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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, April 20, 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 20, 1895" ***

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Volume 108, APRIL 20, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_



_Berty_ (_the Doctor's son_). "BAD--WORSE--DEAD!"]

       *       *       *       *       *


(_For the next Ten Years._)

1895. Treaty of peace signed between China and Japan, on the basis of
the opening up of Chinese territory and introduction of machinery
into the Celestial Empire. The Japanese prophesy that the compact will
ultimately prove to be for the benefit of the Chinese.

1896. Japan floods China with home-made merchants, who obtain an
enormous trade.

1897. England, America and France follow suit, and, after a pause, the
remainder of the civilized world adopt the prevailing fashion.

1898. Japanese China becomes over-populated, thanks to the foreign
invasion, and there is much discontent amongst the original

1899. The foreigners, having secured all the possible trade that could
be obtained, commence the erection of manufactories.

1900. Japanese China challenges Birmingham, Glasgow, Lyons, and
Marseilles on their own ground, and holds its own. It claims to be one
of the most productive places on the face of the universe.

1901. The introduction of machinery having thrown the teeming millions
of Japanese China out of work, there is great discontent amongst them.

1902. An enterprising citizen of the United States of America
projects an emigration scheme for supplying the outer world with the
superfluous population of Japanese China.

1903. The scheme of the citizen of the U. S. A. proves a great
success, and sixty millions of Chino-Japanese are conveyed to the two
worlds, the old and the new.

1904. The original inhabitants of Europe and America, undersold by the
Chino-Japanese, are ousted from their positions and left without work.
Consequently, great prosperity of the Chino-Japanese.

1905. Fulfilment of the prophecy, that the treaty of peace between
China and Japan signed in 1895 was "really for the benefit of the

       *       *       *       *       *


_Or, The British Laundress's Lament._

    [There is talk of a company for taking our laundry-work over
    to Holland, washing it there, and returning it to the owners
    at a less cost than it can be done for at home.]

  In matters of laundry the fault of them Dutch,
  Is charging too little, and grabbing too much!
  They'd collar our collars, cut off with our shirts!
  The heart of a true washerwoman it hurts
  To think of Frows taking _our_ time-honoured tub.
  What, travel to Holland to get rub and scrub,
  While soap and strong arms may in Britain be found?
  It's worse than them Stores! Furrineers may be found
  To do dirty work on the cheap, I've no doubt;
  But can old JOHN BULL know just what he's about
  In sending our work from his shores in _this_ way?
  I'm sure it won't wash, and I 'ope it won't pay!
  Shall we to Mynheer and his frowsy Frow truckle,
  While one English woman has arm, wrist, and knuckle?
  Forbid it, my sisters! My patriot 'eart
  Is up in my mouth at this ojus new start.
  There is an old proverb, and what do it say?
  It is the true laundress's motter, I say.
  But what in the world to JOHN BULL can 'ave come
  If he can't _wash his own dirty linen at 'ome_?

       *       *       *       *       *


Have just discovered that the pretty girl I met at the dance the other
night is a lady nurse at Charing Cross Hospital. Such a nice girl!
What a charming nurse she must be! Almost wish I was laid up at the
hospital. In fact, quite wish it. But I can't be. Another outrage
on the miserable, downtrodden, middle class. If I were one of the
fortunate, pampered masses, a Working Man, I should be nursed by her,
if I were ill, and by others, perhaps, like her. Stay! There is
a chance. If I could be damaged in an accident--not too much
damaged--and carried to the hospital, they must look after me, and
nurse me. They couldn't help themselves. Northumberland Avenue--the
very place! Never cross it without being nearly run over.

Go straight there and look eagerly for the usual rushing hansoms.
Here's one. Stroll in front of it. Driver pulls aside, shouts and
swears at me, and goes on. Reflect that some caution is necessary. If
the wheel went over my neck, even her ministrations would be useless.
Must be run over judiciously. Better only be knocked down. Stroll
across road again. Here comes one. Shouts from driver. A large splash
of mud in my eye. And that's all. These cabmen drive so absurdly well.
They pull up, or pull aside, or pull somewhere instantly. Wipe my eye,
and then see something better. Old lady's brougham, from the suburbs,
driven by the sort of coachman who also works in the garden. He won't
be able to pull aside quickly. Stroll in front of horse. Shouts from
gardening coachman. Horse nearly on me. Suddenly pulled back by fussy
policeman, who says I had a narrow escape. Hang the fellow, of course
I did! Am obliged to give him ten shillings for his prompt action.
Begin to despair of this accident. Stroll on nearly to Embankment.
Immense van coming along at a trot. Much too heavy. I should be
smashed flat. And this driver seems to want to run over me. Escape
with difficulty by jumping aside. At that moment something hits my
legs, I am thrown down, and a wheel passes over my foot. It is a
costermonger's donkey-cart which was racing the van. How ignominious!
To be knocked down by a donkey and run over by a truck! Very painful
too. Feel as if I should faint. Picked up by sympathetic people who
rush to me. Say feebly to them, "Take me to the hospital." Then faint.

After a short time open my eyes. Am being carried in somewhere. At
last! I shall forget the pain. I am in the hospital. She will nurse
me! _She_--oh, heavens! Though I have planned it all, suppose I ought
to murmur, "Where am I?" Do so. "In St. Thomas's Hospital," says

_A fortnight later._--And I am in it still.

       *       *       *       *       *

According to a paragraph last week in the _Westminster Gazette_,
quoting from the _Australian Review of Reviews_, it appears that the
Earl of YARMOUTH has been making a sensation in the Colonies as a
"Skirt-dancer." Queer fish this nobleman! belongs to the Bloater

       *       *       *       *       *

A NOBLE PLUNGER.--One day last week in the _Times_ appeared an article
headed "_Lord Rayleigh on Waves_." Rather early for sea-bathing, eh?
Evidently so, such prominence having been given to the fact by the
leading journal.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Mr. Punch_ (_welcoming Miss Spring-time_). 'GLAD TO SEE YOU, MY DEAR!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "ANIMAL SPIRITS."


       *       *       *       *       *


_Mr. Punch to Miss Spring_:--

  Well, here you are at last, dear! _Are_ the biting blizzards past, dear?
    And _will_ you guarantee us from subjection to the plumber?
  Will no casual icy splinter from the serried spears of Winter
    Put a chill upon your smile, and spoil the promise of the Summer?
  We've been waiting worn and weary, till e'en cuckoo-songs sound cheery,
    And belated almond-blossoms show like roses of Cashmere:
  And the cockney chaunt now flowing, "All-a-blowing _and_ a-growing!"
    Falls far sweeter than MASCAGNI upon London's longing ear.
  Where on earth have you been hiding? We are in no mood for chiding,
    But mid-April's _rather_ late, dear, for what should have come in March!
  What malignant hocus-pocus has kept back the plucky crocus,
    Whose gold is scarce yet bursting from the beds the winds still parch?
  After that six weeks cold snap, dear, of fast frozen pipe and tap, dear,
    When back to barbarism and to bathlessness fate drove us,
  And we sicklier grew, and surlier, if you'd come a _leetle_ earlier,--
    Well, let bygones now be bygones! But O Spring sweet! an you love us,
  Come--at last, dear--_à la_ HERRICK, with such influence atmospheric
    As will slay the Influenza; with such fragrance from your flowers,
  As will knock Malaria silly; let your dear daffydown-dilly
    From our bodies drive bacilli, and the blight from out our bowers.
  Slay our Microbes, Spring, and bless us! Like a clinging Shirt of Nessus
    Morbid sickliness surrounds us in our lives, our books, our art.
  Oh, if sunshine and your breezes might but slay our soul-diseases,
    Oust the pestilent miasma that pervades the home, the mart;
  Neutralise the nauseous virus whose developments so tire us;
    Disinfect the New Parnassus, purge the New Pierian Spring,
  Bring us honesty and health, dear, why for all our wit and wealth, dear,
    We might love like Nature's lovers, and like Nature's poets sing.
  Ah! we need Spring's prophylactic!--But I'm getting too didactic
    For a sunny April morning, and a sweet young thing like you.
  My dear, the London Season, wrapped and furred out of all reason,
    Has been waiting, decked like Winter, with a nose-tip nearly blue;
  Waiting, waiting for your coming. Sweet as bees in clover humming
    Is the first sound of your footfall. Most spontaneous of passions
  Is the love for you, you darling. You will bring the thrush and starling,
    And the young leaves and the young lambs, and, what's better--
      _the Spring Fashions_!!!
  So no wonder that she greets you with effusion when she meets you.
    Ah, Spring! 'tis not your lilacs, and your daffodils and stocks,
  Or the tender leaves the trees on, that most moves Miss London Season,
    'Tis the hope of "rippin'" frolics and the thought of "trotty" frocks.
  But an old man's heart, my treasure, beats to quite another measure,
    Still my sympathies, dear Spring, are with the youngsters and with you.
  They are looking for love's playtime, and the merry, merry May-time,
    And the popular R.A. time, and the whole tohu-bohu!
  Bring the girls delights as dowry, may their social paths be flowery,
    And your silver drops the only tears they need to look upon.
  So they're wholesome, may they flourish; and may all Spring influence nourish
    True manhood and pure womanhood, and--there, my preaching's done!
  We need a true _Spring Clean_, sweet. Give us parks and gardens green, sweet.
    And laughter, like your bird-songs pure, un-satyr-like, though clever,
  Bless our boys, our girls, our babies, yes--_and bring us back our JABEZ_,
    And we'll pardon your delay, and say 'tis better late than never!

       *       *       *       *       *

difference, or, as there has been no quarrel, let us say what is the
distinction between a costumier and a butcher anxious to arrange his
shop-front to the best advantage? Gentlemen, I will not detain you,
it is this: The costumier meets out the dresses; the butcher 'dresses
out' the meats. Gentlemen, you are discharged."

       *       *       *       *       *

TO CHARITABLE CHESS-PLAYERS.--A good move at Easter time is--"cheque
to his Bishop."

       *       *       *       *       *



(_Translated from the original Lappish by Mr. Punch's own Hyperborean


IT affords me no ordinary gratification to be the humble instrument in
rendering these exquisitely obscure prose-poems--reeking as they
are with the self-consciousness of so magnificently triumphant
an Ego--into the English tongue, though I am fully aware of the
difficulty of preserving all the mystical unintelligibility of the

DUNNO WÄHRIAR is perhaps the most remarkable personality that his
native Lapland has yet produced. He first saw the light on April 1,
1879, at Kandalax, so that he may still be called comparatively young.
His impressionable, sensitive soul broke out in early revolt against
the train-oil and tallow which formed the traditionary nutriment of
his family circle, and in 1883 we find him casting off the shackles
of conventionality and escaping to Sweden in his sledge-perambulator.
There he has lived ever since, and has already secured a foremost
place among the greatest physiological psychologists of Scandinavia.
As a morbid pathologist, he surpasses STRINDBERG; while in neurotic
sensitivism, he has hustled HANSSON into a back seat; easily
beaten BJÖRNSON in diagnosis of the elusive emotions; and taken the
indigestible cake of slack-baked symbolism from the master hand
of IBSEN himself! Small wonder, then, that the commonest penwiper
containing issues from his pen is eagerly sought after by admirers of
such effusions.

He belongs ('tis true) to the Literary Upper Crust, and is for the few
rather than the many; while so absolute has been his fidelity to the
principles of his art, that he has published every one of his works at
a considerable pecuniary loss.

Need I say more to ensure for him that respectful admiration which the
public is ever ready to lavish upon anything they fail to understand?

Let me rather efface myself and leave DUNNO WÄHRIAR--or "Young
GARNAWAY," as is his self-adopted pseudonym--to unfold the rhythmic
charm of his own inimitable incomprehensibility.

       *       *       *       *       *



One summer evening, when the moon was at the full, and cloud-shadows
glided imperceptibly over the chimney-pots, as curses that have found
no utterance and come dejectedly home to roost, I wandered into my
back-garden, and caught the God of the Period napping in the moonshine
on one of my celery-beds.

He rose up suddenly and reposed awhile in space, with his head resting
on the back of the Great Bear, and one foot on the arm of Cassiopeia's
Chair, while with the other he skimmed the cream off the Milky Way.
And he seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere in particular, and
he said nothing, and I was afraid to make a remark--and there was no
sound, save that of the boundless, inconceivable silence which was
rumbling round the corner.

Presently he came down to the celery-bed once more.

"What are you seeking for so late?" asked he; "your face looks so long
and solemn, and your eyes are hollow and full of woe. Have you been
having anything indigestible for supper?"

"I am in trouble about Humanity," I replied; "for, though I loathe and
despise them individually, collectively I love them dearly."

"What's the matter with Humanity?" asked the God, as he squatted amid
the celery.

"They are growing so deadly dull," I answered. "I am Young GARNAWAY,
the Pessimistic Prose Poet, and it pains me to see how utterly they
have lost their perception of the ridiculous, which is the backbone of
real enjoyment. So I came out to see if by any chance the backbone was
hidden under one of the flower-pots."

The Period-God once more pervaded the endless space that glittered in
darkling infinitude round about and right ahead of him. It seemed to
me, when he returned, that he had been laughing; but suddenly I saw
him pull himself together, and frown.

And from afar a gurgling rose through the gloom, and darkness fell
upon my back-garden, knocking a basilisk off the waterbutt, and above
the garden-walls there appeared a crowd of rude persons, in pot hats,
with red lolling tongues and wide grinning mouths, holding their sides
with inextinguishable mirth. All at once the giggles turned into the
booing of Philistines, and there was a fantastic shadowy horseplay,
which rolled nearer and nearer.

I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms, and unsubstantial egg
shapes rushing towards me through the air. Instinctively I ran indoors
and gripped the umbrella from its corner, and stood on guard.

[Illustration: "I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms and
unsubstantial egg-shapes."]

Then I heard someone chuckling quite close to me, chuckling softly,
but unmistakably. And the booing hushed, and the gloom lightened, and
the garden-roller glimmered faintly in the moonlit summer night,
and inside the lawn-mower lay the God of the Period crying with
uncontrollable laughter.

"When the time comes," he said, "when mankind gets weary of Paraded
Pessimism, and the Big Scandinavian Boom has burst, then I will
conjure forth the Great Guffaw; and _then_ it will be time for all
Dyspeptic Decadents to get under their umbrellas--just as you did
awhile ago, for mankind will have recovered its sense of humour, and
will decline to take them seriously. But you had much better leave off
bothering your head about that lost backbone, for you won't be happy
when they get it!"

And while I was taking off my goloshes indoors, I heard again the
sound of snapping celery sticks, as the Period-God rolled on the bed
in ecstasies of stifled merriment, and I wondered at intervals what it
was all about.

       *       *       *       *       *

FOR OUTWARD APPLICATION.--"'A man may change his skies,' as the Roman
poet puts it," quoth the _Daily Telegraph_, "but he does not so easily
change his habits." The Academy is about to open. The pictures will
soon be hung. Varnishing day comes, with last chance for alteration.
Then comes in Latin poetic proverb, "A man may change his skies, but,
do what he will, he cannot alter that peculiar style that marks the
work as his, and nobody else's."

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW PROVERB.--All "problem" and no "play" makes drama a dull joy.

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


The Baron heartily welcomes the appearance of _Happy Thoughts_ in
French, under the very attractive style and title of _Fridoline_. No
fear now of the _entente cordiale_ between England and France being
disturbed; and that is indeed _une "pensée" la plus "heureuse" ou
"ingénieuse."_ The dialogue with the patient angler who remains in the
middle of the stream day after day, and, probably, night after night,
is quite a little lesson in French.

[Illustration: "Fridoline."]

"_'Pris quelque chose?' 'Rien.' 'Pas mordu du tout?' 'Une fois, je
crois.' Le pêcheur n'a pas perdu son calme, mais son air n'a rien de

And the world goes on and the _mouvement_ continues, and ever and anon
the Happy Thoughter, returning to the river, finds the same man in the
same boat in almost the same position. Then, before retiring for the
night, the H. T. takes one turn on the lawn, "_pour m'assurer_," he
says, "_que je ne laisse rien derrière moi. Ah si! je laisse l'homme
au bachot, toujours sa ligne en main. Il avait, paraît-il, un pen
redescendu le courant. 'Bonne pêche?' 'Non.' 'Pris quelque chose?'
'Rien.'_" Those who read "_entre les lignes_" may see in this figure
of unrewarded patience and perseverance more than meets the eye.
M. AURELIEN DE COURSON has done his work excellently well, "_avec
l'autorisation de l'auteur_."

I found a book on my table lying among a number of others put aside to
be read at "a more convenient season." The title attracted me--_Clove
Pink_. Its leaves are of last autumn, but the story they tell is for
ever. It is admirably written; its word-painting is the work of a
true artist: but beginning brightly and gladly, as do the lives of
the young hero and heroine, it ends sadly but sweetly. If you are not
averse to a simple, well-told tale, with stirring incidents of modern
warfare, graphically narrated, that stand out in startling contrast
to the scenes of quiet English rural life, a story whose pathos and
simple truth will touch you deeply, read _Clove Pink_, says


       *       *       *       *       *


In the _Times_ of Monday, April 8, appeared an advertisement headed
"Lent, Lent--Fish, Fish." This meant, of course, that the season was
Lent, not that the fishmonger was a lender of fish. And for the season
it was Holy Week, _i.e._ last week of Lent. Then it goes on "_Have you
ordered your Good Friday's Dinner?_ If not, do so at once." Excellent
and most timely advice, seeing it was given on the Monday preceding
Good Friday. So far so good; but then comes "a reason why" which
apparently quite upsets the kettle of fish. Here is the extract:--

    "Having made contracts with a number of the leading trawl and
    line fishermen to take the whole of their prime fish caught
    during Easter week," &c., &c.

  "To-morrow will be Fry day,
  So we'll catch our fish to-day."

             _Somebody's Song._

What on earth is the good of fish caught in Easter Week to the persons
who have ordered it for the previous Friday? That's where the trouble
is. The fishmonger is at sea as well as his good fishermen. If the
advertisement had been headed "Lent and Easter," then it would have
been evident that two different subjects were being dealt with, and
"both caught with one fish," as Mrs. R. might say, adapting a proverb.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Fanatic sophistries, I think,
    To logic's limits will have shrunk,
  When zealot's recognize that "drink"
    Is _not_ identical with "drunk."
  Difference may be as great you see,
    'Twixt U and I as You and Me!

       *       *       *       *       *

WORDSWORTH FOR WITLERS.--"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SOCIAL AGONIES.

_Anxious Musician_ (_in a whisper, to Mrs. Lyon Hunter's butler_).

_Butler_ (_in stentorian tones, to the room_). "SIGNOR WERESMICELLO!"]

       *       *       *       *       *


The other day I went to this exhibition of sublime masterpieces. I was
about to write a few comments, full of strange epithets and gushing
praise, when a small girl came in with a lady. The child spoke so
freely that I paused to listen. This was her criticism. "Oh, mother,
what's that meant for? I can't see anything. Look at that lady! She's
got no face at all. Oh, look at that other! She's funnier. What is
she? A Spanish dancer? Do all Spanish dancers have knobbly faces like
you might make out of a potato? What are those people skating on? Is
it cotton wool? Oh, mother, look there! What an ugly lady! Why's she
put all that red on her cheeks? What's all that other red there? Is it
another lady? A church in Venice? What Olympia where you took me two
years ago? Oh, mother, it can't be a church! Unless it's upside down.
Or perhaps all the paints have run into one another like mine do. Oh,
look! There's a picture of a washstand. Is it an advertisement of a
furniture shop? Or is it meant for what father calls a slight wash
in his water-colour drawings? What are those ladies dancing in sheets
for? Is it sheets they've got on? Oh what a red face that gentleman's
got! I don't think they paint very pretty ladies or gentlemen here.
Oh, mother, look at that! Why it's the funniest of all! Who are the
two ladies? Why are their clothes slipping down? Why are their faces
all crooked, and their eyes sideways? Are they meant to be pretty? I
don't think they are. What do you say it is? Meant to be painted on
the wall of a room? Is that why they look so funny? Why they look like
Aunt KITTY, when she's going to have a sea bath, and when----" Here
the little maiden was suddenly dragged out of the room, and her shrill
voice was heard no more. But her winged words are not forgotten by


       *       *       *       *       *


    (_A Siesta Song, from the Burlesque Opera "Little Liberal
    Majority," performed at the Theatre Royal, St. Stephen's._)

  AIR--"_Lazily, Drowsily._"

  When gaily dances the Easter sun,
    And shelved is each bothersome Bill,
  Then work and talk for a time are done,
    And the lobbies are hushed and still.
            Lazily, lazily,
            Drowsily, drowsily,
          Home goes every one;
            Lazily, lazily,
            Drowsily, drowsily,
          Under the April sun.
          Old St. Stephen's closes;
          Parliament reposes,
            Lazily, lazily,
            Drowsily, drowsily,
          Forty winks, or fun!

  When the sunlight falls on the Heath's green breast,
    And blue are the skies above,
  Each seeks the rest that he loves the best,
    Or the sport he doth chiefly love.
  Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,
    Donkey riding's fun!
  Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,
    Dawdling under the sun!
    HARCOURT'S eyelid closes,
    BALFOUR blandly dozes;
  Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,
    Under the Easter sun!

  Joggle and jolt! _These_ mokes won't bolt!
    Each flops like an empty sack
  On the broad back, shaggy as Shetland colt.
    No donkey boy on _their_ track!
  Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,
    Carelessly jogging on!
  Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,
    Under an Easter sun!
    Lotos-Land discloses
    No more bland reposes.
  Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,
    Dawdle they under the sun!

  "That LABBY was often a bore!" sighs WILL,
    Groans ARTY, "And so was JOE!
  To drive _these_ donkeys demands small skill!
    Would Westminster mokes were so!
  Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily!
    Riding like this is fun!
  Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily!
    Bless us! Who _wants_ to run?
    'Appy 'Ampstead dozes!
    Mokes are beds of roses!
  Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily,
    Jog we--till holiday's done!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE OBJECTION TO EUCLID" of which we have heard so much recently is
of very ancient standing, and is shared by nearly every schoolboy.

       *       *       *       *       *

PARLIAMENTARY PROVERB.--There's many a slip 'twixt the M.P. and the

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN EASTER 'OLIDAY.

_Duet_ ('ARCOURT _and_ HARTHUR _sing while being jolted_).


       *       *       *       *       *


    (_The Collection of Sir John Tenniel's Drawings at the Fine
    Art Society's Gallery._)

  AIR.--"_My Old Friend John._"

  'Tis forty years, my dear Sir JOHN,
    Since you and I first met.
  Lord, how the fleeting hours have flown!
    But we foregather yet,
  I gaze on this brave show with pride--
    Fine art, still in full feather!
  By Jove, it seems but yesterday
    Since we were "boys" together.

  Since we were boys, merry, merry boys,
    At our old Board together!

  There's gladness in remembrance, JOHN;
    Your pencil-strokes struck true;
  Through all the shifts of party life,
    No pause that pencil knew.
  We've missed old comrades one by one;
    Our friendship moults no feather;
  _Can_ forty years and more have run
    Since we were "boys" together?

  Since we were boys, merry, merry boys,
    At our old Board together!

  I gaze and proudly ponder, JOHN;
    I've seen them all before--
    Fresh as in days of yore
  The Big Cuts gleam. By sea and stream,
    Moor, mountain, ice-field, heather.
  Force, grace, fair fun mark all you've done,
    Since we were "boys" together.

  _Chorus all "Round the Mahogany Tree."_

  Since we were boys, merry, merry boys!
    So meet we, in full feather,
  For many sunny years, Sir JOHN,
    Still boys--at heart--together!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT.



  _Love's Labour's Lost_, Act II., Sc. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *


AIR--"_Little Buttercup._"

  I'm bumptious Minority--cocky Minority
    (Though I can hardly tell why),
  My work is to worry poor weary Majority,
    Giving him one in the eye.

  On Board or on Council I swagger and bounce 'll,
    And badger 'em out of their lives.
  I claim all the graces, and all the best places;
    Thus cocky Minority thrives!

  Majorities little of claim have no tittle
    To getting _their_ own wicked way;
  But cocky Minority has such authority,
    _His_ should be absolute sway.

  If things are at evens at--well, say St. Stephen's,
    Spring Gardens, wherever you like,
  Tis a mere deadlock (like New Woman wedlock),
    And against Progress we strike.

  If a Majority (small) claims authority
    To make the tiniest move,
  Then to prevent it, obstruct, circumvent it,
    Must be my labour of love.

  But a Minority's superiority
    Is just as clear as the day.
  Majorities (small) have one duty, that's all,
    'Tis--_to let the Minority sway!_

  Then yield to Minority--cocky Minority,
    On Boards or of Council or School!
  Hooray for Minority--bumptious Minority!
    Come--let Minority rule!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_From our Prophetic Reporter, a trifle in advance._)

NOWHAR, _April 1_.--Wett River crossed yesterday in most brilliant
style. Dashaway Regiment carried landing at point of bayonet, the
Muffs keeping up well-directed fire during the entire operation.
However, they seemed to feel effect of our artillery and Maxims.


When landing effected, Sapping Miners constructed iron bridge
(with glass covering to protect the troops from the rain) within
five-and-twenty minutes. During the construction Muffs fired
continuously at working parties. Flag-staffs riddled with shot,
consequently colours could not be run up. A round from couple of
quick-firing guns cleared heights of human obstructions.

On completion of bridge, two troops of 147th Irregular Prancers
charged enemy with much dash. As gallant horsemen approached Muffs
(numbering about twenty thousand) concentrated their fire. For few
minutes Irregulars had to pass through perfect fog of bullets. This
ordeal did not damp their courage; soon came to close quarters with
foe. In a moment Muffs were in confusion, flying, before pursuing
sabres. Irregulars followed retreating enemy for many miles with
complete success.

While these operations being carried out 17th Battalion of
Cutandthrust Regiment made assault on fortress protecting right flank
of Muffs. Enemy opposed charge with well-sustained artillery fire,
which had it been more judiciously directed might have caused
considerable annoyance. As it was, many Cutandthrusts lowered their
heads to allow of undisturbed passage of shrapnell. On reaching
walls redcoats hopped over like birds. Garrison stubbornly defended
position. Cutandthrusts extended, advancing in their new formation.
With wild cheer they again charged. Although this advance caused
Muffs to fall back, they still retained their ground. At this moment
machine-guns of battalion were brought into play with best results. A
couple of rounds immediately broke up enemy's columns and put them
to flight. Muffs were then routed by 53rd Regiment of Indian Tiger

By midday position secured. At invitation of bugles exploring party
"ceased firing," and prepared for mess.

_Later._--I have just received a return of killed and wounded on both
sides, which I here give:--_Muffs._--Killed, about 20,000; wounded,
twice as many more. _British._--Killed, none; wounded, No. 35,604,821
Private SMITH (Cutandthrust Regiment), slight scratch on fourth finger
of left hand.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW NAME FOR IT (_by Brother Bung_).--Local Hop-shun!

       *       *       *       *       *



  If half the things that CHLOE says to me,
  If half the pretty kindnesses she shows,
    By PHYLLIDA were shown or said,
  Without a tremor I would stake my head
    That I securely might propose
      That she my bride would be.

  Yet why? I know full well that CHLOE means
  Nothing at all. 'Tis but her buoyant way,
    Her frank "The best of friends, that's all."
  And yet the stricter GRUNDY 'twould appal
    To hear the tender things we say
      Between our quarrel-scenes.

  If one full-leaping pulse's beat
    Beyond the coldest courtesy's demand
    I trespass on sweet PHYLLIDA'S coy hand,
  The thrill is shivered by her quick retreat,
  Her fingers stiffen like a fossil fin,
  And I again, a SISYPHUS, begin
  The task of charming her reserve austere,
    Palsied by Love's false fear,
  Which drives the lover's chances down to zero.
  While some cadaverous and long-chinn'd hero
  Talks from a height rais'd by his own conceit,
  And my white goddess listens at his feet.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



  There's a wondrous fairy kingdom
    Whither all may take a trip--
  Quite an inexpensive journey,
    It is not by rail or ship--
  For it lies just where you fancy,
    And a pleasant thing it seems
  For a man to sojourn sometimes
    In the land of dreams.

  'Tis the land where man attaineth
    To the end of his desire,
  Where the minor poet warbles
    And the laurel crowns his lyre:
  It is there the sucking statesman
    Works out Machiavellian schemes,
  And young BRIEFLESS is a leader
    In the land of dreams.

  'Tis the land of fur and feather,
    'Tis the paradise of sport,
  Where the runs beat all recounted
    O'er the walnuts and the port:
  It is there the pheasant rockets,
    It is there the covert teems,
  And your powder's always straightest
    In the land of dreams.

  There with ease the patient golfer
    Plays a record medal-round,
  And the batsman get his hundred,
    Hitting clean all round the ground;
  There old IZAAK'S keen disciple
    Thrashes quite ideal streams,
  For he angles most "compleatly"
    In the land of dreams.

  'Tis a land where someone meets you
    You may never meet elsewhere,
  'Tis a land where words are whispered
    You may whisper only there;
  'Tis the home of youth and sunshine
    Where you taste of joy's extremes,
  For, of course, there's someone loves you
    In the land of dreams.

  'Tis a land of peace and quiet,
    Free from yelling paper-boys,
  And from Germany's musicians,
    And offensive kinds of noise:
  There the organ-grinder grinds not,
    There no restive infant screams.
  Oh, to spend one's whole existence
    In the land of dreams!

  'Tis a land where rates and taxes
    Never need be brooded on,
  And the cupboard is unfurnished
    With the homely skeleton:
  There the roses all are thornless,
    Life is destitute of seams,
  And, in short, its worth the living
    In the land of dreams.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Who accepted some verses._)

  You take my lines, and say that you
    Appreciate my humble verses.
  That's more than editors will do,
    Or publishers, with bloated purses.
  To gain your thanks in such a way,
  I'd write you verses night and day.

  _You_ don't return them, saying you
    Regret you cannot now accept them.
  Or, scrawled with marks in blatant blue,
    To show that, ruined, you have kept them.
  If you would pay me with a smile,
  I'd write you verses by the mile.

  If you could only say that you
    Would like me for my admiration,
  To sing your charms till all was blue
    Would be delightful occupation.
  If I could hope to win a kiss,
  I'd write you fifty miles like this.


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _First Boy._ "GIVE US A BITE OF YOUR APPLE, BOB."

_Second Boy._ "SHAN'T."

_First Boy._ "WHAT FOR?"

_Second Boy._ "'COS YER AXED ME!"

(_After a pause._)


       *       *       *       *       *



_House of Commons, Monday Night, April 8._--House to-night presented
that appearance seen only on big occasions. Long unfamiliar in slough
of despond in which present House been steeped since Session opened.
Every seat on either side occupied. Members sitting on Gangway steps,
flooding the side galleries, blocking the Bar, peopling even the steps
of the Chair. ARTHUR PEEL is leaving historic stage graced through
eleven years in fashion that has added fresh fame to an illustrious
name. On ordinary occasions when SPEAKER rises to address House on
current topics of business, Members who chance to have their hats on
keep them there. Now, when the stately figure is discovered standing
under the canopy of the Chair, Members without concert, but with one
accord, bare their heads. Throughout a moving scene, which
crammed much into fifteen minutes, nothing more striking than this
simultaneous, swift uncovering of the head, and the transformation
that followed when the rare sunlight, streaming in from western
windows, fell upon five hundred unshaded faces all turned towards the
tall, gowned figure standing by the Chair.

The speech will be read to-morrow by millions, who will find it word
for word and sentence by sentence in the newspapers. But the reader
will gain but faint idea of the impression the delivery produced. The
historic place, the animated scene, the electric current of such a
gathering, were much. The effect was perfected by the elocution of
the SPEAKER, perhaps the most perfect development of an attractive but
dangerous art possessed by living man.

What possibilities underlie its possession were wonderingly recognised
in the last days of the late Parliament, when the directors of the
Cambrian Railway Company were brought to the Bar of the House in
connection with the dismissal of a station-master who had given
unwelcome evidence before a Select Committee. House in the ludicrous
pickle which invariably follows on Privilege proceedings. Directors
summoned to attend were somewhere in the lobby. If it had
been permissible to follow _Dogberry's_ example in similar
circumstances--to take no note of directors, but let them go and
presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God they
were rid of the knaves--it would have been well. But, directors
being solemnly summoned, must needs be adequately dealt with. Finally
resolved that SPEAKER should admonish them. Amid much giggling on part
of hysterically uneasy House, conscious of its own ludicrous position,
directors brought in and ranged at Bar. Then SPEAKER stood up and
"most seriously admonished" them.

No one present will forget the awesome mien, the terrible voice, with
which the task was performed. At a touch farce was transformed into
tragedy. Dignity of House, sorely imperilled, triumphantly vindicated.
To-night the SPEAKER'S phrasing was perfect. Its setting in the
delivery is untranslateable in speech or written word.

_Business done._--Speaker announces resignation. SQUIRE OF MALWOOD
brings in Local Veto Bill.

_Tuesday._--"Poof!" said SARK, mopping his brow; "glad that's over. No
knowing where it might have ended. Danger of last scene in SPEAKER'S
leave-taking closing amid burst of irritated laughter. When I was
first returned, we thought two leaders enough for one House. There was
the Government man on the Treasury Bench, the Leader of Opposition on
bench opposite. When ceremonial business to be done, these two spoke
and the whole House agreed that its opinions had found expression.
House rapidly growing into position akin to home forces of Prince of
MONACO. Nearly as many captains as privates."

These remarks wrung from troubled breast by long, at one anxious
moment apparently interminable, procession of orators in support of
resolution thanking retiring SPEAKER for services in Chair. SQUIRE OF
MALWOOD said right thing in admirable way. PRINCE ARTHUR, less ornate
in phrase, supplied a perfect second. These speeches voiced feeling
of Ministerialists and Opposition. Some reasonableness in JUSTIN
MCCARTHY'S interposition, he being leader of distinct party which, as
he hinted, had in earlier days done battle with SPEAKER. But really,
when it came to JOSEPH saying a few words for his merry men, and JOHN
REDMOND tuning afresh the Irish harp on behalf of his, prospect grew
alarming. If these leaders of sections within a division felt called
upon to make speeches on such occasion, why not JOHN BURNS as a Labour
Leader, with KEIR HARDIE to follow as captain of the Independent
Labour Party; OSBORNE MORGAN, purged of profligacy, speaking for
Wales, followed by LLOYD-GEORGE from below the Gangway; WILFRID LAWSON
for the Temperance party; Private HANBURY as representing the land
forces of the Busy B's; Cap'en TOMMY BOWLES the naval; JACOB BRIGHT
returning thanks for the ladies, WALTER M'LAREN speaking specially
for the section who desire to marry their deceased husband's
brother? Domesticity thus trenched upon, Baron DE WORMS, with wistful
"Long-Lost-Dear-Father" look on his face, might close the list by a
few words spoken on behalf of the family circle.

To-day stopped a little short of this; but shall doubtless go
the whole way next time opportunity presents itself. _Business
done._--Thanks of House voted to SPEAKER.

_Wednesday._--By contrast with ordered speech-making of yesterday
afternoon scene that took place in earliest moments of the new day's
birth prettier by far. For upwards of an hour Members passing out
homewards stopped to shake the SPEAKER'S hand and bid him farewell.
Just before quarter of hour chimed after midnight, ARTHUR PEEL spoke
his last words in House of Commons.

"The question is," he said, "that this House do now adjourn."

As he turned to leave the Chair, Members present sprang to feet,
cheering continuously till ARTHUR PEEL, for the last time robed in
Speaker's wig and gown, passed out of sight.

  For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more.
  We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.

_Le roi est mort. Vive le roi._ WILLIAM COURT GULLY elected Speaker by
majority of 11 in House of 559 Members.

[Illustration: Farewell to Mr. Speaker Peel.]

_Business done._--Elect new Speaker, and immediately give him ten
days' holiday. Adjourn till Monday 22nd.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Upon my luck I still reflect,
    That led us to the same Museum:
  I greeted you with staid respect,
    But my heart sang its own _Te Deum_,
  And blessed your Uncle, ere I wist,
  For being an ethnologist!

  On old Assyrian spoils intent,
    Our very presence he forgot,
  While we o'er strings of wampum bent--
    We saw them and we saw them not.
  He lived within a past long dead,
  We, in the seconds as they sped.

  Within a carven mirror old,
    Suddenly, as we wandered by,
  You looked upon your hair of gold
    And flushing face, and so did I.
  Then on we passed: a vault we found,
  And PHARAOH'S coffin, underground.

  Oh, if his phantom ever stood
    Beside the coffin made for him,
  And saw you in your joyous mood,
    With your bright eyes and figure slim,
  King PHARAOH might have envied us
  Beside his old sarcophagus!

  But, PHARAOH, we, remembering
    The ancient creed that souls of men
  May see the summer and the spring,
    May live again, and love again,
  A moment wished the tale were true,
  Because--it seemed so hard on you!

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *



  You regret that all you do
  Is to be a lady who
  Just walks on--a smile or two,
        Then you're gone;
  For you think that any gawk
  Would be good enough to walk,
  You undoubtedly should talk
        When you're "on."

  You are but a sort of show.
  Silence for a girl is slow,
  Speech is woman's right, I know
        That is true,
  And although your pretty face
  Charms beholders by its grace,
  You would like a higher place,
        Wouldn't you?

  But we cannot all have "leads,"
  Nicely suited to our needs,
  To excel in words and deeds,
        Don't you see?
  So, if you desire to speak,
  I am not so far to seek,
  I would listen for a week--
        Talk to me.

       *       *       *       *       *

SOMETHING YET!--"Mr. G." is a proficient in several languages. In
Italian, as well as in Latin, in ancient and modern Greek, he can,
we believe, converse fluently, when anyone gives him a chance.
With Russian he may be acquainted, for, as this is "caviare to the
general," it may be equally so to an ex-prime-minister. With Spanish
Mr. G. is, probably, not on speaking terms, though, no doubt he is
well up in the niceties of the language; and there are many spoken
languages of which he possesses more than a smattering. But the
accomplished scholar has yet something to learn from one RICHARD
CUMBERLAND, a bishop in the last century, not the playwright, of whom
it is on record that, being a proficient in most ancient and modern
languages, he "began to learn Coptic at the age of eighty-three!"
Although Mr. G. has gone very far north, yet has he not at present got

       *       *       *       *       *

A SUGGESTION.--There are two excellent waters, Apollinaris and
Johannis, known to everyone as "'Polly" and "Jo." Might not the two
companies amalgamate, and reproduce the success of "MY 'POL' AND MY

       *       *       *       *       *

STOMACHS.--The Royal Commission on the Aged Poor.

       *       *       *       *       *

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