



Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Shanna D. Bokoff, and the
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[Illustration: PUNCH VOL CVII]

LONDON:

PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE, 85, FLEET STREET,

AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS,

1894.




LONDON:

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PREFACE.]

SCENE--Mr. PUNCH'S _Sanctum at "the Season of the Year." Enter_ Sir
ROGER DE COVERLEY _and_ Dr. SYNTAX.

"You may not recognise me, Mr. PUNCH?" quoth the old Knight, with
stately modesty.

"Not recognise Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY?" rejoined Mr. PUNCH, urbanely.
"Why, even disguised as a Saracen's Head--ha! ha! ha!--I should know
those well-loved lineaments."

"I perceive, indeed," said the Knight, with scarcely-veiled complacency,
"that you have perused my friend ATTICUS-ADDISON'S all-too flattering
account of me and my several adventures."

"I know my _Spectator_ by heart," replied Mr. PUNCH. "Nor," added he,
turning to the quaint, black-vestured, bob-wigged figure at Sir ROGER'S
elbow, "are Dr. SYNTAX'S Tours unfamiliar to my memory. Like yourself, I
can say--

  'You well know what my pen can do,
  And I employ my pencil too.

  I _ride_, and _write_, and _sketch_, and _print_,
  And thus create a real mint;

  I _prose_ it here, I _verse_ it there,
  And _picturesque_ it everywhere.'"

"Marvellous man!" cried Dr. SYNTAX, lifting his eyebrows until they
almost met the downward curve of his tilted wig.

"TOBY," cried Mr. PUNCH, "call for clean pipes, a roll of the best
Virginia, a dish of coffee, wax candles, and the Supplement (otherwise
my Christmas Number). Tell them, TOBIAS, to follow with a bowl of
steaming punch--my own particular _merum nectar_--and Sir ROGER shall
see what I have forgotten of his story, his tastes, and the duties of
Amphitryon!"

In two minutes the Illustrious Trio were "making the centuries meet"
under the benignly blending influences of Good Tobacco, Sound Tipple,
and Cheery Talk.

"And how fares 'Our Village' (to quote Miss MITFORD) in these
revolutionary days?" queried Dr. SYNTAX.

Mr. PUNCH smiled, and promptly quoted:--

  "'And liquor that was brew'd at home
  Among the rest was seen to foam.
  The Doctor drank, the Doctor ate,
  Well pleased to find so fair a treat.

  Then to his pipe he kindly took,
  And, with a condescending look,
  Call'd on his good Host to relate
  What was the Village's new state.'"

"Exactly so," cried the pursuer of the picturesque, profoundly flattered
by Mr. PUNCH'S prodigious memory.

"Aye, prithee, Mr. PUNCH," said the old Knight, seriously, "tell us what
means all this new-fangled nonsense of Parish Meetings, Village
Councils, Hodge pitchforked into power, and Squire and Parson out of it,
and I know not what revolutionary rubbish and impious absurdity?"

"It means, my dear Knight," replied Mr. PUNCH pleasantly, "that power
and responsibility, otherwise the Village Vote, are, like a new
IPHIGENIA, to rouse the rustic CYMON into manhood and manners, till he
of whom it was said that

  'His corn and cattle were his only care,
  And his supreme delight, a country fair,'

shall learn to rule not only himself, but his own village. You remember
your DRYDEN, Sir ROGER?"

"Humph!" groaned the Knight, "too well, too well!

  'A judge erected from a country clown'

might do well enough in poetry, but may mean ruin in practice. My
misguided and stubborn friend, Sir ANDREW FREEPORT, should have lived to
see this day, and acknowledge the prescience of the testy old Tory he
was wont to deride."

"Tilly-vally, my dear Sir ROGER," returned the host, cheerily; "trouble
not thine honest soul with such gruesome forebodings. 'The old order
changeth, yieldeth place to new.' But 'tis 'lest one good custom should
corrupt the world.' CYMON, _with_ a vote, will not capsize the
Commonwealth, any more than the British workman hath done, despite the
prognostications of BOB LOWE and other cocksure clever ones. I'll see
that the 'Good Old Times' are not banished, save to give place to Better
New Ones! The New Village, Dr. SYNTAX, may not be quite as
picturesque--in the old artistically dilapidated, damp, dirty,
disease-gendering sense--as the old one. As you yourself said--

  'Though 'twill to hunger give relief,
  There's nothing _picturesque_ in beef.'

No, nor are cleanliness, sanitation, education, fair wage, an
independent spirit, and the capacity for self-government. These things,
dear Doctor, make the Man, not the Picture, and Man-making is--or should
be--the aim of modern statesmanship."

"Mr. PUNCH," said Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY earnestly, "my only wish is that
Merry England, in going in for the New Politics may not lose the old
humanities and humours and heartinesses."

"As described, Sir ROGER, in your own words, of which your presence and
the festive season, remind me:

     'I have often thought that it happens very well that Christmas
     should fall out in the middle of winter. It is the most dead,
     uncomfortable time of the year, when the poor people would suffer
     very much from their poverty and cold, if they had not good cheer,
     warm fires, and Christmas gambols to support them. I love to
     rejoice their poor hearts at this season, and to see the whole
     village merry in my great hall. I allow a double quantity of malt
     to my small beer, and set it a-running for twelve days to everyone
     that calls for it.'"

          (_The Spectator_, No. 131, Tuesday, July 31, 1711.)

"Trust me, gentlemen," continued Mr. PUNCH, "all that was really
good--like this--in the Good Old Times you know can be preserved in the
Better New Times we hope for. There will be plenty of work for the Sir
ROGERS, the Dr. SYNTAXES, for your humane Vicar, Doctor, and your Squire
HEARTY and Squire BOUNTY, in the New Village as in the old one. We love
the old country customs, but our country dance cannot for ever be to the
same old tune--even the loved and time-honoured one of '_Sir Roger de
Coverley_'!"

"Sir," said the good old Knight, gladly, "you are doubtless right--as
you always are--and I shall return to the Shades greatly solaced both by
your good cheer and your good counsel!"

"Sorry to lose your company so soon!" cried the Fleet Street Amphitryon.
"I perceive, Dr. SYNTAX, that your old grey mare, _Grizzle_, awaits you
at the door. '_Vale! O Vale!_' _You_ ride pillion-wise, Sir ROGER, I
suppose. Well, to cheer your journey, brighten the Shades, and reassure
ye both as to the safety of the New Village under the guidance of the
Old Counseller, take with ye my

One Hundred and Seventh Volume!!"

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 107.

JULY 7, 1894.




[Illustration: MR. PUNCH AT WHITE LODGE, RICHMOND.

"DON'T MAKE A NOISE, OR ELSE YOU'LL WAKE THE BABY"]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

About the reminiscences of GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA there lingers a
before-the-Flood flavour which abashes my Baronite. In _Things I have
Seen, and People I have Known_, two volumes, published by CASSELL, there
is nothing merely modern. The only thing G. A. S. doesn't appear to have
seen was the world in the state of chaos, and almost solitary among the
people he has not known was METHUSELAH. That is an illusion due to the
art of the writer, for, as a matter of fact, his recollections commence
in the year 1839, when he was a boy at school in Paris, snubbed,
fillipped, tweaked, punched, and otherwise maltreated, by way of
avenging Waterloo in his person, and redressing the petty injuries
inflicted upon NAPOLEON at St. Helena by SIR HUDSON LOWE. MR. SALA has
not only lived long, but, like ULYSSES, has travelled much, and has had
singular good fortune in being around when things were stirring. Thus,
for example, in the year 1840, as he happened to be strolling down the
Rue de la Paix, he saw a carriage draw up at a jeweller's shop, escorted
by a troop of shining cuirassiers. In it were two handsomely-dressed
ladies, "in cottage bonnets, with side-ringlets." There was also a
Norman peasant-woman, and in her lap reposed a greatly glorified baby.
One of the ladies was the Duchesse D'ORLEANS, Consort of the Heir
Apparent, and the bundle of pink flesh was the Comte de PARIS, who
seemed at the time to have nothing to do but to grow up to man's estate,
and take his place among the kings of France. Sixteen years later, in
the Rue de Rivoli, MR. SALA saw another carriage; more glittering
cuirassiers; another little pink face; again two little pudgy hands, and
a surrounding wave of lace. Baby number two was the Prince Imperial, and
the scenes culled from the flowery field of the great journalist's
memory mark two memorable epochs in French history. A mere list of the
people MR. SALA has known, and the things he has seen, form of
themselves an enticing, even an exhilarating chapter. THACKERAY and
DICKENS he knew, and worked with, and he throws some fresh light on
their characters. Soldiers, actors, statesmen, kings, murderers, and
_habitats_ of debtors' prisons, have all come under his observation, and
live again in his pages. He is careful to make it clear that this is not
his autobiography. On that he is still engaged. This work, presented as
a sort of _hors d'oeuvre_, effectually serves to whet the appetite, and
makes the world hope he will hurry up with the remaining dishes in the
rare feast. "So says my Baronite, and the Court is with him."

In reply to a question, which is "_not_ a conundrum," at least so says
an Inquirer, as to "why the Baron spells 'sherbet' with two 'r's'
instead of only one," the Baron would remind his interlocutor that,
_firstly_, "genius is above all rules"; that, _secondly_, the Baron
would rather err with two "r's" than have anything to do with a "bet"
when it can possibly be avoided; _thirdly_, that being of a generous
disposition, in this hot weather he loves prodigality in liquids; not
ashamed of avowal. _Finally_, he states that he unconditionally
withdraws the "r" in the second syllable of "sherbert," because in
"sher_bet_" there is no _'ert_ to anyone. So here's to his eminent
Inquirer's jolly good health, says

          THE BOUNTIFUL B. DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOBLESSE OBLIGE.

One of the most pleasing incidents at the opening of the Tower Bridge
was the introduction by the LORD CHAMBERLAIN of the Recorder of London
to H.R.H. the Prince of WALES. "Our Own Special" was not sufficiently
near to hear the dialogue that passed between them, but he has reasons
for believing that Lord CARRINGTON observed to H.R.H., "Sir, I have the
honour to present to your notice Sir CHARLES HALL." Not to be outdone in
courtesy, the Recorder immediately added, "And I, Sir, am delighted to
make known to your Royal Highness Lord CARRINGTON." Then returned the
Prince, with his customary gracious kindliness, "I am rejoiced to meet
two officials of so much distinction; but, do you know,--I fancy we have
met before! Indeed I am certain that the excellent make-up of Sir
CHARLES' wig and the easy carriage of the LORD CHAMBERLAIN could only
have been acquired by long practice on the boards of the Cambridge
A.D.C. I congratulate you my Lord, and you Mr. Recorder upon the
excellent use to which you have put the educational advantages that you
and I have derived from our common _Alma Mater_." At this point the
Tower guns began to be fired, and consequently the remainder of the
conversation was lost in the reverberations of heavy artillery.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "OLD KASPAR." (_Vide Poem, "The Battle of the Budget."_)]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE SOCIETY CRUSH AT HYDE PARK CORNER.

_Constable_ (_in foreground, regulating Carriages and Pedestrians going
North and West, to comrade ditto going East and South_). "'OLD ON THAT
LOT O' YOURN, BOB, WHILE I GITS RID O' THIS STUFF!"

[_Indicates with his left thumb the crush of Loungers who are patiently
waiting his leave and help to get across to "The Ladies' Mile."_]]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BATTLE OF THE BUDGET.

  (_Some Way after Southey's "Battle of Blenheim._")
  "_Old Kaspar_" ... Sir W. V. H-RC-RT.

I.

  It was a summer evening,
    Old KASPAR'S work was done;
  And he before his cottage door
    Was resting in the sun,
  And by him sported on the green
  BUNG'S little daughter, WITLERINE.

II.

  She saw BULL'S youngest, JOHNNYKIN,
    Roll something large and round
  Which he beside the village pump
    In playing there had found;
  He came to ask what he had found
  That was so large, and smooth, and round.

III.

  Old KASPAR took it from the boy,
    And winked a wary eye;
  And then the old man shook his head,
    And with a natural sigh,
  "This is some Landlord's skull," said he,
  "Who fell in our Great Victory!

IV.

  "This jug of ale, my WITLERINE,
    Seems rather thin and flat!
  Eh! 'Budget-Beer,' of the new tap?
    Watered, and weak at that!
  Humph! With it, then, I mustn't quarrel,
  It is that sixpence on the barrel!

V.

  "There is some comfort in this skull.
    Hope there'll be _more_ about!
  Death has its Duties, may have more,
    As rich folk will find out;
  For many wealthy men," said he,
  "Were 'hit,' in our Great Victory!"

VI.

  "Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
    Young JOHNNYKIN he cries;
  And little WITLERINE looks up
    With wonder-waiting eyes;
  "Now tell us of that Budget war,
  And what they whopped each other for."

VII.

  "It was the Rads," old KASPAR cried,
    "That put the Nobs to rout.
  But what we whopped each other for
    Some people can't make out.
  But 'twas a long, hard fight," quoth he,
  "And we'd a well-earned Victory!

VIII.

  "Eaton Hall, Chatsworth, Blenheim, then
    Raised quite a Bitter Cry;
  Dukes said their dwellings they'd shut up,
    (Though that was all my eye!)
  They'd be hard put to it (they said)
  To keep a roof above their head.

IX.

  "With protests loud the country round
    Was ringing far and wide;
  Our 'Predatory Policy'
    (As usual) was decried.
  But such things will attend," said he,
  "A Democratic Victory!

X.

  "They said it was a shocking sight
    After the fight was won
  To see rich Landlords quake with fear--
    And to their lawyers run!
  But things like that, you know, _must_ be
  After a Liberal Victory.

XI.

  "Great terror seized on Brother BUNG;
    The brewers all turned green."
  "That was a very cruel thing!"
    Said little WITLERINE.
  "Nay, nay, you naughty girl!" quoth he;
  "It was a--People's Victory!

XII.

  "And everybody praised the Knight
    Who such a fight did win!"
  "But what good comes of it--to _us_?"
    Quoth little JOHNNYKIN.
  "Ah! _if you live, you'll learn!_" said he;
  "But 'twas a Glorious Victory!

XIII.

  "I don't quite like this Budget-Beer,
    It savours of the pump.
  But--there's a meaning in that skull
    Will make the Landlords jump,--
  Both Peers _and_ Bungs; and _that_," quoth he,
  "Makes it a fruitful Victory!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A great many young ladies have a literary taste just now, and during
this warm weather are _rushing into print_.

       *       *       *       *       *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PART I.--SHADOWS CAST BEFORE.

SCENE I.--SIR RUPERT CULVERIN'S _Study at Wyvern Court. It is a rainy
Saturday morning in February._ Sir RUPERT _is at his writing-table, as_
Lady CULVERIN _enters with a deprecatory air._

_Lady Culverin._ So _here_ you are, RUPERT! Not _very_ busy, are you? I
won't keep you a moment. (_She goes to a window._) Such a nuisance it's
turning out so wet with all these people in the house, isn't it?

_Sir Rupert._ Well, I was thinking that, as there's nothing doing out of
doors, I might get a chance to knock off some of these confounded
accounts, but--(_resignedly_)--if you think I ought to go and look
after----

_Lady Culv._ No, no, the men are playing billiards, and the women are in
the Morning Room--_they_'re all right. I only wanted to ask you about
to-night. You know the LULLINGTONS and the dear Bishop and Mrs. RODNEY,
and one or two other people, are coming to dinner? Well, who ought to
take in ROHESIA?

_Sir Rup._ (_in dismay_). ROHESIA! No idea she was coming down this
week!

_Lady Culv._ Yes, by the 4.45. With dear MAISIE. Surely you knew that?

_Sir Rup._ In a sort of way; didn't realise it was so near, that's all.

_Lady Culv._ It's some time since we had her last. And she wanted to
come. I didn't think you would like me to write and put her off.

_Sir Rup._ Put her off? Of course I shouldn't, ALBINIA. If my only
sister isn't welcome at Wyvern at any time--I say, at _any_ time--where
the deuce _is_ she welcome?

_Lady Culv._ I don't know, dear RUPERT. But--but about the table?

_Sir Rup._ So long as you don't put her near me--that's all _I_ care
about.

_Lady Culv._ I mean--ought I to send her in with Lord LULLINGTON, or the
Bishop?

_Sir Rup._ Why not let 'em toss up? Loser gets her, of course.

_Lady Culv._ _RUPERT!_ As if I could suggest such a thing to the Bishop!
I suppose she'd better go in with Lord LULLINGTON--he's Lord
Lieutenant--and then it won't matter if she _does_ advocate
Disestablishment. Oh, but I forgot; she thinks the House of Lords ought
to be abolished _too_!

_Sir Rup._ Whoever takes ROHESIA in is likely to have a time of it.
Talked poor CANTIRE into his tomb a good ten years before he was due
there. Always lecturing, and domineering, and laying down the law, as
long as _I_ can remember her. Can't stand ROHESIA--never could!

_Lady Culv._ I don't think you ought to say so, really, RUPERT. And I'm
sure _I_ get on very well with her--generally.

_Sir Rup._ Because you knock under to her.

_Lady Culv._ I'm sure I don't, RUPERT--at least, no more than everybody
else. Dear ROHESIA is so strong-minded and advanced and all that, she
takes such an interest in all the new movements and things, that she
can't understand contradiction; she is so democratic in her ideas, don't
you know.

_Sir Rup._ Didn't prevent her marrying CANTIRE. And a democratic
Countess--it's downright unnatural!

_Lady Culv._ She believes it's her duty to set an example and meet the
People half way. That reminds me--did I tell you Mr. CLARION BLAIR is
coming down this evening, too?--only till Monday, RUPERT.

_Sir Rup._ CLARION BLAIR! never heard of him.

_Lady Culv._ I suppose I forgot. CLARION BLAIR isn't his _real_ name
though; it's only a--an alias.

_Sir Rup._ Don't see what any fellow wants with an alias. What _is_ his
real name?

_Lady Culv._ Well, I know it was _something_ ending in "ell," but I
mislaid his letter. Still, CLARION BLAIR is the name he writes under;
he's a poet, RUPERT, and quite celebrated, so I'm told.

_Sir Rup._ (_uneasily_). A poet! What on earth possessed you to ask a
literary fellow down _here_? Poetry isn't much in our way; and a poet
_will_ be, confoundedly!

[Illustration: "What on earth possessed you to ask a literary fellow
down _here_?"]

_Lady Culv._ I really couldn't help it, RUPERT. ROHESIA insisted on my
having him to meet her. She likes meeting clever and interesting people.
And this Mr. BLAIR, it seems, has just written a volume of verses which
are finer than anything that's been done since--well, for _ages_!

_Sir Rup._ What sort of verses?

_Lady Culv._ Well, they're charmingly bound. I've got the book in the
house, somewhere. ROHESIA told me to send for it; but I haven't had time
to read it yet.

_Sir Rup._ Shouldn't be surprised if ROHESIA hadn't, either.

_Lady Culv._ At all events, she's heard it talked about. The young man's
verses have made quite a sensation; they're so dreadfully clever, and
revolutionary, and morbid and pessimistic, and all that, so she made me
promise to ask him down here to meet her!

_Sir Rup._ Devilish thoughtful of her.

_Lady Culv._ Wasn't it? She thought it might be a valuable experience
for him; he's sprung, I believe, from _quite_ the middle class.

_Sir Rup._ Don't see myself why should he be sprung on _us_. Why can't
ROHESIA ask him to her own place?

_Lady Culv._ I daresay she will, if he turns out to be quite
presentable. And, of course, he _may_, RUPERT, for anything we can tell.

_Sir Rup._ Then you've never seen him yourself! How did you manage to
ask him here, then?

_Lady Culv._ Oh, I wrote to him through his publishers. ROHESIA says
that's the usual way with literary persons one doesn't happen to have
met. And he wrote to say he would come.

_Sir Rup._ So we're to have a morbid revolutionary poet staying in the
house, are we? He'll come down to dinner in a flannel shirt and no
tie--or else a _red_ one--if he don't bring down a beastly bomb and try
to blow us all up! You'll find you've made a mistake, ALBINIA, depend
upon it.

_Lady Culv._ Dear RUPERT, aren't you just a little bit _narrow_? You
forget that nowadays the very best houses are proud to entertain
Genius--no matter _what_ their opinions and appearance may be. And
besides, we don't know what changes may be coming. Surely it is wise and
prudent to conciliate the clever young men who might inflame the masses
against us. ROHESIA thinks so; she says it may be our only chance of
stemming the rising tide of Revolution, RUPERT!

_Sir Rup._ Oh, if ROHESIA thinks a revolution can be stemmed by asking a
few poets down from Saturday to Monday, she might do _her_ share of the
stemming at all events.

_Lady Culv._ But you will be _nice_ to him, RUPERT, won't you?

_Sir Rup._ I don't know that I'm in the habit of being uncivil to any
guest of yours in this house, my dear, but I'll be hanged if I _grovel_
to him, you know; the tide ain't as high as all that. But it's an
infernal nuisance, 'pon my word it is; you must look after him yourself,
_I_ can't. I don't know what to talk to geniuses about; I've forgotten
all the poetry I ever learnt. And if he comes out with any of his Red
Republican theories in _my_ hearing, why----

_Lady Culv._ Oh, but he _won't_, dear. I'm certain he'll be quite mild
and inoffensive. Look at SHAKSPEARE--the bust, I mean--and _he_ began as
a poacher!

_Sir Rup._ Ah, and this chap would put down the Game Laws if he could, I
daresay; do away with everything that makes the country worth living
in. Why, if he had his way, ALBINIA, there wouldn't be----

_Lady Culv._ I know, dear, I know. And you must make him see all that
from _your_ point. Look, the weather really seems to be clearing a
little. We might all of us get out for a drive or something after lunch.
I would ride, if _Deerfoot_'s all right again; he's the only horse I
ever feel _really_ safe upon, now.

_Sir Rup._ Sorry, my dear, but you'll have to drive then. ADAMS tells me
the horse is as lame as ever this morning, and he don't know what to
make of it. He suggested having HORSFALL over, but I've no faith in the
local vets myself, so I wired to town for old SPAVIN. He's seen
_Deerfoot_ before, and we could put him up for a night or two. (_To_
TREDWELL, _the butler, who enters with a telegram._) Eh, for me?
just wait, will you, in case there's an answer. (_As he opens
it._) Ah, this _is_ from SPAVIN--h'm, nuisance! "Regret unable to
leave at present, bronchitis, junior partner could attend immediately
if required.--SPAVIN." Never knew he _had_ a partner.

_Tredw._ I did hear, Sir RUPERT, as Mr. SPAVIN was looking out for one
quite recent, being hasthmatical, m'lady, and so I suppose this is him
as the telegram alludes to.

_Sir Rup._ Very likely. Well, he's sure to be a competent man. We'd
better have him, eh, ALBINIA?

_Lady Culv._ Oh, yes, and he must stay till _Deerfoot_'s better. I'll
speak to POMFRET about having a room ready in the East Wing for him.
Tell him to come by the 4.45, RUPERT. We shall be sending the omnibus in
to meet that.

_Sir Rup._ All right, I've told him. (_Giving the form to_ TREDWELL.)
See that that's sent off at once, please. (_After_ TREDWELL _has left._)
By the way, ALBINIA, ROHESIA may kick up a row if she has to come up in
the omnibus with a vet, eh?

_Lady Culv._ Goodness, so she might! but he needn't go _inside_. Still,
if it goes on raining--I'll tell THOMAS to order a fly for him at the
station, and then there _can't_ be any bother about it.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BLASE.

  _Kitty_ (_reading a fairy tale_). "'ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A
    FROG----'"
  _Mabel_ (_interrupting_). "I BET IT'S A PRINCESS! GO ON!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

SONGS OF THE STREETS.

No. I.--BOUQUET DE BABYLON; OR, THE CITIZEN'S EVENING WALK.

  Pheugh! Doctors may talk, but--I've _been for a walk_,
      which they swear will keep down adiposity,
  And preserve your liver from chill and shiver,
      or growing a shrivelled callosity.
  So I put on my hat--for I _am_ getting fat!--
      and I've _been_ for a walk--in the City.
  The result of that walk? Well my mouth is like chalk
      and my eyes feel all smarting and gritty;
  I've got a sore throat from the matter afloat
      in the air. It may sound like a fable,
  But I'm game for betting that London is getting
      one large and malodorous _stable_!!

  Dear days of MCADAM! If _only_ we had 'em,
      with all disadvantages, back again!
  Oh! to hear the rattle of well-shod cattle
      upon the old granite-laid track again.
  But this wooden pavement, e'en after lavement
      is simple enslavement to nastiness,
  For when it is dry 'tis foul dust in your eye,
      and when moist mere malodorous pastiness.
  Oh, slip-sloppy Cabby, this _Bouquet de Babylon_
      sniffs of ammonia horridly,
  And stable-dust flying is terribly trying
      when Phoebus is pouring down torridly!

  My palate quite hot is, my larynx and glottis
      feel like an Augean Sahara,
  I'm frantic with drouth, and the taste in my mouth
      is a mixed Malebolge and Marah.
  The water-carts come; but they're only a hum,
      for the sun and the wind dry it up again,
  And then on manure in a powder impure
      the pedestrian's fated to sup again.
  It's worse than a circus. If men from the "Vorkus"
      were turned on to keep it well swept up,
  There _might_ be improvement. But there's no such movement;
      the dire thorax-torture is kept up.

  Manure-desiccation sets up irritation
      and then inflammation will follow,
  Your tonsils get red, you've a pain in your head,
      and you find it a labour to swallow.
  And as to your nose!--well, I do not suppose
      for that organ reformers feel pity,
  Or I really can't think every species of stink
      would find such ready home in the City.
  There's nothing more foul than your grim Asphalte-ghoul,
      --save that dread Tophet Valley of BUNYAN'S!--
  And then manhole whiffs! Or nose-torturing sniffs
      from the shops that sell "Sausage-and-onions"!!

  What everyone knows is the human proboscis
      this _Bouquet de Babylon_ bothers.
  Surely pavements of wood cannot be very good
      when they lead to such stenches and smothers.
  Ah, Sir, and dear Madam, I'm sure old MCADAM
      --though scientist prigs may prove sceptic--
  Would be welcomed back by the sore-throated pack.
      Mother Earth is the true Antiseptic!!
  And so ends my talk on a late evening walk,
      and the woes of this dashed wooden pavement,
  Which worries my nose, sets my thorax
      in throes, my nostrils stuffs up, till I'm like
      a pug pup, all snorts, sniffs, and snuffles;
      my temper it ruffles; gives me a choked
      lung, and a coppery tongue, a stomach at
      war, and a nasal catarrh; a cough and a
      sneeze, and a gurgle and wheeze; a thirst
      quite immense, and a general sense that
      the bore is intense; and a perfect conviction,
      beyond contradiction, that till
      the new brood paved our city with wood,
      and its air made impure with dust-powdered
      manure, I never was sure that at
      last I had hit on one poor true-born Briton
      who _was_ for a sore-throated slave meant!

       *       *       *       *       *

CABBY'S ANSWERS.

(_To Mr. James Payn's Conundrum._)

["Why does a cabman always indignantly refuse his proper fare?"--JAMES
PAYN.]

  Oh well, becos fare is _not_ fair!
    Becos sech lots o' fares is shabby!
  Becos yer Briton is a bear,
    Or else a blessed ignerent babby!
  Becos bare fare comes bloomin' 'ard,
    And wot is 'ard cannot be "proper"!
  Becos we're worrited by the "Yard,"
    The British Female and the "Copper"!
  Becos if yer takes wot is guv,
    Yer fare thinks 'e's too freely "parted"!
  The more _you_ shows yer "brotherly love"
    The more the fare gets 'arder 'earted.
  Becos if one bob for two mile
    You takes, wivout a botheration,
  Fare sniffs a diddle in yer smile;
    (That's wy we puts on hindignation!)
  Becos "strike-measure" do _not_ pay,
    In sububs lone, with fare's wot's shabby.
  Becos--well fin'lly. _I_ should say,
    Becos Fare's Fare, and Cabby's Cabby!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OUR DECADENTS.

_Flipbutt_ (_the famous young Art-Critic_). "ULLO! WHAT'S THIS PENCIL
SKETCH I'VE JUST FOUND ON THIS EASEL?"

_Our Artist._ "OH, IT'S BY FLUMPKIN--THE IMPRESSIONIST FELLOW ALL YOU
YOUNG CHAPS ARE SO ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT, YOU KNOW. CLEVER, AIN'T IT?"

_Flipbutt._ "_CLEVER!_ WHY, IT'S DIVINE! SUCH FRESHNESS, SUCH NAIVETE!
SUCH A SPLENDID SCORN OF MERE CONVENTIONAL TECHNIQUE! SUCH A----"

_Our Artist._ "ULLO, OLD MAN! A THOUSAND PARDONS! THAT'S THE WRONG THING
YOU'VE GOT HOLD OF! THAT'S JUST A SCRIBBLE BY THIS LITTLE SCAMP OF A
GRANDSON OF MINE. HIS FIRST ATTEMPT! NOT VERY PROMISING, I FEAR; BUT
HE'S ONLY FOUR!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE!"

ENGLAND TO FRANCE.--JUNE, 1894.


  Aye! Long live the Republic! 'Tis the cry
    Wrung from us even while the shadow of death
    Sudden projected, makes us catch our breath
  In a sharp agony of sympathy.
  Her servants fall, but she--she doth not die;
    She strideth forward, firm of foot as Fate,
    In calm invincibility elate;
  The tear that brimmeth, blindeth not her eye,
    So fixed aloft it lowereth not to greet
    The writhing reptile bruised by her unfaltering feet!

  _Vive la Republique!_ How can we who love
    Fair France's charm, and sorrow at her sorrow,
    Better bear witness, on the bitter morrow
  Of her black grief, than lifting high above
  Even the mourning that all hearts must move,
    _That cry_, blent of goodwill and gratulation?
    _Vive la Republique!_ In the whole stricken nation
  Doth not the dumbness of Pretenders prove
    The land's possession by that cleansing fire,
    Which purges patriot love from every low desire?

  Sister in sorrow now, as once in arms,
    Of old "fair enemy" on many a field,
    In valiant days but blind, we will not yield
  To any in that sympathy which warms
  All generous hearts, or love of those gay charms
    Nature and Genius gave you as your own
    To wear, inimitable and alone;
  And now the asp-hearted Anarch's mad alarms
    Make monstrous tumult in the midst of peace
    We cry "let brothers band till Cain-like slayers cease!"

  The slaughtered son you bear from forth the fray,--
    Like some winged Victory, or a Goddess high,
    With steps unshaken, glance that seeks the sky,
  Such as your glorious sculptors shape from clay,--
  Was noble, brave, and blameless; him to slay
    Was the blood-blinded phrenzy of black hate.
    Through him the Anarch struck at your high state,
  Fair choice of France, but baffled crawls away.
    Prone at your feet your faithful servant fell,
    But you stride calmly on, unscathed, invulnerable.

  So may it be till Anarchy's stealthy blade
    Falls pointless, shattered, from its palsied grasp,
    And helpless, harmless as a fangless asp
  It slinks from freedom's pathway, foiled, afraid,
  Whilst the Republic, strong and undismayed,
    With robe unsmirched, its hem no longer gory,
    Strides proudly on the true high path of glory.
  Take, France, a sister's wreath, before you laid,
    In honour of you, and of your hero brave.
    Love's garland shall not fade on gallant CARNOT'S grave!

       *       *       *       *       *

A PUZZLER.

SIR,--I enclose a cutting from the _Manchester Guardian_, June 25.

     "Yesterday the Darwen police arrested THOMAS BECKETT, a weaver.
     During a disturbance in a local public-house on Saturday night
     BECKETT was kicked under the chin, and died immediately."

Query when was THOMAS BECKETT arrested? What became of the man who, in
the "disturbance," kicked BECKETT under the chin?

          Yours, SNIPPER.

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE NEW BOY."--Doing wonderfully well. "Going strong."--_White Lodge,
Richmond._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE!"

  "THE TEAR THAT BRIMMETH, BLINDETH NOT HER EYE,
  SO FIXED ALOFT IT LOWERETH NOT TO GREET
  THE WRITHING REPTILE BRUISED BY HER UNFALTERING FEET!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

GAIETY "SANS-GENE."

_Madame Sans-Gene_, represented by Madame REJANE, at the Gaiety Theatre,
has made a decided hit. The plot of the piece by Messieurs SARDOU and
MOREAU is poor, but it shows what an experienced dramatist can do with
meagre materials and one strikingly good notion. It seems as if the plan
of the play was started from the idea of an interview between the great
NAPOLEON, when Emperor, with a washerwoman whose bill for washing and
mending he, when only a poor lieutenant, had been unable to discharge.
This scene is the scene _par excellence_ of the piece. It is here that
both Madame REJANE and M. DUQUESNE are at their very best. Besides this,
and the scene between _Napoleon_, _La Reine Caroline_, and _Madame de
Bulow_, when there is a regular family row admirably acted by M.
DUQUESNE, with the tongs, and Mlles. VERNEUIL and SUGER with their glib
tongues, there is very little in the piece.

M. CANDE, as the sergeant who rises to _Marechal_, is very good, as is
also M. LERAND, as _Fouche_. Madame REJANE is a thorough _comedienne_,
but it is most unlikely (good as are historically the stories told about
this same washerwoman elevated to the rank of Duchess) that she, in an
interval of nineteen years--_i.e._, between 1792 and 1811--should not
have been able to wear her costume with, at all events, some grace and
dignity, and it is most improbable that the clever _blanchisseuse_ of
1792 should, in 1811, have found any difficulty in managing her Court
costume without rendering herself outrageously ridiculous. All this
hitching up of the dress and kicking out of the leg "goes" immensely
with the audience; and this must be the _comedienne's_ excuse for
overdoing the farcical business of her chief scenes, save the best of
all, which, as I have already surmised, was the motive of the piece,
namely, the scene with the Emperor in the Third Act. Here she is
perfect, only just assuming so much of her old manner as would naturally
come to her when chatting with "the little Corporal" over old times.

[Illustration: Madame Sans-Gene "going Nap."]

As to M. DUQUESNE as _Napoleon premier_,--well, middle-aged play-goers
will call to mind Mr. BENJAMIN WEBSTER as a far more perfect portrait of
the great Emperor than is M. DUQUESNE, but the latter has the advantage
in manner, and realises the Emperor's traditional eccentric habits in a
way which at once appeals to all conversant with the story of the
eccentricities of the Great Emperor when he chanced to be in a very good
humour. Perhaps nowadays there are very few who read LEVER'S works, but
a dip into _Charles O'Malley_, with PHIZ'S spirited illustrations, will
give exactly the phase of NAPOLEON'S character that Messrs. SARDOU and
MOREAU have depicted in this piece.

The play is well mounted, and the acting of all, from the leading parts
to the very least, is about as good as it can be. The incidents of the
drama are not particularly novel, but they are safe, and to every Act
there is a good dramatic finish. Madame REJANE may congratulate herself
and "Co." on a decided success in London.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. R. was driving lately in a friend's barouche, which seemed to swing
about a great deal, and made her feel rather uncomfortable. She was not
surprised at this, however, when she heard the carriage was on "Sea"
springs!

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT ON THE WONDERFUL BRIDGE AGAIN.

I reely begins for to think as how as a truly onest Waiter, as knos his
place, and his warious dooties, and is allers sivil and hobligin, gits
more respected and more thort on the holder he gros. Here have I bin
atending at the werry best houses both at the West Hend, and also at the
pride of all Hed Waiters, the onered Manshun Ouse, for nearly twenty
long ears, and I can trewly say as I allers gets a sivil word from
everyboddy. And when sumboddy was speshally wanted the other day to sho
that most himportent Body, the London Press, all over the Wunderfool
Tower Bridge, so that they coud give a trew and correct acount of all
its wunders for the newspaper peeple to read and wunder at, who did the
clever Chairman select to help in that most himportent hoffice but me,
tho I am only ROBERT the Citty Waiter! And when the thowsends and tens
of thowsends of peeple red the gloing acounts as filled the Press a day
or too arterwards, they little thort perhaps of the many risks as the
pore Waiter ran to save hisself and the reporters from the fallin
Grannit, and the blocks of mettel, as every now and then fell about us!

One of the werry biggest and blackest of the hole lot fell within about
six foot of where I stood, so jest another six foot mite have put a hend
to a Waiter who, I fondly hopes, has done his duty like a man and a
Brother, tho many peeple did sumtimes larf at him.

Strange to say, only jest 2 days before my honered wisit to the
wunderfool Bridge, I was arsked to take a jurney to Boolong, which I
bleeves is in France, and back again in the same day! but I aint a werry
good Sailer so I thort I had better decline it. So BROWN went in my
place, and werry much he says he injoyed it, tho he didn't git home till
eleven o Clock at night!

I don't think as he's a werry good sailer, so, if he did enjoy it, the
sea must have bin werry uncommon smooth, and both ways, too! He says it
ways a butiful new wessell, and called the _Margerreet_, which, strange
to say, was his Grandmother's name, which may acount for its treeting
him so smoothly.

Most of the Gents of the London Press on their wisit to the Big Bridge
seemed to think most of the opening and shuttin of the enormers shutters
as they opened and shut all of their own acord to let the big ships go
thro, and werry wunderfool they suttenly was, but to my poor mind, ewery
body as reelly wants to see the most butiful part of the hole show shoud
have hisself took up in the lift to the walk along the top, which is
only about 240 feet high, and then he can have such a grand view of our
butiful river Tems as werry few has ewer had since it was fust made. One
of the Press Gents, seeing me staring at it with wunder and admiration,
came up to me and sed, "Why, Mr. ROBERT, you've most suttenly picked out
the most lovely view of the lot. I don't know what enormus distance we
can see, but if you looks just where I'm a pinting you will see the
Kristel Pallis, and it don't look more than a mile or two away!" No more
it did! And as for the crowds of ships as we coud see with our naked
eyes, I schod have thort they was more than ewer entered the River in a
month or two, and all round was the butiful hills and grand houses, and
everythink looking chock full of bussel and prosperity, and all quite
reddy to make use of the butiful Bridge as soon as ever it was opened!
as it was by the nobel Prince of WALES on the following Satterday.
ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHITHER AWAY?

  Must it be Margate?
    Shall it be Dover?
  How hit the target,
    Spend summer in clover?
  Why not to Filey
    Flit, or to Yarmouth?
  Will the Welsh rile me
    If I try Barmouth?
  South Coast's entrancing,
    East builds and braces;
  Blue waves are dancing
    At hundreds of places!
  Soon must I settle,
    Unless I'm a craven,
  And grasping the nettle
    Decide on a haven.
  Fine hills at Malvern;
    Harrogate haunts me;
  Lynmouth is all fern;
    What is it daunts me?

  Well, to speak truly,
    There's no place like London,
  In March or in July,
    When well, or when run down!
  Train in a twinkling
    Brightonward bears me;
  If I want sprinkling
    In the face a "chute" stares me.
  Summer's delightful
    In Town--nerves feel regal;
  Cabbies not spiteful
    Offered what's legal!
  Yes, I'll take holiday
    When it grows chilly;
  Why at _this_ jolly day
    Flee Piccadilly?
  Is the end vapid?
    Can't help it!--Next snow-time
  By "P. L. M. _Rapide_"
    I reach Nice in no time!

       *       *       *       *       *

BEWARE!--As wood pavement is said to be injurious to throats, specially
in summer time, it would be advisable not to reside in the Northern
district, as the roads there must be all St. John's Wood pavement.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PREHISTORIC PEEPS.

IT IS QUITE A MISTAKE TO SUPPOSE THAT HENLEY REGATTA WAS NOT ANTICIPATED
IN EARLIEST TIMES.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LOWER EDUCATION OF WOMEN.

DOMESTIC ECONOMY.

What are the duties of a cook? Do these duties differ from those of
(_a_) a housemaid, (_b_) a parlour-maid, and (_c_) a general servant?

2. Can money be saved by a deposit account at the stores? If so, compare
the store prices with the charges made at a West End shop for beef,
mutton, potatoes, muslin, and mixed biscuits?

3. If a dinner (with wine) for four costs L6 10_s._ at a club, how much
should a dinner for eight (four males and four females) cost at home?

4. What do you know of the School for Cookery?

5. Give briefly the best way of living on L500 a year on the basis that
your husband is a clerk in a Government office, and your family consists
of a daughter, aged fourteen, and a son rising seven.

HISTORY.

1. Give a short account of the life of any one of the following eminent
wives who were a comfort to their husbands--CATHERINE PARR, Queen MARY,
and HENRIETTA MARIA, Consort of CHARLES THE FIRST.

2. Point out the mistakes of MARIE ANTOINETTE in special regard to the
career of LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH.

3. Give some of the reasons why Queen ELIZABETH preferred celibacy to
marriage, and prove that those reasons were fallacies.

4. Give a short account of the married life of DAVID COPPERFIELD, and
criticise the _menages_ of his first and his second wife.

GENERAL.

1. What are the duties of a wife and a matron?

2. Supposing your husband to have come home weary from a hard day's
work, should you read him your latest novel, or see that he gets his
supper?

3. In your opinion which is of greater importance, your gown, or your
knowledge of Greek?

4. Write an essay upon the respective merits of being known as the wife
of your mate, or your poorer-half being called "Mrs. So-and-So's
husband."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: POOR VENUS OF MILO!

"WHAT! YOU DID THIS, AND YOU NEVER TOLD ME BEFORE! HOW CARELESS OF YOU,
MARY!"

"WELL, MA'AM, I THOUGHT IT DIDN'T MUCH MATTER, AS THE ARMS WERE BROKEN
OFF ALREADY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A SOFT ANSWER.

(_An Unpublished Letter to a Whisterical Wesleyan, which shows the
infinite possibilities of historic parallels._)

DEAR SIR,--I am much obliged to you for your letter, in which you call
my attention to the widespread practice of whist-playing, and in
particular to the deteriorating effect of threepenny points.

May I remind you of the fact, which I make no doubt you have temporarily
overlooked, that JOHN WESLEY'S favourite game was whist? Like JOHN
WESLEY, I play whist, and I do not mind confessing that when I get a
good hand I am none the worse pleased. Believe me, Yours faithfully,

          R-S-B-RY.

       *       *       *       *       *

BALLADE OF IMITATIONS.

(_With Apologies to Miss Loftus for calling her "Cissie."_)

  The weary worldling of to-day
    Uneasy wanders to and fro
  To find in all things, grave or gay.
    Just nothing that is "worth a blow,"
    (Forgive the curious phrase,) although
  It's absolutely certain, this--he
    Will praise in phrases all aglow
  The imitative charms of CISSIE.

  The orchestra begins to play,
    The lights are high that once were low.
  Then CISSIE comes without delay,
    Her simple dress tied with a bow.
    How kind of Fortune to bestow
  On us this captivating Missie.
    'Twere vain to try to overthrow
  The imitative charms of CISSIE.

  Miss FLORENCE ST. JOHN'S artless way,
    Miss YOHE in her ballad "_Oh,
  Oh, Honey, Honey!_" or JANE MAY
    As _Pierrette_ and _Pierrot_,
    YVETTE GUILBERT'S superb _argot_,
  Miss LETTY LIND in "_Kissie, Kissie_,"
    Are all invoked to help to show
  The imitative charms of CISSIE.

_L' Envoi._

  Friend, if you chance to find it slow,
    And seek a joyous form of diss-
  ipation, quickly get to know
    The imitative charms of CISSIE.

       *       *       *       *       *

PARTIALLY UNREPORTED DIALOGUE.

"A DEANE should be more reverend," said Mr. WILLIS, Q.C., in the BETTINI
case.

"Where there's a _Will is_ a way," retorted Mr. DEANE, Q.C. "'If you
will be honest with me, I will be honest with you.'"

"The whole matter is very clear," interposed the learned Judge,
severely. "Mr. BETTINI-WILLIS expects from the DEANE, chapter----"

"And verse," interposed Mr. DEANE, Q.C., and straightway broke out
melodiously with--

  "'Tis good to be merry and wise,
    'Tis good to be thorough and true,
  If you will be honest with me,
                          My Q.C.,
    Then I will be honest with you!"

Chorus of everybody. Harmonious proceedings, and Court adjourned.

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, June 25._--Asquith back on Treasury Bench
quite a changed man. Anxious air that marked his appearance through last
week disappeared. Painful to watch him as he then sat on Bench with one
eye on the door. Started at rustle of paper of amendments. Half rose
from his seat if a book fell.

"Yes TOBY," he said, when I congratulated him on the happy
accomplishment of the event; "it's not the kind of thing I should like
to go through every six months. Till he's tried it, no one knows what it
is to have a steam engine stationed at his front door night and day with
steam up ready to whisk him off to White Lodge at a moment's notice."
HOME SECRETARY managed to keep much cooler than the Mayor of RICHMOND.
This morning the papers ablaze with telegrams from that functionary.
SZLUMPER is his name, Surrey is his county. As soon as notification made
of birth of prince, SZLUMPER took off his coat and set to work. First
telegraphed to happy Duke and Duchess of TECK at White Lodge. Then
bethought him of happier father; so Duke of YORK hears from SZLUMPER who
"trusts Her Royal Highness and son are doing well." SZLUMPER'S appetite
growing with what it feeds upon, he next approaches HER MAJESTY with
"loyal and sincere congratulations." Finally, the Prince and Princess of
WALES at Marlborough House hear from him. SZLUMPER always signs his name
_tout court_, like a peer of the realm.

"He's splendid this SZLUMPER," said the Member for SARK. "Reminds me of
a story I heard in America about Judge HOAR. He had great dislike to
WENDELL PHILLIPS. When the great orator died they gave him a splendid
funeral. A friend meeting the judge on morning of event said, 'Aren't
you going to the funeral?' 'No,' said HOAR, 'but I approve it.'"

It wasn't SZLUMPER'S accouchement. But he approves it.

Still on Budget; getting near end of first part, which deals with death
duties. The Busy B.'s, seeing the close of opportunity at hand, dash
about with redoubled vigour.

  Oh! 'tis BARTLEY and BOWLES and BYRNE,
    And BYRNE and BARTLEY and BOWLES.
  Till the throbbing pulses burn,
    And BUTCHER piles on the coals.

[Illustration: The Four Busy (Budget) B's.]

_Business done._--Clause XVIII. added to Budget Bill.

_Wednesday._--GRANDOLPH sails to-day in the track of COLUMBUS, only
going much farther. He will cross Continent and Pacific to pay a morning
call on the MIKADO; afterwards to India and Burma.

"I want," he says, with certain proud pathos, "to see the frontier I
extended, and Burma which I annexed."

You remember the old French song written about GRANDOLPH'S great
ancestor? It was sung as a lullaby to the little son of LOUIS THE
SIXTEENTH, and NAPOLEON never mounted his horse for the fight without
humming the air,--

  MARLBROOK s'en va-t'en guerre--
    Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!
  MARLBROOK s'en va-t'en guerre ...
  Ne sais quand reviendra!
  Ne sais quand reviendra!
  Ne sais quand reviendra!

There is a sad last verse to the old ballad. But we all hope to see our
GRANDOLPH back again, bringing his sheaves with him in the shape of
renewed health and strength. _Business done._--Budget.

_Thursday._--DON'T KEIR HARDIE confided to House to-night the
interesting fact that in particular he Don't Keir for the Royal Family,
and is "indisposed to associate himself" with effort to do them special
honour. Like old _Eccles_ in _Caste_, he upbraids the baby in the cradle
with being a young aristocrat. Yet there are limits even to his
uncompromising Republicanism. The question before House is the
presentation to HER MAJESTY of address of congratulation on birth of son
of Duke and Duchess of YORK. "If I had the opportunity of meeting the
parents," says DON'T KEIR, "I should be pleased to join in the ordinary
congratulations of the occasion." He did not hesitate, standing in his
place in Parliament as representative of the electors of 'Am, to add
that he "had been delighted to learn that the child was a fairly healthy
one." Beyond that, stern principle would not permit him to pass.

Note that he felt constrained to modify even this approval of
proceedings at White Lodge by introduction of the word "fairly."
ASQUITH, who knows all about it, seemed for moment inclined to resent
this aspersion on the perfect soundness of the object of his recent
attentions; on reflection he let it pass. SAUNDERSON, of whom House has
seen lamentably little of late, was under less complete self-restraint.
When DON'T KEIR turned his attention upon Prince of WALES, proposing to
appraise his value to the nation, SAUNDERSON leaped to his feet, and
moved that "the hon. Member be no longer heard."

A difficult moment this. The Motion being made, the SPEAKER must put it
from the Chair. Many Members, whilst justly angered with DON'T KEIR'S
grotesque performance, would have felt bound to resent what might be
construed as attempt to throttle free speech. There would have been long
and angry debate; a succession of scenes; and DON'T KEIR HARDIE would
have been triumphantly advertised. Happily, though, strictly considered,
irregularly, the SQUIRE OF MALWOOD interposed; expressed hope that
Motion would not be persevered in. SAUNDERSON perceiving his mistake
acquiesced, and DON'T KEIR HARDIE went on to final ignominious collapse.
When in crowded House question put that Address be presented, a solitary
cry of "No" answered the loud shout "Aye." House cleared for division;
but when opportunity of taking final step presented itself, it turned
out that HARDIE Didn't Keir to take it.

"Now if this were France in the days when the Empire was tottering to
its fall," said SARK, "I should suspect the secret police to have put up
DON'T KEIR to play their game in stirring up embers of popularity of
Imperial Family. In England to-day, of course, no necessity for such
manoeuvre. But if by outside influence the popularity the Prince of
WALES has worked out for himself could be increased, DON'T KEIR HARDIE'S
the man to do it."

[Illustration: _Scene from "Caste," adapted for representation in the
House of Commons._

_Eccles (played by Don't Keir H-rd-e) addresses the Royal Infant._
"Everybody in the House is sacrificed for you! And to think that a
Working Man, a Member of the House of Commons, and one of the Committee
of the Banded Brothers for the Regeneration of Human Kind, by means of
equal diffusion of intelligence and equal division of property, should
want the price of half a pint, while you are lying in the lap of
luxury!" &c., &c., &c.]

_Business done._--QUEEN congratulated on birth of latest great-grandson.

_Friday._--Been much struck through week by appearance of stranger in
Speaker's Gallery. Every night about quarter of an hour after questions
over he has come in; gone out again a little after eight, about time
SPEAKER, when in chair, leaves for his chop. Comes back punctually in
half an hour; remains till fifteen or twenty minutes before progress is
reported, and Chairman of Committees makes way for SPEAKER. Something
about him familiar, though never before that I remember have I seen that
stubbly red beard, or those green, goggly spectacles. Quite fascinated
me. To-night went up and sat in gallery behind him.

At ten minutes past eight, amendment before Committee disposed of, the
stranger rose; heard him exclaim under his breath, "Order! Order!" saw
him clutch at imaginary robe, and stride forth with stately tread. Truth
burst upon me with a flash.

_It was the SPEAKER!_

"You're a dangerous person to have about the premises, TOBY," he said as
we made our way by circuitous route to Speaker's Court. "Every day for
last fortnight I have written out myself an order for the Speaker's
Gallery, have passed the doorkeepers unobserved, and remained hour after
hour unnoticed. Then your eagle eye falls upon me and all is lost. Pray
don't let the secret go any further. Fact is, for weeks and weeks I've
been shut out of my proper place by this Budget Bill. Questions last
half an hour or an hour. Then House goes into Committee, and I'm shunted
save for few moments after midnight, when I adjourn the House. Couldn't
stand it any longer. Might as well be in Kamtchatka. So have had
recourse to this innocent device, and have thoroughly enjoyed my
evenings."

_Business done._--Once through Committee on Budget Bill. Pick up dropped
threads next week.


       *       *       *       *       *


Transcriber's Note:

Added punctuation marks not present in the original, without further
note.

On page 12, corrected "embers of popularitity" to "embers of
popularity."





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.
107 July 7, 1894, by Various, by Various

*** 