Title: Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, August 31, 1895
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 109.

AUGUST 31, 1895.



SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

TAKING THE WATERS.--Are the Falls of Foyers worth preserving?
That depends on another question--What are the Falls of Foyers? They
are the finest cascade in Bonny Scotland, and the B. A. C., or British
Aluminium Company, intends to take all the water out of them to turn
its machinery with. Not, mind you, a mere inappreciable rill, but the
whole river! "Ma Foi-ers!" exclaimed _Mr. Punch_ in his best French,
when he read the correspondence on this subject in the _North British
Daily Mail_, the _Glasgow Herald_, and other northern papers; "shall
this vandalism be allowed? No! Foyers must be preserved for-years to
come!" It seems that a Dr. COMMON, a director of the B. A. C.,
has been explaining to the Inverness Field Club that the Falls won't
actually be destroyed--only there will be no water in them! Yet, by
his name, this director should defend all common rights. We hope he
is rare. The B. A. C. (or Brazen Assurance Company) must learn the A
B C of respect for natural beauty, or Mr. BRYCE will have to
introduce an "Access to Waterfalls Bill." There is yet time to save
the chief Wonder of Loch Ness; and a year hence let us trust that the
following Wordsworthian stanza will apply:--

    Full many a glorious scene has _Punch_
      Saved by his winsome page;
    And from the B. A. C. this Fall,
    A lovely, powerless, hopeless, thrall,
      Was rescued by the Sage.
    So let it foam! And time will come
      When every tourist raider
    At this Cascade will give three cheers
      For every good Casc-aider!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LOCAL COLOUR.

PLACE--_South Parade, Cheapenham-on-Sea._

_Edith._ "MABEL DEAR, WOULD YOU GET ME _BAEDEKER'S SWITZERLAND_ AND
THE LAST NUMBER OF THE _WORLD_."

_Mabel._ "WHAT DO YOU WANT _THEM_ FOR?"

_Edith._ "OH, I'M WRITING LETTERS, AND WE'RE IN THE ENGADINE, YOU
KNOW, AND I JUST WANT TO DESCRIBE SOME OF OUR FAVOURITE HAUNTS, AND
MENTION A FEW OF THE PEOPLE WHO ARE STAYING THERE--HERE, I MEAN."]

       *       *       *       *       *

AN OLD CRUSTED PORT.--The "Battle of the Mails" is again
raging in Ireland. Queenstown seemed to have conquered, but, according
to the _Cork Daily Herald_, the partisans of Southampton are
insidiously working in favour of that port, because it is believed that
"a Unionist Government with a powerful majority will be less amenable
to Irish pressure than the late Home-Rule Government was." And the very
idea of the Post Office breaking through the contract with the Cunard
Line, the Dublin Steam Packet Company, and the London and North-Western
Railway is denounced as a monstrous offence. That is all right, and it
is refreshing to find so much respect for contracts still surviving. In
postal and steamer matters Ireland is Conservative to the backbone. She
won't doff her "coat of mail" in a hurry. Home-Rulers and Unionists are
united on this point: "one touch at Queenstown makes all Erin glad."

       *       *       *       *       *

The _South Wales Daily News_ tells us that "policemen on bicycles are a
very common thing in Cardiganshire."

THE VERNACULAR EVOLUTION OF THE "FORCE."

    When great Sir ROBERT first enroll'd the band,
    As "Peelers" they were known throughout the land:
      Then fickle fancy, changing e'er her hobby,
      Metamorphosed the nickname into "Bobby."
      As years went on--'tis known to be no "whopper"--
      Alluded to was Bobby as a "Copper,"
    And, nowadays, the people call him "Slop":
    Nor is the matter likely _here_ to stop.
      For now we learn, that our once simple "Peeler"
      Is up-to-date and has become a "Wheeler"!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OLLENDORF GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE.

THE PERSISTENT HAIRDRESSER.

[Illustration]

The middle-aged neighbour is going to the fine shop of the persistent
hairdresser. Why is the middle-aged neighbour going to the fine shop
of the persistent hairdresser? Because the middle-aged neighbour's
wife (_i.e._ the wife of the middle-aged neighbour) has ordered him
to have his hair cut. What will the persistent hairdresser tell the
middle-aged neighbour while he is having his hair cut? That the hair
of the middle-aged neighbour (_i.e._ the middle-aged neighbour's
hair) is all coming off. What will the middle-aged neighbour say?
The middle-aged neighbour will say nothing, but he will attempt to
read the gigantic journal of the prosperous newspaper proprietor.
Will the persistent hairdresser make any further remark? Yes, the
persistent hairdresser will inform the middle-aged neighbour that his
hair is thin on the top of his head, that the remaining hair is very
dry, that it would be well if the middle-aged neighbour would give
immediate attention to the subject (_i.e._ the subject attention give
immediate). What will the middle-aged neighbour say? The middle-aged
neighbour will say nothing, but will continue the attempted reading
of the gigantic journal of the prosperous newspaper proprietor. Will
the persistent hairdresser persevere in his exertions to attract
the attention of the middle-aged neighbour? He will persevere by
brushing the hair of the middle-aged neighbour by machinery. Will
the brushing of the hair of the middle-aged neighbour by machinery
prevent the further reading of the gigantic journal of the prosperous
newspaper proprietor? It will have that effect, and the middle-aged
neighbour will remonstrate. Will the persistent hairdresser repeat his
observations about the thinness of the hair on the top of the head
of the middle-aged neighbour? He will, and the observations will be
received in silence. Will the persistent hairdresser then recommend
"the Blisterscalpholine" as a remedy? The persistent hairdresser will
recommend "the Blisterscalpholine" as a remedy, saying that it may be
obtained in bottles at half-a-crown and four-and-six. Will he urge the
purchase of "the Blisterscalpholine" in bottles at four-and-six, in
preference to bottles at half-a-crown? He will, saying that the former
contain four times as much "Blisterscalpholine" than the latter (_i.e._
four-and-six four times "Blisterscalpholine" half-a-crown bottles
contain as much). Will the middle-aged neighbour say that he wishes
to be bald? The middle-aged neighbour will say so with superfluous
emphasis (_i.e._, in phrases of superabundance). Will the persistent
hairdresser declare that "the Blisterscalpholine" can be advantageously
used as a hair-wash by those desirous of becoming bald? The persistent
hairdresser will make this declaration. Why will the persistent
hairdresser sound the praises of "the Blisterscalpholine" so loudly?
Because the persistent hairdresser is the sole manufacturer of "the
Blisterscalpholine." Will the middle-aged neighbour purchase a bottle
of the persistent hairdresser? Yes; the middle-aged neighbour will
purchase a bottle, if the middle-aged neighbour has an account with the
persistent hairdresser, and he (_i.e._ the persistent hairdresser) will
put it (_i.e._ the bottle of "Blisterscalpholine") in his (_i.e._ the
middle-aged neighbour's) bill. If the middle-aged neighbour uses "the
Blisterscalpholine," what will he do in six months? The middle-aged
neighbour will purchase a wig.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EN ROUTE FOR THE HORSE GUARDS.

["In assisting to carry out the plans of War Office reform sketched
by the Hartington Commission, Lord WOLSELEY will have an
unequalled opportunity of connecting his name with a monumental
achievement, and, at the same time, of establishing upon a firmer
foundation the efficiency and the welfare of the British Army,
which, we are well assured, are the objects he has most sincerely at
heart."--_Daily Paper._]]

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT BURNS TO THE RESCUE.

 [The Falls of Foyers, near Loch Ness, are menaced by the projected
 proceedings of an Aluminium Company.]

    "_Among the heathy hills and rugged woods
    The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods,
    Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,
    Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds.
    As high in air the bursting torrents flow,
    As deep recoiling surges foam below,
    Prone down the rock the whitening stream descends,
    And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends.
    Dim-seen, thro' rising mists, and ceaseless show'rs
    The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding low'rs.
    Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
    And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils--_"

The above never-finished fragment was written by BURNS, with
a pencil, standing by the Fall of Fyers (now called Foyers), near Loch
Ness.


_Shade of_ ROBERT BURNS, _loquitur_:--

    O "brither Scots," and is it thus,
    For all your patriotic fuss
      O'er names and sic-like trifles,
    Ye can stand by whilst soulless Trade,
    With greedy pick, and grubbing spade,
      Old Scotia's charms so rifles?
    How well the hour my heart recalls,
      When, fired by all the Muses,
    I strove to honour Foyers Falls!
      But now my song refuses
        Its singing, swift-springing,
          At sight of Scotia's charms,
        My song now is wrung now
          With patriot alarms.

    That I, "for poor auld Scotland's sake,
    Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
      Or sing a sang at least,"
    Was aye my wish. But, Scotland dear,
    What is this shameful news I hear,
      That racks your poet's breast?
    That ruthless commerce, spreading wide,
      Will stain the shores of Ness,
    And turn those mossy floods aside
      I sang--with some success?
        That Beauty and Duty--
          It sure _must_ be a hum!--
        A Scot still can blot still,
          For--Aluminium!

    I know my country's love of "brass."
    'Tis loth to let a bawbee pass,
      A saxpence bid go bang.
    Yet "Caledonia stern and wild,"
    Rather than see these Falls defiled,
      Should bid gross gain go hang!
    Fancy those "rocky mounds" replaced
      By refuse-heaps--alack!--
    And all the "heathy hills" defaced
      By smoke and chimney-stack!
        A tunnel?--Each runnel,
          In river and cascade,
        Seems shouting, and flouting
          The claims of tasteless Trade.

    And shall a private company
    In interests of mere £ s. d.
      Rob Ness of Beauty's dower?
    Shall Scotland in new-born stupidity
    Pander to sordid Trade's cupidity
      To get cheap water-power?
    Monopoly tap the torrent-stream,
      And "viewless Echo's ear"
    Be harried by the hideous scream
      Of railway whistles near?
        I'm firèd, inspirèd!
          The Muse, though mild and meek,
        Now dashing, eye-flashing,
          Assures me I _must_ speak!

    Scotland may list her BURNS'S song
    And stay, ere all too late, a wrong
      To beauty and herself.
    She's not so fast midst Mammon's thralls
    As sacrifice her noblest Falls
      To paltry greed of pelf.
    If she'll not heed the patriot's cry,
      She'll heed the poet's jingle.
    The prospect fires the Ploughman's eye,
      And makes his heart strings tingle.
        Ye're no men, nor wo-men,
          As Scots ye're false and fickle,
        Should Trade thus degrade thus
          The Falls to a poor trickle.

    Where are ye, bardlings, full of fire,
    Who tune to-day a Scottish lyre?
      Where is your sounding line?
    No stirring stanza can ye spare?
    Faith, Sirs, this aluminium scare
      Should waken all the Nine!
    Ah! could I hand my lyre to Lang,
      Loch Ness should echo loud
    To such a strain as ne'er yet rang
      In ears of Mammon's crowd.
        Wake "WULLIE"! 'Twon't sully
          _Your_ fame, you grand old Scot!
        For what land like Scotland
          Should raise your ire red-hot?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ACCOMMODATING.

_Old Lady._ "NOW THEN, WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

_Joe the Tramp._ "I AIN'T PERTICKLER, LADY. WHAT 'AV' YER
GOT?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

In France female enterprise knows no limit and no law. CELESTINE
JOLIVET of Belleville--who has a jolly "vay" about her--discovered
a son of Mars asleep. "Not hers to reason why hers but his togs
to try," so she promptly relieved the slumbering warrior of his
uniform and transferred it to her own person, and--doubtless to
"cover" the loan--left her own petticoats by the side of the sleeping
soldier. Poor _Piou-piou_ had a rude awakening, and was compelled
to don the girl's garments, in which unwarlike garb he reached the
barracks. CELESTINE was apprehended, and got fifteen days.
OFFENBACH would have given her eighteen months.

       *       *       *       *       *

GEORGIE'S AND JACKY'S HOLIDAYS.

(_An Extract from the Note-book of Mr. Barlow the Younger._)

[Illustration]

I am quite sure that, had my revered grandsire survived--as a matter of
fact, he passed away some time ago, leaving a valuable connection--he
would have moved with the times. In his day he certainly did his best
to amuse his pupils by telling them agreeable and instructive stories,
but he did not actually join in their sports. I, his descendant, pursue
the even tenor of my way on a different tack. I have two lads staying
with me during the vacation. Their parents are residing in the Indian
portion of the British empire and the Australian colonies. They are
bright, intelligent boys, full of high spirits, and yet gifted with an
amount of common sense much in advance of their comparatively tender
years. GEORGIE BARNWELL is generous to a fault. He will borrow
sixpence of a friend to-day, and give half of it to a beggar to-morrow.
His companion, JACKY RUSH, is more economical. He, too, will
borrow sixpence to-day and supplement it, if possible, by a further
loan on the morrow. Consequently JOHN is richer, as a rule,
than GEORGE.

"See, Sir," said RUSH to me a morning or so since, "what I
have got. Thanks to the kindness of some acquaintances with longer
purses than my own, I have acquired a fishing-rod."

"Which I trust you will not allow him to use," put in
BARNWELL, impulsively. "He is considerably my junior, and
I fear that, were he to fish, he might be drawn by the strength of
the current into the water, and possibly be drowned. Such a calamity
would be a terrible thing to his parents. What would make such a blow
the more acute would be the expense of the telegram conveying the
lamentable news to India. On these grounds, revered Sir, I trust you
will forbid him the use of the fishing-rod."

"I believe the apprehensions of my comrade are unnecessary," said
sensible JACKY. "I feel convinced, however, that they spring
from the best motives, as he refused to have anything to do with the
purchase of the rod, on the score that he thought I would be tempted to
use it. Now that I have bought it with my own money----"

"Your own money," observed GEORGIE, with a smile.

"With money that has passed into my possession," amended the younger
lad, "I shall be glad to sell the rod at a considerable discount if
such a financial arrangement can be entertained by my well-intentioned
companion."

"I am sincerely grieved," replied BARNWELL to this invitation,
"to have to say 'No.' A rather extensive purchase of Japanese caramel
cannon-balls has entirely exhausted my pecuniary resources. But I
am willing to meet JACKY half way. As he has bought the
fishing-rod, I shall be glad to hold it for him when we get to the
landing-stage, where we propose commencing our search for the denizens
of the vasty deep."

It will be noticed by the observant that up to this point the
conversation had been conducted in well-chosen words. "Literary
elegance in diction" is one of the many extras that appear in the bills
delivered quarterly (and payable in advance) to the parents of my
cherished charges. To my surprise and annoyance JACKY, instead
of retorting with courtesy, merely placed his right hand level with his
face, extended the fingers, and allowed the thumb to touch the nose.

"You will see, Sir," said GEORGIE, much shocked at this
vulgarity, "that my companion at times is lost to all sense of shame.
If you are kind enough to turn aside for a moment, I shall be glad to
accomplish a feat known amongst the prize fighters of the earlier part
of the present century as punching some one's head."

[Illustration]

I complied with my pupil's request, and for some little while there
were sounds not entirely unsuggestive of lamentation. Sounds which
seemed to cause no little amusement to an observant 'Arry.

Our walk to the place of fishery after this little incident was
uneventful. When we reached the spot, a rough-looking mariner was in
attendance with what subsequently appeared to be a bag of bait.

"Morning gents, all," said the sailor, respectfully; "I have got
what you want. But be careful how you touch them, as they are nasty
customers."

This warning was necessary, for GEORGIE (who is of an
inquiring character) had placed his hands amongst the worms with
results. He uttered an exclamation of pain. "Ah, I thought so!" cried
the mariner, looking at my charge's travel-stained palm; "you have been
bitten by a blue doctor. Well, all you have to do is to climb up to the
moat under that there castle and find some mote weed. Put the weed on
the spot and the pain will go like magic."

"But its quite a mile up hill," observed the still depressed
BARNWELL. "What shall I do while I am going? It hurts me
fearfully."

"My dear GEORGIE," said JACKY, who had now reassumed
his customary demeanour, "pray be guided by the advice of this worthy
and experienced person. I feel sure that what he recommends is
salutary. And as to what you should do while mounting the undoubtedly
lofty heights leading to the castle's moat, I would recommend a policy
of cheerful submission. Bear it, my dear boy, with fortitude, and smile
while you perform the heroic operation. During your absence, I myself
will hold the fishing-rod. This concession should tend to assuage your
anguish. And, in conclusion, let me hazard the hope that when you
return from the moat with your hand convalescent, after an application
of moat weed, you will find that I have had good sport. I trust to be
in a position to present you with either a specimen of a salmon, a
sole, a flying fish, or a tittlebat--of course, any one or all of them
for a suitable consideration."

GEORGIE waited no longer, but hastened away after kicking in
the direction of his cherished companion.

"It's a painful bite when you ain't accustomed to it," observed the
mariner. "Not that I mind 'em. Look here, all them's bites and stings."

And the man stretched forth his hand, which was certainly covered with
a variegated assortment of scars.

"What did that?" asked JACKY, with a stronger feeling of
curiosity than an appreciation of grammar.

"That was done, Sir, by a spiteful cat," replied the mariner. "It is a
nasty worm is the spiteful cat. Cut them up into halves and they will
bite you still. But there, the fish is awful fond of them! Why, these
here blood-clotters are nothing to them, no more are these lug worms."

With this, the man threw down what appeared to be a small but, for its
size, corpulent sea-serpent.

"It's no good," he exclaimed, scornfully. "The fish won't touch any of
that lot after they've lost their shape. Look at that one, it's foolish
to call it a worm now, ain't it? Now I will take this blue doctor and
bait the line for you. See, I run the hook through the head to the hip.
That will fetch a mullet. It leaves me half. But you must take a whole
one for a codling."

By this time JACKY was standing on the brink of the stage, all
impatient to cast his line into the water. The bait, encumbered by some
nobs of lead, fell with a jerk into the sea.

"You had better take a seat, young master," said the experienced
mariner; "sometimes you get bites by the dozen, at others nothing comes
near you for hours. It's all a toss up. And the fish, too, they are
fanciful. Your dabs and your codlings are demons for rock worms. But
the mullet and whiting want something a bit more tasty."

"If that is the case," said JACKY, who had been from time to
time watching his bait, "do you not think you could find something more
tempting than this attenuated worm, which, so far as I can judge, has
already been diminished in the water of half its stature."

"Well, yes, Sir; I could put on a spiteful cat. If a fish will touch
anything, he will touch spiteful cat."

Then with admirable skill the mariner selected a bait, and in a
twinkling had the hook refurnished.

"I shall be glad to be successful," said JACKY, "as I notice
that my cherished companion, GEORGIE, has obtained the
healing weed, and is rapidly returning from the Castle's moat. He
will be pleased to find that while he has been in pain I have been
enjoying a delightful sport, with no little reward attached to it. If
I were sufficiently fortunate to capture a salmon, no doubt I would
find a ready market for it in London, and thus acquire a sum of money
sufficient to meet all my present necessities, and even to pay back a
portion of the sums that have, during a period extending over years,
been so kindly advanced to me."

Unwilling to waste my time, and finding the occupation of watching
JACKY'S fruitless efforts to rob the mighty deep of its
piscatorial inhabitants somewhat tedious, I had jotted down these
few notes. It was at this moment that JACKY, who had been
ineffectually attempting to charge his hook, suddenly gave me the
bait to hold. I had thus at length an opportunity of making the
close acquaintance of "spiteful cat." The immediate result of the
introduction was the abrupt and painful termination of my literary
labours.

       *       *       *       *       *

"MINE AGAIN."--The _Liverpool Courier_ tells a curious
story of a female miner in "one of the chief Welsh gold mines." She
is, we are informed, "a girl fair to look upon, a colonial, bright,
common-sensible, wayward, musical, a linguist, altogether talented, and
something of a new woman, _yet not_. She is linguist enough to attempt
the Welsh language, perhaps that she may thereby mine the more."
Admirable descriptive diction this! The lady gold-seeker must be not
only a miner, but a Minerva, and if only she succeeds in discovering
a few nuggets she will be able (as a wag might suggest) to purchase a
_pallas_ to live in.

       *       *       *       *       *

CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.

(_By "Hansom Jack."_)

No. 1.--MY MATES AND MY FARES.

[Illustration]

    "_Me and my Fares!_" There's a takingish title for one o' them books
       as they call "Rummynicences!"
    Don't you imagine "Romance on the Rank" must mean dry-as-dust yarns
       about Strikes, Fares and Licences.
    "TREACLE," "LONG BENJY," and "PINEAPPLE BOB," "OLD CURLY,"
       "THE COUNTRYMAN," "GINGER," and "CHICKING,"
    Not naming myself, if it comes to good stories, could give Sherlock
       'OLMES arf a length _and_ a licking.

    Rum names? Lor! that's nothink! You look down a list, in the
      _Sporting Snips_ say, of the 'orses in running,
    And any cab-rank could knock 'oles in the lot, for sheer oddity,
       jumble-up, fancy and funning.
    Many a nickname's a yarn in itself, or leastways suggests one to
       them in the know of it.
    Cabby is like Sir GEORGE LEWIS; _'e_ knows London's seamiest side,
       though 'e mayn't make no show of it.

    Take "CODDY COWSLIP," now! Meaningless muddle, _that_ name, I've no
       doubt, to a fare trim and toffy.
    But git old C. C. on the patter one mornin', say over a Billingsgate
       pheasant and coffee.
    Twig 'is old countryfied dial a-wrinkle with sly, knowing wickedness!
       Lor! it's a beano!
    And yet "CODDY"'s got such a chawbacon chuckle, 'e passes--with them
       as ain't fly--for a greeno.

    What _'e_ don't know about cockney conniverings, _and_ country
       collyfogs, isn't worth knowing.
    Why, 'e's been _everythink_, ploughboy and street-preacher,
       betting-man, jock, "all-a-blowing-a-growing,"
    Pedlar and poacher, 'orse-dealer, and 'earse-driver! Yes, and 'is
       name seems to tell the whole story
    To us as 'ave 'eard it in "COWSLIP'S" soft snuffle, when over a
       toddy-tot, all in 'is glory.

    What _I_ say is this: If a Cabby can't see, and take stock of, the
       life of this wonderful City,
    Perched 'igh on 'is box, with arf town for 'is fares, and 'is eye on
       the other arf, well, it's a pity.
    I've drove BILLY SHIKSPUR'S Seven Ages, _I_ have, and a tidy lot more
       as the Swan never thought on;
    For cabs wasn't up in the days of Queen BESS; though that _Jaques_
       as a Growler I think might 'ave caught on!

    I've known his fair moral in stror bands and capes, 'stead o' cloak and
       trunk 'ose. Ah! If WILLIAM 'ad driven
    A 'ansom ten year--and I guess for the chance all them Venice canals
       and their boats 'e'd ha' given!--
    What plays 'e'd ha' found ready-made to 'is 'ands! Was it DIZZY as
       called us the London Gondolers?
    Well, 'e knowed a thing or two, BENJAMIN did, 'bout Romance; a lot more
       than your stick-in-the-'olers.

    _Romance?_ I could reel you out yarns by the hour, as I've dropped on,
       or 'eard of from others, since cabbing;
    But it's only when Bobby is fair on our track, or there's perks in the
       wind, as we're given to blabbing.
    Trot 'em out in the Shelter sometimes to our pals; some on 'em, I tell
       you, are creepy and twittery,
    Just the right stuff for them "'Aporths of All Sorts" the
       scrap-'unting parties as calls theirselves littery.

    Take railway-stations, theayters, and 'orsepitals, them three alone,
       and, for comic _or_ tragic,
    Imagine the drammers a driver gets glimpses of! Peeps through
       town-winders, too! Tell you, it's magic,
    The way we spot mysteries, caught through a curtain, cock-eyed, from
       our perch nigh the second-floor level,
    In spins through back streets, or the sububs. The world and the flesh,
       my dear Sir,--with a dash of the d----l!

    Me and my fares, _and_ my mates on the Rank, make a pretty big world.
       To a man as loves 'osses,
    A Cabby's life isn't arf bad on the whole, spite of bilks and bad
       weather, hard bosses and losses.
    The grip of the reins, and the flick of the whip, 'ave a fair
       fascination to fellows built _my_ way,
    And dulness--that cuss of the poor!--doesn't 'unt you in spinnin'
       through Babbylon's 'ighway or byeway.

    Dulness! To drowse on the Rank for two hours, or more, waiting a fare,
       isn't sparkling or thrilling,
    And then, p'r'aps, a stingy old mivvey with luggage, as takes yer two
       miles, full, and tips a bare shilling!
    But lively turn-ups are most times on the _tappy_, or just round the
       corner. Cab, Sir! Piccadilly?
    Now if that chalk-face, with the penny-slot mouth, doesn't 'ide a
       grim story or two, send me silly!

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

Now that the World has taken his wife to the sea-side or the Continent,
there is not much demand for heavy literature--especially as the
cost of the over-weight in luggage is something considerable beyond
Calais--and consequently trifles light as air have become the popular
brain-food of the multitude. In the absence of his noble and respected
chief, an Old Retainer of the Baron has read _Telling Stories_,
originally published in the _St. James's Gazette_. The Old Retainer
can honestly declare that the stories are not only worth telling, but
being re-told--in their present form--they are just the things to amuse
the traveller weary of watching the hat-box on the carriage-rack,
or the third-rate mountains fading into distance on the Rhine. He
will turn to them for recreation when he has tired of sight-seeing.
They are, without exception, short, crisp, and interesting. The Old
Retainer would not think of leaving town without them. They would be
more welcome to him than his armour, and quite as necessary as his
weather-worn umbrella. The Veteran Warder, still acting on behalf of
his revered, but far-a-field, captain, has peeped into _The Times
Atlas_, a magnificent volume, worthy of the best traditions of Printing
House Square. The Aged Watchman has sampled the maps, and found them
absolutely accurate in the smallest particulars. The _Atlas_ has
caused the Elderly Sentry to think seriously of quitting his guard,
and journeying to the far North. He has not yet decided upon his
destination. At the moment of writing, his inclination gaily suggest
"Greenland," while his banking-account sternly whispers "Southend or
Herne Bay." In the meanwhile, the Years'-stricken Looker-out remains
at his post, and, with a hand trembling with age and emotion, proudly
appends a signature not his own.

  THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY.

(_An Intercepted Letter._)

[Illustration]

MY DEAR BOB,--I have got your note, sympathising with me on my
sad fate of being "tied to town" in August. Don't cry while you are in
the wood. I can assure you that bricks and mortar are just as pleasant
as green leaves. Not that we do not have the latter. Hyde Park is at
its best, and Battersea is beautiful beyond compare. And mind you, my
lad, it is unnecessary to stroll through either in the height of May
Day fashion. The House is sitting, and the Irish Members are quite
equal to keeping both sides on the move.

And at night we have plenty of gaiety, not only in the Strand, where
_The Shop Girl_ is as popular as ever, but at the Lyric too, where
_The Artist's Model_ is a pattern of prosperity. Then there are the
halls of dazzling delight. _Titania_, at the Alhambra, and _Faust_, at
the Empire, leave nothing to be desired save a lot more of them. So,
my dear young friend do not condole before you have reason. London is
going well and strong, and, while this happens, I can dispense with the
jocular joys of Shrimpington-on-Sea.

  Yours, cheerfully,
  DOLLY.

       *       *       *       *       *

M'CARTHY'S MOTTO (_the wish being father to the
thought_).--"Sic transit gloria REDMONDI!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: UNLUCKY SPEECHES.

_She._ "OH, MR. SORNEY, I AM SO GRATEFUL TO YOU FOR YOUR
THOUGHTFULNESS IN WRITING SO PROMPTLY TO TELL ME OF POOR HARRY'S
ACCIDENT!"

_He._ "PRAY DON'T MENTION IT--I WAS VERY GLAD INDEED TO HAVE THE
OPPORTUNITY OF DOING IT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE CHILDREN'S COUNTRY HOLIDAYS FUND."

It will be remembered that a fortnight since appeared in _Punch_
(Vol. 109, No. 2823) an article entitled "The Country of Cockaigne,"
written as a reminder that the above excellent fund was not only in
existence, but sorely in need of contributions. Since then the appeal
has been answered by the charitably disposed, and acknowledged by the
proper official at head-quarters. It is gratifying to learn that the
paper published in these pages has been of signal service to the young
clients for whom author and artist plied pen and pencil with so much
goodwill. It is not customary to publish "serious" contributions from
voluntary contributors in these columns, but the following extract
from a letter received from the Secretary of the "Children's Country
Holidays Fund" is such pleasant reading that an apology for its
insertion seems superfluous:--

 "'The Country of Cockaigne' has caused such a pressure of work here,
 that I am afraid the ordinary duties of gratitude have been long
 delayed. May I say that we, and here I speak for the London children,
 are very grateful indeed.

 "It was scarcely eleven o'clock last Wednesday when a man came in
 with £1 to send JIMMY and FLORRIE away, and there
 were several more on the same errand at lunch time. Since the article
 appeared we have received £1,334 11_s._ 6_d._--of this over £500 has
 been sent with special mention of _Punch_, and considerably more
 than this is undoubtedly due to it.... One father, speeding away to
 Switzerland with his family, read _Punch_ in the train, and scribbled
 a note in pencil that he wanted to help before going on his holiday,
 and wrote a cheque for £7--at Dover station."

Then the writer says that many of the contributors to the Fund
wanted to know whether JIMMY and FLORRIE were real
children, and concludes with an expression of "heartiest thanks to all
concerned." Of course, JIMMY and FLORRIE are children
of the brain, but they are none the less real on that account. They
are types of thousands. A correspondent suggests that the article is
calculated to do so much good that it should be reprinted. This would
be impracticable. However, it is possible to repeat "the Moral"; and
this being so, we give it:--

 "The offices of the Children's Country Holidays Fund are at 10,
 Buckingham Street, Strand, and contributions should be made payable to
 the Hon. Treasurer."

       *       *       *       *       *

HUMPTY-DUMPTY'S SONG.

(_Adapted from "Through the Looking-glass" to the Political Situation_)

  _Humpty-Dumpty_      Diplomacy.
  _Alice_              Public Opinion.

 ["The SULTAN, it seems, has not yet taken to heart the solemn
 warning addressed to him by Lord SALISBURY, and approved by
 the leaders of the Opposition.... The SULTAN alone turns
 a deaf ear to the friendly counsel which it is so _greatly to his
 interest to accept_."--_The Times._]

"The piece I am going to repeat," said HUMPTY-DUMPTY to
ALICE, "was written entirely for your amusement. It goes
thus"--

  I sent a letter to the Turk,
  Bidding him stay his horrid work.

  The Turk delayed two months or three,
  Then sent an answer back to me.

  The Turk's belated answer was,
  "I cannot do it, Sir, _because_----"

  I sent to him again to say,
  "It is your interest to obey."

  He answered, with a sleepy grin,
  "Why, what a hurry you are in!"

  I urged him twice, I urged him thrice.
  He would not listen to advice.

  I took a rod, 'twas large and new,
  Fit for the work I had to do.

  Namely, that lazy Turk to tickle;
  And then I put that rod in pickle.

  The Turk he wrote to me and said,
  "My agents are asleep in bed."

  I wrote to him, I wrote it plain,
  "Then you must wake them up again!"

  I wrote it very large and clear;
  I had it shouted in his ear.

  But he was very stiff and proud;
  He said, "You needn't shout so loud!"

  And he was very proud and stiff;
  He said, "I'll try and wake them, _if_----"

  I put his "answer" on the shelf:
  I said, "I'll wake them up myself!"

  He cried, "No good! The door is locked,
  I've pulled, and pushed, and kicked, and knocked.

  And when I found the door was shut
  I tried to turn the handle, _but_----"

There was a long pause.

"Is that all?" ALICE timidly asked.

"That's all,--_for the present_," said HUMPTY-DUMPTY.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "A TIMPORARY OBSTHRUCTION."

TRUCULENT TIM, THE AMBIGUOUS PATRIOT. "GIT OUT O' THE ROAD, IS
IT? BE AISY NOW--WILL ME CONSCHIENCE LET ME?"

["There was a suggestion on the part of the Government that everyone
was anxious to get away from the House. Some people certainly were
not.... He had no anxiety to get away, but was most anxious to turn the
House to account in the interest of his constituents and the country
generally, though they all meant different things when they used that
expression."--_Mr. T. M. Healy (Louth, N.) in the House of Commons._]]

       *       *       *       *       *

A TRIP "PER SEA."

 _Appetite--Steward--Wandering--The
 Cigar--Umbrella--Suspicions--Judicial--Interrogation--Evidence--Stowaway
 --Verdict--Off--Surmise--Lunch--Afloat--Night--Morning--Away--Landing._

[Illustration]

Suddenly aware of commencement of what promises to be uncommonly fine
and large appetite when it reaches maturity. _Happy Thought._--Find
steward. _Still Happier Thought._--Finding steward, not for the
purpose usually associated with calling for that official on a rough
day between Dover and Calais. On present occasion only to ask him,
when found, the hour of lunch. Somehow he eludes my search. After
wandering about vaguely into several other persons' cabins, I find
myself suddenly on a narrow lower deck. Don't know its technical name.
And now "a strange thing happens." Before me, leaning against a rail,
is the portly, or rather sea-portly, jovial-looking individual, whose
acquaintance I have already made in captain's cabin, thoughtfully
finishing a cigar. By the way, at any period of our too-brief
acquaintance I never see him without cigar, which he is always just
finishing, but never commencing. At this moment his cheery countenance
wears as hard an expression, quite unnatural to it, as it could by
any possibility assume for more than three minutes at a stretch, He
is addressing a flabby, cadaverous-looking individual in seedy black
trousers and coat, one button of which conceals the upper part of a
waistcoat made of some "washing material," and apparently as greatly
in need of the cleansing process as is its wearer. In one ill-shaped,
dirty hand he holds a very superior class of umbrella, with a gold tip
to it. I at once jump to the conclusion that its present possessor,
having come by it dishonestly, has been taken dirty-red handed, and
that my stout acquaintance is a sort of nautical magistrate, authorised
to try such cases by a sort of informal court-martial on board, and
empowered to order the culprit, if found guilty, to be put in irons, or
to be mast-headed, or otherwise dealt with according to maritime law.

Standing in the gangway I become an interested spectator of the trial.
The evidently guilty party, pale as a suet dumpling, and trembling like
a jelly (remarkable culinary combination), is awaiting his sentence.
"Why didn't you go on board the tender with every one else?" asks
my Judicial and Nautical Assessor (I fancy this is the terra in the
Admiralty Court, where, if on shore, he would probably sit attired
in full naval uniform, with a judge's wig on, and a cocked hat a-top
of that). The man mutters something about "didn't hear." "Not hear!"
ejaculates the Assessor, taking a short pull at his cigar and smiling
incredulously, "not hear! when everyone was shouting and rushing
all over the ship!" Personally I can bear witness to these facts;
but, not being called as evidence for the Crown and Anchor, I remain
silent. Why even down in the engine-rooms the stokers must have heard
the shouts for "TUBBS!" It occurs to me suddenly that this
wretched man must have stolen TUBBS' umbrella. But I am at
once enlightened as to the real state of the case. "Look here, my man,"
says the Judicial and Nautical Assessor, as he critically eyes the ash
of his cigar before flicking it off while speaking to the prisoner,
"you said you came on board to see your friends off; you gave their
name as TOMPKINS. Well, there isn't such a name on the books."
This statement seems to come as a "facer" to the cadaverous man, who,
becoming more cadaverous than ever, eyes the deck-rails askance, as if
contemplating a sudden rush and a jump into the water.

"Now, my man," continues the Assessor, with pleasant severity, "you say
you've got friends at Plymouth,"--the man is understood to assent to
this proposition in a despairing sort of way--"and you say they'll pay
for you there." The slightest indication of a cunning smile momentarily
illumines the Job Trotter-like countenance of the prisoner. "Well, we
don't do business on those terms. You give the steward three guineas,
and we'll take you to Plymouth. But if you can't pay--off you go. Here,
steward, you're wanted." And that officer coming up, the miserable
individual with the valuable umbrella (about which no questions have
been asked) is given into his charge by my stout acquaintance, who, as
we enter the smoking-room, says to me in an undertone, "He's a regular
'do.' We've hailed a boat, and he'll be put off in two two's. He wanted
to get his passage free. He's a 'stowaway,' that's what _he_ is."

A stowaway! Up to this moment of cruel disenchantment, my sympathies
have always been with the "stowaway." I imagined him as a poor,
ill-used kind of _Smike_ or _Oliver Twist_, hiding himself away
among the casks in the lowest hold of the vessel, only issuing forth
in the dead of night with the rats and cockroaches, who, suddenly
coming to the upper deck in a terrific storm, steers the ship into
a peaceful haven, saves the captain from a watery grave, and who,
finally, either marries the low high admiral's daughter, or (which
is more affecting) the poor stowaway mutters something about "Home,"
and, gratefully smiling, as he looks up at the now utterly overcome
captain, dies, in the lime-light, to slow music, with his head reposing
on that deeply affected officer's best epaulette. In fact, a sort of
nautical "Poor _Jo_." But this idea is utterly knocked over by the
appearance of the real genuine stowaway, who has such a sneaky, crawly,
strangling-you-asleep appearance, that I own to a feeling of intense
gratification on seeing two men rowing a small boat up alongside (for
which we slack off a bit), while at the same moment the discomfited
sneak with the expensive, and still mysterious, umbrella, who has
descended the lowered gangway, stands on the shaky ledge below as if he
were about to take a plunge--which, indeed, he does; not, fortunately
for him, into the tidal river, but head foremost into the dingy, where
for a second or two he lies sprawling. Regaining his legs, he steadies
himself, and actually has the impudence to wave his hat to us by way
of bidding us farewell, and hoping we'll have a good passage! "And,"
I ask of a sharp-looking little officer, who is superintending the
hauling up of the ladder, "what will become of him? Can he pay those
boatmen?" "Heaven knows!" is the answer, and we drop the subject as we
have already dropped the miserable object. At the last he will have to
give up that umbrella, worth quite a guinea, in payment for being taken
ashore. And then--... alas! poor _Job Trotter_ the Stowaway! I'm afraid
a good seven years is in store for him on some count or other; and, may
be, that's about the best that can happen to him.

The bugle-call. Bugle sounded by mysterious person in plain clothes,
who, like myself, "comes out for a blow." After this he is "heard no
more," until, at six P.M., he sends out his notes "_de faire
part_," _i.e._, to inform the company that it is time to dress for
dinner. At 6.30 he gives a good hearty blow out, cheerily announcing
the last meal of the day. Then he vanishes till next morning at
breakfast-time.

_One o'clock._--Such a prodigal luncheon as is provided only on board
ship. Most appropriate name, "Liners." At meal times we are all
"liners," and very plentifully do we line. Only on board one hour, and
my appetite is _Dominie Sampsonish_, _i.e._, "prodi-gi-ous!"

After lunch--with the essential Oriental curry--the necessary cigar
and coffee-cum-liqueur; we talk as we pace the deck up and down and
round and round, occasionally stopping to remark on the coast scenery,
and to puzzle out the exact localities of the best known places from
Whitstable to Dover.

So passes a fine and most enjoyable afternoon; then more bugle, capital
dinner, band playing, lively conversation, cigars and coffee, more
pacing deck, storytelling, game of cards, music, piping (no dancing),
grogging, and so to bed at an earlyish hour, to sleep soundly,
undisturbed even by solos on the fog-horn which, I am subsequently
informed, were of frequent occurrence, until the polite Commander
of the Bath knocks at cabin door to inform me that it is seven
A.M., and that the warm sea bath awaits me.

[Illustration]

_L'appétit vient en baignant_, and while walking the deck we gratefully
welcome the bugler who bugles us to breakfast. We rush down. False
alarm! It is only the politeness of the bugler, who beforehand, so
that no one shall be taken by surprise, gives us the note of warning,
letting us know thereby that, in half-an-hour, breakfast will be, so to
speak, "under weigh!" Fair start for all.

_Nine A.M._--Lions feeding not in it with us sea-dogs. What a
breakfast! as if we were not going to be within reach of food for the
next fortnight. We are all taking in stores hand over hand.

Alas! when next the bugle sounds for lunch we shall not be there! For,
as the clock strikes one, a tender from Plymouth arrives to fetch us,
and in a pelting shower we leave the good ship _Orotava_, taking with
us our chief cheery companion; and after bidding adieu to the other
cheery companions on board, we (a small party of three) take train
from Plymouth, S. Devon, to Ilfracombe, N. Devon, traversing as pretty
a line of country as is to be found in England. And so we begin our
holiday, and advise everyone to do likewise and enjoy the trip as much
as we did, and a holiday as much as we intend to do.

       *       *       *       *       *

Rhyme by a Rad.

  CHAMBERLAIN thinks the old, old Tory mind,
    Has changed in love of privilege, power, pelf:
  Say what JOE will, _our_ eyes he cannot blind;
    _We_ know that his Tory repeats itself!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: COMING TO A FULL STOP.

_Driver of bolting tandem_ (_to Rector, who has accepted a lift across
the park_). "ALL RIGHT, MR. PORTLEY--DON'T BE FRIGHTENED! THE SUNK
FENCE IS SURE TO STOP 'EM!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE INDEPENDENT FEATHER PARTY.


_First Partridge._ Hallo! Goin' strong on the wing?

_Second Partridge._ So, so, dear bird. What prospects for the openin'?

[Illustration]

_F. P._ Nothin' cheerful. Agricultural depression and Death Duties and
Pariah Councils and all that. Hear they're goin' to make allotments in
our beanfield.

_S. P._ Yes, and the Anti-Shootin' League and the claptrap against the
Lords. It's very depressin'. However, with a sportin' Government in,
things will be lookin' up.

_F. P._ Takes time, my feathered one, takes time. Why, they're still
sittin' with the season just comin' on. Hear it's doocid dull in town,
too, with the pavin' up in the Mall and all that.

_S. P._ Where do you get the club talk from, old rooster?

_F. P._ Bird I know keepin' over in the roots. Pal of a poacher that's
thick with one of these West End game-mongers. Get the latest from
him. Hear HEALY and TANNER and that lot are on the
war-path, and heaven only knows when the House will be up.

_S. P._ Wouldn't have mattered much in the good old days before the
guv'nor let the shootin' to the brewin' Member. Lords never did a
stroke of work after the Twelfth; but these Commoners ain't born
and bred among the turnips. Only take the shootin' for the sake of
appearances.

_F. P._ Yes; and I hear that the brewin' fellow's given the first
week's sport to three of these New Women.

_S. P._ Means a bad time for us--blazin' into the brown, and all that.
Give me the right kind of sport, I say, and a fly for my money. With
these 'prentice hands you never know where you are, don't you know?
Bound to fly into the pips some day or other.

_F. P._ And probably no dogs to give you a wrinkle how things lie.
Keepers won't bring 'em out at any price. Say it's chancy enough for
themselves and the beaters, without riskin' a decent-bred setter. Lost
three and a half brace of clippin' Gordons with two New Women guns last
season over the other side of the county.

_S. P._ Goin' in for co-operation this year? What do you think of the
covey system?

_F. P._ Played out, dear bird. Social fads a bit off colour, don't you
know, in these Tory days. Individualism, I say, and let every fowl sit
tight for himself, especially with this wild shootin' goin' on. Family
ties a little loose, too, this end of the century. Look at the Divorce
Courts.

_S. P._ No chance of Protection, I suppose?

_F. P._ Afraid not. You see they're keepin' JIMMY LOWTHER
quiet with a heavy job on Committees. By the way, I see
BRODRICK'S gettin' in a lot more ammunition for small-arms.
Glad it's smokeless powder. Old stuff used to knock the landscape about
badly. Then, again, apart from the view, must say I like to see where
I'm flyin'.

_S. P._ Pity CHAPLIN didn't get laid on to our department.
Hear he had a notion for a bi-metallic gun; dead safe to settle
agricultural depression.

_F. P._ Well, anyhow, ROSEBERY did us the compliment to make
our last man a Lord; though perhaps it was a covert insult, seein' he
was boomin' against the Upper Chamber. Take it all round, I'm for a
Tory Government. One of their openin' moves, you see, is to put the
First on a Sunday. That's a bit sportsmanlike.

_S. P._ Yes, but they're a mixed lot--this coalition. Tell me that J.
C. don't know a muzzle from a butt-end! However, here's luck and rude
health to all good sportsmen. _Vive le Sport!_ I'm off with the missus
for a mornin' fly. Ta-ta!

  [_Exeunt._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RATIOCINATION.

_Rector._ "DUGGAN, ATTENTION! AS YOU'RE AN OLD BALACLAVA SOLDIER, I
AM INCLINED TO MAKE ALLOWANCES; BUT THIS IS THE THIRD TIME I HAVE SEEN
YOU UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF DRINK! HOW IS THIS?"

_Sexton._ "WELL, YOU SEE, SIR, WHEN I GO DOWN TOWN, ONE FELLOW
SAYS, 'DUGGAN, WILL YOU HAVE A DRINK?' AND ANOTHER SAYS THE SAME, AND I
GET DRUNK WITHOUT KNOWING IT!"

_Rector._ "BUT, DUGGAN, WHEN I GO DOWN TOWN, NO ONE ASKS ME TO TAKE
A DRINK!"

_Sexton._ "YES; BUT YOU'RE NOT NEARLY SUCH A POPULAR MAN, YOU
SEE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A LESSON FROM THE NEW LIZARD.

(_By a Worritted One._)

 [The Frilled Lizard--_Chlamydosaurus Kingi_--from Roebuck Bay, Western
 Australia, a recent addition to the Zoo, is believed to "elevate its
 frill when angry or excited"; but as no power on earth seems to make
 it excited or angry, its frill never shows to advantage.]

  Oh _Chlamydosaurus!_ You spread out before us,
    If not your fine frill, an example!
  With lizards to live what a deal would one give,
    At least, if they're all up to sample!
  Oh, thing enigmatic, lethargic, lymphatic,
    True type of the _eadem semper_;
  Your finery gay you can't rightly display,
    For lack of that trifle--a temper!
  If creatures more human--especially woman--
    Were like you in dress and in diet,
  And perfectly willing to sacrifice frilling,
    And other mere show-things, to quiet.
  'Twould bring us all balm, for our world would be calm
    As though stilled by the wand of a wizard.
  But ladies are few who will learn at the Zoo
    The true secret of life--from a lizard.

       *       *       *       *       *

New Name for the "New Woman."

  Unsexed, factitious, foolish, coarse, inhuman!
  She's not the New, she's but the "Novel" Woman.

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Tuesday, August 20, 2.18 A.M._--New
Members, and some who sat in last Parliament, have had opportunity
to-night of tasting old times at Westminster. As R. G. WEBSTER
pointedly observes, "TIM HEALY has drawn his shillelagh, and
thrown away the scabbard." Here is House of 670 Members, in Session
in obedience to constitutional conditions. Must needs meet on 12th
of August; but every man, or nearly everyone, chiefly anxious to get
necessary business over as soon as possible, and so off to moor or sea,
or quiet home in long-severed country across the Irish Sea or beyond
the Tweed. TIM HEALY has introduced Bill to amend Municipal
Franchise in Ireland; wants to carry it through all its stages, and
send it on to Lords before Prorogation. "Only a little one," he pleads.
PRINCE ARTHUR points out if exception made in one case will be
claimed in others. Can't oblige TIM.

"Very well," says the Implacable One; "then see what it will cost you.
No Bill no holiday, at least not as long as I can stand on floor and
raise my voice."

All through the long sitting TIM been to the fore. No matter
what subject, it served for him to take objection, and in most cases
division. ATTORNEY-GENERAL wanted to take first reading
Expiring Laws Continuance Bill; a purely formal procedure; a matter
of course at end of each Session. TIM objected. After vain
protest, ATTORNEY-GENERAL retired. PRINCE ARTHUR
moved debate on Limerick election should have particular place on
Agenda. TIM objected. Such a course, he argued, implied
that debate on the dutiful address to most gracious speech from the
throne might be interrupted in favour of any ordinary business.
In voice faltering with emotion TIM resented this slight
upon his Sovereign. Next in enormity was evidence discerned by his
keen vision of demoralising influence of HEMPRER JOE on
Conservative principles. Before the fusion, Conservatives held sacred
all constitutional precedents. Now, with a light heart, they proposed
to flout an ordinance that had prevailed for seven hundred years.

Why seven hundred nobody knew. TIM might have put it at eight
hundred or a thousand; but he is, above all things, a moderate man.

SPEAKER ruled PRINCE ARTHUR'S procedure strictly
in order. SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, coming to rescue of Ministers,
admitted it was a course invariably taken under former Ministry.
TIM took his stand on the British Constitution; put his
protecting arms round his affronted Sovereign; declined to budge, and
the master of many legions surrendered.

The same through long sitting, which closes at this moment with
dawn surprising the blushing East. On successive questions--the
suspension of twelve o'clock rule, the SPEAKER leaving Chair
without question put, Chitral, and a long series of formal motions in
Supply--TIM delivered innumerable speeches; took in all ten
divisions. Once, House being cleared for division, he, in conformity
with quaint requirements of the moment, remained seated with hat on,
contesting points of order with SPEAKER. Alone he did it.
Although from fifty to a hundred Members went out to vote with him,
none felt capable of joining in his masterly controversy with the
masterful SPEAKER.

[Illustration: Tim takes the leading part in the performance of _Much
Ado about Nothing_, by the John Daly Company.

"We shall stay here at least a month; and he (Benedick) heartily prays
some occasion may detain us longer."

 _Much Ado_, &c., Act I., Sc. 1.]

Hard lines for new SPEAKER; in Chair for nearly twelve hours,
incessantly on the watch. But, as SARK says, the game has
for him been well worth burning the candle at both ends. To-night's
sitting has finally established his position in the Chair.

_Business done._--Address agreed to.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Tuesday._--SARK, whose knowledge of SHAKSPEARE is
extensive and peculiar, goes about humming:--

  Ban, ban Caliban.
  Got new House Commons;
  Get new Chair_man_.

This accomplished to-night in simplest fashion. Two hours discussion
of Limerick's flash of humour in having elected to represent it in
Parliament a gentleman languishing in one of Her Majesty's prisons.
This disposed of, House went into Committee of Supply. But as yet we
have no Chairman. MELLOR'S unrequited labours closed with life
of last Parliament. SARK always says justice never done to
MELLOR.

"A painstaking, upright, courteous gentleman," he testifies. "Much
too good for obstruction's daily food in Chair of Committees. If
he had a fault tending to incapacitate him for Chair, it was the
extreme geniality of a nature that made him shrink from giving pain.
He came into office at an epoch of exceptional difficulty. LYON
PLAYFAIR had bad time when he was hampered by well-organised,
ruthless obstruction led by PARNELL. Obstruction to the
Home-Rule Bill throughout first session of MELLOR'S
chairmanship not less ably led, for JOE, not yet come to
Imperial estate, was much to the fore. It was certainly not less
ruthless; numerically was in treble force. To obfusticate the Chairman
was easiest, most effective way of delaying progress of Bill through
Committee; MELLOR suffered accordingly. The order of things
should have been reversed. MELLOR should come to Chair to-day.
LOWTHER should have had his job in Session of 1893. JAMES
W. is endowed in marked degree with the quality of phlegm
invaluable to Chairman in troublous times. What worried sensitive
nature of MELLOR would have flurried him no more than bucket
of water cast over a duck's back."

"I was made a corporal just in time," said PRIVATE HANBURY,
musing over recent turns in wheel of fortune. "With JAMES W.
in the Chair, I would rather have charge of the Estimates than be
engaged in obstructing their passage."

HERMON HODGE, after enjoying the fresh air of the country
for three years, comes back to House and loftily complains of the
atmosphere. "Is the first Commissioner of Works aware," he inquired,
"that in the early part of the afternoon there was a most horrible
smell of drains at the bar of the House?"

"Hoightytoighty!" said JOHN WILLIAM. "What does the man mean?
What is he doing at the bar if he objects to the smell of what he calls
drains, meaning nips? What is the particular flavour that offends his
sensibilities? Is it whiskey or rum? Who is he that he should interfere
with the private tastes of hon. Members? To complain of the smell
of drains at the bar at a time when the British electorate have, by
overwhelming majorities, declared against any tampering with The Trade
interests, is too much from a man who has shared in the benefit derived
on our side by the wholesome current of public opinion."

[Illustration: "John William" (M-cl-re) in unwonted state of agitation.]

Never saw JOHN WILLIAM so put about. Usually brimming over
with good living and fine feeling.

_Business done._--Some votes in Committee of Supply.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Wednesday._--STANLEY delivered maiden speech. Did it very
well, too. A double contribution to success. First, subject (slave
trade in Africa) one of which he knows something. Second, he made no
effort to orate. Hooked his arm, so to speak, with that of Chairman
of Committees; walked him up and down, talking in colloquial fashion.
Has good voice, which doesn't need uplifting; in the higher notes one
catches the faint echo of a foreign tongue.

Sharing pleasure of Committee at his speech, he volunteered a second.
Dangerous experiment this. But particular incentive gave it a turn of
fresh attraction. PARKER SMITH, criticising first speech, and
differing from its conclusions, accused STANLEY of trading on
his reputation. Ever seen a boy in the playing-ground go up to another,
clench his fists, hoist his right shoulder, and ask him to "say that
again"? Thus STANLEY to PARKER SMITH, sitting on same
bench near him. Of course he put thing in Parliamentary fashion.

"I don't recollect," he drawled, "saying anything to inspire my hon.
friend to make such a charge, and"--here he bent over P. S., fixing
him with glittering eye--"I beg he won't make any such remarks in the
future."

Before fervered fancy of Member for Partick there lashed a vision of
two new books from pen of the great explorer. The first volume was
entitled _How I Found Parker Smith_. The second bore the legend _How
I Left Him_. Only one thing to do. Apologise. This P. S. did with
alacrity.

[Illustration: Stanley Falls--on his feet!

Clothes presumably by Stanley (Pool).]

_Business done._--Two votes in Committee of Supply.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Saturday_, 1.40 A.M.--Another late sitting, chiefly owing to
Truculent TIM. That depressing; but Members wend their way
homeward hurt by crueller blow. Will be remembered that in last Session
of old Parliament HOWARD VINCENT made great hit. Came down to
the House clothed, not only with chastity, but with mats, strips of
carpet, brushes, frying-pans, fish-kettles, and other household goods,
all, as he said, made in foreign prisons. Those present during sitting
will never forget curious illusion of caudal appendage occasioned by
accident of handle of one of the frying-pans, thrust in hon. Member's
coat-tail pocket, sticking out at angle of forty-five degrees.

General effect was that House, in flush of generous indignation, passed
resolution calling upon Government forthwith to prohibit importation
of prison-made brushes and the rest. Committee appointed, and first
discovery made was that the brush HOWARD VINCENT negligently
dandled in hand whilst he temporarily painted out Ministerial majority,
was not, as represented, of prison manufacture, but (SARK
adds) was secretly bought by the gallant colonel at Army and Navy
Stores!

BRYCE, who on eve of foreign voyage, solemnly made first part
of this declaration. Said nothing more. But confidence once broken,
House begins to suspect the _bona fides_ of the frying-pans, the early
history of the fish-kettles.

_Business done._--More votes in Supply.

       *       *       *       *       *

LEGAL LUNCHING.--The energetic enterprise of journalism stops
at nothing in catering for the curiosity of the public. The _Birmingham
Mail_ tells how the different judges "refresh themselves in the half
hour adjournment during assizes." It is exceedingly interesting to
know that Justice HAWKINS "takes nothing," and that Baron
POLLOCK "contents himself with a large cup of chocolate and a
biscuit." Moreover, how gratifying it is to be assured that "no judge
takes a substantial luncheon while engaged in Court." All such matters
are of the greatest moment.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TRUE "GENERAL ELECTION."--The election of Lord
WOLSELEY to be Commander-in-Chief.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW PARLIAMENTARY PROVERB.--Manners make the man, but
TANNERS the Irishmen!





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, August 31, 1895" ***

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