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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 99

JULY 5, 1890






[Illustration: VOL. 99]


WEEK BY WEEK.

We understand that careful observers have noted a considerable amount
of disturbance in the House of Commons during the past three weeks.
Various reasons have, as usual, been advanced to account for this
phenomenon, one eminent politician having gone so far as to hint
darkly at the existence of Cave-men (or Troglodytes), who dwell in
barrows.

       *       *       *       *       *

The weather has been subject to strange variations. The mean
temperature of the isothermal lines, when reduced to fractions of
an infinitesimal value, has been found to correspond exactly to the
elevation of the nap on the hat of a certain sporting Earl. Dividing
that by the number of buttons on a costermonger's waistcoat, and
adding to the quotient the number of aspirates picked up in the Old
Kent Road on a Saturday afternoon, the result has been computed as
equal to the total amount of minutes occupied by a vendor of saveloys
in advertising his wares in the Pall Mall Clubs.

       *       *       *       *       *

Candour is at times inconvenient. A prominent member of a Metropolitan
Vestry was informed two days ago by one of the permanent scavengers
of the district, that he "wasn't worth the price of a second-hand
boot-lace." On inquiring the meaning of this curious phrase, he was
told that "his blooming head would be knocked off for two-pence."
We understand that the Vestryman's vote on a question of salary is
responsible for the indignation of the scavenger, a member of a class
usually noted for their somewhat ceremonious courtesy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Those who propose to travel this year will doubtless be glad to
learn that the Hessian fly has been observed in unusual abundance in
Westphalia. This succulent _morceau_ is now eaten fried, with a sauce
of devilled lentils and oil.

       *       *       *       *       *

It appears, after all, that there is no very definite foundation
for the report that Sir EDWARD WATKIN is said to be disappointed in
the competitive designs sent in for his Tower, because none of them
provide sleeping accommodation for 2000 people on the top storey. Of
course something must have given rise to the rumour, but it is not
easy to say exactly what. One competitor has already, however, it
appears, intimated his readiness to make the required addition, by
hanging his beds over the side of the Tower on "extended poles." The
question is, "Would Sir WATKIN be able to induce his patrons 'to turn
in' under such conditions?" There's the rub.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

STANLEY'S _Darkest Africa_ (SAMPSON LOW) swamps all other books just
now, except, of course, the Other STANLEY book, called _A Light on
the Keep-it-Quite-the-Darkest Africa_ (TRISCHLER & Co.) which follows
closely at its heels. The real STANLEY narrative is most interesting
and exciting; it is a book that will make everyone "sit up"--at night
to read it. The centre of attraction is in the answer to the question,
"How did I find EMIN?" Which is, "Quite well, thank you."

My faithful "Co." reports that he has been doing his duty nobly as
a novel-reader. He has already devoured Vol. III. of the _Man with
a Secret_. He would attack Vols. I. and II. if he had not had (so he
says) quite enough of the Man _and_ his Secret. _Innocent Victims_ is
written in the temperance interest. "Co." has every sympathy with the
cause of undiluted water, but fears that this "story of London Life
and Labour" may end in drink. He found it himself a little dry, and
was not cheered by the name of the author, HUGH DOWNE, which seemed
to suggest he could not get up again. He is eagerly waiting for more
fiction, as "_Expiation_" by OCTAVE THANET has scarcely satisfied his
craving for the weird and the horrible. In the meanwhile, he has found
a cheerful interlude in _Sanity and Insanity_, a text-book (written in
a popular yet scientific strain) of the maladies of the mind. He says,
that Dr. MERCIER, the author, is to be congratulated on having treated
a rather "jumpy" subject in a manner that can offend no one. "Co." had
no idea up to now, that "t'other was so like unto which."

All the Magazines for July are in, but the Baron has been unable to
open them, and "Co." has cut them. BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADVICE TO GIRL GRADUATES.

(_AFTER CHARLES KINGSLEY--AT A RESPECTFUL DISTANCE._)

  Dress well, sweet Maid, and let who will be _clever._
            Dance, flirt, and sing!
            Don't study all day long.
            Or else you'll find,
            When other girls get married,
            You'll sing a different song!

       *       *       *       *       *

SAD NEWS FROM ETON.--"Bever" is dead. Sorrowing boys followed
the bier. The Bever-age has ceased to exist. What next? Will the
characteristic Etonian top-hat follow the Bever?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HIS FIRST ACHE.

"OH, MAMMY! I'VE GOT SUCH A PAIN IN FRONT OF ME!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

BEFORE BISLEY.

    SCENE--_Office of the Commanding Commander-in-Chief. The
    C.C.-in-Chief discovered. To him enter H.R.H. GEORGE RANGER._

_H.R.H.G.R._ You sent for me, _Mr. Punch_. I beg pardon, I should say,
your Excellency?

_C.C.-in-C._ (_severely_). Be careful, Sir, and remember in
whose presence you are! I believe about a month ago you asked for
subscriptions in aid of the National Rifle Association?

_H.R.H.G.R._. Yes, _Mr. P_.--I should say, your Excellency.

_C.C.-in C._ And I presume the N.R.A. have been put to very great
expense in changing from Wimbledon to Bisley?

_H.R.H.G.R._ Yes, I am sorry to say so,--personally sorry. Although
the bullets may have played the mischief with the adjoining property,
still I think--

_C.C.-in-C._ (_severely_). We are not discussing Wimbledon now, Sir.
Am I right in assuming that the reason funds were requested was to put
Bisley in a proper condition for the reception of the Volunteers?

_H.R.H.G.R._ Of course. I am sure I am the best friend of the
Volunteers, and--

_C.C.-in-C._ (_interrupting_). How comes it then that when the
Volunteers (whose own ranges are being closed all round London) ask
for permission to shoot at Bisley, they are told that they may not
have it, because "the range is required for the regular troops."

_H.R.H.G.R._ Well, as Commander-in-Chief, of course I must consider
the Army, and as--

_C.C.-in-C._ President of the N.R.A., you should consider the
Volunteers--but you don't! Now see here, if I hear any more of this
sort of thing, I tell you frankly that--

[_Scene closes in, as the threat is too terrible for publication_.]

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.

QUALIFIED RECOMMENDATION.

"_A. Nobleman wishes particularly to recommend his Coachman, who is
leaving his service, solely owing to domestic changes_;" i.e., Having
been detected falsifying his stable accounts, and threatened in
consequence with prosecution, he retaliates by a menace to disclose
certain unpleasant family secrets, picked up in the servants' hall,
to a Society journal.

TRADE EMBELLISHMENTS.

"_If applied but once gently with the palm of the hand, it will afford
the sufferer delightful and instantaneous relief_;" i.e., It at once
removes the skin, and if rubbed in with vigour will flay a horse.

PLATFORMULARS.

"_I feel that I have already trespassed upon your patience, and
detained you an unconscionable time_;" i.e., "Your attention seems
flagging. I want a moment or two for reflection, and a cue to go on
again."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE RACK OF THE RATE-PAYER.

(_BY A VICTIM OF "QUINQUENNIAL VALUATION."_)

    "Parochial Authorities have a way of their own in interpreting
    Acts of Parliament, and a very peculiar way indeed of dealing
    with the Valuation Act.... Overseers go their own way, and
    interpret the Act according to their knowledge and experience;
    and in many cases experience is lacking, and knowledge an
    altogether unknown quantity.... When dealing with leasehold
    property, overseers positively revel in the most delightful
    caprice. The leaseholder's property is dealt with kindly or
    the reverse, just as it is in this or that parish."--_James's
    Gazette_.

  Tennyson talks of "gay quinquenniads." Yes,
    But he would mention them with less elation
  If he had my experience, I guess,
    Of the _not_ gay Quinquennial Valuation!
  I am not now so young as once I was,
    I have arrived at the Golosh and Gamp Age,
  I am not equal to contend--that's poz--
    With the Parochial Fathers on the rampage.
  Ah me, these Vestry vultures on the pounce!
    They scare me, skin me, bully me, and bilk me.
  Soon of my flesh they'll scarce have left an ounce,
    They so persistently maul, mulct, and milk me.
  Once in five years they send me papers blue,
    And papers white, and likewise papers yellow;
  They "want to know, you know," indeed they do.
    First the "First Clerk," a devil of a fellow!
  Challenges me to up and tell him all
    About gross value, also value rateable.
  It's all pure fudge. I am their helpless thrall,
    To an extent in civil speech unstateable.
  They will not take _my_ word. If I appeal,
    They hale me up before a stern Committee,
  Fellows with brazen faces, hearts of steel,
    And destitute of manners as of pity.
  My solemn statement, or my mild demur,
    To them a subject of fierce scorn and scoff is;
  An honest citizen feels but a cur
    When snapped and snarled at by these Jacks-in-Office.
  They're sure to have the pull of me somehow;
    Oh! I've read "Handbooks."  I've attended Meetings
  Where angry ratepayers raise fruitless row;
    But, bless you, these bold roarings turn to bleatings,
  When they the cruel inquisition face
    Of some austere Committee of Assessment.
  Until I found myself in that dread place
    I never knew what fogged and foiled distress meant.
  Between them and my Landlord I've no peace.
    I'm honest, but they treat me as "a wrong one."
  I'm a Shopkeeper, holding a short lease
    (My Landlord takes good care it's not a long one).
  Once in seven years the Landlord lifts my Rent,
    And once in five my Rates the Assessor raises,
  Values, Gross, Rateable, so much per cent.?
    Bah! the attempt to fathom them but crazes!
  The only regular rule is--Up! Up! Up!
    And any protest only brings upon you
  Your Landlord's wrath, and cheek from some sleek pup,
    Who bullies you; and laughs when he has done you.
  "Pay and look pleasant," is the official rule,
    And as to wife and child, and food and raiment,
  You _may_ attend to them, poor drudging fool!
    When of your Rent and Rates you've made full payment.
  Yes, Rent and Rates! they are the modern gods,
    And Moloch's tyranny was not more cruel.
  With Landlord or with Vestry get at odds,
    And you're gone coon; they'll soon give you your gruel.
  Just now Vestrydom's victims are a-howl
    With rage at skinning; but their indignation
  Will fade, and they will feed the Official Ghoul
    Until the next Quinquennial Valuation.
  And then--well, Lord knows what may happen _then_,
    Unless--unless--and that is most improbable--
  Ratepayers rise _together_--show they're men,
    And not mere sheep gregarious, warm-fleeced, robbable.
  Meanwhile the Vestry Vultures gorge their fill,
    And I am warned--by friends--"_Don't put their backs up!_"
  _Their_ backs! And we sing "_Rule Britannia_" still!!
    Will _no one_ chaw these fine official Jacks up?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE KREUTZER SONATA.

      One _Pozdnisheff_ by name
      Played the matrimonial game;
      Pleased by a little curl,
      Which round his heart did twirl,
      And taken by a jersey
      (Exported from the Mersey);
      He felt, poor man, half-witted
      When he saw how well it fitted!

  The mother, with her jersey-clad young daughter,
  Asked the lover to a party on the water.
      Soft things he now could say
      To the maiden all the way,
  Till she caught him--who imagined he had caught her!

    Now there came a young musician, _Troukachevsky_,
    Who, at Petersburg, resided on the Nevsky;
    And to play with him the flighty wife was fated
    In the famed duet to KREUTZEE dedicated.

    The husband who perceived things were not right,
    Home suddenly returned at dead of night.
      His boots he'd taken off;
      He was careful not to cough;
      And his plans so well were woven,
      That they still performed Beethoven.
      But, neither being deaf,
      They at last heard _Pozdnisheff_.
      Poor wife! He so affrights her,
      That she plays no more the _Kreutzer_.

    If on each foot he'd had a slipper
      To Troukachevsky (who was saved)
      The husband would have p'rhaps behaved
    Much in the style of Jack the Ripper.
    He put to flight the dilettante
    (Who hadn't finished half the _andante_),
    But feared the servants' mockings
    Should they see him in his stockings,
    Racing along the corridor:--
    Not that he thought it horrid, or
    Harsh to transfix him with a dagger,
    (He could not bear the fiddler's swagger),
    But felt quite sure so droll a figure
    Would make his rude domestics snigger.

    And now his wife cries out for mercy
    (No more she wears that fetching jersey);
    And all in vain she pity claims:
    The dagger ruthlessly he aims,
    And through the whale-bone of her corset
    Tries unsuccessfully to force it.
    At last he feels that he's succeeded,
    A little more than p'rhaps was needed.
    Ah, that by taking out the knife
    He now could bring her back to life!

    'Twas his habit, when he got into a pet,
    Invariably to light a cigarette;
    And, having killed his wife, he never spoke
    One word until he'd had a quiet smoke.

  When he saw that it was time, he called a p'liceman,
  And exclaimed, "Oh, I have broken the Tsar's peace, man.
  I've killed my wife!--I did it in a fury--
  But I wish the matter brought before a jury."
  And the jury, after hearing all the case,
  Said, "Not Guilty. We'd have done it in his place."
  And he lately, in a Russian railway carriage,
  Told Count TOLSTOI all the story of his marriage.

       *       *       *       *       *

"The Law of Arms is such."--Mr. Punch greatly regrets that he was
unable to be present at the Annual Inspection of the Inns of Court
Volunteers, when members were requested to "show every article of
equipment and clothing of which they were in possession." No doubt
the exhibition was as interesting as imposing. It is rumoured that
the display of wigs and gowns (worn in Court) and lawn-tennis blazers
(used in the Temple Gardens) was absolutely magnificent. It is further
reported that the large collection of go-to-meeting hats, frock-coats,
and patent-leather boots extorted universal admiration from all
beholders. To his sorrow, a prior engagement prevented Mr. A.
BRIEFLESS Junior, (who is an Hon. Member of the Corps), from putting
in an appearance.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE PROPOSED NATIONAL GALLERY OF BRITISH ART IN DANGER.

_Mr. Henry Tate_. "NO, THANK YOU, MR. RED TAPE, I DON'T WANT MY GIFTS
TO THE NATION TO BE TIED UP BY _YOU_, THEN PACKED AWAY, AND NEVER SEEN
AGAIN!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT IT WILL COME TO;

OR, THE COURT, THE CHASE, AND THE CURSE.

    "Mr. MONTAGU WILLIAMS used some strong language yesterday in
    reference to the small room in which he was called upon to
    administer Justice while the Worship Street Police Court is
    being renovated."--_Evening Paper_.

    SCENE--_A small apartment in a Metropolitan Police Court_.
    Presiding Magistrate _and_ Clerk _discovered_.

_Presiding Magistrate_. There! You and I can sit here, and the rest
can remain outside. And now I will take the night charges.

_Voice from Passage_ (_without_). Please, your worship, as I was on
duty last night, this man--

_Builder_ (_putting his head in_). Sorry to trouble you, Sir, but we
have got something to do to the flooring. Must ask you to be off.

_P.M._ (_restraining his indignation_). Very well; the Court is
adjourned to the back garden. (_Scene changes to that locality._)
Come, this is better! Fresh air, in spite of the smuts! And now,
Constable, go on with your evidence.

_Police Constable_. Well, your Worship, as I was on duty last night,
this man--

_Builder_ (_entering_). Very sorry to trouble you again, Sir, but
there's something wrong with the drains. We think the pipes are out
of order, and so we shall have to dig them up. So, if you don't mind
moving--

_P.M._ (_restraining his indignation_). Very well; the Court is
adjourned to the coal-cellar. (_Scene changes to that locality._)
Come, this is not so bad! Very cool, if rather damp. And now,
Constable, go on with your evidence.

_Police Constable_. Well, your Worship, as I was on duty last night,
this man--

_Coalheaver_ (_speaking through hole in roof_). Sorry to disturb you,
gents, but as me and my mates are going to put some coals in this here
cellar, I thought it good manners to tell you all to clear out.

_P.M._ (_restraining his indignation_). The Court is adjourned to the
housetop. (_Scene changes to that locality._) Come, this is not so
bad! Nice breeze up here. A little difficult to sit upon a sloping
roof, perhaps; but one gets accustomed to everything. And now,
Constable, go on with your evidence.

_Police Constable_. Well, your Worship, as I was on duty last night,
this man--

_Sweep_ (_entering_). Sorry to disturb you, mates, but I am just
agoing to sweep the chimneys; and--

_Police Magistrate_ (_unable to restrain his indignation any longer_).
Oh--!!!

    [_The Curtain hurriedly conceals the strong but natural
    exclamation._]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EXCELSIOR! OR, THE DAY-DREAM OF DRURIOLANUS.

_Elected Sheriff, June 27, he dreams that he is encountered on his
road by the fairy forms of Harry Nicholls and Herbert Campbell._

_Voices of Fairy Forms_. "ALL HAIL, DRURIOLANUS! SHERIFF THOU ART,
AND SHALT BE MAYOR HEREAFTER!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOCES POPULI.

AT THE MILITARY TOURNAMENT.

SCENE--_THE AGRICULTURAL HALL. TENT-PEGGING GOING ON_.

_Stentorian Judge_ (_in Arena_). Corporal BINKS! (_The Assistants give
a finishing blow to the peg, and fall back. Corporal BINKS gallops
in, misses the peg, and rides off, relieving his feelings by whirling
his lance defiantly in the air_.) Corporal BINKS--nothing!

_A Gushing Lady_. Poor dear thing! I _do_ wish he'd struck it! he did
look so disappointed, and so did that sweet horse!

_The Judge_. Serjeant SPANKER! (_Sergeant S. gallops in, spears the
peg neatly, and carries it off triumphantly on the point of the lance,
after which he rides back and returns the peg to the Assistants as
a piece of valuable property of which he has accidentally deprived
them_) Sergeant SPANKER--eight! (_Applause; the Assistants drive in
another peg._) Corporal CUTLASH! (_Corporal C. enters, strikes the
peg, and dislodges without securing it. Immense applause from the
Crowd_.) Corporal CUTLASH--two!

_The Gushing Lady_. Only two, and when he really did hit the peg! I do
call that a shame. I should have given him more marks than the other
man--he has such a _much_ nicer face!

_A Child with a Thirst for Information_. Uncle, why do they call it
_tent_-pegging?

_The Uncle_. Why? Well, because those pegs are what they fasten down
tents with.

_The Child_. But why isn't there a tent now?

_Uncle_. Because there's no use for one.

_Child_. Why?

_Uncle_. Because all they want to do is to pick up the peg with the
point of their lance.

_Child_. Yes, but why _should_ they want to do it?

_Uncle_. Oh, to amuse their horses. (_The Child ponders upon this
answer with a view to a fresh catechism upon the equine passion for
entertainment, and the desirability, or otherwise, of gratifying it_.)

_A Chatty Man in the Promenade_ (_to his Neighbour_). Takes a deal of
practice to strike them pegs fair and full.

_His Neighbour_ (_who holds advanced Socialistic opinions_). Ah,
I dessay--and a pity they can't make no better use o' their time!
Spoiling good wood, _I_ call it. I don't see no point in it myself.

_The Chatty Man_. Well, it shows they can _ride_, at any rate.

_The Socialist_. Ride? O' course they can _ride_--we pay enough for
'aving 'em taught, don't we? But you mark my words, the People won't
put up with this state of things much longer--keepin' a set of 'ired
murderers in luxury and hidleness. I tell yer, wherever I come across
one of these great lanky louts strutting about in his red coat, as if
he was one of the lords of the hearth, well--it makes my nose bleed,
ah--it _does_!

_The Chatty Man_. If that's the way you talk to him, I ain't surprised
if it do.

_The Judge_. Sword _versus_ Sword! Come in, there! (_Two mounted
Combatants, in leather jerkins and black visors, armed with
sword-sticks, enter the ring; Judge introduces them to audience with
the aid of a flag_.) Corporal JONES, of the Wessex Yeomanry; Sergeant
SMITH, of the Manx Mounted Infantry. (_Their swords are chalked by the
Assistants_.) Are you ready? Left turn! Countermarch! Engage! (_The
Combatants wheel round and face one another, each vigorously spurring
his horse and prodding cautiously at the other; the two horses seem
determined not to be drawn into the affair themselves on any account,
and take no personal interest in the conflict; the umpires skip and
dodge at the rear of the horses, until one of the Combatants gets in
with a rattling blow on the other's head, to the intense delight of
audience. Both men are brushed down, and their weapons re-chalked,
whereupon they engage once more_--_much to the disgust of their
horses, who had evidently been hoping it was all over. After the
contest is finally decided, a second pair of Combatants enter; one is
mounted on a black horse, the other on a chestnut, who refuses to lend
himself to the business on any terms, and bolts on principle; while
the rider of the black horse remains in stationary meditation_.) Go
on--that black horse--go on! (_The chestnut is at length brought up
to the scratch snorting, but again flinches, and retires with his
rider_.)

_The Crowd_ (_to rider of black horse_). Go on, now's your chance!
'It him! (_The recipient of these counsels pursues his antagonist, and
belabours him and his horse with impartial good-will until separated
by the Umpires, who examine the chalk-marks with a professional
scrutiny._)

_The Judge_. Here, you on the black horse, you mustn't hit that
other horse about the head. (_The man addressed appears rebuked and
surprised under his black-wired visor; The Judge, reassuringly_.)
It's all _right_, you know; only, don't do it again, that's all! (_The
Combatant sits up again._)

_The Gushing Lady_. Oh, I can't bear to look on, really. I'm _sure_
they oughtn't to hit so hard--_how_ their poor dear heads must ache!
Isn't that chestnut a _duck_? I'm sure he's trying to save his master
from getting hurt--they're such sensible creatures, horses are!
(_Artillery teams drive in, and gallop between the posts; the Crowd
going frantic with delight when the posts remain upright, and roaring
with laughter when one is knocked over_.)

DURING THE MUSICAL RIDE.

_The Gushing Lady_. Oh, they're simply too _sweet_! how those horses
are enjoying it--aren't they pets? and how perfectly they keep step
to the music, don't they?

_Her Friend_ (_who is beginning to get a trifle tired by her
enthusiasm_). Yes; but then they're all trained by Madame KATTI
LANNER, of Drury Lane, you see.

_The G.L._ What pains she must have taken with them; but you can teach
a horse _anything_, can't you?

_Her Friend_. Oh, that's nothing; next year they're going to have a
horse who'll dance the Highland Fling.

_The Socialist_. A pretty sight? Cost a pretty sight o' the People's
money, I know that. Tomfoolery, that's what it is; a set of dressed-up
bullies dancin' quadrilles on 'orseback; _that_ ain't military
manoeuvrin'. It's sickenin' the way fools applaud such goins on. And
cuttin off the Saracen's 'ed, too; I'd call it plucky if the Saracen
'ad a gun in his 'and. Bah, I ate the ole business!

_His Neighbour_. Got anybody along with you, Mate?

_The Socialist_. No, I don't want anybody along with _me_, I don't.

_His Neighbour_. That's a pity, that is. A sweet-tempered,
pleasant-spoken party like you are oughtn't to go about by yourself.
You ought to bring somebody just to enjoy your conversation. There
don't seem to be anybody '_ere_ of your way of thinkin'.

DURING THE COMBINED DISPLAY.

_The Gushing Lady_ (_as the Cyclist Corps enter_). Oh, they've got
a _dog_ with them. Do look--such a dear! See, they've tied a letter
round his neck. He'll come back with an answer presently. (_But, there
being apparently no answer to this communication, the faithful but
prudent animal does not re-appear_.)

AFTER THE PERFORMANCE.

_The Inquisitive Child_. Uncle, which side won?

_Uncle_. I suppose the side that advanced across the bridges.

_Child_. Which side _would_ have won if it had been a _real_ battle?

_Uncle_. I really couldn't undertake to say, my boy.

_Child_. But which do you _think_ would have won?

_Uncle_. I suppose the side that fought best.

_Child_. But which side was _that_? (_The Uncle begins to find that
the society of an intelligent Nephew entails too severe a mental
strain to be frequently cultivated._)

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.

_Monday 23_.--Operatic world all agog to hear, and to see, _Le
Prophète_. First appearance for many years. Great things expected
of JEAN DE RESZKÉ as _Jean of Leyden_, and Mlle. RICHARD as _Fides_.
Great expectations not disappointed. Scene in Cathedral magnificent
as a spectacle. But scene in Cathedral between JEAN and his unhappy
mother still grander as acting. _Le Prophète_ is remarkable too, as
being an Opera without Mlle. BAUERMEISTER in it. Skating scene, with
a nice ballet, rather a frost. "Not sufficient go in it," observes
veteran Opera-goer, with book in his hand, dated eighteen hundred
and sixty something, containing a cast of characters which, he says,
though he doesn't show me the book, comprises the names of MARIO,
GRISI, VIARDOT-GARCIA, and HERR FORMES. A more veterany veteran tells
me that GRISI and VIARDOT never played together in this, but that
GRISI succeeded VIARDOT as _Fides_.

[Illustration: MONDAY, JUNE 23.

Jean de Reszké as Jean of Leyden. Jeanne The Risky as Sarah d'Arc.]

Even the veteran is pleased, and acknowledges that thirty years ago
they couldn't have done it as they do now, barring the skating scene,
where, he insists upon it, the original "go" is wanting. The fact is,
we have long passed the days when "rinking" was a novelty on the stage
or off it. But what a jolly lot these Anabaptists were! They enjoyed
themselves with their dancing-girls and their picnicking on the ice.
Substitute General BOOTH for _Jean of Leyden_, and the tambourine
girls for PALLADINO and the ballet, and then you have a modern version
of _Le Prophète_.

[Illustration: Mlle. Richard as Fides,--not Boney Fides.]

Delightful to see M. MIRANDA as one of the three Anabaptists,
_Mathisen_ (a good name in the city, with only a letter changed),
striking a sixteenth century flint, for the purpose of lighting
a candle, but, failing in the attempt, compelled to destroy
sixteenth-century illusion, and employ, in a sneaking kind of way,
the nineteenth-century match, which strikes only on its own box. Mlle.
NUOVINA, not so good here as in the part of _Marguerite_, but there is
very little for a soprano to do. JEAN reckless in the final drinking
song.

The voice of DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS is heard at the wings. The
stage-manager's assistant is evidently nervous, and the curtain, after
once going up a little way and coming down again, ascends suddenly,
in spite of adjuration of DRURIOLANUS to "Wait! wait!" No hitch, and
in another moment DRURIOLANUS, calm, but with suppressed emotion, is
watching the scene from the front.

"Ah," he murmurs to himself, "if I could only get Guildhall to do what
I like in on that Ninth, of November when I shall be Lord Mayor. I'd
soon show 'em what's what. I'd have a coronation, or investiture,
scene to which this should be mere child's play."

EDOUARD DE RESZKÉ excellent as _Zacharias_--a, name chiefly associated
with one of Lieutenant COLE'S characters, a Mawworm who looks over
the screen; and M. MONTARIOL good as a lighter-hearted Anabaptist. A
memorable revival.

_Tuesday_.--_Les Huguenots_. Return of Mlle. BAUERMEISTER after one
night's absence. _Wednesday_.--_Carmen_, as before.

_Thursday_.--_Rigoletto_. Fine house to hear this Opera. _Le Prince
s'amuse_. The Princess also. Mlle. MELBA excellent; should be known as
"Her Grace." M. LASSALLE, not ideal Jester, physically, but, vocally,
never was _Rigoletto_ better. Signor VALERO a good Ducal tenor: he
scores a treble--(a thing to be done in whist and music)--i.e.,
treble _encore_ for "_La Donna è Mobile_." Madame SCALCHI, of course,
good as usual, and Signor MIRANDA (why not FERDINAND MIRANDA, and be
thoroughly Shakspearian at once?) energetic as _Monterone_. FERDINAND
MIRANDA always conscientious actor. Not last, but quite the least,
comes Mlle. BAUERMEISTERSINGER, as _Giovanna_, without whom no Opera
at Covent Garden can be considered as really complete. This is the
only defect on

_Friday Night_, in _Le Prophète_, which is given again and again--no
part for Mlle. BAUERMEISTERSINGER. Every place in the House taken.
Profit here and Loss for those who can't get seats to hear it. Great
excitement to know whether DRURIOLANUS is elected Sheriff or not.
Early in the evening contradictory rumours in Lobby. At last the
numbers are up. DRURIOLANUS elected. Uncommonly well he will look
in his robes of office. DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS COUNTI-COUNCILARIUS
SHERIFFUS! All hail!

_Saturday_.--Cannot be present. Have telegraphed to
DRURIOLANUS,--"Dear Sheriff, cannot come; but don't close House; let
Opera go on as usual." I believe it did.

       *       *       *       *       *

SARAH JEANNE AT HIS MAYERJESTY'S.

[Illustration: Sarah Jeanne explains symbolically to rude English
soldier that he must "hook it."]

[Illustration: Back View of New Sarah Jeanne overcoat for race
meetings.]

SARAH JEANNE of Arc. SARAH wrapt up in the visionary creation
is comparatively lost in the part; that is, until she comes out
magnificently in the last scene but one. Otherwise, except to look
the Martyr, and to languish, nothing much for SARAH to do. Cathedral
scene here rivals that at Covent Garden. SARAH wins and thrills the
audience: her voice soothes them in their most ruffled humour, even
after the audience has been kept waiting nearly twenty-five minutes
between the Acts. Everyone disappointed that the funeral pile does
not catch fire, and that the Curtain does not descend on a sensational
scene, for which Captain SHAW and his Merry Men would have to be in
attendance. The cast good all round, but it's more of an Opera, or
a religious play, than a Melodrama. GOUNOD'S music not particularly
striking, and the March sounds familiar. SARAH JEANNE holds the
audience spell-bound to the end, rather by what she doesn't than by
what she does, except in the great scene already mentioned. _Jeanne
d'Arc_ is to run on till further notice, and then Madame SARAH
will appear in some of her well-known parts, and take a temporary
farewell of the British Public. To those who have hitherto neglected
opportunities of seeing SARAH JEANNE let this notice be a warning, and
let them in their thousands hurry up to His Mayerjesty's.

       *       *       *       *       *

"CAN WORMS SEE?"--_Vide St. James's Gazette_ and _Field_.
Correspondent says worms do not shrink from candle-light, but
immediately withdraw under the glare of a bull's-eye lantern.
Evidently for exact information, "Ask a Policeman." Also consult Baron
DE WORMS. He sees his way about well enough.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PRACTICAL MEMENTO.

_Sir James_. "AND WERE YOU IN ROME?"

_American Lady_. "I GUESS NOT." (_To her Daughter_.) "SAY, BELLA,
DID WE VISIT ROME?"

_Fair Daughter_. "WHY, MA, CERT'NLY! DON'T YOU REMEMBER? IT WAS IN
ROME WE BOUGHT THE LISLE-THREAD STOCKINGS!"

_American Lady is convinced_.]

       *       *       *       *       *

"IN TROUBLE."

  "Three Men in a Boat!" And you don't often see
    Pair oars and their cox. in a nastier fix.
  They started all right, did this nautical Three,
    But they've managed to get in no end of a mix.
  That Steersman, he thought a good deal of his Stroke,
    And there seemed scarce a steadier oarsman than Bow,
  But they must have got "skylarking." Ah! it's no joke,
    And the question is what are they going to do now?
  For danger's a-head, and 'twill tax all their skill
  To avoid a capsize and a horrible spill.

  What can they be up to? a gazer might say,
    As he watched their eccentric career from the banks.
  Three 'ARRIES at large on a Bank Holiday
    Could hardly indulge in more blundering pranks.
  Stroke "catches a crab" in the clumsiest style,
    (And they called him a fine finished oarsman, this chap!)
  At his "Catherine-wheeler" a Cockney might smile,
    As he tumbles so helplessly back in Bow's lap.
  And Bow!--well, he's snapped off the blade of his scull,
  And poor Cox's steering-gear's all "in a mull."

  It's all that Stroke's fault--so the whisper goes round.
    He _would_ try new dodges, uncalled-for, unproved,
  They were "going great guns," when he suddenly found
    That, to make himself Champion (and get himself loved
  By the river-side "Bungs" and their large _clientèle_),
    He must--set a new stroke in the midst of a spin--
  A policy plainly predestined to fail,
    And one, we must own, scarce deserving to win.
  And so he has smashed up a shining success,
  And got himself into a deuce of a mess.

  So various voices! And this was the oar
    They triumphantly won from a great rival crew;
  The cool-headed, steady-nerved Stroke, bound to score;
    The fellow who funking or failure ne'er knew.
  _He_ hurry, or falter, catch crabs, miss, or muff?
    No, no; lesser men might--say, GL-DST-NE or SM-TH--
  But _he_ was not made of such common-place stuff,
    His nerve was all steel, and his muscle all pith.
  And now he's adrift amidst snags, stumps, and rooks,
  And the Coxswain has just lost his rudder--poor Cox.!

  And danger's ahead, and the full of the weir
    Sounds close, as that Stroke tumbles "head over tip."
  No wonder poor Bow, his oar bladeless, looks queer.
    No wonder the Steersman his yoke-lines lets slip.
  The Three are "In Trouble," of that there's no doubt;
    Stroke mutters, "Obstruction!" Bow talks of "a foul."
  But when you have muffed it, and foes are about,
    It isn't much use at bad fortune to growl.
  No; Stroke, Bow, and Coxswain must "go it like bricks,"
  If they mean to get out of this troublesome fix.

       *       *       *       *       *

ERRATUM.--_Mr. Punch_ last week paid the Notts' Cricketer, GUNN,
a well-deserved compliment on his great innings of 228 against
the Australians. He _intended_ to represent him as piling-up that
huge score "against the best bowling." The obviously accidental
substitution of the word "batting" for "bowling" here, caused "the
Nottingham Giant" to be credited with a novel cricketing performance,
to which even _he_ would hardly be equal. The proverbial Irish gun
that could "shoot round a corner," would not be "in it" with a GUNN
who could "bat against batting!" As a Correspondent (in slightly
different words) suggests:--

  "When a Champion Batsman's performance extolling,
  'Tis well to distinguish, 'twixt batting and bowling!"

       *       *       *       *       *

EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY.--According to _Mr. Punch's_ sharp contemporary,
the _Lancet_, the effect of bagpipe-playing upon the teeth is to blunt
them; in fact, in course of time, to wear them away. To the auditor
the music has a contrary effect. _Mr. Punch_ is able to say, from
experience, that he has never listened to the National instrument of
Grand Old Scotland without having his teeth set on edge.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "IN TROUBLE."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HINTS FOR THE PARK.

WHY NOT HAVE SOMETHING OF THIS SORT? IT WOULD AT LEAST MAKE THINGS
LESS MONOTONOUS.]

       *       *       *       *       *

TOUTING FOR TOURISTS.

TO THE EDITOR

OF ANY PAPER THAT INSERTS GRATUITOUS ADVERTISEMENTS.

SIR,--Kindly contradict the rumour, which I find is widely spread and
appears to be credited in some quarters, that an extensive sewage
farm has been established in front of the most fashionable terrace in
Slushborough-on-Sea, and that a Smallpox Hospital is about to be built
upon the Pier. "Salubrious Slushborough" still continues (in spite
of the machinations of jealous Northbourne) to be the most select,
popular, and healthy resort on the British coasts.

Yours disinterestedly, THE MAYOR OF SLUSHBOROUGH.


SIR,--A report (proceeding, I have reason, to believe, from
ill-conditioned residents at Slushborough) is being disseminated to
the effect, that the water-supply of Northbourne is largely tainted
with typhus and diphtheria germs, and that an epidemic is already
ravaging this place. As a matter of fact, the only case of illness
of any kind in this town at present is a patient brought over from
Slushborough in the last stage of blood-poisoning, owing to the
defective drainage system there, and who, in this salubrious and
invigorating atmosphere, is now rapidly recovering.

I remain, Yours &c., THE MAYOR OF NORTHBOURNE.


SIR,--In view of the correspondence with regard to the present
condition of our popular seaside resorts, it will, I feel sure,
interest your readers to learn that an examination of the air of
Whitecliffe lately made by a local analyst, reveals the fact that
it contains _fifty-five per cent. more ozone than is to be found on
the top of Mont Blanc!_ I publish this piece of intelligence purely
in the interests of science, and as I am writing I may perhaps take
the opportunity to mention that apartments here are both good and
reasonable, and the bathing first-rate. The same analyst incidentally
discovered that the air at Chorkstone is largely laden with poisonous
bacteria.

Yours truly, THE MAYOR OF WHITECLIFFE.


SIR,--At this time of year, when our glorious Lees are in the full
radiance of their summer beauty, it becomes a mere act of Christian
duty to warn intending holiday-makers to avoid Whitecliffe, and to
select Chorkstone as their place of sojourn instead. An eminent local
medical man asserts that morbiferous germs exist to a very dangerous
degree in the Whitecliffe atmosphere, and that the Whitecliffe water
is rendered almost solid by the multitude of bacilli it contains.
Another Chorkstone resident, who lately visited Whitecliffe, found
the air so relaxing that he fainted away, and had it not been for the
kindness of the landlord of a certain hotel, who had him carried out
of his bar and driven off in a trap to his own home, he believes he
would have succumbed! Comment is needless.

Yours impartially, THE MAYOR OF CHORKSTONE.


SIR,--There is not the slightest foundation for the ridiculous
_canard_ as to the inhabitants of this picturesque and abnormally
fashionable town being "in a state of complete panic, owing to the
fact that all the convicts recently confined at Shortland have broken
out, and are indulging in frightful excesses in the neighbourhood."
The convicts have _not_ broken out; but an epidemic of gratuitous
mendacity has done so, it appears.

Yours indignantly, THE MAYOR OF CURDSMOUTH.

P.S.--Have you heard about the sanitary state of Shutmouth? Shocking!


SIR,--As I hear that it is rumoured that M. PASTEUR has discovered an
entirely new and most dangerous kind of bacillus in the neighbourhood
of pine-trees, perhaps I may mention, in order to reassure our myriads
of intending summer visitors, that the death-rate at this town is
one in ten thousand, and that we should have had _no death-rate at
all last week_, if the one person referred to had not met with an
unfortunate accident. All the Shutmouth doctors are starving.

Yours, THE MAYOR OF SHUTMOUTH.

P.S.--Ought not something to be done to check the mortality at
Curdsmouth? It is disgraceful!

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE RIGHT WHEEL, BARROW!

  CAINE'S action shakes the Unionists' dominion;
    Against it piteous appeals seem vain;
  But 'tis, in his late colleagues' pained opinion,
    _Not_ "the nice conduct of a clouded CAINE!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE SEA! THE SEA!"

A BUSINESS-LIKE BALLAD.

(_PENNED BY MR. PUNCH ON BEHALF OF "NOBODY'S BOYS."_)

    "We propose soon to take our rescued Street-Arabs for
    'A Fortnight's Holiday under Canvas'--_by the sea, if
    possible."--Appeal of Mr. J.W.C. Fegan, of the Boys'
    Home, Southwark_.

[Illustration]

  _Thalatta! Thalatta_! Not XENOPHON'S Greeks, O benevolent Public, but
    "Nobody's Boys,"
  Wild Arabs of London, by tenderness tamed, at the sight of the sea vent
    exuberant joys
  In vociferous shoutings! Imagine the rapture of wrecks from the gutter
    and waifs from the slum,
  When first on their ears falls the jubilant thrill of the sky-soaring
    lark, or the wild bee's low hum!
  Imagine the pleasure of plunging at will into June's leafy copses of
    hazel and lime,
  Of scudding through acres of grasses knee-high, and of snuffing the
    fragrance of clover and thyme.
  But what is all this to the dumb-stricken wonder, swift followed by
    outbursts of full-throated glee,
  Which fancy can picture, when London's pale outcasts from some grassy
    cliff catch first sight of the Sea!
  _Thalatta! Thalatta_! There's many a lad who has never before had a
    glimpse of the wave;
  For these are of those who, from London's dark wastes 'tis the aim of
    their leaders to rescue and save.
  "Nobody's Boys," the lost waifs of the city, foredoomed, but for aid,
    to debasement and crime,
  Possible gallows-birds,--they with wan faces late cleansed from the
    rookery's hideous grime,
  Snatched from the gutter whilst boyhood bears hope with it, gathered and
    tended with vigilant care.
  Servants of soul-thrift their volunteer champions! Weeds of the slum,
    with fresh soil and sweet air,
  Grow into grace and fair fruitage. These pariahs, "Southwark Boys,"
    strays from the slime-sodden east,
  FEGAN takes forth in gay troops to the meadows, in freshness of nature to
    frolic and feast,
  Climb in the woodlands and plunge in the waters, ramble and scramble
    through tangle-hedged lanes,
  Fish in the pools with youth's primitive tackle, breathe quickening
    vigour through bosoms and brains.
  Picture the boys "camping out" on the commons, and gipsying gaily in
    tents midst the heather,
  Armed with their canvas and blankets and boilers and pannikins well
    against hunger and weather.
  Picture them--CALLOT'S free brush might have managed it--gathered in
    pow-wow around the camp-fire,
  Sun-tanned and wind-browned, in picturesque raiment, with wisp of the
    wild hop or trail of the briar
  Hat-wreathed or button-holed. BURNS should have sung of them;
    trim-skirted Muse, with punctilious tastes,
  Were not at home with these waifs from the rookery, pastured at large
    in free Nature's wild wastes,
  Bounding, and breathing fresh air, romping, wrestling, and disciplined
    only to cleanness and order.
  Otherwise free as the tent-dwelling Arabs, or outlaws of Sherwood, or
    bands of the Border.
  Picture it! FEGAN'S pink pamphlet _has_ pictured it. Read it, all lovers
    of Nature and youth,
  All who have care for the wrecks of humanity, all who are moved by the
    spirit of ruth.
  Ere Spring returns, far Canadian homesteads will house their contingents
    of "Nobody's Boys."
  Let them take with them kind thoughts of Old England, and memories sweet
    of its rare rural joys.
  Let them "camp out" once again, by the ocean, and plunge in the billow,
    and rove on the sands;
  Know the true British brine-whiff by experience. Help, British Public,
    their friends' kindly hands.
  Good is the work, and the fruit of it excellent; giving poor wastrels a
    fair start in life,
  Taste of true pleasure, and wholesome enjoyment, aid in endeavour, and
    strength for the strife.
  What better use for spare cash at this season? Come then, _Punch_
    readers, right willingly come!
  _Mr. Punch_ knows scarce a cause more deserving, or worthy of aid, than
    the Southwark Boys' Home!

_Mem_.--Mr. J.W.C. FEGAN, of the Boys' Home, Southwark, the writer of
the pleasant pamphlet entitled _Camping Out_, makes appeal towards
the expenses of giving "a fortnight's holiday under canvas--_by the
sea, if possible_"--to the waifs and strays in Mr. FEGAN'S Homes.
To that gentleman, and NOT to _Mr. Punch_, subscriptions should be
sent. Remittances may be made to him (by P.O.O., payable at General
Post-Office, or by cheque crossed "London and County Bank") at the
Boys' Home, 95, Southwark Street, London, S.E.

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, June 23_.--A gleam of glory in sombre
chamber of the Peers; a thin streak of red making its devious way
between the table and the Benches. At the head comes Black Rod, giving
some relief to the glittering spectacle; Garter King-at-Arms, without
whom British Constitution would be a vain thing, follows. Then the
Prince of WALES, looking a trifle anxious; is bringing out his son
and heir to take his place in the hereditary chamber; anxious that
all should go well. Next the new Duke of CLARENCE, looking very well
in his new Peer's robes, on which his fair mother, seated with her
daughter in side galleries, casts approving glance. Then the Duke
of EDINBURGH, with the stalwart Hereditary Grand Marshal, Jockey o'
Norfolk, and Aveland, Lord Great Chamberlain.

Procession strolled in in quite casual way; passed Woolsack to which
HALSBURY lent grace and dignity; New Peer handed his credentials
to LOBD CHANCELLOR; but HALSBURY, above all things, man of cautious
habits. No doubt everything was right and in order; presence of Prince
of WALES guarantee of it; but HALSBURY not to be taken in. All very
well, but all in due order. So new Peer taken charge of by the Reading
Clerk; Procession moved on to table; documents mumbled over; oath
taken; roll signed. New Peer turned to look at LORD CHANCELLOR;
decidedly more friendly; haughty, forbidding, distrustful look,
vanished from his ordinarily genial countenance. Young Peer encouraged
to venture on friendly nod; LORD CHANCELLOR in response, lifted
three-cornered hat, and on replacing it, was observed to cock it
slightly on one side. Procession now moved on towards doorway by side
of Throne, where was set three chairs.

"A little slow isn't it, Sir," said Duke of CLARENCE to H.R.H.;
"suppose we sit down here a bit; Black Rod will go and fetch us
a flagon of Malmsey wine; am told they always keep a butt on the
premises for stray Dukes."

"No Malmsey for you, CLARENCE," said the Gracious Parent; "but if
you'd like to sit down a moment, you may."

So new Peer sat in middle chair, Father and Uncle anxiously regarding
him. LORD CHANCELLOR slewed round on Woolsack to see what was going
on behind him. New Peer, making himself quite at home, put on hat;
finding LORD CHANCELLOR staring at him, uplifted it; LORD CHANCELLOR
did same with his. Duke tried it again; LORD CHANCELLOR, comically
half turned round on the Woolsack, followed suit.

"Do it a third time, CLARENCE," whispered H.R.H., entering into fun
of thing. So the new Peer, always with his eyes gravely fixed on LORD
CHANCELLOR, who, in the excitement of the moment, had got his left leg
cocked over the Woolsack, did it a third time; LORD CHANCELLOR did the
same; Princesses in the Gallery sweetly smiling; Garter King-at-Arms
totting off the number of salutes; and Black Rod thanking his stars
that presently, when they left the House, he could walk face forward,
not as when he visited the Commons, walking backward like a crab.

"I think that'll do," said H.R.H. "HALSBURY is in very uncomfortable
attitude; besides this is a sort of game that palls after the third
round. Go and say good-bye to HALSBURY, and we'll go and have a cup
of tea with your mother."

Procession reformed; New Peer led up to Woolsack, where LORD
CHANCELLOR, with little gesture of surprise, as if he had only now
caught sight of him for first time, shook hands with him. Prince of
Wales lifted his cap to LORD CHANCELLOR; LORD CHANCELLOR lifted his
cap to Prince of WALES; the other Princes followed suit; Black Rod
toddled off; and the gay and gorgeous procession disappeared through
the doorway, leaving the Chamber in sudden twilight, as if the sun had
dipped below the horizon.

An exceedingly friendly meeting all round; quite contagious.

[Illustration: "Toby, M.P., I presume?"]

"TOBY, M.P., I presume?" said BROADHURST, as I walked out. He had
been looking on, and had quite caught the graceful manner of the LORD
CHANCELLOR. I raised my hat three times, and went on to the Commons,
where there were wigs on the Green.

_Business done_.--In Commons, Compensation Clauses withdrawn.

_Tuesday_.--TIM HEALY puts final spoke in wheel of Compensation Bill.
Rose after questions on paper disposed of, and asked for ruling of
SPEAKER on an important point affecting Parliamentary Procedure. TIM'S
manner boded ill for the Government--deferential, low-voiced, with
total absence of self-assertion or aggression, TIM stood, the very
model of a modest young man.

"Yes," said Prince ARTHUR, "but I hope he's not going to say anything
about Irish business. When he's in this mood, I prefer he should
address himself to my dear friend JOKIM."

[Illustration: _Right Hon. A. Balfour_. "My dearest Tim, 'for this
relief much thanks!'"]

TIM had anticipated Prince ARTHUR'S wishes. It _was_ about
Compensation Bill that he desired to consult SPEAKER. JOKIM, as
last turn in devious course, had proposed to dodge difficulty
about Compensation by accumulating proceeds of increased till
some indefinite period, when great reform of Licensing should be
introduced. "But," says TIM, almost begging pardon for interposing,
"in Budget Bill it has been specifically decreed that proceeds of
tax should be appropriated during present Session." Accumulation, TIM
urged, with a vague notion that he was dropping into poetry, is not
Appropriation. SPEAKER agreed with him: consternation on Treasury
Bench; Ministers tried to put bold face on affairs; could not discuss
question now; would do so by-and-by; confident they could show there
was nothing in TIM'S objection. An hour later, when time came to
resume Committee on Compensation Bill, OLD MORALITY announced that
it would be postponed to give Ministers opportunity to consider point
suggested by TIM. Shout of exultation went up from Opposition Benches:
prolonged fight had been won at last; the obnoxious Bill was floored,
and TIM had done it.

OLD MORALITY, standing at table in attitude where natural nobility of
character struggled with accidental depression, said: "Success, Mr.
SPEAKER, is a mark no mortal wit of surest hand can always hit. For
whatsoe'er we perpetrate, we do but row; we are steered by fate, which
in success often disinherits, for spurious causes, noblest merits.
Great occasions, Mr. SPEAKER, are not always true sons of great and
mighty resolutions, nor, I may add, do the boldest attempts bring
forth events still equal to their worth. That may be the case with
us; but at least we shall carry to our homes the consciousness that we
have diligently striven to do our duty to our QUEEN and our country."
General cheering at this little speech, and scarcely dry eye on
Treasury Bench.

_Business done_.--Compensation Bill in fresh difficulties.

_Thursday_.--Sitting remarkable for two speeches from ordinarily
silent Members. Began and ended proceedings. First was by WHARTON, on
presenting petition signed by over half a million persons in favour of
Compensation Clauses of Licensing Bill. Petition brought down in three
cases by PICKFORD'S van. Conveniently disposed on floor of House;
occupied the whole space. Perturbation on Treasury Bench at the report
that there was Royal Commission going forward in other House. Time
of the Session when these are frequent. Black Rod arrives; requests
attendance of Members to hear Commission read. Advances towards table,
bowing to chair; retires backward; SPEAKER follows him. How would it
be to-day, with floor blocked with towering cases? Black Rod an old
sailor, might haul himself up hand-over-hand, and skip across tops
of cases; but never do for the SPEAKER so to scramble out. Hasty and
anxious inquiry made. Turned out to be no Royal Commission to-day; so
new disaster for Ministers avoided.

WHARTON succeeds somehow when presenting Petition in casting sort
of Cathedral Close air over proceedings. Life-long association with
cathedrals and their precincts have invested him with placid charm
of manner: would have made an excellent Dean; gone off capitally as a
Canon; now, as he waves his hand towards the space lately crowded by
the Petition, wears subtle, indescribable, but unmistakable air, as if
he were taking part in a Confirmation Service.

[Illustration: A Maiden Speech.]

The other orator, GRIMSTON, considerably less ecclesiastical in his
manner. Appeared suddenly on scene at midnight: maiden speech; very
effective. "Mr. COURTNEY, Sir," he said, diffidently hiding his hands
in his trousers' pockets, "I claim the indulgence the House always
extends to young Members, in rising to address it for the first time.
I beg to move that the question be now put," Question put accordingly;
debate Closured, and so home.

_Business done_.--Quite a lot. Licensing Clauses finally dropped;
Allotments Bill read Third Time; Barracks Bill through Committee.

_Friday_.--Police in possession of House to-night. MATTHEWS moved
Second Reading of Bill dealing with Force. Quite unusual consensus
of approval, considering it is a Government Bill. Only for GEORGE
CAMPBELL, chorus would have been unanimous. But GEORGE, looking
in from Zanzibar, where he had called after a brief trip through
Jerusalem and Madagascar, denounced the measure as "thoroughly bad."
House thereupon passed Second Reading without division.

_Business done_.--Police Bill read Second Time.

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[Illustration: _From Report of Debate on Hares Preservation Bill, June
26_.--"They (the other Members of Parliament) could not go out and
kill 300 Dodos,"--but evidently _he_ (Sir W.V. HARCOURT) could, and
here he is--caught in the act!]

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"The Oof Bird" is the Auk, as _Cornhill Mag._ says its eggs cost £170
apiece,--of course when fresh. What a big lark!--Yours, 'ARRY.

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