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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108. JUNE 22, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

[Illustration]

It has been noticed by philosophers that a mere name will often lead
a man to his ruin. Why, for example, was JOHN DARLEY fined twenty
shillings and costs at the Tynemouth Petty Sessions? He met a
boiler-smith, RICHARD ROTHWELL, riding on a bicycle. Thereupon,
without any apparent reason, he used abusive language, bashed the
unoffending boiler-smith on the nose, brandished a knife, and shouted
out, "Come on!--I'm JOHNNY DARLEY, from Byker." There you have it.
Residing, as he did, in a perpetual comparative, he naturally despised
and loathed the positive "byke." Hence his violent assault on its
rider.

  * * *

I observe, with deep regret, that Professor LLOYD, of Southport,
has been fined for trespassing on a railway bridge at Preston. The
Professor did not want to stay there. All he wished to do, and all
that he actually did, was to dive off into the water below. He is an
aquatic Professor, and informed the Bench that he was obliged to do
these things to keep up his reputation.

  * * *

  I'll tell you a tale of Professor LLOYD,
    Who dived off a bridge at Preston--
  An act that the magistrates much annoyed,
    Though he kept both his coat and vest on.
  They said "You mustn't repeat this joke,
    Professor, or else you'll rue it."
  But LLOYD, the Professor, he up and spoke,
    And said, "I'm obliged to do it.
  Up on the bridge I stand for awhile,
    I stand till I fairly shiver.
  Then down I go--it seems like a mile--
    And I plunge in the bubbling river.
  I hope your worships won't "queer my pitch,"
    For I'm sorry to give you trouble
  In maintaining a reputation which
    Is so closely combined with bubble."

  * * *

I wish I had been in Hawick lately. Ever since I first learnt the
rudiments of the English language I have been haunted by a desire to
know how a man looked and acted when he "bussed the Standard." They've
done that at Hawick "in connection," as I read, "with the celebration
of the ancient custom of the Common Riding." Later on "the local
slogan '_Teribus_' was sung with great vigour." There is something
crushing, scattering, and battle-heralding about the mere sound of
that fearful word.

  * * *

J. B., who describes himself as "A Residenter in Oswald Road," writes
to _The Scotsman_ to complain of the flimsy material used in the
construction of the lamp-posts near his dwelling. The other day a
milk-van ran away--at least, the horse drawing it did. "One would
think," says J. B., "the progress of such a small vehicle would have
been arrested by coming into collision with one lamp-post, but four
posts were destroyed by the van. On examination it is found that the
foundation of a street lamp-post only goes three inches into the
stone below it. With such a short hold the lamp-post is easily toppled
over." Of course it is. To fix lamp-posts so inadequately gives
a direct encouragement to milk-vans to run away and attempt their
destruction. Let the Lord Provost of Edinburgh look to it.

  * * *

The Master and the Matron of the workhouse at Stratford-on-Avon have
resigned, and the guardians have been "considerably discussing" the
appointment of their successors. Eventually it was resolved, not
only to reduce the salaries, but also--hear this, ye licensed
victuallers!--to cut off the beer-money hitherto paid. What dignity
can possibly attach to a workhouse officer who has to pay for his own
beer? It is by such insidious attacks as this that the foundations of
public confidence are shaken, and the whole fabric of the Constitution
is endangered. My mind misgives me when I attempt to forecast the
future of Stratford.

  * * *

At Tetbury there is a lodge of the recently-established Conservative
Working Men's Benefit Society. It is called--_absit omen_--the Trouble
House Lodge, and quite recently it held a _fete_ and dinner. 'Tis
always _fete_-day somewhere in the world. Indeed, the amount of
_fetes_ that take place on any given day in provincial England is
astounding. Without frequent _fetes_ no district can be considered
respectable.

  * * *

  In the world that we live in our troubles are great;
    To add to their number is scarcely the game.
  Nay, how can these lodgers delight in their _fete_,
    With perpetual trouble attached to their name?

  * * *

At Owens College, Manchester, so I gather from the letter of "An
Old Student" in _The Manchester Guardian_, some of the students are
beginning to feel, that "while its teaching of specific subjects is
admirable, in fact, unsurpassed, its general education--that education
which consists in the development of men--has not yet reached the same
level." They therefore wish to develop athletics, and by making the
modest subscription of 10_s._ 6_d._ compulsory on all, "to decoy the
unathletic man into taking exercise almost without knowing it." At
present only 150 out of 800 students pay up. I heartily commend this
proposal, though I confess I should like to know what sort of
exercise it is that a man can take almost without knowing it. Let
the unathletic man be decoyed by all means, but let him thoroughly
understand that he is to take exercise, and take it, if possible, with
reasonable violence.

  * * *

MR. N. F. DRUCE, of Cambridge, is, as I write, at the head of the
batting averages of this year, and next to him comes the marvellous W.
G.

  Ye batsmen attend, of my hints make a use,
  And consider the greatness of GRACE and of DRUCE.
  If you wish to make hundreds your names, you'll agree
  Must be monosyllabic and end with c, e.

       *       *       *       *       *

ASCOT.

_To Monsieur Punch._

_Cher Monsieur_,--Last year I am gone to your races of Ascot. It is
beautiful, it is ravishing, but how it is dear! Thousand thunders,
how it is dear! I go to the _Grand Prix_, I pay twenty francs, that is
also dear, but it is all, it is finished. Eh well, I desire to see one
time your Gold Cup, and I go of good hour by railway. Arrived there I
pay one pound, that what you call one sov., and I enter. I suppose I
can go by all--_partout_, how say you? Ah, but no! I see by all some
_affiches_ "One Pound."

I can to write your language enough well, but I speak with much of
difficulty. Therefore I read the affixes without nothing to ask.
Thus when I read "One Pound" I go no more far. I walk myself in
the charming garden and I see the beautiful misses. Ah how they are
adorable! DAUDET has wrong, DAUDET is imbecile, they are adorable. It
is not the pain to pay again some pounds for to see to run the horses,
when I can to see the misses who walk themselves here, without to pay
of more.

But in fine I am fatigued. Also I have great hunger, for it is the
hour of the _dejeuner_. But without doubt one is obliged to pay one
pound before to enter the bar. My word, I will not! I shall not pay
one sov., and more, for a squashed lemon and a bun of Bath. I go to
smoke at place of that, and I walk myself at the shade all near of an
arch.

All of a blow all the world lifts himself and comes very quick towards
me. I cannot escape, I am carried away by the crowd, I arrive to the
arch. I think "_Du courage, AUGUSTE mon cher! Sois calme! S'il y
a encore une livre a payer----_" But there is no sov., and I pass.
Thousand thunders! What is, then, this noise? Is he a revolution, a
riot of Anarchists? Ah, no! It are the bookmakers. The bookmakers
in the midst of the ladies! Hold, it is droll! And I pay one sov. to
stand with those men there! It is too strong! I go more far, I pass
the barrier, I am alone on the grass. I go to left. I see some men, in
a cage of iron, who cry also. It is--how say you?--"Tatersal." Then,
ah heaven, I arrive at the true _Pesage!_ Not of burgesses, not of
villain beasts of bookmakers, not even of "Tatersals." But _partout_
the ladies the most beautiful, the most charming, the most adorable!
It is there I go! Even if I pay one sov., two sovs., three sovs., I
go!

I essay to enter. The policeman stops me. I say, "One pound?" and I
offer to him one sov. He looks all around, and then he says, quite
low, "No good, Sir--the inspector's looking." I say, "She is good,
that pound there, I assure you of it. Is there two to pay?" And I hold
one other. Then the inspector comes and says I bribe the policeman. I
say that no. He says that yes. I am furious. I say I pay the entrance.
He says, "Get off the course." I refuse. He pushes me. I resist. Other
policemen push me. Just heaven, they force me to go! I cannot resist.
Then all the people in face cry furiously. They shout "Welshman!" How
they are stupid! Can they think that I am a Welshman--me, AUGUSTE? Ah,
that it is droll! Then the policemen run, and I run also. I wish not
to run, but I am forced. And, in fine, we are at the railway station,
and they put me in a train, and I arrive to London at three o'clock.
See there all that I have seen of your races of Ascot, and I have paid
one sov. It costs very dear.

  Sincere friendships, AUGUSTE.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "HONEY, MY HONEY!"

_Chinaman._ "MUCH OBLIGED TO YOU FOR THIS LITTLE ADVANCE; BUT I'M
AFRAID I SHALL WANT SOME MORE SOON."

_Bear_ (_aside_). "SO SHALL I! A GOOD DEAL MORE--FROM _YOU_."

    [_Hums "Oh, honey, MY honey!"_
]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE.

_Auntie._ "ARCHIE, RUN UP TO THE HOUSE, AND FETCH MY RACKET. THERE'S A
DEAR!"

_Archie_ (_preparing to depart_). "ALL RIGHT. BUT I SAY, AUNTIE, DON'T
LET ANYBODY TAKE MY SEAT, WILL YOU?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

THE MAN AND THE MAID.

(_Up-to-date "Biking" Version._)

  "Where are you going, young Man?" cried the Maid.
  "I'm going a cycling, Miss!" he said.
  "May I come with you, young Man?" asked the Maid.
  "Why. ye-e-es, if you feel like it, Miss!" he said.
  "But--why do I find you like Man arrayed?"
  "Oh, knickers are cumfy, young Man!" she said.
  "But the boys will chevvy you, Miss, I'm afraid!"
  "What does _that_ matter, young Man?" she said.
  "Are you a Scorcher, young Man?" asked the Maid.
  "Nothing so vulgar, fair Miss!" he said.
  "Then I don't think much of you!" mocked the Maid.
  "Neither does 'ARRY, sweet Miss!" he said.
  "What is your ideal, young Man?" said the Maid.
  "A womanly Woman, fair Miss" he said.
  "Then _I_ can't marry you, Sir!" cried the Maid.
  "Thank heaven for _that_, manly Miss!" he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

A RULE OF CONDUCT.

You _say_ to a man what you _couldn't_ write to him; and you _write_
to a man what you _wouldn't_ say to him.--JAMES THE TRAN-QUILL PENMAN,
J.P.

       *       *       *       *       *

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

A famous old mill has been burned to the ground. None other than that
situate upon the river Dee, where a certain jolly miller sang songs
and earned the envy of "bluff King HAL" in days of old, wearing the
white flour of a blameless life. He also wore a white hat, for the
purpose, it is said, of keeping his head warm. The modern miller wears
one in summer to keep his head cool. No doubt he found it useful at
the fire. Great thing to keep a cool head on such occasions. The
mill has now been destroyed by fire four times. There was an ancient
prophecy, according to a local paper, that it was doomed to be burned
down three times. This Delphic oracle would, of course, have inspired
the simple gentlemen of old Greece to give up insuring after the third
fire. Probably the modern "miller of the Dee" has committed a paradox,
and profited by a lofty disregard for his prophet.

  * * *

All Saints Church, Old Swan, is the first Liverpool church which has
adopted the innovation of lady choristers wearing the new surplices
and caps, which have been specially designed for their use. The
surplices are quite unlike those used by the clergy; they are more
like dolmans. The caps are of the shape worn by a D.C.L., and are made
of violet velvet. One of the most cogent reasons for their adoption
is expressed by the Rev. Canon WILKINSON, who, as appears from the
_Sheffield and Rotherham Independent_, writes thus:--"Since these
garments have been introduced, the offertories in the church have been
increased by at least one-third."

       *       *       *       *       *

INTERNATIONAL DISCOURTESY.--The French law, it seems, requires the
owner of a yacht, in which he is himself sailing, to supply stores of
victual and drink for his crew. A French yacht put in at Dartmouth,
says the _Field_, and the Dartmouth Custom-house officials darted
down on her, and made the owner pay for what he used of his own. "They
manage these things better in France." This would have been indeed, "a
This would have been indeed, "a 'Custom' more honoured in the breach
than in the observance."

       *       *       *       *       *

RUS IN URBE

A SKETCH IN REGENT'S PARK.

    SCENE--_A railed-in corner of the Park._ TIME--_about_ 7 P.M.
    _Inside the inclosure three shepherds are engaged in shearing
    the park sheep. The first shepherd has just thrown his patient
    on its back, gripped its shoulders between his knees, and
    tucked its head, as a tiresome and obstructive excrescence,
    neatly away under one of his arms, while he reaches for the
    shears. The second is straddled across his animal, which is
    lying with its hind legs hobbled on a low stage under an elm,
    in a state of stoical resignation, as its fleece is deftly
    snipped from under its chin. The third operator has almost
    finished his sheep, which, as its dark gray fleece slips away
    from its pink-and-white neck and shoulders, suggests a rather_
    decolletee _dowager in the act of removing her theatre-cloak
    in the stalls. Sheep, already shorn, lie and pant in shamed
    and shivering bewilderment, one or two nibble the blades of
    grass, as if to assure themselves that that resource is still
    open to them. Sheep whose turn is still to come are penned up
    at the back, and look on, scandalised, but with an air which
    seems to express that their own superior respectability is a
    sufficient protection against similar outrage. The shearers
    appear to take a humorous view of their task, and are watched
    by a crowd which has collected round the railings, with an
    agreeable assurance that they are not expected to contribute
    towards the entertainment._

_First Work-Girl_ (_edging up_). Whatever's goin' on inside 'ere?
(_After looking--disappointed._) Why, they aint on'y a lot o' sheep! I
thought it was Reciters, or somethink o' that.

[Illustration: "They ain't on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was
Reciters, or somethink o' that."]

_Second Work-Girl_ (_with irony_). They _look_ like Reciters,
don't they! It do seem a shime cuttin' them poor things as close as
convicks, that it do!

_First W. G._ They don't mind it partickler; you'd 'ear 'em 'oller
fast enough if they did.

_Second W. G._ I expeck they feel so ridic'lus, they 'aven't the 'art
to 'oller.

_Lucilla_ (_to_ GEORGE). Do look at that one going up and sniffing at
the bundles of fleeces, trying to find out which is his. _Isn't_ it
pathetic?

_George._ H'm--puts one in mind of a shy man in a cloak-room after a
party, saying feebly, "I rather think that's _my_ coat, and there's a
crush-hat of mine _somewhere_ about," eh?

_Lucilla_ (_who is always wishing that_ GEORGE _would talk more
sensibly_). Considering that sheep don't _wear_ crush-hats, I hardly
see how----

_George._ My dear, I bow to your superior knowledge of natural
history. Now you mention it, I believe it _is_ unusual. But I merely
meant to suggest a general resemblance.

_Lucilla_ (_reprovingly_). I know. And you've got into such a silly
habit of seeing resemblances in things that are perfectly different.
I'm sure I'm _always_ telling you of it.

_George._ You are, my dear. But I'm not nearly so bad as I _was_.
Think of all the things I used to compare _you_ to before we were
married!

_Sarah Jane_ (_to her_ Trooper). I could stand an' look on at 'em
hours, I could. I was born and bred in the country, and it do seem to
bring back my old 'ome that plain.

_Her Trooper._ I'm country bred, too, though yer mightn't think it.
But there ain't much in sheep shearin' to _my_ mind. If it was _pig
killin'_, now!

_Sarah Jane._ Ah, that's along o' your bein' in the milingtary, I
expect.

_Her Trooper._ No, it ain't that. It's the reckerlections it 'ud
call up. I 'ad a 'ole uncle a pork-butcher, d'ye see, and (_with
sentiment_) many and many a 'appy hour I've spent as a boy----

    [_He indulges in tender reminiscences._

_A Young Clerk_ (_who belongs to a Literary Society, to his_ Fiancee).
It has a wonderfully rural look--quite like a scene in 'Ardy, isn't
it?

_His Fiancee_ (_who has "no time for reading rubbish"_). I daresay;
though I've never been there myself.

_The Clerk._ Never been? Oh, I see. You thought I said _Arden_--the
Forest of Arden, in SHAKSPEARE, didn't you?

_His Fiancee._ Isn't that where Mr. GLADSTONE lives, and goes cutting
down the trees in?

_The Clerk._ No; at least it's spelt different. But it was 'ARDY _I_
meant. _Far from the Madding Crowd_, you know.

_His Fiancee_ (_with a vague view to the next Bank Holiday_). What do
you _call_ "far"--farther than _Margate_?

    [_Her companion has a sense of discouragement._

_An Artisan_ (_to a neighbour in broadcloth and a whitechoker_). It's
wonderful 'ow they can go so close without 'urtin' of 'em, ain't it?

_His Neighbour_ (_with unction_). Ah, my friend, it on'y shows 'ow
true it is that 'eving tempers the shears for the shorn lambs!

_A Governess_ (_instinctively, to her charge_). Don't you think you
ought to be very grateful to that poor sheep, ETHEL, for giving up her
nice warm fleece on purpose to make a frock for _you?_

_Ethel_ (_doubtfully_). Y--yes, Miss MAVOR. But (_with a fear that
some reciprocity may be expected of her_) she's too big for any of my
_best_ frocks, _isn't_ she?

_First Urchin_ (_perched on the railings_). Ain't that 'un a-kickin'?
'E don't like 'aving '_is_ 'air cut, 'e don't, no more shouldn't I if
it was me.... 'E's bin an' upset 'is bloke on the grorss, now! Look at
the bloke layin' there larfin'.... 'E's ketched 'im agin now. See 'im
landin' 'im a smack on the 'ed; that'll learn 'im to stay quiet, eh?
'E's strong, ain't 'e?

_Second Urchin._ Rams is the wust, though, 'cause they got 'orns, rams
'ave.

_First Urch._ What, same as goats?

_Second Urch._ (_emphatically_). Yuss! Big crooked 'uns. And runs at
yer, they do.

_First Urch._ I wish they was rams in 'ere. See all them sheep waitin'
to be done. I wonder what they're finkin' of.

_Second Urch._ Ga-arn! They _don't_ fink, sheep don't.

_First Urch._ Not o' anyfink?

_Second Urch._ Na-ow! They aint got nuffink to fink _about_, sheep
ain't.

_First Urch._ I lay they _do_ fink, orf an' on.

_Second Urch._ Well, I lay _you_ never see 'em doin' of it!

    [_And so on. The first Shepherd disrobes his sheep, and
    dismisses it with a disrespectful spank. After which he
    proceeds to refresh himself from a brown jar, and hands it to
    his comrades. The spectators look on with deeper interest, and
    discuss the chances of the liquid being beer, cider, or cold
    tea, as the scene closes._

       *       *       *       *       *

OPERATIC NOTES.

[Illustration: Patti commence la Patti-serie.]

_Tuesday._--Grand night. Memorable for _rentree_ of ADELINA PATTI. She
has been absent from C. G. Opera many years. Welcome little stranger!
Absence makes hearts fonder, and so Big Heart of Big House, crowded
right up to tipmost topmost, goes out to ADELINA PATTI reappearing
as radiant _Violetta_, the Consumptive Cocotte and heroine of _La
Traviata_. Quite in best Tra-la-la-viata form is our PATTI to-night.
The knowing ones observe high keys politely transposed to suit
ADELINA. But what manager could refuse to _put down the notes_ when
ADELINA agrees to sing? All come in early. Upper parts of House at
Lowest prices either breakfasted or lunched on doorstep, waiting for
Warbler to commence. Warbler begins 8.30 sharp. "8.30 sharp" maybe,
but Warbler neither sharp nor flat; in perfect tune. DE LUCIA first
rate as poor, spoony little _Alfredo_; and ANCONA admirable as Old
Original G. G., _i.e._, _Georgy Germont_. "_Pura siccome_," and
"_Parigi o cara_," old friends all, come out as fresh as ever, or
fresher. Get story rather mixed up with that of _Manon_, which in some
respects it resembles: _Violetta_ evidently _Manon's_ niece, or first
cousin. Touchingly sympathetic acting on part of Mlle. BAUERMEISTER as
the nurse (draught, &c., every hour, prescriptions carefully made up)
attending on the suffering soprano. _Annina_ deeply touched by
sad meeting between _Alfred_, "such a Daisy,"--or, such a
"Lack-a-Daisy,"--and his sweet _Violet_.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Who won the battle of Tel-el-Kebir?" "I, said Cock HAMLEY, I won
Tel-el-Kebir with my Highland Brigade." Mr. INNES SHAND'S life of
General Sir E. B. HAMLEY (BLACKWOOD) is obviously published with chief
intent of placing in permanent form HAMLEY'S claim in respect of this
engagement. It is not a new story. It was published to the world soon
after the event in the pages of a monthly magazine. The article, a
model of terse, lucid, yet picturesque writing, is reproduced in these
volumes. Whether accurate in detailed assertion and induction, or
 by strong feeling, it is a melancholy story. Either HAMLEY
was deliberately ignored in the Commander-in-Chief's despatches after
Tel-el-Kebir, or he was under a remarkable hallucination. The affair
is all the more curious since Sir GARNET WOLSELEY, as soon as he was
appointed to the Egyptian command, sought out HAMLEY and offered him
the command of one of the divisions of the expeditionary force.
The secret of the estrangement which soon developed between the two
soldiers is, my Baronite suspects, to be found in the characteristic
fact that the very day the ship conveying Sir GARNET WOLSELEY arrived
at Alexandria, HAMLEY went on board and proposed to show his chief how
the enemy should be attacked. "He did not seem to wish to pursue the
subject," HAMLEY writes in his diary, "and I soon after took leave."
Other incidents, which HAMLEY hotly resented, culminated in the
despatch to the War Office reporting the fight at Tel-el-Kebir, and
ignoring the Highland Brigade, which, in the view of its commander,
had borne the brunt of the battle. Some day Lord WOLSELEY may give
his version of the affair. Meantime it gloomily stands forth in this
record of a strenuous but, on the whole, a disappointed life. It is
pleasant to learn that HAMLEY gratefully recognised in one of _Mr.
Punch's_ Cartoons a powerful incentive to the course of public feeling
which postponed his being shelved under the operation of the scheme of
compulsory retirement by reason of age. The most charming passages
in the book are the correspondence with the late Mr. BLACKWOOD, who
opened to General HAMLEY the avenue to literary fame.

One of my Baronites of Irish extraction writes thusly:--"_A Tale of
the Thames_ is the title of the Summer Number of _The Graphic_. It is
written by J. ASHBY-STERRY, and illustrated by WILLIAM HATHERELL. The
course of the story--or, rather, the watercourse of the story--covers
a good deal of ground, embracing as it does, on both sides,
most places of interest between the Source in Trewsbury Mead,
Gloucestershire, and Hampton Court." Quoth the Baron, "I am all
anxiety to see this tale of the Thames uncoil itself."

The Baron welcomes a comparatively "handy" volume ("handy" relative
term, depending on size of hand) of reference, entitled, _Men and
Women of the Time_, new edition, brought out by Messrs. GEORGE
ROUTLEDGE, edited by Mr. PLARR of Oxford; and the _plat_ that is set
before the public and the Baron appears to be a thoroughly satisfying
one. "The first name for which I naturally looked," quoth the Baron,
"was that of ROUTLEDGE himself, but searching from ROSSI, through
Roumania, to ROWBOTHAM, nowhere did I light upon the name of
ROUTLEDGE. Master MILLAIS is here, also MILLER, likewise MILLS; but I
do not see the name of the author of the _'Arry Papers_, the inventor
of 'ARRY in these columns, of immortal fame. "Name him!" In every
other respect the compilers and publishers are to be congratulated,
and do hereby stand congratulated, on their work by the
ever-appreciative

  BARON DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TWO GRACES.

    ["There was something pathetic in seeing old W. G. and young
    W. G. at the wicket together. It is not often we see father
    and son together at the wicket in first-class cricket."--The
    _Star_ on the M. C. C. _v._ Kent match at Lords.]

[Illustration: Tom Bowling.]

AIR--"_The Two Obadiahs._"

  Says the old W. G. to the young W. G.,
    "Pat your wicket, dear son WILLIAM, pat your wicket!
  In the pitch there are bad patches, that may lead to bowls or catches;
    And you're now in first-class cricket, first-class cricket.
  I've already topped my fame; _you_ have got to make your name.
    I should like to see us both make a 'century' this time!"
  Says the young W. G. to the old W. G.,
    "'Twould be prime, Father WILLIAM, _'twould_ be prime!"

  Says the young W. G. to the old W. G.,
    "How I wish that I could time and place like you!
  I should like to hear them clap me, but my gig-lamps handicap me;
    Still I'll do my little best to pile a few."
  Says the old W. G., "Run for all you're worth, like me!
    You must always 'play the game.' You must ever 'look alive.'"
  Groans the young W. G. to the old W. G.,
    "Caught--for Five! Father WILLIAM, only Five!"

  Says the old W. G. to the young W. G.,
    "Bother HEARNE, dear son WILLIAM, JONES and HEARNE!
  But don't _you_ get in a pucker! Caught and bowled for Fives's a mucker,
    But be patient, and you're sure to get your turn.
  _I_ am going to have a shy for another Cen-tu-ry.
    You must help me by-and-by to keep up the family name!"
  Says the young W. G. to the old W. G.,
    "Right you are, dad! Wish you luck, and a good game!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"THREE WHICH'S?"--Will SARA B., ELEANORA DUSE, and Miss ADA REHAN be
playing individually and separately at different theatres all at the
same time? Were this concatenation to occur, the playgoer, at the
height of the season, would be as puzzled as was the "anxious cit,"
who "each invitation views, And ponders which to take and which
refuse." The "stayer" will win. Fly away, SARA, fly away, NORA--and so
from three take two, and only ADA REHAN remains, which is a simple
sum in subtraction, though Miss REHAN herself is always a most
welcome Ada-ition to the English-as-she-is-spoken Drama in London. The
Augustinians of Trafalgar Square return to their Daly avocations on
the 25th.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: UNDESIGNED COINCIDENCE.

_Curate_ (_to Parish Choir, practising the Anthem_). "NOW WE'LL BEGIN
AGAIN AT THE 'HALLELUJAH,' AND PLEASE LINGER LONGER ON THE '_LU_'!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GRACEFUL TRIBUTE.

SIR,--Being "stumped," alas I can only send Dr. GRACE my best wishes,
and a round 0, which is good for naught.

  Yours,
    RUN OUT.

SIR,--To encourage "Our Boys" in the National Game, I am heartily glad
to see the daily (_Telegraph_) increasing list of subscribers to _the_
testimonial. Had poor H. J. BYRON been alive--the mention of "Our
Boys" of course recalls him to our minds--he would no doubt have sent
a coin, and further subscribed himself

  PERKYN MIDDLEWICK-ET.

SIR,--The present enthusiasm for cricket and its distinguished
Professor will spread to France. There _le cricquet_ has already been
introduced, and, when no misadventure occurs, the batsman, returning
triumphant and grateful, records his "_actions de Grace_."

  Yours,
    HOMME D'UNE CHAUVE-SOURIS.

    P.S.--_Je fais le cricquet, autrement je m'enGRAISSE._ (See?)

SIR,--I miss one important name from the _Telegraph_ list of
subscriptions to Grace Testimonial. What is GRACE the Batsman without
T. G. BOWLES?

  Yours,
    BATTER PUDDING, M.P.

SIR,--Here's something original. Lay out some of the coin subscribed
in purchasing for Dr. W. G., the champion "Willow-wielder," a set of
"Willow-pattern plates."

  OLD CHINA.

    P.S.--I happen to have by me a rare, almost invaluable set,
    which I can dispose of at a certain figure.

SIR,--Dr. GRACE is now getting on for fifty. In another four years he
will complete his half century. _Therefore_ he is no chicken. _Ergo_,
he may one day have a duck's egg. I withhold my subscription, to
accumulate with interest, till _that_ occurs.

  AN ARDENT ADMIRER.

[Illustration: A Wicket Girl.]

SIR,--Ah me! and well-a-day! it is the grand sorrow of my life! I
cannot subscribe to this fund for Dr. GRACE. I dare not, except you
allow me to send it confidentially through you, Sir, ever the Ladies'
friend. Ah Sir! long ago my heart "went out"--to whom? no matter.
It was a cricketer. I never told my love! I long-stopped! But never,
never, shall I forget that memorable day when _he_ was there, and when
someone, Dr. G. will remember who it was, _bowled a maiden over!_ I am
not a heroine, but I may sign this (as I address it fervently to)

  "GRACE DARLING!"
    _The Lighthouse, A Little off--the Coast._

SIR,--I belong to an "Impi" tribe--with "cunious" added. Otherwise
would I contribute what I did to the first cricket-match I ever
played, when, as the ball was thrown at me, to save my head _I gave
a bob_. I cannot even do that now. But as a lover of the game I
hope that there are many youthful Britons eager to follow "_Exemplum
Gratiae_."

  Yours,
    STUMP ORATOR.

DEAR SIR,--I think you are quite right to encourage cricket, as it is
a noble game. The Duke of WELLINGTON ones said that Trafalgar was won
on the Eton Playing-fields. I don't think he was quite right there, as
I have always been told that the battle was fought abroad. I am last
in my class, but I'm in the second Eleven. I'm often "not out," and
to-day I've had to "stay in" all the time during the match, because I
had a saying-lesson to write out and translate. The other day I made
27, including three fourers, against the United Thingummies.

  I remain, yours enthusiastically,
    TOMMY.
      _The Only College._

    P.S.--I will send my shilling as soon as I can get it from
    BATLEY _mi._ He owes it me for birds' eggs.

SIR,--I am only too happy to contribute my mite, for though it's
some while--alas! how time flies--since I handled the willow, I well
remember playing in the early forties against ALFRED PITCHER and
JOHN TOSSER. Ah, they were heroes in those days. I myself was no mean
performer. I tell you, Sir, many's the time I have made double figures
against the underhand bowling of JIMMY TRUNDLER, and he _could_ bowl,
too! before the round-arm style came in. I never took kindly to that,
but these fifty years I have been an ardent looker-on, and I must tell
you, &c. &c.[*]

  JNO. WARDLE.
    (_Late Member of All-Muggleton C. C._)

    [Footnote *: "No you mustn't." Caught out by Editor.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "A FLYING VISIT."

EMPEROR WILLIAM (_to_ MADAME LA REPUBLIQUE _leaving Kiel after very
Kiel after very brief stay_). "MUST YOU _REALLY_ GO? _SO_ SORRY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "_Perfeck Lidy_" (_who has just been ejected_). "WELL,
_NEXT_ TIME I GOES INTO A PUBLICKOUSE, I'LL GO SOMEWHERE WHERE I'LL BE
_RESPECTED!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

PROVERBS BY AN ILLUSTRIOUS FOREIGNER ON TOUR.

The time of special trains was made for slaves, not Asiatic Princes.

You may take an Eastern Magnate to a manufactory, but you can only
with difficulty get him to lunch with the local Mayor.

There is many a slip between the Prince and the lift.

A view of machinery in motion in hand is worth two invitations to
receptions in prospective.

Cocked-hats of a feather flock together.

You cannot make pleasure out of the address of a corporation.

All roads lead to turtle soup.

It is an ill wind that causes a swell on the Ship Canal.

People who live in mosques ought not to throw sticks at the Derby.

A programme kept to time is not worth nine.

The early mayor has to wait longest.

Give a Highness a wrong title and report him.

Enough at a factory is better than a feast in a Town Hall.

It is a long explanation that has no turning.

A jerk is as good as a nod to a bowing multitude.

When a person of the first importance enters by the door all settled
arrangements disappear through the window.

The Representative of an Illustrious Race laughs at Traffic Managers.

The English Public enjoys a sensation, but the Indian Empire pays for
it.

When the Prince is away, to fill up the time the band will play.

The son proposes but the father disposes.

The autocrat through the telegraph waits for no one.

Welcome the coming quiet and speed the exhausted guest.

       *       *       *       *       *

An Opportunity not to be Missed.

_Tired Reviewer_ (_to Anxious Author_). Ah! old fellow! I'm fagged
out! Come and dine with me to-night? Sorry to give you such short
notice.

_Anxious Author._ "Short notice!" Oh, please, never do _that_.

    [_Exeunt together_.

       *       *       *       *       *

"A SALE! A SALE!"

The Price Sale of pictures on Saturday last at Christie's will be ever
memorable as "The Highest Price Sale." "'What's the demd total?' was
the first question _Mr. Mantilini_ asked." To which the present answer
is L87,144. A nice little sum to go on with, or off with. One of the
incidents was most dramatic. GAINSBOROUGH'S "_Lady Musgrave_" was put
up to be purchased. Then stood forward bold WILLIAM AGNEW with
eight thousand guineas in his best gossamer. "The lady is mine!" he
exclaimed, rapturously, and was advancing with arms outstretched to
seize his prize, when suddenly his path was crossed by one CAMPBELL
"of that ilk," who cried aloud, "Here are ten thousand golden
sovereigns _plus_ ten thousand silver shillings, all glittering on a
tray! Advance no further!" And bold WILLIAM advanced no further.
For once he was taken aback. "I didna ken the CAMPBELL was coming!"
muttered WILLIAM A-bashed. And ere he could recover from his surprise,
and while yet his frame was quivering with excitement, his picture,
the Lady that should have been his, was gone. "They have given her
to another!" he sang sadly, but the next moment he pulled himself
together, and "taking heart of Grace" WILLIAM made such running, off
his own bat, as would have astonished even the eminent cricketer
just mentioned. And the last of the "Reynolds' Miscellany" in this
collection succumbed to WILLIAM the Conqueror for 450 guineas. _Sic
transit gloria Saturday!_

       *       *       *       *       *
NEW NAME.--The Imperial Institute henceforward to be known as "The
Somers Vinery."

       *       *       *       *       *

A FINE SUMMER DAY'S OUTING.

Highly recommended by "The Faculty" (who has tried it more than once).
Given a perfectly calm sea, a delicious light breeze, and anything
else "given" that you can get, including pleasant company, then,
with tears in your patriotic eyes, and a tremolo in your voice, bid
farewell (for a couple of hours or so) to old England, cross the
Channel, invade France _via_ Calais, where, however calm the sea has
been, you must be prepared for a "buffet"; but this "buffet" is not at
all rough, just the contrary, and if by chance you should have at
all suffered from any unevenness in the wave line, you are sure, on
arriving at Calais, of a "restauration" which will send you back in
another hour and a half quite the giant refreshed. That same evening
you can pose as a real traveller just returned from "the Continent,"
which will serve you excellently both as reason and apology for
not having answered any letters, and neglected epistolary business
generally during the last month. "Been away, my boy!" "Ah, that's why
you didn't answer my letter. Where have you been?" "Oh! France, about
Normandy. Delightful. Ta! Ta!" And perhaps the expenditure of the
day's trip will have saved you from all sorts of trouble, pecuniary
and otherwise, that you might have got into had you remained at home,
answering letters. _But_, as to the benefit of the sea air--there
can't be two opinions about _that_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A DISTINGUISHED COMMONER WHO CANNOT VOTE FOR DOING AWAY WITH
"LORD'S."--DR. GRACE. Public school elevens and M. C. C. all against
such a proposition.

       *       *       *       *       *

BOLD J. H. TAYLOR.

    [J. H. TAYLOR, an Englishman born and bred, has for the second
    time won the Open Championship (Golf) at the St. Andrews'
    Links.]

  Oh! young J. H. TAYLOR is a fine young fellow,
    At whom the Scotsmen may hardly scoff;
  For though he's Saxon by birth and breeding,
    He is champion now at the Game of Golf!

  On St. Andrews' Links when the rain was pouring,
    He smote the ball with a manly blow;
  And he distanced St. Andrews' ANDREW--KIRKALDY--
    Though TAYLOR was trained in far Westward Ho!

  And he went the four rounds fair and featly,
    In strokes three hundred, and twenty, and two,
  Which SANDY HERD, and ANDY KIRKALDY,
    And DAVIE ANDERSON, they _could_ not do.

  It may seem sheer cheek for "a gowk of a Saxon"
    To take the cake at the Gaelic Game;
  But as imitation's the sincerest flattery,
    Let 'em take a licking in the light o' the same.

  So here's a health to bold J. H. TAYLOR,
    Lord of the Links, at the tee a toff;
  Who takes first place for the slighted Southron
    At the Ancient and Royal Game of Golf!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ANOTHER MISUNDERSTANDING.

_'Arry_ (_on a Northern Tour, with Cockney pronunciation_). "THEN I'LL
'AVE A BOTTLE OF AILE."

_Hostess of the Village Inn._ "_ILE_, SIR? WE'VE NANE IN THE HOOSE,
BUT CASTOR ILE OR PARAFFINE. WAD ONY O' THEM DAE, SIR?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"HOUSE OF REST FOR ACTORS."

  Beneath the spreading BEERBOHM TREE
    The Resting Actor stands,
  And grateful takes the _L s. d._
    From Active Actors' hands.
  No more he'll strut upon the stage
    Where he has done his best,
  Nothing he'll need, while active men
    Are doing _all the rest_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Classical and Cockney.

_Hal._ It was a Greek play at Bradford College.

_'Arry_ (_to Tom_). I told you it was a Greek fake.

_Tom_ (_to 'Arry_). How do _you_ know?

_'Arry_ (_giving Hal as his authority_). 'Cos it's' _Al-sez-'tis_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The New Women.

  They dress.... like men.
  They talk..... like men.
  They live..... like men.
  They don't.... like men.

       *       *       *       *       *

INTELLIGENCE FROM (AND AT) HAMBURG.--"Mr. G." was unable to go to the
Zoo at feeding-time. He was conspicuous by his absence, as all the
other lions were there.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW AND APPROPRIATE NAME FOR THE AFTER-DINNER CRUMB-AND-FRAGMENT
BASKET.--"The Morsel-eum."

       *       *       *       *       *

'ARRY ON THE SEASON.

  Dear CHARLIE,--The pypers all tell us the Season is now at its
          'ight;
  Don't mean one o' THOMSON'S, my pippin. _That_ josser is now out
          of dyte.
  When I was a bit of a kiddie, dad 'ad a old brown-covered book
  Into wich now and then, on a Sunday, 'e thought it the right thing
          to look.

  _Such_ sloppy saloop, my dear CHARLIE, "embellished" with rummy
          old cuts,
  Drawn stiff and old-fashioned, by STOTHARD. On one on 'em though,
          I was nuts,
  Musi---- somethink or other I fancy. But as to the cackle, Great
          Scott!--
  "The sun rolling bounteous from Aries," and reams o' such molly
          slop rot.

  Now if JEMMY 'ad sung of _our_ Season, not Nature's old
          merry-go-round,
  But London's pertikler, for swells, it 'ud suit me right down to
          the ground.
  But as JEMMY has shirked it for tosh on "ethereal mildness," and
          such,
  Wy 'ARRY must 'ave a cut in, and all London is fly to _his_ touch.

  Wot a Summer we're 'aving this Season! All Nature seems trim and
          in tune;
  Ripe strorberries picked out o' doors, though we've 'ardly yet
          dropped into June;
  The parks jest like bloomin' peraries, the water supply going queer,
  And a general 'urrying up for stror 'ats, lemon squoshes, and beer.

  It seems only yesterday, CHARLIE, the standpipes wos up in our
          street,
  And "Are _you_ froze off?" wos _the_ question of every poor pal
          you might meet.
  And now there's a new "water famine" along o' the 'eat, not the
          cold,
  And ginger-pop's sellin' as fast as it can be unbottled and sold.

  Queen's droring-rooms, troopin' the colours, and trotting young
          NASRULLA round,
  Is sights your true patriot's nuts on, and I've done _my_ bit, you
          be bound.
  I chi-iked to young Ingy-rubber, and give him the haffable nod;
  And if H. R. H. didn't twig me, and drop me a smile, well, it's odd.

  Hart's 'aving its innings, as usual, and so is old W. G.,
  Only more so. My eye and a band-box, a rare bit o' stuff _he_ must
          be!
  As nigh forty-seven as don't matter, as big as a barrel, and yet
  A-piling 'is centries like pea-shellin'! Sound Double Gloster, you
          bet!

  I sor him at Lord's, mate, last Thursday, five 'ours and a arf in
          the sun,
  A smiting and running as if, at 'is age, with 'is weight, it was
          fun!
  _'Ot_, CHARLIE? My collar flopped limp, and I lapped
          lemon-squoshes--a number;
  And there wos 'e tottling 'is Thousand, as cool as a bloomin'
          cowcumber.

  I wouldn't ha' done it for tuppence; no, not with the cheerings
          chucked in,
  Although the Pervilion fair rose at 'im. 'Ow gents of clarss, and
          with tin,
  And no _need_ to it, CHARLIE, choose Cricket, at ninety degrees in
          the shyde,
  When they could lay hidle, fair licks me. But, there, hevery one
          to 'is tryde!

  A dust-coat, a white 'at, a field-glass, a landau and lashings o'
          fizz,
  At Hascot would suit _me_ fur better. The old sport o' kings _is_
          good biz,
  With shekels, and luck, like Lord ROSEBERY! Scissors! I _do_ 'ate
          a Rad.
  But a sportsman, as pulls off two Derbies, wy 'ang it, 'e _carn't_
          be no Cad.

  If Primrose would only turn Primroser, wot a fair topper he'd be!
  Wot _can_ be 'is little gyme, CHARLIE, to foller old W. G.?
  (I don't mean the cricketer this time.) That Liberal lot ain't no
          clarss,
  With a lot o' tag-rag they carn't hold, and a lot o' bad Bills
          they carn't parss.

  The blot on this Season is Parlyment. Wy don't they 'urry it up,
  And scoot to country, the <DW36>s? St. Paul's to my tarrier pup,
  They'd git a 'ot 'iding this journey. Let ROSEBERY cut the thing
          short,
  Chuck 'ARCOURT and pal on with Gentleman JOE, _like_ a gent, and a
          Sport!

  Then 'ARRY will talk to 'im, CHARLIE! Ah, well, I ain't got no
          more room,
  Though I ain't done the Season arf justice. The last pale
          laburnum's in bloom,
  But it ain't bin washed brimstone with rain-bursts. Our SARAH is
          hover from Parry,
  Sir ORGUSTUS is fair on the toot, so 'Ooray for the Season!
          Yours,      'ARRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW BOOK AND QUERY.--"_Women's Tragedies._ By H. D. LOWRY." Is the
tragic history of _That Lass of Lowrie's_ included? "But that is
another story."

       *       *       *       *       *

NOW WE'RE FURNISHED!

This is how the Guardians of the Midleton Union (County Cork) transact
business:--

    "_Mr. Morrison_ (_to the Chairman_). You promised to write
    to the Local Government Board, and do it now. (_Noise and
    interruptions._)

    "_Mr. Murphy_ (_warmly_). I say the whole thing is all humbug,
    and based upon humbug.

    "(_At this stage there was great noise and confusion, several
    gentlemen speaking at the same time._)

    "_Chairman_ (_very warmly, and hitting the table_). I say I am
    not a humbug, and I was never a humbug, and I hope I'll never
    have to be displaced from any public position because I was a
    humbug or a proved humbug."

Why did not the table turn upon the chair, and hit it back? This
would have been a real case of table-turning. To parody EDWARD LEAR'S
delightful _Nonsense Songs_,

  Said the Table to the Chair,
  "You can hardly be aware
  How it feels when you come down
  With your fist upon my crown."

       *       *       *       *       *

"MENUS PLAISIRS."--One of the best _menus_ of the season provided by
the Lyceum House of Entertainment included, or rather did include,
during last week past, such choice dishes, so much to the taste of
everyone, as _The Ris d'Ellen Terry a la Nance Oldfield_ and _Tete
de Mathias a la Henri premier_. Appropriately, of course, did the
orchestra, which plays before each performance, give the old familiar
airs of "_I would I were with Nancy!_" and "_The Bells are ringing
for_"--_Mathias_--not for "_Sara_."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A STRAIGHT REPLY.

_Daughter of a Hundred Earls_ (_who is about to marry for love_). "NOW
I AM GOING TO HAVE A HOUSE OF MY OWN, MRS. RUSTLE, I SHALL GET YOU TO
GIVE ME A HINT OR TWO."

_The Maternal Housekeeper._ "WELL, LADY CLARA, I'M AFRAID I CAN'T HELP
YOU MUCH. I KNOW VERY LITTLE ABOUT THE CONTRIVANCES OF PEOPLE WITH
SMALL MEANS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

A MISSED CHANCE.

    [Mr. ANTHONY HOPE'S "reply on behalf of the ladies was witty
    and felicitous, and only disappointed" those who had hoped
    that at least one "new woman" would have justified the claim
    of her sex to equality with the male by replying. "The only
    sign of novelty we detected about the ladies present was that
    a few condescended to puff cigarettes, to the evident scandal
    of some less advanced ladies."--_The "Literary World" upon the
    late meeting of the "New Vagabond Club._"]

  Of novelties--and novel ties--in chase,
    Advances the New Woman, destined winner
  Of true first-fiddledom and pride of place!
    Already she's "advanced" to a club dinner
  At the New Vagabonds! How Eleusinian
    It sounds, how almost desperately daring!
  Clubdom was once Man's absolute dominion,
    Which now New Womanhood with him seems sharing.
  "_She made no speeches_," though;--though FRANKFORT MOORE
    Cracked jokes, and HOPE told tales! With mild regret
  One hears that, 'midst the after-dinner "roar"
    Her share was--proxies and a cigarette!
  _Can_ it be her revolt against Man's yoke
  Shall end, as here, in silence and in smoke!

       *       *       *       *       *

DAMP ITALIAN DRAMA.--The Evening _Dews, eh?_

       *       *       *       *       *

NAVAL ARCHITECTURE.

    [A paper on "The Amplitude of Rolling on a Non-synchronous
    Wave" was read before the Congress of Naval Architects in
    Paris.]

  Last week, the papers tell us, the talented and zealous
    Designers who construct our ships their best attention gave
  To M. BERTIN'S writing on what sounds to us exciting--
    The amplitude of rolling when non-synchronous the wave.

  How often, crossing over those distressing Straits of Dover,
    Where flighty folks grow flabby and where giddy ones grow grave,
  We have meditated sadly that we don't encounter gladly
    The amplitude of rolling when non-synchronous the wave.

  The amplitude--we'd bear it, and would probably not care, it
    Seems but to be an adjunct which perhaps we might not crave.
  For that execrable rolling we require much more consoling,
    That amplitude of rolling when non-synchronous the wave.

  Yet the rolling might be ended if the waves could be amended
    To synchronously swell, all want of symmetry to save,
  But we can't be CANUTES, can we? He could no more stop it than we--
    That amplitude of rolling when non-synchronous the wave.

  So Lord DUFFERIN entreated all the experts, round him seated,
    To build a ship where passengers could comfortably shave,
  Even where a billiard-table would be absolutely stable,
    No amplitude of rolling, though non-synchronous the wave.

  Naval Architects, then, hasten to diminish woes which chasten
    The happiness of hundreds, be they timorous or brave;
  Make a ship, like dry land seeming, where we should not think of dreaming
    Of amplitude of rolling, though non-synchronous the wave.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHITEWASHING THE STATUE OF CROMWELL.

"CROMWELL," wrote the _Daily News_ on ARTHUR BALFOUR'S speech, "was
the only man of his time who understood the principles of religious
freedom." Ahem!

"Papa," said _Polly Eccles_, referring to certain charges brought
against her revered father, "Papa may have his faults, but he's a
_very_ clever man." So the _D. N._ as to the Protector CROMWELL.
"OLIVER," says the _D. N._ in effect, "being human, may have had his
faults, as had other men of his time, but he thoroughly understood
religious freedom." Did he? In Ireland for example? With him
"religious freedom" was like the verb in grammar, either "expressed"
or "understood." It might have been "understood," but it certainly was
not "expressed" in action. If CROMWELL was such a model of "religious
freedom," then it will be as well to reconsider history under NERO,
DIOCLETIAN, & CO., not to mention the amiable Ninth CHARLES of France,
the genial HARRY THE EIGHTH of England, the gentle PETER, Czar of
all the Russia, and a few other kindly-disposed rulers, who were,
probably, the only men of their time thoroughly understanding the
principles of religious freedom. As the song says, "They wouldn't
ha' 'urt a biby, They were men as you could trust!" And for OLIVER
himself, "He was all right when you knew him, _But_--you had to know
him fust!" Rather; and then you had to accommodate yourself to his
little ways, or else so much the worse for one of the two, and that
one wouldn't have been OLIVER CROMWELL. But, of course, between
principles and practise there is a "Great Divide."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SHAHZADA, weary of London life and English enjoyment, will at
last exclaim with the canny Scot, "For pleasure gie me Peebles!" (The
original remark was made by the author of _Peebles whom I have met_.)

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTE, SATURDAY, JUNE 15.--Piece running last the week in Theatre Royal
Law Courts--"_Bebe_." For Monday's lunch Sir HENRY HAWKINS ordered a
Capon.

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, June 10._--School reopened after Whitsun
Holidays. Occasion marked by lamentable episode. Attendance, as usual
on Black Monday, very small. SPEAKER took Chair at three o'clock. No
private business on hand; nothing to be done till half-past three.
Meanwhile, SPEAKER and Members sit with hands folded.

Everyone knows the temptation of such opportunity for a nameless
Personage. TOMMY'S idle hands instinctively clutched after mischief.
Suppose he were to move to have House counted? Evidently not forty
present; nothing very serious would follow. SPEAKER would count. If
not forty on hand, would leave Chair, sit at table, and wait till they
came. Or he would go off, come back any time before four when message
brought in that a quorum was in sight. Still, it would be a lark;
would startle the House, frighten Ministers, possibly postpone
commencement of business by half an hour.

Cap'en just rising with intent to observe that there are not forty
Members present, when happier thought struck him. Why not get some
landsman to do the trick? The more venerable and venerated the agent
the better. TOMMY knows himself to be a wicked old salt. House not
shocked now at anything he does. Half the fun gone if he played this
prank himself. Shifting his quid and scanning horizon, noted in his
place Sir RICHARD TEMPLE, Bart., G.C.S.I., late Lieutenant-Governor
of Bengal, once Governor of Bombay, sometime Chief Commissioner of
Central Provinces of India.

The very man for the job. Buttonholing him with his hook, Cap'en TOMMY
opened his little plot. TEMPLE aghast at first. Never known such a
thing done, and the like. TOMMY jawed away, twisting TEMPLE round the
tip of his hook like a marlingspike on a flying jibboom. Convinced him
that public duty called for sacrifice of private prejudices. Having
squared TEMPLE, TOMMY got men near him to walk out before House was
counted, so as to reduce chances of quorum.

Bell rang; Members rushed in; Ministers huddled on Treasury Bench
like flock of frightened sheep. TOMMY, looking down from shrouds in
Strangers' Gallery, carefully counted.

"Only thirty two," he said. "Done it!"

But SPEAKER can count as well.
"One-two--four--fourteen--twenty-seven--thirty-nine, forty," said he,
with tone of conviction that precluded contradiction.

"Blow me tight!" said TOMMY, coming out of the shrouds, a deathly
pallor shining through his tan. That was not his exact expression; but
it was equivalent to his remark.

_Business done._--Quite a lot.

[Illustration: Vantage in (Sir E. Gr-y and Sir E. Ashm-d-B-rtl-tt.)]

_Tuesday._--EDWARD GREY is a hard nut for Irresponsible Verbosity
to crack. SILOMIO, his jaws aching with attempts at crunching SYDNEY
BUXTON, sometimes turns to him, and goes away sorrowing. TOMMY has a
tuck in at him occasionally, but makes nothing of the job. To night
AMBROSE, Q.C., took him in hand. Drew up stupendous question on
subject of Great Britain's relations with the Porte in respect of
Armenia.

"That'll fetch him," he said, as he ogled the paper on which the
question was set forth in bold type. Is there a treaty obligation,
he wanted to know, as distinguished from mere discretionary right,
authorising Great Britain to interfere in the affairs of Armenia, or
make war upon the Porte? If so, specify the treaty and the particular
article or articles creating such obligation.

This a bare summary of question, the drafting of which had cost
AMBROSE, Q.C., some sleepless nights. SILOMIO had looked over it;
TOMMY had touched it up; BARTLEY had beamed over it; HANBURY had
hugged it. GREY'S last hour (of course in Parliamentary sense) had
evidently come. He had wriggled out of some earlier man traps set for
him. This would settle him.

And this is what GREY said in reply:--"The article of the Treaty
of Berlin relative to the point raised by the hon. member is the
sixty-first."

Only that, and nothing more. The raven on the pallid bust of PALLAS
was scarcely more disappointingly laconic. There was a shocked pause;
then allied forces swooped down on UNDER SECRETARY, crying, in chorus.
Did the clause mean this? Did it mean that?

"The hon. member," said GREY, not even smiling, "must place his own
interpretation on the clause."

Evidently nothing to be done with a person of this temperament.
SILOMIO, with a wild shriek, learned in Swaziland, dashed in with
fresh questions; was neatly tripped up by SPEAKER; lay sprawling on
ground with dishevelled hair. Before he could get up, SNAPE was
asking HOME SECRETARY if the police might not be supplied with lighter
clothing in summer months.

_Business done._--Crofters Bill read second time.

[Illustration: Don Currie, Lord High Admiral.]

_Wednesday. Off Tilbury._--Yes, I'm off Tilbury, and shall be off
to the Baltic at four bells, whatever time that may be. Mr. G. is
responsible for it. Tired of doing nothing; pondering perilously over
growing temptation to run up to town, plunge into Parliamentary work;
address meeting at Blackheath on Armenian question. In nick of time
comes letter from DON CURRIE, proposing a trip to Kiel for opening of
Baltic Canal.

"The very thing!" said Mr. G., vaulting over the library table at
Hawarden, where he was sitting when letter arrived. "But TOBY, M.P.,
must come with us."

Objections urged in vain. What would Constituents in Berks say,
me running away from work? Who was to write the only authentic
matter-of-fact record of Parliamentary doings for future historians?
Mr. G., with all the impetuosity of youth, would listen to nothing. So
here I am, onboard the R.M.S. _Tantallon Castle_. Here, also, is quite
a quorum of members. Curious to see how they all trooped in just now
when luncheon-bell rang. Said they thought it was a division; being in
saloon, might as well stay.

That's all very well. By-and-by we'll be on the North Sea, where the
stormy winds do blow, do blow. Shall see _then_ whether we can keep a
House through the dinner hour.

_Business done._--Anchor weighed. Mr. G. taking the helm till we're
out in the open, when anyone can steer. Looks more than usually
knowing in a sou'wester. Wind N.S.E. Barometer falling.

       *       *       *       *       *

STARTLING NEWS! ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.--GRACE caught!! WRIGHT at
last.

       *       *       *       *       *





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.
108, June 22nd, 1895, by Various

*** 