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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Volume 109, 24th August, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




[Illustration: IN MEDIO TUTISSIMUS!

"WHAT! NEVER BEEN ILL SINCE YOU WERE BORN! I SUPPOSE YOU'RE A
TEETOTALLER?"

"OH NO! BEEN A MODERATE DRUNKARD ALL MY LIFE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

THE IRISH YOLK.--In the name of the Profit--eggs! Irish co-operators
have already made giant strides in the production of milk and butter,
and now the Irish Co-operative Agency has decided, so says the _Cork
Daily Herald_, to "take up the egg-trade." We hope the egg-traders
won't be "taken up," too; if so, the trade would be arrested just when
it was starting, and where would the profit be then? "It is stated
that many Irish eggs now reach the English market dirty, stale, and
unsorted," so that wholesale English egg-merchants have preferred to
buy Austrian and French ones. Ireland not able to compete with
the foreigner! Perish the thought! A little technical education
judiciously applied will soon teach the Irish fowl not to lay "shop
'uns."

       *       *       *       *       *

Feathers in Scotch Caps.

    "The railway race to the North, like the race across the
    Atlantic, has placed beyond challenge that on land as well as
    on sea Scotch engines break the record."--_North British Daily
    Mail._

Did not Lord BYRON anticipate this when he wrote (in _Mr. Punch's_
version of his poem on "Dark Lochnagar"):--

  Yes, Caledonia, thy engines _are_ scrumptious,
    Though even in England some good ones are seen;
  And, if the confession won't render you bumptious,
    We sigh for your flyers to far Aberdeen!

But if Caledonia is inclined to boast about its locomotives, let it
ponder its tinkers, and learn humility. The Glasgow "Departmental
Committee on Habitual Offenders, Vagrants, &c.," reports that
the nomad tinkers of Scotland number 1702, and of these 232 "were
apprehended for some crime or other during the year." _They_ don't do
151 miles in 167 minutes, like the locomotives--no, they do a couple
of months in Glasgow gaol; and they break the laws instead of breaking
records. There are 725 tinker children, who get practically no
education. Bonnie Scotland, land of grandeur, where the thousand
tinkers wander, you must catch these children, and educate them! The
adult tinker may be irreclaimable, but at least the children should
have a chance of something better--a choice of being soldier, sailor,
tinker, or tailor, as they prefer. If, after all, they elect to tink,
tink they must.

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. JOHN RHYS, of Jesus College, Oxford, quite rose to the occasion
at the New Quay, Eisteddfod, and, in his presidential address, made
lengthy quotations in Welsh. "Na chaib a rhaw" must mean "nor cares
a rap." By the way, the _South Wales Daily News_, in reporting the
proceedings, finishes up by declaring that "the speech was listened to
with '_wrapt_' attention." As Mrs. MALAPROP remarked, "The parcel was
enraptured in brown paper."

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.

[Illustration]

Me and a werry old Frend of mine has seized the hoppertoonity that
ardly ever okkers to too frends as has little or nothink to do for
a hole week, to thurrowly enjoy theirselves for that time, and see
weather sutten places in our little world is reelly as butiful and as
injoyable as sum peeple tries to make out as they is. Our fust place
was Epping Forrest, where we spent a hole day from morning to nite in
what my frend called such a gallaxy of buty and wunder as werry likely
werry few peeple ever has injoyd as we did. We spent hole miles among
the most butiful Forest Trees as was ever seed, every single tree of
which was rather more butiful than the last, and not one of which but
what was a reel bootiful studdy. It took us jest about two hours to
eat our dinner afore we set to work again to pollish off the lovely
trees we had not yet seen; and then, when we had pollished off the
last of them, we staggered to our werry last carridge, and took the
sleep of the Just, and did not wake up till Brekfust come kindly to
our assistance, and helped us to sett out and try again to dishcover
similar seens of delishus injoyment to those so marwellusly injoyed
the day before!

The trees as we xamined on the secund day was quite a diffrent class
to them on the fust, and emused us every bit as delifefully as the
fust sett, tho they was quite a diffrent sett altogether. In won place
we drove bang into the wery middel of the thickest wood, and there we
both lost ourselves for nearly three ours, but it wasn't a minnet too
much for us, for we both agreed that, upon the hole, it was about the
werry loveliest part of the hole day's proceedens, and that we shoud
not regret havin to repeat it the next day. Oh them hundereds and
thowsends of lovely Trees! every one of which seems far more butiful
than the last, and quite equal to any we had yet seen. At one place we
was showed the place where Good Quean ALIZEBETH always went up stairs
on Orseback, coz she did not like going up stairs in public. At
another we was showed where the present QUEEN sat in her privet
Carridge, and made the hole nayberhood bow to her by the hunderd. TOM
and Me both went up to the werry place, and pinted it out to them as
didn't kno it, which made us both feel werry grand. The werry next
day we had made all our derangements for follering up our prewius
wisitashun, and making a grand fi-nayle of the hole lovely affare,
when, to our tremenjus disapintment, the wind begun for to blow most
orfully, and the rain begun for to rain wus as I beleeves, and as TOM
beleeves, than ewer it did afore, and so we was both obleeged for to
leeve our truly lovely forests, and defer our tree climing till a much
more drier hoppertoonity, which we both bleeves will appear in about a
week, and then we shall renew our grand old wisit as before, and lern
again to beleeve in our hundereds and thowsends of the most buteful
trees as ewen old hingland can brag about, as the most lovelyest as
the world ewer saw.

And to think that all the lovely places as we seed in them three
lovely days is past and gorn for the present, makes us long only the
more artily for the glorius days still in store for us!

  ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

SERGEANT-MAJOR and Mrs. BAKER were one of a trio of couples successful
in winning their claim to the prize of a flitch of bacon at Dunmow.
Three hundred and sixty-six days of married life without a flitch--we
should say, hitch--in the flow of amicable intercourse is, nowadays,
a marvellous achievement, and merits due recognition. We, however,
commiserate the gallant and hambitions sergeant-major on having his
matrimonial intentions aspersed by the opposing counsel, who, in
attempting to "save the bacon," suggested that "BAKER had one eye on
the lady and the other eye on the flitch." The prospect of a reward
even "more lasting than ham" would hardly, it is to be feared, serve
to keep ordinary couples from "tiffs" for the space of a year and a
day continuously.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WAKING THE WATER-BEARER.

_Father Thames._ "NOW THEN, STIR UP, OLD STICK-IN-THE-MUD! SUMMER OR
WINTER, YOU'RE STILL FOUND WANTING, AND THEN _I_ GET THE BLAME!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE RED ORCHID.

(_Soliloquy of a Victorious Statesman._)

[Mr. CHAMBERLAIN at the opening of Parliament wore a red orchid in his
buttonhole.]

  Of colour-symbols much we hear,
    And something, too, of colour-music;
  But here's a sight that much I fear
    Will make the beaten Red Rad crew sick:
  Red! 'Tis the hue of my old flag--
    In days that are as dead as mutton;
  Now, with the instinct of a wag,
    I sport it still,--but at my button.
  It signifies how much I care
    For the "consistency," quite brainless,
  Which is the Radical bugbear.
    Their poisoned darts are harmless, painless.
  _JUDAS?_ Egregious TANNER tries,
    In vain, to link me with ISCARIOT.
  What need I care for envious lies,
    With S. and B. bound to my chariot.
  They'd bite my heel, I crush their head,
    And wear their colour in--my orchid!
  Red! It will make the Rads "see red,"
    They're fangless, though their tongues be forked.
  "They toil not, neither do they spin,"--
    I said, of the old Tory lilies.
  Now they will have to work, to win,
    And that the Rads don't see--the sillies!
  SALISBURY'S Tories were one thing,
    My Unionists are another matter;
  My Ransom-Song no more I sing,--
    Then I was bowler, now I'm batter.
  We have new wickets, smooth and dry,
    And one who coolly smites and places,
  May, with firm wrist and steady eye,
    Outshine the greatest of the Graces,
  "The white flower of a blameless life"
    Is--well, laid up at last at Harwarden,
  Sheltered from storm, afar from strife,
    And--other blossoms deck the garden.
  Roses and lilies had their turn,
    Now other blooms woo sun and showers;
  And the Red Orchid--well, they'll learn--
    In time--the new Language of Flowers!
  Of parasitic opulence
    Orchids are types, it will be said,
  The difference though may be immense
    When the new Orchid's _mine_--and Red!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ON THE CARDS.

_Young Wife._ "OH, MAMMA, DO YOU KNOW I BELIEVE ALFRED'S GOING TO
REFORM AND GIVE UP GAMBLING!"

_Her Mother._ "WHAT MAKES YOU THINK SO DEAR?"

_Young Wife._ "WHY ALL LAST NIGHT HE KEPT TALKING IN HIS SLEEP ABOUT
HIS MISERABLE, WORTHLESS HEART!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEARLY REACHED SHILLING.

(_A School-Board Chronicle._)

"Utterly impossible!" replied the official. "A good plain cook! No,
the Board does not create persons of that kind. If you had wanted a
_chef_ for a club, or a _cordon bleu_ for a West End hotel, we might
have accommodated you. But a good plain cook! No--utterly impossible!"

"But surely cookery is taught in the schools," pleaded the Ratepayer.

"Assuredly. And very well taught too. But whom would be satisfied with
a mutton-chop? We aim at something higher. Our scholars are equal to
producing _sole a gratin_, or _supreme de volaille_. And you don't
require those _plats_ every day of your life, now do you?"

"Then, can I have a housemaid?"

"I am afraid not. Since music has become one of the recognised
branches of study, we do not obtain many candidates for the task of
stair-sweeping. And it is not surprising. A girl who can play the
piano, or lead a chorus, is surely worthy of a better fate than
that which usually falls to the lot of a servant in a middle-class
establishment."

"I suppose it is useless to ask you if you can give me the name of a
boy in buttons?"

"Quite. To tell you the truth, we do not encourage such appointments.
Our lads are wanted at their studies until they are growing too old
to be young pages. Then, when they have reached the required standard
their literary attainments entitle them to something superior to the
post of a drudge in the pantry."

"Then what do you propose doing with your charges?" asked the
Ratepayer, who was rapidly becoming resigned to his position.

"Well, our _chefs_ must wait until the time arrives when there will
be enough clubs and West End hotels to secure the benefit of their
services."

"And the musicians?"

"They, too, at present are rather a drug in the market. But who knows?
Some day there may be a huge demand for pianoforte players."

"And the literary lads?"

"Most admirably adapted for clerkships, but the clerical labour market
is as dull as the proverbial ditchwater. Still, things may revive. But
for the present they must hope and wait."

"And I provide the funds for all this?" cried the Ratepayer.

"You do," returned the official promptly. "This year it will be
elevenpence halfpenny in the pound, and next probably considerably
higher. But then you see--_it is quite worth the money!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

A LITTLE HOLIDAY.

(_By Our Own Enterprising Explorer._)

"Why not go to Amsterdam?" At first sight this conundrum had the
customary couple of answers, "No time, no money." But these were
incorrect solutions.

"My dear Sir," said the Secretary of a Society organised to bring
happiness into the humblest home (pronunciation with or without
aspirates, according to the taste of the speaker), taking me up
smartly, "you can get there in less than no time, remain there less
than no time, and be back in less than no time. We can manage that for
you."

"But the expense?"

"We should not be a Society organised to bring happiness into the
humblest home if we could not manage that also. Look here: start Day
1 at 6.30 P.M.; be in Amsterdam morning of Day 2. Pause of thirty-six
hours for refreshment; then back again to London in time for breakfast
on Day 4. And with a view to bringing happiness into the humblest home
we charge a guinea for travelling expenses, which includes a state
cabin in the saloon of an excellent boat."

[Illustration: "That characteristic movement in sea produced more
gravity than gaiety amongst the passengers."]

So I closed with the Secretary, and brought away happiness to my
humble home. On the whole that happiness was maintained. It is true
that the excellent boat was rather leisurely in her movements. I went
to the Hook of Holland in a gale, which was kind enough to wait for my
return off the Dutch coast, and accompany me back to the white cliffs
of Albion. The excellent boat seemed to be on quite friendly terms
with this gale, and to enjoy its company. Instead of flying from shore
to shore, after the fashion of other steamers, the excellent boat
toyed with each wave, lingered languidly amongst every billow, and
arrived at her destination, both coming and going, several hours late.
She appeared during the voyages to keenly appreciate a characteristic
movement in sea. That characteristic movement in sea produced more
gravity than gaiety amongst the passengers. Leaving the excellent boat
out of the question--which boat, by the way, would no doubt have been
more than excellent _minus_ the gale--the journey "there and back" was
accomplished with comfort and despatch.

On my arrival at Amsterdam I found myself in a city that, in its main
characteristics, was not entirely unlike Brixton. The shops and the
people were both suggestive of the southern suburb. The trams that,
according to the guide-books, "traversed the town in every direction,"
were also reminiscent of that delightful haven of rest (from Saturday
to Monday) of the overworked stockbroker and the underworked Government
_employe_.

"You are sure to like Amsterdam," a friend of mine had said, as he
pressed my hand at parting, "because it's exactly like the Regent's
Park Canal."

My friend was right. Amsterdam certainly resembles the Regent's Park
Canal, but _plus_ Brixton. No doubt it is for this reason that it
is sometimes called "the Northern Venice." The people, too, had a
suburban look about them. I felt sure that most of them were called
SMITH, BROWN, JONES, and ROBINSON, with perhaps a conventional "dam"
tacked on to the end of their names to show that by nationality they
were Dutchmen. I approached one of these good, honest creatures, who
looked like SMITHDAM, and in my best broken English asked for the
Hotel Amstel. I pronounced the latter word as if the last syllable
rhymed with "peal." Mr. SMITHDAM stared at me and shook his head. Then
he said "Nine."

"'Otel Amstale," I continued, with a new pronunciation. "You know what
mean I--'Otel Amstale?"

But Mr. SMITHDAM didn't. He smiled, and again shook his head. This
annoyed me, so I murmured, "What an ass this chap must be; fancy not
knowing the way to the Amstel Hotel!"

"Amstel Hotel," he cried, with a pronunciation infinitely more English
than my own, and then most courteously gave me the route. I thanked
him with effusion, and most probably should have found his directions
of infinite value had he but delivered them in English instead of
Dutch. As it was, I put myself into a London-looking cab (the driver
very properly wore a military cockade), and was soon at one of the
best hostelries in Holland. Situation pleasant--of course overlooking
a canal--rooms comfortable, kitchen all that could be desired.

And now what did I do in Amsterdam? Why, I went to the Exhibition. And
what was it like? Well, a Dutch edition of those that had gone before.
At the Naval display before the Royal Hospital at Chelsea, there was
a model of the _Victory_, with a representation in wax of the Death
of Nelson. At Amsterdam there is a model of a mail-boat, with a
representation (in breathing humanity) of people drinking beer.

At Paris there was a Tour Eiffel, with a magnificent view at the
summit; at Amsterdam there is a tower in the shape of a colossal
elephant, with a fine display on every floor of beer. At South
Kensington there was a realistic reproduction of Old London on
temperance principles. At Amsterdam there is a realistic reproduction
of Old Holland served with beer. Go where I would I ran across beer.
The grounds of the Exhibition were dotted with booths. Before many
of them were very decent orchestras discoursing sweet music. But the
foreigners were there not only to attend to the music, but to drink
beer. The Exhibition proper (contents small and select, with few
English exhibits) was not apparently much of an attraction. I readily
understood the reason--it was not devoted exclusively to beer. In what
I may term the Exhibition annex I found any number of specimens of the
oriental merchants in the fezes, who were wont in the olden days to
enhance the joys of Olympia and Earl's Court.

"Come here, gentlemans," cried half a dozen in a breath, "I will sell
you this!"

But they didn't. Having done the exhibition and the admirable museum,
with its wonderful armour and marvellous old masters, I sampled a
music hall. I went to "the Crystal Palace" (vide guide-books), a
magnificent building, that no doubt had been built with the highest
aspirations and had come in the progress of time to the loftiest
tumblings. A portion of this noble institution had been converted into
a place of entertainment. Small stage with miniature scenery, trapeze,
orchestra. Audience almost entirely Dutch, entertainment almost
entirely English. Several British singers. One, a gentleman in evening
dress covered by a long Newmarket overcoat, with a _repertoire_
redolent of Holborn and the Surrey side, sang about "Nine in a row"
who (so I understood him to assert) "rolled down the street" when (if
I am not mistaken) they were rather "rocky about their feet." Then he
had another ditty which referred to his want of value. Was he worth
anything? He appealed to the Dutch audience. Some of them (possibly
friends of the singer) replied in the negative. Then he expressed his
conviction that he ought to be chucked out. The spectators cheered,
and seemed well satisfied with the programme. Whether they were able
to appreciate all the topical allusions is open to doubt, but I am
certain that they were thoroughly enjoying their beer.

I went to the market. An enormous crowd surrounded one booth. The
salesman was singing a song in honour of his wares, which were
composed of pieces of broken iron! So far as I could understand the
manners and customs of the vendors, the golden rule seemed to be
amongst them, "When in doubt take off the door to the outhouse with
the three broken panes of glass, the back parlour chandelier that
lacks a chain, and the disused baby's cradle, and sell 'em all by
auction."

I looked in, of course, at the Cathedral. My guide could not speak
French, but he understood English. He showed me the tombs of several
admirals.

"Where is VAN TROMP?" I asked, taking an interest in the career of
about the only Dutchman whose name I know intimately. Then, to make it
plainer, I added, "Whar is das VAN TROMP?"

My guide turned up his nose contemptuously, and said something (so
far as I could comprehend him) about VAN TROMP being in "de odder
kirsher." Later on, when I asked the use of a sort of vestry, he
murmured something about "Balaclava." From this I took it that he
could not make himself understood. But I was wrong. I did not know
much about the Dutch coinage. When I bought anything I invariably kept
my hand waiting for change until the supply was exhausted. Sometimes I
put forth my hand a second time with the result of getting a few
extra coins. There are guilders, little pieces that look like a
doll's silver pennies, and a showy coin that suggests a sixpence in
a decline. These latter are worth, I fancy, about three halfpence
a dozen. I gave the cathedral custodian one of these sixpences in a
decline. But it was not enough, not nearly enough, so I exchanged it
for a doll's silver penny, when he beamed with gratitude.

Would that I could tell of the other attractions of Amsterdam, of the
Royal Palace, the Zoo, the theatres, and the canals. But exigencies of
time and space say "No." Those who want to see and hear have only one
thing to do. Let them hie to the Hook of Holland, ho, to the Dutch
capital, and further description will be unnecessary.

       *       *       *       *       *

During a severe thunderstorm at Bjelina, in Bosnia, according to the
_Pall Mall Gazette's_ "Science Notes," there fell a remarkable "shower
of whitebait." This phenomenon has been easily eclipsed at London, in
England, where it recently rained cats and dogs.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHEEK!

    ["Blackberry or strawberry juice rubbed slightly on the
    cheeks, and then washed off with milk gives a beautiful tint.
    The garden-beet is also an excellent cosmetic: the beet is
    cut and the juice applied gently with a camel's hair
    brush."--_Announcement quoted by Mr. James Payn in "Our Note
    Book," "Illustrated News."_]

  Alas for the bard's and the _ingenue's_ dream!--
    Even Nature, it seems, joins Art's plot to betray us.
  We've heard cheeks compared to strawberries and cream,
    But that earth's sweetest fruit such a false trick should play us,
  In conspiracy base with fresh milk from the cow,
  Brings the red flush of wrath to the snowiest brow.

  What, sweet Mother Nature lend aid to a cheat,
    And play Madame RACHEL in faking complexions!
  Arcadia's vanished, naught's native or sweet,
    The daintiest Beauty wakes doubtful reflections,
  When for ought we can tell her ingenuous blush
  Is--a compound of beet and a camel's-hair brush!

       *       *       *       *       *

ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

It is a great thing to know--and one must believe it if one believes,
as I do, in what the newspapers say--that every single male member of
the upper or fashionable ranks of society is at this moment engaged in
slaughtering grouse. It is of course well known that every member of
Parliament is, on his election, presented by a grateful country with
a large and well-stocked grouse-moor, situated in one of the most
picturesque and romantic parts of Scotland, and no one (not even a
brewer) is ever raised to the peerage unless he can prove that at
least three generations of his family have shot grouse regularly on
the 12th of August on a moor of their own. Thus is the connection of
both branches of our legislature with sport safeguarded.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

Whenever the 12th of August, or, for the matter of that, the 1st of
September or the 1st of October, comes round with the revolving year,
we are informed in every newspaper that "Sportsmen were early
astir." There is about these words a halo of tradition so ancient and
venerable as to have become almost sacred. Imagination conjures up the
picture of happy bands of shooters all duly booted, gaitered, gunned,
cartridged and cigarred, sallying forth with dogs and keepers at 5
A.M., no doubt after eating, as condemned men do, a hearty breakfast.
Of course this may be so. I have read it so often that I hardly dare
to doubt it. My own experience, however, is that sportsmen are
not specially early even on the 12th, although keepers and other
professional guns who cater for the London market are often so early
as to anticipate by more than a few hours the recurring anniversary.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Now with black London's close and torrid street
  Stern Caledonia's heathered moors compete.
  Lo, well equipped with cartridge-bag and gun,
  Concurrent streams of rank and fashion run
  Where, though the birds be strong upon the wing,
  Not unrewarded sounds the frequent ping;
  Where dealing fate to feather (and to fur)
  The early sportsman is perceived astir,
  And in the lengthy language of the chase,
  A bird's no bird, but merely half a brace.
  Some skilful, some not fit to shoot for nuts,
  Walk for their game or take their stand in butts;
  And, wondrous fact, as all the scribes proclaim,
  Each from a separate butt destroys his game.
  At least it was so when the EMPEROR shot, so
  With non-Imperials it perhaps is not so.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am never irritable myself; I am sometimes justifiably annoyed by the
unreasonable conduct of a friend. But I have often noticed the most
melancholy irritability in others, and have wondered why they gave
way to it, and what it portended. Now I know. I have been reading
the _Medical Press and Courier_, and I learn from it that "this
hyperaesthesia of the temper is the direct outcome of overwork and want
of sleep; in fact, it is a morbid sensitiveness of the cells of the
cerebral cortex due to exhaustion or under-nutrition. Irritability is,
therefore a clinical sign of some importance, the more so because
it is often the premonitory indication of impending breakdown. Under
these circumstances, the condition is usually most marked during the
forenoon, and is associated with a distaste for food at breakfast
time. Later on, even the humanising effect of a good lunch fails
to raise circulatory activity to the standard required for adequate
cerebral nutrition, and the irritability becomes chronic, yielding
only to the influence of repeated doses of a diffusible stimulant,
such as brandy and soda. The remedy naturally only aggravates the
symptom, which is sooner or later followed by other manifestations of
cerebral exhaustion."

       *       *       *       *       *

  When you're lost in the whirl of a medical vortex,
    You gasp and you grasp, and you'll struggle in vain;
  For it seems you have cells in your cerebral cortex,
    Which is somehow connected, I fancy, with brain.
  Exhausted and panting with under-nutrition,
    You dare not presume to declare yourself well,
  And you rapidly tend to complete inanition,
    Produced by a morbidly sensitive cell.
  The result is a wound to the temper, a something
    Not as deep as a well, but, no matter, it serves,
  Perplexing your friends, who pronounce it a rum thing
    That DICK--that's yourself--should have gone in the nerves.
  You toy with your breakfast; the kidney, the kipper,
    The egg that is buttered, the egg that is fried,
  The tea that once found you a regular sipper,
    Unsipped and untasted you push them aside.
  Your lunch of cold beef with the gaff and the shandy,
    You simply can't face it, your head is one ache:
  A "diffusible stimulant" (alias brandy)
    Is all that you wish for and all that you take.
  A day or two back all your manners were courtly,
    Alas, what a change is apparent to-day,
  For you jump on your friends, and you take them up shortly,
    With a quarrel a minute whatever they say.
  Then, in spite of the canon that's set 'gainst self-slaughter
    (In the language of verdicts it's _felo de se_,)
  Some day you'll be found with your head in the water,
    Six inches will do, or attached to a tree.

       *       *       *       *       *

There have been some difficulties at Brierly Hill. At a recent meeting
of the Urban Council a letter was read from the Local Government Board
asking for information with regard to a communication which Dr. ELLIS,
the medical officer of health, had addressed to them. This referred to
the fact that Dr. ELLIS had ordered a "dumb" well at the Town Hall to
be cleared out. What is the use of a dumb well? Even if it contains
the truth it cannot speak it. Personally, I prefer a babbling brook.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

What is this? Is it a revolution or merely a mistake? Do I sleep, do
I dream, or is visions about? These questions occur to me on reading
that at Ironbridge the other day a clown, a member of a circus,
was brought up on remand charged with stealing L1 10s. and several
articles, the property of his landlady. And he was actually sentenced
to fourteen days' hard labour. All I can say is that I have rarely
allowed a year to pass without seeing at least one clown steal a
string of sausages, a lady's bonnet, two plump babies, half a dozen
fowls, the greater part of a general dealer's property, and the upper
half of a policeman. Nobody bothered him about it. In fact, everybody
expected him to do it, and there would have been great dissatisfaction
if he had observed the laws against larceny. And yet when a clown
at Ironbridge acts as clowns are intended to act, an unfeeling bench
visits him with a fortnight of hard labour. This is preposterous.
There ought to be an Amalgamated Union of Clowns to protect its
members from such an outrage.

       *       *       *       *       *

Those who study the reports of meetings of Town Councils learn many
things. For instance, at Bristol the other day, during a discussion of
passenger tolls at the docks, Mr. GORE complained that they had been
hocussed by the chairman of the sub-committee that day. Mr. BAKER
objected to the word "hocussed" being applied to him, but added that
they had been hocussed out of a good deal of time to-day, and Mr.
GORE retorted that they were going to be hocussed out of another
quarter-of-an-hour yet. Mr. BAKER asked Mr. GORE to withdraw the word,
and Mr. GORE refused. Matters had apparently come to a desperate pass,
when it occurred to the Mayor to inquire what the word "hocussed"
meant. Mr. BAKER thought it was something akin to cheating, whereupon
Mr. GORE, in the handsomest manner, said that knowing the meaning
of the word he would now withdraw it. The only thing that was not
explained was why Mr. GORE had used a word of the meaning of which he
was ignorant. There is a fatal attraction about the sound of certain
words which forces speakers to use them entirely without regard to
their actual meaning.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A LESSON IN DOMESTIC ECONOMY.

_Laura_ (_to her rich Sister, who has been extravagant as usual_).
"I _DO_ THINK IT'S A MISTAKE TO BUY AN UGLY THING ONE DOESN'T WANT,
MERELY BECAUSE IT'S _DEAR!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

'ARRY ON HARRY.

(_A Rejoinder to "Harry on 'Arry."_)

  Dear CHARLIE,--My eye and a bandbox! Wot next, and _wot_ next,
          _and_ WOT next?
  'Ere's a HARRY 'as mounted the pulpit, and taken poor _me_ as 'is
          text![A]
  'E bangs _Boernerges_ to bittocks, this lar-de-dar bagman--in silk--
  And 'e's going to do me a fair knock-out as sure as a whale ain't
          a whilk.

  I larf, I do, CHARLIE, tremenjus! Wot's needled my nabs, it appears,
  Is 'is being mistooken for Me!!! Well, 'e needn't 'ave no blooming
          fears!
  The public ain't _all_ of 'em mugginses, some of 'em _can_ twig a
          joke.
  Confound _'im_ with _me?_ Yus, they will--when they can't tell
          _Bend Or_ from a moke.

  'E calls me,--yus, _me_,--"the cad-cockney well known to the 'Eath
          and the 'Arp."
  Well, that's a fair challenge, old man, and I mean being on to
          'im--sharp!
  I'll take 'im--with 'is aitches chucked in--with one 'and
          whensomever 'e likes;
  And "Cads" do the road in smart dog-carts as well as afoot or on
          bikes.

  "'ARRY the Cad!" Great Jemimer! Jest fancy our HARRY'S disgust
  At the thought of their knocking _'is_ aitch out! 'E's fair on the
          bile and the bust.
  Way oh, HARRY! Do keep yer 'air on, old pal, if you've _got_ any
          thatch,--
  For it's wonderful 'ow these swell HARRIES go in for the shiny
          pink patch!

  It's their brines working through--_or_ their bumptiousness.
          _I_'ve got no hend of a crop,
  As looks, when I've 'ad a close clip, like a fuzz-bush a sprouting
          up top;
  But lor! these 'ere munchy-mouthed mashers--_with_ aitches--as
          gives theirselves hairs,
  Carn't grow any, not arter thirty, the bladder-o'-lardy-dar scares!

  'Owsomever, that ain't to the pint, CHARLIE. Wot _is_ a Gent?
          That's the nip!
  Well, it's partly a matter of "snap"-like, and partly a matter of
          "snip."
  If I've got the grit and the gumption, and know 'ow to tog like a
          toff,
  I've got the true gent in my nyture, and them as ain't got
          it--they're hoff!

  But "aitches" won't do it, my pippin! Yer grammar may be quite O K,
  All yer parts o' speech proper as pie, and yer spellin' fust chop
          in its way,
  But if you can't rattle and patter, and 'old up your end like a man,
  All yer mincey-wince mealy-mouthed has-p'rates is nothink but slop
          and cold-scran.

  You may garsp out yer aitches in spassums, until you 'ave got a
          sore throat,
  And it won't give you "clarss" arf as much as cool cheek and the
          cut o' your coat.
  Wot the mivvies call hinsolent _hotoor_, wot cocktails dub
          cocksure conceit,
  With snideness and "suitings" to match,--_that_, dear boy, is wot
          makes the _eleet_.

  There, HARRY, you've got it in once! And, now, dear boy, 'ow about
          you?
  Well, I guess, as the Yankees observe, you 'ave bit hoff a chunk
          you can't chew.
  Bit vulgar? Well, never mind that, mate, for, spite of _your_
          finnickle fuss,
  It's jest wot you guffins calls "vulgar" as swells love to borrer
          from _hus_.

  There's _chick_ in it, HARRY, and that's wot you chalk-witted
          chowders ain't got.
  Not one snappy snide phrase in your sermon, except that old gag
          "tommy rot,"
  Which _you_ didn't invent, nor your sort; it's hus aitchless ones
          start all the fun,
  And our yesterday's wheeze you freeze on to to-morrer, as sure as
          a gun.

  And the same with your sentiments, HARRY. Your loud "Rule,
          Britannyer" sall right;
  But _we_ gave you the patriot tip, years ago, in "_We don't want
          to fight._"
  You water it down, and then wave it as if 'twos your own privit
          flag,
  And then, arter nicking our principerles, slang us--_and with our
          own gag!_

  I'm one with you as to the furriner, leastways _you_ seem one with
          _me_,
  And when you rile up at the rot about "'ARRIES Abroad," I agree.
  _I_ shan't discumfuddle myself if they _don't_ like my tystes or
          my togs.
  Let the Germans go 'ome and eat coke, Frenchies stick to their
          snyles and stewed frogs.

  But when you suggest as the "aitch" makes a 'a'porth o'
          difference--Bosh!
  You call me a "aitch-droppin' howler," whilst you are "a gent"! It
          won't wash.
  _Me_ a Rad,--arter all I 'ave written? 'Taint much on it _you_ can
          'ave seen.
  And to ask _Punch_ to give me the chuck!--yah! it's mean, Mister
          HARRY, it's mean!

[Footnote A: See "Harry on 'Arry," p. 81.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "CALM AND PEACE."

LORD S-L-SB-RY (_Skipper_). "WELL, ARTHUR, WE'VE WON OUR RACES--AND
NOW WE CAN TAKE IT EASY!"

["I hope we shall have a period of calm and peace."--_Mr. Balfour's
Speech, August 12._]]

  "A Battersea bounder," too! Rats!!! Do you think I'm a pal o' JACK
          BURNS?
  Mix _me_ with "the masses"? Great Scott! It's a thought as the
          soul o' me spurns.
  You jumped-up, cheap, Coventry bagman, silk-sampling, no doubt, is
          your biz,
  But sampling "the classes and masses" is _not_, blow me tight if
          it is!

  Yah! Pack up your ribbings, _and_ aitches, and don't aggranoy me
          no more,
  But jest mind your own interference! A bounder you are--_and_ a
          bore.
  You've borrered my patriot sperrit, you've borrered a slang phrase
          or so,
  But there's one thing, my boy, you _carn't_ borrer, and that is my
          rattle and go!

  There, CHARLIE, I've given _'im_ beans, this 'ere HARRY, as carn't
          abear Cads,
  And wants to put up a aitch-fence like to keep out us row-de-dow
          lads.
  Let 'im call 'isself 'ENERY at once, _that's_ the badge for sech
          bounders to carry,
  And then 'e may bet 'is larst bob as _'e_ won't be confounded with
          'ARRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SONG OF THE SHRIMPER.

    [A correspondent, writing (to the _Daily Chronicle_) from
    Harwich, describes the deplorable condition of work prevailing
    among the shrimp catchers. "These poor fellows," he says, "are
    at sea twelve hours a day catching, and have to devote four
    hours more to boiling and packing for London. And yet all
    the middlemen send them down is from fourpence to fivepence a
    gallon."]

[Illustration]

  Toiling sixteen hours a day, and for precious little pay,
    Seems a blend of prison labour and starvation,
  Yet I do hear some suggestion that the "burning Labour Question"
    Is the one that mainly agitates the nation!
  No Trades Unions have we, and I do not rightly see
    How "Co-operative Wholesales" help _our_ like,
  Who must slave in sun or shine, cramped and chilled in the salt brine,
    With the choice of sheer starvation if we "strike."
  Labour Questions? Well, here's one. When the I. L. P.'s have done
    A-wrangling and a-jangling o' th' Election;
  When Mister CHAMBERLAIN has done counting o' the slain,
    And KEIR HARDIE a-explaining _his_ rejection;
  When TILLETT and JOHN BURNS have both taken of their turns
    At wildly lamming into one another,
  It might help to "cool their parritch" if they cast a glance at Harwich,
    And the state o' their poor shrimping "man and brother."
  Ah! above our nets to stoop, and to scrape, and scratch, and scoop,
    In loneliness laborious and risky,
  Is not a task, in truth, to encourage sturdy youth,
    Or make work-worn old age alert and frisky,
  Then with sore and aching back we have got to boil and pack;
    And then the hungry middleman's remittance,
  When it comes, is precious small, what a docker-lad would call
    A paltry and a belly-pinching pittance.
  Yet the Fish-Rings, they do say, are quite prosperous and gay,
    And Billingsgate is wealthy; and the skimpers
  Who so cut our profits down, live like fighting-cocks in town,
    On the ill-paid toil of fishermen and shrimpers!
  Ah! That "Harvest of the Sea" is a sounding phrase, but we
    Find such "poetry" for us has little meaning.
  The "Fish-Farmers" may do well, as their profits plump and swell,
    But, alas! for those who have to do the gleaning!

       *       *       *       *       *

A TRIP "PER SEA."

    _Projected Re-visitation_--_Ilfracombe_--_Torrs Walks_--_En
    route_--_Start_--_In Dock_--_Out_--_Tender
    Thoughts_--_On Board_--Reception--_Greetings_--_Exciting
    Search_--_Parting_--_Off!_

_Happy Thought._--Revisit Ilfracombe. Hire highest possible house
at the lowest possible price close to celebrated "Torrs Walks."
Why called "Torrs Walks"? Probably original TORRS who discovered
Ilfracombe used to walk here; one stormy night TORRS lost his head and
legs; then fell from sheer height of several hundred feet into
boiling sea; boiling sea made it hot for the unhappy TORRS; TORRS only
walking, not swimming. Therefore end of TORRS. Family name perpetuated
in Walks. Years ago, price to ascend Torrs was one penny per head,
body included. Tariff gone up since then. To Torrs Torr-tuous Turnings
admission Twopence. Extra penny might have improved paths. Here there
is as much "winding up" as in bankruptcy. "_Excelsior_" is motto of
visitor; likewise of proprietor who put on the extra penny. No matter;
not another spot in England where pedestrian can get better air,
better exercise, and finer views, all for twopence!

_Friendly Advice--gratis._--Always carry waterproof. If practicable
get someone to carry it for you. Never know when you may want it,
or when you mayn't. Stop for five o'clock tea on Torrs top. Whistle
merrily "_Torr-eador contento_" as you descend, and you will be giving
one of the best airs in _Carmen_ in return for about the finest air in
Devonshire.

_How to get to Ilfracombe._--Per rail, London and South-Western.
Picturesque line of country. Another, and a longer _route_, per _mare
et terram_, and therefore more varied and health-refreshing, which are
important points to score if your holiday be circumscribed, is to take
passage on board steamer, Pacific Orient Line for choice, which stops
at Plymouth _en route_ to give a last glance at Old England before
proceeding across the Bay of Biscay to Naples, and, ultimately,
Australia. Only drawback to this is the start from Fenchurch Street.
Fenchurch Street Station enough to make anyone start. Wanted here
a spacious, light and airy place where passengers carrying "hand
properties" can move about rapidly without loss of that equanimity of
temper which every traveller should cultivate under circumstances that
would try even the joviality of that utterly impossible creation _Mark
Tapley_. Still _Mark Tapley_ is an ideal to be lived up to as near as
may be; and the passenger who, with bag in hand, while struggling
with mixed crowd in Fenchurch Street Station on the departure of any
important Tilbury Dock train, can be jovial or even ordinarily polite,
is already in a fair way towards earning the Ideal Tapley Medal.

Tilbury Wharf. "And at this wharf of Tilbury" why not more porters?
Why not a covering to the landing-stage, where at present, the
traveller, like the sky parlour in ancient song, "exposed to the wind
and the rain," will be thoroughly drenched while awaiting the advent
of the tender. _Happy Thought._--To-day, fortunately, fine.

These queries occur to me as I stand on this floating quay, and
witness in the distance the "tender parting." There will be many "a
tender parting" beside this one to be seen when the _Orotava_ gets her
steam up, and quits Tilbury for Melbourne.

We board the _Orotava_, which is to board and lodge so many of them
(with another contingent going overland, and joining the ship later
on) for the next month or so.

I am personally introduced to the captain by some kindly friends who
come to see me off, and whom, as I lose sight of them in the crowd,
it is soon my turn to "see off"; as subsequently I can only catch a
glimpse of them in the crowd, on the tender, as they depart for shore,
when we wave hands to one another implying thereby all sorts of good
wishes. After making the captain's acquaintance, I am introduced by
some light-hearted companion--everyone on board is either boisterously
gay or in the deepest grief--to a good-humoured-looking portly
gentleman, whom, there being nothing whatever nautical in his
appearance, I should have taken for a landed proprietor, "one of
the olden time," had I not very soon discovered him to be something
uncommonly superior in the Nautical Pacific Service, and _the_ friend
in need, without whom no passenger's happiness is complete, that
is, speaking from practical experience, if the destination of that
passenger is only Plymouth, as was mine.

_Farewell!_ The tender is about to depart. It seems to me to be
as full as when it arrived. "Cheers, tears and laughter:" only the
laughter is a bit forced, while the tears are natural, and the cheers
most hearty. The tender hesitates. Tug evidently tender-hearted; can't
bear to part with the good ship _Orotava_. No; this is not the cause
of the delay. Some one is waited for. Tender crew impatient. Where is
he? Who is he? Find him. Some one, in ordinary frock coat and top hat
but clearly an official on board tender, puts both hands to his
month and shouts out what sounds to me like "Wait for Mister TUBBS!"
Evidently tender cannot go ashore without TUBBS; equally evident
that TUBBS is not to sail with the _Orotava_. Puzzle, to find TUBBS.
Stewards, chief officers, mates, men rush in all directions to rout
out TUBBS. Look-out man aloft in sort of suspended clothes basket
cannot get a sight of TUBBS either in the offing or out of it. Nothing
like TUBBS to be seen anywhere. Somebody reports at top of voice "He's
with the captain." Captain up above somewhere, invisible, denies soft
impeachment as to being cognisant of the whereabouts of TUBBS. What
is TUBBS doing? Playing hide and seek? Search light turned on into
darkest and deepest depths of _Orotava_. No TUBBS. Suddenly first
gangway withdrawn, and grasp of tender partially relaxed. Exciting
moment. Crew of tender rattle second gangway threateningly: their
patience is almost exhausted. The cry goes up once more for TUBBS
ahoy! Even the weeping wives and sorrowing friends, lovers and
children forget their dear ones for a moment and strain their eyes in
every direction, gasping for a glimpse of invisible TUBBS. At last
a small, stoutish figure appears on the gangway. Is he hatless?
breathless? Not a bit of it. He walks the gangway as if he yet had
hours of leisure before him, and was quite unconscious of having kept
anyone waiting. It is TUBBS himself. The self-possession of TUBBS
is remarkable, nay admirable. He notices nobody. Speaks to nobody.
Suddenly he disappears; the gangway is withdrawn; more cheers, more
waving of pocket-handkerchiefs, and the tender, with the impassive
TUBBS to boot, drifts out of sight, and the _Orotava_ is fairly under
weigh.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WITHOUT PREJUDICE.

_Ugly Man_ (_who thinks he's a privileged wag, to Artist_). "NOW, MR.
_DAUB_IGNY, DRAW ME."

_Artist_ (_who doesn't like being called_ Daub_igny, and whose real
name is Smith_). "CERTAINLY. BUT YOU _WON'T_ BE OFFENDED IF IT'S
_LIKE_ YOU. EH?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THAT POOR IRISH HARP!

  MOORE hymned the "Irish Melodies,"
    And as he harped all heeded _his_ chords.
  But heaven help the bard who tries
    To harmonise the "Irish Discords"
  The Paddies quarrel, gird, and carp,
    Blend petty squeak with mad mock-thunder.
  No Minstrel Boy may tune that Harp
    Since faction "tore its chords asunder."

       *       *       *       *       *

A wedding of great interest to Welsh society, which took place lately
in the Rhondda Valley, was that between Mr. SMITH and Miss MARGARET
ABRAHAM, daughter of "Mabon," M.P. Of course "Ma bon-nie bride." The
presents, though numerous and handsome enough, did not somehow include
one that, having in view the nationality of the interesting pair,
would have been singularly appropriate. There was no gift of <DW75>-eta.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATEST DANGER.

(_A Caution to those who are Interviewed._)

The celebrity awaited his interviewer with some impatience. He had
arranged his story with considerable care. He was prepared to show
that he was the best of boys at school, the most studious of students
at the university, the worthiest of men at all times. He felt sure
that when the record of his life was published, preparations would be
made to erect a statue and a glass window in his honour. And so he was
satisfied.

In due course the interviewer appeared. The man was bland and
persuasive. He requested the celebrity to take a chair, and then
placed his hand upon his brow. The celebrity gazed into the eyes of
his visitor with a lack lustre stare, and then seemingly sank into a
heavy sleep.

"And now I am prepared to begin," murmured the interviewer, taking out
his notebook. "My worthy Sir, I command you to tell me all. Mark you
well--all." And then the celebrity, in a monotonous tone, revealed the
secrets of the past.

  * * *

The celebrity was furious. The interview had appeared, and was far too
true in the story of its subject's life to be pleasant. There was no
assertion that the celebrity had been the best of boys at school, the
most studious of students at the university, the worthiest of men at
all times. On the contrary, the celebrity had "come out" in rather
unflattering colours. So that eminent man was simply furious. He
had sent for his interviewer, and awaited once more his arrival with
impatience. In due course his biographer turned up.

"And now, Sir," said the celebrity, in tones trembling with anger,
"what do you mean by suggesting that I tried as a child to slaughter
my maiden aunt?"

"Did you?" was the calm rejoinder.

"That is beside the question. And why did you assert that I had told
you that I never did a day's work at the university?"

"But you did say so--didn't you?"

"Again beside the question. And what did you mean by stating that
I had deserted my wife, and turned my children out-of-doors at a
moment's notice?"

"But were those statements true or untrue?"

"That you have not received a writ for libel is my answer. But how
came you to know these unpleasant details--who told you?"

"You did."

"I did! When, where and how?"

"When I saw you here, and at my request."

"I do not understand you," murmured the puzzled celebrity. "Why should
I tell you all this?"

Then came the explanation.

"You told me all I wanted," replied the interviewer, "because I am a
hypnotist?"

"Indeed!" returned the celebrity when he had recovered from his
astonishment; and then, after a moment of deep consideration, he gave
his visitor the names and addresses of the more hated of his rivals.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW BATTLE OF HASTINGS.

  Some advance on Peace's journey
    We may reckon. War's disasters
  Won't attend this great Chess Tourney.
    And the Meeting of the Masters.
  STEINITZ, LASKER, TSCHIGORIN,
    BLACKBURNE, BIRD, or any other,
  Whichsoever champion win,
    Will be hailed as friend and brother.
  Senlac saw another sight
    When the Norman whipped the Saxon.
  This serene and bloodless fight
    Skill and patience lay sole tax on.
  Here no arrow ends the fray,
    (Though _a narrow_ victory may do,)
  Whereat _Punch_ must shout hooray!
    Play on, great Chess Masters, pray do!
  May the best man meet success!
    (Big guns have had pretty bastings!)
  And no Battles, save at Chess,
    Ever stain our English Hastings!

       *       *       *       *       *

A Voice from the Table.

(_At Swearing-in Time for the new M.P.'s_).

  The cry is still they come--the new M.P.'s!
    The difference 'twixt them and us, no doubt,
  Seems but one letter, but how vast it is!--
    They are "sworn in," but we are just worn out!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SATISFACTORY!

_Nervous Traveller._ "HI, MAN, STEADY! DON'T DRIVE SO FAST!"

_Hibernian Driver._ "SURE, YER HONNER, AN' I'M ONLY THRYIN' TO MAKE
THE OULD MARE FORGET HOW OFTEN SHE HAS BEEN ON HER NOSE AT THIS
BLISSED HILL!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, August 12._--"Are you ready? Go!" No
mistaking the voice. It was the clear, sharp notes of HEMPRER JOE,
ringing from behind SPEAKER'S Chair, high above buzz of talk and
bustle of movement in crowded House. Wondering what it might portend,
when discovered PRINCE ARTHUR and SQUIRE OF MALWOOD entering
simultaneously, after the fashion of the Bounding Brothers from the
Breathless Baltic. Only, if you remember, those eminent _artistes_
appeared in ring from directly opposite approaches, advancing towards
each other with startling, though graceful evolutions. PRINCE and
SQUIRE, on contrary, started from door at back of SPEAKER'S Chair,
advanced fair toe and heel to table; walked step by step together
along either front bench, till each reached the seat kept vacant for
him.

House so surprised at this performance it almost forgot to shout. What
usually happens on like occasions is for one Leader of Party to take
his seat amid loud cheers from his friends, taken up with strident
voice from other side when their man comes in. Now cheers, if indulged
in, would mingle, and might be misunderstood. A welcome meant for
PRINCE ARTHUR might seem to be bestowed upon SQUIRE, and _vice versa_,
as Mr. ANSTEY once said. Whilst perturbed House looked on, HEMPRER
JOE, having watched his men, fairly started, reach their goal,
followed with swinging step and the inevitable orchid.

To see him seat himself on Treasury Bench, the right-hand man of a
Tory Government, too much for the feelings of TIM HEALY, usually held
in stern reserve. During interval of General Election TIM been holding
sweet converse with his colleagues in general, BLAKE and TAY PAY
in particular. By odd chance he, taking his place in new Parliament
to-day, found himself seated between his two friends, to whom
presently entered the "dear JUSTIN" of a voluminous missive. Soothed
by such companionship TIM in melting mood. But sight of HEMPRER JOE
finally crossing the gangway, formally completing marvellous journey
from Birmingham to Hatfield, too much for trained equanimity. TIM
groaned aloud. SWIFT MACNEILL roared as if in anguish. Dr. TANNER
(figuratively of course) cut himself with knives, emitting sounds that
nearly frightened to death two new members seated on either side
of him. L'HEMPRER smiled benignly. Clerk at Table, dexterously
interposing, pointed spectral forefinger at JOHN MOWBRAY, who rose
to "move that the Right Hon. WILLIAM COURT GULLY do take the Chair as
Speaker."

A delicate task, seeing that a few short months back he had run WHITE
RIDLEY for the Chair against the man whose price to-day he fixed far
above rubies. Admirably performed; made easier by fact that meanwhile
GULLY had filled the Chair, acquitting himself in manner that
justified choice of friends and extorted admiration on other side.

"All very well," says SARK, "to talk about preserving cherished
traditions and best precedents of House. But suppose GULLY had been--I
won't say a failure, but--anything short of perfect manner in the
Chair, where would he have been to-day?"

Certainly not in the Chair, whither MOWBRAY led him, escorted by JOHN
ELLIS, and where PRINCE ARTHUR welcomed him in terms which indicated
that now was the dearest desire of his heart fulfilled. As for SQUIRE
OF MALWOOD, he was so affected that he fell into his most funereal
manner.

"One would think," said CHAPLIN, himself in the highest spirits, "that
he had come to bury GULLY, not to praise him."

_Business done._--SPEAKER re-elected.

_Tuesday._--"Our army may have sworn terribly in Flanders," said Mr.
MILMAN, tossing back the wig from his throbbing brow and rearranging
his crumpled gown; "it was nothing to what the House of Commons can do
when called upon."

Four o'clock now. House met at noon, and ever since they've been
swearing away. PRINCE ARTHUR and SQUIRE OF MALWOOD led off, in company
with HICKS-BEACH, GOSCHEN and HENRY FOWLER. He no longer the Great
Mogul. Has folded up his turban, put away his kaftan, hung up his
yataghan, and once more resumed the dress of commonplace Englishman.
House loses something of its picturesqueness. But, FOWLER says, change
of estate has some compensations. At least now he has not to receive
the SHAHZADA in his family circle, handing him round tea and cakes,
and attempting to converse with him in the Afghan tongue, imperfectly
acquired by study of OLLENDORF. Sense of renewed freedom made
Ex-Secretary for India throw added fervour into his bout of swearing.

[Illustration: The Elect of Whitehaven!

_A-g-st-s H-ld-r, Esq., M.P_. "Well really, now they come to mention
it, the likeness between myself and Sir William Harcourt is _very
remarkable indeed!_"]

A little excitement at first in crowded House. No reason why Members
should insist on being sworn-in right away. Might look in later in
afternoon, when pressure was over; or call to-morrow; or stroll in all
by themselves on Thursday or Friday. Human instinct irrepressible even
in Members of Parliament. Must be in the first flight, whatever is
going on. So swarmed round table, made dashes for stray copies of
the New Testament, snatched at slices of cardboard containing form of
oath, as the anonymous drowning man clutched at the fortuitous straw.
MILMAN, standing at table, administering oath, had a hot time of it
for an hour. Thereafter excitement began to tone down, and just now
flickered out.

_Business done._--Swearing in Members.

_Thursday._--"Accidental relations in directorial capacity with a
great railway corporation have," said DAVID PLUNKET, "brought to my
knowledge the fact that when signals on the line show a green light,
caution is necessary. This afternoon, when I observed TANNER come in
with flaming green necktie I feared the worst."

The worst didn't befall till midnight approached. But things in
immediate neighbourhood of TANNER been seething for some time. His
topographical position a little trying. Faced by triumphant majority
of anti-Home-Rulers, distinctly seeing on Treasury Bench two BALFOURS
where formerly only one had sat, he was irritated by having on his
flank the REDMOND _freres_, HARRINGTON, CLANCY and other compatriots
almost worse than SAXONS, not to mention the pain to a man of peace
of consciousness that between his friends and colleagues TIM HEALY
and JOHN DILLON there was something lacking in the way of perfect
loving-kindness. Then there was BOANERGES RUSSELL on the Treasury
Bench. Bad enough to have had him sitting on corner of top bench
immediately opposite. To see him curling up his legs on Treasury
Bench, one of Her Majesty's Ministers, drawing a salary quarterly with
regulation and despatch, was more than a humble but patriotic medical
practitioner could stand. "T. W. RUSSELL!" cried TANNER, with fine
irony, and bold disregard of Parliamentary usage, which forbids
mention of Members by name. The observation was by way of postscript
to inquiry as to whether the Government really intend to try and
prevent the murder of any more missionaries in China, and bring in an
Irish Land Bill?

[Illustration: A Piece of Crown-Derby Ware!

Design for Bemrose-and-Drage Ornament for the Chimney-piece. No
publican's parlour should be without this charming memento of a great
victory.]

No satisfaction forthcoming on these points. TANNER sat and brooded
by the hour over fresh wrongs of Ireland, complicated by these
proceedings in China. It was HARRINGTON who accidentally and
unintentionally dropped the spark which, as a Member once observed,
let slip the dogs of war. "That's a lie!" remarked TANNER, by way
of criticising one of HARRINGTON'S statements. Remark made in quite
ordinary way; just as if he had been moved to say "How d' you do?"
or, "It's a fine day." Friends and countrymen sitting near not in
slightest degree disturbed. Only TANNER'S way. HARRINGTON, in fact,
had commenced next sentence, when voice of long-suffering SPEAKER
heard, inquiring whether he had heard aright, one Member accusing
another of being a liar?

TANNER a little flustered at this extraordinary and unexpected
punctilio. If objection taken had not been so sudden, the Doctor, most
amiable and good-natured of men, who wouldn't hurt a fly much less
flout a SPEAKER, would have apologised. But House angrily roared;
SPEAKER remained standing; HEMPRER JOE, leading House in temporary
absence of PRINCE ARTHUR, appeared on scene with bit of paper he had
in his pocket, containing, by rare chance, written formula for moving
suspension of disorderly Member. So TANNER was "named," and presently
escorted from House by Deputy-Sergeant-at-Arms, shaking his fist at
unoffending Secretary for the Colonies, shouting "Judas! Judas!" at
top of strident voice, probably restrained only by general hurry of
proceedings from demonstrating how L'HEMPRER was at bottom of the
murder of missionaries in China.

_Business done._--Address moved. So was TANNER--out of House.
ROBERTSON, M.P. for South Hackney, delightful in seconding Address.
Confided to House that he was first genuine East-Ender ever placed in
such position.

[Illustration: _As he was_. The Seconder of the Address. _As he ought
to have been_.

"Hon. Members would probably be interested in seeing what a dweller
in the East End was really like, especially when he was to be in some
costume suitable to the occasion."]

_Friday._--Unprecedented scene to-night. ATTORNEY-GENERAL FOR IRELAND,
rising from Treasury Bench, opposed JOHN DILLON'S amendment to
Address; SOLICITOR-GENERAL FOR IRELAND, springing up from Front
Opposition Bench, warmly supported it. Both maiden speeches; manner
distinctly different. ATKINSON prim, severe, official; HEMPHILL
friendly, genial, richly eloquent.

"I fancy," said PRINCE ARTHUR, with one of his sweet smiles, "our
SOLICITOR-GENERAL has studied his Parliamentary manner by observing
the graces of a popular conductor on taking his seat in the
orchestra." _Business done._--Still debating Address.

       *       *       *       *       *





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.
109, August 24, 1895, by Various

*** 