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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.



May 28, 1892.




VENICE RESERVED.

(_A SKETCH FROM A NUMBERED STALL AT OLYMPIA._)

On the Stage, the Scene represents "A Public Place before the
Arsenal," where a number of artisans are apparently busily engaged
in making horse-shoes on cold anvils in preparation for the launch
of "_The Adriatica_." On extreme R. enter _Antonio_, who expresses
commercial embarrassment by going through a sort of dumb-bell exercise
on a bridge. On extreme L. enter _Bassanio_, _Lorenzo_, and _Antonio_,
who observe, with mild surprise, that there are several other persons
present, and proceed to point out objects of local interest to one
another with the officious amiability of persons in the foreground
of hotel advertisements. (_Here a Small Boy in a box, who has an
impression he is going to see a Pantomime, inquires audibly "when
the Clown Part will begin?" and has to be answered and consoled._)
_Bassanio_ perceives _Antonio_ afar off, and advances towards him with
stately deliberation, throwing out signals with one arm at intervals;
_Antonio_ goes to meet him; they shake each other by both hands with
affectionate cordiality, and then turn their backs on one another,
as though, on reflection, they found they had less to say than they
had imagined. Presently _Bassanio_ recollects why he wanted to see
_Antonio_ so particularly, and, by describing a circle in the air,
and pointing from the electric lights above to the balcony stalls in
front, and tapping his belt, puts _Antonio_ at once in possession of
his chronic impecuniosity, his passion for _Portia_, and his need for
a small temporary loan. _Antonio_ curls up his fists, raises them to
the level of his ears, and then pretends to take his heart out of
his doublet and throw it at _Bassanio_, who fields it with graceful
dexterity, instantly comprehending with Italian intuition that his
friend is, like himself, rather pressed for ready money, but is
prepared to back a bill for any amount. _Shylock_ passes that way,
and is introduced by _Antonio_ as a gentleman in the city who is in
the habit of making advances on personal security without inquiry.
_Shylock_ extracts imaginary ink from his chest, and writes with
one hand on the palm of the other, and cringingly produces a
paper-knife--whereupon the transaction is complete, and the parties,
becoming aware that a Grand Triumphal Procession is waiting to come
in, and that they are likely to be in the way, tactfully suggest
to one another the propriety of retiring. After the Procession,
_Valentina_, "the lovely daughter of the proud _Visconti_" embarks
on a barge with her maidens to meet her betrothed.

(_In the Stalls, a Lady with a Catalogue, who hasn't been here before,
mistakes this proceeding for "The Launch of the Adriatica," but is
set right by a friend who has, and is consequently able to inform her
that_ Valentina _is_ Portia _on her way to plead against_ Shylock.)

[Illustration: "Signals to Portia that it is not such an amusing game
as he thought."]

A mimic battle takes place on a bridge--i.e., rival factions shake
their fists with prudent defiance over one another's shoulders.
(_An Old Lady in the Balcony, who has been watching this desperate
encounter, finds that she has missed a very important Scene between_
Shylock _and_ Jessica _at the other end of the stage, and remorsefully
resolves to be more observant in future, as the Scene changes to
"Portia's Palatial Home."_) _Portia_ enters (_the Lady in the Stalls,
who has been here before, tells her companion that_ Portia's _dress
was "lovely when it was clean_"), and greets her guests by extending
both arms and inviting them to inspect the palms of her hands, thereby
intimating that the abundance of canopied recesses, and the absence of
any furniture to sit down upon, is due to the fact that the apartment
has been recently cleared for a parlour game. The company express a
well-bred gratification by bowing. Enter the _Prince of Morocco (who
is of course identified by various Spectators in the Stalls without
Catalogues as_ "Othello," _or "the Duke of Thingumbob_--you _know the
chap I mean_"), followed by his retinue; he kisses _Portia's_ hand,
as she explains to him, the _Prince of Arragon_, and _Bassanio_, the
rules of the game in three simple gestures. They reply, by flourishes,
that they have frequently played it at home, and promise faithfully
not to cheat. The three caskets are brought in and placed on a table;
the _Prince of Morocco_ is the first player, and walks towards them
very slowly, stopping at every ten paces and signalling to _Portia_
that he is all right so far, and that she is not to be at all uneasy
on his account. On coming in sight of the caskets, he pauses and turns
to the audience, as if it had only just occurred to him that the
odds were two to one against him, and he must be careful. Presently
he jerks his right arm above his head and strikes his forehead, to
indicate a happy thought, rushes at the golden casket, opens it, and
slams the lid disgustedly. After which he signals to _Portia_ that
it is not such an amusing game as he thought, and he doesn't mean
to play any more, beckons to his retinue and goes off, throwing his
cloak over his shoulder with a gesture of manly and not unnatural
annoyance. The _Prince of Arragon_ tries the silver casket next, with
similar unsuccess. Then _Bassanio_--with an elaborate pretence of
uncertainty, considering he can hardly have helped witnessing the
proceedings--advances to the caskets, in front of which he performs
a little mental calculation, finally arriving at the conclusion that,
as the portrait is not in the gold and silver boxes, it may not
improbably be in the leaden one. He actually _does_ find it there, and
exhibits it to _Portia_ with extreme astonishment, as if it was quite
the _last_ thing he expected. Then he advances to meet her, comparing
her frequently with the picture, and expressing his approval of it
as a likeness, and his determination to be taken by the same artist.
Mutual satisfaction, interrupted by the arrival of a gondola with
a letter from _Antonio_. To read it and impart its contents and the
entire history of the bond to _Portia_, by a semicircular sweep of the
arm and sounding his chest, takes _Bassanio_ exactly two seconds and
a half, after which he departs in the gondola, and the scene changes
to the Piazzetta, where a variety of exciting events--including the
Trial, a Musical Ballet, and a Call to Arms--take place, culminating
in the embarkation of Venetian soldiers to recapture Chioggia, in
three highly ornamental but slightly unseaworthy barges, as the
Curtain falls on Act I.

Interval of Fifteen Minutes, spent by some of the lady spectators in
speculation whether the dark and light patches on the blue curtains
are due to design or the action of damp. After which the Fortress
of Chioggia is disclosed, with a bivouac of the Genoese garrison.
A bevy of well-meaning maidens enter with fruit and vegetables for
the military, but, on the discovery that their wares are properties,
and too firmly glued to the baskets to be detached, they retire in
confusion. A small sail is seen behind the battlements; the soldiers
poke at it with halberds until it retreats, whereupon, soldier-like,
they dance. The sail returns with a still smaller one; red fire is
burnt under the walls, which so demoralises the Genoese soldiery that
they all tumble down with precaution, and the Venetians burst in and
stand over them in attitudes as the scene changes to an Island near
Venice and a Grand Aquatic Procession. (_Here intelligent Spectators
in the Stalls identify the first four pairs of gondolas,--which
are draped respectively in icicles, pale green, rose-colour, and
saffron,--as typifying the Seasons; another pair come in draped in
violet, which they find some difficulty in satisfactorily accounting
for. When two more appear hung with white and gold with a harp and
palette at the prows, they grow doubtful, and the entrance of the two
last couples, which carry shrines and images, reduces them to hopeless
mystification. The Small Boy wishes to know whether anybody will be
upset in the water, and being told that this is not a fixture in the
entertainment, conceives a poor opinion of the capacity of Mediæval
Venice for lighthearted revelry._)

Terrace near Portia's Palace, _Portia_, _Bassanio_ and the _Doge_
discovered enjoying a pasteboard banquet.

(_A Lady in the Stalls "wonders whether it is correct to represent_
Portia _as knowing a Doge so intimately as all that," and doubts
whether it is in Shakspeare._)

The supper-table is removed, and the proceedings terminate by a Grand
Al Fresco Carnival. Ladies of the ballet dance bewitchingly, while
soldiers play at Bo-Peep behind enormous red hoops. Finally the
entire strength of the ballet link arms in one immense line, and
simultaneously execute a wonderful chromatic kick, upon which the
blue draperies descend amidst prolonged and thoroughly well-deserved
applause from a delighted audience.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GRACE-LESS!

_Nursery Governess._ "NOW, ETHEL, SAY YOUR GRACE, LIKE A GOOD LITTLE
GIRL!"

_Ethel._ "SHAN'T!"

_Nursery Governess._ "OH, ETHEL! DON'T YOU KNOW IT'S VERY NAUGHTY NOT
TO BE THANKFUL, AND FOR SUCH A NICE PUDDING TOO?"

_Ethel._ "I WOULD BE THANKFUL, BUT"--(_much distressed_)--"I CAN'T
FINISH IT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE (POLITICAL) LADY-CRICKETERS.

(_A COLLOQUY NEAR THE NETS._)

    [At the meeting of the Women's Liberal Federation the
    following "operative mandatory resolution" was carried:--"That
    in pursuance of the resolution passed in May 1890, the
    Council now instructs the Executive Committee that they shall
    promote the enfranchisement of women, including the local
    and parliamentary votes for all women, who possess any of the
    legal qualifications enabling them to vote, among the other
    Liberal reforms now before the Country, whilst not making it
    a test question at the approaching Election."]

    SCENE--_"At the Nets" on the St. Stephen's Cricket Ground.
    "The Champion" has been practising in the interval, prior
    to playing in the Great Match of the Season, "Unionists v.
    Home-Rulers." Various admiring Volunteers of both sexes have
    been "scouting" for him._

_First Admiring Bystander._ By Jove, that was a slashing hit! What
powder he puts into it, eh? At _his_ age too!

_Second A.B._ Oh, the Grand Old 'Un's in great form this season. Like
'tother W.G., who's just back from the Antipodes and, at forty-four,
can knock up his sixty-three in sixty-five minutes. There he goes
again, clean over all the "scouts"!

_First A.B._ Oh! he gives 'em plenty to do, "in the country." Keeps
'em on the shift, eh?

_Second A.B._ Bless you, yes. Why a hit like that, _run out_, would be
worth seven to his side-_in_ a match!

_First A.B._ (_knowingly_). Ah, but I notice that _in a match_ these
tremendous swipes don't always come off, don'tcher-know. I've seen
some tremendous sloggers at the nets make a wonderful poor show when
between wickets with a watchful "field" round 'em.

_Second A.B._ (_with candour_). Ah, quite so, of course. Everyone must
have noticed that. With a demon bowler in front of yer sending 'em
down like hundred-tonners, and a blarmed cat of a wicket-keeper on the
grab just at your back, not to mention a pouncer at point, it puzzles
the best of them to get 'em away, though "in a position of greater
freedom and less responsibility," practising at the nets, to wit, with
only the ground-bowler and a few scouts fielding, they may punish 'em
properly.

_First A.B._ Ah, well, one must allow that the Champion plays the game
right away all the time.

_Second A B._ Yea. Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale his
infinite variety. Wonderful, all the same, what perversely bad hits
he will persist in making, at times. Does things now and again you'd
think a school-girl with a bat would be ashamed of.

_First A.B._ Ah, by the way, what do you think of these here
new-fangled Lady-Cricketers?

_Second A.B._ (_significantly_). Ask the Old 'Un what _he_ thinks of
'em.

_First A.B._ Ah! can't abide 'em, can he? And yet he likes the Ladies
to look on and applaud, and even to field for him at times.

_Second A.B._ Yes; the Ladies have been good friends of his, and now
he'd bar them from the legitimate game. I fancy it's put their backs
up a bit, eh?

_First A.B._ You bet! And it _do_ seem ray-ther ongrateful like, don't
it now? Though as fur as that goes _I_ don't believe Cricket's a game
for the petticoats.

_Second A.B._ Nor me neither. But bless yer they gets their foot in
in everything now; tennis, and golf, and rowing and cetrer. And if you
let 'em in at all, for your own pleasure, I don't quite see how you're
going to draw the line arbitrary like just where it suits _you_, as
the Grand Old Slogger seems to fancy.

_First A.B._ No; and, if you ask me, I say they won't stand it, even
from _him._ "No," says they, "fair's fair," they says. "All very well
to treat us like volunteer scouts at a country game, or at the nets,
returning the balls whilst you slog and show off. But when we want
to put on the gloves and pads, and take a hand at the bat in a
businesslike way, you boggle, and hint that it's degrading, unsexing,
and all that stuff."

_Second A.B._ Ah, _that_ won't wash. If it unsexes 'em to bat, it
unsexes 'em to scout. And if the old cricketing gang didn't want
the Ladies between wickets, why, they shouldn't have let em into the
field, _I_ say. Strikes me Lady CARLISLE'll show 'em a thing or two.
That "operative mandatory resolution" of hers means mischief--_after_
the next big match anyhow. "Ladies wait, and wait a bit more, wait
in truth till the day after to-morrow." Yes; but they won't wait for
ever.

_First A.B._ Not they. Why, look yonder! There's one of 'em in full
fig. Lady-Cricketer from cap to shoes--short skirt, knickers, belt,
blouse, gloves, and all the rest of it. D'ye think that sort means
volunteer scouting only? Not a bit of it. Mean playing the game, Sir,
and having regular teams of their own.

_Second A.B._ Look at her! She's a speaking to the Grand Old Champion
himself!

_First A.B._ Giving him a bit of her mind, you bet. What's that she's
saying?

_Second A.B._ Why, that she admires his style immensely, and doesn't
want to spoil his game; but that, _after_ the next great All England
Match, if not sooner, they mean to have a team of their own and go in
for the game all round!

_First A.B._ Ah, what did I say?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE POLITICAL LADY-CRICKETERS.

_Lady Cricketer._ "A TEAM OF OUR OWN? I SHOULD THINK SO! IF WE'RE GOOD
ENOUGH TO SCOUT FOR YOU, WHY SHOULDN'T WE TAKE A TURN AT THE BAT?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

NO. X.--THE DUFFER ON THE TURF.

"A horse for a protection is a deceitful thing," as the Scotch
translator of KING DAVID has it, and I entirely agree with him. I
rather wish to be protected from a horse, than expect any succour
from a creature so large, muscular and irrational. Far from being
"courageous," as his friends say, the horse (I am not speaking of the
war-horse) is afraid of almost everything, that is why I am afraid
of him. He is a most nervous animal, and I am a nervous rider. He is
afraid of a bicycle or a wheel-barrow, which do not alarm the most
timid bipeds, and when he is afraid he shies, and when he shies I no
longer remain. Irrational he is, or he would not let people ride him,
however, I never met a horse that would let _me_ do so. It is with the
horse as an instrument of gambling that I am concerned. In that sense
I have "backed" him, in no other sense to any satisfactory result.
With all his four legs he stumbles more than one does with only
a pair, an extraordinary proof of his want of harmony with his
environment.

I was beguiled on to the Turf by winning a small family
sweepstakes--£3 in fact. A sporting cousin told me that I had better
"put it on _Cauliflower_," who was the favourite for The City and
Suburban. He put it on _Cauliflower_ for me, and we won, so that a
career of easy opulence seemed open. Then I took to backing horses,
a brief madness. I read all the sporting papers, and came to the
conclusion that the prophets are naught. If you look at their
vaticinations, you will find that they all select their winners out
of the first four favourites. Anybody could do that. Now the first
four favourites do not by any means always win, and, when they do,
how short are the odds you get--hardly worth mentioning! Horses
occasionally win with odds of forty to one against them, _these_ are
the animals of which I was in search, not the hackneyed favourites
of the Press and the Public. This, I think you will find, is usually
the attitude of the Duffer, who, in my time, was known, I cannot say
why, as the "Juggins." I liked to bring a little romance into my
speculations. Often I have backed a horse for his name, for something
curious, or literary, or classical about his name. _Xanthus_, or
_Podargus_, or _Phäeton_, or _Lampusa_ has often carried my investment
to an inconspicuous position in the ruck. Another plan of mine, which
I believe every Duffer adopts, was backing my dreams--those horses of
air. About the time of the Derby one always reads about lucky persons
who backed a dream. But one does not read about the unlucky persons
who take the same precaution. Several millions of people in this
country read, talk, and think about nothing but racehorses. When the
Socialists have their way, may I advise them to keep up Government or
communal racing studs and stables? What the betting is to be done in,
if there is no money (which is contemplated as I understand), is not
obvious. But the people will insist on having races, and what is a
race without a bet? However, these considerations wander from the
subject in hand. With a fourth of the population thinking about
horses, a large proportion must dream about horses. Out of these
dreams, perhaps one in one hundred and fifty thousand comes true, and
about that dream we read in the papers. We don't read about the other
dreams, such as mine were, for I have dreamed of winning numbers,
winning colours, winning horses, but my dreams came all through the
Ivory Gate, and my money followed them.

[Illustration: "Yet here I was finally unsuccessful."]

I don't pretend to be a judge of a horse; except for their colour they
all seem pretty much alike to me. Nor did I haunt race-courses much,
people there are often very unrefined, and the Ring is extremely
noisy and confusing. Once I heard a man offering to lay considerable
odds against the Field, and I offered in a shy and hesitating manner,
to accept them. He asked me what horse I backed? I said none in
particular, the Field at large, all of them, for really the odds
seemed very remarkable. But he did not accede to my wishes, and
continued to shout in rather a discourteous manner. Once, too, when I
had won some money, I lost it all on the way back, at a simple sort of
game of cards, not nearly so complex and difficult as whist. One need
only to say which of three cards, in the dealer's hand, was the card
one had chosen. Yet here I was finally unsuccessful, though fortunate
at first, and I am led to suppose that some kind of sleight of hand
had been employed; or, perhaps, that the card of my choice had in some
manner been smuggled away. However, once on a racecourse I saw a horse
which I fancied on his merits. He looked very tall and strong, and was
of a pretty colour, also he had a nice tail. He was hardly mentioned
in the betting, and I got "on" at seventy to one, very reasonable
odds. I backed him then, and he won, with great apparent ease, for his
jockey actually seemed to be holding him in, rather than spurring him
in the regrettable way which you sometimes see. But when I went to
look for the person with whom I had made my bet, I was unable to find
him anywhere, and I have never met him since. He had about him ten
pounds, the amount of my bet, which he had insisted on receiving as
a deposit, "not necessarily for publication," he said, "but as a
guarantee of good faith." Race-courses are crowded, confusing places,
and I doubt not, that so scrupulous a man was also looking for me.
But we have never met. If this meets his eye, probably he will send a
cheque for £700 to the office of _Mr. Punch_. I have often regretted
the circumstance, as it was my most fortunate _coup_ on the Turf, and
above all, reflected credit on my judgment of a horse.

Conversing afterwards with a friend on this event, I expressed
surprise that _my_ horse had not been a favourite, considering his
agreeable exterior.

"Why, you Juggins," he answered, "_Rumtifoo_ was a moral--everybody
knew _that_; but everybody knew he wasn't meant; he was being kept
for the Polehampton Stakes. He only won because he got the better of
little BOTHERBY, his jockey, who couldn't hold him. Why, the crowd
nearly murdered him, and his master sacked him on the spot--the little
idiot!"

I do not quite understand this explanation. Poor _Rumtifoo was_
"moral," like the "moral mare" mentioned by ARISTOTLE in the _Ethics_.
He did his best to win, and he did win; what else can you ask for in a
horse?

There is, apparently, more in horse-racing than meets the eye. I am
not addicted to remembering much about the "previous performances" of
horses, as some men are, who will tell you that _Cynic_ was third in
the Kelso Hunt Cup for last year, and that you ought to keep an eye
on him for the Ayrshire Handicap. But I have remarked that horses are
not like men; they do not always run almost equally well, though the
conditions of the race seem similar. No doubt this is owing to the
nervousness of the animal, who may be discouraged by the noise, the
smell of bad tobacco, and so forth.

I have given up Racing. That was after last year's Ascot meeting. I
was staying at a country house, some days before, and somehow I lost
my betting-book. It is really extraordinary how things do get lost.
Perhaps I left it in a railway carriage. Afterwards I tried to put
my bets, as far as I could remember them, down on a large sheet of
paper, and I think I got it very nearly right. But I left the paper
lying about in the library in a very interesting first edition of
_Plotinus_, I believe, and either the housemaid burned it, or my host
threw it into the waste-paper basket. At all events, it was lost,
and I have no head for figures, and things got mixed somehow. The
book-maker's recollection of the circumstances was not the same as
mine. But I began quite a fresh book, on imaginative principles, on
the course. I had not a good Ascot. And as Racing gives me a headache,
and I seldom meet any people on the Turf who are at all interested in
the same things as myself, I have given it up for good. They say I am
a good deal regretted by the Ring. It is always pleasant to remember
having made a favourable impression.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.

_Monday, May 16._--Sound the trumpets, Beat the drums! All Hail to
Sir DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS, the most successful Knight of the Season!
A brilliant audience in a brilliant house lighted by thousands of
additional electric lights, acclaimed with rapture the awakening
of Opera. _Philémon et Baucis_ began it, a work by GOUNOD (which
is not intended for swearing) of great sweetness and light; and
this was followed by PIETRO MASCAGNI's _Cavalleria Rusticana_,
"Rustic Chivalry," which might be epigrammatically described as a
"Clod-hoppera." _Philémon et Baucis_ is charming. M. MONTARIOL was a
capital _Philémon_, and Mlle. SIGRID ARNOLDSEN as _Baucis_, a sort of
classical Little Bo-peep, received a hearty welcome on her return to
the Covent Garden House and Home. M. PLANÇON was the thoroughly French
_Jupin_, and M. CASTELMARY an amiable _Vulcan_; both most accomplished
Divines. Altogether, a perfect quartette. The graceful _intermezzo_
only escaped an _encore_ because the knowing ones among the gods and
groundlings felt that too much enthusiasm at first might do serious
damage to the subsequent reception of the great _intermezzo_ of the
evening. All on _qui vive_ for great _intermezzo_. Anticipations of
event heard in the lobbies. Anxiety depicted on some countenances, but
most features looking happy and hopeful. The members of what was once
known as "the Organising Committee" nod encouragingly to one another
as they pass to and fro; the officials and _habitués_ exchange
greetings without any expression of opinion. Sir DRURIOLANUS
does not issue forth until the right moment, when he can shut up
his opera-glass with a click, and give the word to Field-Marshal
MANCINELLI to lead his men to the attack. For the present, "Wait" is
the _mot d'ordre_, "and this," quoth a jig-maker, "is the only weight
in the entire entertainment."

[Illustration: The Good and Great Archbishop Druriolanus
Coventgardenus giving his Chorus Flock permission to use Palms on
Easter Sunday. Quite "the palmy days" of the Opera.]

Up goes the Curtain, and those who remember the _Cavalleria_ as it
was put on "in another place," to use parliamentary language, see
at the first glance that this representation is going to be quite
another pair of shoes. The stage management is admirable: not a
second without movement, and every movement with a motive--musical
or dramatic, or both. Madame CALVÉ's _Santuzza_ is operatically and
histrionically--but especially the latter--a triumph; and "this is the
verdict of us all." GIULIA RAVOGLI makes a great part of _Lola_; the
many-talented little Mlle. BAUERMEISTER's _Lucia_ is not quite up to
her own _Marta_ in _Faust_. As for the men, the singing and the acting
of Signor DE LUCIA as _Turiddu_ (ye gods! what a name!), and of Mons.
DUFRICHE as _Alfio_ cannot be surpassed.

But--stop--the tremendous row (a quarrel quite representative of
Whitechapel in Italy, and suggesting to some of us what Signor
Coster CHEVALIER might do if this Opera were Londonised) between
_Turiddu-de-Lucia_ and _Santuzza-Calvé_ is over, the latter has
denounced her former lover, there is thunder in the air--the
atmosphere is heavy with fate--and the stage is clear. Then comes
the _intermezzo_, foreboding ill, presaging tragedy,--magnificent!
And as MANCINELLI bows from his seat, acknowledges the thunder of
applause--this was the thunder in the atmosphere--and pulls his forces
together again to repeat and emphasize the triumph--DRURIOLANUS shuts
up his lorgnette, beams on the world around, and murmurs to himself,
"Waterloo is won!" Decides thereupon to give the same performance on
Thursday, and does so, with repetition of triumph.

Now one word as to a picturesque detail. The action takes place on
Easter Sunday, not on Palm Sunday; but Archbishop DRURIOLANUS has
issued a pastoral melody dispensing his flock from the usual custom,
and allowing them to have the palms distributed on Easter Sunday, for
the sake of the show. "_Palmam qui meruit ferat_,"--and well does each
one of the Chorus deserve his or her palm. And do not those in front
who are nervous as to splitting their glove-seams, also bare their
palms to applaud this Opera? Why certainly. Truly, Sir DRURIOLANUS
ARCHIEPISCOPUS DISPENSATOR, well hast thou inaugurated the palmy days
of this Opera Season.

_Friday_.--_Faust_ selected because alliteration in _Faust_ and
Friday. A trifle, but as DRURIOLANUS says, "The world is governed
by trifles." Wise saw this, with practical modern instance. VAN
DYCK looking like a Rembrandt, a Faust-rate _Faust_, and Miss EMMA
EAMES a charming _Marguerite_, Mons. PLANÇON's _Mephistopheles à la
Française_. Mons. CESTE good as _Valentine_. _À propos_ of _Valentine
_ and his soldiers, why do the army and their friends who come
to welcome them, invariably _turn their backs_ on the triumphal
procession, taking no sort of interest in it whatever? Also, why is
that banner persistently and purposelessly waved during the whole
of the great Soldiers' Chorus? Is this _the_ reason why nowadays the
ever-popular Soldiers' Chorus is seldom encored? As this monotonous
action on the part of the Bannerman (not CAMPBELL of that ilk, but the
ensign-bearing supernumerary) suggests "flagging interest," hadn't it
better be abolished altogether?

_Saturday_.--Great excitement in outer Hall. Everybody buzzing about.
What has happened? Has dynamite been found? Has some eminent vocalist
"gone up to see," and can't come down again in time? Sir DRURIOLANUS
is present, explaining matters to the critics, and repeating
explanation in various tongues to eager foreign inquirers. The
sentinels eye the moving scene with determination and bayonets fixed.
At a word from Sir DRURIOLANUS, they will give an extra charge, and
rout the crowd. "What is it all about?" asks little PETERKIN. Sir
DRURIOLANUS can tell him. Madame CALVÉ is indisposed, and _L'Amico
Fritz_ cannot be performed. So GLUCK's _Orfeo_ is substituted in a
happy-g'lucky sort of way. The two RAVOGLI are excellent, and Box and
Stall are satisfied.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"MRS. HENNIKER," my Baronite writes, "dedicates to her brother, Lord
HOUGHTON, her first essay in fiction, on the ground that he will be
the most kindly critic. _Bid me Good-bye_ (BENTLEY) does not stand in
need of the adventitious aid of fraternal kindliness to recommend it
to the reader. The story of woman's sacrifice to a sense of duty has
been told before; but Mrs. HENNIKER endows her version with a charm
of simplicity under which, here and there, glows the fire of passion.
Moreover, she writes excellent English, which ladies who make books do
sometimes. It is a pity the story is so sad. _Colonel St. Aubyn_ might
just as well have married _Mary Giffard_, and lived ever after in that
charming Brereton Royal which Mrs. HENNIKER doubtless sketches from
life. If she had insisted on his being a cripple for life, her dictum
could not have been disputed. But there ought to have been a union
between _William_ and _Mary_."

       *       *       *       *       *

Why are the Obstructives like last Season's Walnuts?--Because they are
troublesome to PEEL.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: VOLO EPISCOPARI.

_Festive Middy_. "I SAY, GUV'NOR! I THINK YOU MUST RATHER LIKE BEING
BISHOP HERE!"

_His Lordship_. "WELL, MY BOY, I HOPE I DO! BUT WHY DO YOU ASK?"

_Festive Middy_. "OH, I'VE JUST BEEN TAKING A WALK THROUGH THE CITY,
AND--I _SAY_!--THERE _IS_ AN UNCOMMONLY GOOD-LOOKING LOT O' GIRLS
ABOUT, AND _NO_ MISTAKE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO LORD SALISBURY.

(_BY A PERTURBED TORY_.)

    ["We trust that the present Administration will not commit
    the blunder of attempting to 'gain favour with this or that
    section of the constituencies, by indulging in loose talk on
    economical questions.'"--_The Standard_.]

  To thump the Drum Ecclesiastic
    Was very likely mere parade;
  But oh, why make yourself seem plastic
    To the fanatics of Fair Trade?
  Of course a warning's no "incitement";
    You only said, in tones of thunder,
  The valiant Ulstermen to fight meant,
    And on your soul you didn't wonder.
  Encouragement in _that_? Go to!
    Did shouting SAUNDERSON so take it?
  (_Still it did raise a hullabaloo_.
    _It's settling now, DON'T re-awake it!_)
  No; civil war is far--and fudge!
    But why the dickens make suggestions
  That England is inclined to budge
    An inch, on Economic Questions?
  Let HOWARD VINCENT, if he likes,
    Talk "Fair Trade" fustian; no one listens.
  But _you_?--best keep to slating Strikes.
    You bet the eye of HARCOURT glistens,
  And GLADSTONE reading with a grin,
    Says, "Now I have him on the hip!"
  This will _not_ do, if we're to win.
    Of course, dear Lord, 'twas but a slip,
  But then you do make such a lot;
    Explaining them away gets wearying.
  You seem as though--of course, 'tis rot!--
    Our Free Trade system you were querying.
  That cock won't fight; Protection's dead,
    Don't trot its ghost out. Just ask GOSCHEN!
  That Silver Conference, too! _His_ head
    Must have gone woolly, I've a notion.
  Fire us with militant suggestions;
    Your loyal followers they embolden,
  But upon Economic Questions
    Remember Silence is _so_ golden!

       *       *       *       *       *

REPORTED DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BROAD GAUGE.--It has been "converted,"
and in this sense our old friend, The Broad Gauge, with its easy-going
ways, is defunct for ever. Is the conversion for the better? From
"broad" to "narrow" is not, ordinarily speaking, beneficial to the
individual or to society. And as applied to lines that fall in such
pleasant places as do those of the Great Western, will the change to
"narrow" result in the same breadth of view which the passengers have
hitherto enjoyed? Will the ideas of the management and direction of
the G.W.R. change from "broad" to "narrow"? We see it mentioned that
the "cross sleepers" have been disturbed and re-laid (enough to make
them crosser than ever; the ceremony should have been accompanied
by a band playing selections from "_The Sleeper Awakened_"),
and that "an inner row of chairs" is already fixed. But chairs
are not so comfortable for sleepers as the good old-fashioned
broad-gauge-G.-W.-R. first-class seat, in which, after you had
lunched, you could repose from Swindon to Exeter. However, we all know
the safety of choosing the "narrow" in preference to the "broad" way
in life, and so, no doubt, the spiritually-minded Directors of the
G.W.R. have acted with the best intentions and upon the most unanimous
resolutions. Yet "intentions" or "resolutions" are more compatible
with the "broad" than the "narrow" way.

       *       *       *       *       *

LORD BRAMWELL.

BORN 1808. DIED 1892.

  Alas! The Busy "B" is dead,
    No more we'll hear him buzz a-wing,
  Nor picture with a smiling dread
    The pungent terrors of his sting.
  As Io's gadfly was this "B"
    To Sentiment and to Pretence.
  Oh, Property! Ah, Liberty!
    Fallen in your supreme defence!
  Gone is the friend that in a phrase
    The "Common Sense" of things could settle,
  That with a stroke could slay a craze,
    And folly lash with flail of nettle.
  Who now will thunder in the _Times_
    Against the Socialistic Rad's tone?
  Who'll flout the cant and check the crimes
    Of him, the all-surviving GLADSTONE?

       *       *       *       *       *

Military Tournament at Islington successful as ever. All the glory of
war, as Mr. JORROCKS observed in his lecture, with one-half per cent.
of its danger. Under command of Major TULLY. For seats, apply per
Tully-phone.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: UNDER WHICH THIMBLE?]

       *       *       *       *       *

ON MY LADY'S POODLE.

[Illustration]

  I wonder what on earth it is
    That makes me think my lady's poodle
  (Her minion smug of solemn phiz,)
    The pink and pattern of a noodle:
  Its eyes are deep; their look, serene;
    Its lips are sensitive and smiling;
  But oh! the gross effect, I ween,
    Is, passing measure, dull and riling.

  It is not that its locks are crisp;
    Your humble servant's hair is crisper,
  It is not that its accents lisp;
    I, too, affect a stammered whisper:
  Nor that a gorgeous bow it wears
    And struts with particoloured bib on;
  I like these macaronic airs;
    I'm very fond of rainbow ribbon.

  Nor can it be--of this I'm sure--
    Because she pampers all its wishes
  And tempts her peevish epicure
    With dainty meats in dainty dishes.
  To tell the truth, while _I'm_ her guest,
    _My_ little wants and whims she studies;
  If "Beau"'s a rival, I protest
    No jealous tincture in my blood is.

  I wonder, wonder, at a loss
    To justify such wayward snarling--
  It makes her very, _very_ cross
    My poor opinion of her darling;
  The cause (should pride the cause withhold,
    She bodes and I deserve a scrimmage,)
  The cause is this--she calls, I'm told,
    The little brute my "_Living image!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--My dear friend, Lady HARRIET ENTOUCAS, said to me,
the other day at Kempton, when I told her to have a sovereign on
_Conifer_:--"My dear Lady GAY, your tips are so marvellous that I
really wonder you don't write to the papers!" Being struck with the
idea, my thoughts naturally flew to you--not only as the most gallant
Editor of my acquaintance, but also as probably the only one hitherto
unrepresented with a regular Turf Correspondent.

It is, therefore, with true feminine confidence that I place my
services at your disposal, and, my information being of the most
unreliable description (derived invariably from the owners), I feel
sure that those of your readers who follow my tips will have no cause
to regret their temerity, as, being like all women, nothing if not
original, I intend to tip, not the probable _winner_, but the probable
_last_ horse in important races!

As I invariably attend all the fashionable meetings and most of
the unfashionable (incognito of course the latter), it can be left
to _me_ to decide which horse was last--thus reducing the matter
to a _certainty_--distinctly an object to be gained in making a
bet--whatever _men_ may say to the contrary.

An ancestor of mine (the poet of the name)--having transmitted to me a
spark of his genius--I propose to give my selections in verse--select
verse in fact, and will now in concluding my letter, give my tip for
the probable last horse in the Derby--(which, by the way, happens in
this case to be a mare--I repeat--I am nothing if not original!)--and,
before doing so, I should like to express my sympathy with the Duke
of WESTMINSTER and JOHN PORTER, who have indeed had an Orme-ful of
trouble with the unfortunate erstwhile Derby Favourite, which would
undoubtedly have been my selection had he not been scratched! Yours
devotedly,

    LADY GAY.

"THE TIP."

  The Baron boldly said, "Je vais
    Renvoyer cette dépêche:
  'À Monsieur FRY of London Town.
    Un livre sur _La Flèche_.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

HYDE PARK CORNER.

(MAY, 1892.)

  My hansom here completely stuck;
  No chance to catch my train, worse luck!
          I sit and wonder:
  Why should the roads be up in May?
  Who muddles matters in this way,
          With bungling blunder?

  What use to make a shapeless space,
  Where rambling roadways interlace,
          And, in the Season,
  To close just what was meant to save
  This block, because they want to pave?
          What is the reason?

  By Jove, it's like some years ago,
  The traffic stopping in a row
          In Piccadilly!
  The Vestry does not care a pin
  For all the muddle that we're in;
          They're much too silly.

  Perhaps they'd say they meant it well.
  I do not know. All I can tell
          Is that I'm raving.
  I'd send that Vestry down below,
  Where all such good intentions go,
          To make more paving!

       *       *       *       *       *

FAIR TRADERS.

Lady friend of my wife's wants us to "try her tea"! Seems she's
started (with two other Ladies) as Firm of Tea Merchants in City. What
_are_ we coming to? Or rather, what are male Tea Merchants coming to?
Mr. Registrar BROUGHAM, most likely. In incautious moment--as I was
out--wife promised to give her an order for a couple of pounds of her
"best Ceylon Mixture."

Tried it. Never tasted such vile stuff! Wife agrees, and asks me to
call at the Firm's Offices and see if they haven't got anything with
more Ceylon and less Mixture in it. Don't much like the job. How
can one blow up a woman whom one will have to meet in one's own
drawing-room, calling?

Have looked in. Must say that Tea-dealeress is better than her
tea. Really quite an attractive person. The three of them gave me
afternoon tea in a little sanctum behind the shop, and chatted _most_
pleasantly. My wife's friend the head of Firm. Said the Ceylon Mixture
was a mistake--really intended for kitchen use--but as they've only
just started business, their stocks have got jumbled together. She
hoped--quite penitently--that I would "overlook the error."

What _could_ I say? What I _did_ was to order a whole box of their
"Incomparable Congou," at four shillings a pound.

Wife (when I tell her of this) seems surprised. Says "she won't
send _me_ shopping again." But can one call this cosy--this
tea-cosy--social visit to three accomplished women by the vulgar
term "shopping "?

Wife incautiously mentions that she is "out of Coffee." Gives me an
excuse to call on Firm again, and see if they sell Coffee too. Yes,
they do. Head of Firm more fascinating than ever. Asks me "if I
would mind, as a very great favour, mentioning her tea to all my City
friends? She _knows_ I have great influence in the City." Says this
with winning smile. Query--is not _Mincing_ Lane rather an appropriate
locality for Lady Tea-dealers?

Later. Wife has forbidden my ever going to Mincing Lane again! Says
the box of "Incomparable Congou" was mere "dust." So are my hopes!

       *       *       *       *       *

A DENTIST'S WAITING-ROOM.

[Illustration]

  Clasping tight my jaw, I staggered,
        Pale and haggard,
            To this room,
  Where were fellow-martyrs sitting
        In befitting,
            Solemn gloom;

  Whilst they turned, with air dejected,
        Books collected
            To amuse,
  _Graphics_, or accumulated
        _Illustrated_
            _London News_.

  How they glared! No fellow-feeling
        O'er them stealing,
            Made them kind;
  "Touch of nature" that is dental
        Makes no mental
            Kin, I find.

  There I sat, the numbers growing
        Less, each going
            To his fate--
  What a dismal occupation!
        My elation
            Was not great--

  Heard the butler call each saddened,
        Toothache-maddened
            Victim's name;
  Watched them wincing as they strode out:
        I should no doubt
            Look the same.

  Then, when me he had to take in,
        "Mr. AIKIN!"
            Made me quail;
  O'er the after vivisection
        Recollection
            Draws a veil!

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM THE SHADES.

(_AT THE SIGN OF THE "CASTOR AND POLLUX."_)

DEAR MISTER PUNCH,--Look at 'ere! This is not one of your penny
papers--there was none on 'em in _my_ time--ups and says, says
it:--"The travelling expenses from America of Mr. JACKSON, who is
coming to England to fight Mr. SLAVIN for the Championship of the
World, are reckoned at no less than £150."

Wy, wot a delikit plarnt, wot a blooming hexotic, this "Mister"
JACKSON (oh, the pooty perliteness of it!) must be! Saloon passage
and fust-class fare, I persoom, for the likes of _'im_. Isters and
champagne, no doubt, and liquoor brandy, and sixpenny smokes! A poor
old pug like me wos glad of a steak and inguns, and a 'arf ounce o'
shag, with a penny clay. And as to "travelling hexpenses"--I wonder
wot the Noble Captings of _our_ day would 'ave said to the accounts
laid afore your "National Sporting Club!" £2000 for the Purse, and
£150 for Mister JACKSON's travelling hexpenses!!! Oh, I say! Pugs _is_
a-looking up! And yet I'm told some o' your cockered-up fly-flappers
carnt 'it a 'ole in a pound o' butter, or stand a straight nose-ender
without turning faint! Evidently funking _and_ faking pays a jolly
sight better than 'onesty and 'ard 'itting.

Well, well, _Mister Punch_, I'm hout of it now, thanksbe. And I ain't
sure as I could shape myself 'andy to the Slugger SULLIVAN and JEM
SMITH kind o' caper. The "resources o' science" is so remarkable
different from what they wos in _my_ days, and include so many
new-fangled barnies as we worn't hup to. These 'ere pugilistic
horchids, so to speak, wants deliket 'andling _in_ the Ring, as well
as hout on it, and a fair 'ammering from a 'onest bunch o' fives might
spile the pooty look of 'em for their fust-clarss Saloons, Privet
Boxes, and Swell Clubs. But you can tell Mister JACKSON, Eskvire, an
cetrer, an cetrer, an cetrer (put it all in, please, Sir, as I vant to
be perlite), that in my day I'd a bin only too 'appy to fight 'im to
a finish (which mighn't ha' bin in five minutes, either, hunless he
wanted it so), for--his Travelling Hexpenses!!!

    Yours to kommand,
    THE CHICKEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

SINGULAR PLURALITY!

  O SHAW-LEFEVRE, was it but fatality,
    Or could it be because the subjects bore 'em,
  That, when you wished to argue on plurality.
    About one Member came to form a quorum?
  No doubt the others meant this to denote
  That when you speak you like "One Man, One Vote."

       *       *       *       *       *

FRIENDLY ADVICE TO MRS. HUMPHRY WARD, À PROPOS OF HER TROUBLE WITH HER
ADVERSE CRITICS.--_Grieve_ no more!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST (THE ONE WHO PAINTS THE PRETTY
"KISS-MAMMY" PICTURES) HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

_Tommy._ "IT'S A LITTLE GIRL, FAST ASLEEP, WITH HER DOLL IN HER ARMS!"

_Jimmy._ "YES; AND WHEN SHE WAKES UP, _WON'T_ SHE BE FRIGHTENED AT
THAT GREAT BIG BIRD!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ST. JOHN'S WOOD.

  These hapless homes of middle class,
    Can they escape annihilation
  When come, in place of trees and grass,
    A filthy goods-yard and a station?

  If such seclusion sheltered Peers,
    Their wealth and influence might save it;
  No speculator ever fears
    Artists or writers such as crave it;

  Or if it housed the WORKING MAN,
    Would Lords or Commons dare eject him?
  Picture the clamour if you can!
    His vote, his demagogues, protect him.

  But you, who only use your brains--
    The people's voice, the noble's money,
  Not yours--why save you from the trains?
    For quiet, do you say? How funny!

  Perhaps you think, because in May
    The talk is all of Art and beauty,
  The Commons also think that way;
    Not so, they have a higher duty.

  If only speculators shout,
    And millionnaires take up the story,
  They thrust all Art and Nature out,
    For Trade is England's greatest glory.

  Then, if a careless House some day
    Permit the Channel Tunnel boring,
  Think how this railway line would pay;
    If you had shares you'd cease deploring.

  Think of the cotton-laden trains
    Direct from Manchester to Asia!
  Think of the Sheffield Railway's gains,
    Not of your lilac or acacia!

       *       *       *       *       *

"ONE TOUCH OF NATURE."

To introduce in a monument to a great writer a presentment of one of
his most popular characters, as Mr. F. EDWIN ELWELL has done in his
bronze statue of "_Charles Dickens and 'Little Nell,'_" is decidedly
a pretty notion. "The child," looking up into the face of the great
creative genius, who loved this offspring of his sympathetic fancy
better than did all her other admirers, is a pathetic figure, and
gives to the monument a more human and less coldly mortuary aspect
than, unhappily, is usual in such work. It is a "touch of Nature" that
makes even the adjunct of the mausoleum akin to the quick world of
the living and loving. The vivid valiant genius, who so detested and
denounced the superfluous horrors with which we surround death and
the tomb, would cordially have approved it, little as was his love for
monumental effigies, or care for the fame that is dependent on them.

       *       *       *       *       *

VERY "FRENCH BEFORE BREAKFAST."--It was reported in the _Times_ that a
M. ROULEZ fought four duels between nine and ten on Wednesday morning,
severely wounded his four adversaries, and then, after this morning's
pleasure, went about his business, that is his ordinary business, as
if nothing particular had happened. To this accomplished swordsman the
series of combats had been merely like taking a little gentle exercise
"_pour faire Rouler le sang_." The combatants, as it turns out, appear
to have been like _Falstaff's_ "men in buckram."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LIMB AND THE LAW.--"To whom does an amputated limb belong?"
queries the _Standard_ (_à propos_ of the case of the boy HOUSLEY,
whose father demanded that the arm cut off in the Infirmary should be
given up to him). The answer is clear. An amputated limb belongs to
_no body_!


       *       *       *       *       *

IN DEFENCE OF THE GREAT PARADOXIST.

  He may not be "earnest," he may not be "smart,"
    You may say, if you please, he's unable to sing;
  But, oh, you _must_ own he's a "work of art,"--
    A "beautiful untrue thing!"

       *       *       *       *       *

ASPIRATIONS.--A Music-hall Manager told the Parliamentary Committee
sitting on Theatres and Places of Entertainment, that he did not
believe in Art with a capital A. Perhaps he believed in Art with a
capital H?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE ROYAL PARLIAMENTARY TOURNAMENT; OR, THE SESSION
ENDS IN SMOKE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, May 16._--This looked forward to in advance
as grand field-night. SQUIRE OF MALWOOD been preparing onslaught on
JOKIM's last Budget. Should have come off days ago, but Squire had
other engagements in the country. Nothing to equal Prince ARTHUR's
accommodating spirit. If the Squire not ready to demolish Budget, say,
on Thursday, well, it shall be put off till Monday, or even later if
that day not convenient. JOKIM doesn't mind; accustomed to have his
Budgets torn up, and the little pieces returned to him postage unpaid;
would feel lonely if Budget went through an uninterrupted course.
Arranged accordingly that to-night the great onslaught shall he
delivered. The Squire judiciously spent interval since Friday amidst
quiet glades of Malwood.

"I always like, TOBY," he said, "if I get a chance, to have Monday set
apart for one of my more important speeches. I make a point of going
to the morning service on the day which, happily still, lies 'tween
Saturday and Monday, and I don't know anything more conducive to the
preparation of impromptus than a good sermon read out for space of
twenty minutes; not more, or your wit begins to falter and you repeat
yourself; just twenty minutes. A moderately comfortable pew, a voice
not too loud in the pulpit, a fairly full congregation, and a general
sense that you're doing the right thing and setting an example to your
neighbours. Such circumstances preceding by some twenty-four hours my
rising in the Commons, are calculated to make JOKIM sit up."

[Illustration: Waiting!]

Calculation on this occasion somewhat astray. Rather hard to sit up
all the way through the Squire's speech; an hour and a half long;
bristling with figures; mellifluous with millions, throbbing with
thousands. The Squire is in peculiar degree dependent for success upon
mood of his audience. In crowded House, Members cheering, laughing,
or, if you please, jeering and howling, the Squire improves with every
five minutes of his Speech. To-night House not a quarter full; those
present depressed with consciousness that no real fight meant; Mr. G.
sat it out with some intervals of suspicious quietude. HENRY FOWLER
also faithful found; sitting with folded arms waiting for the time
when a new Chancellor of the Exchequer shall find opening made for
him on a newly-arranged Treasury Bench.

Only JOKIM really listened; nervous, restless, murmuring comment,
muttering contradiction, clutching at himself with strange gestures
reminiscent of hereditary instinct to rend his garments in moments of
tribulation. That was something in recompense for the meditations of
yesterday morning. But as one swallow does not make a summer, neither
does one Minister, however unhappy under criticism, make an audience.
JOKIM followed with a speech scrupulously measured as to length by
that of the Squire's; through the dead unhappy night the rain of talk
fell on the roof, and everyone was glad when midnight, slowly coming,
struck.

_Business done._--Budget Resolutions agreed to.

_Tuesday._--Small Holdings Bill through Committee. Last clause added
amid buzz of admiration from a not too full House.

[Illustration: "In rapt admiration!"]

HAMLEY looked on in rapt admiration.

JESSE COLLINGS rose up and called CHAPLIN blessed.

"Not at all," said CHAPLIN, blushing; "as my friend TOOLE says from
the deck of the Houseboat, anyone could do it."

"The fact is, TOBY," CHAPLIN whispered to me a little later, as we sat
on the Terrace sharing a bottle of gingerbeer imbibed through a couple
of straws, "I've really done a clever thing, only those fellows don't
quite see it. Here we've been for a week pegging away at this Bill,
bargaining and bickering. Sometimes I've yielded a trifle to the
Opposition; sometimes I haven't. But it's pretty much all the same in
the end. The Act will look very well in the Statute Book, and I hope
will help us at the General Election. But as far as practical use
goes, I have sometimes laughed when I look round the Committee and
see Members seriously discussing the thing. Just before the Bill was
printed, Prince ARTHUR asked me when I proposed the Act should come
into operation. 'When are you going to have the General Election?' I
asked, by way of reply. Prince ARTHUR said he couldn't exactly tell
at the moment. 'Very well,' I said; 'let us put it this way. If you're
going to dissolve at the end of June, the Act may as well come into
operation as soon as it receives Royal Assent. But if you postpone
Election over Autumn, better fix date for Act coming into force on the
first of January. 'What d'you mean?' asked ARTHUR. 'I mean just this.
If this Bill's to help us at the General Election, we mustn't give
time for people to find it out.' 'Um!' said ARTHUR, and he can put a
good deal of meaning into the observation."

_Business done._--Small Holdings Bill in Committee.

[Illustration: Admiral Jeremiah Field.]

_Thursday._--Admiral JEREMIAH FIELD pacing quarter-deck, uttering
lamentations over collapse of the Eastbourne stand against the
Salvationists. Bill amending Eastbourne Improvement Act up for
Third Reading. JEREMIAH had proposed to introduce Clause enabling
inhabitants of town to protect themselves against the Sabbath
incursions of a mob in red waistcoats and poke bonnets, with drums,
trumpets also, and shawms. Evidently no use; so the Admiral lowered
his topsails, pulled taut his lee scuppers, and sheered off. "We're
living in flabby times," he complained to sympathetic House.

He heaved one sigh, then he hove-to, and Bill read Third Time.

Truth of Admiral's remark about living in flabby times proved through
rest of Sitting. "Don't," said GEORGE TREVELYAN, yesterday, speaking
about RUSSELL's Amendment on Plurality of Vote Bill--"don't drag this
ghost of a dead red-herring across the path." Only the imagination
of genius could conjure up this terrible vision. Realised it to-night
when Irish Local Government Bill took the floor, and asked to be read
a Second Time. Thought it was as dead as a herring, red or otherwise;
but here's its ghost filling House with gloom. Promise of several
days' cheerful conversation. SEXTON promptly turned on flood of
everlasting talk, hopelessly swamping place to begin with. Here's
a Bill no one believes Government seriously intend to proceed with;
still feel bound, having introduced it, to take Second Reading. Must
show it's not quite so ridiculous as it seemed when, three months
ago, Prince ARTHUR introduced it, and House laughed it off premises.
Sensible course suggested at close of Sitting by WILFRID LAWSOW.
"Scandalous waste of time," he said; "the sooner we finish Debate the
better."

SEXTON full of scorn for the hapless measure. Looked it all over,
and behold! there is no good thing in it. Might have said this in ten
minutes, or at most, quarter of an hour. But temptation to straddle
irresistible; discoursed for full hour and half; talked clean out of
Peers' Gallery FIFE and Earl SPENCER, who had innocently looked in.
MADDEN, not to be outdone, talked for another hour and half; out of a
possible seven hours' debate three appropriated by two speakers. Quite
Maddening. Afterwards, RATHBONE, JOHNSTON (of Ballykilbeg), WEBB,
COGHILL, BLANE, and AMBROSE.

A weary world, my masters!

_Business done._--None.

_Friday._--Morning Sitting for further discussion of Local Government
Bill. Only four Members spoke, each Member at terrible length. At
this rate quite clear, if every Member is to have his say--and why
shouldn't he?--House must sit into August before even Second Reading
stage of Bill is disposed of. Should have been Evening Sitting,
but things rapidly approaching collapse. Members in state of coma.
Couldn't get forty together; and as soon as SPEAKER took chair Counted
Out.

_Business done._--None.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 Project Gutenberg's Punch Volume 102, May 28, 1892, by Various