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  PUNCH,

  OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

  VOLUME 98.

  JANUARY 25, 1890.

       *       *       *       *       *

UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

    "Tres volontiers," repartit le demon. "Vous aimez les tableaux
    changeans: je veux vous contenter."

_Le Diable Boiteux._

[Illustration]

XVII.

  "'The Humours of the Town!' Archaic phrase,
  Breathing of BRUMMEL and the dandy days
      Of curly hats and gaiters!
  'Humours' seem rarer now, at least by night,
  In this strange world of gilt and garish light,
      And bibulous wits and waiters."

  So I. The Shadow smiled. "There's food for mirth
  In every nook of the sun-circling earth
      That human foot hath trodden.
  Man, the great mime, must move the Momus vein,
  Whether he follow fashion or the wain,
      In ermine or in hodden.

  "A City of Strange Meetings! Motives strong
  Why men in well-dressed multitudes should throng,
      Abundant are and various.
  Strongest, perhaps, the vague desire _to_ meet;
  No animal as Man so quick to greet,
      So aimlessly gregarious.

  "In Council, Caucus, Causerie, there's an aim
  Which many know and some might even name;
      But see yon motley muster,
  Like shades in Eblis wandering up and down!
  Types there of every 'Show Class' in the Town
      Elbow and glide and cluster."

  I see long rooms, _en suite_, with lofty walls,
  And _portieres_ sombre as Egyptian palls;
      I hear the ceaseless scuffle
  Of many trim-shod feet; the thin sweet sound
  Of stricken strings which faintly echoes round
      Those draperied vistas muffle.

  _Susurrus_ of a hundred voices blent
  In the bland buzz of cultured chat; intent
      Set faces mutely watching
  From cushioned corner or from curtained nook;
  Hands that about old ears attentive crook,
      The latest scandal catching.

  Cold rock-hewn countenances, shaven clean,
  Hard lips, and eyes alert with strength and spleen;
      Visages vain and vapid,
  All wreathed with the conventional bland smile
  That covers weary scorn or watchful guile,
      Shift here in sequence rapid.

  "Why is this well-dressed mob thus mustered here?"
  I asked my guide. "On every face a sneer
      Curls--when it is not smirking.
  Scorn of each other seems the one sole thing
  In which they sympathise, the asp whose sting
      Midst flowery talk is lurking."

  "Friend, mutual mockery, masked as mutual praise,
  Is a great social bond in these strange days.
      ROCHEFOUCAULD here might gather
  Material for new maxims keen and cold.
  They meet, these _convives_, if the truth be told,
      For boredom and bland blather.

  "Royston's Reception,--ah! yes; beastly bore!
  But must drop in for half an hour, no more.
      The usual cram,--one knows it.
  Big pudding with a few peculiar "plums".
  Everyone kicks, but everybody comes.
      Don't quite know how he does it!'

  "So SNAGGS, the slangy cynic. See him there
  With pouching shirt-front and disordered hair,
      Talking to CRAMP the sturdy,
  Irreverent R. A. And he,--that's JOYCE,
  The shaggy swart Silenus, with a voice
      Much like a hurdy-gurdy.

  "You see him everywhere, though none knows why;
  Every hand meets his grip, though every eye
      Furtively hints abhorrence.
  Society's a gridiron; fools to please,
  Wise men must sometimes lie as ill at ease
      As might a new St. Lawrence."

  A buzz, a bustle! How the crowd makes way,
  And parts in lines as on some pageant day!
      'Tis the Great Man, none other,
  "Bland, beaming, bowing quick to left and right;
  One hour he'll deign to give from his brief night
      To flattery, fuss and pother.

  "Though the whole mob does homage, more than half
  Behind their hands indulge in sorrel chaff,
      And venomous invective.
  And he, the hard-faced Cleon with his ring
  Of minor satellites? Could glances sting
      _His_ were not ineffective!

  "Crouched in yon corner, huddled chin to knees,
  Like some old lion sore and ill at ease
      Left foodless in the jungle,
  Sits GRUMPER, growling oaths beneath his breath
  At CLEON, who--to him--sums party-death
      And diplomatic bungle.

  "'Beshrew him for a----!'" "GRUMPER'S speech is strong;
  Flanders and screeds of old satiric song
      Blend in his vigorous diction.
  Around, in lounging groups or knots apart,
  Are lesser lights of thought, small stars of art,
      And petty chiefs of fiction.

  "Hosts of the nameless, fameless, 'Small Unknown';
  Men who can form a 'corner', float a loan,
      Wire-pull a local Caucus,
  But cannot paint poor pictures, write bad plays,
  Or on a platform wildly flame or praise
      In rolling tones or raucous.

  "These lounge and hover, sip champagne and whiff
  Mild cigarettes; these too, in secret sniff
      At 'the whole queer caboodle.'
  _Why_ do they meet? How shall I say, good friend?
  Modern symposiasts seem a curious blend
      Of porcupine and poodle.

  "'In these Saturnian days Amphitryon spreads
  His meshes wide, and counts not brains but heads.
      The Tadpoles and the Tapers
  Are scorned by the few Titans; true; but aims
  Differ; to some 'tis much to see their names
      Strung in the morning papers.

  "So Private Views are popular, and men
  Meet just to prompt the social scribe's smart pen.
      Taste too austerely winnows
  Town's superflux of chaff from its scant wheat:
  Our host prefers to mix, in his Great Meet,
      The Tritons and the minnows!"

  "With mutual scorn!" I cried. "Has Fashion power
  Thus to unhumanise the 'Social Hour,'
      Theme of old poets' vaunting?
  Gregarious spites and egotisms harsh!--
  Foregathering of frog-swarms in a marsh
      Yields music as enchanting."

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *

HOLIDAY CATECHISM.

_Mr. Punch._ Well, Master JACK HORNER, where have you been _this_ time?

_Master J. H._ POLLY and I visited Madame Tussaud's,--they have got Mr.
SALA there, looking so amiable! We _were_ pleased to see him! And POLLY
afterwards _would_ take me into the Chamber of Horrors! But I paid her
out by getting her to try a boat on "Ye Ocean Wave," as they call it, at
HENGLER'S!

_Mr. P._ Done anything else?

_Master J. H._ To be sure. Looked in at "Niagara," where they have got a
Forest of Christmas trees. Capital! Popped into "Waterloo," opposite.
Smashed skull in a trophy of arms amongst the relics--lovely! The
picture, too, not half bad. Then improved our minds at the Tudor
Exhibition.

_Mr. P._ And where else have you been?

_Master J. H._ To the Crystal Palace, where they have got _Cinderella_
this year. It's first-rate!

       *       *       *       *       *

"VANITY UN-FAIR."--A week ago a caricature of one of the most popular
and pleasant-looking of officials--a scholar and a gentleman--Mr. EDWARD
PIGOTT--the Examiner of Plays, was published in _Vanity Fair_.
Unrecognisable as a portrait, the picture was painfully hideous. Why it
should have been allowed to appear is a mystery, as Mr. PIGOTT is a man
that either is, or should be, without an enemy. There is only one thing
to be done--our contemporary (following a recent precedent preserved in
its own columns) should publish an apology.

       *       *       *       *       *

"SPEED THE PARTING."--The last four weeks of BARNUM at Olympia are
announced. If this is a fact, won't there arise a chorus of general
jubilation from Theatrical Managers? Rather!

       *       *       *       *       *

"ANA."--_Obiter dicta_ anent the Parnell Commission will be published in
one supplementary volume, entitled, _Osheana_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GRADUAL TRANSFORMATION SCENE.--FLIGHT OF THE DEMON
INFLUENZA AT THE APPROACH OF SPRING.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DITTY OF THE DAGGER.

    [A writer on Fashion says, "The latest fad is the wearing of large
    daggers in the hair, which renders a lady quite dangerous to her
    neighbours."]

  ETHELINDA hath a dagger; IRVING gave it; calmly there,
  As the fashion is, she sticks it in her coronal of hair.

  It looks very like the dagger 'bout which _Macbeth_ told such fibs,
  That cold steel which tickled _Duncan_ underneath his royal ribs.

  Whomsoever she approaches, that three-cornered dagger <DW8>s,
  And a hecatomb of corpses follows when her head she nods.

  KATE and MARGARET were wounded as if they'd been to the wars,
  HILDA too and OLGA owe her very aggravating scars.

  BEN and TED have both been prodded, and unhappy LIONELLO,
  Looks as if he'd been engaging in a terrible _duello_.

  If the fashion thus continues of stilettos worn like this,
  Men must case their heads in helmets, or ne'er go near girls, I wis.

  Nathless, were I ETHELINDA'S mother, I would say, "Beware!
  If you must keep such a dagger, leave it upstairs--with your hair."

  ETHELINDA fiercely would repel the base insinuation,
  But the hint might save her neighbours any further laceration.

       *       *       *       *       *

SET DOWN FOR TRIAL.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

During the Winter Vacation, now at an end, I have been visiting some of
the theatres with a view to educating my eldest son. Hearing that in _A
Man's Shadow_ at the Haymarket there was a representation of "the Assize
Chamber, Palais de Justice, Paris," I took NORTHBUTT (the name I have
given to my boy, in recognition of the kindness that is habitually shown
to the Junior Bar by two of the most courteous Judges of modern times)
to that temple of the Drama, and was delighted at the dignity and legal
acuteness displayed by Mr. KEMBLE as the President of the Court. On
referring to the programme, I found that the part of the Usher was
played by Mr. ROBB HARWOOD, and I trust that learned Gentleman (I cannot
help feeling that from his Christian name, Mr. HARWOOD must be connected
with the law) will forgive me if I make a few suggestions. It has been
my good fortune to be present in a French Court, and I can assure Mr.
ROBB, that the Usher is an infinitely more important personage than he
represents him to be. I am not a dramatist, but I can readily understand
that it might interfere with the interest of the play, and perhaps,
unduly damage the importance properly attributable to the utterances of
the Lessee of the theatre, were Mr. ROBB to give increased prominence to
his _role_ while Mr. BEERBOHM TREE is present in the character of
_Lucien Laroque_. But this is unnecessary, as Mr. KEMBLE about the
middle of the sitting very properly adjourns the Court presumably for
luncheon. It is then, that the Usher should emerge from his comparative
obscurity, and, so to speak, make his mark. I jot down a rough idea of
my notion in dramatic form for the consideration of the adapter of the
piece, Mr. ROBERT BUCHANAN.

    SCENE--_The Assize Chamber (Palais of Justice, Paris)._ Mr. KEMBLE
    _has just retired with his colleagues to luncheon_. Mr. BEERBOHM
    TREE, _as Laroque, has been removed in the custody of an old
    officer, in a uniform produced by_ Messrs. NATHAN, _from a sketch
    by_ "KARL." (_Vide Programme._) Mr. FERNANDEZ _is seen seated
    beneath the dock_. Advocates _fraternise with a_ Young Abbe, _who
    has evidently a taste for sensational murder cases_.

_Usher_ (_to Crowd_). Now then, Gentlemen, although the Court has
retired, you must keep order. (_A murmur._) What, my authority defied!
Gendarmes, do your duty! (_The Gendarmes suppress Crowd._) M. l'Abbe, a
word with you. (_The_ Abbe _approaches_ Usher _respectfully_.) I am told
by the Nurse of Mademoiselle SUZANNE that Madame LAROQUE is dying. Can
you kindly let me see the Doctor who has the case in hand?

_M. L'Abbe_ (_glad of something to say_). Certainly, Monsieur. The
Doctor is one of my intimate friends, and will be proud of an
introduction.

[_Retires, in search of the Medical Man._

_Usher._ Thank you! (_is given a letter by_ Mr. BEERBOHM TREE, _who has
reappeared as his own Shadow_). Well, Sirrah, what do _you_ want?

_Mr. Tree's Shadow (clearing his throat)._ Urrerrer! Take that to Mr.
FERNANDEZ over yonder, and wake him up with it! Urrerrerrer! [_Exit._

_Usher._ With pleasure; but (_smiling_) what a quaint noise!
(_Approaching_ Mr. FERNANDEZ.) Monsieur, allow me to offer you my
snuff-box--it is heartily at your service. (Mr. FERNANDEZ _accepts the
courtesy with effusion_.) And now, my old friend, take this packet,
which I fancy is from your wife. I hope Madame is well? (Mr. FERNANDEZ
_smilingly bows and eats a sandwich_.) I am delighted to hear it.
(_Sternly to_ Mr. TREE, _who has entered in another disguise_.) Well,
Monsieur, and what do _you_ want with me?

_Mr. Tree in another disguise (seizing the opportunity of showing his
well-known versatility)._ I am the Doctor who is attending Madame
LAROQUE! She is very ill! Believe me, Usher----(_Makes a pathetic
speech in a new voice with appropriate gesticulation, finishing with
these words_), and if _he_ dies, _she_ will die also!

_Usher (who has been weeping)._ Sad! sad! sad! Ah! Monsieur, you have a
hand of silver----

_Mr. Tree (in the other disguise)._ And a heart of gold! [_Exit._

_Usher (wiping his eyes)._ Dear me his story has affected me strangely!
But, I must dissemble! Let not the hollow heartless crowd see my
emotion! I must laugh and joke, although my heart may be breaking!
(_Suddenly._) I will tell a good story to Mr. FERNANDEZ who, I notice,
is deeply concerned at the news contained in the letter he has just
received from his wife--that news may be the revelation of her own
miserable past! (_Approaching the Counsel for the Defence._) Ah, my old
and valued friend, let me cheer you up with an amusing anecdote. You
must know that once upon a time a man was seated before the kitchen-fire
watching a leg of mutton! His dog was seated near him!

_Mr. Fernandez (in an undertone--as himself)._ Go away!

_Usher (ignoring the interruption)._ The dog seized the mutton, and the
man cast the stool after him--thus it was said that two legs, finding
four legs had stolen one leg, threw after him three legs! Ha! ha! ha!
You will see two legs--the man--four legs, the dog--one leg, the
mutton--and three legs, the stool! A quaint conceit! A quaint--ha! ha!
ha!--a quaint conceit indeed!

_Mr. Fernandez (as before, but more so)._ Go away! [Mr. KEMBLE _here
returns, and the_ Usher _resumes his ordinary manner. Scene concluded
according to_ Mr. BUCHANAN'S _version_.

Wishing you the compliments of the season (in which NORTHBUTT joins),

I remain, dear _Mr. Punch_,

Yours truly,

A BRIEFLESS, JUNIOR.

_Pump-handle Court, Temple, 20th Jan., 1890._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

"IT'S VERY ODD--BUT I CAN'T GET RID OF MY PICTURES. THE HOUSE IS FULL OF
THEM!"

"CAN'T YOU GET YOUR GROCER TO GIVE 'EM AWAY WITH A POUND OF TEA, OR
SOMETHING?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OLD, OLD STORY.

    "It is reported from Gibraltar, that the 110-ton guns of the
    _Benbow_, have developed defects similar to those recently developed
    in the _Victoria_."--_Naval Intelligence._

        There was a hoodwinked Man
        Who, in buying his big guns,
  Very often by the nose was deftly led, led, led.
        For when he fired them first
        They did everything but burst,
  Though guaranteed by Whitehall's Naval head, head, head!

        So when by foes defied
        At length in action tried
  'Tis found that they won't fire a single shot, shot, shot.
        Let us hope, at any rate,
        Though the Nemesis come late,
  That some party who's to blame will get it hot, hot, hot!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HOW JEAN FRANCOIS MILLET WOULD HAVE _TREATED_ THE
INFLUENZA.]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOCES POPULI.

AT THE TUDOR EXHIBITION.

IN THE CENTRAL HALL.

_The usual Jocose 'Arry (who has come here, with_ 'ARRIET, _for no very
obvious reason, as they neither of them know or care about any history
but their own)_.

Well, I s'pose as we _are_ 'ere, we'd better go in a buster for a book
o'the words, eh? (_To Commissionnaire._) What are yer doin' them c'rect
guides at, ole man? A shillin'? Not _me_! 'Ere, 'ARRIET, we'll make it
out for ourselves.

_A Young Man (who has dropped in for five minutes--"just to say he's
been, don't you know")._ 'Jove--_my Aunt_! Nip out before she spots
me ... Stop, though, suppose she _has_ spotted me? Never can tell with
gig-lamps ... better not risk it.

    [_Is "spotted" while hesitating._

_His Aunt._ I didn't recognise you till just this moment, JOHN, my boy.
I was just wishing I had someone to read out all the extracts in the
Catalogue for me; now we can go round together.

  [JOHN _affects a dutiful delight at this suggestion, and wonders
  mentally if he can get away in time to go to afternoon tea with those
  pretty Chesterton Girls_.

_An Uncle (who has taken_ MASTER TOMMY _out for the afternoon)._ This is
the way to make your English History _real_ to you, my boy!

  [TOMMY, _who had cherished hopes of Covent Garden Circus, privately
  thinks that English History is a sufficiently unpleasant reality as it
  is, and conceives a bitter prejudice against the entire Tudor Period on
  the spot_.

_The Intelligent Person._ Ha! armour of the period, you see! (_Feels
bound to make an intelligent remark._) 'Stonishing how the whole art of
war has been transformed since then, eh? Now--to me--(_as if he was
conscious of being singular in this respect_)--to _me_, all this is most
interesting. Coming as I do, fresh from FROUDE----

_His Companion (a Flippant Person)._ Don't speak so loud. If they know
you've come in here fresh, you'll get turned out!

_Patronising Persons (inspecting magnificent suit of russet and gilt
armour)._ 'Pon my word, no idea they turned out such good work in those
times--very creditable to them, really.


BEFORE THE PORTRAITS.

_The Uncle._ Now, TOMMY, you remember what became of KATHERINE of
Aragon, I'm sure? No, no--tut--tut--_she_ wasn't executed! I'm afraid
you're getting rather rusty with these long holidays. Remind me to speak
to your mother about setting you a chapter or so of history to read
every day when we get home, will you?

_Tommy (to himself)._ It _is_ hard lines on a chap having a Sneak for an
Uncle! Catch me swotting to please _him_!

_'Arry._ There's old 'ENERY THE EIGHTH, you see--that's 'im right
enough; him as 'ad all those wives, and cut every one of their 'eds off!

_'Arriet (admiringly)._ Ah, I knew we shouldn't want a Catalogue.

_The Int. P._ Wonderfully HOLBEIN'S caught the character of the
man--the--er--curious compound of obstinacy, violence, and good-humour,
sensuality, and--and so on. No mistaking a HOLBEIN--you can tell him at
once by the extraordinary finish of all the accessories. Now look at
that girdle--isn't that HOLBEIN all over?

_Flippant P._ Not quite all over, old fellow. Catalogue says it's
painted by PARIS BORDONE.

_The Int. P._ Possibly--but it's HOLBEIN'S _manner_, and, looking at
these portraits, you see at once how right FROUDE'S estimate was of the
King.

_F. P._ Does FROUDE say how he got that nasty one on the side of his
nose?

_A Visitor._ Looks overfed, don't he?

_Second V. (sympathetically)._ Oh, he did himself very well; you can see
that.

_The Aunt._ Wait a bit, JOHN--don't read so fast. I haven't made out the
middle background yet. And where's the figure of St. Michael rising
above the gilt tent, lined with _fleurs-de-lis_ on a blue ground? Would
this be GUISNES, or ARDRES, now? Oh, ARDRES on the right--so _that's_
ARDRES--yes, yes; and now tell me what it says about the two gold
fountains, and that dragon up in the sky.

  [JOHN _calculates that, at this rate, he has a very poor chance of
  getting away before the Gallery closes_.

_The Patronising Persons._ 'Um! HOLBEIN again, you see--very curious
their ideas of painting in those days. Ah, well, Art has made great
progress since then--like everything else!

_Miss Fisher._ So _that's_ the beautiful QUEEN MARY! I wonder if it is
really _true_ that people have got better-looking since those days?

  [_Glances appealingly at Phlegmatic Fiance._

_Her Phlegmatic Fiance._ I wonder.

_Miss F._ You hardly ever see such small hands now, do you? With those
lovely long fingers, too!

_The Phl. F._ No, never.

_Miss F._ Perhaps people in some other century will wonder how anybody
ever saw anything to admire in _us_?

_The Phl. F._ Shouldn't be surprised.

  [Miss F. _does wish secretly that_ CHARLES _had more conversation_

_The Aunt._ JOHN, just find out who No. 222 is.

_John. (sulkily)._ Sir GEORGE PENRUDDOCKE, Knight.

_His Aunt (with enthusiasm)._ Of course--_how_ interesting this is,
isn't it?--seeing all these celebrated persons exactly as they were in
life! Now read who he _was_, JOHN, please.

_The Int. Person._ FROUDE tells a curious incident about----

_Flippant P._ I tell you what it is, old chap, if you read so much
history, you'll end by _believing_ it!

_The Int. P. (pausing before the Shakspeare portraits.)_ "He was not for
an age, but for all time."

_The Fl. P._ I suppose that's why they've painted none of them alike.

_A Person with a talent for Comparison._ MARY, come here a moment. Do
look at this--"ELIZABETH, Lady HOBY"--did you _ever_ see such a
likeness?

_Mary._ Well, dear, I don't quite----

_The Person with &c._ It's her living image! Do you mean to say you
really don't recognise it?--Why, _Cook_, of course!

_Mary._ Ah! (_apologetically_)--but I've never seen her dressed to _go
out_, you know.

_The Uncle._ "No. 13, Sir ROWLAND HILL, Lord Mayor, died 1561"----

_Tommy (anxious to escape the threatened chapters if possible)._ I know
about _him_, Uncle, he invented postage stamps!

OVER THE CASES.

_First Patronising P._ "A Tooth of Queen KATHERINE PARR." Dear me! very
quaint.

_Second P. P. (tolerantly)._ And not at all a bad tooth, either.

_'Arriet (comes to a case containing a hat labelled as formerly
belonging to_ HENRY THE EIGHTH). 'ARRY, look 'ere; fancy a king going
about in a thing like that--pink with a green feather! Why, I wouldn't
be seen in it myself!

_'Arry._ Ah, but that was ole 'ENERY all over, that was; _he_ wasn't one
for show. He liked a quiet, unassumin' style of 'at, he did. "None of
yer loud pot 'ats for Me!" he'd tell the Royal 'atters; "find me a tile
as won't attract people's notice, or you won't want a tile yerselves in
another minute!" An' you may take yer oath they served him pretty
_sharp_, too!

_'Arriet (giggling)._ It's a pity they didn't ask you to write their
Catalogue for 'em.

_The Aunt._ JOHN, you're not really _looking_ at that needlework--it's
QUEEN ELIZABETH'S own work, JOHN. Only look how wonderfully fine the
stitches are. Ah, she was a truly _great_ woman! I could spend hours
over this case alone. What, closing are they, _already_? We must have
another day at this together, JOHN--just you and I.

_John._ Yes, Aunt. And now--(_thinks there is just time to call on the_
CHESTERTONS, _if he goes soon_)--can I get you a cab, or put you into a
'bus, or anything?

_His Aunt._ Not just yet; you must take me somewhere where I can get a
bun and a cup of tea first, and then we can go over the Catalogue
together, and mark all the things we _missed_, you know.

    [JOHN _resigns himself to the inevitable rather than offend his
    wealthy relative; the_ Intelligent Person _comes out, saying he has
    had "an intellectual treat," and intends to "run through_ FROUDE
    _again" that evening_. 'ARRY _and_ 'ARRIET _depart to the "Ocean
    Wave" at_ HENGLER'S. _Gallery gradually clears as Scene closes in._

       *       *       *       *       *

FOR THE SAKE OF THE EMPIRE.

[Illustration; The Empire of Melpomene and Terpsichore.]

SINCE the SHAH spent a pleasant evening in the Theatre of Varieties
North of Leicester Square (and if it comes to that, long before) the
Empire has been a notable place of entertainment. At the present moment
there is an exceptionally strong programme. Two _ballets_, both
extremely good. The first, "_The Paris Exhibition_," pleasingly recalls
the glories and expenses of last year so inseparably connected with the
Cairo street dancing and the Tour Eiffel. The second, "_A Dream of
Wealth_," is interesting amongst other matters for proving conclusively
that the Demon of Avarice (conscientiously impersonated by Signor LUIGI
ALBERTIERI), is a singularly gentlemanly creature, and not nearly so
black as he would conventionally be painted. The story of the
_divertissement_ by Madame KATTI LANNER, if rather obscure, is still
thoroughly enjoyable. It would seem that a miser with a comic but
sound-hearted clerk, after an altercation with some well-fed
representatives of "the most distrissful" tenantry that ever yet were
seen, makes the acquaintance of "an apparition," and dreams that he is
the tenant of his own jewel-casket. In his sleep he is present at a
_ballet_ replete with silver and gold and precious stones, to say
nothing of shapely limbs and pretty faces, and makes great friends with
the "apparition," who shows him much graceful courtesy, with the
assistance of one of her acquaintances, that singularly gentlemanly
creature, the Demon of Avarice. That all ends happily goes without
saying.

But perhaps _the_ feature of the Empire Theatre of Varieties (a title
justified by the programme--a document, by the way, for which a uniform
charge of two pence should be made, instead of "anything you please,
Sir," subsequently translatable into at least sixpence) is the
realisation, by Miss AMY ROSELLE, of _The Woman and the Law_, written by
Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT. The accomplished actress, in a simple black dress, in
front of a scene suggestive of (say) an unused ball-room in the Vatican,
holds her audience in her grasp. In spite of the smoke of the stalls,
the levity of the lounge, and the general incongruity of her
surroundings, Miss ROSELLE scores nightly a distinct success. Lastly,
Mlle. VANONI, returning to the scene of her former triumphs, once again
delights all beholders by the sprightliness of her singing and dancing.
No reason to fear the disruption of the Empire at present.

       *       *       *       *       *

KICKED!

(_By the Foot of Clara Groomley._)

CHAPTER I.

[Illustration: She looked charming.]

I HAD come back from India. I was in Southampton. Only a few months
before I had been teaching whist to the natives on the banks of the
Ganges, and I had made my fortune out of the Indian rubber. I wonder if
they remember the great Sahib who always had seven trumps and only one
other suit. Tailoring is in its infancy over there, and the natives
frequently had no suit at all. I had not placed my money in the Ganges
banks, because they are notoriously unsafe. I had brought it with me to
Southampton. I was rich, but solitary. Yet I was a dashing young fellow,
especially in my printed conversation. When it rained, I said "dee."
Just smack your lips over the delightful wickedness of it, and then
proceed.

There was nothing to do. I couldn't go to Ryde, although the waiter
assured me it was a pleasant trip. Neither did I care to go for a walk.
The situation was at a dead-lock, and I said so.

"Well," said the waiter, "there's the quay."

So I went to the quay. I heard a sweet young voice remark, "What a
shocking bad hat!" I fell in love with her at once. She was with a
governess--obviously French--who remonstrated.

"'Ush! Naughty! Signor will overhear you, Mees SMITH. Then I give you
spanks."

"Well, he shouldn't wear such a bad hat, Mademoiselle."

I was just turning round to introduce myself, when I saw that they had
both stepped on to the steamer. I followed them. The French Governess
seemed to be in doubt about the boat.

"Antelope of the western horizon," she said, to a surly onlooker, "I
will give you three piastres and a French halfpenny if you have ze
goodness to tell me if this is ze Ryde steamer."

"How the dickens am I to know whether it's the right steamer or not,
when I don't know where you're going to?" asked the man.

I knocked him down at once, and as he rose to return the compliment my
hat fell off. Miss SMITH caught it on the tip of her toe as it was
falling, sent it twenty feet into the air, caught it again in her large
beautiful hands, and pressed it firmly down over my eyes.

In the wilds of Assam one gets unused to the grand freedom and cultured
geniality of English ladies. I hardly knew what to do, but I extricated
myself slowly from the folds of the hat, chucked her under the chin, and
remarked, "_Houp-la!_" The French Governess had retired to the cabin to
be ill, and we were rapidly steaming from the quay.

"Don't!" said Miss SMITH, looking very shy and pretty.

"Certainly not," I replied. "Of course you will have some tea with me?"

"Oh, my!" she murmured, in her sweet, refined voice. "Well, I must first
go and look after poor Mlle. DONNERWETTER."

While she was below, I secured two umbrellas from the stoker, and
improvised a sort of tent with this and a back number of the _Times_. I
also procured a few delicacies such as young girls love--a pot of French
mustard, two bottles of ginger-beer, some shrimps, and several large
buns. I spread them all out in a row. It seemed to make them look more
luscious, somehow. We were very warm and cosy, seated over the boiler of
the engine. Was I in love? Pshaw! Decidedly not, and yet--well, she
looked very pretty as she sat there, chattering freely about herself,
and lightly dusting with her handkerchief one of the shrimps which was a
trifle soiled. I gathered from her conversation that she was very rich,
that she had no parents, and would lose all her money if something
happened.

"And is that something--er--marriage?" I ventured to ask.

"Gar'n!" she replied, in her pretty school-girl slang. "What are yer
getting at?"

"Suppose the boiler blew up, what then?"

"Ah!" she replied, sadly; "Mademoiselle will blow me up if she finds us
out. Listen! she's calling."

"Then it's all right, because if she calls now she'll find us in."

At this moment the steamer reached its destination, and I was compelled
to leave Miss SMITH. However, I followed her and the Governess until
they entered the gates of Plumfields, a large school for young ladies.
Why should I go back to Southampton? I think I will remain at Ryde. (_To
be concluded in Four Chapters._)

       *       *       *       *       *

    THE PRINCE "STARRING" AT POOLE.--His Royal Highness was just as
    successful last week at Poole in Dorsetshire (everyone who was there
    will indorse it) as he was at Pyramids in Egypt.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SOCIAL ECONOMY.

"WHAT! GOING TO WEAR THAT FRIGHTFUL GOWN? AND AT YOUR OWN DANCE, TOO?"

"THAT'S JUST WHY! TO-NIGHT THEY _HAVE_ TO ASK ME!"]

       *       *       *       *       *
[Illustration: "COUNTING THE CHICKS!"]

"COUNTING THE CHICKS!"

  DAME PARTLET broods in reverie beatific
      Over as nice a "sitting"
  Of golden eggs as ever fowl prolific
      Tended, untired, unflitting.
  Sound eggs and of good stock, there is no doubt of them.
        What will come out of them?

  That question interests nor PARTLET only;
      No; while the speckled beauty
  Sits in quiescent state, content though lonely,
      The poultry-yard's prime duty
  Filling her soul, how many minds are watching
        That hopeful hatching!

  Worthy Exchequer Hen! Layer and sitter
      Of really first-rate quality.
  Though rival fowls are enviously bitter,
      That doth not bate her jollity.
  Her duties CAQUET BONBEC'S game to tackle,
        Without much cackle.

  And then, what luck! A "run" unprecedented,
      Or almost so; and fodder
  With which the Laureate's Bird had been contented:
      Fortune has freaks far odder
  Than e'en a poet's whimsies, any day,
        Her rivals say.

  She must, they swear, have "raked in golden barley,"
      Like the great Fleet Street "Cock."
  Their jealous jeremiads, sour and snarly,
      PARTLET'S prim feelings shock.
  "Luck! Not at all: but the reward emphatic
        Of skill villatic."

  "Of course 'tis obvious that the Tory rooster
      Has 'crammed a plumper crop'
  Than Grand Old Chanticleer, that barn-yard boaster,
      Whose crowings now must stop,
  He thought his 'Surplus' none would nearly equal.
        Behold the sequel?

  "Not quite as many eggs? No, but far finer,
      And not one will be addled.
  He, in his day, was a Distinguished Shiner,
      But then the yard he saddled
  With cross-bred cocktail chicks, unprofitable
        For nest or table."

  So PARTLET, in her own complacent musings;
      And as for the outsiders,
  Reckoning up their probable gains and losings,
      Some fain would be deriders
  Of her, her fortune, and the brood forthcoming,
        Which she seems summing.

  "Don't count your chickens ere they're hatched!" they snigger.
      (Old saws are always dear to the censorious)
  "We've seen small chickens out of eggs much bigger.
      You Tory hens are always so vainglorious.
  _We_'d see--before we join this Farm-yard Chorus--
        The birds before us.

  "'Free Education'; Chick? 'Free Breakfast-table'?
      Or else 'Income-Tax Penny'?
  Humph! All good breeds! We cannot say we're able
      To cackle against any.
  Were they but in _our_ nest, we'd hatch 'em gladly,
        But doubt _you_ sadly!"

  Meanwhile complacent PARTLET sits and broods,
      Blandly anticipative.
  As for the Public, well, of all the moods
      They clearly love the dative;
  And, so the brood be good, won't greatly bother
        As to who's mother!

       *       *       *       *       *

Shall Women Smoke?

    I SEE, by an advertisement, that a cork tip put to a cigarette
    prevents tongue irritation. I have no objection to my wife's
    smoking, if she will use these cigarettes. Her "tongue irritation"
    is something too trying to

  Yours truly,

  SOCRATES.

    P. S.--Might call these cigarettes the "Xan-cork-tippe Cigarettes."

       *       *       *       *       *

    STREET MUSIC.--If the sole musical solace of the children of the
    back slums be the Italian organ-grinder, let him remain there; but
    don't let him emerge thence to worry and drive to distraction
    authors, composers, musicians, artists, and invalids. It was mainly
    the organ-grinding nuisance that killed JOHN LEECH.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "HOLY Trinity Church," said the _Pall Mall Gazette_ recently,
    "contains many notable memorials of past times." Among others,
    appears to be the head of the Earl of SUFFOLK, who was beheaded in
    1554. This though a memorial of times past, can hardly be pronounced
    a relic of pastimes, except by those to whom beheading was good
    sport.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ONE MAN CAN TAKE A HORSE TO WATER, BUT TEN CAN'T MAKE HIM
JUMP.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SOUNDS OF THE STREETS.

MR. PUNCH'S Special Nuisance Commissioner continued yesterday afternoon
this adjourned inquiry, which, having now arrived at the stage of
dealing with "street-music," at present attracting so much public
notice, invested the proceedings with an unusual amount of interest.

The Commissioner, on taking his seat, said that, since they last met, he
had been rather puzzling himself with the distinction that might be
drawn between a "particular" and a "general" or a "pretty general"
nuisance, and he had come to the conclusion that he much doubted whether
this latter kind had any definite existence, as there were always to be
found disagreeable people, themselves the most intolerable nuisances,
ready to support and encourage anything that might prove a source of
annoyance or even distraction to their more rational neighbours. It was
by these growling and cantankerous philanthropists that German "Bands of
Three," or even damaged bagpipes, were invited by halfpence to make
hideous noises in quiet back-streets. He merely offered these remarks
for what they were worth, in passing, and he would now proceed to listen
to such fresh evidence as might be forthcoming.

A Nervous Invalid (who was led in tottering, and immediately supplied
with a chair, into which he sank in an exhausted condition) said, in a
feeble voice, that his present shattered state he attributed solely to
the never-ceasing strain to which his nerves had been subjected by the
continuous Babel of street-noises that invaded the suburban quarter in
which he had been induced to take up his residence in the belief that he
was ensuring himself a quiet and snug retreat. (_Sensation._) From the
moment when he was roused from his slumbers in the early morning by
Sweeps who came to attend to somebody else's chimneys--(_cries of
"Shame!"_)--to a late hour, frequently close on eleven at night, when a
loud-lunged urchin bawled out a false alarm of a local murder in the
"latest edition," his whole life was one continual contest with organs,
with or without monkeys or babies, shouting fern-vendors, brass bands,
broken-winded concertinas, Italian brigands, choruses of family beggars,
tearing milk-carts, itinerant twilight ballad-singers, and other
disturbers of the public peace. (_Groans._) And the result, from the
series of shocks his system had now been continually sustaining for
several years, was the condition to which the Commissioner could see he
had been reduced, which he could only characterise as that of one who,
once blithe, gay, happy, and active, was now a complete physical and
mental wreck, to whom if he could see no prospect of coming relief,
the gloom of life appeared to stretch away as a vast wilderness, with a
prospect of such overwhelming depression, that he could only conclude
his evidence with the significant but heartrending warning that he could
face it no longer! The Witness here fairly broke down, and, bursting
into a hysterical fit of weeping, had to be led from the room by a bevy
of sympathising friends.

THE COMMISSIONER (_much moved_). Dear me! this is very distressing! Can
the Police be of no use? (_A Voice. "Not the slightest!"_) Indeed! Ah!
that's very awkward. However, we had better proceed with the evidence.
Is there anyone to be heard on the other side?

A Big Drum of the Salvation Army hereupon said he had something to say.

THE COMMISSIONER. By all means. We are all attention.

The Big Drum said he had been frequently charged with creating a
disturbance. This charge he utterly repudiated. Of course, if such
trifles as destroying the tranquillity of an English Sunday, disturbing
the peaceful worship of other denominations, creating a street
obstruction or two, frightening an occasional omnibus horse into a fit
of kicking, and perhaps leading up to some local excitement culminating
in a possible riot, be regarded as "disturbing the public peace" then,
of course, the Salvationists must plead guilty. As to "making a noise,"
their mission was to "make a noise," and he flattered himself that the
"Big Drum" was not behind-hand, at all events, in that business. As far
as "making a noise" was concerned, all processions accompanied by bands
aimed at this. The Salvation Army was only in the same boat with the
rest. (_Oh! oh!_)

THE COMMISSIONER. Just so. And for that reason a short Act should be
passed licensing only such processions as have a national, civic, or
State character as their _raison d'etre_. That, I think, would
effectively dispose of the big drum nuisance. (_Cheers._)

A Flute-player, who from his habit of playing, in the dim twilight,
Scotch airs without sharps or flats, but with sudden turns and trills,
had become the terror of several quiet suburban squares, was here about
to be heard in his own defence, when the proceedings were interrupted by
strains of a German Band that had taken up its station in the street
outside, and commenced an imperfect rehearsal of an original valse
composed by the Conductor.

On the Commissioner having given orders that it should be stopped
forthwith, and it being intimated to him that, in the absence of any
policeman, it declined to move off or cease playing under
eighteen-pence; he thereupon expressed himself strongly on the present
unsatisfactory condition of the existing law, and, explaining at the top
of his voice, that it would be no use continuing his remarks through a
noise in which he could not possibly make himself heard, hastily
adjourned the meeting. And thus the business of the day came suddenly to
an unexpected and abrupt conclusion.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OUR FAMOUS PICTURES.

THE CRY IS STILL, "THEY _GO_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A VERY SILLY SONG.

(_By a Syndicate of Singers._)

  IN the gay play-house mingle
   The gallant and the fair;
  The married and the single,
   And wit and wealth, are there;
  And shirt-front spreads in acres,
   And collar fathoms high;
  Dressmakers and unmakers
   In choice confections vie.
  A sight to soften rockses!
   Yet low my spirit falls,
  For _she_ is in the boxes.
   And _I_ am in the stalls.

  The music's lively measure,
   The curtain's plushy fold,
  I hear untouched with pleasure,
    Unsolaced I behold.
  And rank and fashion vainly
    My wandering eyes survey,
  Though Mrs. B. and Lady C.
    Look well in green and grey.
  The watchful leader knocks his
    Desk, as the prompter calls,
  And _she_ is in the boxes,
    And _I_ am in the stalls.

  How dully moves the drama
    To one whose heart is dumb.
  In listless panorama
    The actors go and come.
  The couple just before me
    Keep bobbing to and fro.
  It doesn't even bore me
    To see them doing so.
  The lover closely locks his
    Emotions one and all,
  When _she_ is in the boxes,
    And _he_ has got a stall.

  But sudden brilliance reaches
    The playwright's mouthing shams,
  And the long-winded speeches
    Grow brisk as epigrams.
  My heart, in sudden clover,
    With smiles adorns my face,
  For, when the Act is over,
    I need not keep my place.
  I'll chase my fears, like foxes,
    When next the curtain falls--
  I'll then be in the boxes,
    Though now I'm in the stalls.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "TREATMENT."

_Doctor._ "NO, SIR; IT IS NEARLY OBSOLETE IN PRACTICE. WE DON'T BLEED
NOW AS THEY USED TO DO FORMERLY."

_Atrabilious Patient._ "AH?!--NOT WITH THE LANCET, YOU MEAN!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

DIARY OF A JOLLY PARTY.

_Monday._--We are a party of twelve at breakfast. A merry party. With
children we make fifteen. Some one reads out about Russian Influenza. We
laugh. In the daytime, we ride, lounge, shoot. Dinner. Somebody is
indisposed and doesn't appear. Also a child has caught cold. But Russian
Influenza!--absurd!

_Tuesday._--We are a party of ten this morning at breakfast. Only three
children appear. One, a boy who hears his holidays have been extended
over the fortnight, is very happy. No Russian Influenza here. Our
hostess does not think it necessary to send for the Doctor, who lives
three miles off, as the two children have only a slight cold, and the
two guests don't happen to be quite well, that's all. Headache slightly,
both. At dinner our host, who won't believe in Russian Influenza, says
that he's afraid he has rheumatism coming on. Hot grog, we all agree, is
the best remedy. Remedy accordingly, with pipes. Two of the ladies
retire early, "not feeling quite the thing," and at eleven our host says
he thinks he'll turn in. We bid him good-night, hope he'll be better,
and then sit down and discuss news. Odd that people and children should
be taken ill, but no one will for a moment admit the possibility of
Influenza touching _us_.

_Wednesday._ Seven at breakfast. No host. No children down for
breakfast; but all apparently "down" with cold, or--something. Hostess
comes in, apologises for being late, but much bothered about children,
specially the boy who has got extra fortnight. He's got "something" now
besides extra fortnight. "Something," but not Influenza. Very feverish
in the night; so were the two ladies; so was the host. The hostess, who
is great in medicines, specially new ones, has cupboards full of bottles
of Eno and Pyrrhetic Saline (or some such name--I'm not sure that it
isn't "Pyrotechnic Saline") and her latest fad is Salt Regal. "Children
like it," she says, "because it turns pink, and is pretty to look at."
If some of her simple remedies, including foreign waters with strange
names on them, don't succeed, she will send for Doctor. We begin to
think of returning to town. Also begin to wonder if all this can
possibly be the Epidemic.

_Thursday._--Dinner, rather dull. The Butler is feeble. Crossing the
parquet he is down with a dish. In another hour he is down with--shall
we begin to say--Influenza? I thought Influenza was sneezing and
coughing and the most violent of colds. Yet I hear very little of that
in the house. I shall pack up and leave to-morrow morning. Sharp pain in
back as I stoop over portmanteau. Feel queer in head. Pains all down my
legs. Within an hour pains everywhere. Remember at school when one boy
obstructed another's view, the latter would ask him to "get out of the
light, as your father wasn't a glazier, and I can't see through you."
Think my father must have been a glazier as I am so full of "panes." How
bad my head must be to make this jest.

_Friday._--Don't know how many at breakfast. I'm not. Doctor summoned,
visits me. "I suppose," I say, by way of instructing him in the view
that I want him to take, "I suppose I've got a slight chill, and this
afternoon I shall be able to wrap up and get to town?" "Oh, dear, no,"
replies Doctor. "You'll take Ammoniated Quinine at once." "You don't
mean to say that it's----" "Influenza?" he asks. I nod. Yes, that is
exactly what it is, they have all got it in the house, he tells me, and
no one will be able to leave for the next ten days! How pleasant for our
hosts! I did not believe in Influenza. I do now. Its French name is _La
Grippe_. _Je suis grippe._ This means more than a weak name like
"Influenza."

       *       *       *       *       *

CALLS FOR THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR?

NOT for the first time, and not for the last, _Mr. Punch_ asks, where is
The Public Prosecutor? Why is it that the observations of Mr. Justice
BUTT and Sir HENRY HAWKINS are disregarded? Very much "for the public
benefit" was the sentence of one year's imprisonment passed on the
journalist who, without one tittle of trustworthy evidence, attempted to
blast the character of an innocent man. But is it not still more for the
public benefit that professional perjurers, suborners of witnesses, and
fabricators of false evidence--the suborners first and foremost--should
be publicly proceeded against, and treated with the utmost rigour of the
law? WINSER, the cabman, who gave his false evidence so gaily in the
Thirkettle Case, has been had up, and sentenced. Having dealt with
WINSER, it is only a short step from WINSER to SLOUGH--but perhaps such
a slough of muck, that it wants the pluck of a Hercules in the Augaean
stable to commence operations, and a _deus ex-machina_--that is, the
Public Prosecutor from the Treasury--to see that the proceedings are not
abortive. Oh, where, and Oh, where is The Public Prosecutor?

       *       *       *       *       *

STATESMEN AT HOME.

DCXLII. THE MARQUIS OF SALISBURY, K.G., AT HATFIELD HOUSE.

[Illustration]

ARRIVING at the Great Northern Station at King's Cross, and desirous of
testing the culture of the clerk at the Booking-office, you ask for a
first-class return for Hetfelle. The clerk mechanically puts out his
hand towards the receptacle for tickets, drops it, stares at you, and
says Hetfelle is not on their line. You insist that it must be, being
clearly set forth in _Domesday Book_. The clerk shows a disposition to
speak alliteratively but disrespectfully of _Domesday_, and, as the
crowd presses at your heels, you yield to modern prejudice, and take
your ticket for Hatfield. Still, you have the satisfaction of knowing
that it was _Hetfelle_ when the Abbey of Ely held it by favour of King
EDGAR.

When Ely was made a bishopric, the Bishops lived at _Hetfelle_, which
presently came to be known as Bishops Hatfield, and a sumptuous palace
was built, that housed in turn a son of EDWARD THE THIRD, and the son
and heir of HENRY THE EIGHTH. The latter Prince coming to the throne,
under the title of EDWARD THE SIXTH, he gave Hatfield to his sister, the
Princess ELIZABETH. When, in due time, you arrive at Hatfield, your host
takes you out, leading you by the stately avenue to show you the oak
under which ELIZABETH was sitting, reading Greek, when news came to her
that MARY was dead, and ELIZABETH reigned in her stead.

"_La reine est morte; Vive la reine!_" you opportunely remark.

"Quite so," says the MARKISS, evidently struck by your readiness of
rejoinder.

You approach Hatfield House by the gateway near the Church, and enter an
oblong court bounded by the west wing of the Bishop's Palace, now a
stately wreck, with horses stabled in the Hall where one time Bishops
and Princes sat at meat. You feel inclined to linger here, and moralise
upon the theme. But you perceive your noble host awaiting you on the
broad steps of the magnificent Jacobean mansion, a picture worthy to be
set in such a framework. It is like a portrait of one of the earlier
CECILS stepped out of the frame in the Long Gallery. The stately figure
is attired in white doublet, trunks, and hose, embroidered with pearls.
On the purple surcoat, lined with red, gold buttons gleam. The white
ruff is fastened at wrist and throat with gold buttons: the black cap is
solely adorned with a knot of pearls; a golden cord hangs from the neck;
the right hand rests upon the head of a large dog, that has, perhaps, a
rather stuffed look; whilst the left negligently lounges on the hip
above the ready sword.

Is it THOMAS, Earl of Exeter? Or is it his half-brother, ROBERT, Earl of
Salisbury, joint ancestor of the two great branches of the CECIL family?
Or is it, perchance, ROBERT, Earl of Salisbury, or JAMES CECIL, first
MARKISS?

A familiar voice breaks the charm, and discloses the secret.

"Welcome to Hatfield, TOBY, dear boy; but don't suppose that every day I
am got up in this style. It is only in honour of your visit, and as soon
as you are gone, I doff my doublet and hose, put on an old coat, and go
down into my workshop, where I have a little tinkering to do with one of
the electric wires which has gone wrong, and threatens to burn up the
premises. So glad to see you. Always think these informal conferences
between individual members of the two Houses are not only personally
agreeable, but may be fraught with the greatest benefit to the State,
which we both serve. Wait till you see my dog move."

The noble MARKISS, stooping down a little stiffly (owing to the
tightness of the hose), turned a clock-key. After a few rotations, the
dog, being set in the right direction, moved out of the way.

"Yes," said the MARKISS, pleased at my enthusiasm, "that is rather a
triumph, I think. It is common enough to see an automatic dog move its
two fore-paws; but, observe, _all_ the paws here work in natural
sequence. Took me six months to bring this to perfection, working at it
at the time when you would read in the newspapers of my conspiring with
HARTINGTON to keep out GLADSTONE, or negociating with BISMARCK to pull
the chestnuts out of the fire for him in Africa."

Your host leads you to King James's Room, a fine apartment, which stands
to-day in exactly the state in which the King left it when he got up to
breakfast. But the place is a little stuffy, and you do not care for the
particular state of fadedness yet reached by the Turkey carpet. Walking
beside your host, with one eye on the sword, which seems determined to
get between somebody's legs, you pace the Marble Hall, cricking your
neck with gazing upon the heads of the Caesars that look down on you from
panels in the coved ceiling. Up you go by the grand staircase with its
massive carved baluster with unclothed Highlanders playing the bagpipes
and lions bearing heraldic shields; into the Long Gallery, with its
coats of mail, its antique japanned cabinets, its cradle in which
ELIZABETH squealed, its massive fireplaces, its rare panelling; into the
Armoury, where you try on several suits of armour and handle relics of
the Great Armada cast ashore in the spacious times of ELIZABETH; on to
the Library with its rare collection of papers, including Lord
BURLEIGH'S _Diary_, in which you are privileged to read in the original
manuscript the well-known poem which tells how:

    "Here he lives in state and bounty,
      Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
    Not a lord in all the county
      Is so great a lord as he."

On to the Summer Dining-room through the Winter Dining-room, into the
Drawing-room, and thence into the Chapel where you admire the painted
window of Flemish work, representing in compartments various scriptural
subjects.

You have been so interested in the journey, that there has been no time
for ROBERT ARTHUR TALBOT GASCOIGNE-CECIL, P.C., K.G., Third Marquis of
Salisbury, Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford, Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, and Prime Minister of England, to tell you the story of
his life. This you the less regret, as the MARKISS is manifestly growing
increasingly uncomfortable in his doublet and hose. So he conducts you
to the hall, and bids you a friendly farewell. As you walk down the
Avenue--"The Way to London," as CECILS dead and buried used to call
it--you turn to take one last look at the noble pile, Italian
renaissance in character, of two orders, the lower Doric, the upper
Ionic, with a highly-enriched Elizabethan central gate-tower, and
stepped gables.

       *       *       *       *       *

TOMMIUS ETONENSIS LOQUITUR.

    VULTNE Gubernator rursus spoliare Hiemales
      Holidies? Durum debet habere jecur!
    Nunc iterum versus--pejor Fortuna--Latinos
      (Deque meo capite) concoquere ille jubet.
    Fecit idem quondam; nunc et--cogitatio laeta!--
      Stratagema veteri vendere eum potero.
    Materiae sors ulla, puto, descendit eocum;
      Namque Latina illi "mortua lingua" manet.
    De quo nunc scribam?--Vidi spectacula Barni,
      Et res, considero, non ita prava fuit.
    Sed quia Neronem atque Romam introducere oportet?
      Est socio prorsus sat dare caerulea!
    Tunc vidi Dominum Silvae Coventis ad Hortum,
      Et Circum Hengleri, Pantomimosque simul.
    Ad scholam redco--lamentor dicere--mox nunc;
      Notio nuda manet bestialissima mi!
    O utinam tactum possem capere Influenzae!
      Cuncta habeo morbi symptoma, dico patri.
    "Undique mortalitas "--addo--"excessiva videtur.
      In valli est Tamesis particulare malus!"
    "Russigenus morbus! Frigus commune cerebri;"
      Ille ait arridens. "Hoc Russ in urbe vocas?"
    "Sed pueros per me fortasse infectio tanget;
      Oh, nonne in cera Busbius (arguo) erit!"
    Jingo! Gubernator respondit--"Shammere cessa!
      Aut aliquid de quo vere dolere dabo!"
    Hei mihi! Deposuisse pedem nunc ille videtur.
      Sunt lineae durae!--Terminat Holidies.

[Illustration]

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed
Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be
returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope,
Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.
98, January 25th, 1890, by Various

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