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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108. JUNE 15, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

[Illustration]

There is, of course, to be an Eisteddfod in 1896; and it appears that
the Llandudno Executive Committee have been making some revolutionary
proposals with reference to it. They have resolved that they
"respectfully desire that the Gorsedd will see its way to concur in
the subject for the chair being in any metre, and not restricted to an
awdl. The Committee are aware that the awdl has antiquity and custom
in its favour, but, while calculated to develop skill in metrical
composition, the local Committee feel that the necessity of
composing in the form of an awdl is fettering to the conception and
imagination." I cannot say what an awdl is, but I am dead against
fetters, and, therefore, I say, down with the dastardly, fettering
awdl.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Swift, strike off the fetters, wherever they're found,
  Let the song-loving Welshman go free and unbound.
  To the awdl too long has he bended his knee,
  But its fate has been sealed, and the Welshman is free;
  As free as his ocean, as free as his breezes,
  He shall write as he likes, in what metre he pleases;
  And he faces his Gorsedd, and vows he won't dawdle
  A manacled slave in the train of the awdl.

       *       *       *       *       *

After this it seems somewhat bald and prosaic to read that

    On the recommendation of "Hwfa Mon" (the Archdruid),
    "Eifionydd" (the registrar), "Cadvan," "Pedrog," "Gwynedd,"
    and "Dyfed," of the Gorsedd Committee, who stated that the
    subject chosen for the arwrgerdd (heroic poem), for which a
    prize of L20 and a silver crown is offered, was unsuitable for
    an arwrgerdd, the subject was changed, "Llewelyn Fawr" being
    substituted for "St. Tudno."--Instead of the galar-gan, the
    subject of which was "Clwydfardd," for which L15 was the
    prize, it was decided to offer a prize of L15 and a gold medal
    for the best awdl on "Clwydfardd," the Gorsedd stating that an
    awdl would be much more appropriate, as the late Archdruid was
    a great admirer of the twenty-four metres. Instead of the hir
    a thoddaid "Cestyll Cymru" (Castles of Wales) it was decided
    to offer a prize of L2 2_s._ for the best hir a thoddaid
    "Beddargraph 'Elis Wyn o Wyrfai,'" and also L2 2_s._ for the
    best hir a thoddaid "Beddargraph 'Tudno.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Bishop of HEREFORD has requested the parishes in his diocese to
send up petitions respecting the Armenian atrocities. One of these
parishes is Walford-on-Wye, and I propose to confer immortality upon
the reply sent by its Vicar to the Bishop.

    "I regret" (says this truly Christian cleric) "having been
    unable to respond in the way you desired to your appeal
    respecting the persecution of Christians in Armenia. My not
    doing so was owing to the circumstance that at the present
    time a remonstrance from our nation can have no moral
    weight whatever. We have now in office a Government which is
    exercising all its ingenuity in plans for the persecution and
    plunder of Christians here, and so long as we tolerate the
    continuance of such a Government in office the Turk would
    be justified in telling us to reform this scandal before we
    presume to remonstrate with him."

       *       *       *       *       *

In other words, the Vicar of Walford-on-Wye disapproves of the Welsh
Church Disestablishment Bill, and refuses on that account to join in
a protest against the torture and murder of his Armenian
fellow-creatures. The logic of the Vicar is as convincing as his
Christian sympathy is admirable. Let him be known henceforth as the
Vicar of Reason Wye.

       *       *       *       *       *

What on earth is a "Rational Sick and Burial Association?" They
possess one at Acton Turville; and, only the other day, it held great
junketings. I may possibly have been rationally sick, but I have
certainly never yet been rationally, or even irrationally, buried,
nor, I take it, have the very vigorous members of the Association.
However, they had a procession, which started from the club-room,
headed by the Malmesbury band, and then walked to Badminton,
calling at the Duke of BEAUFORT'S, where they were all treated with
refreshments. Imagine his sporting Grace's feelings at being called
upon to treat with refreshments a procession of the rationally sick
and buried. They then dined. The _menu_ is not given, but no doubt
included bread made from mummy-wheat, Dead-sea fruit, and copious
libations of bier (spelling again!).

       *       *       *       *       *

Close to Bristol, too, there is a place rejoicing in the name of
Fishponds, where, at the Full Moon Hotel, the Loyal Pride of Fishponds
Lodge of the Bristol Equalised District of the Order of Druids meets
for its various celebrations. The members sometimes "perambulate the
village, headed by the band of the Mangotsfield detachment of the
Bristol Rifles."

       *       *       *       *       *

  Now strike the clashing cymbals, and sound the big bassoon,
  The Loyal Pride of Fishponds Lodge has left the old "Full Moon,"
  Yet, though their band be warlike, they mean nor war nor pillage,
  'Tis charity that bids them thus perambulate the village.
  No member of the Order would dare to come too late
  When Fishponds calls her Druids out to celebrate a _fete_.
  Then, while with martial music, the left foot on the beat,
  The Lodge awakes the echoes loud in every village street,
  The villagers of Fishponds forsake their early bed,
  And each one at his window displays a nightcapped head,
  Salutes the hoary Druids, nor fails to greet with cheers,
  The Mangotsfield detachment of Bristol Volunteers.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Correspondent writes to the _Scotsman_, protesting against the
omission of the grey plover from the list of birds to be protected
under the Wild Birds Protection Act. "That the eggs," he adds, "are
gathered by keepers and others for sale, should certainly be no
argument; and any keeper might well be ashamed to watch a poor
harmless bird all day through binoculars for the purpose of making a
few shillings by the sale of its eggs." We live and learn. I have been
eating plover's eggs for years without the least suspicion that
the poor harmless mother-bird had been shamefully watched through
binoculars by a keeper in search of shillings. All the same. I
heartily indorse the suggestion that the plover should be protected.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIR DONALD CURRIE must have the eye of an eagle. Speaking at a
luncheon held in Newcastle the other day in connection with the
Trinity Presbyterian Church, he declared that "nothing had ever
charmed him more than to observe at the luncheon that day the
marvellous ability, but much more the marvellous unanimity and
Christian fellowship manifested by the Nonconformist bodies." I doff
my cap to the man who can infer not only marvellous unanimity and
Christian fellowship, but also marvellous ability from his observation
of bodies at luncheon. After this it must be the merest child's-play
to navigate the _Tantallon Castle_ to the Baltic Canal.

       *       *       *       *       *

At a recent meeting of the Blackrock Town Commissioners, so I gather
from the _Freeman's Journal_, Dr. KOUGH, the Vice-Chairman, objected
to the adoption of a petition in favour of the Intoxicating Liquors
(Ireland) Bill. He said the petition had been carried by a side-wind.
Obviously, in the Doctor's opinion, the only thing to be done was to
Kough-drop it.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ASCENT OF MAN.

    ["Professor DRUMMOND'S 'Ascent of Man' was discussed in
    the Assembly of the Free Church and very severely
    handled."--_Daily Telegraph._]

  What? Sprung frae an ape wi' a danglin' bit tailie?
  Evolved by a process o' naiteral law?
  What? Me, Sir? An Elder i' Kirk an' a Bailie?
  That boast o' the bluid o' the Yellow Macaw?

  Ye'd gar be takin' me graunfeyther's Bible
  An' write doun "Gorilla" the sire o' us a'?
  Na, na! 'Tisna me that's the traitor tae libel
  The family tree o' the Yellow Macaw.

  We gang straught awa' through the son o' ta PHAIRSHONS
  Tae NOAH an' ADAM, and back to the Fa',
  An' nane but respectable kirk-gangin' pairsons
  Hae place i' the tree o' the Yellow Macaw.

  Baboons?--Leave the Sassenach, o'er his Manilla,
  Tae boast as he will o' his Puggie[*]-Papa!
  But strike me teetotal if e'er a gorilla
  Shall sit i' the tree o' the Yellow Macaw!

    [Footnote *: _Anglice_, Monkey.]

       *       *       *       *       *

LIGHT AND HEAT; OR, IN A CONCATENATION ACCORDINGLY.--Speaking of
"the invisible parts of the solar spectrum," Dr. HUGGINS tells us the
"ultra-red" has been traced to a distance nearly "ten times as long
as the whole range of the visible or light-giving region of the
spectrum." Nature, indeed, is "all of a piece." In politics, as in
optics, the "Ultra-Red" lies beyond the "light-giving region," though,
as Science says of its "gamut of invisible rays," they are perceived
"by their heating effects." The S. D. F.'s and other wavers of the Red
Flag, should study up-to-date optics.

       *       *       *       *       *

"SIC ITUR AD ASTRA."--The Balloon Society has presented "W. G." with
its gold medal. Therefore has he pardonable cause for inflation. It
is to be hoped that this will not have the effect of making him hit
"skyers." In spite of the aeronaut medal, may we never see "e'er a
naught" tacked on to W. G.'s name.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "BOUND FOR THE BALTIC SEA!"

[Mr. GLADSTONE starts for a trip to the Baltic in the Donald Currie
Ship _Tantallon Castle_, Wednesday, June 12.]]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WHAT A CHARMING SURPRISE IT IS, TO A MAN WHO HAS LOOKED
TO HIS BICYCLE FOR TWO HOURS' PEACE AND LIBERTY A DAY, TO COME DOWN ON
HIS BIRTHDAY AND FIND THAT HIS WIFE AND HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW HAVE
TAKEN LESSONS IN SECRET, AND WILL HENCEFORTH GO WITH HIM ALWAYS AND
EVERYWHERE!]

       *       *       *       *       *

SUN AND SONG.

_Saturday._--Have just been reading in _Temple Bar_ an article on the
influence of sunshine on SHELLEY, BYRON, KEATS, MOORE, SOUTHEY, and
other poets. Never thought of that before. There is so little sunshine
in London, and when there is one never sits out in it. That is why
all the magazines reject my sonnets, and why no one will publish my
tragedy in blank verse. Sunshine! Right on the top of one's bare head.
That is the cure. The reason is obvious--Ph[oe]bus Apollo, the Divine
Afflatus, and all that sort of thing. Must go somewhere into the
sunshine at once. Brighton is near, Brighton is shadeless, Brighton
under the June sunshine is hot. The very place. Shall now at last
electrify the world. Go down by an evening train. Somewhat crowded.
Whitsuntide, of course.

_Sunday._--Glorious morning. Blaze of sunshine. Brighton is not an
inspiring place for a poet. Walk along asphalted parade. Extremely
hot. But that is just what I want. Still SHELLEY and the others did
not advocate softened asphalte, to which one's boots almost stick.
The beach is the right place. Lie down on the dusty shingle above
high water mark, take off my hat, and abandon myself to the Divine
Afflatus. Wait patiently for inspiration. Can only think how hot it
is. Wonder if the Divine Afflatus could get through my hat. Put on
my hat. Still no inspiration. Take my hat off again. Begin to become
insensible in the warmth. Suddenly feel on the back of my head a
sensation as of something striking me. Can it be the inspiration? No,
it was a pebble. Jump up. Boys behind, aimlessly throwing stones, have
hit me. Sudden inspiration to rush after them with uplifted stick.
Sudden flight of boys. Pursue them over uneven shingle. Wonder if
SHELLEY and the others ever did that. At last stop, breathless, hotter
than ever. Find, with difficulty, another unoccupied space on beach,
and lie down again. Become quite drowsy. Suddenly wake up. Must have
been asleep for a long time. Sun going down. No inspiration yet, and
no chance of Divine Afflatus to-day. Must wait till to-morrow. Head
aching very much. Wonder if SHELLEY and the others had headaches when
the D. A. was coming on. Consult _Temple Bar_. Apparently not. Very
strange.

_Monday._--Again blazing sunshine. Hotter than ever. This must bring
on the D. A. if anything would. Again lie on beach. More crowded than
yesterday. Some of the people seem friendly, and to be interested in
my experiment, for they address me and advise me to get my hair cut.
Could this possibly be advantageous to admit the D. A.? No. SHELLEY
and the others wore their hair like mine, not cropped like a
convict's. Tell this to my new friends. They laugh. I become angry.
Then they tell me to keep my hair on. Curious instance of the
vacillation of popular opinion. They go away singing. Pain in my head
and sleepiness still worse. Can no longer keep awake. Abandon myself
to D. A. Am suddenly aroused by someone shaking my arm. Open my eyes.
Can hardly see anything. Awful pain in head. Shut my eyes again. My
arm again shaken roughly. A voice says, "Now then, get up." Endeavour
to lift my head but cannot. Never felt so ill before. Murmur feebly,
"I can't. It's the D. A. coming on." Voice answers, "D. T. yer mean.
None o' your gammon. You come along o' me." Begin now to understand
that it is not Ph[oe]bus Apollo who is standing by me in a vision.
It is not even a beautiful woman, as in SHELLEY'S _Alastor_. It is
a policeman. Must find precedent for this. Somehow my voice seems
changed and uncertain, but I manage to murmur, "_Temple Bar_." "Oh
yes," says the policeman, "you've been enough in the bar. Now yer can
try the dock. Come along." He endeavours to raise me, but I again fall
insensible.

_Wednesday._--Remember dimly the horrible events of the last
thirty-six hours. I was taken to the police-station, and brought
before the magistrate. He would not even look at _Temple Bar_, and
fined me for being drunk and incapable. I drunk and incapable! Oh
heavens! To-day I am back in London. The sky is cloudy. No chance of
the D. A. now. Shall give up poetry for ever, and for the future write
words for songs.

       *       *       *       *       *

AT A YEOMANRY REVIEW.

SCENE--_An open space near Baymouth, the watering-place at which the
County Yeomanry have been going through their annual training. Along
one side of the ground is a row of drags and other carriages,
occupied by the local magnates; along another, the less distinguished
spectators stand in a thin line or occasional groups, waiting for the
review to begin. In the centre, the inspecting officer is judging the
best turned-out troop, while the remainder of the regiment are doing
nothing in particular._

_Yeomanry Non-Com._ (_who is leading an officer's horse and talking to
a female friend of his and her brother with the sense of conferring a
distinction upon them_). Ah, 'tis not all play this yere trainin',
I do assure ye. I've been so 'ard-worked all the week, with all the
writin' I've had to do at the orderly room and thet, I've 'ardly 'ad
time to _live!_ But I like it, mind ye, I like it more every year I
come out and so does my old 'errse, a' b'lieve. And there's this about
it too--the girls don't come errfter a feller!

_The Young Lady._ Well, I'm sure! Now _I_ should have thought when
you're in the Yeomanry, it was just what----

_The Y. N.-C._ Tain't so--not in my case--that's all I can tell ye.

_The Y. L._ (_with coquettish incredulity_). Oh, I daresay. With that
uniform, too! Why, I expect, if the truth was told, you know more than
one young lady who's glad enough to be seen about with you.

_The Y. N.-C._ (_complacently_). More than one! Why, theer wurr eight
I took out in a boat for a moonlight row on'y lawst night--nawn o'
_my_ seekin', but they wouldn't take no denial. _I_ didn't want to
be bothered with 'en. I've got other things to do besides squirin' a
passel o' wimmin folk about, I hev.

_The Y. L._ You conceited thing, you! If that's the way you go on, I
shan't talk to you any more!

_The Y. N.-C._ Well, you won't hev th' opportunity, for theer's the
Captain calling me up. So long--and take care o' yerselves!

    [_He trots off, feeling that he has sufficiently impressed
    them_.

_The Y. L._ (_to her brother, with the superiority that comes of a
finishing school with all the extras_). Distinctly "country," isn't
he?

_Her Brother._ Well, he can't help _that_. And he rides as straight as
any chap I know.

_The Y. L._ Oh, he's a real good fellow, I know that; still he _is_
just a little ---- I did hope I'd polished him up a little while we
were at the farm last summer; but there, I suppose you _can't_ put
refinement into some people!

_Another Young Lady_ (_to her_ Admirer). I can't make GEORGE out yet
among them all--can _you?_

_Her Admirer_ (_and_ GEORGE'S _rival_). Cawn't say as I've tried,
partickler. But there's one there in the rear rank that hes a look of
him; that one settin' all humped up nohow on his 'errse.

_The Adored One._ Oh, of course, if you're going to make out as GEORGE
can't sit on a horse!

_Her Admirer_ (_sulkily_). Well, I'd back myself to ride 'cross
country agen GARGE any day.

_The Adored One._ Then why don't _you_ join the Yeomanry, like _he_
has?

_Her Admirer_ (_who would if he could afford it_). Why? 'Cause 'taint
worth my while, if you want to know!

_The Adored One._ I'm sure it's a smart enough uniform--at least
GEORGE looks quite 'andsome in it.

_Her Admirer._ He didn't look very 'andsome when I see him on parade
this marnin'; the sun had peeled his nose a treat!

_The Adored One._ It's well there are _some_ who are willing to make
sacrifices for their country!

AMONG THE CARRIAGES.

_Mrs. Prattleton._ Yes, so _sad_ for him, poor dear; but of course
whenever his father dies, he'll be _quite_ comfortable. (_Recognising
a military acquaintance._) Oh, Captain CLINKER, do come and tell me
what they're supposed to be doing out there, and whether they've begun
yet.

_Capt. Clinker_ (_R.A._). Nothin' much goin' on at present. Ah, they
seem to be wakin' up now a bit. (_As the band strikes up._) There's
the general salute; now they're goin' to make a start.

_Mrs. Pratt._ Who is that little man in the baggy black frock, rather
like a dressing-gown, and the cocked hat; and why is he galloping out
here?

_Capt. C._ He's the inspectin' officer; takin' up his position for the
march past, don't you know.

_Mrs. Pratt_. Oh; and they're all going to march past _him_. How nice!
But there's _another_ officer in a cocked hat; is _he_ inspecting,
too?

_Capt. C._ Only their tongues; he's the regimental Pill--the _doctor_,
you know.

_Mrs. Pratt._ (_disenchanted_). I quite thought he must be a general
at _least_. Dear me, there's one man in a red coat and a helmet. What
is _he_ doing here?

_Capt. C._ That's the adjutant.

_Mrs. Pratt_. Oh; and the adjutant always wears a helmet. I _see_.
They've hung red silk round the kettledrums; (_pleased_) that's _real_
soldiering, isn't it?

_Officers_ (_as the regiment marches past by squadrons_). Right
whe-eel! Eyes right! For-ward! Dress up to your leaders there!

_Capt. C._ (_with languid approbation_). The dressin's not half bad.

_Mrs. Pratt._ No, they're dressed very like Hussars--or is it
Artillery I mean? I always had an idea the Yeomanry wore _comic_
uniforms--with shirt-collars, you know, and old-fashioned milk-pail
hats with feathers and things. But (_disappointedly_) there's nothing
ridiculous about these. What a frisky animal that trumpeter is riding;
look at him caracoling about!

_Capt. C._ Trumpeters and serjeant-majors always the best mounted.

_Mrs. Pratt._ Are they? I wonder why _that_ is. (_As the regiment
ranks by in single file._) But they've _all_ got beautiful horses.

_Capt. C._ (_critically_). H'm, they're a fair-lookin' lot. Fall off a
bit behind, some of 'em.

_Mrs. Pratt._ Do they? Then they can't be very good riders, _can_
they?

_Capt. C._ These fellows? They ought to be; most of 'em, you see, hunt
their horses regularly.

_Mrs. Pratt._ (_with a mental vision of dismounted troopers chasing
their chargers about the ground_). What fun! I should like to see them
do that. (_As the regiment trots past in sections._) But they don't
seem to come off over the trotting.

[Illustration: "'Twas onfortunate fur Garge, him bein' th' only man as
fell arf."]

_Capt. C._ Not quite; the leaders don't keep their distance, so the
men can't keep up. Still, considering how short a time they've been
out, you can't expect----

_Mrs. Pratt._ No; and they haven't tried to _gallop_ yet, have they?
Some of the horses are cantering now, though; it looks so much nicer
than if they all trotted, _I_ think.

_Capt. C._ Don't fancy their Colonel would agree with you there.

_Mrs. Pratt._ What a shame to keep those poor soldiers out there all
by themselves; they don't have any fun, and they only get in the way
of the others when they turn round. Oh, look at them now--they're all
coming straight at us, and waving their swords!

_Capt. C._ Pursuin' practice at the gallop; doin' it rather decently,
too.

_Mrs. Pratt._ But _do_ you think we're safe just here? Suppose they
can't stop themselves in time!

_Capt. C._ No danger of that; too heavily bitted to get out of
hand.... There, you see, they're all wheelin' round. That'll be the
wind up. Yes, they're drawn up in line; officers called to the front.
Now the inspecting officer is makin' a few remarks, butterin' 'em up
all round, you know. It's all over.

_Mrs. Pratt._ Really? It's been a great success, hasn't it? I enjoy
a review so much better when they don't have any horrid firing. Don't
you?

    [Captain CLINKER _assents, to save trouble_.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON THE WAY HOME.

_George's Rival_ (_reflectively_). 'Twas onfortnate fur GARGE, him
bein' th' only man as fell arf, so 'twas.

_The Adored One._ He didn't fall off--he only fell _out_. Didn't you
hear him tellin' me the buckle of his stirrup broke?

_George's Rival._ Buckle or nawn, he come arf; that's all I'm sayin'.
An' showed his sense, too, by keepin' out o' th' rest on it. But GARGE
was allays a keerful sart o' chap.

       *       *       *       *       *

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

    ["At the Ludlow County Police Court, on May 27, Sir CHARLES
    ROUSE BOUGHTON, Baronet, of Downton Hall, a Justice of
    the Peace, applied for a protection order against Mr. JOHN
    BADDELEY WOOD, of Henley Hall, a Justice of the Peace.
    The parties had a dispute over a waterway, and on leaving
    Middleton Church on Sunday, Mr. WOOD, it was alleged, used
    coarse language to Sir CHARLES, and called him a liar three
    times. Sir CHARLES said he was in bodily fear of Mr. WOOD,
    and thought if sureties to keep the peace were applied for
    he should be safer. The Bench granted the summons."--_The
    Sheffield and Rotherham Independent._]

  Sure, WOOD and BOUGHTON might full well
  By closest ties be knit;
  But water's caused them both to swell,
  And brought about a split.
  And now within their bosoms housed
  Blind anger courses madly,
  Sir CHARLES'S temper has been Roused,
  And WOOD has lost his, Baddeley.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. T. DOLLING BOLTON, M.P. for N.E. division of Derbyshire, has been
explaining to his constituents at Eckington the reason for his voting
against the Government on Mr. LLOYD-GEORGE'S amendment to the Welsh
Church Bill. He was under no obligation to party leaders or party as a
party. There was no subsidy by the party, no assistance given by party
speakers, and he had to rely upon the electors alone. These elementary
political principles endorsed by unanimous vote of continued
confidence in esteemed member. Vote moved in eloquent speech by Mr.
BODEN. No party assistance, no party voting, manly independence the
thing for BODEN. Leaders say it ought to be a thing "verboten," and
Mr. T. E. ELLIS filled with foreboding by latest revolt. BOLTON voting
blue bad enough, but the enthusiastic approval of his constituency
quite a bolt from the blue.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A LADY-JOURNALIST.

(_Written by Request._)

[Illustration: Coming for an Interview.]

  Great heav'ns! Here, where's my paper, pen, and ink!
  How _is_ it all this while I have omitted you?
  For _her_ I've rhymed, and Her, and HER; don't think,
  I beg then, that I'll from my duty shrink,
  A duty to a lady smart and witty due.

  I'm really sorry for this painful lapse
  Of etiquette--_'twas_ careless, now you mention it.
  I thought--let's see, what _did_ I think?--perhaps
  You'd hardly time to read poetic scraps;
  Your leisure's precious, and I dared not trench on it!

  Then ladies of the Press bar compliments
  (At least _I_ seldom find they will permit any!),
  So I'm impelled to write plain common sense,
  As near as may be, and on no pretence
  Aspire to high-flown ode or "lover's litany"!

  But still you've _asked_ me, and I'd much regret
  Not to oblige you promptly, if I know a way;
  The more so, as you've just dropped in to get
  A cup of tea and smoke a c-g-r-tte.
  (By Jove, I hope I haven't giv'n the show away!)

  Well, I've not _said_ much, but I've thought the more:
  If I were fulsome in your praise, why, "Drat it!" you'd
  Most probably remark, or "What a bore!"
  So, therefore, please between the lines explore--
  'Twas _you_ who bade me thus descend to platitude!

       *       *       *       *       *

'ARRY says he was "much interested in 'earing of a nartickle in the
_St. James's Gazette_ last week, 'eaded _The 'Aunt of the Otter_. He
'opes the writer will next give us _The Uncle of the Coolie_."

       *       *       *       *       *

OPERATIC NOTES.

[Illustration]

_Saturday._--Production of _Harold_. New Opera; music by COWEN, book
by Sir E. MALET, British Representative man in service of Foreign
Office, writing words for diplomatic, and words for musical notes.
However good-tempered a composer may be, yet when he wants to write
an opera he cannot get on without "having words." No time left to
give full criticism on _Harold_, which achieved sufficient success to
satisfy composer and librettist; it may be as well to state that there
is nothing "old" in it, except in last syllable of name. Years
ago favourite subject with artists was "the finding of the body of
HAROLD." Sir EDWARD has found body; COWEN clothed it. ALBANI is its
life and soul. Composer conducted. May probably be heard again this
season; so no more at present.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

My Baronite, constitutionally credulous, on reading the earlier works
of JOHN OLIVER HOBBES, accepted the masculinity of the author as put
forward on the title page. On reading _The Gods, Some Mortals, and
Lord Wickenham_ (HENRY & CO.), he begins to doubt. No man, not the
weakest-minded amongst us, habitually uses italics in writing a book.
Moreover, none but a woman could draw such a creature as _Mrs. Anne
Warre_. The more generous masculine nature could not imagine anything
so unrelievedly undesirable. Doubtless she is made so bad the more
strikingly to compare with _Allegra_, "whose charm was the charm of
springtime and love, all the kind promises of the sunshine, the life,
the tenderness, the warmth, the graciousness of nature." The book, the
most ambitious, and, in point of length, the most important, that has
come from the pen of JOHN OLIVER HOBBES, is marked by her gift of
keen observation, that sees everything and sees through most people.
Dialogue and narrative sparkle with felicitous turns, bubble over with
epigram. There are boundless possibilities in JOHN OLIVER HOBBES;
but she should turn her face more persistently to the sunlight. _Dr.
Warre_ and _Allegra_ are so good and so pleasant, that the average
reader would like a little more of them, and a little less of the
almost impossible _Mrs. Warre_.

The proper study of mankind is man, and there could not be an apter
tutor than Mr. SMALLEY. His _Studies of Men_ (MACMILLAN), have, as
he tells us in a preface, appeared for the most part in the _New York
Tribune_. Everyone conversant with newspaper work will know that for
many years Mr. SMALLEY'S Letter from London to what, take it all in
all, is the principal, certainly the weightiest, journal in the United
States, has been its most prominent feature. A selection of these
contributions have, happily, been rescued from the files of the
newspaper, and are here presented. The Studies cover a wide range, but
the subjects are all, in diverse fashion, interesting. One is struck
with the extreme fairness of judgment displayed in dealing with
men who stand so far apart as, for example, Mr. ARTHUR BALFOUR, Mr.
PARNELL, Mr. SPURGEON, TENNYSON, Lord ROSEBERY, Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT,
Mr. FROUDE, Mr. JOHN WALTER, and Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL. During his
long residence in England Mr. SMALLEY has known these and others,
personally and in their public aspect. He has stored a picture gallery
in which posterity may see them as they lived, nothing extenuated nor
anything set down in malice. By way of redressing afresh the balance
between the Old World and the New, Mr. SMALLEY has turned his back on
London, and, having all these years written about Europeans, for the
edification of Transatlantic readers, is about to tell Europe, in
the columns of the _Times_, something of the undercurrent of public
affairs in the United States. He will find in himself a most damaging
rival.

  THE BARON DE B.-W.

       *       *       *       *       *

A HOME-CURED TONGUE.--At a meeting of the "Gaelic League" in Dublin
the other day, "the proceedings were conducted exclusively in Irish."
Dr. DOUGLAS HYDE, the President, said that the movement was advancing
in favour every day, and that, "if this regress continued, the future
of the Irish language was assured." But how about the future of those
who have to listen to it? He subsequently read a poem called "An
Bhainrioghan Aluinn," and, after that had the hardihood to remark that
"both young and old take a delight" in speaking the language. As
_Mr. Pickwick_ would have said to _Dr. Peter Magnus Hyde_,--"It is
calculated to cause them the highest gratification."

       *       *       *       *       *

MEM. BY AN UNLUCKY AMATEUR DABBLER IN THE CITY.--To go in for "Specs"
is short-sighted policy.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE NEW WOMAN.

"YOU'RE NOT LEAVING US, JACK? TEA WILL BE HERE DIRECTLY!"

"OH, I'M GOING FOR A CUP OF TEA IN THE SERVANTS' HALL. I CAN'T GET ON
WITHOUT FEMALE SOCIETY, YOU KNOW!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SHAHZADA ON THE THAMES.

"You will assist," quoth _Mr. Punch_ to TOBY, "in giving the SHAHZADA
a cheery welcome on board the P. and O.'s _Caledonia_. And _these_,"
continued _Mr. P._, handing TOBY a packet and a purse containing
untold gold "are your secret instructions."

"They shall be faithfully obeyed," replied the ever-faithful TOBY;
adding, "_A bon_ SHAH, _bon hur-rah!_"

* * *

Day lovely; voyage perfect. Father Thames at his best. Sir THOMAS
SUTHERLAND, M.P. and O., and all the goodly company, drank the
SHAHZADA'S health most heartily. Then capital short speech from
Right Honourable FOWLER about India. SHAHZADA satisfied with dinner,
gratified by reception. On deck the SHAHZADA called TOBY aside.
Interpreter intervened. "_Detnaw ton! Tuoteg!_" said the SHAHZADA,
quietly, but authoritatively.

The interpreter retired, muttering to himself "Bow-strings for one."
"Look here," said the SHAHZADA to TOBY ... and they discussed affairs
(TOBY acting as _Mr. P.'s_ representative) of such importance that
they cannot be even hinted at in this or any other place. "And now,"
said the SHAHZADA, still speaking in his native language, of which
this is a translation, "is it not true that one of your national
institutions at Greenwich is----"

"The Fair?"

"Bah!" laughed the SHAHZADA, "that has long since vanished; so have
the Pensioners at the Hospital. But----"

"There is still hospitality," murmured TOBY, salaaming his very best.

"There is," returned the SHAHZADA, "and _you_ shall show it."

"What can I do for you, your Royal Highness?" asked TOBY.

The SHAHZADA drew him yet further apart from the envious crowd, and
whispered in his ear.

"Your Royal Highness," answered TOBY, "it shall be done. Command that
the boat be stopped at Greenwich."

So the boat was stopped at Greenwich, and the SHAHZADA, with TOBY,
debarked. Great cheering.

* * *

8 P.M.--_Telegraphic Message from Toby to Mr. Punch, Fleet Street._

_Cannot come to dinner. Shahzada and self enjoying tea and shrimps.
All gone--except the shrimps. No money returned. Did it for
one-and-ten, shall pocket difference. Shahzada says best entertainment
ever had. See you later. Larks._

  TOBY.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WARS OF THE ROSES.

(_A Sheffield Cricket Song, by a True "Tyke."_)

    ["The fifty-fifth contest on the cricket field between the
    rival counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire ended yesterday
    (June 5) in a victory for the representatives of the Red
    Rose by 145 runs, and the record now reads--Yorkshire won 23,
    Lancashire won 23, and 9 drawn."--_The Leeds Mercury._]

  Red rose and white! A pleasant summer sight,
  As a Midsummer Dream may well imagine it!
  How different far from the wild wordy fight
  'Twixt furious SOMERSET and fierce PLANTAGANET!
  Bramhall Lane Ground presents a peacefuller scene
  Than that once witnessed in the Temple Garden.
  Here's war of wickets, on a sward as green
  And as unreddened as the glades of Arden.
  WARD, not hot SUFFOLK, fights for the Red Rose,
  JACKSON, not VERNON, battles for the White One.
  True York _v._ Lancashire are still the foes,
  Nor is the issue now at stake a slight one;
  But whether JACKSON be twice bowled by MOLD,
  Or twice PEEL give young ALBERT his _quietus_,
  The battle is as friendly as 'tis bold.
  PAUL, with his eighty-seven, helps defeat us,
  But brave Lord HAWKE, our Captain, makes his pile,
  And there is comfort in the score of WAINWRIGHT.
  If SUGG and BAKER make the Red Rose smile,
  HIRST his true "Yorkers" down the pitch will rain right.
  Some holiday-makers seek the grassy down,
  And some will bask by seashore, or on sunny cliff,
  Give me to watch the fine straight bat of BROWN,
  The bail of MILLIGAN, the catch of TUNNICLIFFE,
  Dead level now are Lancashire and York,
  The Red Rose and the White bear equal blossoms.
  Now comes the tug of war! Now must we work,
  Active as catamounts, and sly as 'possums.
  But this we know--that at _our_ noble game,
  With HAWKE the hearty, and with stout MCLAREN,
  The White Rose shall not have to blush with shame,
  Nor the Red Rose, through funk, blanch and grow barren!

       *       *       *       *       *

HIS NEW TITLE.--Dr. GRACE, C.B. ("Companion of the Bat").

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "DEEDS-NOT WORDS!"

JOHN BULL. "LOOK HERE,--WE'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR PALAVER! ARE YOU
GOING TO LET THE GIRL GO, OR HAVE WE GOT TO MAKE YOU?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Ragged Urchin_ (_who has just picked up very short
and dirty end of a Cigarette_). "HI, BILLY! LOOK 'ERE! SEE WHAT YOU'VE
MISSED!"]

       *       *       *       *       *


'ARRY AND THE BATTERSEA PARK LADY CYCLISTS.

  DEAR CHARLIE,--You know I'm a "biker."
  I told yer a good bit ago
  'Ow I learnt to cavort on the cycle; and now,
  from Land's End to Soho,
  There isn't a scorchinger Scorcher than
  'ARRY, when fair on the spin.
  Some _might_ do me for pace, but for style,
  and for skylark, I'd jest about win.

  LIL JOHNSON--you know little LIL with the
  copper-wire fringe and rum lisp!
  'Er as flower-mounts Clerkenwell way, an'
  wos donah to young IKY CRISP!
  She's blue sancho on learnin' to "bike," so I
  took 'er to Battersea Park,
  As I'd 'eard wos _the_ pitch for a spry lydy
  cyclist as longed for a lark.

  Larks, CHARLIE! It's spruce, and no
  pickles! You know I fly cool without fidge,
  But I wosn't prepared for the toppers as
  treddle it nigh Chelsea Bridge.
  No slow Surrey-siders, my pippin, but smart
  bits o' frock from Mayfair;
  It took _me_ aback for a jiff, tho' of course
  I wos speedy all there.

  "Lor, 'AWWEE!" lisped LIL, "thith _ith_
  thplendid! But 'adn't _we_ better sthand by?
  Thee 'ow thpiffing they thpinth, thoth sthwell
  lydith! No,'AWWEE, I don't _like_ ter twy.
  Fanthy me in my cotton pwint wobbling
  among thuch A-wonnerth ath thoth!
  Look at 'er in the kniekerth and gaiterth, and
  thpot t'otherth Balbriggan hoth!"

  Poor LIL! She's no clarss, not comparative.
  Ain't got no savvy, yer see;
  And carn't 'old 'er own among quolity, not
  with a flyer like me.
  Don't like to be done, _I_ don't CHARLIE; and
  so I sez "Jest as yer like.
  Ony, if _I_ meant biking, in Battersea, dash it
  old girl, _I_ should _bike_!"

  "Oh, 'AWWEE," sez she, "you're a 'ot 'un!
  But let uth look on, dear, _thith_ go;
  Yer thee I carn't balanth, or pedal. I don't
  want ter myke _you_ no show."
  "All right," I sez, 'orty an' airy. But _ontry
  noo_, CHARLIE, old pal,
  When I stocked up them beauties on bikes, I
  wos most arf ashymed o' _my_ gal.

  One young piece in grey knicks and cream
  cloth, and a sort of soft tile called a _toke_,
  Took my fancy perdigious, dear boy. I'd
  ha' blued arf-a-bull to 'ave spoke,
  But a stiff-bristled swell in a dog-cart 'ad got
  a sharp eye upon _'er_;
  And _I_ couldn't ha' done the perlite without
  raising a bit of a stir.

  If I could ha' got rid o' LIL, I'd ha' mounted
  my wheel, and wired in,
  Balloon-tyred smart safety, old man! _I_'d
  ha' showed Miss GREY KNICKS 'ow to spin.
  One tasty young thing wos in tears, 'cos the
  bike she'd bespoke wosn't there,
  I hoffered 'er mine, but the arnser I got wos
  a freeze-me-stiff stare.

  "Thtuck-up cat, my dear 'AWWEE!" sez LIL.
  "Well," sez I, "she _may_ be a Princess,
  As a lot o' them hexercise here. Lydy B.
  and a young Marcherness
  Do paternise Battersea Park on a bike;
  leastways so I've bin told;
  And the breakfusts and five-o'clock teas give
  by dooks is a sight to behold."

  "Garn, 'AWWEE," snigs LIL, "you're a
  kiddin'. But, thithorth! it ith a rum thing.
  To thee Batterthea Park, ath wath onth all
  kid-cwicket and kith-in-the ring,
  Now the pet-pitch of thwell lydy thyclists!"
  "It shows yer," I sez, "'ow things move.
  From hansoms and bus-tops to bikes! Oh,
  the lydies _must_ keep on the shove.

  "They borrow their barnies from _hus_, arter all,
  LIL. Toffs want a new lark,
  So they straddle the bike _ah lah_ Brixton, and
  tumble to Battersea Park.
  'Divideds' and 'Knickers,' my dysy, are
  sniffed at out Hislington way,
  But when countesses mount 'em at Chelsea,
  they're trotty and puffeck O K!"

  World shifts it, old man, that's a moral!
  We'll soon 'ave some duchess, on wheels,
  A-cuttin' all records, and showing young
  ZIMMY a clean pair of 'eels.
  Hadvanced Women? Jimminy-Whizz! With
  the spars and the sails they now carry
  They'll race us all round, pooty soon, and
  romp in heasy winners! Yours,
  'ARRY.

       *       *       *       *       *


RATHER A HANDFUL!

There seems to be a feeling among lady writers that they also should
have been remembered in the Birthday-honour distribution. That is
all very well, but quite a new demand has been started by the _Cork
Constitution_, which remarks,--

    "It would not of course be regular to bestow a knighthood upon
    a lady; but the rule in the case of Mrs. DISRAELI might be
    observed, and a Baroness be conferred upon the author of _Lady
    Audley's Secret_."

What would MISS BRADDON do with a Baroness when she got her? Work her
up into her next plot? Peeresses must be "cheap to-day," if they can
be given away in this generous style.

       *       *       *       *       *


A LAMENT.

(CHEAPSIDE, JUNE 6, 1895.)

  Oh, princely guest from Afghan clime,
  The poet's lot is hard! Ah!
  When he would find the proper rhyme,
  To balance with Shah-_zada_!

  I see the guardsman ride erect,
  The bugle sounds! Aha!
  _My_ part should be, in verse correct,
  To greet the Shahza-_da_!

  Thy quantities have kill'd my song!
  Despair! I'm off to Mada-
  gascar, or anywhere! I long
  To have it right. Shah-_z[)a]d[)a]?_

       *       *       *       *       *


A FAIR Correspondent adds the letters "L. C. C." after her signature.
She is _not_ a member of the London County Council, but of the "Lady
Cyclists Club."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PARLIAMENTARY INDIAN EXHIBITION.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A KIND INQUIRY.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--A touching epitaph has lately come under my notice.
It runs as follows:--

"HIC JACET ANONYMA.

  She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
  Where yellow asters throve,
  A maid whom there were few to praise
  And fewer still to love.

  She lived unknown, so none can know
  The hour she ceased to be,
  Enough to know she has, and oh!
  Pray, all men, R. I. P."

Is it possible that our old friend, the New Woman, that quite
"impossible she," has left us for "another place"? It seems almost too
good to be true.

Yours unfeelingly,

  A. MISONEOGYNIST.

P.S.--You will observe that she died a spinster, of uncertain age.

       *       *       *       *       *

A sportsman, not particularly literary, but very fond of theatricals,
says that he hears there is a play going on called _Don Quickshot_.
He thinks the first syllable may have been accidentally omitted, but
feels certain that the _London Quickshot_ ought to make a hit.

       *       *       *       *       *

Scoring for DR. GRACE.--"A Running Commentary."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HOW THINGS WILL OUT.

(_The Judge is not at home, and Brown, Q.C., asks permission to write
him a Note._)

_Mary Elizabeth Jane._ "WOULD YOU LIKE THIS BOOK, SIR? MASTER ALWAYS
USES IT WHEN HE WRITES LETTERS!"

    [_Heavens! it's an English Dictionary!_
]

       *       *       *       *       *

TOWN AND GOWN.

The _Standard_, giving its account of "Speeches," at Eton, on Fourth
of June, said, "The speakers were attired in Court dress, the Oppidans
wearing their black school gowns." Since when have Oppidans worn
"gowns," black or otherwise? Those who used to wear gowns were the
Collegers. Surely the custom, sanctioned by some centuries, has not
been changed. The "Oppidans," or Town Boys, could not possibly be
metamorphosed into Gown Boys--at least so writes to us

  THE TUG OF WARRE.

       *       *       *       *       *

GOOD EVANS!--The _Daily Telegraph_ reported "The Heroism of a Lady."
The act and deed was that of Miss EVANS, of Hythe, near Southampton,
who, after rescuing a man and a woman from drowning, plunged in again,
dived, and rescued a girl, who was sinking for the third and last
time. The girl saved will ever gratefully remember Miss EVANS as the
lady who "brought her up by hand," and in finishing her education she
will not neglect the extra-accomplishment of swimming. Honour to Miss
EVANS, who is a real female champion, not of the Salvation Army, but
of a Nautical Salvage Corps!

       *       *       *       *       *

A NOCTURNE IN NOODLEDOM.

(_What the Heart of the Young Masher said to the Music-hall Singer._)

(A LONG WAY AFTER LONGFELLOW.)

AIR--"_The Day is Done._"

  The day is done, and the darkness
  Falls from the brow of night,
  Like a crape-mask drifting downward
  From a burglar in his flight.

  I see the lights of "the village"
  Gleam through the evening mist,
  And a feeling of dryness comes o'er me,
  And a tiddley I can't resist.

  A feeling of blueness, and longing
  For a spree, and another drain;
  It resembles sorrow only
  As gooseberry does champagne.

  Come, tip me some snappy poem,
  Some iky and rorty lay,
  That shall banish this chippy feeling,
  And drive dull care away.

  Not from the slow old stodges,
  Not from the smugs sublime,
  Who hadn't a notion of patter,
  And were slaves to tune and time:

  For, like chunks of WAGNER'S music,
  They worrying thoughts suggest,
  Dull duty, and dry endeavour,
  And to-night I long for rest.

  Tip a stave from some Lion Comique,
  Whose songs are snide and smart,
  And who makes you roar, like ROBERTS,
  Till tears from your optics start.

  Who, without thought or labour,
  And "on his own," with ease,
  Can whack out the ripping chorus
  Of music-hall melodies.

  Such songs have power to quicken
  The pulse that beats low with care;
  And come like the "Benedictine"
  That follows the bill-of-fare.

  So pick from the cad, or the coster,
  Some patter--slang for choice;
  And lend to the rhymes of the Comique
  The tones of a stentor voice.

  And our feet shall thump tune to the music,
  And the bills that I cannot pay
  Shall be folded up, like my brolly,
  And as carefully put away.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GOOSE AND THE EAGLE.

(_A Fable._)

A Goose that had miss-spent a long life, and, in addition to being
old and ugly, was of a sour, ill-natured disposition, in despair of
rendering herself any longer agreeable to her male acquaintances,
conceived the desperate design of emancipating her female friends.

"It is intolerable," she declared to a large assemblage of the latter
who flocked together directly the news of her design was noised
abroad, "it is intolerable that, whilst all the good things of this
life are reserved for the exclusive use and enjoyment of our male
tyrants, we poor female creatures should be put off with feeble bodies
and dowdy, unattractive plumage. I will go immediately to the King of
Birds and demand the instant redress of these grievances under pain of
my serious displeasure."

Scarcely had the Goose received the thanks of her audience for this
valiant speech, when an Eagle, which chanced to be soaring at that
moment in the heavens above them, and was attracted by the clamour
that reached him, dropped suddenly to the earth in order to discover
the cause of it; to whom the Goose, so soon as she was sufficiently
recovered of her fears, humbly addressed her complaint.

"Foolish bird!" exclaimed the Eagle, when the Goose had made an end
of her complainings, "know you not that what is fixed by Nature cannot
possibly be altered by birds; and that if your sex have weaker bodies
and a less attractive plumage than belong to us of the male gender, it
is because Nature wills it so, and must be obeyed? Learn to be content
with what you have, and cease envying those to whom Nature has been
more prodigal of certain favours than she has been to you. Remember,
also, foolish bird! that strength of mind is not the same thing with
strength of body, and that though you may possess the one and pretend
to despise the other, yet is Might the foundation of nearly all Right
in the animal world, and must remain so because Nature will have it so
and must be obeyed."

       *       *       *       *       *

SHAKSPEARIAN CHARACTERS AT MANCHESTER,--Last Friday H.R.H. the
Prince of WALES'S horse _Florizel II._ took the cake, or, rather,
the Manchester Cup. _Florizel II._ is now _Florizel I._ In this new
illustration to a Summer's not _A Winter's Tale_, _Perdita_ should
represent the race from the point of view of those who didn't win.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANOTHER TITLE!! SUPPLEMENTAL GAZETTE OF BIRTHDAY HONOURS.--DR. W. G.
GRACE to be Cricket-Field-Marshal.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "JUST LOOK AT MR. JONES OVER THERE, FLIRTING WITH THAT
GIRL! I ALWAYS THOUGHT HE WAS A WOMAN-HATER?"

"SO HE IS; BUT SHE'S NOT HERE TO-NIGHT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"AS SIMPLE AS ITALIAN."

(_A Dramatic Fragment from Drury Lane._)

    SCENE--_The Auditorium of the National Theatre. Present the
    customary throng. A performance on the stage is occupying the
    spectators' wrapt attention. Newly-married couple in stalls
    holding a discussion in undertones._

_Angelina._ I am so glad, dear, you did not get a book of the words.
It will be such a capital exercise for my Italian. I find that I can
understand every word.

_Edwin_ (_happy to have saved the expense of purchasing a translated
libretto_). Quite so, dear. You can tell me what they are doing.

_Ang._ Certainly, dear. Look, they are now having supper. You see, the
heroine called for candles, and the waiter put them on the table. And
now they are talking about things in general. And that is _Armande_.
And don't you see _Marguerite_ is ill.

_Edwin._ Yes; she is fainting in front of a window.

_Ang._ Exactly. Italian is so easy--almost like English. She gives him
a flower, and he goes away. He says adieu, and then the curtain falls.

_Edwin_ Was that in Italian too?

_Ang._ Don't be absurd. (_They discuss things in general, until the
curtain rises on the Second Act._) Look, it is the same scene. You
see, they are engaged. She is making love to him.

_Edwin._ Is that why he is sitting in a chair with his back to the
audience while _Marguerite_ strokes his hair?

_Ang._ Yes. While she is stroking his hair she is saying how fond she
is of him. And now he is telling her how fond he is of her.

_Edwin_ (_after a quarter of an hour_). What are they saying?

_Ang._ Oh, just the same thing over and over again. The Italian
language is so beautiful. "Oh, _Armande_!" She calls him by his
Christian name. She is so attached to him.

_Edwin._ But what was the meaning of that?

_Ang._ (_at the end of the Act_). Oh, don't you see, he said something
that pleased her. Then she kissed him. Really, I had no idea how
easy Italian was. Of course, one understands it from knowing French.
(_Entr'acte passes as before, and curtain rises on Act Three._) Ah,
here we are at Auteuil. Yes, and here comes _Marguerite_ with some
flowers. Isn't it interesting?

_Edwin._ Isn't this piece rather like the _Traviata_?

_Ang._ I don't know. But I never saw the Opera. And there, that old
gentleman has come to call upon _Marguerite_.

_Edwin._ Why, of course, like the old chap with the baritone song. Now
I begin to understand Italian myself.

_Ang._ Do you, dear? Well, you see, he was going to be rude, and then
they made it up, and she gave him a chair. And there, do you see?
she leaves a letter for _Armande_. It is for him to read. And now she
leaves him. And he is reading the letter.

_Edwin._ And doesn't seem to like it. And there's the old chap
(_without the song_), and he is consoling him.

_Ang._ (_after a glance at her playbill_). Yes, because they are
father and son. (_The Fourth Act passes, and she explains to her
husband that Marguerite has been playing at cards, and that Armande is
very angry with her._) That's why he throws money at her.

_Edwin._ Rather a cad--_Armande_.

_Ang._ Oh, no. You know we must not judge foreigners by an English
standard. (_The last Act commences._) You see, she is very ill. That
cradle covered with rugs is her bed.

_Edwin._ Indeed!

_Ang._ Yes. And that I suppose must be the doctor. I wonder what they
are saying! This Act they all seem to be talking faster than they did
in the others. That old woman was her friend. I wonder why she has
left her like that!

_Edwin._ Didn't she say something like "What a rum go?" It is the only
line I have understood since the commencement of the performance. What
is she saying now?

_Ang._ (_hesitating_). Well, I am not quite sure. But you see she is
very ill. She scarcely recognises _Armande_.

_Edwin._ What is he saying? What has he done with his father?

_Ang._ (_perplexed_). I can't quite follow this Act--they talk so
fast.

_Edwin._ And, I say, why on earth have these two turned up? A lady in
complete bridal costume--wreath, veil, and all--and a chap in evening
dress. What on earth have _they_ got to do with the story?

_Ang._ Don't you think, dear, we had better get a book?

_Edwin_ (_ignoring the suggestion_). There's the poor thing dead!

_Ang._ Ah, I understood the last bit quite well. The Italian language
is so much more expressive than our own, isn't it, dear?

_Edwin._ Darling, it is!

    [_Cigarettes, cabs, and Curtain_.

       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber's Note

Sundry damages or missing punctuation has been repaired.

Page 277: 'Christain' corrected to 'Christian'. "(says this truly
Christian cleric)".

Page 282: 'Plantaganet' retained: sometimes appears as an
alternative spelling of 'Plantagenet'.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.
108, June 15th, 1895, by Various

*** 