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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, May 11th, 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, May 11th, 1895" ***

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Volume 108, May 11th, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_


    ["The unbridled greediness of some authors."--MR. GOSSE.]

_Publisher_ (_nervously_). And what will your terms be for a short
story, in your best style?

_Author_ (_loftily_). I have only one style, and that is perfection. I
couldn't think of charging less than fifty guineas a page.

_Publisher_ (_aghast_). Fifty guineas a page! But are you aware that
Lord MACAULAY got only ten thousand for the whole of his history, and
that MILTON----

_Author_ (_rudely_). Hang MACAULAY and MILTON! Surely you would
not compare those second-rate writers with _myself!_ If _they_ were
content to work for starvation wages, I am not.

_Publisher_. But, say your story runs to twenty pages, as it probably
will, I shall have to pay you for that one short tale the really
ridiculous sum of a thousand pounds!

_Author_ (_coolly_). Yes, it is rather ridiculous--ridiculously small,
I mean. Still, out of regard to your pocket, I am willing to accept
that inadequate remuneration. Is it a bargain?

_Publisher_ (_with a groan_). It must be. The public demands your
work, and we have no option. But allow me to remark that your policy

_Author_ (_gaily_). A Policy of Assurance, on which _you_ have to pay
the premium. Ha, ha!


AUTHOR (DEFERENTIALLY). I have a really capital idea for a work
of fiction, on a subject which I believe to be quite original.
What--ahem!--are you prepared to offer for the copyright?

_Publisher._ Couldn't think of making an offer till we saw the work.
It might turn out to be worth nothing at all.

_Author._ Nothing at all! But you forget how my fame----

_Publisher._ Disappeared when we were obliged to charge the public
six shillings for a story of yours about the size of an average tract.
Other writers have come to the front, you know. Still, if there's
anything in your novel, when it's finished, we should, I daresay,
be prepared to offer you a couple of guineas down, and a couple more
when--say--a thousand copies had been sold. Is it a bargain?

_Author_ (_sadly_). I suppose it must be! Yet I can hardly be said to
be _paid_ for my work.

_Publisher._ Perhaps not. But you can be said to be _paid out!_

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


  The stately streets of London
    Are always "up" in Spring,
  To ordinary minds an ex-
    traordinary thing.
  Then cabs across strange ridges bound,
    Or sink in holes, abused
  With words resembling not, in sound,
    Those Mrs. HEMANS used.

  The miry streets of London,
    Dotted with lamps by night;
  What pitfalls where the dazzled eye
    Sees doubly ruddy light!
  For in the season, just in May,
    When many meetings meet,
  The jocund vestry starts away,
    And closes all the street.

  The shut-up streets of London!
    How willingly one jumps
  From where one's cab must stop, through pools
    Of mud, in dancing pumps!
  When thus one skips on miry ways
    One's pride is much decreased,
  Like _Mrs. Gilpin's_, for one's "chaise"
    Is "three doors off" at least.

  The free, fair streets of London!
    Long, long, in vestry hall,
  May heads of native thickness rise,
    When April showers fall;
  And green for ever be the men
    Who spend the rates in May,
  By stopping all the traffic then
    In such a jocose way!

       *       *       *       *       *

IN BLOOM.--On Saturday last there was a letter in the _Daily
Telegraph_ headed "Trees for Londoners." The lessee and manager of
the Haymarket Theatre thinks that for Londoners two Trees are quite
sufficient, _i.e._ his wife and himself.

       *       *       *       *       *


_First Man._ What rot it is to keep this tax on beer!

_Second Man._ Well, it's better than spirits, anyhow.

_First Man._ Of course you say that as you've got those shares in that
Distillery Company.

_Second Man._ Well, you needn't talk, with your ALLSOPP Debentures.

_First Man._ Come to that, personally I take no interest in beer. It's
poison to me.

_Second Man._ It's the finest drink in the world. I never touch

_First Man._ They're much more wholesome. I wonder what the Government
will do about Local Veto and Compensation. I suppose, as I'm a

_Second Man._ So am I. But I respect vested interests. Now, in theory,
teetotalism, especially for the masses----

_First Man._ Waiter, bring me a whiskey and soda.

_Second Man._ And bring me a glass of bitter.

_First Man._ As for WILFRID LAWSON, he's an utter----

_Second Man._ Oh, WILFRID LAWSON! He's a downright----

    [_They drink_--_not_ SIR WILFRID'S _health_.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Fragment from the Chronicles of St. Stephen's._)

"But must I give up this comfortable furniture?" asked the poor
person, looking at the venerable chairs, some of which were distinctly

"You must, indeed," replied firmly, but still with a certain
tenderness, the stern official.

"But I can _nearly_ hear what they are saying," urged the fair

"I cannot help it."

"And _all_ but see them," and once again she peered through the

"I am forced to obey my orders," returned the official. "You
applauded. You clapped your hands--and you must retire."

"And for that little burst of enthusiasm," almost wept the person,
"I am to lose all this happiness! To be stopped from hearing an
indistinct murmur, seeing a blurred picture, resting on rickety seats,
and breathing a vitiated atmosphere! Am I to lose _all_ these comforts
and pleasures and advantages?"

"I am afraid so," was the answer. And then the official opened the
door of the Ladies' Gallery of the House of Commons, and the person
passed out.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ALL THE DIFFERENCE.

_Lord W-ls-l-y_ (_to Commander-in-Chief_). "IN SEPTEMBER I HAVE TO

_Duke._ "DEAR ME! _I_ HAVEN'T!"]

       *       *       *       *       *


  _Seniores priores?_ Rude Rads, and some Tories,
    Would make that apply to mere manner of exit.
  If the "Spirit of Eld" is in charge of our glories,
        Why wantonly vex it?

  That Spirit of Eld is the "note" of our era.
    Grand old men--and women--at bossing are busy.
  Youth? Stuff! Callow youth was indeed the chimera
        Of dandyish DIZZY.

  But that was when DIZZY, himself young--and curly--
    Was VIVIAN GREY, not the Primrose Dames' darling.
  The Great Earl himself did not dominate early.
        Oh, out on such snarling!

  Old ways, and old wines, and old warriors for ever!
    (Or, if not for ever, a whacking big slice of it.)
  Great SENEX from service 'twere folly to sever,
        Whilst winning the price of it.

  Retirement is not your true _militaire's_ virtue;
    To "beat the retreat" irks us all, dukes or drummers.
  Let Winter hold sway, then--it cannot much hurt you--
        For--say _x_--more summers!

  Were types of the true, adolescent commander,
        And swayed ere their forties.

  Still, they were god-loved and died young, like our SIDNEY,
    But Genius is versatile, Nature is various;
  All heroes are not of the same "kiddish" kidney,

  To grudge him his obolus ("screw" as _we_ name it)
    Because he has drawn it a few years--say fifty--
  If Rads had a conscience at all, Sir, would shame it!
        But Rads are _so_--thrifty!

  For fellows like WOLSELEY or ROBERTS, retirement
    Is all very well; they've no call for to stop, Sir.
  But oh! for an Army the master requirement
        Is grey hairs--a-top, Sir!

       *       *       *       *       *



_Smith_ (_who had dined out_). "'LIKE A TOP.' AS SOON AS MY HEAD

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["In the retrospect of ninety years there is a pathetic
    mixture of gratitude for ample opportunities, and humiliation
    for insignificant performances."--_Dr. James Martineau, on his
    Ninetieth Birthday._]

AIR--THACKERAY'S "_Age of Wisdom_"

  Ho! petty prattler of sparkling sin,
    Paradox-monger, slave of the queer!
  All your wish is a name to win,
  To shook the dullards, to sack the tin,--
    Wait till you come to Ninety Year!

    Curled locks cover your shallow brains,
  Twaddle and tinkle is all your cheer.
  Sickly and sullied your amorous strains,
    Pessimist praters of fancied pains,--
  What do you think of _this_ Ninety Year?

  Ninety times over let May-day pass
    (If you should live, which you won't I fear),
  Then you will know that you were but an ass,
  Then you will shudder and moan, "Alas!
    Would I had known it some Ninety Year!"

  Pledge him round! He's a Man, I declare;
    His heart is warm, though his hair be grey.
  Modest, as though a record so fair,
  A brain so big, and a soul so rare,
    Were a mere matter of every day.

  His eloquent lips the Truth have kissed,
    His valiant eyes for the Right have shone.
  Pray, and listen--'twere well you list--
  Look not away lest the chance be missed,
    Look on a Man, ere your chance be gone!

  MARTINEAU lives, he's alive, he's here!
    He loved, and married, seventy years' syne.
  _Look_ at him, taintless of fraud or fear,
  Alive and manful at Ninety Year,
    And blush at your pitiful pessimist whine!

       *       *       *       *       *

HAMLET (_amended by Lord Farrar_).--"In my mind's eye, O ratio!"

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: No. 436. The President and Mr. Marks, R.A., as seen at
a long range.]

[Illustration: No. 147. A Father's Cuss!]

[Illustration: No. 39. Bray on the Thames. By T. Sidney Cooper, R.A.]

[Illustration: No. 321. "You should see us dance the Pole-ka!" By
Arthur Wardle.]

[Illustration: No. 91. Gloucestershire "Colts" at practice. New
left-handed bowler promises well. By George Clausen, A.R.A.]

[Illustration: No. 195. All snuggled up! The President is compelled to
economise space!]

[Illustration: No. 503. "How long! how long!" Portrait of a blasé
youth. Even his cane is jade-d! By John S. Sargent, A.R.A.]

[Illustration: No. 172. Couldn't 'e Padmore? By John S. Sargent,

[Illustration: No. 277. The G. O. M. at Cannes. By T. Graham.]

A. R. AT THE R. A.

(_I.e., A Representative at the Royal Academy._)

Anyone arriving at Burlington House so early as to be the first person
to pay his money and take his choice, will probably look straight
before him, and will feel somewhat confused at seeing in the distance,
but exactly opposite him, a dignified figure wearing a chain of
office, politely rising to receive the early visitor. "It can be no
other than the President himself," will at once occur to the stranger
within the gates; "and yet, did I not hear that he was abroad for
the benefit of his health?" Then, just as he is about to bow his
acknowledgments of the courtesy extended to him personally by the
Chief Representative of Art in this country, he will notice seated, at
the President's left hand, and staring at him, with a pen in his hand,
ready either to take down the name of the visitor, or to make a sketch
of him, a gentleman in whose lineaments anyone having the pleasure of
being personally acquainted with Mr. STACY MARKS, R.A., would at once
recognise those of that distinguished humourist in bird-painting. "Is
there wisions about?" will the puzzled visitor quote to himself, and
then boldly advancing, hat in hand, to be soon replaced on head,
he will come face to face with the biggest picture in the Academy,
covering almost the entire wall.

The stately figure is not Sir FREDERIC LEIGHTON, P.R.A., who
unfortunately has been compelled to go abroad for the benefit of his
health--_prosit!_--nor is the seated figure Mr. S. MARKS; but the
former is "_The Bürgermeister of Landsberg, Bavaria_," and the latter
is his secretary, while the other figures, all likenesses, are
"his Town Council" in solemn deliberative assembly. The picture,
an admirable one, and, as will be pretty generally admitted, a
masterpiece of the master's, is No. 436 in the book, the work of

But as this is in Gallery No. VI., and as it is not every one who will
be privileged to see the picture as the early bird has seen it, and
as some few others may, perhaps, see it during the season, this
Representative retraces his steps from No. VI., and commences _de
novo_ with No. 1.

No. 17. "_Finan Haddie_," fresh as ever, caught by J. C. HOOK, R.A.
Title, of course, should have been "_Finan Haddie Hook'd_."

Sir JOHN MILLAIS' _St. Stephen_ (_not_ a parliamentary subject),
showing that Good Sir JOHN'S hand has lost none of its cunning, is No.
18; and after bowing politely to Mrs. JOHNSON-FERGUSON, and pausing
before this charming picture by LUKE FILDES, R.A., to take a last Luke
at her, you will pass on, please, to No. 25, "_The Fisherman and the
Jin_," and will wonder why VAL. C. PRINSEP, R.A., spells the cordial
spirit with a "J" instead of a "G." It is a spirited composition.

No. 31. Mr. JOHN S. SARGENT, A., let "_Mrs. Ernest Hills_" go out of
his studio in a hurry. She is evidently "to be finished in his next."

No. 34. "_A Quiet Rehearsal._" Lady Amateur all alone, book in hand,
to which she is not referring, trying to remember her part and say it
off by heart. It is by W. B. RICHMOND, A. To quote a cigarette paper,
this work may be fairly entitled "A Richmond Gem."

No. 43. "_Evening._" By B. W. LEADER, A. Delightful. Artistic
aspirants in this line cannot play a better game than that of "Follow
my Leader."

This Representative recognised "_Dr. Jameson, C.B._," by HERKOMER, at
a glance. If you are asked by anyone to look at "_Hay Boat_" do not
correct him and say "You mean _A_ Boat," or you will find yourself in
the wrong boat, but admire HILDA MONTALBA'S painting, and pass on to
OULESS, R.A.'s, excellent portrait of "_J. J. Aubertin_" (a compound
name, whose first two syllables suggest delightful music while the
last syllable means money); thence welcome our old friend FRITH, R.A.,
who, in 67, [and a trifle over, eh?] shows us "_Mrs. Gresham and
Her Little Daughter_." From the "little D.'s" expressive face may be
gathered that she has just received a "Gresham Lecture." After noting
No. 73 and 83 (the unhappily separated twins) together, you may look
on No. 126. Two fierce animals deer-stalking in a wild mountainous
region, painted by _Arthur Wardle_. Only from what coign of vantage
did Mr. WARDLE, the artist, make this life-like sketch? However,
he came out of the difficulty safe and sound, and we are as glad to
welcome a "_Wardle_" as we should be to see his ancient associate
"_Pickwick_," or a "_Weller_," in Burlington House.

No. 139. Charming is Sir F. LEIGHTON'S "_Fair One with the Golden
Locks_." To complete the picture the hairdresser should have been
thrown in. She is _en peignoir_, and evidently awaiting his visit.
This is the key to these locks.

No. 242. Mr. ANDREW C. GOW, R.A., gives us BUONAPARTE riding on the
sands with a party of officers, "1805." The Emperor is cantering ahead
of the staff. Another title might be "_Going Nap at Boulogne_."

No. 160. "_A Lion Tamer's Private Rehearsal._" But BRITON RIVIÈRE,
R.A., calls it "_Ph[oe]bus Apollo_."

No. 251. Queer incident in the life of a respectable middle-aged
gentleman. Like _Mr. Pickwick_, he has mistaken his room in the hotel,
and has gone to bed. Suddenly, lady, in brilliant diamond tiara,
returns from ball, and finds him there. The noise she makes in opening
the curtains awakes him. He starts up alarmed. "Hallo!" he cries, and
for the moment the ballad of "_Margaret's Grim Ghosts_" recurs to
his mind. His next thought is, "How fortunate I went to bed in my
copper-coloured pyjamas, with a red cummerbund round me." Of course he
apologised, and withdrew. What happened subsequently is not revealed
by the artist who has so admirably depicted this effective scene, and
whose name is Sir JOHN MILLAIS, Bart., R.A.

No. 368. Excellent likeness, by Mr. _Arthur S. Cope_, of the
well-known and popular parson ROGERS. _A Parsona Grata_. This
typical old-fashioned English clergyman, who, in ordinary ministerial
functions, would be the very last person to be associated with a
"chasuble," will henceforth never be dissociated from a "COPE."

No. 491. A picture by Mr. FRED ROE. If NELSON'S enemies had only
known of this incident in his lifetime!! Here is our great naval hero,
evidently "half seas over," being personally conducted through some
by-streets of Portsmouth, on his way back to the _Victory_, in order
to avoid the crowd. Rather a hard ROE, this.

No. 767. Congratulations to T. B. KENNINGTON on his "_Alderman George
Doughty, J.P._," or, as the name might be from the characteristic
colouring, Alderman DEORGE GOUHTY, which is quite in keeping with the
proverbial aldermanic tradition.

       *       *       *       *       *

A LITTLE MIXED.--In its account of the private view at the Royal
Academy the _Daily News_ says:--"The Countess of MALMESBURY studied
the sculpture in a harmonious costume of striped black and pink, and a
picture hat trimmed with pink roses." This is presumably the result of
the influence of Mr. HORSLEY. But isn't it going a little too far,
at least to begin with? A piece of sculpture--say, a Venus--in a
harmonious costume of striped black and pink might pass. But the
addition of a picture hat trimmed with pink roses is surely fatal.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A NASTY ONE.


       *       *       *       *       *


Chair of absent President ably filled by Sir JOHN MILLAIS, who,
pluckily struggling against evidently painful hoarseness, made, in
returning thanks, an exceptionally graceful, touching, and altogether
memorable speech. Odd to note that, had Sir JOHN, speaking hoarsely,
broken down, we should have heard his _remplaçant_ Horsley speaking.
_The_ incident, however, which will mark this banquet as unique in
Academical records, was Sir JOHN'S mistaking one Archbishop for the
other, and, in consequence, pleasantly indicating by a polite bow to
the prelate on his left, that he called upon _him_, the Archbishop
of YORK, to reply for the visitors. "YORK, you're wanted," said, in
effect, the genial Sir JOHN, utterly ignoring the presence of His
Grace of CANTERBURY. Whereupon, CANTERBURY collapsed, while the
Northern Primate, vainly attempting to dissemble his delight,
professed his utter surprise, his total unpreparedness, and
straightforth hastened to improve the occasion. But before fifty words
had passed the jubilant Prelate's lips, Sir JOHN, having discovered
his mistake, rose quickly in his stirrups, so to speak, and pulled up
the impetuous YORK just then getting into his stride. Genially beaming
on the slighted CANTERBURY, Sir JOHN called on "The Primate of All
England" (a snub this for YORK) to return thanks. "One Archbishop very
like another Archbishop," chuckled the unabashed Sir JOHN to himself,
as he resumed his seat, "but quite forgot that YORK as Chaplain to
Academy is 'His Grace _before_ dinner,' and CANTERBURY represents
'Grace _after_ dinner.'" "'Twas ever thus," muttered YORK, moodily
eyeing the last drop in his champagne-glass, as he mentally recalled
ancient ecclesiastical quarrels between the two provinces, from which
the Southern Prelate had issued victorious. CANTERBURY flattered,
but, fluttered, lost his chance. His Royal Highness's speech brief,
comprehensive, effective. Lord ROSEBERY entertaining. "The rest is
silence," or better if it had been. No more at present. Good luck to
the Academy Show of 1895.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: COLD COMFORT!


    [_Sighs deeply._


       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Fable._)

A Duck that had lately succeeded in hatching a fine brood of
ducklings, and was much concerned on the point of their polite
education, took them down to the river one day in order to teach them
to swim.

"See, my dears!" she said when they were all got to the bank,
addressing her brood in encouraging accents, "this is the way to do
it," and so saying the old duck pushed off from the land, in evident
expectation that her young ones would follow her.

The Ducklings, however, instead of coming after their mother, remained
on the bank, talking and laughing and whispering among themselves in
a very knowing manner; until at last the old bird, provoked by their
levity and wondering what ailed them, called out sharply to them
from mid-stream to come into the water at once; upon which one of the
Ducklings, who had evidently been constituted spokesman for the rest,
made bold to address his mother in the following words.

"You must be a simpleton indeed, Madam," said he, "to imagine that we
are going to do anything so foolish as to endanger our lives in the
reckless fashion in which you are now exposing yours; for though it
may be true that in obedience to some unwritten law of nature (unknown
at present to us) you are floating securely upon the surface of the
stream, instead of sinking to the bottom of it, yet it by no means
follows from thence that we should do the same thing, supposing we
were so foolish as to follow your example. Rest assured, dear Madam,"
continued the Duckling, "that so soon as we have sifted this matter
to the bottom for ourselves, we shall act on the knowledge of it,
according as our experience may suggest to us; but for the present, at
any rate, we prefer to remain where we are."

And so saying, the Duckling, accompanied by the rest of the brood,
turned his back on his natural element, and returned forthwith to the

       *       *       *       *       *


_Or, The Triumph of the Timid One._

  At last! I see signs of a turn in the tide,
    And O, I perceive it with infinite gratitude.
  No more need I go with a crick in my side
    In attempts to preserve a non-natural attitude.
  _Something_ has changed in the season, _somewhere_;
  I'm sure I can feel a cool whiff of fresh air!

  Mental malaria worse than the _grippe_
    Has asphyxiated my mind, or choke-damped it.
  The plain honest truth has been strange to my lip;
    I've shammed it, and fudged it, humbugged it and vamped it
  Till I wasn't I, self-respect was all gone,
  And I hadn't a taste that I dared call my own.

  I do _not_ love horror. I do _not_ like muck;
    And mystical muddle to me is abhorrent.
  In Stygian shallows long time I have stuck,
    Or, like a dead dog on a sewage-fouled torrent,
  Have gone with the stream; but beyond the least doubt
  I'm grateful--_so_ much--for a chance to creep out.

  Egomania it seems then is _not_ the last word
    Of latter-day wisdom! By Jove I _am_ glad!
  I always _did_ feel it was highly absurd
    To worship the maudlin, and aim at the mad;
  And now, there's a chance for the decent again,
  One may relish one's DICKENS, yet not seem insane!

  The ghoulish-grotesque, and the grimy-obscure,
    I _have_ tried to gloat on in poem and prose,
  But oh! all the while there seemed something impure
    In the _sniff_ of the thing that tormented my nose;
  And as to High Art--well, to me it seemed _high_,
  Like an over-hung hare--only food for the fly.

  Yet _I_ didn't dare say that I felt it to be
    Pseudo-sphinxian fudge, and sheer Belial bosh;
  Or that after Art-babble at five o'clock tea,
    I felt that the thing I most craved was--a wash;
  Because in the view of the Mystical School,
  That would just write you down a mere Philistine fool.

  I am not _quite_ sure that I _quite_ understand
    How they've suddenly found all our fads are degenerate;
    TOLSTOI, GRANT ALLEN, ZOLA, are "lumped"--but, at any rate,
  I know I'm relieved from one horrible bore,--
  _I need not admire what I hate any more_.

       *       *       *       *       *



    _Much Ado About Nothing_, Act II., Sc. 3 (_slightly

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



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


I sat on the beach one forenoon in midsummer. A great number of people
were doing much the same. The rhapsodists and orators, the blameless
Ethiopians with their barbaric instruments of music, the itinerant
magicians with their wands, the statuesque groups posed before the
tripod of the photographer, the snow-white sea-chariots with crimson
wheels, the bare-legged riders on antique steeds, made me fancy I was
gazing at a scene of Southern Hellenic life. Why I know not--for it
was not in the least like.

Then I saw an enormous black hand stretch down over the fjord. I was
not alarmed, for I am becoming accustomed to apparitions of this kind.

It set weird signs and black marks upon the railings of the jetty, and
on the white sides of the bathing machines, and on the sails of
the fishing-boats, and when I turned about, the parade itself was
plastered with tablets.

And on all things had the New Lawgiver incised in letters of gold
and azure and purple upon shining tables the new commandments:
"Use Skäuerskjin's Soap!"; "Try Tommeliden Tonic!"; "Buy Boömpvig's
Pills!"; "Ask for Baldersen's Hairwash!"

And I heard the voice of the wild waves saying, as they lapped up over
the cheap sandshoes and saturated paper bags full of gingerbread nuts:

"This is the new moral law. That men should cherish the outside and
insides of their bodies, and keep them clean, like precious vessels of
brass and copper. Rather to let the picturesque perish than forget for
a moment which is the best soap for the complexion, and which will not
wash clothes. Never to see a ship spreading her canvas like a sea
bird without associations of a Purifying Saline Draught or a Relishing
Pickle. To ask and see that ye procure!"

Then I looked into the heavens above me, and behold, high above the
esplanade hung a hand, enormous as the one that had set its marks
on everything below, but white, white; and it held a brush and wrote
until the sky was full of signs, and they had form and colour, but not
of this world, and those who ran could read them.

And I bought a shell-box and a bath bun, and closed my eyes, and
lay musing in an agony of soul. Suddenly I felt the pain snap,
and something grow in me, and I saw in my soul's dawning the great
half-opened shell of a strange oyster.

And this oyster has its bed on my very heart, and it is _my_ salt
tears that nourish it, and it grows _inside_, invisible to all but me.

But I know that, when the oyster opens, I shall find within its shell,
like a gleaming dove-coloured pearl, the great Panacea of the To Be;
and, if you ask me to explain my meaning more fully, I reply that the
bearings of this blind allegory lie in the application thereof, and
that ye are a blow-fly brood of dull-witted hucksters.

       *       *       *       *       *



(_Under the guidance of Herr Goethemann._)

_Questioner._ You were good enough to promise me at our next meeting a
specimen of the Author-publisher's dramatic manner.

_Answer._ With pleasure. I will read it to you.

"_Afternoon. Two-pair suburban back. Upright piano. High-minded
table._ HENRY (_dramatic author and host_) _under it, heavy with
wine._ ROMEO (_his friend and Town Blood_) _communing with_ MARY ANN
(_local ingénue_). ELIZA (_her sister and hostess_) _outside just
now, making coffee. She will come in presently, and realise_ DRAMATIC

_Mary Ann._ Get up, Henry, and give us a regular old rousing tune.

_Henry_ (_huskily, emerging from retreat_). What shall it be?

_Romeo._ Oh, anything. WAGNER for choice.

    [_Gifted musician obliges with a pot pourri of 'Parsifal,'_
    ROMEO _absently whistling the trombone part_.

_Mary Ann._ Ripping! Now something classical. Let's have '_After the
Ball_.' Come on, ROMEO, we'll waltz; push back the fire-place. (_They
push back the fire-place;_ ROMEO _grasps_ MARY ANN, _and they revolve.
He kisses her on the cheek_ L. C.) Well, I never did! For shame! I
decline to dance with you. There!

    [_Declines to dance with him._

_Henry._ One for _you_, my buck! Cheer up, MARY ANN; _I_'ll give you a

    [_Pirouettes twice with her, humming suitable air._

_Mary Ann_ (_rendered completely breathless_). It's not like real
dancing when you only _hum!_

_Henry._ Can't play and dance at same time, you know. Piano too
stationary. So you must take ROMEO on again, or go without.

_Eliza_ (_entering with coffee-tray and realising situation_). Well,
I declare! Having high jinks while I was making the coffee. What
dramatic irony!

    [ROMEO _gallantly invites her to join the giddy throng. They

_Eliza_ (_rendered completely breathless_). My soul! I'm in bad

_Mary Ann_ (_having got her second wind_). Have a turn with _me_,
ELIZA! ROMEO 's no good; he misses out every other bar.

_Eliza._ Want my coffee. No wind left.

    [HENRY _spontaneously sings a Lullaby of_ BRAHMS'. _Stops in
    middle to see what they all think of it. They all think a lot
    of it. Goes on singing. Only_ ELIZA _goes on thinking a lot of
    it. Others talk quite loud_, ROMEO _being a Town Blood._ HENRY
    _finishes, under conviction that they have no manners to speak
    of. Mind wanders off to the leading lady in his new piece, and
    he drops inadvertently into 'Daisy' waltz._ ELIZA _waits for
    second wind._ ROMEO _grapples with_ MARY ANN, _the latter
    reluctant. She is rapt away in mazy whirl, kicking feebly. He
    again kisses her on the cheek, this time_ R. C.

_Eliza._ Man! I saw you! It was a wanton act.

_Henry_ (_casually_). Anything broken?

_Eliza._ Oh, HENRY! He went and kissed my MARY ANN, my own sister!

_Romeo_ (_with easy bravado_). A mere nothing, I assure you. She's so
provoking, don't you know? Had to do it in self-defence.

_Eliza._ It is contrary to established etiquette in _our_ circles.
MARY ANN, how _could_ you?

_Mary Ann._ I didn't. It was him. I shall scream another time.

_Eliza._ Man, you will oblige me by treating my sister as you would
your own.

    [_Exit with crushing expression which leaves_ ROMEO _intact._

_Mary Ann._ ELIZA talks rot. (_To_ ROMEO.) Not that you're not a
beast, all the same.

    [_Exit in two frames of mind._ HENRY _laughs and makes light
    of osculation. The men converse. The plot becomes even more
    intricate. The end is nigh._"

    * * *

_Question._ Do I miss the purpose of the Author-publisher?

_Answer._ I should think it highly improbable.

_Q._ But why did he write it?

_A._ It is a "problem-play," and that, as I said, is the problem.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHEERING.--Liberal Party much encouraged by East Wicklow and East
Leeds. "Wisdom from the East," they call it.

       *       *       *       *       *



    [_Shuts up._

       *       *       *       *       *


(_An Anglo-Nicaraguan Parallel._)

The young Midshipman looked towards Corinto. The public buildings were
still within range of the monster guns. The select army of one hundred
and fifty had retired before the advance of the blue jackets and
marines. All was tranquil, and, as he gazed upon the Nicaraguan
capital, his eyes closed, and he dreamed a dream.

He was once more in England. He was at the seaside. Here in front
of him were bathing-machines. There, to his right, was a circulating
library. He could see a clock-tower and a shortened pier. Then
he laughed in his glee. He was at Herne Bay! Close to the Isle of
Thanet--within sight of the Reculvers!

He had scarcely realised his happiness, when he noticed on the ocean a
flotilla. Three gigantic ironclads were approaching the tranquil town!

"The Nicaraguan fleet!" he murmured in his sleep.

It, alas! was too true! The Central American Admiral had sent an
ultimatum. The news had run from one end of Herne Bay to the
other that, unless the sum demanded were paid at once, the
as-yet-unconquered watering-place would be "ploughed," as the Poet
BUNN would have put it, "by the hoof of the ruthless invader."

Then there was a hurried consultation. What could be done with that
overpowering fleet? It was useless to defend the bathing-machines; the
donkeys and their drivers were no match for heavy ordnance. What
could the few coast-guardsmen do when threatened by five hundred

"Herne Bay must surrender!" murmured the Midshipman in his sleep.
"There is no help for it."

And then came a strange sight. The search-lights of the Nicaraguan
fleet played upon the sea front, and the little garrison of Herne
Bay retired towards Birchington and Margate. The Band (lent from the
Militia) marched away, followed by the heavy cavalry of the bathers,
and the Uhlan-like donkeys of the sands. The representatives of the
Navy (carrying their look-out telescopes) brought up the rear.

Then, when all had gone, the sailors and marines of the Nicaraguan
fleet landed. The British flag was hauled down, and replaced by the
colours of the enemy.

Herne Bay was conquered!

At this point the Midshipman awoke with a start. He looked round, and
sighed a great sigh of relief.

"How fortunate it is that the English fleet have conquered Corinto
and not the Nicaraguan fleet Herne Bay!" he cried in an ecstacy of
patriotic fervour. Then he performed for hours the duties of his
command. Towards the close of day he again casually glanced at Corinto
and once more was involuntarily reminded of Herne Bay. And as he gazed
upon the Central American town he came to the conclusion that it
was about as formidable and about as well defended as the Kentish
watering-place. And having arrived at this opinion he determined
in his own mind that the taking of Corinto, as a feat of arms, was
scarcely on a par with the Victory of Trafalgar.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_On his Seventieth Birthday._)

  To MANNS of Crystal Palace fame,
    _Punch_ sends his kindly greeting.
  The ever keen, the never tame,
    Time may he long be beating
  (For Time it seems cannot beat him).
    Time's darts may he resist all
  With _bâton_ brisk and eyes un-dim.
    Beneath that dome of Crystal--
  For many a year! And decades hence
    _Punch_ hopes it may befa' that
  He'll shout, before that choir immense,
    "A _Manns'_ a Man for a' that!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A CLASSIC CANDIDATE.--Mr. HOMER in West Dorset is the Independent
Farmers' Candidate. He is, of course, more than a positive "Home
Ruler," being a comparative hopeful "HOMER Ruler." But surely the
language of HOMER must be Greek to most of his hearers, even at
Bridport, and in view of the _poluphoisboio thalasses_.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_On the Humdrum Budget._)

  Just "As you were"! Ingenious, fair,
    And all that, I've no doubt;
  But titled swells you do not scare,
    Nor rich monopolists flout.
  I tolerate where I would praise.
    Reform _is_ a slow grower!
  _My_ spirits, WILL, it will not raise,
    To see _your_ spirits lower!
  Free Breakfast Table? Graduation?--
    Chances seem getting fewer:
  Well WILL, my only consolation
    Is this--you've "copped the brewer!"

       *       *       *       *       *

In the title of his new book, "ANTHONY HOPE" has taken the Roman
_prénom_ which evidently by right belonged to him. There is no comma,
nor introduction of "by," and so straight off we read in golden
letters on the back, "_A Man of Mark Anthony Hope_." O Brave MARK
ANTHONY! His readers have great faith in HOPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

PARLIAMENTARY.--The nearest approach to a dead-lock is a live (J. G.)

       *       *       *       *       *


Is Mr. HITCHCOCK'S "_Flight into Egypt_" a view of Dartmoor? and what
are all those blue flowers? Borage, blue currants, corn-flowers, "new
broom," gorse dyed blue for this occasion only, or what? I have been
offered all these random suggestions by distinguished critics, but
they somehow don't seem convincing.

Why are the competitors in the charming swimming-match between
Mermaids and Tritons so remarkably _dry_ in the upper parts? I always
get decidedly damp when I enter the sea, but these ladies take to
it like ducks--"_Dux f[oe]mina facti_" (as said an ancient poet in
anticipation)--and so I suppose the water rolls off their backs.

Will "_Her First Offering_" of grass and daisies go far towards
softening the heart of a statuette? Her sister, last year, had a much
more tempting "_Gift for the Gods_," but there is no accounting for
divinities' tastes.

What does Mr. KPOFFNH--dear me, I can _not_ get his name right?--mean
by "_Sous les Arbres?_" Is it a man or a statue, a spook or a symbol?
Why does he wear a marble wig? Why does his brown hair show underneath
it? Why has he got a wall eye? Why is he "under the trees?" Why is
he at large at all? Why---- But there, I give it up! I don't believe
there are any answers to these conundrums!

How is it I've been looking at "_Kit_" for two whole minutes before
realising that there's a Persian cat in the composition? But she's a
real beauty, when you _do_ coax her out of this "puzzle picture."

Why (this is no new query!) have Sir EDWARD BURNE-JONES' Luciferians
and Sleeping Beauties and peeresses and children and brides one and
all the same world-weary expression? Why do they, without exception,
look as if they were off to a funeral, or had just seen themselves
in the glass? Are there no other colours in the land but dull green,
steel-blue, ink-purple, and brick-red? Why do I immediately want to
commit suicide after studying these masterpieces? Why doesn't Psyche
cheer up a bit, even though she _is_ going to be married? _She_ wasn't
a _[Greek: nea gunê]_, I'm sure!

Why does the dog in Mr. HOLMAN HUNT'S picture look as if it had
softening of the brain? and why do I pass on hurriedly to the next

Will Miss REHAN'S left shoulder hold up her dress much longer, I
wonder, in Mr. SARGENT'S portrait? I don't know, but I _have_ fears!

Is the lady in Mrs. SWYNNERTON'S "_Sense of Sight_" preparing to
catch a cricket ball, or cutting an acquaintance, or going to recite
something? I _should_ like to know.

Why couldn't some enterprising dentist supply the ladies in "_Echoes_"
with false teeth, and why weren't they taken away quietly home,
and not allowed to exhibit their other anatomical innovations? Echo
answers to these and all my queries, "Why, indeed?"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PROGNOSIS.





       *       *       *       *       *

The Chester Cup.

    The _Rock Dove_ don't pooh-pooh,
    A dove can make a _coup;_
  The odds? You yet may nobble 'em.
      'Tis four to one
      'Gainst _Son of a Gun_,
  But _Euclid_ is a problem.

       *       *       *       *       *



_House of Commons, Monday, April 29._--When _Mr. Toots_, in agony of
perturbed bashfulness, sat down on _Florence Dombey's_ best bonnet,
he murmured, "Oh, it's of no consequence." SQUIRE OF MALWOOD does not
resemble _Mr. Toots_ in any respect, not even that of bashfulness. But
he has a way, when taking important move, of studiously investing it
with appearance of "no consequence." Thus to-night, asking for lion's
share of time for remaining portion of Session, he could hardly
bring himself to uplift his voice: mumbled over phrases; coughed at
conjunctions; half paralysed by prepositions; looked round with pained
astonishment when Members behind cried, "Speak up!" Why should he
trouble to speak up on so immaterial a matter? Still, to oblige, he
would say all he wanted was to take for Government purposes, for rest
of Session, all the time of House, save the inconvenient Wednesday
afternoon sitting, and the inconsiderable Friday night.

More marked this cultured mannerism when announcing immediate
introduction of Bill prohibiting plural voting. This a genuine
surprise. Not been talked of since House met. Nobody thinking of
it. SQUIRE in almost whisper announced its introduction to-morrow.
Astonished beyond measure at commotion created; the boisterous cheers
of Liberals, the uneasy laughter of Opposition.

"Most remarkable place this House of Commons," he said afterwards,
gazing over my head into the infinite horizon, where shadowy figure
of Local Veto Bill is visible to the eye of faith. "Always full of
surprises even for old practitioners like you and me."

PRINCE ARTHUR, much relishing this subtle humour, was himself in
sprightliest mood. The whole business of Session, he protested, was an
elaborate joke. If they were there to work, he would take off his coat
and ding on with the best of them. But they were there to play.
"Well, let us play," he said, holding out both hands with gesture of
invitation to Treasury Bench.

Proposal irresistible. House divided forthwith; SQUIRE'S motion
carried by majority of 22; then, whilst half a dozen naval men talked
water-tube boiler, PRINCE ARTHUR, SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, and picked
company from either side went out behind SPEAKER'S Chair to play. Such
larks! To see PRINCE ARTHUR take in a stride "the backs" given him by
seriously whipping a top; to watch BRYCE breathless behind the nimble
hoop; to look on while EDWARD GREY, forgetful of China and Japan,
thinking nothing of Nicaragua, played a game of marbles with HART
DYKE; to see LOCKWOOD trying a spurt with DICK WEBSTER, the course
being twice round the Division Lobby, ASQUITH, fresh from the
Cab-arbitration, having handicapped them--to see this, and much else,
was a spectacle wholesome for those engaged in it, interesting for the
solitary spectator.

_Business done._--Shipbuilding Vote in Navy Estimates agreed to.

_Tuesday._--Odd thing that on this particular night, when Government
bring in Bill prohibiting plurality of voting, BILL should bring in a
Bill. His first and only Bill. Of course he might argue if we have one
man one vote, one BILL one Bill is all right. Yes; but, as SARK with
his keen mathematical instinct points out, this is a case of two
Bills--BILL, the Member for Leek, and a Bill to empower magistrates
to prohibit the sale of intoxicating liquors to persons previously
convicted of drunkenness. That is obviously a plurality of Bills. But
we are getting hopelessly mixed. The only man among us who sees clear
is JOHN WILLIAM. Deep pathos in his voice as he says the time is near
at hand when a tyrannical Government will attempt to enforce principle
of "One Man One Drink."

Cap'en TOMMY BOWLES had best of dreary evening. Mentioned yesterday,
with tears from his honest blue eyes coursing down his rugged,
weather-beaten cheek, fresh infamy on part of SQUIRE OF MALWOOD. Had
announced on Thursday that, at Monday's sitting, Naval Works Loan
Bill would be proceeded with. TOMMY accordingly clewed up, and ran for
port; laying to for forty-eight hours, prepared speech on Naval Works.
Now SQUIRE calmly announced that Shipbuilding Vote was to be taken.
What was TOMMY to do with speech prepared on Naval Works Loans?

[Illustration: Cap'en Tommy Bowles.]

In despair yesterday; to-day bright idea struck him. SHAW-LEFEVRE had
moved to introduce One Man One Vote Bill. Why shouldn't TOMMY, flying
that flag, run in and deliver his speech on Naval Works? A bold
experiment; only hope of success was that House, being in almost
comatose state, wouldn't notice ruse if cleverly managed. Trust TOMMY
for clever management. Holding sheaf of notes firmly in left hand,
deftly turning them over with the hook that serves him for right hand,
the old salt read his speech on Naval Works Loan Bill. Here and there,
when he observed restless movement in any part of House, fired off
phrase about "forty-shilling freeholder," "occupation votes," "rural
constituencies," "re-distribution," "country going to the dogs,"
"jerrymandering," and "right hon. gentleman opposite." Scheme worked
admirably; speech reeled off, and SQUIRE OF MALWOOD'S knavish trick

_Business done._--One Man One Vote Bill brought in.

_Thursday._--House not to be moved to evidence of excitement even
by prospect of Budget night. On such occasion in ordinary times
attendance at prayer-time most encouraging to Chaplain. Begins to
think that at last his ministrations are bearing fruit. This afternoon
congregation not much above average. No rush for tickets for seats.
When _Squire_ rose to open his statement, great gaps below Gangway on
Ministerial side. The SQUIRE, recognising situation, refrained from
heroics, content to deliver plain business speech. No exordium; no
peroration; no flight into empyrean heights of eloquence as was the
wont of Mr. G. Some sympathetic movement when SQUIRE, with momentarily
increased briskness of manner, spoke of snap of cold weather in
February, with its accompaniment of influenza, increased death-rate,
and fuller flow of death duties into National coffers. The quality of
this mercy was not quite unstrained. Not dropping, like the gentle dew
from heaven, till February, increased death rates will not come into
account till succeeding year. Still, there was rum. As thermometer
fell rum went up with a rush.

  Fifteen men on a dead man's chest.
  High ho! and a bottle of rum.

What with comforting the mourners, and imbibed as a preventive, rum
brought a windfall of £100,000 into the Treasury.

That was well in its way. But then there were those 75,000
mean-spirited people who ought to have died last year, their estates
paying tribute to CHANCELLOR OF EXCHEQUER, and who positively insisted
upon living. The long-trained fortitude of the SQUIRE nearly broke
down when he mentioned this circumstance. Pretty to see how it also
touched JOKIM. The wounds of riven friendship temporarily closed up;
the rivalry of recent years forgotten in contemplation of these 75,000
reckless, ruthless people, who, in defiance of law of average, didn't
die in financial year ending March 31, 1895. The past CHANCELLOR OF
EXCHEQUER and his successor in office mingled their tears. But for
intervention of table they would probably have flung themselves into
each other's arms and sobbed aloud.

"Thus," said PRINCE ARTHUR, himself not unaffected by the scene, "doth
one touch of nature make Chancellors of the Exchequer kin."

_Business done._--Budget brought in.

_Friday Night._--ALPHEUS CLEOPHAS submitted proposal to dock payment
of £10,000 annuity to Duke of COBURG. Thinks H.R.H. might, in
circumstances, get along nicely without it. SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE
agrees. T. H. BOLTONPARTY, on the other hand, gravely differs. Folding
his arms as was his wont on eve of Austerlitz, he regards ALPHEUS
CLEOPHAS with awful frown. Imperial instincts naturally wounded. "No
trifling with the personal revenues of our Royal cousins, whether at
home or abroad," said T. H. BOLTONPARTY in the voice of thunder that
once reverberated across the shivering chasms of the Alps.

_Business done._--Proposal to cut off Duke of COBURG'S pension
negatived by 193 votes against 72.

       *       *       *       *       *



_From the Representative of Her Britannic Majesty's Government to the
---- Minister for Foreign Affairs._

  _January_ 1, 18-0.

I have the honour to inform your Excellency that I am instructed
by the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs that Her Britannic
Majesty's Government has reason to complain of the conduct of the
Government of which your Excellency is the representative. I have the
honour to say that it will be advisable for your Excellency to urge
upon the Government of which your Excellency is the representative the
necessity of inquiry into the matter as speedily as possible. I have
further the honour to add that it will be gratifying to Her Britannic
Majesty's Government if the Government of which your Excellency is
a representative will give the matter to which I refer the earliest

_From the Representative, &c., to the ---- Minister, &c._

  _January_ 1, 18-1.

I have the honour to call the attention of your Excellency to the long
and unsatisfactory correspondence that has passed during the last year
between your Excellency as representing the Government of which you
are the representative and the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs
upon the matter of the despatch I had the honour to forward to your
Excellency dated January 1, 18-0. I am directed to have the honour of
requesting your Excellency to urge upon the Government of which your
Excellency is a representative the necessity of a speedy settlement of
the matter in dispute.

_From the Representative, &c., to the ---- Minister, &c._

  _January_ 1, 18-2.

I have again the honour to call the attention of your Excellency to,
&c. &c.

    (_Rather longer than the foregoing one. Then follow two more
    "from the same to the same" in 18-3 and 18-4. This is the
    first way._)


_From British Admiral to ---- Minister._

  _January_ 1, 18-5, 12 NOON.

If you don't pay up within a quarter of an hour, I will bombard your
capital, seize your country, and imprison the Government of which you
are the representative.

_From ---- Minister, &c., to British Admiral._

  _January_ 1, 18-5, 12.10 P.M.

Don't fire. Have sent money demanded by P.O.O.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Predominant Partner.

  'Tis to the "New National Party," 'tis clear,
    That CHAMBERLAIN swears his affiance.
  The Triple Alliance? Why, no, 'twould appear
  The third, and predominant partner, is Beer,
      So let's call it "The _Tipple_ Alliance."

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.--To all, and especially to all travellers, on
account of its portable size, the Baron begs to recommend a charming
novelette written by GUY BOOTHABY, entitled _A Lost Endeavour_,
published by DENT of Aldine House. When Mr. GUY BOOTHABY brings out
another story equal to this, the Baron will be delighted to draw
public attention to it by saying, "Here's another GUY--BOOTHABY."

       *       *       *       *       *

with eight heads.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

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