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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 93, SEPTEMBER 3rd 1887

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

       *       *       *       *       *

SOME NOTES AT STARMOUTH.

3 P.M.--Arrive at Starmouth--the retired Watering-place at which I
propose to write the Nautical Drama that is to render me famous and
wealthy. Leave luggage at Station, and go in search of lodgings. Hotel
out of the question--_table d'hôte_ quite fatal to inspiration. On the
Esplanade, noting likely places with critical eye. Perhaps I _am_ a
little fastidious. What I should _really_ like is a little cottage;
two bow-windows, clematis on porch, flagstaff, and cannon (if it
wouldn't go off) in front. I could achieve immortality in a place like
that. Sea-view, of course, _indispensable_. Must be within sight of
the ever-changing ocean, within hearing of "the innumerable laughter
of the waves"--I know what the phrase _means_, though I shouldn't like
to have to explain it, and the waves just now are absolutely roaring.

[Illustration: Down by the Sea.]

3·15.--Still noting; plenty of time, and Starmouth "all before me
where to choose." More than a mile of Esplanade, and several brass
plates and cards advertising "Apartments." Must be cautious--not throw
the handkerchief in a hurry. Haven't seen the ideal place _yet_.

3·30.--Better make a beginning. Try "Blenheim House" (all the houses
here either bear ducal, naval, or frankly plebeian names, I observe).
Ring: startling effect--grey-mouldy old person, with skeleton hands
folded on woollen tippet, glides in a ghastly manner down passage.
They really ought to put up a warning to people with nerves, as M. VAN
BEERS does at his _Salon Parisien_. Feel as if I had raised a ghost.
Wonder if she waits on lodgers--if so, my dinners will be rather like
the banquet GULLIVER had at Laputa. "Has she rooms to let at once?"
"No?" "_Oh!_" Well out of _that!_

3·45.--Warming to my work. Ring at door in "Amelia Terrace." Maid
appears--nice-looking girl, rather. "Have you"--I begin--when I see a
boy at the ground-floor window. Don't object to boys, as a class, but
this particular boy is pallid, with something round his throat, and an
indescribable air about him of conscious deadliness, and pride in the
unusual terror he inspires, which can only be accounted for by
recent Measles. Never under the same roof with _that_ boy! He eyes me
balefully, and I stare back, fascinated. "Have you," I begin
again--(I am full of resource, thank goodness!) "a Mrs. WALKER--(first
appropriate name that occurs to me)--staying here?" By a horrible
coincidence, they _have_! She has taken the ground-floor--where that
boy is! Awkward--very.... I manage to gasp out, "Then will you
please mention that I called?" and retire before she can ask my name.
Presence of mind, again!

4 P.M.--Still seeking. Not so fastidious as I _was_. Have given up
the cottage, and clematis, and flagstaff. Only place answering that
description belongs--or so I inferred, from his language--to a retired
sea-captain, whom I disturbed in his nap to inquire whether he let
lodgings. As it happened, he _didn't_. Then (as I very nearly went
back and told him) what right had he to sport a brass plate? However,
I got some good racy dialogue for the Nautical Drama out of him.

4·15.--More failures. Starmouth busy digesting, which it does publicly
in bow-windows. I must _not_ be so particular. I will do without
balconies--even bow-windows--but I cannot, I will not, sit on
horsehair furniture.

4·20.--After all, so long as I get a sea-view, what matters? I can be
nautical and dramatic on _any_ kind of chair. And "Collingwood House,"
too--what a name for me! I will go in. Rejected again--nothing till
Thursday fortnight! I am beginning to feel like an unpopular man at
a dance. I regard the people wallowing at the windows with a growing
hate; they are the elect--but that is no reason why they should parade
it in that ostentatious way--bad taste!... Can't get any rooms along
these terraces--I subdue my pride, and try a back-street.

4·30.--Nature too strong for me--I _must_ face the sea. Surely there
must be _some_ cards I have overlooked!... Thought so! staring me in
the face all the time! Ring--ghost effect again--same old grey lady!
She asks me, in hollow tones, what I want. I ask her whether I left my
umbrella here (full of resource!) "No!" "Oh!" Back-street again after
that.

4·40.--Even the back-streets will have none of me! I grow morbid.
Remember words of song, entreating vague somethings (perhaps stars)
"to smile on their vagabond boy"--no one smiles on me. And _I_ to have
vapoured about "throwing the handkerchief." Fool--fool!... They are
more sympathetic in the back-streets, though. "Starmouth is very
full!" They say, complacently, "they don't know if there's any place I
_could_ get into, not to say at once--they really _don't_!"

5 P.M.--Back on the Esplanade again. Why, I certainly haven't been
_here_ before. Ring. While I am waiting for some one to appear, face
rises at window--_the measly boy!_ Confound these terrace-houses, all
alike! This time I _don't_ wait--I bolt. They will think I am a clown
out for a holiday, but I can't help that.

5·15.--No, I must draw the line somewhere. At "Hatfield House," (good
address this) landlady appears with eruptive face, powdered--effect
not entirely happy--but I waive that. She has rooms--but the
sitting-room is out at the end of a yard, and I am to get to my bed
room through the kitchen! Can't write an epoch-making drama under
those conditions.

5·30.--I am growing humbler--I would almost take a coal-cellar
now. Think I will go back to Hatfield and recant.... I have. "Very
sorry--this moment let".... "Oh!"

5·35.--_At last!_ May choicest blessings light upon the head of
PLAPPER!--or rather of Mrs. PLAPPER, as her husband is out. She has
taken me in! Charming rooms--not actually facing the sea, but with
capital view of it round corner from bow-window. PLAPPER is an
optician--wonder whether it is weak eyes, or wifely duty, that
makes Mrs. P. wear blue spectacles? Everything arranged--terms most
reasonable--now to recover luggage. Stop; better ask address--or I
might never be able to find my optician again--like _Mrs. Barrett
Browning_ and her lost Bower! "You've only got to use PLAPPER'S name,
Sir, anywhere, and it will be all right," says Mrs. P. with natural
pride. Very convenient. For instance: _Stern Constable_ (to me).
"Can't come in here, Sir." _Myself._ "Can't I, though? _PLAPPER!_" And
in I go! Or I am in a scrape of some sort: "Have you anything to say?"
asks the Inspector. I whisper in his ear, "PLAPPER!" And they grovel
and release me.

5·45.--Odd--but now I find myself wondering ungratefully, whether
I mightn't have done better than PLAPPER, after all. This is human
nature, I suppose--but discreditable. I _am_ overjoyed--really. I no
longer hate people. _I_ too am an initiate! But I can pity poor devils
who are houseless, I hope.... I order sundry things: "Send them in
to PLAPPER'S." Luggage regained and sent back--to PLAPPER'S. I feel
self-respect once more.

6 P.M.--Returning to PLAPPER'S. And in this secure retreat my Nautical
drama is destined to see the light--if PLAPPER only knew! I feel an
affection already for this humble temporary home. Mrs. P. meets me at
the door. "So sorry, Sir--but _you can't have the rooms, after all_!
PLAPPER had let 'em quite unbeknown to me!"

And this is Saturday! _I am under a curse!_

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BALLET.

_Lament by the Rev. S. D. Headlam._

  What was it first my fancy fed,
  My steps to the Alhambra led,
  And finally quite turned my head?
            The Ballet!

  What, when I studied it apart,
  Struck me with force that made me start,
  As being a noble form of Art?
            The Ballet!

  And what, when seen night after night,
  Inspired me with supreme delight,
  And made me to the _Pall-Mall_ write?
            The Ballet!

  But what, when kindled with its fire,
  I hoped my Bishop to inspire,
  Alas! excited but his ire?
            The Ballet!

  And what, although the orthodox
  Two places in an upper box
  I offered him,--but gave him shocks?
            The Ballet!

  Ah! what, though every nerve I've strained
  To see the dancers' battle gained,
  Leaves me episcopally chained?
            The Ballet!

       *       *       *       *       *

LAST FRUITS OF THE SESSION.--Pairs.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: VENICE UNPRESERVED.]

"The modern Venetian takes pleasure not only in neglecting but in
persecuting the palace and the gondola.... As to the gondola, the mass
of Venetians possess none, and rarely go in them.... They forget that
the much-desired foreigner does not come to Venice to read signboards
from a steamboat up and down the Grand Canal; and, by handing over
this magnificent waterway to a company of foreign speculators, they
have well-nigh reduced the ancient body of gondoliers to beggary. The
steamers are numerous and noisy.... If one contrasts the passengers of
these rival craft, the gondola and the _vaporetto_, one asks which,
as a body, most contribute to the prosperity of Venice, and so
merits most consideration.... The penny steamer and the gondola are
irreconcileable, and cannot exist long together, for the simple reason
that the gondoliers cannot earn a support, and must take to other
avocations."

  "EXSUL'S" _Letter to the Times on "The Venice of To-day."_

_Shade of_ CHILDE HAROLD _sings_:--

    Yes, this is Venice; yon's the Bridge of Sighs;
    The palace and the prison, still they stand:
    But 'midst the maze foul funnel fumes arise.
    As by the touch of an enchanter's hand,
    A hundred such their smoky wings expand,
    Around me, and a dying glory smiles
    On what was once the poet's, artist's land,
    Soot smears the wingéd Lion's marble piles,
  And Venice reeks like Hull, throned on her hundred isles.

    She looks a swart sea Cyclops, from the ocean,
    Rising with smutted walls and blackened towers;
    The _vaporetto_, with erratic motion,
    Muddies the waters with its carbon-showers.
    And such she is! Progress's dismal dowers
    Have spoilt the picture; now the eye may feast
    On garish signs and posters. Gracious powers!
    Sewing-machines and hair-washes at least
  Might spare the Grand Canal. Trade is an ogre-ish beast!

    In Venice Vulcan's echoes hiss and roar,
    And idle sits the hapless Gondolier.
    His Gondola is crumbling on the shore,
    The Penny Steamer's whistle racks his ear.
    'ARRY exults--but Beauty is not here;
    Trade swells, Arts grow--but Nature seems to die.
    Hucksters may boast that Venice is less "dear,"
    "_Progresso!_" is the Press, the Public cry;
  But, by great RUSKIN'S self, the thing is all my eye.

    For unto us she had a spell beyond
    Cheap dinners and Advertisement's array
    Of polychrome, of which Trade seems so fond.
    Alas! the Dogeless city's silent sway
    Will lessen momently, and fade away,
    When the Rialto echoes to the roar
    Of _vaporetti_, and in sad decay
    The Gondola, its swan-like flittings o'er,
  Neglected rots upon the solitary shore.

    Such is the Venice of my youth and age,
    Its spell a void, its charm a vacancy.
    Rosy Romance, thou owest many a page,
    Ay, many that erst grew beneath _mine_ eye,
    To what was once the loved reality
    Of this true fairy-land; but I refuse
    To deck with Art's fantastic wizardry
    A haunt of Trade. Mine is not Mammon's Muse,
  _She_ will not sing for hire of Soaps, or Silks, or Shoes.

    I know that there are such,--but let them go,--
    They came like ghouls, they'll disappear like dreams.
    But oh! my Venice, dare they treat thee so?
    I fain would flay the Vandal horde; still teems
    My mind with memories of thy towers and streams,--
    All that I sought for in thy midst, and found.
    Must these too go? The ogre Progress deems
    Such fair and flattering phantasies unsound;
  Now other voices speak, and other sights surround.

    "The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord,"
    Ay, and yet worse, Venetian souls grow rude.
    The Gondola lies rotting unrestored,
    The Gondolier unhired must lounge and brood,
    Or stoop to "stoking" for his daily food,
    On board a puffing fiend that by "horse pow'r"
    Measures its might. Oh! base ingratitude!
    Dogs! ye one day shall howl for the lost hour,
  When Venice was a Queen, with loveliness for dower.

    Gondolas ruled, and now the Steam Launch reigns,
    A stoker shovels where a lover knelt.
    This thing of steam and smoke that stinks and stains,
    Might suit the tainted Thames, the sluggish Scheldt;
    But the Canal, which for long years hath felt
    The sunshine of Romance--that downward go?
    This is the deadliest blow that Trade hath dealt;
    Enough to bring back blind old DANDOLO,
  To fight his country's latest most debasing foe.

    Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,
    But garish signboards glitter in the sun;
    And up and down the watery alleys pass
    The snorting steamers. Venice lost and won,
    Her thirteen hundred years of beauty done,
    Sinks to an Isle of Dogs. Let her life close!
    Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun
    Ev'n in destruction's depths her Vandal foes,
  Than live a thrall to Trade, a scourge to eyes and nose.

    Dreams of Romance--all shattered! They revile
    Our "Ruskinismo," do these souls of dust,
    Who care not for their sumptuous marble pile,
    Oh, sons unworthy of their splendid trust!
    With his oar broken, and his dry keel thrust,
    Unused ashore, the Gondolier recalls
    Gay days and nights of glory, such as must
    Too oft remind him _who_ his land enthrals,
  And flings a sordid cloud o'er Venice' shining walls.

    How can the Childe's poetic shade refuse
    To plead his cause, on his base foe make war?
    Perchance redemption from a phantom Muse,
    Whose voice now faintly echoes from afar,
    May come, and check his sordid conqueror's car,
    E'en in its roll of victory, snatch the reins,
    From Greed's foul hands and further havoc bar,
    Say, _shall_ the Penny Steamer's petty gains,
  Banish the Gondolier, and hush his cheery strains?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TENDER PASSAGES.

_He_ (_tenderly_). "YES; WHEN IT'S DONE AGAIN, YOU MUST REALLY SEE THE
BLONDIN DONKEY!"

_She_ (_sincerely_). "I WILL. I'LL LOOK OUT FOR IT, AND, WHEN I DO SEE
IT, I WILL THINK OF _YOU_!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

VIRTUES OF OMISSION.

PEOPLE--Mr. IMPREY, Mr. GEORGE SMITH (of Coalville), and others--are
actually to be found contending for the barren honour of having
invented that terrible nuisance of a catch-phrase, "Three Acres and a
Cow!" Strange and morbid perversion of ambition! As well fight for
the deep discredit of having been the first to hit upon such kindred
controversial horrors as the boring and question-begging "gags" of
"Law and Order," "Patriot first, and Party-man afterwards," "Hand over
to the tender mercies, &c.," "Disintegration of the Empire," or even
that most hackneyed of political phrases, "Grand Old Man" itself. Now,
if any one took credit to himself for never, never having uttered
the "Acre and Cow" Shibboleth, or made use of any others of these
soul-sickening bits of polemical claptrap, _Mr. Punch could_ understand,
and admire, and envy. There be things that _everybody_--possessed of
sense and sobriety--would "rather not have said."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WAY OF THE WIND.

_By an anxious Unionist._

[Mr. T. W. RUSSELL has formally withdrawn from the Unionist Party.]

  Ah! sorely tossed is our poor "Union" bark,
    We shall not get to port without a tussle.
  They say the wind will change against us. Hark!
    That wind seems rising; I can hear its RUSSELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

A FIGHT FOR THE FORTY.--Sir EDWARD HAMLEY is, admittedly, one of the
greatest strategists the British Army possesses. Although in the prime
of life, this gallant officer will be "automatically retired," unless
he receives a military appointment before the end of October. It has
been suggested that he should be employed to work out a scheme for the
protection of London. This will be far easier work for him to do than
to have to frame a defence of the Government that has so long, and so
strangely, and (some say) so maliciously overlooked him.

       *       *       *       *       *

CON: FOR THE CONSIDERATE.--Why is Happiness like an Act of Parliament?
Because you can never tell its value until it is passed.

       *       *       *       *       *

ALL IN PLAY.

  DEAR MR. PUNCH,

[Illustration]

This year has been a great one for America in London. The Exhibition
in West Kensington, with its Wild West Show, has attracted its
thousands, and at this moment two dramas (both from the United States)
are very popular in the Strand and Oxford Street. A few nights ago,
anxious to save you the trouble of filling a stall with your customary
urbanity and critical acumen (to say nothing of your august person and
opera-glasses), I visited the Princess's, to assist at a performance
of _The Shadows of a Great City_. It was really a most amusing piece,
written by JEFFERSON, the _Rip Van Winkle_ of our youth, who you will
remember was wont in years gone by to drink to the health of ourselves
and our wives and our families at the Adelphi. The _City_ was New
York, and the most substantial of the _Shadows_, Mr. J. H. BARNES, a
gentleman who might be aptly described as one of the "heaviest" of our
light comedians. He played a fine-hearted sailor with an earnestness
of purpose that carried all before it. I cannot conscientiously say
that he gave me the idea that he was exactly fitted to take command of
the Channel Fleet, but after seeing him I retained the impression that
he would have felt entirely at home on the quarter-deck of a Thames
Steamboat. Mr. HARRY NICHOLLS, who has so often assisted to make the
fortune (as a jocular scoundrel) of a Drury Lane melodrama, was also
in the cast, and so was Miss CICELY RICHARDS, _the Belinda_ of _Our
Boys_. Then there was Miss MARY RORKE, a most sympathetic heroine, and
several other excellent performers, whose names, however, were less
familiar to me.

The play, admirably mounted with capital scenery, recalled a number of
pleasant memories. Here was a suggestion of _The Ticket of Leave Man_,
there a notion from _The Colleen Bawn_, and yonder ideas from _The
Long Strike_ and _Arrah-na-Pogue_. There is nothing new under the
sun, and _The Shadows of a Great City_ is no exception to the rule.
However, it is a thoroughly exciting play, full of murder and mirth,
wrong-doing and waggery, startling incidents, and side-splitting
comicalities. It was certainly greatly enjoyed, when I saw it, by
the audience, who cheered Mr. BARNES and Miss RORKE to the echo, and
hissed all their enemies to their heart's content, as a reward for the
most effectively-simulated villany.

Very soon all the Theatres will be busy with the Autumn-cum-Winter
Season. The first on the List is Drury Lane, which, reserving PAYNE
for the Pantomime at Christmas, opens in September with _Pleasure_.

  Always yours sincerely,
  ONE WHO HAS GONE TO PIECES.

       *       *       *       *       *

SALUBRITIES ABROAD.

_Still at Royat. Hotel Continental.--À propos_ of PULLER "airing
his French" Miss LOUISA METTERBRUN said something delighful to him
the other day at dinner. PULLER had been instructing us all in some
French idioms until Madame METTERBRUN set him right in his
pronunciation. He owned that he had made a slip. "But," says he,
wagging his head and pulling up his wristbands with the air of a
man thoroughly well satisfied with himself generally, "but I think
you'll allow that I can speak French better than most Englishmen,
eh?"

Madame METTERBRUN doesn't exactly know what to say, but Miss LOUISA
comes to the rescue. "O Mr. PULLER"--he is frequently at their house
in London, and they know him intimately--"I always say to Mamma, when
we're abroad, that I do like to hear you talk French"--PULLER
smirks and thinks to himself that this is a girl of sense and rare
appreciation--"because," she goes on quietly, and all at table are
listening, "because your speaking French reminds me so of home." Her
home is London. I think PULLER won't ask Miss LOUISA for an opinion on
his French accent again in a hurry.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have just been reading VICTOR HUGO'S _Choses Vues_. Admirable!
_Fuite de Louis Philippe!_ What a pitiful story. Then his account,
marvellously told, and the whole point of the narrative given in two
lines, of what became of the brain of TALLEYRAND. Graphically written
is his visit to THIERS on behalf of ROCHEFORT. Says THIERS to him,
"_Cent journaux me traînent tous les matins dans la boue. Mais
savez-vous mon procédé? Je ne les lis pas._" To which HUGO rejoined,
"_C'est précisément ce que je fais. Lire les diatribes, c'est respirer
les latrines de sa renommée._" Most public men, certainly most
authors, artists, and actors, would do well to remember this advice,
and act upon it.

       *       *       *       *       *

"_Choses Vues_," written "_Shows Vues_" would be a good heading for an
all-round-about theatrical and entertainment article in _Mr. Punch's_
pages. Patent this.

       *       *       *       *       *

PULLER has recovered his high spirits. The temperature has changed:
the waters are agreeing with him. So is the dinner hour, which M.
HALL, our landlord, kindly permits us to have at the exceptional
and un-Royat-like hour of 7·30. At dinner he is convivial. Madame
METTERBRUN and her two daughters are discussing music. Cousin JANE
is deeply interested in listening to Madame METTERBRUN on WAGNER. The
young Ladies are thorough Wagnerites. La Contessa is unable to get
a word in about SHAKSPEARE and SALVINI, and her daughter, who,
in a quiet tone and with a most deliberate manner, announces herself
as belonging to the "Take-everything-easy Society," is not at this
particular moment interested in anything except the _menu_, which she
is lazily scrutinising through her long-handled _pince-nez_.

Mrs. DINDERLIN, having succumbed to the usual first attack of Royat
depression, is leaning back in her chair, smelling salts and nodding
assent to the Wagnerite theories, with which she entirely agrees.
For my own part, I am neutral; but as the METTERBRUNS are thorough
musicians,--the mother being a magnificent pianist, and the eldest
daughter a composer,--I am really interested in hearing all they have
to say on the subject. Our bias is, temporarily, decidedly Wagnerian,
for Cousin JANE, who is really in favour of "tune," and plenty of
it,--being specially fond of BELLINI and DONIZETTI,--in scientific
musical society has not the courage of her opinions.

From composers the conversation travels to executants, and we name the
favourite singers. After we have pretty well exhausted the list, and
objected to this one as having a head voice, or to that as using the
_vibrato_, or to the other as dwelling on an upper note ("queer sort
of existence," says PULLER, gradually coming up, as it were to the
surface to open his mouth for breath,--whereat Cousin JANE smiles, and
Miss CASANOVA lazily nods approbation of the joke--while the rest of
us ignore PULLER, putting him aside as not wanted just now,--when
down he goes again), we generally agree that GAYARRÉ is about the
best tenor we have had in London for some time; that SANTLEY is still
unequalled as a baritone; that there is no one now to play and sing
_Mephistopheles_ like FAURE; that M. MAUREL is about the finest
representative of _Don Giovanni_; that Miss ARNOLDSON shows great
promise; that ALBANY is unrivalled; that MARIE ROZE is difficult to
beat as _Carmen_; and that it is a pity that PATTI'S demands are so
exorbitant; and having exhausted the list of operatic artists,--Madame
and her daughters holding that certain Germans, with whose names we,
unfortunately for us, are not even acquainted, are far superior to any
French or Italian singers that can be named--there ensues a pause in
the conversation, of which the Countess CASANOVA takes advantage,
and extending her right hand, which movement sharply jingles her
bracelets, and so, as it were, sounds a bell to call us to attention,
cuts in quickly with an emphatic, "Well, I don't profess to understand
music as _you_ do. I know what I like"--("Hear! hear!" _sotto voce_
from PULLER, coming up again to the surface, which draws a languidly
approving inclination of the head from Miss CASANOVA, and a smile,
deprecating the interruption, from Cousin JANE),--"and I must say,"
continues the Countess, emphatically, "I would rather have one hour
of SALVINI in _Othello_, than a whole month of the best Operas by
the best composers,--WAGNER included," and down comes her hand on the
table, all the bracelets ringing down the curtain on the first act.

We, the non-combatants, feel that the mailed gauntlet has been thrown
down by the Countess as a challenge to the METTERBRUNS.

"O Mother!" faintly remonstrates Miss CASANOVA, who loves a stall at
the Opera. She fears that her mother's energetic declaration means
war, and fans herself helplessly.

I am preparing to reconcile music and the drama, and am getting ready
a supply of oil for what I foresee will be troubled waters, as the
METTERBRUNS are beginning to rustle their feathers and flap their
wings,--when PULLER, leaning well forward, and stretching out an
explanatory hand, with his elbow planted firmly on the table, ("Very
bad manners," says Cousin JANE afterwards to me) says genially, "Well,
_voyez vous_, look here, you may talk of your WAGNERS and SHAKSPEARES,
and GAYARRÉS, and PATTIS, but, for singing and acting, give me ARTHUR
ROBERTS. Yes," he repeats pleasantly but defiantly, and taking up,
as it were, the Countess's gauntlet, "SALVINI'S not in it with ARTHUR
ROBERTS."

The Countess's fan spreads out and works furiously. The steam is
getting up. The METTERBRUNS open their eyes, and regard one another in
consternation. They don't know who ARTHUR ROBERTS is.

"Not know!" exclaims PULLER, quite in his element. "Well, when you
come to London, you send to me, and I'll take you to hear him."

"He's a Music-Hall singer," says the Countess, fanning herself with an
air of contemptuous indifference.

"Music-Hall Ar-_tiste_!" returns PULLER, emphasising the second
syllable, which to his mind expresses a great deal, and makes all the
difference. "Now, Miladi," he goes on, imitating the manner of one
of his own favourite counsel, engaged by PULLER & CO., conducting a
cross-examination, "Have you ever seen him?"

"Yes," she replies, shrugging her shoulders, "once. And," she adds,
making the bracelets jingle again, as with a tragedy queen's action of
the right arm she sweeps away into space whole realms of Music Halls
and comic singers, "that was quite enough."

"Didn't he make you laugh?" continues PULLER, still in the character
of a stern cross-examiner.

"Laugh!" almost shrieks the Countess, extending her hands so suddenly
that I have only time to throw myself back to avoid a sharp tap on
the head from her fan. "Heavens! not a bit! not the least bit in the
world! He made me sad! I saw the people in the stalls laughing, and I
said,"--here she appeals with both hands to the majority of sensible
people at large--still at large--"'Am I stupid? am I dull? Do I not
understand?'"

"O Mother!" expostulates her daughter, in her most languid manner, "he
_was_ funny!"

"Funny!" ejaculates the Countess, tossing her head.

"I'd rather see ARTHUR ROBERTS than SALVINI," says PULLER, waggishly,
but with conviction.

"I think I would, for choice," says Miss CASANOVA, meditatively, but
seeing the Countess's horrified expression of countenance, she takes
care to add more languidly than ever, as if taking the smallest part
in an argument were really too exhausting, "but then, you know, I
really don't understand tragedy, and I love a laugh."

"Prefers ARTHUR ROBERTS to SALVINI!" exclaims the Countess, and throws
up her hands and eyes to the ceiling as if imploring Heaven not to
visit on her the awful heresy of her child.

Here I interpose. SALVINI, I say, is a great _Artiste_, no doubt of
it, a marvellous Tragedian; and ARTHUR ROBERTS is not, in the true
dramatic sense of the word, a genuine Comedian; but he is, in another
sense a true Comedian, though of the Music-Hall school.

"What a school!" murmurs the Countess, and with a pained expression of
countenance as though she were suffering agonies.

The METTERBRUNS see the difference. Madame remembers a fat comic man
in Berlin, at some garden, who used to wear a big hat and carry
a large pipe, and make her laugh very much when she was a girl.
Certainly, in his way, he was an artist. Is this ARTHUR ROBERTS
anything like MAX SPLÜTTERWESSEL? At this point, as we have finished
coffee, and the Countess finds the room hot, I propose adjourning the
debate to the Restaurant in the garden, as we are too late for the
band at the Casino Samie.

The party is broken up in order to walk down to our rendezvous.

PULLER, whose idea of making things pleasant, and, as he expresses it,
"sweetening everyone all round," is to order "drinks" for everybody,
insists upon the party taking "_consommations_"--he loves saying this
word--at his expense. The Countess at first objects, as also does
Madame METTERBRUN; but, on PULLER'S explaining that he belongs to
"The Two-with-you Society," they accept this explanation as utterly
unintelligible but perfectly satisfactory; and so, accepting PULLER'S
_al fresco_ hospitality, we form a cheerful group round two tables
put together for our accommodation. PULLER'S hospitality has taken the
form of grenadines, chartreuses, and "sherry-gobblers,"--he loves this
word too,--for us all round, and he has ordered for himself a strange
mixture, which perfumes the night air as if some nauseous draught
had been brought out of a chemist's shop, and which looks like green
stagnant water in a big glass. It is called by PULLER, with great
glee, an "Absinthe gummy."

Anything nastier to look at or to smell I am not acquainted with in
the way of drinks. However, he is our host, and I have a grenadine
before me of his ordering, and between my lips an excellent cigar
which is his gift. I can only say mildly, "It looks nasty;" and Cousin
JANE expresses herself to the same effect, remarking also as she looks
significantly towards me, that it is late, and that I am not keeping
Royat hours. I promise to come away in ten minutes. PULLER is in the
highest possible spirits: surrounded by this company, all drinking his
drinks, he as it were takes the chair and presides. He knocks on the
table, which brings the waiter, to whom he says, holding up a couple
of fingers "Two with you,"--whereat the waiter only smiles upon the
eccentric Englishman, shakes his head, and wisely retires.

"Ah, Miladi," says PULLER, "you must take a course of ROBERTS. He's a
rum 'un." Then he sings, "He's all right when you know him, but you've
got to hear him _fust_."

His guests politely smile, all except the Countess. I preserve a
discreet silence. Taking this on the whole for encouragement, PULLER
commences the song from which he has already quoted the chorus. What
the words are I do not catch, but as PULLER reproduces to the life the
style and manner of a London Music-Hall singer, and cocks his hat on
one side, it is no wonder that the French people at the other table
turn towards us in amazement.

"For goodness sake, MR. PULLER!" cries the Countess, rising from her
chair in consternation. JANE also rises, Miss CASANOVA is laughing
nervously. The METTERBRUNS look utterly astonished. I feel I must stop
this at once.

"My dear fellow," I say, magisterially, "you really mustn't do
this sort of thing"--he is breaking out again with "_O what a
surprise!_"--but I get up from my seat to reprove him gravely. "You
would not do this if you were in a London Restaurant."

"No," he replies, not in the least offended--"that's the lark of it.
I belong to 'The Out-for-a-lark-and-Two-with-you Society.' Don't you
mind me," he adds; then turning with a pleasant wink to the ladies,
who have been putting on their wraps and mantles, and are preparing to
leave, he sings again,--

  "I'm all right when you know me--
  But----"

We leave him to finish the song by himself.

And to think that my friend PULLER, with his hat cocked on one side,
a big cigar in his mouth, a tumbler of "absinthe gummy" before him, a
rakish expression in his eye, is the same PULLER to whom, as partner
in the firm of HORLER, PULLER, PULLER (J), BAKER AND DAYVILLE,
Solicitors, I would trust my dearest interests in any matter of
property, of character, even of life itself! The strange story of
_Hyde_ and _Jekyll_ is no fiction, after all.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHITMAN IN LONDON.

(_Adapted from the American._)

  Oh, site of Coldbath Fields Prison!
  Oh, eight and three-quarter acres of potential Park for the plebs!
  I gaze at you; I, WALT, gaze at you through cracks in the
      black hoarding,
  Though the helmeted blue-coated Bobby dilates to me on the
      advantages of moving on.
  I marvel at the stupidity of Authorities everywhere.
  I stand and inhale a playground which in a week or two will be turned
      into a Post Office by Government orders!
  Instead of plants growing here, bricks will be planted.
  Instead of girlhood, boyhood playing here, cash will be counted, stamps
      will be affixed (savagely) by the public, and letters weighed when
      the young women have time, and also inclination, to do so.
  I, from the wild Western Continent, wilder myself, weep for this Park
      soon to be devoured.
  I am like a buck-jumper: I buck at it.
  I am like the Giant Cowboy: only I am not gigantic, and I am cowed by it.
  Oh, Northerly end of Farringdon Street! Oh, Coldbath Fields Square!
      Oh, dwellers in all the adjacent slums and rookeries, redolent of
      old clothes' shops, swarthy Italian organ-grinders, and the
      superannuated herring,
  Are you going to see another House of Correction--a Postal one--built
      where the old one stood?
  If so, it is _I_ who correct you: I, who am so correct myself!

[Illustration: A Salt and Battery.]

  And you, too, Clerkenwell Gaol!
  What are the dodrotted Authorities going to do with _you_?
  Eh? Clear you away, and build a Board School there?
  But why build anything?
  Clerkenwell is mine: I am _à propos_ of Clerkenwell: Clerkenwell is
      _à propos_ of me.
  Morally, if not legally, it is mine; morally it is yours as well, you
      wizened, pallid, blue-nosed, dunderheaded Metropolitan Citizen!
  In this jungle of houses, what is wanted is fresh air.
  Everyone of you toilers should be given the real "Freedom of the City,"
      by having free spaces bestowed on you.
  It is better to learn how to expand the limbs, and play rounders, and
      leap over the frog, and fly kites,
  Than to acquire in a school-room elementary education, consisting of
      algebra and Assyrian hieroglyphics, spelling, Greek, Italian, and
      advanced trigonometry.
  _Allons_, then! _Esperanza!_ Also _cui bono!_ Go to your Home
      Secretary, your Postmaster in General, and tell them that no
      Post Office or School shall be built on this spot,
  Because I, WALT, hailing hoarsely from Manhattan, have spotted it,
  And _Punch_, the lustrous _camerado_, the ineffable dispensator, will
      spot it too!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: COMPENSATION.

_Effie._ "BUT, DEAR MAMMA, HOW CAN WE _HELP_ BEING SELFISH, MAUD AND
I? YOU AND PAPA HAVE ALWAYS GIVEN WAY TO US IN EVERYTHING! UNSELFISH
PARENTS ALWAYS MAKE SELFISH CHILDREN, YOU KNOW--AND _VICE VERSA!_"

_Maud._ "YES; AND, ACCORDING TO THAT, MUMMY DARLING, JUST THINK WHAT
NICE _UN_SELFISH _GRAND_CHILDREN YOU'LL HAVE, IF WE EVER MARRY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

JUPITER TONANS!

    "Shall I fetch your thunderbolt, Jove?" inquired
    Ganymede.--_Ixion in Heaven._

_Modern Jupiter loquitur:--_

  A bolt, a potent one, and brought at need!
  That B-LF-R is a ready Ganymede.
  And yet--and yet--ah, well, upon my soul,
  A troublous function is the Thunderer's _rôle_.
  'Tis vastly fine, of course; if fate would smile,
  I fancy that the Cloud-Compeller's style
  Would suit me sweetly; just the line I love;
  Resolute rule's the appanage of a Jove.
  But SHELLEY's dismal Demogorgon's self,
  That solemn, shadowy, stern, oracular elf,
  Plus obstinate Prometheus, did not play
  Such mischief as the parties do to-day,
  With Law and Order. Who would be a god
  When force forsakes his bolt, and fear his nod?

  Yes, here's the bolt forged ready to my hand,
  But,--will it fly obedient to command,
  And hit the mark I mean? Would I were sure;
  Then should I hold my new-found seat secure,
  Without a thought of Saturn, or that Hour
  Which sets a term e'en to Olympian pow'r.
  But what if like a boomerang, it fly
  Back to my hand, or, worse, into mine eye?
  Ah, Ganymede, Jupiter Tonans seems
  A splendid part, in young ambition's dreams,
  But, Ganymede, who would aspire, I wonder,
  To be a Jove who's half afraid to thunder?
  With doubts about the handling of my bolt,
  And half Olympus in half-veiled revolt;
  With hostile Titans mustering on the plain,
  And old Prometheus "popping up again";
  With Demogorgon lurking down below,
  Disguised as Demos, with its muffled, low,
  But multitudinous slowly-swelling voice,
  How should I in Olympian power rejoice?
  I grasp the bolt; I cannot well refuse it;
  But--I half hope I may not have to use it!

       *       *       *       *       *

"HOMES IN THE HILLS."

    [The absence of skilled nursing in the British Military
    Hospitals in India having long been felt to be a serious evil,
    leading to the needless sacrifice of brave and valuable lives,
    the SECRETARY of STATE has sanctioned the employment of
    Lady Nurses in these hospitals. The Government of India have
    undertaken the whole cost in connection with this scheme,
    except the provision of "Homes in the Hills," as restorative
    resorts for the Nursing Sisters, when their own health feels
    the strain of their arduous duties in such a climate as that
    of the plains of India. The money required for this
    most essential purpose the Government consider might be
    "appropriately left to the active benevolence of private
    individuals interested in the welfare of the British Soldier
    in India."

    For aid towards the establishment of these "Homes in the
    Hills," Lady ROBERTS, wife of the gallant Indian hero, Sir
    FREDERICK ROBERTS, makes an appeal which _Mr. Punch_ desires
    most earnestly to second.

    Subscriptions will be received by the Alliance Bank, Simla;
    Messrs. Cox & Co., Craig's Court, London; and by Lady ROBERTS
    herself.]

  To nurse our stricken Soldiers! Nobler task,
  Or more ennobling, can our Sisters ask?
    Whilst stout hearts suffer, soft ones shall not fail
  In selfless readiness to soothe and save,
  Sharing the tribute rendered by the brave
      To FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

  Her sex's strong and sweet exemplar, she
  Must surely send across the orient sea
    To "NORA ROBERTS," as a kindred heart,
  Message of warm good-will. And we at home
  For whom our soldiers fight, and watch, and roam,
      Shall we not do our part?

  'Tis sad to think that in that burning land,
  For lack of ministry from woman's hand,
    Strong men and gallant boys have sunk and died.
  Gladdening to hear that Nursing Sisters now,
  To cool hot lips and ease pain-fevered brow,
      Will seek our Soldiers' side.

  But who shall nurse the Nurses? When the strain
  Of ministry on India's torrid plain
    Brings the fatigue that, long-neglected, kills,
  They'll need, as health-resorts whereto to send,
  For rest restorative, the soldiers' friend,
      Homes in the cooler hills.

  For these the Lady of our gallant Chief,
  Whose brilliant march brought Candahar relief,
    Pleads to a public whom that honoured name
  Alone should stir to sympathy and aid.
  Help for the Helpers! _Punch_ is not afraid
      _That_ plea will miss its aim!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: JUPITER TONANS!

"HA!--A POWERFUL WEAPON!--HOPE I MAYN'T HAVE TO USE IT!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

HOLIDAY HINTS.

(_From Crowded-out Correspondents._)

SIR,--The plan of your Correspondent, "A DOUBTFUL SAILOR," who alleges
that he avoids sea-sickness by drinking two bottles of Champagne
before starting, and then goes on board accompanied by his Family
Doctor, who administers alternately nitrous oxide gas and ginger beer
to him every ten minutes till the passage is over, though no doubt
an efficacious preventive, strikes me as less simple than the means
I invariably employ to secure a comfortable crossing. They are easily
available, and are as follows. Before I start I provide myself with a
six-foot mattrass, several yards of rope, and four screw-hooks, which,
the moment I enter the cabin, I proceed with a large gimlet to fasten
to the ceiling, and, before the Steward or passengers have had time
to protest, I have rigged myself up a capital swinging bed in the very
centre of the vessel. To jump in, occupy it, and keep officials at
bay with an umbrella, only needs a little nerve and practice, and when
once fairly out of port, specially if it be rough, one is not very
easily dislodged. In the course of thirteen passages, I have only been
overturned eleven times, in nine of which I was cut down by order of
the Captain; and though on several occasions, through clinging to the
swinging-lamp, I brought it down in the struggle, and had to pay for
the damage, I can confidently recommend any one who has a horror of
the Channel crossing, and does not mind a brisk physical encounter
with three Stewards, the First Mate, and half the crew of one of the
Folkestone and Boulogne boats, to follow my example.

  I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
  ABAFT THE FUNNEL.

SIR,--"ONE WHO HASN'T YET DONE IT," wants to know how, travelling with
only one ticket, he can secure an entire third-class compartment for
the whole journey to himself. I will tell him. Let him install himself
in his quarters taking with him five full life-sized lay-figures
dressed in old great-coats with hats pulled down over their ears and
eyes, and let him arrange these picturesquely about the carriage in
attitudes indicative of the suffering of much internal torture. Then
let him stand at the window with a genial and good-humoured expression
on his face, and pointing over his shoulder to the scene behind him,
explain briefly to any passengers who are thinking of entering, that
he is travelling with "five aged uncles in the last stage of delirium
from a contagious and infectious fever," and he will find they will
instantly desist from their efforts and hurry to another portion of
the train. To carry out this little _ruse_ successfully it may be
sometimes necessary to wink at the ticket-collector and give him
threepence, but this does not follow as a matter of course. The plan
will be found to work excellently on comparatively short excursions
to the sea-side, during which people sent in search of health are
necessarily anxious to avoid anything approaching to the risk of
contagion. For longer distances, such as a journey to the North for
instance, there is nothing like travelling with an Indian Chief, and
if possible, with a hyæna. The appearance of the former in gleaming
paint and feathers brandishing a tomahawk and uttering wild war-whoops
at every station, will be sure to prevent the intrusion of women with
babies, while even a country farmer, on seeing the hyæna emerge from
under the seat, and on your remarking smilingly, "He isn't muzzled,
but I don't think he'll bite," will be likely to select some other
compartment. I have travelled from King's Cross to Inverness several
times under the above conditions, and except on one occasion at Perth,
where the hyæna got loose and eat thirteen half-crown
breakfasts, for which I had to pay, and on one other at Edinburgh,
when the Indian Chief scalped a ticket-collector by mistake, I have
never met with any sort of _contretemps_, but enjoyed the journey in
comfort, and kept the carriage the whole way entirely to myself. At
this season of the year when so many who are off "for the grouse,"
think twice before putting their hands into their pockets for the
exorbitant fare of a journey first-class, my method of securing all
its comfort at half the cost, may possibly find some votaries willing
to profit by my experience. Such as it is, it is thus freely placed at
their disposal.

  By yours inventively,
  THERE AND BACK.

SIR,--Your Correspondent, a "STIFLED INVALID," wants to know how, in
these days of ill-drained and ill-ventilated lodgings, he can secure
a breath of fresh sea-air without the risk of being prostrated by a
local fever, or poisoned by sewer gas. His course is simple enough. He
has only to do as I have done. Let him get a furniture-van (if he is a
married man with a family, he will want more--I have five), and hire
a traction-engine to drag him to some well-known watering-place, and
deposit him on the Pier. I have tried the experiment, as yet,
with every prospect of success. Here am I, with my five vans, well
installed at the end of the Pier of a well-known fashionable health
resort, the band playing twice a day, with the fresh air blowing all
about me, and the sea surrounding me on every side. We managed to get
on when the man who takes the tickets was away having his dinner. The
situation is quite delightful, and but for the fact that all the local
Authorities have commenced proceedings against me, and that there
was a slight riot last night during an ineffectual attempt made by
six-and-thirty cart-horses to move me on to the Marine Parade, I have
every reason to be satisfied with the result of my experiment. I am
living rent free, and, beyond the cost of a family ticket for the
Pier, which, though it is disputed by the Committee, I insist gives
me a right to have my vans on as well, have, as yet, been put to no
expense whatever. There was a report that the Local Fire Brigade had
resolved, in the event of my not moving off, to force me to do so
by "pumping" me out, but I am loth to believe this. Meantime we
are having some excellent fishing with a lawn-tennis net. The
traction-engine is to call for me in a month. Strongly recommending my
"Plan of Campaign" to a "STIFLED INVALID," I beg to subscribe myself,
your obedient servant,

  NO LAND LUBBER.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NOVEL-READER'S VADE MECUM.

_Question._ I believe you are a very rapid reader of fiction?

_Answer._ Certainly. My average rate is three and a half volumes a
day. This gives me plenty of time for meals, sleep and skipping.

[Illustration: Through Booking, First-Class and otherwise.]

_Q._ Do you skip a great deal?

_A._ A very great deal. For instance, I have skipped about two-thirds
of _Isa_, by the Editor of the _North-Eastern Daily Gazette_, in
spite of it being only in a couple of volumes, and containing for an
introduction the following rather lengthy sentence:--"If the devil
were in a laughing mood, what could seem more grimly humorous to him
than the vision of a fair young spirit striving consciously after
ethereal perfection, but overweighted unconsciously by the bonds and
fetters of human infirmity and passion, and dragged at last headlong
down the abysmal descent to perdition?" "Abysmal" is good--very good.

_Q._ Well, and what of the book itself?

_A._ Chiefly horrors. Nightmare after a pork-chop supper I fancy.
_Nelly Jocelyn_ (_Widow_), is a welcome contrast. One of the best
things Miss JEAN MIDDLEMASS has done. The character of _Paul Cazalet_
capitally drawn and foreign local colouring admirable.

_Q._ What do you think of _His Own Enemy_?

_A._ Fancy the title somehow must refer to the Author. Clerical
sketches full of unconscious humour. Two volumes but _very_ big ones.
Quite a relief to get to _A False Start_,--by HAWLEY SMART, which is
most entertaining. But in this case the name of the Author is a safe
guarantee for something worth reading.

_Q._ What do you think of _A Modern Circe_?

_A._ I fancy it is not quite so good as _Molly Brown_, by the same
Author.

_Q._ What do you know of _Molly Brown_?

_A._ Nothing--I have not read it.

_Q._ What have you to say about _Scamp_?

_A._ That it is by the Author of _The Silent Shadow_, which I fancy
must be the sequel of another novel called _The Garrulous Ghost_. In
the first chapter the heroine _Scamp_, (a young lady) is discovered up
a tree from which coign of vantage she throws a yellow-paper-covered
novel at the gardener's head.

_Q._ The first chapter then must be vastly entertaining?

_A._ Vastly. I am absolutely dying to read the chapters that follow
it, and will--some day.

_Q._ What is _Brother or Lover_ about? _A._ I don't know--do you?

_Q._ This is trifling! Pray describe _Out of Tune_.

_A._ Ought to have been called _Out of Paganini_--founded upon that
distinguished fiddler's life, although (as the Author says) "it is
necessarily speculative as to its details."

_Q._ Have you read _In the King's Service_?

_A._ Some of it. Fancy it deals with the Peninsular War.

_Q._ How about _Jill and Jack_?

_A._ Book I imagine written before the title. Rather hard work to get
up the hill which ends with the last chapter.

_Q._ What is _Hidden in my Heart_?

_A._ Seemingly the words which finish the third volume, "It is
two years now since _Hubert_ died, and to-morrow is my second
wedding-day."

_Q._ Is this the first novel that the Authoress has written?

_A._ Oh dear no. She has also published _Out of Eden_, _Quite True_,
and a book which apparently refers to the late-in-life "finishing" of
an uneducated ecclesiastic called _The Vicar's Governess_.

_Q._ Don't you think that you are rather hard upon the novelists?

_A._ I hope not. I am sure I owe them a deep, deep debt of gratitude.

_Q._ How so? _A._ Without them I should be a victim to insomnia.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A REMINISCENCE OF THE VERY DRY WEATHER.

_Secretary to Water-Works._ "TUT-T-T-T. 'GETTING VERY SERIOUS, Y'KNOW!
IF THIS DROUGHT CONTINUES, I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE----"

_Friend._ "LOOK HERE,--CAN'T YOU TURN ON SOME WHISKEY IN THE SERVICE?
MY DEAR FELLOW, IT WOULD INFALLIBLY PREVENT WASTE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WHISTLING RELIEF.

(_A Song for the Sleepy._)

    "Baron H. DE WORMS informed Mr. LAWSON, that the Board of
    Trade had communicated with some of the Railway Companies as
    to the nuisance caused to the inhabitants of the Metropolis by
    the constant use of railway whistles at night, and the Board
    were assured that every effort would be made to reduce the
    nuisance."--_Parliamentary Report._

AIR--"_The Whistlin' Thief._"

  When one is tired or ill,
    And fain asleep would be,
  A whistle loud and shrill
    Oft brings the "big, big D."
  "DE WORMS," young LAWSON said,
    "This whistling is a bore."
  "All right," says the Baron; "don't you be afraid.
    They'll whistle at night no more."

  "I've lived a long time, Baron,"
    Says _Punch_, "in the world, my dear,
  But of a nuisance settled _at once_,
    I never yet did hear.
  Yet if you'll lessen nocturnal shines,
    And let us sleep or think,
  Your jolly good health all the commonwealth
    In a bumper deep will drink."

       *       *       *       *       *

ECCENTRIC CONDUCT OF A JOURNALIST ON THE SPREE.--The Editor of the
Berlin _Echo_ has offered a prize for the best Poem in praise of the
Mother-in-Law. This singular demand proves that the gentleman cannot
be married.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHANGE OF NAME.

  If thus Penny Papers are freely allowed
    To fling right and left their absurd imputations,
  To find a new name for the quill-driving crowd
    Will surely be one of our first obligations.
  The Penny-a-Liner for long has been known
    As a genial gusher, a fine phrase-refiner;
  But now that he false and malignant has grown,
    We must call him "The Penny Maligner."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FLY AND THE FARMERS.

    "The Hessian Fly is causing great alarm amongst the
    agriculturists. Its extinction is attracting the attention of
    the Faculty."--_Daily Paper._

[Illustration: Catching Perch with a Fly.]

  Now we number the Potato
    Beetle 'mong the scares gone by;
  But a cuss has found its way to
    Fields of corn--the Hessian Fly.
  _Unde derivatur_ "Hessian"?
    Named from whence the fly had flown,
  Under quite a wrong impression,
    No such thing in Hesse's known.

  _Cecidomyia destructor_,
    (What long names have little things!)
  Comes o'er Ocean by conductor;
    Straw, pestiferous, _pupæ_, brings.
  They turn, each, into a small gnat,
    Not a blow-fly, bottle-blue;
  _Cecidomyia_, _vulgò_, gall-gnat,
    Galls both growths and growers too.

  So the Farmers, full of trouble,
    Help imploring go about,
  They are told to burn the stubble;
    No way else to stamp it out.
  True the _Chalcis_ is reputed,
    On the Gall-gnat's grub to feed;
  But, for service to be suited,
    How that parasite can they breed?

  Yet there is a vermin-killer,
    Like to thin the dipterous pest,
  To the farmer and the miller,
    Which instruction may suggest.
  What may be, the question narrows,
    If they doubt they can but try,
  Is, if let alone, the sparrows
    Might keep down the Hessian Fly.

       *       *       *       *       *

BLESS HIS 'ART.--If there is anything in a name, the recently
suggested appointment of _Artin Effendi_ as Turkish Commissioner
at Sofia ought to mean something. Certainly the situation is one
demanding the exercise of no little diplomatic art. But the question
is, whether the proposed Commissioner has got, as ROBERT would put it,
his _art in_ the business. There's the point.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PRETTY KETTLE OF FISH.--The Riots at Ostend.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SIGH OF THE SEASON.

[Illustration: Pilled at the Club.]

  Good-bye dinner, good-bye lunch,
  Good-bye turtle, good-bye punch,
  Good-bye jambon soaked in cham.,
  Good-bye venison, cutlets lamb,
  Good-bye salmon, smelts, and sole,
  Good-bye HEIDSIECK'S Monopole,
  Good-bye hock, sauterne, and sherry,
  Good-bye all that makes me merry,
  Good-bye liqueurs, _petite verre_,
  Good-bye Sauce _au Vin Madère_,
  Good-bye all these joys of life,
  Good-bye fork, and good-bye knife,
  Good-bye all I take when out,
  Good-bye _then_ this twinge of gout!

       *       *       *       *       *

WORTH NOTICE.--There is this slight difference between the
conventional Yankee and the average Home Ruler, that whilst the former
swears "by Gum," the latter swears by G. O. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE STORY OF A KISS."--(_A "Novel" Reading._)--Kiss and tell! For
shame!

       *       *       *       *       *

INTERIORS AND EXTERIORS. No. 51.

[Illustration: THE LATE PARLIAMENTARY HARVEST.

(_Facsimile of Sketch by Our Out-of-Town Special._)]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM

THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday August 22._--Peers at last face the
inevitable. As records have shown there has been for week or two no
work for them to do. Still, they have eased their tender consciences
by assembling to see HALSBURY take the Woolsack. (Always a pleasing
spectacle. Innate grace of LORD CHANCELLOR comes out in every step and
gesture.) To-night there was, as usual, nothing to do; but Noble
Lords really could not again make believe that Nation could not get
on without them. So stayed away, and for one night House of Lords
abolished.

In Commons at hour for commencing public business barely a quorum
present. Both Front Bench and Treasury Bench vacant. GEORGE BALFOUR,
always ready to throw himself into breach, took possession of seat of
Leader of Opposition, and calmly gazed across table. Never should it
be said as long as he had seat in House that Liberals were as sheep
without a shepherd. Few Members on back benches visibly brightened up
at sight of veteran volunteer.

Only a few questions, but unwonted difficulty in getting through them.
Some cases the questioner not present. In others Minister addressed
not yet arrived. MCARTHUR had question down pretty early in list.
SPEAKER called upon him. No response. Went on to next question.
Quarter of an hour later, all other questions run through. MCARTHUR
coming in put his question to Parliamentary Secretary for Foreign
Affairs. FERGUSSON, who had also just arrived, supposing that MCARTHUR
had put question in due course, apologised to him for not having been
in his place; whereat House laughed uproariously. Very grateful in
these times for anything that looks like joke.

P. STANHOPE brought under notice of Home Secretary case of
enterprising parish constable in North Hunts. P.C., a supporter of Her
Majesty's Government, resented Liberal candidate presenting himself
before constituency. Determined he should not be heard. Brought down
enormous rattle; swung it about throughout candidate's speech. JOSEPH
GILLIS pricked up his ears. What a notion this would be for adaptation
to Parliamentary usage! Suppose he had rattle and swung it whilst
SAUNDERSON or JOHNSTON were speaking? Will consult SPEAKER as to how
far this would be in order. HOME SECRETARY declined to be responsible
for either parish constable or his rattle.

_Business done._--Votes on Supply.

_Tuesday._--Lords sat ten minutes to-night. Home to dinner, with sense
of deserving well of country.

Commons at work again in Supply. Considered Vote for Science and Art
Department, South Kensington. CAVENDISH-BENTINCK contributed one or
two speeches of great interest. Thin attendance, and prevalent air
of lassitude. But, whilst on legs, C.-B. riveted attention. Very
indignant with neglect of Art in common life. Old Members accustomed
to Right Hon. Gentleman's little trick, of which he is sole
repository. But new Members tremble, and grow pale, as, when
denouncing any person or practice, Right Hon. Gentleman mysteriously
raises his hair till it stands on end. Once this phenomenon came
about when he denounced certain weighing-machines, which, he said, had
recently been put up at London railway stations. Tops of this machine,
he said, were supported by two columns, one supposed to be Ionic, and
the other Doric.

"As matter of fact," said C.-B., his hair slowly uprising, "they're
neither one thing nor the other, but simply German!"

As he spoke, fixed fiery eye on HOME SECRETARY. MATTHEWS, so
accustomed to be badgered, and feeling his perfect innocence in this
respect, shook his head. Phenomenon witnessed again when BENTINCK
discovered that picture, bought at CHRISTIE'S for 120 guineas,
subsequently sold to National Gallery for 400. Hair rose in angry
protest.

_Business done._--Thirteen Votes passed.

_Thursday._--Dreary wilderness of House of Commons blossomed to-night
like a rose-garden. Yesterday, and for days before, empty benches and
a fagged remnant wrestling with routine votes. To-night House crowded,
and buzz of excitement filled chamber. GLADSTONE going to move hostile
Resolution on Government proposal to proclaim Land League. Every
Member in town early in his place. Members from afar arrived post
haste. Even RANDOLPH, temporarily returns. Old Morality smiles ghastly
smile of welcome, but knees tremble as he wonders what RANDOLPH means
to do. The O'GORMAN MAHON back again, PARNELL having elected him for
Carlow County. The old boy as young as ever, and full of reminiscences
of his early Parliamentary career, which goes back immeasurable
distance.

"Ah," he said, looking at the Mace, "there it is agin. I remimber well
the afternoon--we always sat in the afternoon thin--when CROMWELL came
down, and said, 'Take away that bauble, ye spalpeens, or I'll make it
worse for ye.' I was younger then, TOBY me bhoy, indade quite a young
man."

Old boy's limp is, I fancy, getting better. He has suffered it for
some years now. Seems that one day towards the close of last century
BURKE flung dagger on floor of House by way of peroration. Weapon
rebounded, and struck The MAHON on the instep. If you step into the
lavatory with him, he'll show you the scar.

"A mere thrifle, a mere thrifle, acushla! They were lively bhoys when
I was in me proime."

GLADSTONE in fine form and excellent voice. Honoured occasion by
donning one of his biggest collars and a new necktie. Curious proof of
his persuasiveness how he gradually talked his necktie round till knot
rested under left ear. BALFOUR squealed forth his disapprobation for
upwards of an hour. Rather a pitiful spectacle, the more so by reason
of the contrast.

"He should try to avoid immediately following GLADSTONE," said
RANDOLPH, looking down contemptuously at his former friend.

[Illustration: C. Br-dl-gh.]

Best speeches after first, _longo intervallo_, were BRADLAUGH'S
and ROBERTSON'S, the Scotch Solicitor-General. Conservatives quite
forgotten their old animosity to Member for Northampton. As for
Parnellites, cheer him madly as they do PARNELL. Certainly BRADLAUGH
has acquired House of Commons' manner. Speeches in good style and full
of point.

Quite a treat to hear such speech as ROBERTSON'S from Treasury Bench.
Mem. for Markiss. Why not double his salary, and let him speak from
MATTHEWS'S brief, and, above all, from BALFOUR'S?

_Business done._--Debate on Proclamation of National League.

_Friday._--Amphibious old Warrior, who has been Admiral afloat,
Generalissimo ashore, and is now Member for County Carlow, reappeared
to-night, and took oath. It was a moving scene. Old veteran got up in
rather young-looking costume, light tweed, with white waistcoat, in
cut what young beau of twenty might wear.

"Why, Colonel," said CYRIL FLOWER, a judge of these things, "you look
younger than ever in your new suit!"

"New, bedad," says The MAHON, "why I had 'em made to go to the wedding
of WILLIAM and MARY. All Mimbers of Parliament invoited; special seats
in Abbey; and, what's more, a good luncheon at BELLAMY'S. Haven't worn
suit lately; thought it would do for this festive occasion."

The MAHON'S advance to table to take oath a triumphal progress.
Members on both sides cheered like mad. The Colonel stopped half way,
and, facing friends and countrymen, blew them a kiss from tips of
fingers. Turning to Ministerialists, who joined in applause he
bowed gracefully. Clerks had greatest difficulty in convoying him
to SPEAKER'S Chair. Broke away from escort, and shook hands with Old
Morality. No joke when The MAHON shakes hands. Pumps away violently
for several moments, as if ship were leaking, and all depended on him.
Next got hold of BALFOUR, and avenged long woes of Ireland. At last
got at SPEAKER. Thought he'd never let go. Pumped away till the
SPEAKER had hardly breath to call "Order! order!" Finally flopped
himself down next to GLADSTONE, on Front Bench, and gave him fearful
shaking up.

This, liveliest episode in debate. Some pretty good speaking, but
everyone sick to death of topic.

[Illustration: Lord H-rt-ngt-n's attitude towards Mr. Gl-dst-ne.]

A little movement of interest when HARTINGTON rose; but happiest
moment when bell rang, and Division actually at hand. Business
done.--Proclamation of Land League approved.

       *       *       *       *       *

A SUMMER SOLILOQUY.

_By Jaques Junior._

  A bee, or not a bee? That is the question.
  Whether 'twere better not to mind, and suffer
  The stings that every summer are our portion,
  Or take the trouble but to move an arm,
  And, by opposing, end them. It flies--it creeps,
  It creeps, perchance it stings! Then comes the rub,
  When we have shuffled off our clothing. Soft,
  'Twas but a bluebottle! How sweet it is
  To lie like this i' the sun, and think of nought
  Save how sweet 'tis to lie, and think of nought;
  And that meseems to many wordy sages
  Were small refreshment in this windy time.
  How many are there who do cheat themselves,
  And with themselves the many, that they are
  The very vaward leaders of the fray,
  The lictors of the pomp of intellect.
  Whereas they are the merest driven spray,
  The running rabble heralding the march
  Impelled by what they herald;--
  Who ever glance behind to see which way----
  Oh, my prophetick soul! my Aunt ELIZA!

  [_He is stung_!

       *       *       *       *       *

IRISH NET PROFIT.

In connection with the establishment, thanks chiefly to the
munificence of Lady BURDETT-COUTTS and the Duke of NORFOLK, at
Baltimore (Cork) of a New Industrial Fishery School to the end of
teaching the fishermen there how to make the most of their hauls,
the _Times_, as one example of the need of that instruction for those
toilers of the Sea, very justly observes that "their ignorance of the
art of curing fish causes them endless loss." The hap of Kill or Cure
may be hazarded by physicians, but the practice of fishermen should
be to kill and cure too--kill first and cure afterwards. Sure, no
Irishman can fail to see the force of that. An Irish peasant sometimes
when his pig is poorly, kills the animal, as he says, to save its
life, whereby, of course, he means, to save his bacon. Fishermen
should be up to curing all fish that are curable--except--they are not
bootmakers--the cure of soles!

[Illustration: "Putting the Carte before the Hoarse."]

       *       *       *       *       *

--> 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.

       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber's Note:

Missing and illegible/damaged punctuation has been repaired.

Page 100: 'delighful' corrected to 'delightful'. [Miss LOUISA
METTERBRUN said something delightful to him the other day at dinner.]

Page 105: repeated 'if' corrected to 'it'. [...specially if it be rough,]

Page 105: eat [sic] ...where the hyæna got loose and eat thirteen
half-crown breakfasts...

...As it was a letter from a reader, 'eat' may have been his
manner of speech; therefore, I have left it as such.