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  PUNCH,

  OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

  VOLUME 98.

  MAY 24, 1890.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.

No. XI.--THE RIVAL DOLLS.

"Miss JENNY and POLLY Had each a new dolly."--_Vide Poem._

CHARACTERS.

_Miss Jenny_      }
                  }  By the Sisters LEAMAR.
_Miss Polly_      }

_The Soldier Doll_}
                  }  By the Two ARMSTRONGS.
_The Sailor Doll_ }

SCENE--_A Nursery. Enter_ Miss JENNY and Miss POLLY, _who perform a
blameless step-dance with an improving chorus_.

  Oh, isn't it jolly! we've each a new dolly,
    And one is a Soldier, the other's a Tar!
  We're fully contented with what's been presented,
    Such good little children we both of us are!

    [_They dance up to a cupboard, from which they bring out two large
    Dolls, which they place on chairs._

  _Miss J._ _Don't_ they look nice!
  Come, POLLY, let us strive
  To make ourselves believe that they're alive!

_Miss P._ (addressing Sailor D.). I'm glad you're mine. I dote on all
that's nautical.

_The Sailor D. (opening his eyes suddenly)._ Excuse me, Miss, your
sister's more _my_ sort o' gal!

    [_Kisses his hand_ to Miss J., _who shrinks back, shocked and alarmed_.

_Miss J._ Oh, POLLY, did you hear? I feel so shy!

_The Soldier D. (with mild self-assertion)._ _I_ can say "Pa" and
"Ma"--and wink my eye.

    [_Does so at_ Miss P., _who runs in terror to_ Miss J.'s _side_.

_Miss J._ Why, both are showing signs of animation!

_Miss P._ Who'd think we had such strong imagination!

_The Soldier Doll_ (_aside to the_ Sailor D.). I say, old fellow, we have
        caught their fancy--
In each of us they now a real man see!
Let's keep it up!

_The Sailor D. (dubiously)._ D'ye think as we can _do_ it?

_The Soldier D._ You stick by me, and I will see you through it.
Sit up, and turn your toes out,--don't you loll;
Put on the Man, and drop the bloomin' Doll!

    [_The_ Sailor Doll _pulls himself together, and rises from chair
    importantly_.

_The Sailor D. (in the manner of a Music-hall Chairman)_--Ladies, with
        your kind leave, this gallant gent
Will now his military sketch present.

[Miss J. _and_ P. applaud; _the_ Soldier D., _after feebly
expostulating, is induced to sing_.

_Song, by the Soldier Doll._

  When I used to be displayed
  In the Burlington Arcade,
  With artillery arrayed
  Underneath.          Shoulder Hump!
  I imagine that I made
  All the Lady Dolls afraid,
  I should draw my battle-blade
  From its sheath,     Shoulder Hump!
  For I'm Mars's gallant son,
  And my back I've shown to none,
  Nor was ever seen to run
  From the strife! &c.
  Oh, the battles I'd have won,
  And the dashing deeds have done,
  If I'd ever fired a gun
  In my life! &c.

_Refrain (to be sung marching round Stage)._

  By your right flank, wheel!
  Let the front rank kneel!
  With the bristle of the steel
  To the foe.
  Till their regiments reel,
  At our rattling peal,
  And the military zeal
  We show!

    [_Repeat, with the whole company marching round after him._

_The Soldier Doll._ My friend will next oblige--this jolly Jack Tar
Will give his song and chorus in charack-tar!

    [_Same business with_ Sailor D.

_Song, by the Sailor Doll._

  In costume I'm
  So maritime,
  You'd never suppose the fact is,
  That with the Fleet
  In Regent Street,
  I'd precious little naval practice!
  There was saucy craft,
  Rigged fore an' aft,
  Inside o' Mr. CRE-MER'S.
  From Noah's Arks to Clipper-built barques,
  Like-wise mechanical stea-mers.

    But to navigate the Serpentine,
    Yeo ho, my lads, ahoy!
    With clockwork, sails, or spirits of wine,
    Yeo-ho, my lads, ahoy!
    I did respeckfully decline,
    So I was left in port to pine,
    Which wasn't azactually the line
    Of a rollicking Sailor Boy,
        Yeo-ho! Of a rollicking Sailor Bo-oy!

  Yes, there was lots
  Of boats and yachts,
  Of timber and of tin, too;
  But one and all
  Was far too small
  For a doll o' my size to get into!
  I was too big
  On any brig
  To ship without disas-ter,
  And it wouldn't never do
  When the cap'n and the crew
  Were a set o' little swabs all plas-ter!

_Chorus_--So to navigate the Serpentine, &c.

  An Ark is p'raps
  The berth for chaps
  As is fond o' Natural Hist'ry.
  But I sez to SHEM
  And the rest o' them,
  "How you get along at all's a myst'ry!
  With a Wild Beast Show
  Let loose below,
  And four fe-males on deck too!
  I never could agree
  With your happy fami-lee,
  And your lubberly ways I objeck to."

    [_Chorus. Hornpipe by the company, after which the_ Soldier Doll
    _advances condescendingly to_ Miss JENNY.

_The Sold. D._ Invincible I'm reckoned by the Ladies.
But yield to you--though conquering my trade is!

_Miss J. (repulsing him)._ Oh, go away, you great conceited thing, you!

    [The Sold. D. _persists in offering her attentions_.

_Miss P. (watching them bitterly)._ To be deserted by one's doll does
sting you!

    [_The_ Sailor D. _approaches_.

_The Sailor D. (to_ Miss P.) Let me console you, Miss, a Sailor Doll
As swears his 'art was ever true to POLL!

    (_N.B.--Good opportunity for Song here._)

_Miss P._ (_indignantly to_ Miss J.) Your Sailor's teasing me to be his
        idol!
Do make him stop--(_spitefully_)--When you've _quite_ done with _my_ doll!

_Miss J. (scornfully)._ If you suppose _I_ want your wretched warrior,
I'm sorry _for_ you!

_Miss P._ I for you am sorrier.

_Miss J. (weeping_, R.). POLLY preferred to me--what ignominy!

_Miss P. (weeping,_ L.). My horrid Sailor jilting me for JENNY!

    [_The two Dolls face one another_, C.

_Sailor D. (to_ Soldier D.). You've made her sluice her skylights now,
        you swab!

_Soldier D. (to_ Sailor D.). As you have broke her heart, I'll break
        your nob!

    [_Hits him._

_Sailor D. (in a pale fury)._ This insult must be blotted out in bran!

_Soldier D. (fiercely)._ Come on, I'll shed your sawdust--if I can!

    [Miss J. _and_ P. _throw themselves between the
    combatants_.

_Miss J._ For any mess you make we shall be scolded,
So wait until a drugget we've unfolded!

    [_They lay down drugget on Stage._

_The Soldier D. (politely)._ No hurry, Miss, _we_ don't object to waiting.

_The Sailor D. (aside)._ His valour--like my own--'s evaporating!
(_Defiantly to_ Soldier D.). On guard! You'll see how soon I'll run
you through! (_Confidentially_). (If you will not <DW8> _me_,
        I won't pink _you_.)

_The Soldier D._ Through your false kid my deadly blade I'll pass!
(_Confidentially_). (Look here, old fellow, don't you be a _hass_!)

    [_They exchange passes at a considerable distance._

_The Sailor D. (aside)._ Don't lose your temper now!

_Sold. D._ Don't get excited.
Do keep a little farther off!

_Sail. D._ Delighted!

    [_Wounds_ Soldier D. _by misadventure_.

_Sold. D. (annoyed)._ There now, you've gone and made upon my wax a dent!

_Sail. D._ Excuse me, it was really quite an accident.

_Sold. D. (savagely)._ Such clumsiness would irritate a saint!

    [_Stabs_ Sailor Doll.

_Miss J. and P. (imploringly)._ Oh, stop! the sight of sawdust turns
        us faint!

    [_They drop into chairs, swooning._

_The Sailor D._ I'll pay you out for that!

    [_Stabs_ Soldier D.

_Sold. D._ Right through you've poked me!

_Sailor D._ So you have _me_!

_Sold. D._ You shouldn't have provoked me!

    [_They fall transfixed._

_Sailor D. (faintly)._ Alas, we have been led away by vanity.
Dolls shouldn't try to imitate humanity!

    [_Dies._

_Soldier D._ For, if they do, they'll end like us, unpitied,
Each on the other's sword absurdly spitted!

    [_Dies._ Miss J. _and_ P. _revive, and bend sadly over the corpses_.

_Miss Jenny._ From their untimely end we draw this moral,
How wrong it is, even for dolls, to quarrel!

_Miss Polly._ Yes, JENNY, in the fate of these poor fellows see
What sad results may spring from female jealousy!

    [_They embrace penitently as Curtain falls._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE ROSE-WATER CURE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ROSE-WATER CURE.

    [The Report of the Sweating Committee says that "the inefficiency of
    many of the lower class of workers, early marriages, and the
    tendency of the residuum of the population in large towns to form a
    helpless community, together with a low standard of life and the
    excessive supply of unskilled labour are the chief factors in
    producing sweating." The Committee's chief "recommendations" in
    respect of the evils of Sweating seem to be, the lime-washing of
    work-places and the multiplication of sanitary inspectors.]

  SEVENTY-ONE Sittings, a many months' run,
  Witnesses Two Hundred, Ninety and One:
  Clergymen, guardians, factors, physicians,
  Middlemen, labourers, smart statisticians,
  Journalists, managers, Gentiles and Jews,
  And this is the issue! A thing to amuse
  A cynic, the chat of this precious Committee,
  But moving kind hearts to despair blent with pity.

  CANTUAR., DERBY, and mild ABERDEEN,
  Such anti-climax sure never was seen!
  ONSLOW and ROTHSCHILD and MONKSWELL and THRING,
  Are you content with the pitiful thing?
  DUNRAVEN out of it; lucky, my lad!
  (Though your retirement seemed caused by a fad)
  Was the Inquiry in earnest or sport?
  What is the pith of this precious Report?

  Sweating--which all the world joined to abuse--
  Is not the fault of poor Russians or Jews;
  'Tisn't the middleman more than the factor,
  'Tisn't, no 'tisn't, the sub-contractor;
  'Tisn't machinery. No! In fact,
  What Sweating _is_, in a manner exact,
  After much thinking we cannot define.
  Who _is_ to blame for it? Well, we incline
  To think that the Sweated (improvident elves!)
  Are, at the bottom, _to blame themselves_!
  They're poor of spirit, and weak of will,
  They marry early, have little skill;
  They herd together, all sexes and ages,
  And take too tamely starvation wages;
  And if they _will_ do so, much to their shame,
  How can the Capitalist be to blame?
  Remedies? Humph! We really regret
  We don't see our way to them. People _must_ sweat,
  _Must_ stitch and starve till they almost drop;
  But _let it be done in a lime-washed shop_!
  To drudge in these dens is their destined fate,
  But keep the dens in a decent state.
  More inspectors, fewer bad smells,
  These be our cures for the Sweaters' Hells!

  Revolutions with rose-water cannot be made!
  So it was said. But the horrors of Trade,
  Competition's accursed fruit,
  The woman a drudge, and the man a brute,
  These, our Committee of Lordlings are sure,
  Can only be met by the Rose-water Cure!
  The Sweating Demon to exorcise
  Exceeds the skill of the wealthy wise.
  Still he must "grind the face of the poor."
  (Though some of us have a faint hope, to be sure,
  That the highly respectable Capitalist
  To the Lords' mild lispings will kindly list.)
  No; the Demon must work his will
  On his ill-paid suffering victims still;
  But--he'd better look with a little _less_ dirt,
  So sprinkle the brute with our Rose-water Squirt!!!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HARDLY LIKELY.

(_An Incident in a "Point to Point" Race._)

_Fallen Competitor (to his Bosom Friend, who now has the Race in hand)._
"HI, GEORGE, OLD MAN! JUST CATCH MY HORSE, THERE'S A GOOD CHAP!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

AN ENTERTAINMENT OF A GOOD STAMP.--The Penny Postage Jubilee Exhibition
at the Guildhall.

       *       *       *       *       *

SONG SENTIMENTIANA.

(_A delightful "All-the-Year-Round" Resort for the Fashionable
Composer._)

    EXAMPLE IV.--Treating of a passion which, in the well-meant process
    of making the best of it, unconsciously saddles its object with the
    somewhat harassing responsibility of competing with the Universal
    Provider.

  THOU art all the world to me, love,
    Thou art everything in one,
  From my early cup of tea, love,
    To my kidney underdone;
  From my canter in the Row, love,
    To my invitation lunch--
  From my quiet country blow, love,
    To my festive London _Punch_.

  Thou art all in all to me, love,--
    Thou art bread and meat and drink;
  Thou art air and land and sea, love,--
    Thou art paper, pens, and ink.
  Thou art all of which I'm fond, love:
    Thou art Whitstables from RULE'S,--
  "Little drops" with SPIERS AND POND, love,--
    Measures sweet at Mr. POOLE'S.

  Thou art everything I lack, love,
    From a month at Brighton gay
  (Bar the journey there and back, love)
    To the joys of Derby Day--
  From the start from my abode, love,
    With a team of frisky browns,
  To the driving "on the road," love,
    And the dry _vin_ on the Downs!

  Thou art all the world to me, love,--
    Thou art all the thing contains;
  Thou art honey from the bee, love,--
    Thou art sugar from the canes.
  Thou art----stay! I've made a miss, love;
    I'm forgetting, on my life!
  Thou art all--excepting _this_, love,--
    Your devoted servant's wife!

       *       *       *       *       *

CHARLES THE FIRST.

SIR,--Did CHARLES THE FIRST walk _and_ talk half an hour after his head
was cut off, or not?

Yours,

  A VERIFIER OF FACTS.

SIR,--CHARLES THE FIRST walked and talked _one quarter of an hour_, not
half, as is erroneously supposed, after his decollation. We know this by
two Dutch pictures which I had in my possession until only the other
day, when I couldn't find them anywhere.

Yours,

  HISTORIAN.

SIR,--King CHARLES THE FIRST lost his head long before he came to the
scaffold. I have the block now by me. From it the well-known wood-cut
was taken.

  CONSULE PLAUCO.

SIR,--It is a very curious thing, but all the trouble was taken out of
CHARLES'S head and put into mine years ago by one of the greatest
CHARLESES that ever lived, whose name was DICKENS; and mine, without the
"ENS," is

Yours truly,

"Mr. DICK."

P.S.--"'Mr. DICK sets us all right,' said My Aunt, quietly."

       *       *       *       *       *

A CHAPTER OF DICKENS UP TO DATE.

[Illustration]

(_In which Mrs. Harris, assisted by a Carpet, is the cause of a division
between Friends._)

MRS. GAMP'S apartment wore, metaphorically speaking, a Bab-Balladish
aspect, being considerably topsy-turvey, as rooms have a habit of being
after any unusual ebullition of temper on the part of their occupants.
It was certainly not swept and garnished, although its owner was
preparing for the reception of a visitor. That visitor was BETSEY PRIG.

Mrs. GAMP'S chimney-piece was ornamented with three photographs: one of
herself, looking somewhat severe; one of her friend and bosom companion,
Mrs. PRIG, of far more amiable aspect; and one of a mysterious personage
supposed to be Mrs. HARRIS.

"There! Now, drat you, BETSEY, don't be long!" said Mrs. GAMP,
apostrophising her absent friend. "For I'm in no mood for waiting, I do
assure you. I'm easy pleased, but I must have my own way (as is always
the best and wisest), and have it directly minit, when the fancy strikes
me, else we shall part, and that not friendly, as I could wish, but
bearin' malice in our 'arts."

       * * *

"BETSEY," said Mrs. GAMP, "I will now propoge a toast. My frequent
pardner, BETSEY PRIG!"

"Which, altering the name to SAIRAH GAMP, I drink," said Mrs. PRIG,
"with love and tenderness!"

"Now, SAIRAH," said Mrs. PRIG, "jining business with pleasure, as so
often we've done afore, wot is this bothersome affair about which you
wants to consult me? _Are_ you a-goin' to call me over the Carpet once
more, SAIREY?"

"Drat the Carpet!" exclaimed Mrs. GAMP, with a vehement explosiveness
whose utter unexpectedness quite disconcerted her friend.

"_Is_ it Mrs. HARRIS?" inquired Mrs. PRIG, solemnly.

"Yes, BETSY PRIG, it _is_," snapped Mrs. GAMP, angrily, "that very
person herself, and no other, which, after twenty years of trust, I
never know'd nor never expected to, which it 'urts a feeling 'art even
to name her name as henceforth shall be nameless betwixt us twain."

"Oh, shall it?" retorted Mrs. PRIG, shortly. "Why bless the woman, if
_I_'d said that, you'd ha' bitten the nose off my face, as is your
nature to, as the poick says."

"Don't you say nothink against poicks, BETSEY, and I'll say nothink
against musicians," retorted Mrs. GAMP, mysteriously.

"Oh! then it _was_ to call me over the Carpet that you sent for me so
sudden and peremptory?" rejoined Mrs. PRIG, with a smile.

"DRAT THE CARPET!!!" again ejaculated Mrs. GAMP, with astonishing
fierceness. "Wot do _you_ know about the Carpet, BETSEY?"

"Why nothink at all, my dear; nor don't want to," replied Mrs. PRIG,
with surprise.

"Oh!" retorted Mrs. GAMP, "you don't, don't you? Well, then, I _do_, and
it's time you did likewise, if pardners we are to remain who 'ave
pardners been so long."

Mrs. PRIG muttered something not quite audible, but which sounded
suspiciously like, "'Ard wuck!"

"Which share and share alike is my mortar," continued Mrs. GAMP; "that
as bin my princerple, and I've found it pay. But Injin Carpets for our
mutual 'ome, of goldiun lustre and superfluos shine, as tho' we wos
Arabian Knights, I cannot and I will not stand. It is the last stror as
camels could not forgive. No, BETSEY," added Mr. GAMP, in a violent
burst of feeling, "nor crokydiles forget!"

"Bother your camels, and your crokydiles too!" retorted Mrs. PRIG, with
indifference. "Wy, SAIREY, wot a tempest in a teapot, to be sure!"

Mrs. GAMP looked at her with amazement, incredulity, and indignation.
"Wot!" she with difficulty ejaculated. "A--tempest--in--a--Teapot!! And
does BETSEY PRIG, my pardner for so many years, call her friend a
Teapot, and decline to take up SAIREY'S righteous quarrel with a Mrs.
HARRIS?"

Then Mrs. PRIG, smiling more scornfully, and folding her arms still
tighter, uttered these memorable and tremendous words,--

"Wy, certainly she does, SAIREY GAMP; _most_ certainly she does. Wich I
don't believe there's either rhyme or reason in sech an absurd quarrel!"
After the utterance of which expressions she leaned forward, and snapped
her fingers, and then rose to put on her bonnet, as one who felt that
there was now a gulf between them which nothing could ever bridge
across.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PATIENT AT PLAY.

_Adviser._ Have you ever been present at a performance of _The Dead
Heart_?

_Patient._ No; and I know nothing of a _Tale of Two Cities_.

_A._ Then surely you are well acquainted with _All for Her_?

_P._ I regret to reply in the negative.

_A._ Perhaps, you have seen the vision in _The Bells_, or the _Corsican
Brothers_?

_P._ Alas! I am forced to confess I am familiar with neither!

_A._ Dear me! This is very sad! Strange! I will give you a prescription.
Go to _Paul Kauvar_. You will then be provided with a thoroughly
enjoyable mixture.

    [_Exit Patient to Drury Lane, where he passes a delightful evening._

       *       *       *       *       *

NELLIE AT THE SODGERIES.

(_Another Legend of the Royal Military Exhibition._)

[Illustration]

THE Lady once more left her frame in the Club Morning Room.

"So I was wrong," she murmured, as she wended her way towards the now
familiar spot. "Poor NELLIE, after all, was _not_ forgotten. I am glad
of it,--very glad indeed!"

And the flesh tints of Sir PETER LELY'S paint-brush brightened, as a
smile played across the canvas features.

"I' faith! the Military gentlemen are gallants, one and all! To be sure!
Then how would it be possible that the foundress of a hospital should be
overlooked? And one as comely as myself!"

So, well pleased, she journeyed on. As she reached the river, there was
quite a crowd,--people were coming by rail, and boat, and omnibus. It
was quite like the olden days of the Exhibitions at South Kensington.
She passed through the turnstiles, and then found the cause of the
excitement. There were all sorts of good things. A gallery full of
pictures, and relics of battles ancient and modern, a museum of
industrial work, a collection of everything interesting to a soldier. In
the grounds were balloons, and fireworks, assaults at arms, and the best
military bands. At length the Lady from the frame in the Club Morning
Room stood before a portrait showing a good-natured face and a comely
presence.

"And so there I am! And in my hands a model of the Hospital hard-by!
'Gad zooks!' as poor dear ROWLEY used to say, I have no cause for
complaint! I thank those kind hearts who can find good in
everything,--even in poor NELLIE!"

And, thoroughly satisfied at the treatment she had received at the
Sodgeries, Mistress NELL GWYNNE returned to her haunt in the Club
Morning Room.

       *       *       *       *       *

A GLEE QUARTETTE.--Welcome to the Meister Glee Singers. Mr. SAXON, in
spite of his name, is by no means brutal, though he might be pardoned
for being so when he sees his colleague Mr. SAXTON suiting everybody to
a T. Mr. HAST has just as much speed as is necessary, and the fourth
gentleman should be neither angry NORCROSS, since he always sings in
tune. 'Tis a mad world, my Meisters, but, mad or not, we shall always be
glad to hear your glees.

       *       *       *       *       *

AT THE DENTIST'S.--"_It won't hurt you in the least, and it will be out
before you know where you are_;" _i.e._, "You will suffer in the one
minute and thirty-nine seconds I am tugging at your jaw, all the
concentrated agony of forty-eight continuous hours of wrenching your
crushed and tortured body off your staring and staggered head."

       *       *       *       *       *

WEEK BY WEEK.

_Wednesday._--Great Day everywhere. _Mr. Punch_ appears. Crowds in Fleet
Street. The Numbers up in the Office Window. Receptions, alarums, (eight
day) excursions (there and back) to meet H.M. STANLEY. Curfew at dusk.
No followers allowed.

_Thursday._--Crowds out to meet H. M. STANLEY. Mrs. NEMO'S sixth and
last dance to meet Mr. H. M. STANLEY, as he hasn't been to any of the
others.

_Friday._--Lecture by Mr. CHARLES WYNDHAM on "the block system," in the
time of CHARLES THE FIRST. Admission by entrances only.

_Saturday._--Centenary Celebration of a lot of things. Review of the
events of the past month in Hyde Park, by the Editor of the _Nineteenth
Century_, to meet Mr. STANLEY. Ceremony of conferring the Order of the
Adelphi on H. M. STANLEY, by Messrs. GATTI.

_Sunday._--Short services from Dover to Calais. No sermon. Collection in
Hyde Park. H. M. STANLEY goes to meet somebody else for a change.

_Monday._--Expedition to find H. M. STANLEY.

_Tuesday._--Readings of the Barometer, and lecture on hot-house plants
and French grapes, by Sir SOMERS VINE. At Tattersall's, Lecture on the
approaching "Eve of the Derby," and the female dark races.

       *       *       *       *       *

It has been finally settled that Mr. PHIL GORMAN, who will be remembered
in connection with the catering department at all the public dinners
held of late years in Sloshfield, is to be the next incumbent of the
highest municipal office in that prosperous borough. Mrs. GORMAN is a
daughter of the celebrated local poet, JAMES POSH, whose verse still
occasionally adorns the _Sloshfield Standard_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A remarkable incident is stated to have taken place at Lady B----'s
fancy dress ball. A gentleman, wearing the gorgeous costume of a
Venetian Senator of the _renaissance_ period, somewhat awkwardly
entangled his spurs in the flowing train of a beautiful _debutante_,
dressed to represent Diana the Huntress. Some of those in the immediate
vicinity of the ill-used goddess aver that she was distinctly heard to
say, "Pig!". Those who know her better declare, however, that, with her
usual politeness, she merely remarked, "I _beg_ your pardon." Hence the
misconception, which is certainly pardonable.

       *       *       *       *       *

The trees in the Park are now assuming their brightest verdure. It is
interesting to note that the number of sparrows shows no signs of
diminution.

       *       *       *       *       *

Excellent subject Sir ARTHUR has chosen for his serious
opera--_Ivanhoe_. It is now finally settled that the part of _Rowena_
will not be entrusted to Mr. HERBERT CAMPBELL. It is whispered that the
great effect will be the song of _Isaac of York_, magnificently
orchestrated for fifteen Jews' harps, played by lads all under the age
of twelve. They have already commenced practice under the eye of Sir
ARTHUR, who himself is no unskilled performer on the ancient lyre of
JUBAL.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE MODERN PISTOL.

"BASE IS THE SLAVE THAT PAYS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A RUM CUSTOMER.

[Illustration]

THEY have bin so jolly busy lately at the "Grand Hotel," and a reel
grand Hotel it is too, that they wanted sum assistence in the werry
himportant line of Waiters; so they werry naterally sent for me, and in
course I went, and a werry nice cumferal place it is for ewerybody, both
Waiters and Wisiters, and I can trewly say as I aint had not a singel
complaint since I have been here.

Well, one day a young Swell came a sauntering in, about 4 o'clock, and
wanted to know if he cood have a lunch for a gentleman, and in the
hansomest room as there was in the house. Of course I was ekal to the
ocashun, and told him, yes, he coud, and not only in the hansomest room
in that house but in the hansomest room in Lundon, and I at wunce showed
him into our Marble Pillow Room, which I coud see at a glarnce made a
werry deep impression on his mind, which I was not at all surprized at,
for it is about as near a approach to Paradise as you can resonably
expect so werry near the Strand.

So I sets him down at a sweet little round table, and I puts a lovely
gold candlestick on it, with two darling little cherubs a climing up it,
jest as if they was a going for to lite the candle, and then he horders
his simple luncheon, which it was jest a cup of our shuperior chocolate
and two xquisite little beef and am sandwitches, and wile he eat and
drank 'em he arsked me sech lots of questyuns as farely estonished me.
Such as, how much did the four Marbel Pillows cost? So I said, about 200
pound, for I allers thinks as an hed Waiter should be reddy to anser any
question as he is arsked, weather he knos anythink about it or not.

Then he wanted to know where we got all our bewtifool flowers from, and
I told him as we had 'em in fresh every morning from the South of France
along with our Shampane, which was made a purpose for us by the most
sellebrated makers, and consisted of two sorts, wiz.: dry for the
higneramuses and rich for the connysewers. So he ordered a bottle of the
latter, and drunk two glasses of it, and then acshally made me drink one
two, and sed as it was the finest as he had ewer tasted. He then asked
me what made us line all the room with such bewtifool looking glass, and
I told him as it was by order of most of the most bewtifoolest Ladys in
Lundon, who came to dine there wunce or twice every week. So he said as
how he shood drop in now and then to see 'em, for he thort as they gave
a sort of relish to a good dinner. He then got up, and saying as he
didn't want not no Bill, he throwed down a soverain and saying, "I shall
allus know where to cum to when I wants a reelly ellegant lunch, in a
reelly ellegant room, and to be waited on by a reelly respectful
Waiter," went away.

And now cums the strangest part of the hole affair, for presently in
rushes our most gentlemanly Manager, and he says, says he, "Do you know,
ROBERT, who that was as you've bin a waiting on?" "No, Sir!" says I.
"Why it's no other than the young ----" But wild hosses shan't tear the
name and title from me, as I was forbid to menshun it; but all I can say
is, that if it was known when he was a coming next time, there wood be
sich a crowd to see him as ewen our bewtifool Marble Pillow Room
wouldn't hold.

  ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

REPORTED ACCIDENT TO A COLONEL AND AN ALDERMAN.--Members of the Ancient
Corporation will do well to open their Royal Academy Guide very
cautiously, at least when they come to the Sculpture Department, as, if
come upon suddenly, their nervous system would receive a severe shock
from the following announcement:--"2023. Colonel W. H. WILKIN--bust." We
are glad to say that the worthy and gallant Alderman has pulled himself
together, and is uncommonly well. By the way, it is but fair to the
sculptor to state that his name is--ahem!--"WALKER."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN ANTEDILUVIAN SURVIVAL.

_AEsthetic Party (looking over Furnished House)._ "A--I'M AFRAID, MY
LOVE, THAT THIS IS THE KIND OF DINING-ROOM--A--IN WHICH ONE WOULD FEEL
THAT ONE OUGHT TO DINE AT SIX O'CLOCK!!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"NOT SUCH A FOOL AS HE LOOKS."

_Leo Britannicus, loquitur_;--

  GOOD Gentlemen both, you're on opposite tacks!
    Well, your plans you are perfectly welcome to try on.
  They talk of the patience of lambs, or park hacks;
    They're not in it, my lads, with an elderly Lion.
  A Lion, I mean, of the genuine breed,
    And not a thin-skinned and upstart adolescent.
  Dear me! did I let everybody succeed
    In stirring me up, or in making things pleasant,
  By smoothing me down in a flattering style,
    I'd have, there's no doubt, a delectable time of it.
  You think I look drowsy, and smile a fat smile;
    Well, what if I do? Where's the very great crime of it?
  A Lion, you know, is not all roar and ramp,
    So, STANLEY my hero, why worry and chivey?
  Mere blarney won't blind me; I'm not of that stamp;
    So don't hope to hypnotise _me_, good CAPRIVI.
  Why, bless you, my boys, long before you were cubbed
    I was charged, by your betters, with being too lazy;
  But rivals have found, when outwitted or drubbed,
    That a calm waiting game is not always so crazy.
  In Indian jungles, American plains,
    And far Eastern wilds, they have fancied me "bested,"
  Because, when hot rivals were hungry for gains,
    I kept my eyes open, and patiently rested.
  A stolid and sleepy expression _will_ steal
    At times, I'm aware, o'er my leonine features;
  But, when the time's ripe, my opponents may feel
    I'm _not_ the most easily humbugged of creatures.
  In North as in South, in the East as the West,
    Opponents _have_ planted their paws down before me.
  But where are they now, boys? _J'y suis, j'y reste!_
    Staying power is the thing; so don't bully and bore me.

  I hear you, my STANLEY, I hear you and mark;
    To snub you for patriot zeal were ungracious;
  But--well, after all, on your Continent Dark
    My footprints are plain, and my realm's pretty spacious.
  I don't mean to say that a purblind content
    My power should palsy, my policy dominate,
  And Congos and Khartoums that pay cent. per cent.
    Are tempting, but arrogant haste I abominate.
  My "prancing proconsuls" not _always_ are right,
    Whose first and last word for old Leo is "collar!"
  I'm not going to flare up like fury and fight
    Every time someone else wins an acre or dollar.
  But if you imagine I'm out of the hunt
    Every time I take breath, you are vastly mistaken:
  I know you're a brick, and like language that's blunt;
    Well, Lions sleep lightly, and readily waken!

  For you, friend CAPRIVI, your manners are nice,
    Your style of caressing is verily charming;
  How soothingly sweet is your placid advice,
    Your mild deprecation is almost disarming;
  Almost, but not quite, for 'tis true Teuton law
    That unfailing defence is the root of the matter;
  And Leo is fully aware tooth and claw
    Must not be _talked off_ e'en by friendlies who flatter.

  Your <DW8>, my good STANLEY, CAPRIVI, your pat,
    Are politic both; I've an eye upon each of you.
  The lids may look lazy, but don't trust to that;
    I watch, and I wait, and I weigh the 'cute speech of you.
  I do not mind learning from both of your books,
    But though you may think Leo given to slumber,
  He may not be quite such a slug as he looks,
    As rivals have found, dear boys, times out of number!

       *       *       *       *       *

AMONGST Cambridge cricketers Mr. GOSLING and Mr. HENFREY may be trusted
to avoid duck's eggs. Mr. ROWELL prefers to bat well; and Mr. LEESE
wishes he had a freehold when he is at the wickets. With WOODS, a HILL,
a (STREAT)FIELD, a (BERES)FORD and a (COTTE)RILL, there's plenty of
variety about FENNER'S ground at present.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "NOT SUCH A FOOL AS HE LOOKS!"

H. M. STANLEY. "NOW THEN, STOOPID! KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MODERN TYPES.

(_By Mr. Punch's own Type Writer._)

No. XII.--THE POOR LADY BOUNTIFUL.

[Illustration]

POVERTY is commonly supposed to be a bar to all generosity and enjoyment
of life. Perhaps this may be true of a certain class. But there is a
kind of genteel and not unfashionable poverty with regard to which it is
mainly false. A poor lady, for instance, who is afflicted with an
overmastering charitable impulse, and is blessed with energy, will use
this bar of poverty as a lever with which to move the bounty of her
friends, in order that she herself may appear bountiful, and, as a rule,
her efforts in this direction will be crowned with a success that would
be phenomenal, if it were not so common. The history of her earlier
years is easily written. Whilst still a child, she begins a collecting
career, by being entrusted, on behalf of a church building fund, with a
card divided into "bricks," each brick being valued at the price of
half-a-crown. Her triumphs in inducing her relations and their friends
to become purchasers of these minute and valueless squares of cardboard
are great, and the consideration she acquires on all hands as a
precocious charitable agent is very acceptable even to her childish
mind.

Her profession having thus been determined, she devotes herself with an
unflagging ardour to the task of diminishing the available assets of
those with whom she may be brought in contact. Her parents, who are not
overburdened with riches, look on at first with amusement, and
afterwards with the dismay which any excess of zeal always arouses in
the British breast. Their protests, however, fall upon deaf ears, and
they adopt an attitude of severe neutrality, in the hope that years and
a husband may bring wisdom to their daughter.

This does not save them from being made involuntary sharers in her
charitable iniquities. Her father wakes one morning to find himself
famous to the amount of one pound ten, contributed under the name of "A
Cruel Parent," to the Amalgamated Society for the Reform of Rag-pickers,
and his wife at the same time is made indignant by the discovery that
she figures for twelve-and-sixpence, as "A Mother who ought to be
Proud," in the balance-sheet of the United Charwomen's Home Reading
Association. Further inquiry reveals the fact that the former sum
resulted from the sale by the daughter to an advertising Old Clothes'
Merchant of two of her father's suits, which, although they had seen
service, he had not yet resolved to discard; and the result is the
dismissal of the family butler, who had connived in the transaction. The
twelve-and-sixpence had been formed gradually by the accumulation of
stray coppers and postage-stamps, which her mother was accustomed to
leave about on her writing-table, without the least intention that they
should be devoted to charity. The parents expostulate in vain. The
consciousness that she has diverted to objects, which she believes to be
admirable, money that might have been unworthily spent, steels the heart
of their daughter against their remonstrances, nor can she be induced to
believe that, in thus taking upon herself to interpret or to correct the
intentions of her parents, she has done wrong.

Matters, however, are thus brought to a crisis. Her home becomes
unendurable to her, and she accepts the offer of marriage made by a
subordinate, and not very highly paid official, in one of the
Departments of the Civil Service. Her parents pronounce their blessing,
and rejoice in an event which promises them an immunity from many
annoyances.

The marriage duly takes place, but it is soon evident that the poor Lady
Bountiful will not allow her change of condition to make any difference
to the vigour and persistency of her charitable appeals. She continues
the old firm and the old business under a new name, and takes advantage
of her independence to enlarge immensely the field of her operations. No
bazaar can be organised without her and as a stall-holder she is
absolutely unrivalled. Missions, teas, treats, penny dinners, sea-side
excursions, the building of halls, the endowment of a bishopric, the
foundation of a flannel club, all depend upon her inexhaustible energy
in begging. Nor is she satisfied with public institutions. Private
applicants of all kinds gather about her. Destitute but undeserving
widows, orphans who have brought the grey hairs of their parents to the
grave, old soldiers and stranded foreigners batten upon her capacity for
taking advantage of her friends. For it must be well understood that the
restricted limits of her husband's means and his parsimony prevent her
from contributing anything herself to her innumerable schemes except a
lavish expenditure of pens and ink and paper with which to set forth her
appeals. Yet in this she is a true altruist. For she knows and tells
everybody how delightful and blessed it is to give, and accordingly in
the purest spirit of self-denial she permits her friends to dispense the
cash, whilst she herself is satisfied with the credit.

Like a mighty river, she receives the offerings of innumerable tributary
streams, which lose their identity in hers, and are swept away under her
name, to be finally merged in the great ocean of charitable effort. Who
does not know, that it was mainly owing to her indefatigable efforts,
that the new wing was added to the Disabled District Visitors' Refuge,
and who has not seen at least one of the many subscription lists to
which "per Mrs. So-and-So" invariably contributed the largest amount? Is
it not also on record that at the reception which followed the public
opening of this wing, when the collecting ladies advanced to deposit
their collections at the feet of presiding Royalty, it was the Poor Lady
Bountiful who brought the largest, the most beautifully embroidered and
the fullest purse? It was felt on all hands, that "the dear Princess"
had only done what an English Princess might properly be expected to do,
when she afterwards, under the inspiration of the cunning Vicar,
showered a few words of golden public praise into the palpitating bosom
of the champion purse-bearer.

And thus her time is spent. When she is not organising a refuge she is
setting on its legs a dinner fund, when she has exhausted the patience
of her friends on behalf of her particular tame widow, she can always
begin afresh with a poverty-stricken refugee, and if the delights of the
ordinary subscription-card should ever pall, she can fly for relaxation
to the seductive method of the snowball, which conceals under a cloak of
geometrical progression and accuracy, the most comprehensive uncertainty
in its results. One painful incident in her career must be chronicled.
Fired by her example, but without her knowledge, a friend of hers from
whom she is accustomed to solicit subscriptions, steps down to do battle
on her own account in the charitable arena. And thus, when next the Poor
Lady Bountiful makes an appeal in this quarter on behalf of a Siberian
Count, whom she declares to be quite a gentleman in his own country, she
is met by the declaration, that further relief is impossible, as her
friend has a Bulgarian of her own to attend to. Thus there is an end of
friendship, and both parties scatter dreadful insinuations as to the
necessity for an audit of accounts. Eventually it happens that a rich
and distant relation of her husband dies, and leaves him unexpectedly an
income of several thousands a-year. Having thus lost all her poverty,
she retires from the fitful fever of charitable life to the serene
enjoyment of a substantial income, and awaits, with a fortitude that no
collector is suffered to disturb, the approach of a non-subscribing and
peaceful old age.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_Hard Luck_, by ARTHUR A BECKETT, begins a trifle slow, but works up to
an exciting climax, of which the secret is so profoundly kept, up till
the very last moment, that not the most experienced in sensational plots
would discover it. Capitally managed. It is one of the Arrowsmith
Series, and a genuinely artistic shilling shocker.

_A Black Business._ By HAWLEY SMART. Uncommonly smart of him bringing it
out just at this time, when the talk everywhere is about the Slave
Trade, the struggle for Colonial life, STANLEY, and the Very Darkest
Africa. There's Black Business enough about. Smart chap HAWLEY.

The only thing I've to say against the _Remarks of Bill Nye_, in one
volume, says the Baron, is the size of the book, which is as big as a
family Bible. Nowadays, when busy men can only snatch a few seconds _en
route_, the handy volume is the only really practicable form of
literature. I'd rather have three small pocketable volumes of BILL NYE'S
essays and stories than this one cumbersome work, which, once on the
shelf, runs a pretty good chance of being left there. The majority of
BILL NYE'S sayings are very amusing, and one of his short papers shows
that the humorist can be pathetic on occasion without falling into mock
sentiment. It is published by NEELY, of New York, and, if reduced in
bulk, the _Remarks of Bill Nye_ ought to do very well here, even among
those who, for want of familiarity with American slang, do not keenly
appreciate American humour. The Baron does appreciate it when it is
genuine American humour, but when the peculiar style is only copied by a
journalistic 'ARRY, with whom the stupidest and most vulgar Yankeeisms
pass for the highest wit, simply because they are Yankeeisms, then for
this sort of imitation the Baron has no criticism sufficiently severe.

  BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PICK OF THE PICTURES.--ROYAL ACADEMY.

[Illustration: No. 551. Two Tales of a Tiger. Advertisement for new
Romance by Rider Laggard and Andrew Hang.]

[Illustration: No. 216. "Walk up! Walk up! Just a goin' to begin'!"

[Probably from a contemporary wood engraving of Whitehall, 1649, which
settles the question as to whether there was a "block" or not.]]

[Illustration: "HANSOM!"

No. 1,962 hailing the Cab of the Desert (No. 1,958).]

[Illustration: No. 24. "You naughty boy! You've been making a snowball,
and then tumbled down and hurt yourself!"]

[Illustration: No. 779. The Timid Hare and the Terrible Tortoise.]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUT AND ABOUT.

SIR,--I have been about, according to your instructions, and I have come
back with a mixed notion that somewhere in the dawn of history the Queen
of SHEBA, scantily dressed, and attended by her black Chamberlain, drove
out on a four-horse parcel-post van to see an exhibition of paintings on
china at Messrs. HOWELL AND JAMES'S. It is perfectly true that in the
course of my wanderings I had some champagne, but _not a drop of
chicken_. Consequently, I have brought my critical faculty home with me
entirely unimpaired. But to business.

Mr. E. J. POYNTER has painted a noble picture of the meeting of SOLOMON
and the Queen of SHEBA, and Mr. T. MCLEAN exhibits it at 7, Haymarket. I
once saw a picture of this Queen on an ancient corner-cupboard; that was
in early childhood, and the Queen of those days was a very Dutch Lady.
Mr. POYNTER'S is quite unlike that one; in fact, she is extremely
beautiful. But why is she overcome? SOLOMON might have been pardoned for
blushing when he saw her, but he takes it quite as a matter of course.
The black Chamberlain is evidently not a lord, otherwise he would have
been more careful about his Queen's dress. There are harps, peacocks,
golden lions, luscious fruits, monkeys, marble steps, and gorgeous
pillars, to complete the picture. Curiously enough, the other ladies do
not seem to care for the newly-arrived Queen. Bravo, POYNTER! A great
picture!

After this I hurried to the painted China Exhibition at HOWELL AND
JAMES'S; very delicate, very graceful, and very refined. "_A Wild
Corner_" by G. LEONCE, "_Blue Tits_" by Miss SALISBURY--sure to make her
Mark(is),--two landscapes by A. FISHER (who needs no rod) struck me
particularly, but did not hurt me much. And so to the wilds of Finsbury
(14, Castle Street) where Messrs. McNAMARA were exhibiting the Postal
Vehicles to be used at the Penny Postage Jubilee Celebration. I've
already ordered two four-horse parcel vans, three two-horse, and two
one-horse mail-carts for my private use, _and have told Messrs. M. to
put them down to you, Sir_. I couldn't resist it. They said it would be
all right. Please make it so. I am told, that no _females_ are employed
in these vehicles. Another injustice. I should like to ride in a lovely
red carriage for ever. Yours,

  LE PETIT SHOWS.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN THE KNOW.

(_By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet._)

THERE has been lately some racing at Kempton and various other places,
as to which, I ought perhaps to say a few words. Not that I acknowledge
a right in anyone to dictate to me how and when I shall notice matters
connected with the turf. The Bedlamites who mouth and gibber about
horses and their owners, as if they were in the constant habit of living
on terms of familiar intimacy with the aristocracy, instead of being, as
they probably are, the dumpling-headed parasites of touts and
stable-boys, are entitled only to the contempt of every decent man who
knows anything about what he professes to understand. At any rate, they
have mine. My knowledge of the Kempton Course dates back at least fifty
years. To be sure, it was not at that time a racecourse, but was mostly
ploughed fields and thickets. But if the anserous and asinine
mooncalves, whose high priest is Mr. JEREMY, suppose that that fact in
any way weakens the authority with which I may claim to speak on the
subject, I can only assure them, that they prove themselves fit inmates
for the various asylums from which they ought never to have been
withdrawn. I never thought much of _Philomel_. Ten years ago, I
observed, with regard to this animal, "_Philomel_ must be watched. There
is no knowing what a course of podophyllin and ginger might not do.
Failing that, I should feel inclined to say, buncombe." Mr. J. says,
this was a different mare. What of that? In turf matters the name is
everything, and I am therefore justified in citing this as one of the
most extraordinary instances of prescience known to the turf world.

_Megatherium_, I notice, has many admirers. As a horizontal bar, or
possibly as a clothes-line, he might have merits, but as a horse, I must
confess, he has little to recommend him. When _Loblolly Boy_ cantered
home for the East End Weight-for-age Welter Handicap, I said that the
son of _Rattlesnake_ could make mince-meat of all his rivals. Since then
he has made for his owner L5,000,000 in added money, at an initial
expense of twopence halfpenny for saveloys and onions, a combination of
which this splendid animal is particularly fond. _Loblolly Boy_ was by
_Rowdy_ out of _Hoyden_, and his pedigree mounts up to _Sallycomeup_,
_Kissmequick_, and _Curate on Toast_, whilst in the collateral line he
can claim kinship with _Artaxerxes_ and _Devil's Dustpan_. In the
Margate Open Sweepstakes, he ran second to _Daddy_, when the sea was as
smooth as an old halfcrown. If there had been wind enough to blow out a
wooden match, he must have won in a common hand-gallop.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FELICITOUS QUOTATIONS.

_Maud (on crossing the boundary between Hertfordshire and the
neighbouring county, in which the Muzzling Order does not prevail)._
"THAT'S RIGHT! OFF WITH HIS MUZZLE! SO MUCH FOR _BUCKINGHAM!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, May 12._--"If a shutter be closed in the
daytime," said OLD MORALITY, a little abruptly, as we walked down to
House to-day, "the stream of light piercing through the crevice seems to
be in constant agitation. Why is this?"

Hadn't slightest idea. Suggested Right Hon. Gentleman had better give
notice of question.

[Illustration: "Can't a-bear verbosity."]

"I can tell you why," he proceeded, with unwonted perturbation. "Because
little motes and particles of dust, thrown into agitation by the
convective currents of the air, are made visible by the strong beam of
light thrown into the room through the crevice of the shutter. That's
just the way with us, dear TOBY; _a_ is the hatred of Government by the
Opposition, the strong desire to take our places; _b_ is the convective
currents of air which agitate the political atmosphere; _c_ is the
Compensation Bill, the strong beam of light which, thrown into House
through crevice opened by JOKIM, makes the whole thing clear. Don't know
whether _I_ am; but if you reflect on the situation, you'll find there
is much in what I say. We were going along moderately well. Irish Land
Bill, of course, a rock ahead; everyone takes that into account.
Suddenly JOKIM, spoiling for a fight, goes and invents this Compensation
Bill, quietly hands it over to RITCHIE to work through, and all the
greasy compound is in the devouring element. Seems a pity we could not
leave the tolerably satisfactory undisturbed. Now we're in for it.
Meetings out-of-doors; opposition in-doors; prospect of getting on with
ordinary work of Session receding into distance."

Good deal of truth in what OLD MORALITY says. House crowded to-night;
full of seething excitement. RITCHIE moved Second Reading of
Compensation Bill; CAINE moved Amendment, eliminating principle of
compensation. Capital speech; would have been better if it had been half
an hour shorter. Between them, RITCHIE and CAINE occupied nearly three
hours of sitting, leaving five hours for the remaining 668 Members.

"This is not debate," protested SHAW-LEFEVRE, sternly! "it is preaching;
why cannot a man be concise? Concision, if I may coin a word, is the
soul of argument. My old friend DIZZY used to say to me, 'SHAW, what I
admire about LEFEVRE is his terseness. If you want a man to say in
twenty minutes everything that, from his point of view, is to be spoken
on a given subject, SHAW-LEFEVRE is the man.' That was, perhaps, a too
flattering view to take; but there's something in it, and it makes me,
perhaps naturally, impatient of a man who wanders round his subject for
an hour and a half."

_Business done._--Debate on Compensation opened.

_Tuesday._--"Heard something about good man struggling with adversity,"
said Member for Sark, looking at RATHBONE. "Nothing to goody goody man
struggling with manuscript of his speech."

RATHBONE certainly a melancholy spectacle. Evidently had spent his
nights and days in preparation of speech on Compensation Bill; brought
it down in large quarto notes. OLD MORALITY glanced across House with
sudden access of interest; thought it was a copy-book; Speech evidently
highly prized at rehearsals in family circle.

"I think," said RATHBONE, complacently, "before I sit down I shall show
you that the view I take is correct."

This remark interjected early in speech; proved rather a favourite.
Whenever RATHBONE got more than usually muddled, looked round nervously
at empty Benches, nodded confidentially to Mace, and remarked, "Before I
sit down I think I shall show you----" What it was he meant to show, no
one quite certain. ELLIOT LEES, who followed, assumed with reckless
light-heartedness of youth, that he meant to show before he sat down,
that the more public-houses licensed, the less drunkenness.

"That," said RATHBONE, with unaccustomed flash of intelligent speech,
"was exactly the reverse of what I undertook to show the House."

Would have gone on pretty well only for (1) the Accountant, and (2)
SINCLAIR. Whatever it was RATHBONE was going to show before he sat down,
he had fortified himself in his position by opinion of a sworn
Accountant. Conversations with this Accountant set forth at length.
RATHBONE appears to have been kept by the Accountant in state of
constant surprise. "Let's take two places in the country," he said, in
one of the more lucid passages. "Well, there are only 360 public-houses
in Leeds. Sheffield has 400 public-houses in proportion to population,
whereas Bradford hasn't 160. Well, I was so much struck with this, that
I wanted to know whether there were any reasons for it. So I applied to
the Accountant--_without telling him my object_--which really was," he
added, nodding quite briskly at the Mace, "to know whether there was
more drunkenness in Leeds or Sheffield. He said at once, that Leeds was
the most. Then I said to the Accountant 'I don't care about your
individual cases, let's take the average. Let's take Birmingham.'"

[Illustration: "----but not clear."]

Afterwards Blackburn and Stockport were "taken"--"As if they were goes
of gin," said the Member for Sark; RATHBONE turning over papers, which
appeared to have got upside down, recited heaps of figures. These struck
him the more he studied them. Anonymous Accountant seemed to have
brought him completely under a spell. His highly respectable appearance,
his evident earnestness, his accumulated mass of figures, his engagement
of the Accountant, the tone of his voice, his general attitude, all
conveyed impression that he was really saying something intelligible and
useful. The few Members present honestly endeavoured to follow him;
might have got a clue only for SINCLAIR.

At end of first half-hour RATHBONE began to show signs of distress.
SINCLAIR thought he was signalling for water; prepared to go for glass;
something wrong; RATHBONE violently agitated; nodding and winking and
pointing to recess under bench before him. House now really excited.
Began to think that perhaps the Accountant was hidden down there. If he
could be only got up, might explain matters. SINCLAIR sharing general
agitation, dived under seat; reappeared attempting to secrete small
medicine bottle, apparently containing milk-punch; drew cork with
difficulty; poured out dose, handed it to RATHBONE. RATHBONE gulped it
down; smacked his lips; much refreshed; evidently good for another hour.

"I said to the Accountant," he continued, "if the Magistrates of
Sheffield had indiced these lorcences--I mean endorsed those
licences----."

Off again, wading with the Accountant knee-deep in figures from Leeds to
Sheffield, back to Birmingham, across to Liverpool, on to York, with
occasional sips of milk-punch. A wonderful performance that held in
breathless attention few Members present to hear it.

"It is magnificent," said the Member for Sark; "but it isn't clear."

_Business done._--RATHBONE'S great speech on the Licensing Question.

_Wednesday._--Quite lively for Wednesday afternoon. At outset,
apparently nothing particular in wind. Irish Members had first three
places on Agenda, but that nothing unusual. Prospect was, that Debate on
their first Bill, appropriating Irish Church Fund to provide Dwellings
for Agricultural Labourers, would occupy whole of Sitting; be divided on
just before half-past five. To make sure, AKERS-DOUGLAS issued Whip to
Ministerialists, urging them to be in their places as early as four.

"Never know what the Bhoys will do," he said, sagely. "Like to be on the
safe side. Division at five, so be here at four."

The Bhoys came down in great force at one o'clock; only a score or so of
Ministerialists visible. Fox rose to move Second Reading of Bill. Good
for an hour if necessary. Long JOHN O'CONNOR, that Eiffel Tower of
patriotism, ready to Second Motion, in a discourse of ninety minutes.

"May as well make an afternoon of it," he says, gazing round the
expectant but empty Benches opposite.

FOX just started, when happy thought struck Irish Members. If they
divided at once, before Ministerial majority arrived, could carry Second
Reading; so Brer FOX doubled, and in ten minutes got back home. Long
JOHN folded himself up, till casual passer-by might have mistaken him
for PICTON. Conservatives, not ready for this manoeuvre, dumfounded.
Division imminent; only thing to be done was to make speeches till four
o'clock and majority arrived. Everybody available pressed into service.
CHARLES LEWIS, coming up breathless, declared that "promoters of Bill,
wished by a side-stab in the wind of the Government"--he meant by a
side-wind--"to stab the Measure on the same subject the Government had
brought forward."

That was better; though how you stab by a side-wind not explained.
Prince ARTHUR threw himself languidly into fray. Talked up to quarter
past three; majority beginning to trickle in, T. W. RUSSELL moved
Adjournment of Debate. Defeated by 94 votes against 68. Irish Members
evidently in majority of 26. Prince ARTHUR, with eye nervously watching
door, wished that night or BLUCHER would come. Neither arriving, stepped
aside, letting Irish Members carry their Bill; which they did, amid
tumultuous cheering.

"It's of no consequence, I assure you," Prince ARTHUR said, quoting _Mr.
Toots_ when he inadvertently sat down on _Florence Dombey's_ best
bonnet. "They may carry their Bill, but we'll take the money."

_Business done._--Irish Members out-manoeuvre Government.

_Friday._--Second Reading of Compensation Bill carried at early hour
this morning, after dull debate. Morning Sitting to-day for Supply.
Duller than ever. Dullest of all, JOKIM on Treasury Bench in charge of
Estimates.

[Illustration: Sympathy.]

"Yes, TOBY," he said, in reply to sympathetic greeting, "I _am_ a little
hipped; situation growing too heavy for me. Patriotism all very well;
public spirit desirable; self-abnegation, as OLD MORALITY says, is the
seed of virtue. But you may carry spirit of self-sacrifice too far. Read
my speech at dinner to HARTINGTON, of course? Put it in the right light,
don't you think? We Dissentient Liberals, as they call us, are the
Paschal Lambs of politics; except that, instead of being offered up as
sacrifice, we offer up ourselves. Still there are degrees. HARTINGTON
given up something; CHAMBERLAIN chucked himself away; JAMES might have
been on the Woolsack. But think of me, dear TOBY, and all I've
sacrificed. Four years ago a private Member, adrift from my Party; no
chance of reinstatement; not even sure of a seat. Now Chancellor of the
Exchequer, with L5000 a-year, and a pick of safe seats. Too much to
expect of me, TOBY; sometimes more than I can bear;" and JOKIM hid his
face in his copy of the Orders of the Day, whilst THEODORE FRY looking
on, was dissolved in tears.

_Business done._--Supply.

       *       *       *       *       *

COMPLAINTS are often made as to the non-appreciation of jokes by those
to whom they are addressed. A Correspondent sends us on this subject the
following interesting remarks:--"I have made on an average ten jokes a
day for the last six years. Being in possession of a large independent
income, I could have afforded to make more, but I think ten a day a
reasonable number. I find that, as a rule, the wealthy and highly-placed
have absolutely no appreciation of humour. The necessitous, however,
show a keen taste for it. The other day a gentleman, whom I had only
seen once, asked me for the loan of a sovereign. I immediately made six
jokes running, and was rewarded by six successive peals of laughter. I
then informed him I had no money with me, and left him chuckling to
himself something about an Eastern coin of small value, called, I
believe, a dam."

       *       *       *       *       *

NARROW ESCAPE OF AN R.A.!--Everyone knows that a Critic is one, who
would, professionally, roast and cut up his own father; but that some
Critics go beyond this, may be gathered from the fact of the Art-Critic
of the _Observer_, in one of his recent reviews of the Academy, having
thus expressed himself:--

    "Mr. POYNTER'S flesh is never quite to our liking,"----

Heavens! What a dainty cannibal is this Critic! But how lucky for Mr.
POYNTER.

       *       *       *       *       *

[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, Volume
98, May 24, 1890, by Various

*** 