



Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Ernest Schaal and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 107.
JULY 14, 1894.




                     THE DIURNAL FEMININE.

  Let others read the "latest news"
    Our daily papers offer,
  Take pleasure in the smart reviews
    And chuckle with the scoffer,
  Enjoy the leaders, or appraise
    The newest "Labour Crisis,"
  Or smile to learn, that Brighton A's
    Maintain their recent prices.

  I only find such trifles vex,
    I do not seek instruction
  Upon the blemishes which X.
    Perceives in Y.'s production,
  And stocks may fall like anything,
    They'll not affect my fate, or
  Compel less cheerfully to sing
    This _vacuus viator_.

  The reason why I daily make
    My sacrifice of pennies,
  Is merely for a column's sake
    Which scarce, perhaps, for men is,
  And yet it elevates, refines,
    It stirs the noblest passions,
  That article whose moving lines
    Are headed "Latest Fashions."

  What joy to ascertain in print
    The latest mode in dresses,
  To learn the new artistic tint
    Adopted by Princesses,
  To roam the galleries with her
    Whose eulogies and strictures
  To hats and dress alone refer,
    And never deal with pictures!

  Let troubles still oppress the State
    With all their usual rigour,
  Let politicians still debate
    With undiminished vigour,
  Of such the common person reads,
    But give to _me_ the papers
  That chronicle at length the deeds
    Of milliners and drapers!

                               * * * * *

                        STATE AID FOR MATRIMONY.

                   (_By a University Extensionist._)

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--What a charming little theatre that is at Burlington
House! I missed you at the _matinees_ there a few days ago. Of course
you know the Travelling Provincial Company of the Universities' Guild
for the Extension of High-Class Comedy? Well, they visited the
Metropolis for their coming-of-age, and gave the new extravaganza of
_Hodge, B. Sc._, or _The Vision of Peers and the Plowman_. This had
nothing to do with _Jupiter, LL. D._, though no fewer than three noble
Chancellors took a leading part at the different performance. After all
it was nothing but a dished-up version of the old play of _Gentleman
Geordie_, or _The Cultured Collier_; only the pitman business is a
little played out, and the victim of Agricultural Enlightment is just
now the vogue, thanks to the County Councils.

But what interest, you will say, _can_ this weary work have for "the
young person" (is not that the phrase?). Why should ETHEL and I and the
other country cousins, who are up to have a good time, waste our
precious moments on University Extension, when they might have been
given to the galleries, or, better still, to the shops? Dear _Mr.
Punch_, you will not betray my confidence and print my real name, _will_
you, if I tell you the reason? I do so in the hope that you will use
your great and good influence to support our claim for State aid in a
matter deeply interesting us girls in the provinces.

I have always thought that the most important object of University
Extension has been overlooked. It certainly was the other day. I mean
this. In the present unparalleled depression of the matrimonial market,
what we want is a constant supply of nice, eligible young men from the
University "brought home to our very doors," as they say about culture
and the people. We cannot _all_ live in garrison towns, and what are two
or three curates among so many? Already, as I have seen in one of the
magazines for young ladies, the cleric cloth is being supplanted in
romantic fiction by the lay lecturer's velveteen. But we must have State
said, and, if necesary, create a fresh Government Department, for the
increase and support of this class of men. The profession would be very
popular; those who joined it would keep marrying and moving on (I hope I
express myself intelligently), and there would soon be enough to go
round.

ETHEL'S papa, who is not very rich, and has a large family, told her
that people in Rome who married, and had three children, got a sort of
degree for it, and were let off taxes. It seems to me that the scheme
for State aid which I suggest is a much more modest one.

A man that played the title-role in _Hodge, B. Sc_., gave vent to what I
considered a very stupid sentiment. "Give us," he said, "some really
useful and sensible instruction, not silly lectures about Love and
Marriage, just to make people laugh!" This only shows how dreadfully
void of finer feeling is your man of Agricultural Enlightenment. Why, we
once had a _delightful_ course on almost the very subjects at which he
was ignorantly pleased to scoff! It was given by an interesting-looking
young graduate from St. Valentine's, and was called "Byron and Shelley,
with dissolving views." I remember well the questions set by him for one
of the weekly papers. Shall I repeat them? He had just been lecturing on
_Don Juan_.

1. Give in alphabetical order the chief attractions of the Hero of our
poem.

2. Cite parallels to _Don Juan_ among the gentleman friends of your
acquaintance _other than Extension Lecturers_.

3. Contrast the character (if any) of _Haidee_ with that of (_a_) _The
Maid of Athens_, (_b_) _Queen Mab_.

I took a lot of pains over this paper, and I sent the lecturer an
anonymous button-hole, with a request (in the same handwriting as
on the answer-paper) that he would wear my floral tribute at
lecture. He did so, and expressed himself as greatly pleased with
my work. On my exercise (which I have kept) he wrote the following
observation:--"Excellent; most appreciative and womanly; I thank you;
should like to discuss a small question with you after class."

Now we want more of this spirit among Extension Lecturers. True, the one
of whom I spoke turned out afterwards to have been married all the time,
and I _do_ think he should have mentioned it on the cover of his
syllabus; but the principle holds good just the same.

So, dear _Mr. Punch_, on this question of State aid, at which I have (as
I hope with delicacy) hinted above, you _will_ help us, won't you?
                                Your devoted,                 MADGE.

P.S.--Couldn't _you_ lecture to us on something nice, and help to raise
a fund for our scheme?

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S ILLUSTRATED LAW REPORTS.

No. 1.--"ALLEGED CONTEMPT OF COURT BY AN INFANT."]

                               * * * * *

                    YET ANOTHER MEMOIR OF NAPOLEON.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--There are so many lives of the great NAPOLEON being
published nowadays that one might fancy the former ruler of France must
have been as many-careered as a cat. Still, it may be interesting to
your readers if I give a few particulars of the great man that have not
yet appeared in print, if I except the pages of your own immortal
volumes.

I had the pleasure of meeting the great NAPOLEON some forty or fifty
years ago; he was then in his prime.

In personal appearance he was not unlike the portraits so familiar to
the public. In spite of his enthusiastic devotion for France, he
invariably addressed his troops in the English language. This is a
characteristic that seemingly has escaped the attention of all his
biographers.

The numbers and quality of his army have been much exaggerated. Although
in his speeches he was accustomed to boast of the strength of his
troops, as a matter of fact they could be more easily counted by tens
than hundreds. His artillery was almost a myth, and the ammunition was
chiefly composed of crackers. As for his cavalry, the horses were showy
but unreliable, many of them had white spots, and not a few were
extremely intelligent. His favourite charger had been known on occasion
(when engaged in circus duty) to drink a glass of sherry with the clown.

But there is one point I particularly wish to set right. Although known
by the public as NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE, my hero in private life was
invariably called by his intimates "poor old GOMERSAL."
                        Yours respectfully,
  _The Amphitheatre_                              BOSWELL REDIVIVUS.
       _Within Site of Astley's._

P.S.--I saw the latest actor's edition of NAPOLEON the other night at
the Gaiety. He wasn't "in it" with "GOMERSAL,"--but then GOMERSAL was
occasionally on horseback; still, there was the uniform and the
snuff-box.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT.

_Lord Chief Justice_ .  .  .  LORD RUSSELL OF KILLOWEN.
_King Henry the Fifth_  .  .  MR PUNCH.

"YOU ARE RIGHT, JUSTICE, AND YOU WEIGH THIS WELL; THEREFORE STILL BEAR
THE BALANCE, AND THE SWORD: AND I DO WISH YOUR HONOURS MAY INCREASE!"

             _Second Part of King Henry the Fourth_, Act., V Sc. 2.]

                               * * * * *

                            FANCY PORTRAIT.

(_A Shakspearian "Living Picture" up to date._)

_Lord Chief Justice_. . . LORD RUSSELL OF KILLOWEN.

_King Henry the Fifth_. . MR. PUNCH.

  _King._ You are right, Justice, and you weigh this well;
  Therefore still bear the balance, and the sword:
  And I do wish your honours may increase!

                                 * * *

  For which I do commit into your hand
  The unstained sword COLERIDGE was used to bear;
  With this remembrance,--That you use the same
  With the like bold, just, and impartial spirit
  As you have shown before. There is my hand!

                             _Second Part of King Henry the Fourth,_
                                _Act V. Sc. 2 (slightly altered)._

  As HARRY unto GASCOIGNE gave,
    So _Punch_ to RUSSELL gladly gives
  That Sword which frights but rogue and slave,
    By which our ordered freedom lives;
  And gives therewith his hand in token
  Of pleasure more than may be spoken.

  Nought have you "done that misbecame
    Your place, your person," or your power.
  'Tis a right crown of crescent fame,
    Of fitness full befitting dower,
  That you, my Lord, "have foremost hand"
  In dealing justice round the land.

  If set in quaint Shakspearian guise,
    Not less the motley-wearing Sage
  Gaily presents to serious eyes
    A Living Picture for the Age.
  So "take it--earnest wed with sport,"[1]
  From one who, stooping not to court,
  Loves e'en to praise in merry sort!

    [1] TENNYSON'S _The Day Dream_.

                               * * * * *

                       THE HARDY ANNUAL AT HENLEY

                      OR, LUNCH AMONG THE ROWERS.

                     AIR--"_Love among the Ruins_."

  When the early cat erotically smiles
             On the tiles,
  I arise and rather accurately fling
             Any thing
  That is handy and adapted to my sense
             Of offence;
  Then I reconstruct my well-avenged head
             On the bed;
  But the hope of sleep deferred is deadly dull,
             So I cull
  Memoranda from the great and golden time
             Of my prime.

  Twenty years ago at Henley-on-the-Thames,
             While the gems
  Of the season simply sparkled into cheers,
             (Little dears!)
  I endeavoured to secure the Ladies' Plate;
             Though of late
  I have been the painful object of remark
             In a barque;
  But the circuit of my waist was not as yet
             Fifty, nett;
  And I fancy I was feeling pretty fit;
             That was it.

  _Then_ I fed on oaten fare and milky slops,
             Steaks and chops;
  Never, never looked a lobster in the face,
             And the race
  Saw me down to just eleven at the scales,
             Hard as nails;
  _Now_ I very much prefer to view the hunt
             From a punt,
  Or a houseboat, or an ark, or any sort
             Of support,
  While I minimise the necessary strain
             With champagne.

  At the yearly celebration it's the rule,
             Hot or cool,
  For a girl with yellow eyes and eager hair
             To be there,
  By a mass of mayonnaise and pigeon-pie;
             So am I!
  Oh the glory of the battle past recall!
             After all,
  What with hearts that freely wobble, stitch that stabs,
             And the crabs,
  And the quicken up to forty round the chest--
             Lunch is best!

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: MODESTY.

_Housewife._ "WELL, IF I GIVE YOU SOME BREAKFAST, YOU'LL HAVE TO EARN
IT BY CHOPPING SOME WOOD FOR ME."

_Tramp._ "I'D LIKE TER 'BLIGE YER, LADY. BUT, BLESHYER 'ART, 'TAIN'T
FER THE LIKES O' ME TER FOLLER IN THE FOOTSTEPS O' MR. GLADSTONE!"]

                               * * * * *

SPECIALLY-ARRANGED MOTTO FOR THE VICTORIA STEAMBOAT ASSOCIATION'S NEW
VESSEL "THE PALM."--"_Palma, quae meruit, ferat_,"--(_i.e._, Let _The
Palm_ carry as many as she was constructed to carry, and not more).

                               * * * * *

                           Old Loves for New.

                    (_New Version of an Old Song._)

  _If_ 'tis good to be merry and wise,
    _If_ 'tis good to be honest and true,
  Then 'tis good to keep on with the old "Woman,"
    And carefully keep off the New:
  For of honesty, truthfulness, wisdom, _and_ mirth,
  The "New Woman" shows a most plentiful dearth.

                               * * * * *

The German Derby (61,000 marks) was won at Hamburg by Baron MUeNCHAUSEN'S
_Spider_. The Baron has done many wonderful things in his lifetime
(_vide_ the history of his adventures), and it was a foregone conclusion
that if he ran a horse at the Derby he was bound not only to win, but to
make something more than his mark.

                               * * * * *

                            LYRE AND LANCET.

                         (_A Story in Scenes._)

             PART II.--SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING POET.


SCENE II.--_The Morning Room at Wyvern._ Lady RHODA COKAYNE, Mrs.
    BROOKE-CHATTERIS, _and_ Miss VIVIEN SPELWANE _are comfortably
    established near the fireplace. The_ Hon. BERTIE PILLINER, Captain
    THICKNESSE, _and_ ARCHIE BEARPARK _have just drifted in._

_Miss Spelwane._ Why, you _don't_ mean to say you've torn yourselves
away from your beloved billiards already? _Quite_ wonderful!

_Bertie Pilliner._ It's too _horrid_ of you to leave us to play all by
ourselves! We've all got so cross and fractious we've come in here to be
petted!

        [_He arranges himself at her feet, so as to exhibit a very neat
            pair of silk socks and pumps._

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself_). Do hate to see a fellow come down
in the mornin' with evenin' shoes on!

_Archie Bearpark_ (_to_ BERTIE PILLINER). You speak for yourself,
PILLINER. _I_ didn't come to be petted. Came to see if Lady RHODA
wouldn't come and toboggan down the big staircase on a tea-tray. _Do!_
It's clinkin' sport!

_Capt. Thick._ (_to himself_). If there's one thing I _can't_ stand it's
a rowdy bullyraggin' ass like ARCHIE!

_Lady Rhoda._ Ta muchly, dear boy, but you don't catch me travellin'
downstairs on a tea-tray _twice_--it's just a bit _too_ clinkin', don't
you know!

_Archie_ (_disappointed_). Why, there 's a mat at the bottom of the
stairs! Well, if you won't, let's get up a cushion fight, then. BERTIE
and I will choose sides. PILLINER, I'll toss you for first pick up--come
out of that, do.

_Bertie_ (_lazily_). Thanks, I'm much too comfy where I am. And I don't
see any point in romping and rumpling one's hair just before lunch.

_Archie._ Well, you _are_ slack. And there's a good hour still before
lunch. THICKNESSE, _you_ suggest something, there's a dear old chap.

_Capt. Thick._ (_after a mental effort_). Suppose we all go and have
another look round at the gees--eh, what?

_Bertie._ I beg to oppose. Do let's show _some_ respect for the privacy
of the British hunter. Why should I go and smack them on their fat
backs, and feel every one of their horrid legs twice in one morning? I
shouldn't like a horse coming into my bedroom at all hours to smack _me_
on the back. I should _hate_ it!

_Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris._ I love them--dear things! But still, it's so
wet, and it would mean going up and changing our shoes too--perhaps Lady
RHODA----

                     [Lady RHODA _flatly declines to stir before lunch_.

_Capt. Thick._ (_resentfully_). Only thought it was better than loafin'
about, that's all. (_To himself._) I do bar a woman who's afraid of a
little mud. (_He saunters up to_ Miss SPELWANE _and absently pulls the
ear of a Japanese spaniel on her knee._) Poo' little fellow, then!

_Miss Spelw._ Poor little fellow? On My lap!!!

_Capt. Thick._ Oh, it--ah--didn't occur to me that he was on _your_ lap.
He don't seem to mind _that_.

_Miss Spelw._ No? _How_ forbearing of him! Would you mind not standing
quite so much in my light, I can't see my work.

_Capt. Thick._ (_to himself, retreating_). That girl's always fishin'
for compliments. I didn't rise _that_ time, though. It's precious slow
here. I've a good mind to say I must get back to Aldershot this
afternoon.

                [_He wanders aimlessly about the room;_ ARCHIE BEARPARK
                        _looks out of window with undisguised boredom._

_Lady Rhoda._ I say, if none of you are goin' to be more amusin' than
this, you may as well go back to your billiards again.

_Bertie._ Dear Lady RHODA, how cruel of you! You'll have to let _me_
stay. I'll be _so_ good. Look here, I'll read aloud to you. I
_can_--quite prettily. What shall it be? you don't care? no more do I.
I'll take the first that comes. (_He reaches for the nearest volume on a
table close by._) How _too_ delightful! Poetry--which I know you _all_
adore.

                                        [_He turns over the leaves._

_Lady Rhoda._ If you ask _me_, I simply loathe it.

_Bertie._ Ah, but then you never heard _me_ read it, you know. Now, here
is a choice little bit, stuck right up in a corner, as if it had been
misbehaving itself. "Disenchantment" it's called.

                                                        [_He reads._

  "My Love has sicklied unto Loath,
     And foul seems all that fair I fancied--
   The lily's sheen a leprous growth,
     The very buttercups are rancid!"

_Archie._ Jove! The Johnny who wrote that must have been feelin' chippy!

_Bertie. _He gets cheaper than that in the next poem. This is his idea
of "Abasement."

                                                        [_He reads._

  "With matted head a-dabble in the dust,
   And eyes tear-sealed in a saline crust,
   I lie all loathly in my rags and rust--
   Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust."

Now, do you know, I rather like that--it's so very decadent!

_Lady Rhoda._ I should call it utter rot, myself.

_Bertie_ (_blandly_). Forgive me, Lady RHODA. "Utterly rotten," if you
like, but _not_ "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll
read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom
of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression
near Dulwich."

                                                        [_He reads._

  "The lark soars up in the air;
     The toad sits tight in his hole;
   And I would I were certain which of the pair
     Were the truer type of my soul!"

_Archie._ I should be inclined to back the toad, myself.

_Miss Spelw._ If you must read, do choose something a little less
dismal. Aren't there any love songs?

_Bertie._ I'll look. Yes, any amount--here's one. (_He reads_). "To My
Lady."

  "Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe,
     Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green,
   Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe,
     Then--kiss me, Lady GRISOLINE!"

_Miss Spelw._ (_interested_). So _that's_ his type. Does he mention
whether she _did_ kiss him?

_Bertie._ Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. I'll
see ... h'm, ha, yes; he _does_ mention it ... I think I'll read
something else. Here's a classical specimen.           [_He reads._

  "Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,
     Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;
   Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,
     Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing."

[Illustration: "I'll read you a regular rouser called 'A Trumpet
Blast.'"]

And so on, don't you know.... Now I'll read you a regular rouser called
"A Trumpet Blast." Sit tight, everybody!                [_He reads._

  "Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (One for _you_, dear
             ARCHIE!)
     Blink your bleared eyes. (Blink, pretty creatures, blink!)
             Behold the Sun--
   --Burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence,
     Demos dawning, and the Darkness--done!"

        [_General hilarity_, _amidst which_ Lady CULVERIN _enters._

_Lady Culverin._ So _glad_ you all contrive to keep your spirits up, in
spite of this dismal weather. What is it that's amusing you all so much,
eh, dear VIVIEN?

_Miss Spelw._ BERTIE PILLINER has been reading aloud to us, dear Lady
CULVERIN--_the_ most ridiculous poetry--made us all simply shriek.
What's the name of it? (_Taking the volume out of_ BERTIE'S _hand._) Oh,
_Andromeda, and other poems_. By CLARION BLAIR.

_Lady Culv._ (_coldly_). BERTIE PILLINER can turn everything into
ridicule, we all know, but probably you are not aware that these
particular poems are considered quite wonderful by all competent judges.
Indeed, my sister-in-law----

_All_ (_in consternation_). Lady CANTIRE! Is _she_ the author? Oh, of
course, if we'd had any idea!

_Lady Culv._ I've no reason to believe that Lady CANTIRE ever composed
_any_ poetry. I was only going to say that she was most interested in
the author, and as she and my niece MAISIE are coming to us this
evening----

_Miss Spelw._ Dear Lady CULVERIN, the verses are quite, _quite_
beautiful; it was only the way they were read.

_Lady Culv._ I am glad to hear you say so, my dear, because I'm also
expecting the pleasure of seeing the author here, and you will probably
be his neighbour to-night. I hope, BERTIE, that you will remember that
this young man is a very distinguished genius; there is no wit that _I_
can discover in making fun of what one doesn't happen to understand.

                                                   [_She passes on._

_Bertie_ (_plaintively, after_ Lady CULVERIN _has left the room_). May I
trouble somebody to scrape me up? I'm pulverised! But really, you know,
a real live poet at Wyvern! I say, Miss SPELWANE, how will you like to
have him dabbling his matted head next to you at dinner, eh?

_Miss Spelw._ Perhaps I shall find a matted head more entertaining than
a smooth one. And if you've quite done with that volume, I should like
to have a look at it.

                                 [_She retires with it to her room._

_Archie_ (_to himself_). I'm not half sorry this Poet-johnny's comin'; I
never caught a Bard in a booby-trap _yet_.

_Capt. Thick._ (_to himself_). She's coming--this very evening! And I
was nearly sayin' I must get back to Aldershot!

_Lady Rhoda._ So Lady CANTIRE's comin'; we shall all have to be on our
hind legs now! But MAISIE'S a dear thing. Do you know her, Captain
THICKNESSE!

_Capt. Thick._ I--I used to meet Lady MAISIE MULL pretty often some time
ago; don't know if she'll remember it, though.

_Lady Rhoda._ She'll love meetin' this writin' man--she's so fearfully
romantic. I heard her say once that she'd give anythin' to be idealised
by a great poet--sort of--what's their names--PETRARCH and LAURA
business, don't you know. It will be rather amusin' to see whether it
comes off--won't it?

_Capt. Thick._ (_choking_). I--ah--no affair of mine, really. (_To
himself._) I'm not intellectual enough for her, I know that. Suppose I
shall have to stand by and look on at the Petrarchin'. Well, there's
always Aldershot!

               [_The luncheon gong sounds, to the general relief and
                                                      satisfaction._

                               * * * * *

                     TO THE OXFORD CRICKET CAPTAIN.

               "_100, Not Out._" _Monday, July 2, 1894._

  Congratulations, Mr. C. B. FRY,
  You neatly wiped the Cantab Light Blue eye,
  And well deserved the fashionable shout
  Which hailed you for your century, not out.
  For your exploits, what language is too tall?
  At cricket good alike with bat and ball,
  Full back at football (that's Association),
  At jumping lengthways--well, you lick creation.
  In Schools no idler when stern duty calls,
  Already having got a First in "Smalls."
  Yes, Oxford surely boasts to-day in you,
  Her most distinguished son, a Triple Blue.
  The Lord's good wicket made a scoring high day,
  But you yourself turned Monday into Fry-day!

                               * * * * *

ANARCHIST ATTEMPT ON A WELL-KNOWN BRIDGE.--After several failures, the
Hampton Court Bridge was shot yesterday evening by a young man, supposed
to be an Anarchist, whose name and address remain a profound secret, as,
owing to his having taken his outrigger by the hour, and, having paid
his shot, there was no excuse for his detention by the assistants in
charge of the boats. He had been dining freely at a neighbouring
hostelrie, the sign of which being "The Mitre," suggested to the
intelligent detective in charge of the case the probability of the
wretched youth being a "dine-a-mitre." Furnished with this clue, the
police are on his track. Fortunately the bridge escaped without injury,
and this morning it not only crossed the river itself without
difficulty, but assisted many travellers to do the same.

                                 * * *

ASPIRATION.--A youthful rhymist, inspired by the Derby, wishes to become
a Sporting Poet. "'Poet' and 'Prophet,'" he learnedly observes, "meant
about the same thing in Homeric times; and, indeed, in most prophecies
of coming events on the turf I have generally found more of poetry than
of profit." The modest rhymster says, that as he can never hope to be
first in the field of poetry, "he may at least become _a second
Ossy-'un_."

                               * * * * *

                            OPERATIC NOTES.

[Illustration: L'Attaque du Moulin (a poivre)]

It strikes me forcibly that the Wagnerian idea has influenced all recent
compositions. Nothing is now done without a "motive." It may be a good
motive, or a bad motive, or an inadequate motive, or an indifferent
motive; but motive there must be with our most modern school of
composers, who, adopting the Wagnerian idea, (not in itself a purely
original one,) and improving on it, attribute less importance to the
"Act" than to the "motive," though by a reflex action the scheme of the
Act suggests, organises, and it may be added, orchestrates the
"motives." _L'Attaque du Moulin_ is a practical example of this theory.
It is not styled an opera but a lyric drama in four acts. It is founded
by M. LOUIS GALLET on ZOLA'S story; it is reduced to plain English by
Mr. WEATHERLY; the music is by ALFRED BRUNEAU; and for the stage
management, which has so largely conduced to its success, Sir AUGUSTUS
DRURIOLANUS is responsible. It is not what the sporting papers term "a
merry mill," though there is plenty of fighting. There _are_ some songs
in it, and there are some melodies--or mill-odies--which may catch on
when heard a second or third time; but they certainly do not arrest the
attention at a first hearing. The music, I judge only from the one
representation, seems lacking in those catching-on airs which, coupled
with the admirable acting of the principals, made the fortune, _sur le
champ_, of the _Cavalleria Rusticana_. But a "wind-mill" without any
"air" can't be expected to "go."

Madame DELNA is forcibly dramatic, true, but not powerful as a singer,
at least in Covent Garden. Nor is there in the character of this Maid of
the Mill any such great opportunity whereby to test the power of the
actress as there is in the part of _Santuzza_, or of _Anita_ in _La
Navarraise_. Madame DELNA may be all that enthusiastic reporters have
said she is, but she must have a great deal of power in reserve, for the
display of which this opera does not offer the chance. Mons. BOUVET as
_Merlier_, the Miller, who "created" the part in Paris, is good, but his
acting is somewhat monotonous. Madame DE NUOVINA as _Francoise_, is a
young _Lady Macbeth_, who gives the dagger and does not request that it
may be returned to her again when done with. M. BONNARD, as the _Singing
Sentinel_, reminding me of GILBERT and SULLIVAN'S _Sentinel_ "with a
song" in one of the Savoy Series, was very good; and Mons. COSSIRA,
excellent as the escaping prisoner, bore so strong a resemblance to the
Director of the Fortunes of Covent Garden and Drury Lane, that people
looked twice at their programmes in order to be quite sure that an
apology for the singer had not been made, and that the much-talented Sir
DRURIOLANUS had not, at the shortest possible notice, consented to be
his "_remplacant_." Mons. ALBERS, as the _German Captain_, ought to be
in receipt of a very large salary, seeing "how wide he opens his mouth"
when singing. All were good in the best of all possible operatic
entertainments, including the unequalled orchestra conducted by M. PH.
FLON, (is this "Phlon-FLON"?) who has taken his turn with Signori
BEVIGNANI, MANCINELLI, and Mr. FREDERIC COWEN, the last-mentioned coming
to look after his new Opera of _Signa_, in which Madame DE NUOVINA was
charming, and Signor BENJAMINO DAVIESO appeared as the Anglo-Italian
Tenor. Congratulations to Signor FREDERICO COWENI.

_Saturday night._ _Elaine._ "If it's not very lively," observes Sir
AUGUSTUS beforehand, "still it must be remembered that I have not only
at heart the interests--and in pocket the interest--of Covent Garden,
but also of '_Drear Elaine_.' Should it prove a joyous opera and attract
the people, then I shall consider it as an example of 'Drawer-Elaine' at
Covent Garden. But now--hark!--let us not trifle with time and tune.
MANCINELLI is raising his _baton_, up goes the curtain, and all in to
begin. _Nous verrons._" And the "all" includes the Prince and Princess
of WALES and their two unmarried daughters, and a very good house
indeed. "And how is _Elaine_?" is the question. "Very well, thank you,
and much better than she was two years ago," is the reply. _Elaine_ is
decidedly thinner. One Act gone, and other judicious cuts have reduced
her. The opera is consequently lighter. Due weight, however, is given to
it by Madame MELBA and JEAN DE RESZKE. DRURIOLANUS has followed the
precedent of "cutting the 'osses." But the "cackle" of geese followeth
not. On the contrary, the applause is abundant.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: MUSIC AT HOME.

_Hostess._ "OH, THANK YOU FOR YOUR LOVELY MUSIC, HERR BLUMENTOFF! IT'S
JUST WHAT I LIKE. IT BLENDS SO PERFECTLY WITH THE CONVERSATION WITHOUT
IN THE LEAST INTERRUPTING IT!"]

                               * * * * *

                          WAITING THEIR TURN.

                 (_In the Hot Room, St. Stephen's Baths,
                            Westminster._)

                        _Bath-Man, loquitur:_--

  Pouf! 'Tis slow work! Were I a Turk,
    Fancy I'd put it through more expeditiously!
  Poor little Bills! Funkiness fills
    All their small souls! See 'em glancing suspiciously,
  Timid and torrid! Finding it horrid
    Waiting their turns for shampooing and plunging
  Parboiled and limp, each, as a shrimp;
    No great result for my long scurryfunging!!!

  Faith, I _am_ tired! Been much admired
    For my long patience with Big BILLY BUDGET.
  _He_ got it hot! Worrying lot
    Some of these fellows. But BILLY will trudge it
  Pretty soon, now. _Splosh!!!_ What a row!
    BILLY is bulky, and makes a big splashing.
  Head-first he goes, kicks up his toes,--
    All that is left after boiling and washing.

  Thanks be _he's_ through! What'll I do
    Next, and which of 'em in waiting seems readiest?
  I'm so restricted! Little "EVICTED,"
    Small Irish bhoy, seems I fancy the steadiest.
  "EQUALISATION?" _His_ perspiration
    Something prodigious, and yet--well--the other!--
  Oh! English, Scotch, Welsh, they all look like squelch,
    And the task of selection is truly a bother!

  Had I free choice,--Ah! but _my_ voice
    Only counts one nowadays in selection.
  BALFOUR & CO.--_they_ run the show;
    Matter I think for most urgent reflection.
  They arrogate questions of date,
    They set the time, and the tempera_ture_ too.
  If I insist, well, they'll resist,
    Get their way, too, in the long run,--ah! sure to!

  Nice state o' things! Wish I had wings!
    Much rather boss small Bath by the Bosphorus!
  Sixes and sevens now at St. Stephen's!
    Running it all the year round at a loss--for us!
  Look at 'em there, each on his chair,
    Wobbly, perspiring and weary o' waiting!
  Might have been done, every one,
    But for Balfourian procrastinating.

  Rum-looking lot! Don't they seem hot?
    Little "EVICTED," young "EQUALISATION."
  Quite in a stew. The _other_ two,--
    Well, 'tis complete discumboblification!
  Must make my choice! Waiting my voice!
    Gentlemen please--Mr.--ahem! Oh! thunder!
  They _all_ pop up, prompt as a Krupp.
    _Which had I better first call in I wonder?_

                               * * * * *

                             THE NEW PARTY.

    [Mr. GRANT ALLEN and several other advanced politicians have
    started a new party, the members of which are to be called
    Isocrats, a title very similar to one coined by COLERIDGE for a
    society which he desired to found on principles of general
    equality.--_Daily Paper._]

  Many have heard of Pantisocracy,
    A compound crude of COLERIDGE and cant,
  The latest products of Democracy
    Dub themselves Isocrats without the "pant."
  'Tis as it should be, is it not,
    For what are they but _sans-culottes_?

                               * * * * *

                                AT LAST.

  At last the sky is actually blue.
    Say not "dull, hazy, cloudy, overcast,"
  O weather prophets, "fine" alone is true
                          At last.

  At last, as June is finishing, the Row
    Looks bright and gay. The difference is vast;
  The sunlit grass, the rhododendrons glow
                          At last.

  At last my topper flies not in the gale,
    I gazing on its ruin quite aghast,
  Nor gets all spotted after rain or hail,
                          At last.

  At last it rests serenely on my brow,
    As firm as colours nailed to any mast;
  In fact it's somewhat hot and heavy now,
                          At last.

  At last you sport your thinnest frocks, fair maid,
    Sweet CHLOE, PHYLLIS, PYRRHA, prim or fast.
  Now AMARYLLIS dallies in the shade
                          At last.

  At last NEAERA'S hair is undisturbed,
    Not out of curl from damp, nor by the blast
  In tangles blown. She smiles quite unperturbed
                          At last.

  At last. But soon the rain, the fog, the haze
    May spoil light frocks that now sweep gaily past.
  For _tempora mutantur_; such fine days
                          Can't last.

                               * * * * *

TRAVELLING MOTTO AT HOLIDAY TIME.--"Too many Cooks (tourists) spoil the
Continent."

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: WAITING THEIR TURN.

(_In the Hot Room, St. Stephen's Baths, Westminster._)

CHIEF ATTENDANT H-RC-RT (_to himself_). "WHICH SHALL I TAKE NEXT?"]

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: WHEEL OR WOE.

_Maud_ (_who has had the misfortune to bring her Cousin from Provincial
Town into the Row_). "BUT, GOOD GRACIOUS! I THOUGHT YOU WERE ACCUSTOMED
TO HORSES; IN FACT, YOU TOLD ME YOU HAD BEEN RIDING A GOOD DEAL LATELY."

_He_ (_in intervals of bumping_). "B--B--BUT IT WAS A B--B--BICYCLE!"]

                               * * * * *

                             NOMINE TANTUM.

  This morn, as now for half a score of years,
    I comfortably caught the nine-fifteen;
  At noon we met by chance--as noontide nears
    Such the weeks round our daily chance has been;
  Yet shipwrecked brother, newly come to land,
  Could not more fiercely seize me by the hand.

  You ask me how I am, nor let it pass,
    But keep on asking till I tell you how;
  'Twere rude to bid you not to be an ass,
    Churlish to turn a greeting to a row;
  But, knowing that my general health is fair,
  Why should you daily ask, why should you care?

  I sometimes wonder, while my knuckles ache
    With unrequited pressure of your digits,
  While whispered mysteries of nought you make,
    And take no notice of my patent fidgets--
  I wonder how a real old friend you'd flatter,
  And how reveal a really private matter.

  Think but a moment, (if you ever think,)
    I never knead your knuckles with my thumb,
  I never proffer an untimely drink,
    About my own affairs I'm ever dumb,
  Yet I believe, in your impulsive way,
  You think we're bosom friends from childhood's day.

  Yes, though they brand our English ways as cold,
    Meetings like ours make glad the whole huge city.
  The magnate, weighty as though shod with gold,
    The lawyer's clerk, precocious, slim and writty,
  All have the same convulsive warmth of greeting
  For casual people whom they're always meeting.

  Is it perchance self-preservation's law
    That drives good will, drowning in Mammon's sea,
  To clutch in frenzy at a man of straw,
    And cheer a heart with the hand's amity,
  That in the way of business would stab it--
  Or is it only an absurd bad habit?

                               * * * * *

                           A PUFF AND A BLOW.

Should tropical weather continue, let dusted, wooden-pavemented, sore
throated, weary Londoner, take train Sunday Morning 11 A.M. Victoria, or
rather let train take _him_, right away to Dover, where he will at once
step on board the _Calais-Douvres_, and get one hour and a quarter's
worth of ozone into his system. Then at 2.15 he will land at Calais,
when, free of baggage, wraps, and all such-like _impedimenta_, he will
walk into the buffet of the hotel, and having made his choice from many
excellent things there set before him, he will proceed to walk into his
_dejeuner a la fourchette_, for which meal he will have ample time,
seeing that the _Calais-Douvres_ does not start on its return voyage
till 3.45. After _dejeuner_ comes the _fourchette_, or "fork out,"
which, if the voyageur be wisely content with the _ordinaire_, will
amount to a very moderate sum. Then, exclaiming with the ancient pirate
of bye-gone nautical melodrama, "Once aboard the lugger and we are
free," he will saunter, leisurely, with cigar, pipe, or cigarette,
according to the taste and fancy of the smoker, down to the boat. There,
if he be wise and wary, he will at once re-embark, in order to secure a
comfortable arm-chair in a good position, long before any trains bearing
hot and dusty travellers from Belgium or Paris shall appear. There he
can sit, smoking calmly under a cool sunshade, placidly watching the
shooting of the luggage, which is unattended by any danger, each box
going off with a very slight noise, and he can calmly wonder at the
anxiety of the passengers. Then, farewell France, welcome back to the
shores of Old England, and the adventurous Briton will find himself
landed at Victoria Terminus by 7.15 or it may be 7.20, with another
ozonised appetite, ready for a dinner _chez lui_,--or _chez_ anybody
who'll give him one,--and afterwards, sufficiently tired, neither fagged
nor weary, he will be certain of a good sleep at an early hour, and sure
to wake in the morning all the better and fresher for his outing and his
inn-ing.

    [N. B.--Fine weather and gentle breeze taken for granted.]

                               * * * * *

                       LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES.

                        IV.--BETWEEN THE DANCES.

  If I were--JACK, and you were--JILL,
  Our waltz of some few minutes back
  Perchance had been a "frightful thrill"--
  If you were JILL, and I were JACK!

  If I were JACK (that's--So-and-So),
  Of smiles your face would know no lack;
  That you were stretched on boredom's rack
  You would not do your best to show,
           If I were JACK.

  If you were JILL (that's--Somebody),
  I should not find "the work" up-hill;
  No treading conversation's mill--
  Floor, music, theatres--wearily,
           If you were JILL.

  If you were JILL, and I were JACK,
  A kinder light your eyes would fill,
  And I should not look glum and black
  If I were--JACK, and you were--JILL!

                               * * * * *

                          OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"A Delightful book," quoth the Baron, "is _David Garrick_, written by my
worthy friend, JOSEPH KNIGHT, F.S.A. Let me recommend this work as one
to be placed by your reading chair, and to be taken up, as was _Mrs.
Gamp's_ bottle, when so dispoged, and oftentimes will you thus enjoy a
Knight with GARRICK." One of the most humorous among very many anecdotes
in this book is that about BOSWELL going to the SHAKSPEARE Fete costumed
as a Corsican, within his pocket a poem he had written for the occasion,
and "which," says Mr. KNIGHT simply, "he intended to speak, but the
crowd would not suspend its diversions to hear him." That's all: but
isn't it delightful! Poor BOZZY!!

The Baron is more than pleased to see once again the deft hand of Mr. T.
H. S. ESCOTT at work in reviews and magazines. His paper, entitled
"Edmund Yates, an Appreciation and a Retrospect," is most interesting to
the Baron, who can call to mind the persons he mentions in literary and
journalistic connection with EDMUND YATES--though the Baron does not
happen to remember them in this particular connection, but as a band of
brothers quite apart, and all of them younger by some years than EDMUND
YATES, who, at the time HOOD, PROWSE, H. S. LEIGH and others were
commencing, had made his name in literature, was CHARLES DICKENS'S
henchman, and had been also more or less successful, in combination with
a Mr. HARRINGTON, as a dramatist. The time I speak of is when H. J.
BYRON "flourished," and when "all the world was young." _The World_
itself, of course, not having been born or thought of. Looking back to
those days the Baron thinks that Mr. ESCOTT does himself an injustice,
and that he is younger than he thinks he is. Be this as it may, he will
in any case have a stock of pleasant memories to draw upon, and now, if
his health permit, all will look forward to what he cannot look forward
to himself, _i.e._, his reminiscences. "_Prosit!_ Mr. ESCOTT! Your
health, happiness, and a long life to you, quoth the gladsome

                                                BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: OUR FEMALE DECADENTS.

_Bulkeley Bigge_ (_a charming fellow, but a bad dancer_). "I CAN'T THINK
WHAT ALL THE GIRLS ARE COMING TO! THEY'VE GOT NO BACK-BONES! FIVE WANTED
TO SIT OUT A DANCE WITH ME TO-NIGHT!"]

                               * * * * *

HENLEY NOTES.--Why did the onlookers persist in making a trouble of a
pleasure-bout? Delightful time, but racing not much.

  By Eton
    Radley
  Was beaten
    Badly.
  Lots of pluck
  But no luck.

GUY and VIVIAN NICKALLS easily to the front in the Diamond Challenge
Sculls, sixth and seventh heat. There was no doubt about the heat during
Henley week, as "seventh heat" only feebly expresses the temperature.
The betting on GUY, in sovereigns, resulted in a loss of GUINNESS. The
inscription which goes with the Diamond Sculls is done in
NICKALLS-silver.

                               * * * * *

                          OUR SCHOOLBOY AGAIN.

_Examiner._ What is said to have been the food of the Homeric gods?

_Boy._ Nectarines and ammonia.

                               * * * * *

                   MR. PUNCH TO TWO NOBLE SPORTSMEN.

  What, _Ladas_ licked and the stout _Valkyrie_ sunk!
  How are the hopes of noble champions shrunk!
       Oh, most _un_frabjous day!
  No more can ROSEBERY boast the unbeaten "crack,"
  No more that yacht will go "galumphing back"
       Prize-winner glad and gay!

  _Punch_ sympathises with his friend DUNRAVEN,
  Who nevermore may see return to haven
       That gallant, luckless yacht.
  PRIMROSE, dear boy, even the fleet _Ladas_
  May yield without disgrace to _Isinglass_,
       But _Bullingdon!_--that's hot!

  Perchance the Nonconformist Conscience now
  May be conciliated! Anyhow
       The horse may "come again,"
  But that proud yacht lies twenty fathom deep!
  May NEPTUNE carefully and kindly keep
       That hull beneath his main.

  Sure there is nothing of her but should change
  Sea-shapen into something rich and strange.
       Well, England will regret
  With a good, sportsman by disaster struck,
  And hope he'll live with a new yacht--and luck
       To lick the Yankee yet!

                               * * * * *

                             TALK IN COURT.

      (_Consequent on the Peerage Invading the Ranks of the Bar._)

May it please your Lordship, the Duke, my learned and noble junior, will
read the pleadings.

I will leave it to my noble and learned friend the Marquis to examine
the next witness.

I can quite understand your Lordship's annoyance, but I can assure you,
my lord, that the noble Earl from whom I receive my instructions
promised that the documents should be forthcoming.

I suppose we may leave the question of costs to be settled by our
juniors the illustrious Prince and the hereditary Earl Gardener?

Really, Duke, I must ask you not to interrupt me while I am conducting
this cross-examination.

I regret, my Lord, that my young and promising junior, who has but
recently been called to the Bar, should have made the concession, but it
is only right to tell your Lordship that the nobleman in question--the
Duke of HERNE BAY--misunderstood his instructions.

I am sorry, my Lord, that absence in another part of the building
prevented me from addressing your Lordship. I trust, however, that the
inexperience of my noble and learned friend, the Viscount TOTTENHAM
COURT ROAD, will not be allowed to prejudice my client's interests.

As your Lordship pleases!

                               * * * * *

                    A SONG OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.

  Mamma is a judge of divorces,
    Sister ANNE is a learned Q.C.,
  ELIZA is great upon horses,
    And DORA a thriving M.D.
  Aunt JANE is a popular preacher,
    Aunt SUSAN a dealer in stocks,
  While Father, the gentlest old creature,
    Attends to the family socks.

  Aunt POLLY'S a marvel of knowledge,
    With any amount of degrees,
  She's Master or head of some college--
    I forget whether Corpus or Caius--
  Aunt NELL is the eminent counsel
    Who pleads at the criminal bar,
  And I feed the canary with groundsel
    For I'm learning to be a Papa.

  I'm to marry a girl in the City,
    She allows me a hundred a year
  To dress on, and make myself pretty,
    And keep me in baccy and beer.
  The duties?--Oh, as for the duties,
    You can possibly guess what they are;
  And I warrant the boys will be beauties
    That are destined to call me Papa.

                               * * * * *

"BARRY, COME UP!" (_Quotation from Shakspeare by a "geltlebal with a
cold id 'is 'ead."_)--Mr. J. WOLFE BARRY was made "a Companion of the
Bath," as a recognition of his having done his best for the Thames.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: ESSENCE OF
PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY. M.P.]

_House of Commons, Monday, July 2._--"I am sorry," said Cap'en TOMMY
BOWLES, "that there is no CHATHAM, BURKE, or FOX alive at this moment to
resist this project of taxing the Colonies."

In their unavoidable absence the CAP'EN, contrary to his custom, offered
a few remarks. It had been just as well if he had omitted the
preliminary one. He really did not mean anything, much less did he
desire deliberately to offend his friends BARTLEY, BUTCHER, and BYRNE.
But, as the poet remarks, Evil is wrought by want of thought, and the
invidiousness of TOMMY'S remark lost nothing of sting because he had not
intended to hurt anyone's feelings--except, of course, those of SQUIRE
OF MALWOOD, and that is a legitimate occupation. When an enthusiastic
female admirer observed to the eminent WHISTLER that he and VELASQUEZ
were the two greatest artists of times ancient or modern, JEMMY modestly
observed, "Why drag in VELASQUEZ?" Thus BARTLEY, BUTCHER, and BYRNE
turned upon TOMMY with reproachful glance and murmured, "Why drag in
CHATHAM, BURKE, and FOX?"

However, all over now. The midnight bells chiming over sultry London
proclaim passing of Budget Bill through Committee. Been a long hard
fight, monotonous in its continuity, occasionally exciting in its
divisions, continuously illustrative of Englishman's faculty of never
knowing when he's beaten. Honours rest with SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, who
throughout has unflinchingly and, in the main, good humouredly, borne
the brunt of battle. The flesh is weak, especially when there is a good
deal of it, and the thermometer stands at 82 deg. in the shade. The SQUIRE
has snapped occasionally, JOKIM'S apologetic figure, upright at opposite
side of table, proving unfailing, irresistible, incentive. Even worse to
bear have been the desertion of a few followers and the importunity of
many. Had the SQUIRE been a weaker man, he would long ago have brought
the Closure to bear on obstruction, and there would have followed a
state of irritation, amid which, if Budget was not wrecked, it would
have appropriated the whole time of an extended Session. The SQUIRE,
going on another tack, has worn out obstruction by affecting the virtue
of urbanity if he had it not.

It was particularly hard lines, after getting Clause XXVII. through last
Wednesday with a majority of over half a hundred, to be compelled to
recommit Bill, in order that CLANCY might chortle, and REDMOND rage.
SQUIRE advised to resist; condemned from his own side when he yielded.
But what happened? At quarter past ten to-night Bill recommitted in
respect of this clause, and on stroke of midnight the whole thing was
done with.

"We Liberals," said the Member for SARK, "always know better than our
leaders. As there are many of us, and as we each take our individual
view, result somewhat chaotic. Good thing if in comparative leisure of
week end we think over how the Budget Bill was passed, and what would
have happened if we had worried the SQUIRE into going one of our diverse
ways."

_Business done._--Budget Bill.

_Tuesday._--Enter the apothecary. It was Cap'en TOMMY BOWLES who brought
him on. The last person in any one's mind. House in Committee on Army
Estimates; HANBURY to the fore. Bound to live up to the 534 speeches he
made and questions he put last year. TOMMY then beat him by fourteen,
and promises to be equally ahead in the current Session. The CAP'EN
hitherto had peculiar advantage, seeing that for many weeks he has been,
so to speak, cruising in home waters. Having been brought up on legacy
tax, teethed on death duties, TOMMY surprised himself and the House with
the command he displayed over intricacies of Budget Bill. HANBURY then
fell behind. Now, with House in Committee on Army Estimates, he can show
TOMMY a clean pair of heels, a spectacle in which that eminent and able
Marine may or may not take keen personal interest.

HANBURY began at once raising point of order; MELLOR ruled him out like
a shot; so went off on another tack. Adventured the startlingly novel
proposition that "promotion should be by merit." Enlarged on the theme
for twenty minutes; sat down only when he concluded that audience had
fully mastered the proposition, contemplation of which was new to their
bewildered mind.

It was at this stage TOMMY towed in the apothecary. He appeared on the
scene quite as abruptly as _Romeo's_ acquaintance in the streets of
Mantua:--

  I do remember an apothecary,
  And hereabout he dwells.

CAP'EN omitted details; but House gathered that his friend the
apothecary was, like _Romeo's_, meagre of looks, worn to the bones by
sharp misery. This condition engendered by circumstance that he had
been brooding in his needy shop, among the green earthen pots,
bladders, and musty seeds, remnants of packthread and old cakes of
roses, upon fact that whilst there are surgeon-majors in the Army, there
are no apothecary-majors. On behalf of his absent friend, TOMMY demanded
an explanation from SECRETARY OF STATE FOR WAR.

CAWMELL-BANNERMAN with the ruthless disregard of Shaksperian traditions
that seems to suit the War Office, said "apothecaries are an expiring
class," a way of putting it that suggested they had been dosing
themselves. Their place was now filled by non-commissioned officers, who
were called compounders of medicine.

What a fall is here. Fancy _Romeo_ going about the moonlit streets of
Mantua calling out, "What ho! Compounder of Medicine." This callous
remark had such effect on Cap'en TOMMY that he laid aside his
speaking-trumpet, and was heard, no more through the live-long night.
_Business done._--Some Votes in Army Estimates.

_Thursday_.--Looked in after dinner just now; startled to find HANBURY
on his legs, with bit of dirty white rag held out in both hands towards
Treasury Bench. Not many Members present; those on Liberal side
vociferously cheering. CAWMELL-BANNERMAN looking in better temper even
than usual; which was strange since Committee on Army Estimates been at
it since four o'clock, and only one vote passed. WOODALL, only other
occupant of Treasury Bench, been shewing how a man may smile and smile,
and be a Financial Secretary to the War Office. Now the smile broadens
till it stretches almost full length of Treasury Bench. As SARK says, it
justifies RUDYARD KIPLING'S bold imagery of BOBS sitting on a bucking
charger,

  With a smile round both yer ears,
                            Ain't ye Bobs?

CAUSTON just bustled in, holding telegram at arm's length. It is the
reading of this that has broken the monotony of Committee with noise of
cheering, and dashed a smile along the Ministerial benches like a sudden
flash of sunlight. Only for this merry mood, one entering the House at
this particular moment might fear the worst. HANBURY been at it hour
after hour since Tuesday, when House got into Committee on Navy
Estimates. CAWMELL-BANNERMAN, a person of imperturbable temper. But
there are limits to human endurance; now they seem to have been reached.
This telegram CAUSTON has brought in and handed to War Minister
doubtless announces that all is ready; a file of soldiers waits on the
Terrace; HANBURY will be seized, bound, carried forth, blindfolded,
shot; and then the Committee will really get to business, and vote
Supply.

A sad fate for one only moderately middle-aged. _Tu l'as voulu_ ROBERT
WILLIAM. Still, cannot withhold the tear of pity as the hapless man
stands clutching at the extended white flag which announces his
capitulation, his entreaty for pardon, his promise of better conduct in
future.

Ask SARK if he won't say something for the doomed man. SARK, in language
not to be here repeated, explains that things are not what they seem.
Fact is, HANBURY has somewhere obtained (in what manner, SARK hints, may
be matter for police inquiry) a portion of sheeting, the property of HER
MAJESTY, supplied to soldiers. This he has brought down, intending to
confound CAWMELL-BANNERMAN. Happened to bring it out just at the moment
when news arrived of a great Liberal victory snatched at the polls at
Attercliffe. That's all.

_Business done._--Two votes in Army Estimates.

_House of Lords, Friday._--Peers not habitually given to tears. To-night
the MARKISS plunged them (especially Ministers) into condition of abject
woe. Only said that England was the head-quarters of the Anarchist
operations, the laboratory in which all their contrivances were hatched.
ROSEBERY jumped at opportunity with intuition of Old Parliamentary Hand.
Enlarged upon it with skill of born debater. MARKISS saw his mistake.
Hadn't meant anything; only his way of putting a case. But here was
ROSEBERY pitilessly making it clear how the Leader of the Patriot Party
had given his country away to the Paris gossips; how he had assumed a
state of things which, set forth on authority of ex-Prime Minister and
ex-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, would be made much of by the
enemy abroad.

MARKISS for once so singed by his own blazing indiscretion that he did
not wait for SCHOMBERG MACDONNELL'S convenient correspondent, but
forthwith endeavoured to explain away his remarks. This led only to
tears coursing more rapidly down ROSEBERY'S pained face, whilst SPENCER
forlornly shook his beard as if it were the flag of England drooping
under the shamed skies, and KIMBERLEY dolefully dropped his head. A
pretty scene, admirably staged and acted.

_Business done._--The MARKISS puts his foot in it.

                               * * * * *

                            The Two Sarahs.

  O Woman, you romp in with ease!
  If you're not proud you're hard to please:
  Men talk to-day on every hand
  Of "the Grand SARA" and "SARAH GRAND."

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: _Irish Jarvey._ "LET ME DHRIVE YER HONOUR TO DUNEEN
HEAD."

_English Tourist._ "I HAVE SEEN THAT, PAT. I WENT THERE TWO YEARS AGO."

_Irish Jarvey._ "AH, YER HONOUR, SHURE THEY'VE ADDED TO THE SCENERY
SINCE THAT TOIME!"]

                               * * * * *

STARTLING FOR HER.--Mrs. R.'s niece read out the heading of a paragraph
in the _Daily Graphic_ last Thursday, which sounded to her attentive
aunt like "The New Baby." Mrs. R. was all attention, expecting some
gratifying intelligence from White Lodge. Imagine her astonishment when
her niece continued, "An addition to the collection of the Zoological
Society of London was made last week----" "What!!!" exclaimed Mrs. R.,
and her niece continued.) "When a gnu was born at the menagerie in
Regent's Park." The excellent lady was dumb with amazement. Then her
niece showed her the heading which was "A Gnu Baby," with the
illustration of the gnu baby and the old mother.

                                 * * *

PHOSPHORESCENCE IN ART.--Said Professor DEWAR, in a recent lecture, "A
perfectly clean plate of metal does not phosphoresce, but the merest
trace of grease--such as is left by the touch of the hand--will make it
brightly luminous." Take, adds _Mr. Punch_, by way of example, a
perfectly clean plate of metal, apply to it the hand of a skilled
etcher, say of Professor HUBERT HERKOMER, R. A., and the result will be
brightly luminous, and what is more, it will last, and its bright
luminosity will increase with age.

                                 * * *

VIVE ROSEBERY!--The owner of _Ladas_ celebrated the Derby triumph with
an entertainment to the Epsom Poor of the Union Workhouse, all
Unionists, of course, which makes the Premier's Ladasian horse-pitality
still more noble. "This week His Lordship entertains the Epsom
tradesmen," so it is announced. One of the entertainments will be of a
novel naval character, and will consist of a hornpipe by the celebrated
Old Epsom Salts. Afterwards nautical song, "_All in the Downs_."

                               * * * * *

REALLY SENSIBLE.--The Lord Chief Justice of England, Lord RUSSELL of
Killowen, (and if there is anything in a name isn't this "Justice to
Ireland"?) will commence his judicial duties, after the swearing is
over, to-day, Wednesday. His Lordship has appointed Mr. R. J. BLOCK to
be his Chief Clerk. Excellent appointment! Especially in this summer
heat, as when oppressed by the weight of his legal wig, the Lord Chief
will simply take it off and put it on the Block.

                                 * * *

SHE KNOWS!--Mrs. R. is much pained on hearing that in some parts of the
Potteries the favourite song is the well-known one containing the
lines:--

  The beating of his own wife
  Was all the sound he heard.

As she shrewdly remarks, this indicates the manner in which the cottar
in this district is accustomed to spend his Saturday night.

                                 * * *

OUR TOBY AND HIS ANXIOUS FRIENDS.--_Mr. Punch_ has received several
letters reminding him that the Duke of RUTLAND is a Cantab, not an
Oxonian as stated in our TOBY'S "Essence" for June 30. TOBY is delighted
to hear it. He will remember in future that "_Mr. Crummles_ is not a
Prussian," &c., &c.

                                 * * *

"LONDON PLAYGROUNDS."--Drury Lane, Lyceum, Haymarket, Toole's, &c., &c.
The respective managers say they prefer to see these crammed, and object
to all "open spaces."




Transcriber Notes:

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the
speakers. Those words were retained as-is.

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.

Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.

On page 14, the open single quotation mark was replaced with a double
quotation mark.

On page 18, the open single quotation mark was replaced with a double
quotation mark.

On page 22, the open single quotation mark was replaced with a double
quotation mark.

On page 24, there is a missing open rounded bracket, but the location where that bracket should be placed is unclear.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.
107, July 14th 1894, by Various

*** 