unprincipled Touring Company--the institution it is my aim to
establish. Just as the night mail was starting for Dover he would
enter the luggage-van, and then all would be clear until he reached
Paris. He would accompany the boxes and portmanteaus to Calais, and
be transferred (being registered) to the Chemin de Fer du Nord, and
remain undisturbed until he reached the terminus.

On coming out of the van he would be met by one of the agents of the
Unprincipled Touring Company, and be accused of being a spy. This
would immediately secure his arrest and safe custody in a Parisian
police-station. The agent, having played his part, would disappear. It
would now become the duty (and I trust the pleasure) of the would-be
traveller to look after himself without further assistance. He would
appeal to the British Ambassador. He would tell his simple tale,
how he had been drugged and conveyed in a state of coma to the
luggage-van; how he had no money, and had been so affected by the
narcotics, that his mind had become a perfect blank. The British
Minister would, doubtless, secure his release, and supply him with
funds. He would see some of the cheaper sights for which Paris is
celebrated, and then return home by an inexpensive route, highly
delighted with his adventures.

It will doubtless occur, in this practical age, to persons having even
the most moderate amount of brains, that hitherto the profits of the
Unprincipled Touring Company have remained unmentioned. "Where do they
come in?" will be the universal question. My answer is simply, "Hush
money." The would-be traveller, having availed himself of the
services of the proposed organisation, would, for the remainder of
his existence, be under an obligation to pay as much as he could
conveniently (or even inconveniently) spare to a society which had
secured for him so much semi-innocent recreation.

It may be advanced by ultra purists that the system of business that
would be inaugurated by the U. T. C. would be immoral. To this I
triumphantly reply, not more immoral than other systems in full
working order in many companies of the highest respectability
compatible with limited liability.

  I remain, yours respectfully,
  A PROMISING PROMOTER.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHICH IS THE CORRECT CARD?

In _The Theatre_, a "review and magazine" most useful as well as
entertaining to all interested in the drama at home and abroad, there
appears, in the critical notice of what is just now successful on the
Parisian stage, a short account of a piece called _M. le Directeur_.
"_It is_," says the writer, "_an amusing but not very savoury skit
upon the life of the petty official, and the advantage taken by the
head of a public office to subserve his amorous propensities in the
management of his department and the promotion of his subordinates_."
Quite evident from this what sort of a farcical comedy it must be.
This appears at p. 238. But at p. 246, among "The Echoes from the
Green Room," we find that this piece, _M. le Directeur_, which is at
present "drawing all Paris to the Vaudeville Theatre, is certainly one
of the most amusing plays," &c. &c., "_and it depends for its success
more upon genuine humour and innocently comic incident than upon
salaciousness of situation or untranslatable wit_." Which of these
accounts of the same play is the correct one?

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE JOYS OF ANTICIPATION.

"WHEN ARE YOU COMING OUT WITH ME, MUMMY?"

"NOT THIS MORNING, DARLING, I'VE TOO MUCH TO DO!"

"OH, BUT YOU _MUST_, MUMMY. I'VE ALREADY PUT IT IN MY NEW DIARY THAT
YOU _DID!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, April 1._--There is about JOHN AIRD an
artlessness of look and manner the price whereof is beyond rubies.
SARK fancies it is the beard that has much to do with it. When you
get a man light-hearted as a boy endowed with long grey beard,
complications certain to ensue. AIRD'S beard has precisely same
preternaturally proper look whether he is sitting in parish church
listening to sermon, or dancing a hornpipe on the white deck of the
P. & O. _Caledonia_. Only he dances better than the average rector
preaches.

Just the man to take part in the old Parliamentary game known as
asking friendly question. Usually played with Minister taking a hand.
If Treasury Bench wants to bring out some fact or appearance of fact
Whip gets Member on back bench to put question on subject. Pretty to
see Minister on such occasions; his startled look on hearing himself
addressed; his glance round to see if this is really his hon. friend
who is presuming to trouble him with what might be awkward inquiry;
then his slow, almost hesitating answer which effectually corrects a
calumny or nips a slander i' th' bud.

To-night, in view of pending division on second reading Welsh
Disestablishment Bill it was felt desirable to produce effect of
overwhelming national indignation at threatened spoliation of the
Church. Since Bill introduced petitions against it been dribbling in
from teeming population of English hamlets sternly saying This thing
shall not be. Apart from political importance of question, petitions
have peculiar interest as revealing existence of unknown clusters of
cottage homes. THOMAS HARDY never invented such quaint, charming
names as the industry of compilers of petitions against this Bill
have brought to light. St. Dogmaels, St. Twynnel's, Pattiswick, Neen
Sollars, Chittlehamholt, Hampton Poyle. Woodeaton, Pawler's
Pury, Abbey Dore, Penwortham, Lillingstone Lovell, Crockham Hill,
Weston-under-Penyard, Itchen Stoke, Dunton Green--names musical with
the sound of church bells, sweet with the scent of newly mown hay, the
breath of cowslips.

This upheaval of the people on behalf of Mother Church loses its
effect by reason of ordinary procedure whereby petitions presented
at the Table are straightway thrust into a sack, and carted off to a
lumber room. Thing to do was to get Member to publicly inquire from
Chairman of Petitions Committee how the matter stood in the ledger;
how many petitions against Bill, how many in favour. Who could do this
better than JOHN AIRD? So he put question to DALRYMPLE, and learned
with dramatically ill-concealed surprise that whilst over a thousand
petitions against the Bill have poured in on the House, not one had
been received in its favour. It is true that another question from
opposite side of House brought out fact that at least one of these
State documents was result of labours of wife of Clerk to Guardians of
St. Asaph Union, who had been instrumental in obtaining the unbiassed
opinion of the resident paupers on question at issue. But that a mere
detail.

_Business done._--Second Reading Welsh Disestablishment Bill carried
by majority of 44 in House of 564 Members. "_Clwych! Clwych!_" roared
MABON, and was with difficulty restrained from singing "_The March of
the Men of Harlech_."

_Tuesday._--Evidently in for another dull time. Welsh Disestablishment
Bill off, enter Irish Land Bill. Time precious; business pressing;
every quarter of hour worth a Chancellor of the Exchequer's ransom.
Ministers anxious above all things to get along with business. JOHN
MORLEY, accordingly, sets useful example by delivering speech an
hour and twenty minutes long. This, as he mentioned, followed upon
exorbitant demands on patience of House when he introduced the Bill.
CARSON, not to be outdone, certainly not to be blamed, took up about
as much time. Later came ST. JOHN BRODRICK, astonished at his own
moderation in speaking for only seventy minutes.

"This is not debating," SARK says. "It is just making speeches by the
yard. Hasn't the remotest effect upon the human mind, still less upon
deliberate action of House. Isn't even pretence of a fight; second
reading will be passed without division; Bill will go to Committee in
precisely same state as would have been the case had it been read a
second time before dinner, and Members spent rest of evening in bosom
of their families. Towards end of Session there will be complaint of
nothing done. At least Treasury Bench mustn't lift up its voice in
reproach at such conclusion. If right hon. gentlemen set us such evil
example, they mustn't complain if we follow it."

House in desolate state throughout spirit-sapping performance. TIM
HEALY sat it all out. Contributed almost only token of life to the
dull monotony. In dangerously explosive state. If anybody had sat on
safety-valve would have burst to dead certainty. Happily got off a
few life-saving grunts and groans. Played sort of chorus to CARSON'S
speech and BRODRICK'S monologue. They severely ignored him--treatment
which had no effect on his exuberance of spirits.

"Who are these Irish owners," BRODRICK asked, looking severely across
table at JOHN MORLEY, "who want to buy their tenants' interest in
order to sell it at a higher price?"

"I'll give you their names," cried TIM, after the fashion of the
naughty boy safe at the outer edge of a crowd.

"I defy the right hon. gentleman to produce a single instance,"
BRODRICK continued, taking no notice of TIM.

"I'll give you half a dozen," shouted TIM, ever ready to oblige,
though leaving it in doubt whether the half dozen he offered were
lashes or other instances. Then the policeman, in shape of SPEAKER,
appeared on scene, and for awhile there was silence on the back
benches, and dullness regained its sway.

_Business done._--Second Reading Irish Land Bill moved.

THURSDAY.--For illustration of soft answer that turneth away wrath,
CAWMEL-BANNERMAN'S reply just now on the shamrock incident perfect
in its way. The heart of Ireland stirred by fresh stories of how
her sons, turning up on parade on St. Patrick's Day proudly wearing
shamrock, were ordered by brutal Saxon officers to "fling it on the
ground." TIM HEALY had cases brought under his notice. Never do for
this branch of United Ireland to appear as sole champion of national
rights in this matter. So wearisome WILLIE REDMOND swaggers on scene
with another case.

A delicate subject for SECRETARY OF STATE FOR WAR to handle. On one
hand, discipline must be maintained. On the other, national sentiment
must not be affronted, especially when represented in House by
sufficient votes to turn the scale in any division. CAWMEL-BANNERMAN
not only said right thing, but said it in right way. "I myself," he
murmured with prettily apologetic air, "stand in a somewhat neutral
position, because I belong to a country whose national emblem does not
lend itself to the convenience of the button-hole."

House laughed at idea of CAWMEL-BANNERMAN bustling in on St. Andrew's
Day with bunch of thistles in his button-hole. With the laugh the
battle was won; what might have been in less skilful hands an awkward
incident passed off amid genial laughter.

[Illustration: Campbell-Bannerman and his National Emblem (Unsuited to
the Convenience of a Button-hole).]

_Business done._--Still explaining why we are not going to oppose
Second Reading Irish Land Bill, though we regard it as most
revolutionary and dangerous measure of recent times.

[Illustration: T. W. Russell between Landlord and Tenant.]

_Friday._--Second reading Irish Land Bill through at last. Passed
stage without division, which seems odd considering apprehension
with which Opposition regard it. Situation largely due to BOANERGES
RUSSELL, one of few men who understand Bill. Explained it in luminous
speech, like some others thrown away on scanty audience. BOANERGES
later indicated his impartial attitude by seating himself between
landlord and tenant, represented by JOSEPH of Birmingham and son
AUSTEN. JOE incidentally mentions he has only one tenant, that is
AUSTEN, "who," he added, with plaintive note, which found echo with
the Irish landlords, "pays no rent, and is always coming down on me
for compensation."

_Business done._--Irish Land Bill read second time.

       *       *       *       *       *

LITERARY "FOOD AND FEEDING."

The present generation affirms that it cannot away with _Pickwick_,
and is not attracted by _Vanity Fair_. The balance of modern opinion
would be rather in favour of THACKERAY than of DICKENS. Take, for
example, the two works already quoted, _Pickwick_ and _Vanity Fair_.
A common modern objection made to _Pickwick_ is, that the characters
in _Pickwick_ are perpetually guttling or imbibing, or both
simultaneously. This is, to a certain extent, true. But how about
THACKERAY'S characters in _Vanity Fair?_ A careful student has sent
us a list of the numerous eatings and drinkings in both novels. In
_Pickwick_, reckoning from the brandy-and-water partaken of by _Mr.
Jingle_, at the Pickwickians' expense, after the scene with the
pugnacious hackney-coachman, and finishing with the breakfast that
celebrated the marriage of _Mr. Snodgrass_ with _Miss Emily Wardle_,
there are exactly (so we are informed) one hundred and one instances
of drinking and eating; some of them being of drinking only,
unqualified.

In _Vanity Fair_, from the introduction of _Miss Pinkerton's_ "seed
cake," to _Becky_ taking _Amelia_ a cup of tea, _vide_ chapter
sixty-seven, we learn, on the same authority, that there are one
hundred and fifteen cases "allowed for refreshment" in some form or
other.

A collection of the meals of heroes and heroines in the most popular
works of fiction, and _menus_ compiled therefrom, might be found
interesting, especially if carefully criticised by Sir HENRY THOMPSON
in a separate chapter to be added to the next edition of his really
invaluable work, namely, _Food and Feeding_. Do the modern novelists
feed their characters as plentifully as did DICKENS and THACKERAY
theirs? Be this as it may, these two great Twin Brethren--so utterly
dissimilar in every thing except in the possession of the gift of
genius--fed their readers well and bountifully.

       *       *       *       *       *



Transcriber's Note:

_ _ represents italic script.

^ represents a superscript.





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