



Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Wayne Hammond and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net






Punch, Or the London Charivari

Volume 107, November 17, 1894

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




[Illustration: A FITTING OPPORTUNITY.

_Comfortable Citizen (to Irish Beggar, who has asked for an old Coat)._

"BUT WHAT USE WOULD MY THINGS BE TO YOU? YOU'RE SUCH A SCARE-CROW, AND
I'M SO STOUT!"

_Irish Beggar._ "AH, YER HONOUR, BUT IT'S YOURSELF THAT HAS PLENTY OF
SPARE CLOTHES!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO MOLLY.

(BY Q. H. GLADSTONIUS FLACCUS, JUNIOR.)

    Sweet maid, your name I dream of incessantly,
    For, like your voice, it sounds very pleasantly,
        _Molli et canora voce dulcis,_
        _Nomine dulcis es usque molli._

    It has a charming old-fashioned smack to it,
    Beau BRUMMELL's age--it carries one back to it,
        Powder and patch, and rustic maiden,
        Name with the scent of the hayfields laden.

    Then English maid was sweet as a maid may be,
    This age has changed her, made her less staid, may be,
        'Mongst other follies now it's taught her
        How to become a "revolting daughter."

    Poor blind revolting daughter! I pity her--
    You're just as clever, probably prettier.
        In sweet content maid's sphere adorning,
        Yellow-Asterical problems scorning.

    May these be "_fandi mollia tempora_,"
    Your smile can make me proud as an emperor,
        But swift my cares, should you be frowning,
        I'll in deep waters (and strong) be drowning

    Accept my ode! Don't "think it too odious,"
    Sweet maid in name and voice so melodious,
        _Molli et canora voce dulcis,_
        _Nomine dulcis es usque molli._

       *       *       *       *       *

CLEARLY NOT _THE_ LEADER OF THE FLOCK.--Of course, the reverend
gentleman cannot be considered as a shepherd as long as his name is
_Head-lam_.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTERS TO A DEBUTANTE.

DEAREST GLADYS,--You have made immense progress since you first came
out. Still, you will be all the better for an occasional hint from your
more sophisticated friend. Your brief engagement to the serious young
stamp-collector was--whatever may be said against it--at least, an
experience, and I don't at all disapprove of CISSY, and BABY BEAUMONT,
and the other clever boys, but--why call Captain MASHINGTON "JACK"?
That wonderful tennis-player, Mrs. LORNE HOPPER has merely, tacitly,
_lent_ him to you, she will soon be in London again, and then, shooting
and theatricals over, "JACK" will also go back to the city of mist and
fog. You will be obliged to return him, whether "with thanks" or not.
He is definitely charming, but charmingly indefinite, and, in fact, he
is playing with you as you and ORIEL played with each other, as Miss
TOOGOOD is now playing with ORIEL, and as someone (let us hope) will,
some day, play with Miss TOOGOOD. Of course, as long as you both know
it's a game and "play the rules" it's all right.

[Illustration]

I enjoyed your letter telling me how "splendidly" the theatricals
went off, and that "everyone said it was a great success." My dear
child, you are delightful--quite refreshing; and have kept, in all
its early bloom, your astonishing talent for believing that people
mean, literally, what they say. How on earth can you, or any of the
other performers, know whether it was a success or not? Of course
everyone _said_ it was. Quite so; who would be rude enough to say it
was a failure? The more atrocious the performance, the more praise
it would get. Guests _invariably_ flatter amateurs to their faces;
and, on the other hand, however admirable it may have been, they
_never_ fail to abuse it to everyone else. I don't know whether it's
jealousy, or simply irritation at being obliged to sit still (generally
in the dark), and look on while others are showing off and enjoying
themselves; but I _do_ know that they criticise severely, without
exception, all amateur entertainments. As I am your most intimate
friend, of course people think it safe to disparage you to me, and I
have had various accounts. All the men agreed that it was "awful rot,"
and the women that it was quite absurd, very dull, and as long as the
Cromwell Road; that our dear CISSY was quite too ridiculously conceited
as a manager, attempting effects, suitable only for Drury Lane, on a
tiny drawing-room stage; for instance, those dreadful stone steps, on
which you were to "trip down," and over which you tripped up. You see,
my informant caught you tripping!

CISSY, poor incompetent darling, made, it seems, touching attempts to
be "topical," and "up to date," by allusions of the tritest and lamest
description to the Empire, the CZAR, and dynamite, and by wearing a
huge green carnation. The whole thing completely missed fire, I am
told; and was the usual tedious exhibition of complacent young vanity.
You're too sensible to be offended, dear, especially as I can no more
form a judgment from _their_ description than from yours--knowing you
all to be prejudiced. However, I quite believe you looked sweet in your
pretty costume, and I wish I had been there to see the fun.

Last night, at dinner, I met your old admirer, Mr. GOLDBEITER. He
told me he wanted to be married, and asked me "to look out for a nice
wife for him." I am afraid the sort of man who says that lives to be
an old bachelor. I could have looked after him better, but that on my
other side was a person in whom I take great interest; that is to say,
someone I have only just met. The LYON TAYMERS would like him. He is
a writer, perfectly "new"; and at present the cause of great disputes
as to who discovered him. He is beautiful, of course young, and will
be very agreeable when he has settled on his pose; at present, he's a
little undecided about it.

Not having read a line of his, or even knowing he was an author, I
began with my usual formula, "I am _so_ interested in your work, Mr. DE
TROUVAILLE" (he's French by descent). He was a little doubtful of me
at first, but I think we shall become friends. He said nothing about
having met me in a previous existence, did not ask if I believed in
instantaneous sympathy, and omitted to inquire which was _not_ my day
at home. So, you see, he is not quite like everyone else. Before the
end of dinner, he had spoken, very respectfully, but not unfavourably,
of my eyes, and he is going to send me his book, _Enchantment_. He
belongs to the new literary school they call "Sensitivists." I wonder
what it means! Good-bye, dear.

  Ever your loving  MARJORIE.

       *       *       *       *       *

"NULLIS MEDICABILIS HERBIS," &c.--A youthful author suffering from a
violent attack of the critics.

       *       *       *       *       *

A POLITICAL CONFERENCE.

SCENE--_The interior of a classic Country Villa. Present--An aged,
illustrious, but retired, Statesman and Leader, engaged now in
thrumming a lyre. To him enter his youthful successor, with certain
scrolls._

_Senex_ (_eagerly_). My _dear_ PRIMULA! _So_ glad you have come! The
very man I wished to see. Be seated.

_Juvenis_ (_depositing scrolls_). A thousand thanks. Delighted to see
you looking so well, my dear GLADSTONIUS.

_Senex_ (_cheerily_). Never better, thank the gods!--_and_ the
ocularius!

    [_Twangles nimbly._

_Juvenis._ Ah! CINCINNATUS, in retirement, pleased himself with the
plough; _your_ recreation was wont to be the axe or the banjo; _now_ I
perceive it is the--harp!

_Senex_ (_sharply_). Not at all, PRIMULA, not at all. _This_ is not a
harp!

    [_Plays and sings._

    Poscimur. Si quid vacui sub umbra
    Lusimus tecum, quod et hunc in annum
    Vivat et plures, age, dic Latinum,
            Barbite, carmen.

       *       *       *       *       *

    O decus Phoebi et dapibus supremi
    Grata testudo Jovis, O laborum
    Dulce lenimen mihi cunque salve
            Rite vocanti.

_Juvenis_ (_astounded_). Charming, I'm sure!

_Senex_ (_beaming_). Think so? I fear you
flatter.

_Juvenis._ Not at all. You may say, with
your new favourite--

  "Quod si me lyricis vatibus inseres,
  Sublimi feriam sidera vertice."

_Senex_ (_modestly_). Very pretty! But I fear the ever-youthful Muses
may disdain an Old Man's belated wooing.

_Juvenis_ (_slily_). Even a _Grand_ Old Man's?

_Senex_ (_shuddering_). Nay, no more of that, an' you love me. By the
way, I wanted to consult you on a little musical matter.

_Juvenis_ (_dubiously_). Ah! Concerning yon Hibernian Harp, I presume?

_Senex_ (_impatiently_). Dear me, no! The Hibernian Harp be--jangled.
As, indeed, it is, and unstrung into the bargain.

_Juvenis_ (_relieved_). Why, have you then, like the _other_ Minstrel
Boy, "torn its chords asunder"?

_Senex._ Well, no, not that exactly. I fear its native thrummers will
spare others that trouble. But--ahem!--it is the Horatian Lyre that
interests me at present.

_Juvenis._ I see:--

    "Quem virum aut heroa lyra vel acri
    Tibia sumis celebrare, Clio?
    Quem deum? Cujus recinet jocosa Nomen imago,
    Aut in umbrosis Heliconis oris
    Aut super Pindo gelidove in Haemo?"

_Senex_ (_musingly_). Hum! I have not yet tried the Tibia--the shrill
pipe--but I _may_.

_Juvenis._ Doubtless; and you are quite equal to it.

_Senex_ (_drily_). Thanks! But I've no wish, my dear PRIMULA, "to play
the _role_ of elderly _Narcissus_." At present my part is only that of
_Echo_--to the Venusian's vibrant voice.

    [_Muses._

_Juvenis_ (_taking advantage of the opportunity_). Well, my dear
GLADSTONIUS, there are one or two little matters upon which I want to
take your opinion. For example, CAECILIUS----

_Senex_ (_quickly_). "CAECILIUS, who provoked the populace to such a
degree, that CICERO could hardly restrain them from doing him violence."
Do you want me to play the part of CICERO?

_Juvenis_ (_taken aback_). Well--ahem!--hardly _that_, perhaps. But----

_Senex_ (_interrupting him_). My dear PRIMULA, as I have already said in
response to an appeal from a friend of the modern ORBILIUS (_not_ like
HORACE'S pedagogue, "_Plagosus_," though), "After a contentious life of
fifty-two years, I am naturally anxious to spend the remainder of my
days in freedom from controversy."

_Juvenis._ Oh! Quite so--of course. But ahem!--the people are a little
pressing----

_Senex._ Eh? To hurtful measures? What says AUGUSTUS's "pleasant
mannikin" again, _a propos_?

    [_Thrums._

    Justum et tenacem propositi virum
    Non civium ardor prava jubentium,
      Non vultus instantis tyranni,
        Mente quatit solida neque Auster,

    Dux inquieti turbidus Hadriae,
    Nec fulminantis magna manus Jovis
      Si fractus illabitur orbis,
        Impavidum ferient ruinae.

_Juvenis._ Doubtless. One such as yourself, "retired from business,"
like your beloved HORACE on his Sabine farm.

                        "Ille potens sui
    Laetusque deget, cui licet in diem
      Dixisse Vixi;"

But of me it cannot--yet--be said--

    "He, master of himself, in mirth may live
    Who saith, 'I rest well pleased with former days.'"

_Senex._ Hah! Sir JOHN BEAUMONT's version. Not so bad, but might be
improved, I think. By the way, why should not you and I do the
"Satires"--together?

_Juvenis._ Charmed, I am sure. Just now, however, I fear I'm a little
too busy.

_Senex._ Pooh! Only occupies one's odd moments, and is as easy as
shaving, or shaping a new Constitution. For example, I'll give you an
impromptu version--call it adaptation if you like--of the first "Ad
Maecenatem":

  "Maecenas atavis edite regibus."

_Juvenis._ Oh! thanks, _so_ much! Only----

_Senex._ It won't take ten minutes. Listen!

     [_Tunes up and sings._

AD ROSEBERIAM.

    PRIMULA, from old Scotia sprung!
    My chos'n successor, though so young!
    "_You_, 'midst Olympian dust delight
    To whirl the chariot's rapid flight.
    _I_'ll watch your glowing axles roll
    Nicely around the close-grazed goal.
    You hold the palm of wondrous worth
    Which late I wore upon the earth:
    The Commons, now, sole crown desire,
    And to un-veto'd power aspire.
    You'll have enough to rule the deep
    And Gaul placate, and Libya keep.
    I'm now a swain who loves his toil,
    To tune his pipe, and tend his soil.
    Not Asia's wealth tempts me to sail
    O'er faction's deep, and brave the gale.
    Some say, though now, in love with ease,
    I shun the storms of party seas;
    That soon I'll summon the old crew,
    And rig our shattered bark anew.
    Too much I love this ancient wine,
    Pressed from the old Venusian's vine!
    Lo my free limbs at leisure laid!
    The old instruments that once I played,
    The harp, the banjo, hung aloft!
    Hibernian airs, though sweet and soft,
    And Ethiopian minstrelsy,
    No longer have much charm for me.
    Now I prefer the Lydian lyre,
    And of bland HORACE never tire.
    You youngsters like a martial life--
    The trumpet-challenge and the strife;
    With ardour seek the tented plain.
    Your "gauntlet's down"! Good may you gain!
    For me, another line I choose,
    And, late in life, I court the Muse,
    Unmindful of Bellona's charms,
    And the old stir of War's alarm.
    Ah! once in full tilt I had borne
    Against CAECILIUS full of scorn;
    But Music now seems more divine!
    With ivy-wreaths my temples shine.
    Far from the world's tumultuous throng,
    The nymphs seduce me with their song;
    Here in cool grove I'm going to dwell.
    Like HORACE, with "the sounding shell."
    I feel a wish--sweet leisure's fruit--
    To tootle on Euterpe's lute;
    With Polyhymnia I desire
    To twangle on the Lesbian lyre.
    If, late, to lyric fame I rise,
    My brow indeed shall strike the skies."

There! What think you of that--for an impromptu?

_Juvenis_ (_rousing himself_). Oh, excellent--most excellent! How _do_
you do it? And now, my dear GLADSTONIUS, with your _kind_ permission,
we will go----

_Senex_ (_promptly_). To dinner! Exactly, my dear PRIMULA.

    Nunc is bibendum, nunc pede libero
    Pulsanda tellus, nunc Saliaribus,
      Ornare pulvinar deorum
      Tempus erat, dapibus, sodales.

Come along, my boy!!!

    [_Skips away, followed slowly by his guest._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A POLITICAL CONFERENCE.

"GLADSTONIUS PARVAM REM HORATIANAM COMPOSITIONIS SUOE AD ROSEBERIUM
RECITANS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A GOOD GUESS.

_First 'Arry (who has been reading City Article)._ "I SAY, WHAT'S
'BRIGHTON A'S' MEAN?"

_Second 'Arry (of a Sporting turn)._ "'BRIGHTON 'ARRIERS,' I S'POSE."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WONDERFUL WHAT AN ADJECTIVE WILL DO.

_Brown (newly married--to Jones, whom he entertained a few evenings
previously)._ "WELL, WHAT DID YOU THINK OF US, OLD BOY, EH?"

_Jones._ "OH, PRETTY FLAT. ER--AWFULLY PRETTY FLAT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

FASHION AND FELONY.

MR. PUNCH, SIR,--Magistrates are beginning, not a moment too soon,
to protest against the ridiculous pockets in ladies' dresses, which
afford such a temptation to the felonious classes! I should like
to draw attention to an invention of my own which, I think, quite
meets the difficulty. It is called the "Patent Unpickable Electrical
Safety Pneumatic Combination Purse-Pocket," and it does not matter
in the least in what part of the dress this pocket is placed. No
sooner is the thief's hand in contact with the purse than a powerful
voltaic circuit is at once formed, and by the principle of capillary
attraction, coupled with that of molecular magnetisation, the hand is
firmly imprisoned. Scientific readers will readily understand how this
happens. In his efforts to release his hand the thief touches a button,
when an electrical search light of five thousand candle-power is at
once thrown around, a policeman's rattle of a peculiarly intense tone
is set going, several land torpedoes discharge simultaneously from all
sides of the dress, while the voice of a deceased judge issuing from
a concealed phonograph pronounces a sentence of seven years' penal
servitude on the now conscience-stricken depredator.

  Yours, EDISON JUNIOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

John Walter.

BORN 1818. DIED NOVEMBER 3, 1894.

    ["The unique characteristic of Mr. WALTER'S life was his
    relation to _The Times_."--_Obituary Notice in the Times
    Newspaper._]

    Third of the name, and worthy heir
    To the Great Journal's power--and care,
    He, too, has passed, and left a void
    None else can fill. A life employed
    In arduous duty to that page
    Which holds the history of an age,
    Is sound State-service, and demands
    Acclaim from British hearts and hands.
    A sober, serious Englishman,
    Steadfast of purpose, firm of plan,
    He held his great inheritance
    With strong clean hands, with cool clear glance.
    Unmoved by the hot moment, blown
    By no chance wind, he held his own
    Determined course, despite disfame
    From lips whose praise he held as shame,
    Or right or wrong, his high intent,
    Shaken by no weak sentiment,
    To manly souls was manifest;
    And now he passes to his rest
    _Punch_ lays his laurel on the bier
    Of one whom sorrow shook, not fear;
    Whose record o'er earth's realms and climes
    Lives in those words "He was _The Times_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

A deputy-assistant of the Baron has been perusing with great
contentment _The Catch of the County_, by Mrs. EDWARD KENNARD, a lady
who is already responsible for _The Hunting Girl_; _Wedded to Sport_,
and a number of other romances dear to the heart of those who follow
the hounds. The deputy-assistant reports that he was delighted with the
newest of the authoress's novels, and found the three volumes rather
too short than too long. Now that London is in the midst of November
and its fogs, those who dwell near the frosted-silvery Thames can take
a real pleasure in stories of the country. To sum up, _The Catch of
the County_ must (to adopt the slang of the moment) have "caught on."
A fact that must be as satisfactory to Mrs. KENNARD as to her readers.
And when both supply and demand are pleased, Messrs. F. V. WHITE & CO.,
the publishers, must also (like _Cox_ and _Box_) be "satisfied."

[Illustration]

A Baronitess writes: "Gaily-bound Christmas books have been facing me
for some time, and, with an insinuating look, seem to say, 'Turn over a
new leaf.' We do; many new leaves."

BLACKIE AND SON could be called first favourites in the boys' field
of literature. They make a good start with _Wulf the Saxon_ and _In
the Heart of the Rockies_, both by G. A. HENTY. They are both capital
specimens of the Hentyprising hero.

_In Press-Gang Days._ By EDWARD PICKERING. A story, not a newspaper
romance, though it is a new edition of the type of the wicked uncle,
who makes use of "the liberty of the Press" to have his nephew
bound--as if he were a book worth preserving--and taken off to sea.
This proceeding made an impression on our good brave youth, who, after
fighting with NELSON, learnt that "an Englishman should do his duty,"
escapes a French prison, and returns to "give what for" to his uncle.

Most interesting and practical is _The Whist Table_, edited by
PORTLAND, especially to those whose only idea of the game is after the
style of the man in _Happy Thoughts_ who knows that the scoring had
something to do with a candlestick and half-a-crown. In this book they
will find a helping hand which gives the "c'rect" card to play. Both
these books, published by JOHN HOGG, are pig-culiarly good.

"A powerful finish," quoth the Baron, leaning upon the chair-arm,
and, like the soldier in the old ballad, wiping away a tear which
he had most unwillingly shed over the last chapter of _Children
of Circumstance_, "a very powerful finish. There is some comedy,
too, in the story (which, I regret to say, is spun out into three
volumes)--rather Meredithian perhaps, but still forming some relief to
the sicknesses, illnesses and deaths--there are certainly three victims
of IOTA's steel and one doubtful--of which the narrative has more
than its fair share." Of the comedy portion, the courtship of _Jim_
and _Rica_ is excellent. But where other novels err in superfluity
of description and lack of dialogue, the fault of this one is just
the other way, and the dialogues may be, not "skipped," but bounded
over. Nothing of the earlier portion, nor the powerful final chapter
of this story can be missed: as for the intermediate stage, when
the intelligent and experienced novel-reader has once grasped the
characters, he can drop in on them now and then, in a friendly way, and
see how they are getting on.

The Baron congratulates Messrs. MACMILLAN on a charming little book
called _Coridon's Songs_, which are not all songs sung by that
youthful Angler-Saxon whose parent was IZAAK WALTON, but also songs
by GAY, FIELDING, and Anonymi. To these worthy Master AUSTIN DOBSON
hath written a mighty learned and withal entertaining preface, the
gems of the book being the illustrations, done by HUGH THOMSON in
his best style, "wherewith," quotes the incorrigible Baron, "I am
Hughgely pleased." 'Tis an excellent Christmas present, as, "if I may
be permitted to say so," quoth the Baron, _sotto voce_, "to those whom
Providence hath blest with friends and relatives expecting gifts in
the coming 'festive season,' is also a certain single volume entitled
_Under the Rose_, an illustrated work, not altogether unknown, as a
serial, in _Mr. Punch's_ pages, and highly recommended by

  THE JUDICIOUS BARON DE BOOK-WORMS."

       *       *       *       *       *

RUS IN URBE.--Fancy there being a "Rural Dean of St. George's, Hanover
Square"! His name was mentioned one day last week in the _Times'_
"Ecclesiastical Intelligence." It is the Rev. J. STORRS. Not "Army and
Navy STORRS," nor "General STORRS," but "Ecclesiastical STORRS."

       *       *       *       *       *

HAPPY APPLICATION.--Our Squire has a shooting party every Saturday to
stay till Monday, and longer if they can. He calls it "The Saturday and
Monday Pops."

       *       *       *       *       *

GISMONDA.

(_To Mr. Punch._)

DEAR MISTER,--To you, who are a so great lover of the theatre, english
and french, I send my impressions of the first of the new drama of
Mister SARDOU. It is to you of to spread them in the country of the
immortal SHIKSPIR. Allow that I render my homages to this name so
illustrious, me who have essayed since so long time to speak and to
write the language of that great author. And see there, in fine I can
to do it!

It wants me some words for to praise the put in scene of this new
drama at the theatre of Mistress SARAH BERNHARDT. _Gismonda!_ It is
magnificent! It is superb! It is a dream! Ah! if your SHIKSPIR could
see this luxury of decorations, this all together so glorious! Him who
had but a curtain and an etiquette! And MOLIERE? And RACINE? Could they
make to fabricate of such edifices, of such trees, of such furniture?
They had not these--how say you in english--"proprieties," which
belong to the proprietor? Yes, I think that I have heard the phrase,
"offend against the proprieties." We never offend against them in the
theatres of Paris; they are always as it should be. But here, at the
Renaissance, Mistress BERNHARDT has done still more. Each scenery is a
picture of the most admirables, a veritable blow of the eye.

[Illustration]

I go to give you of them a short description. The first picture is the
Acropolis, under the domination of the Florentines at the end of the
fourteenth century. What perfume of poetry antique! What costumes! That
has the air of an account of BOCCACCIO, of a picture of BOTTICELLI.
One sees there the figures of ANGELICO, the colours of VERONESE. It is
an ALMA-TEDDAMA of the middle age. And when Mistress BERNHARDT and her
following, all resplendent of costume, are assembled upon the scene,
one can see realised a group from the _Decameron_. And the second
picture, and the third, and the fourth? Can I say more of them? They
are superb. In the fourth there is a cypress high of six yards, there,
alone, at the middle of the scene. One says he is natural. That may be.
In any case he is marvellous. But the fifth picture, it is sublime! One
cannot more! It is the last word of the modern theatre! It wants me the
words, it wants me the place for to speak of it. SHIKSPIR alone would
have could to render justice to this picture so ravishing.

As to the action of the piece, you will desire to know something.
Frankly I tell you I observed it not. In the middle of this luxury of
decorations there wander here and there some persons, dressed at the
mode the most beautiful, who speak in effect not too shortly. There
are veritable discourses--how say you _"conferences"_?--on florentine
history, of the most interestings, but a little long. The brave
Frenchmans pronounce the Italian names in good patriots. They imitate
not the accent of our perfidious neighbours of the Triple Alliance. Ah
no! They say them as in french. And what names! _Acciajuoli!_ It is
like a sneeze. And Mistress BERNHARDT is gentle, caressing, passionate,
contemptuous, and terrible turn to turn; she murmurs softly, and at the
fine she screams. And Mister GUITRY is severe and menacing; he speaks
at low voice, and at the fine he shouts. But after all what is that
that is that that? One thinks not to it. The decorations, the costumes!
See there that which one regards, that which one applauds, that which
one shall forget never!

Be willing to agree the assurance of my high consideration.

  STRAPONTIN.

       *       *       *       *       *

MAYEN-AISY-NOW!

MISTHER PUNCH, SORR,--Frinchmen are that consaited they think no
one can invint anything but thimselves. It's as well known as the
story of Mulligan's leather breeches that the first Earl of MAYO
inwinted Mayernase sauce (ah! bother the spellin' now), and called
it after himself and his eldest son, Lord NAAS; faix, there ye have
it, Mayonaas; and isn't it called Paddy Bourke's butther to this
day all over County Kildare; and many a bite of could salmon have I
ate wid that same; and don't believe, Sorr, thim that tell you it's
onwholesome, for, if you'll get the laste sup of the crathur wid it,
it's just as harmless as new milk from the cow; and shure it's meself
that ought to know, bein' cook to a lady that has the best blood of
ould Ireland in her body; and her husband--God help him, poor man!--is
an Englishman; but we can't be all perfect, and whin I make thim sauces
to his taste he just sends me out a glass of wine, wid his compliments,
and wid mine to your honour,

I remane your honour's obadient Servant,

  BETSEY DURNEY.

    * * * This Correspondence must now cease. This is the second
    time we've said this.--ED.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: L'ART D'ETRE GRAND-PERE.

_Daughter and Mamma._ "PAPA, DEAR, BABY WANTS TO PLAY WITH YOUR NEW
MICROSCOPE. MAY HE HAVE IT?"

_Grandpapa (deep in differential and integral calculus)._ "MY NEW
MICROSCOPE? OH, YES, OF COURSE, DEAR! BUT HE MUST MIND AND BE _VERY
CAREFUL_ WITH IT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A TOUCHING APPEAL.

AIR--"_The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo._"

    In the Kingdom of the Yellow,
      Where names end in ing and oo,
        With a phiz like saffron wood,
      Lived proud YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.
    He was a thrasonic fellow;
    But when smitten he would bellow.
        Potted puppies were his food,
        Pickled mice he thought ate good.
        Boss of a big neighbourhood
      Was proud YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.

    He was jealous of a Jappy,
      Little cove, but full of go;
        Rather fond of throwing stones
      At big YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.
    And that small but plucky chappie
    Made big YOUNGHY feel unhappy;
        And he growled, in grumbly tones,
        "Piecy <DW61> him pitchee stones!
        Me with Jappy pickee bones!"
      Said sore YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO!

    "YOUNGHY pitch in <DW61> PING-WINGLY!"
      But young Jappy had first blow,
        When it came to actual strife,
      Faced big YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO,
    Faced and fought him sharp and singly,
    Smote him till his nose felt tingly,
        He was fearful for his life,
        And he yelled "Ho! stoppy strife!
        Knuckles cut like lilly knife!"
      Said poor YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.

    Yes, the big boy pale and yellow
      "Kickee up hulla-balloo,"
        "And he feelee velly cheap"
      Did poor YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.
    He began to bleat and bellow,
    Overgrown and awkward fellow;
        For his guard he could not keep,
        From his eyes he scarce could peep,
        And the nose grew crimson--deep--
      Of poor YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO!

    Little Jappy sparred up gladly,
      And he cried "Fight on, man, _do_!
        Your proposals come too late,
      Mr. YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO!
    I will give you beans, BUNG--badly!"
    (Here his nose <DW61> hammered madly.)
        "Yah! In fighting I'm your mate.
        You cave in a bit too late,
        I will whop you--if you'll wait.
      Bouncing YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO!"

    "Though you welly lilly body,
      <DW61>. you strikee biggy blow!
        Welly much hurtee--me no play!!"
      (Blubbered YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.)
    "Me topside feel niddy-noddy.
    Oh my nosy! Me will modify the words me mustee say.
        Will you pleasy go away?
        Me no likee! Me no play!
      Welly much hard! Boo-hoo!! Boo-hoo!!!"

    On the slippery road and muddy,
      <DW61> then floored him with a blow.
        "_Ough!_ Won't _no_ one helpee me?"
      Howled poor YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO!
    Prostrate, with his nose-tip ruddy,
    And his mouth all swollen and--bluggy:
        "Foreign devils one--two--three!
        Barbarians flom beyond um sea!
        Can't um--won't um helpee me?"
      Bellowed YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO.

    At the floored and roaring victim
      "Foreign devils" look askew,
        Hands in pockets buried well.
      Piteous YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO
    Hoped that from the mud they'd picked him.
    But laugh they, "Young <DW61>'s fair licked him!
        _Shall_ we intervene? Ah, well,
        We'll _think_ of it. Time will tell.
        Meanwhile let him lie and yell,
      Yellow YOUNGHY-BUNG-BOO-HOO!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A TOUCHING APPEAL.

JOHNNY CHINAMAN. "BOO-HOO! HE HURTEE ME WELLY MUCH! NO PEACEY MAN COME
STOPPY HIM!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE POLITE GUIDE TO THE CIVIL SERVICE.

  (_By a Courteous Conductor._)

  SECURING A "P. S."

I have supposed that you have been appointed Secretary to the Public
Squander Department. You will have much to do, so the less you have to
read, the better. Under these circumstances, I merely supply you at
this moment with the following

  _Examination Paper for Would-be Private Secretaries._

1. Give your autobiography, either as (1) a good story against
yourself, (2) a minute in four lines, or (3) a long yarn suitable
for filling up the time when things have to be kept going for
three-quarters of an hour to accommodate your chief.

2. Describe your duties to your chief (1) when he is in town but wants
to be thought away in the country, and (2) when you have to assist him
as "Vice-chair" at a dinner party.

3. Given that you have for neighbours at a political banquet a
race-horse owner, a supporter of the temperance cause, a theatrical
proprietor, and a rural dean. Write an anecdote that will interest all
of them, and cause the conversation between them to be general.

4. Take the following facts. Owing to a blunder, a ship has been sent
to a wrong port, carrying a wrong cargo to a wrong receiver, who has
sent it away, and thus prevented it being used for its right purpose.
This trifling error of judgment has caused a war that could easily
have been prevented. Explain all this away in such a manner that the
statement when delivered by your chief shall be received with "general
cheering" in the House of Commons.

5. Write a short essay showing your points and testing your
capabilities.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BOUGHT AND SOLD.

_Dealer._ "WHAT? THIS 'ERE LITTLE 'OSS BIN SHOT OVER? LOR' BLESS Y',
HEEPS O' TIMES!"

    [_Purchaser tests the fact, and is perfectly satisfied._]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

II.--PRELIMINARY CANTERS.

I said, when I last took up my pen as a veracious chronicler of the
recent history of Mudford (for this is the name of our village; not
elegant, perhaps, but none the less true to life), that my meeting
deserved a chapter to itself. It does. It deserves, in point of fact,
many chapters, though I only purpose to give it one. But it must be the
third chapter, and not the second. For before this meeting was held,
many things happened, and as I look back I often wonder how it was that
I was enabled to endure all the trials and tribulations which Fortune
had in store for me, and that I am spared to write this unpretending
account of all that happened. I say this, because I have been reading
of late historical romances, and I find from them that a little
moralising is never out of place in the course of a story.

The first thing I did was to issue a bill, stating that the meeting
would be held. It was headed, "Mudford," and announced that
I--described as TIMOTHY WINKINS, Esq., J.P. (for I boast that proud
distinction through an error of the Lord Chancellor of the period, who
mistook me for a member of his party, which I was not)--that I would
explain the provisions and working of the Parish Councils Act, that
"questions would be invited at the close," and that "all persons were
cordially invited to attend." I sent a copy of this to every one in
the village, and then fondly imagined that I should hear no more about
the matter till the fateful night approached. In that I was mistaken,
however.

Next morning, as I was sitting in my study--curiously enough getting
ready some notes for what was to be my epoch-making speech--I saw
coming up the drive two ladies, whom I recognised as Mrs. LETHAM
HAVITT and Mrs. ARBLE MARCH, both ladies, I remembered, who had made
themselves prominent in politics in the village, Mrs. HAVITT as a
leading light of the Women's Liberal Federation, and Mrs. MARCH as a
Lady Crusader (is that right?) of the Primrose League. A moment later,
and those ladies were ushered into my room.

"We've come," said Mrs. HAVITT, cutting the cackle, and coming at once
to the 'osses, "we've come to see you about that meeting."

"Oh, indeed!" I murmured. "Yes, the meeting."

"We notice," said Mrs. ARBLE MARCH, taking up the running, "that you
only say 'persons' may attend the meeting. Now we're very much afraid
that women won't understand that they may come."

"But surely," I protested, feebly, "a woman is a person."

"Well, we think" (_this as a duet_) "that you ought to say that 'all
persons, men or women, married or single, are invited to attend.'"

I was a good deal staggered, and thought of asking whether they
wouldn't like the name of the village altered, or my name printed
without the J.P., but I refrained. I promised to print new bills, and I
did it. I thought it would be a poor beginning to a peaceful revolution
to have an angry woman in every household.

Those were my first visitors. After that I had about two calls a day.
One day the Vicar dropped in to afternoon tea, to congratulate me on
my public spirit. I confess I felt rather pleased. I had evidently
done the right, the high-minded, the patriotic thing. My mind became
filled with visions of myself as Chairman of the Parish Council, the
head man of a contented village. Just before he left, however, the
Vicar suggested that I should advise the electors to elect into the
chair someone who had had previous training of what its duties and
responsibilities were, and I suddenly remembered that the Vicar was the
present Chairman of the Vestry. Then somehow I guessed why I had been
favoured with a visit. The curious thing was, that my next caller (who
arrived half an hour afterwards) came to say that the most satisfactory
thing in the whole Act was, that the clergyman could not take the
chair. Then my memory once more told me what manner of man I was
talking to--he was a prominent local preacher. I was being nobbled.

And so it went on. My answer to all who came was, that they could
come and ask me questions at the meeting. Is was a convenient plan
enough--at the time. Yet my suggestions--like chickens and curses--came
home to roost--at the meeting. And that, as I have said, is the third
chapter.

       *       *       *       *       *

    ATHELSTAN THE READY.--MR. ATHELSTAN RILEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH ON BILLIARDS.

    ["The billiard-season has set in in real earnest."--_Daily Paper._]

    Come, people all, both old and young,
      An hearken to my lay!
    And give you ear while I give tongue
    And sing a song that ought to be sung,
      And say my simple say.

    I sing a song of a noble game,
      Whose charms few men withstand--
    Billiards!--sport of ancient fame,
    Beloved of knight, admired of dame,
      Adored in every land!

    The world's great games are numbered six--
      Cricket, chess, and whist,
    Football, golf--but Billiards licks
    With three small balls and two long sticks,
      And subtle play of wrist.

    In some, the mind plays chiefest part,
      In others, muscles rule;
    In Billiards muscle joins with art,
    Combining head and hand and heart,
      In pyramids and pool.

    So Winter, hail! Though thou be keen,
      Thou'rt not so keen as PEALL,
    As he plays the spot on cloth of green,
    And makes such breaks as ne'er were seen,
      Until our senses reel!

    Hail, ROBERTS, MITCHELL, DAWSON, too,
      And others of your sort!--
    _Punch_ welcomes you, the leading few,
    But thinks of the Rest as he gives the Cue:--
      "Uphold your noble sport!--

    "Preserve its reputation free
      From every act that's mean.--
    Conform to honour's just decree,
    And curse the man (and curst be he!)
      Who fouls the table green!"

       *       *       *       *       *

    What wonders will the year reveal?
      A "Half-a-million Up?"
    A hundred-thousand points to PEALL
    Will ROBERTS yield--then show his heel,
      And win the Diamond Cup?

    Or greater marvel still, I wot--
      Will players cease to growl
    When fluke occurs, or when you "pot"
    The white, and swear it's mean (it's _not_)
      And loud "Whitechapel!" howl?

    All such as these would _Punch_ beseech--
      (He dwells on this behest)--
    To drop such foolish ways, and preach
    To all "good form," that happy each
      May go for his Long Rest!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A UTILITARIAN.

_The Vicar._ "AND HOW DO YOU LIKE THE NEW CHIMES, MRS. WEAVER? YOU
_MUST_ BE GLAD TO HEAR THOSE BEAUTIFUL HYMN-TUNES AT NIGHT! THEY MUST
REMIND YOU OF----"

_Mrs. Weaver._ "YES; THAT BE SO, SIR. I'VE TOOK MY MEDICINE QUITE
REGULAR EVER SINCE THEY WAS BEGUN!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

CURIOUS.--A lady who had read the two recent controversies anent the
Lords and the Empire got slightly muddled. "Well, I've never seen
anything wrong," she said, "in Promenade Peers."

       *       *       *       *       *

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Florence! O glorious city of LORENZO the Magnificent, cradle of the
Renaissance, birthplace of DANTE, home of BOCCACCIO, where countless
painters and sculptors produced those deathless works which still
fascinate an admiring world, at last I approach thee! I arrive at the
station, I scramble for a _facchino_, I drive to my hotel. It is night.
To-morrow all thy medieval loveliness will burst upon my enraptured
eyes.

In the morning up early and out. Immediately fall against a statue of
a fat man in a frock coat and trousers. Can this be MICHAEL ANGELO'S
_David_? No, no! It is _Manin_ by NONO. Turn hastily aside and discover
a quay. Below is a waste of mud, through which meander a few inches of
thick brown water. The Arno! Heavens, what associations! Raise my eyes
and perceive on the opposite bank a gasometer. Stand horror-stricken
in the roadway, and am nearly run over by a frantic bicyclist. Save
myself by a great effort and cling for support to a gaslamp until I
can recover from the shock. Resolve then to seek out the medieval
loveliness. Start along the quay. Ha, there is a statue! Doubtless
by MICHAEL ANGELO. Hardly; the face seems familiar. Of course, it is
GARIBALDI! Turn and fly up a narrow street. Here at last is something
old, here at last are the buildings on which DANTE may have looked,
in which FRA ANGELICO may have painted, here at last----. Why, what's
this? It's an omnibus. It fills the street. Wedge myself in a doorway,
and when it has passed within three inches of my toes, hurry down a
side street, a still narrower one. Here, perhaps, BENVENUTO CELLINI
devised some glorious metal work. Ha, there is a silversmith's even
to this day! Look! what are those things in the window, above the
inscription "English Spoken"? They are teapots from Birmingham! Resolve
to avoid small streets, and hurry on to large open piazza. Now for some
architecture by GIOTTO, some sculpture by DONATELLO! Yes, there is an
equestrian statue. Doubtless one of the MEDICI. At last! No, it's not.
It's VICTOR EMANUEL. At least, the inscription says so, though the
likeness, not being a speaking one, gives no information. Turn sadly
aside and contemplate some melancholy modern copies of the regular
architecture of rectangular Turin.

Begin to feel depressed. Have not yet found the romantic medievalism.
Somewhat revived by _dejeuner_, resolve to seek it in the suburbs. Of
course, Fiesole. A pilgrimage to the home of FRA ANGELICO. Sublime!
Will go on foot, avoiding the high road. Climb by narrow ways, past
garden walls. Behind them may be the gardens where BOCCACCIO'S stories
were told; down these narrow roads FRA ANGELICO may have passed.
How exquisite to meditate far from the tourist crowd! Filled with
enthusiasm, and gazing at the beautiful blue sky, arrive at the top,
and stumble headlong over some obstacle in the road. It is the rail of
a tramway! Stagger feebly to the Piazza just as the electric tramcar
bumps and rumbles up the hill. From it descends a crowd, carrying,
not lilies, as in ANGELICO's pictures, but Baedekers. And I hear no
tale from the _Decameron_, but a mingled confusion of strange tongues.
"_Ja, ja, ja_; what a squash; _nous etions un peu serres mais enfin_;
_ach wunderschoen_; _un soldo signore_; _ja, ja, ja_; wal, I guess this
is Feaysolay, _che rumore nel tram_; I say, let's buy one of these
straw fans for Aunt MARY; they're awfully cheap, only half a franc,
and look worth half-a-crown; _ah voila le cafe_; _wollen sie ein Glas
Bier trinken_; _ja, ja, ja!_" Resolve to abandon search for medieval
loveliness, and go down sadly in the tramcar.

But one art remains. In the country where VERDI still writes I can at
least enjoy music. So after dinner seek the Trianon. It sounds like a
music-hall; but then here, even in a music-hall, there must be music.
As I enter, a familiar sound bursts upon my ear. The singer is Italian,
the words are French, but the tune is English. She is singing "_The Man
that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo_."

 A FIRST IMPRESSIONIST.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Ah!" sighed Mrs. R. sadly, when her advice had not been taken by her
daughter, "I'm a mere siphon in the family!"

       *       *       *       *       *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PART XX.--"DIFFERENT PERSONS HAVE DIFFERENT OPINIONS."

SCENE XXX.--_Lady Maisie's Room at Wyvern._

TIME--_Saturday night, about 11.30._

_Lady Maisie_ (_to_ PHILLIPSON, _who is brushing her hair_). You are
_sure_ Mamma isn't expecting me? (_Irresolutely._) Perhaps I had better
just run in and say good night.

_Phillipson._ I wouldn't recommend it, really, my lady; her ladyship
seems a little upset in her nerves this evening.

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). _Il-y-a de quoi!_ (_Aloud, relieved._) It
might only disturb her, certainly.... I hope they are making you
comfortable here, PHILLIPSON?

_Phill._ Very much so indeed, thank you, my lady. The tone of the Room
downstairs is _most_ superior.

_Lady Maisie. That_'s satisfactory. And I hear you have met an old
admirer of yours here--Mr. SPURRELL, I mean.

_Phill._ We _did_ happen to encounter each other in one of the
galleries, my lady, just for a minute; though I shouldn't have expected
_him_ to allude to it!

_Lady Maisie._ Indeed! And why not?

_Phill._ Mr. JAMES SPURRELL appears to have elevated himself to a very
different sphere from what he occupied when _I_ used to know him, my
lady; though how and why he comes to be where he is, I don't rightly
understand myself at present.

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). And no wonder! I feel horribly guilty!
(_Aloud._) You mustn't blame poor Mr. SPURRELL, PHILLIPSON; _he_
couldn't help it!

_Phill._ (_with studied indifference_). I'm not blaming him, my lady.
If he prefers the society of his superiors to mine, he's very welcome
to do so; there's others only too willing to take his place!

_Lady Maisie._ Surely none who would be as fond of you or make so good
a husband, PHILLIPSON!

_Phill._ That's as maybe, my lady. There was one young man that
travelled down in the same compartment, and sat next me at supper in
the room. I could see he took a great fancy to me from the first, and
his attentions were really quite pointed. I am sure I couldn't bring
myself to repeat his remarks, they were so flattering!

_Lady Maisie._ Don't you think you will be rather a foolish girl if
you allow a few idle compliments from a stranger to outweigh such an
attachment as Mr. SPURRELL seems to have for you?

_Phill._ If _he_'s found new friends, my lady, I consider myself free
to act similarly.

_Lady Maisie._ Then you don't know? He told us quite frankly this
evening that he had only just discovered you were here, and would much
prefer to be where you were. He went down to the Housekeeper's Room on
purpose.

_Phill._ (_moved_). It's the first I've heard of it, my lady. It must
have been after I came up. If I'd only known he'd behave like _that_!

_Lady Maisie_ (_instructively_). You see how loyal he is to _you_. And
now, I suppose, he will find he has been supplanted by this new
acquaintance--some smooth-tongued, good-for-nothing valet, I daresay?

_Phill._ (_injured_). Oh, my lady, indeed he wasn't a _man_! But there
was nothing serious between us--at least, on _my_ side--though he
certainly did go on in a very sentimental way himself. However, he's
left the Court by now, that's _one_ comfort! (_To herself._) I wish now
I'd said nothing about him to JEM. If he was to get asking questions
downstairs----He always _was_ given to jealousy--reason or none!

    [_A tap is heard at the door._

_Lady Rhoda_ (_outside_). MAISIE, may I come in? if you've done your
hair, and sent away your maid. (_She enters._) Ah, I see you haven't.

_Lady Maisie._ Don't run away, RHODA; my maid has just done. You can go
now, PHILLIPSON.

_Lady Rhoda_ (_to herself, as she sits down_). PHILLIPSON! So _that_'s
the young woman that funny vet man prefers to Us! H'm, can't say I feel
flattered!

_Phill._ (_to herself, as she leaves the room_). This must be the Lady
RHODA, who was making up to my JEM! He wouldn't have anything to say to
her, though; and, now I see her, I am not surprised at it!

    [_She goes; a pause._

_Lady Rhoda_ (_crossing her feet on the fender_). Well, we can't
complain of havin' had a dull evenin', _can_ we?

[Illustration: "Well, we can't complain of havin' had a dull evenin',
_can_ we?"]

_Lady Maisie_ (_taking a hand-screen from the mantelshelf_). Not
altogether. Has--anything fresh happened since I left?

_Lady Rhoda._ Nothing particular. ARCHIE apologised to this New Man
in the Billiard Room. For the Booby Trap. We all told him he'd _got_
to. And Mr. CARRION BEAR, or BLUNDERSHELL, or whatever he calls
himself--_you_ know--was so awf'lly gracious and condescendin' that I
really thought poor dear old ARCHIE would have wound up his apology by
punchin' his head for him. Strikes me, MAISIE, that mop-headed Minstrel
Boy is a decided change for the worse. Doesn't it you?

_Lady Maisie_ (_toying with the screen_). How do you _mean_, RHODA?

_Lady Rhoda._ I meantersay I call Mr. SPURRELL----Well, he's real,
anyway--he's a _man_, don't you know. As for the other, so _feeble_ of
him missin' his train like he did, and turnin' up too late for
everything! Now, _wasn't_ it?

_Lady Maisie._ Poets _are_ dreamy and unpractical and unpunctual--it's
their nature.

_Lady Rhoda._ Then they should stay at home. Just see what a hopeless
muddle he's got us all into! I declare I feel as if anybody might turn
into somebody else on the smallest provocation after this. I _know_ poor
VIVIEN SPELWANE will be worryin' her pillows like rats most of the
night, and I rather fancy it will be a close time for poets with your
dear mother, MAISIE, for some time to come. All this silly little man's
fault!

_Lady Maisie._ No, RHODA. Not his--_ours_. Mine and Mamma's. We ought
to have felt from the first that there _must_ be some mistake, that
poor Mr. SPURRELL couldn't _possibly_ be a poet! I don't know, though;
people generally _are_ unlike what you'd expect from their books. I
believe they do it on purpose! Not that that applies to Mr. BLAIR; he
_is_ one's idea of what a poet should be. If he hadn't arrived when
he did, I don't think I could ever have borne to read another line of
poetry as long as I lived!

_Lady Rhoda._ I _say_! Do you call him as good-lookin' as all _that_?

_Lady Maisie._ I was not thinking about his looks, RHODA--it's his
_conduct_ that's so splendid.

_Lady Rhoda._ His conduct? Don't see anything splendid in missin' a
train. I could do it myself if I tried?

_Lady Maisie._ Well, I wish I could think there were many men capable
of acting so nobly and generously as he did.

_Lady Rhoda._ As how?

_Lady Maisie._ You really don't see! Well, then, you _shall_. He
arrives late, and finds that somebody else is here already in his
character. He makes no fuss; manages to get a private interview
with the person who is passing as himself; when, of course, he soon
discovers that poor Mr. SPURRELL is as much deceived as anybody else.
What is he to do? Humiliate the unfortunate man by letting him know the
truth? Mortify my Uncle and Aunt by a public explanation before a whole
dinner-party? That is what a stupid or a selfish man might have done,
almost without thinking. But not Mr. BLAIR. He has too much tact, too
much imagination, too much chivalry for that. He saw at once that his
only course was to spare his host and hostess, and--and all of us a
scene, by slipping away quietly and unostentatiously, as he had come.

_Lady Rhoda_ (_yawning_). If he saw all that, why didn't he _do_ it?

_Lady Maisie_ (_indignantly_). Why? How provoking you can be, RHODA!
_Why?_ Because that stupid TREDWELL wouldn't let him! Because ARCHIE
delayed him by some idiotic practical joke! Because Mr. SPURRELL went
and blurted it all out!... Oh, don't try to run down a really fine act
like that; because you can't--you simply _can't_!

_Lady Rhoda_ (_after a low whistle_). No idea it had gone so far as
that--already! _Now_ I begin to see why GERRY THICKNESSE has been
lookin' as if he'd sat on his best hat, and why he told your Aunt he
might have to be off to-morrow; which is all stuff, because I happen to
know his leave ain't up for two or three days yet. But he sees this
Troubadour has put his poor old nose out of joint for him.

_Lady Maisie_ (_flushing_). Now, RHODA, I won't have you talking as
if--as if---- _You_ ought to know, if GERALD THICKNESSE doesn't, that
it's nothing at all of that sort! It's just---- Oh, I can't _tell_ you
how some of his poems moved me, what new ideas, wider views they seemed
to teach; and then how _dreadfully_ it hurt to think it was only Mr.
SPURRELL after all!... But _now_--oh, the _relief_ of finding they're
not spoilt; that I can still admire, still look up to the man who wrote
them! Not to have to feel that he is quite commonplace--not even a
gentleman--in the ordinary sense!

_Lady Rhoda_ (_rising_). Ah well, I prefer a hero who looks as if he
had his hair cut, occasionally--but then, I'm not romantic. He may be
the paragon you say; but if I was you, my dear, I wouldn't expect too
much of that young man--allow a margin for shrinkage, don't you know.
And now I think I'll turn into my little crib, for I'm dead tired. Good
night; don't sit up late readin' poetry; it's my opinion you've read
quite enough as it is!

    [_She goes._

_Lady Maisie_ (_alone, as she gazes dreamily into the fire_). She
doesn't in the _least_ understand! She actually suspects me of----
As if I could possibly--or as if Mamma would ever--even if _he_----
Oh, how _silly_ I am!... I don't care! I _am_ glad I haven't had to
give up my ideal. I _should_ like to know him better. What harm is
there in that? And if GERALD chooses to go to-morrow, he must--that's
all. He isn't nearly so nice as he used to be; and he has even _less_
imagination than ever! I don't think I _could_ care for anybody so
absolutely matter-of-fact. And yet, only an hour ago I almost----But
that was _before_!

       *       *       *       *       *

BY BEN TROVATO.--Mr. ARTHUR ROBERTS is always interested in current
events, with a view to new verses for his topical songs. A friend came
up to him one day last week with the latest _Globe_ in his hand, just
as the Eminent One was ordering dinner for a party of four. "They're
sure to take Port Arthur!" cried the friend, excitedly. "I never touch
it myself," said Mr. ROBERTS, "but I'll order a bottle."

       *       *       *       *       *

WITH A DIFFERENCE.--It is common enough, alas! for a man of high
aspirations to be "sorely disappointed," but it is quite a new thing to
be "sorely appointed," which is the case with Professor W. R. SORLEY,
who has recently been placed in the Moral Philosopher's Chair at the
University of Aberdeen.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW BROOM.--The Republican Party in the United States
declare--apparently with some show of likelihood--that they will "sweep
the country." All honest citizens and anti-Tammany patriots must
heartily hope that they will sweep it _clean_.

       *       *       *       *       *

GILBERT AND CARR-ICATURE.

[Illustration]

Most of the _libretto_ of W. S. GILBERT'S latest whimsical opera,
entitled _His Excellency_, is evident proof of _his_ excellency in this
particular line and on these particular lines. Among principals, Mr.
BARRINGTON has perhaps a trifle the best of it; while the part given
to our Gee-Gee, _alias_ GEORGE GROSSMITH, is not so striking as his
costume, both he and Mr. JOHN LE HAY, whose make-up is wonderfully
good, being somewhat put in the shade by the gaiety of the two charming
young ladies Miss JESSIE BOND and Miss ELLALINE TERRISS, who act
with a real appreciation of the fun of the situation in which their
dramatic-operatic lot is cast. But, after all said and sung, it is the
brilliancy of the Hussars, under the command of Corporal, afterwards
Colonel, PLAYFAIR, that carries the piece, and takes the audience by
storm. The music by Dr. CARR would not of itself carr-y the piece were
"the book" less fancifully funny than it is, and did it not contain
some capital lines which are quickly taken by an appreciative audience.
There is plenty of "go" in the Carr-acteristic music for the dance of
Hussars; but the most catching "number" is a song of which the first
bars irresistibly call to mind the song with a French refrain sung by
Miss NESVILLE in _A Gaiety Girl_. Was Dr. OSMOND CARR the composer
of that air? or as "that air" sounds vulgar, let us substitute "that
tune." If so the resemblance is accounted for, and if he wasn't,
then it is only an accidental resemblance of a few bars that at once
strikes the retentive ear of the amateur. Scenery and costumes are all
excellent in _His Excellency_.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR "MONTHLY POPS."

In the New York _Critic_ a suggestion is made that it would be a
graceful thing for Editors of Magazines to bring out occasionally a
"Consolation Number," containing only rejected contributions. But
why not give the Editor's _reasons_ for rejecting them as well? This
would be such a "consolation" to the public, if not to the authors!
A specimen number might be made up somewhat as follows:--

1. "A Dream of Fair Wages."--A Rondel by TENNYSON KEIR HARDIE MORRIS
    SNOOKS.

    [Rejected as a mixture of bad politics with worse poetry.]

2. "Children of Easy Circumstances."--By [Greek: O]. [Greek: Ph].!

    [An up-to-date story, with several risky situations in it; the
    risk, however, has been reduced to a minimum by the gifted
    Authoress having contracted to indemnify the Publisher and Editor
    against any legal consequences that may ensue. Printed "without
    prejudice," and should be read in a similar spirit.]

3. "On the Magnetisation of Mollusca." By LEYDEN JARRE, F.S.L.

    [Rejected because, although an extremely able and interesting
    paper in itself, it is found by experience that this sort of
    high-science essay requires high people to write it if it is to
    have a chance of being read. Nobody under the rank of a Duke
    should dabble in magazine science. What's the use of calling it a
    Peery-odical otherwise, eh?]

4.

  "_Is_ Madagascar really the Largest Island but Two?"
  "How I Never Went to Korea."
  "China as my Great-Uncle said that he once Knew It."
  "A Muscovite Moujik, by a British Bore."

    [Rejected because this kind of "symposium" on topical subjects
    can be got much better, as the above writers have chiefly got it,
    from the daily papers. Without some magazine padding of the sort,
    however, "none is genuine," and the above is not much more hopeless
    drivel than is usually inserted.]

       *       *       *       *       *

ON THE LIST.--Without going back to the still undiscovered horrors in
the East End, we have sufficient material in the two diamond robberies
Holborn district and a bomb in Mayfair to warrant us in asking where is
that much-wanted SHERLOCK HOLMES?

    "HOLMES, HOLMES, HOLMES, SWEET HOLMES,
    Wherever we wonder is one chap like HOLMES!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The L.C.C. AND THE CHURCH.--"_The church was condemned as dangerous
by the London County Council._" Is not such a paragraph as the above
calculated to frighten all the good people who are so anxious on the
subject of religious education? Why, certainly. Fortunately the church
in question is only "All Saints Church, Mile End," which had to be
repaired and restored, and which was re-opened by "LONDIN" (which
signature, with "B" for "Bishop" before it, would become "BLONDIN")
last Thursday. "All's well that ends well," as says the Eminently
Divine VILLIAMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or the London Charivari Volume
107, November 17, 1894, by Various

*** 