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[Illustration: PUNCH VOL CV]




  LONDON:

  PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE, 85, FLEET STREET,

  AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

  1893.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PREFACE]

"_Vox, et præterea nihil!_" murmured
Somebody in the background.

"Who made that stale and inappropriate quotation?" exclaimed Mr.
Oracle PUNCH, looking severely around the illustrious group gathered
in his _sanctum_ about the brazen tripod which bore his brand-new
Phonograph.

Nobody answered.

"Glad to see you are ashamed of yourself, whoever you are," snapped
the Seer.

"Rather think the--a--Spook spoke," muttered a self-important-looking
personage, obliquely eyeing a shadowy visitor from Borderland.

"Humph! JULIA may use _your_ hand, but you will not trump _mine_,"
retorted the Oracle. "If _revenants_ knew what nonsense is put into
their spectral mouths by noodles and charlatans, they would never
return to be made spectral pilgarlics of."

"A ghost is a good thing--in a Christmas story!" laughed the jolly old
gentleman in a holly-crown. "Elsewhere it is generally a fraud and a
nuisance."

"Right, Father Christmas!" cried Mr. PUNCH. "But the _Voces_ from
my Oracular Funograph are not ghostly nothings, neither are they
ambiguous, like the oracles of the Sibyl of Cumæ,--to which, my
eloquent Premier, some have had the audacity to compare certain of
_your_ vocal deliverances."

The Old Oracular Hand smiled sweetly. "_Nescit vox missa reverti_," he
murmured. "Would that EDISON could invent a Party Leader's Phonograph
whose utterances should satisfy at the time without danger of
being quoted against one fifty years later by CLEON the Tanner, or
AGORACRITUS the Sausage-Seller, to whom even the Sibylline Books would
scarce have been sacred. But you and your Funograph--as you neatly
call it--have never been Paphlagonian, have never had to give up to
Party what was meant for Mankind."

"_And_ Womankind, surely, Mr. GLADSTONE?" subjoined the Strong-minded
Woman, glaring reproachfully through her spectacles at the
Anti-Woman's-Rights Premier. "I wish I could say as much of _you_,
Sir!"

"Labour and the Ladies seem to have small share in his thoughts,"
began the Striker, hotly, when Lord ROSEBERY touched him gently on his
fustian-clad shoulder, and he subsided.

"Am _I_ not a lady?" queried HIBERNIA, with an affectionate glance at
her aged champion.

"Golly, and me too?" added a damsel of dusky Libyan charms, clinging
close to the stalwart arm of Napoleonic CECIL RHODES.

"Yes--with a difference!" said the Oracle, drily. "'_Place aux dames_'
is a motto of partial and rather capricious application, is it not, my
evergreen Premier?"

"A principle of politeness rather than of politics or Parliament--at
present," murmured the G. O. M.

"Pooh!" sniffed the Strong-minded Woman. "It will _spread_. Read Mr.
H. FOWLER'S Bill, and Dr. ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE'S _Woman and Natural
Selection_; put this and that together, and perpend!"

"The Penny Phonograph," pursued Mr. Oracle PUNCH, "is now prodigiously
patronised. For the popular penny you can hear an American band, a
Chevalier coster ballad, the 'Charge of the Light Brigade,' a comic
song by 'Little TICH,' or a speech by the Old Man eloquent. No;
for the latter I believe they charge twopence. That _is_ fame, my
Pantagruelian Premier. But in _my_ Funograph--charge the unchangeable
Threepence--you can hear the very voice of Wisdom and Wit, of Humanity
and Humour, of Eloquence and Essential Truth, of Music and of Mirth!"

"Hear! hear! hear!" chorussed everybody.

"You _shall_ hear!" said the Oracle. "Stand round, all of you, and
adjust your ear-tubes! DIONYSIUS'S EAR was not an aural 'circumstance'
(as your countryman would say, CLEVELAND) compared with this. _Vox, et
præterea nihil_, indeed!"

"_Nihil_--or Nihilism," growled the Trafalgar Square Anarchist, "is
the burden of the _vox populi_ of to-day----"

"_Vox diaboli_, you mean," interrupted the great Funographer, sternly.
"And there is no opening for that _vox_ here. Shut up! You are here,
misguided mischief-maker, not to spout murderously dogmatic negation,
but to listen and--I hope--learn!"

"I trust you have guidance for me," murmured gentle but anxious-faced
Charity. "It would, like my ministrations, be most seasonable--as
Father Christmas could tell you--for between my innumerable claims,
and my contradictory 'multitude of counsellors,' my friends and
enemies, my gushingly indiscriminate enthusiasts, and my arid,
hide-bound 'organisers,' I was never, my dear Mr. PUNCH, so completely
puzzled in my life."

"Sweet lady," responded the Oracle, with gentle gravity, "there is
guidance here for _all_ who will listen; heavenly Charity and diabolic
Anarchy, eloquent Statesmanship and adventurous Enterprise, scared
Capital and clamorous Labour, fogged Finance and self-assertive
Femininity; for the motley and many-voiced Utopia-hunters who fancy
they see imminent salvation in Imperial Pomp or Parochial Pump,
in Constitutional Clubs or County Councils, in Home Rule, Primrose
Leagues, or the Living Wage, in Democracy or in Dynamite, in High Art
or Mahatmas, in Science or in Spooks. Take your places, Ladies and
Gentlemen! Charity first, if you please, with Father Christmas to her
right, leaving room for the little New Year on her left. Listen all,
and learn by the various voices of that many-cylindered, marvellous
Funographic Machine, my

ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTH VOLUME!"

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 105, JULY 8th 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HEALTH SEEKER'S VADE MECUM.

(_Revised up to Date._)

_Question._ Is it good for the health to keep awake?

_Answer._ Certainly not; as sleep is most necessary to the body's
repose.

_Q._ Then should one go to sleep?

_A._ No; for it must in the end be injurious to the mind.

_Q._ Is walking a good thing?

_A._ Certainly not; as it may lead to cramp.

_Q._ Is resting to be recommended?

_A._ Oh no; for exercise is absolutely a necessity.

_Q._ Is riding permissible?

_A._ Not when the wood pavement produces the new sore throat.

_Q._ Should we eat?

_A._ No; for everything is adulterated.

_Q._ Should we drink?

_A._ No; liquor is injurious.

_Q._ Should we starve?

_A._ No; meals are really needful.

_Q._ Is it safe to stay at home?

_A._ No; because change of air is most beneficial to everyone.

_Q._ Is it advisable to go abroad?

_A._ Not at all; many epidemics are reported to be rife everywhere on
the other side of the channel.

_Q._ Is it good to live?

_A._ Scarcely; because illness is worse than death.

_Q._ Is it good to die?

_A._ Probably; everything else is a failure, so no doubt this, too, is
a grand mistake.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TO CRICKETERS.

"OUT! FIRST BALL! A CATCH!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

UNDER THE ROOSE.

RONDEL BY A RESTORED ONE.

(_Some way after a Swinburnian Model._)

  Under the ROOSE! Decay seemed slow but sure,
  The golden chord Mors, lingering, aimed to loose;
  But kindness, care, and skill work wondrous cure,
  Under the ROOSE!

  The patient probably had played the goose,
  Liverish, listless, yielding to the lure
  Of overstrain, caught in neglect's sly noose.

  But symptoms pass if patience but endure,
  And ROBSON'S regimen brooks no excuse.
  Nerves get re-strung, the brisk blood pulses pure,
  Under the ROOSE!

       *       *       *       *       *

OLD PROVERB VERIFIED.--"Miss VERNE, whose renown as a pianist is
rapidly increasing, has hitherto been known to concert-goers as Miss
MATHILDE WURM." So at last "the WURM has turned," and become Miss
VERNE!

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT OUR EVENING PAPERS ARE COMING TO (_suggested by the newest thing
in Pink and Green_).--Penny plain, and halfpenny coloured!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 1893; OR, THE GOVERNMENT GUILLOTINE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

  ["Here comes a light to light us to bed,
  And a chopper to cut off the last--last--last Amendment's head!"

  _Old Nursery Rhyme "amended."_]

  There once was a Government good--
  (All Governments are, so they tell us!)--
  Who found themselves deep "in the wood,"
  And a little bit blown in the "bellows."
  Their foes, who were many and mean,
  Persistently hunted and harried 'em.
  Their time they to spend meant
  On bogus "Amendment;"
  They moved such by hundreds--and _all_ to befriend meant--
  Jawed round 'em, and--now and then--carried 'em!
  Singing fol-de-rol-lol-de-rol-lol!
  That Government upped and it said--
  "We seem to be getting no forrader.
  It's time to go 'full steam ahead!'
  _Bella horrida_ couldn't be horrider,
  So let's declare 'war to the knife!'
  Dr. GUILLOTIN'S knife, sharp and summary,
  We _must_ put a stopper
  On Unionist 'whopper,'
  Or else the best Government must come a cropper
  Along of their falsehood and flummery!"
  Singing fol-de-rol-lol-de-rol-lol!
  "Doctor GUILLOTIN claimed that his blade
  Was 'a punishment sure, quick, and uniform,'
  So when sham 'Amendment' has laid
  On the table its paltry and puny form,
  We'll just give it time to turn round,
  And if it's prolix or cantankerous,
  To the block be it led
  And then--off with its head!"--
  Well, for summary shrift there _is_ much to be said,
  When the criminal's rowdy and rancorous.
  Singing fol-de-rol-lol-de-rol-lol!

       *       *       *       *       *

SUB JUDICE.

(_An entirely Imaginary Report of an utterly Impossible Case._)

THE MUSTARD MYSTERY. 120TH DAY.

To-day the prisoner in this matter was once again brought before
the magistrates on the charge already stated. The same counsel
were present for the prosecution and the defence that had put in an
appearance yesterday. The court was densely crowded.

BENJAMIN BROWN deposed that he had often slammed a door. He knew the
sound of the slamming of a door, and thought he could distinguish it
from the noise of an earthquake. On cross examination he admitted
that he had not slammed a door, and had never been present at an
earthquake. On re-examination he said that although he had not been
present at an earthquake he was conversant with its characteristics.

JOHN JONES deposed that he had once seen a man who might have been the
prisoner. It was sixteen years ago. The man to whom he referred was
talking to a female. On cross-examination he admitted that, so far
as he knew to the contrary, the man may have been addressing his
grandmother. On re-examination he did not know that the female was a
grandmother--she might have been a grand aunt.

RICHARD ROBERTSON deposed that he had seen a pair of slippers. They
might have been the slippers of the prisoner. He saw one of those
slippers thrown with considerable force at a water-butt. He
had examined the water-butt, and there was a mark on it. On
cross-examination he admitted that he did not know how the mark on
the water-butt had been made. It might have been by a boot, and not
a slipper. He did not know to whom the slippers belonged. They might
have been the property of the prisoner. He was not sure that he had
seen the slippers in the presence of the prisoner. In fact, he was not
sure he had ever seen the prisoner before. He was also doubtful about
the identity of the slippers. However, on re-examination, he was sure
he had seen some slippers, and also a water-butt.

After some further evidence, the inquiry was adjourned until
to-morrow.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FASHION.

"OH, MUMMY, HAVE YOU BEEN VACCINATED ON _BOTH_ ARMS?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE THREE GEORGES.

The following two letters have reached _Mr. Punch_, curiously enough,
by the same post. Here they are, just as they were received:--

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Will you allow me, through your columns, to thank the
public for the brilliant way in which they are recognising my claims
to distinction? As I walk through the streets I see evidence on all
hands that on Thursday night London will be ablaze with "G. M."!
Permit me, Sir, thus publicly to thank a discriminating public.--Yours
Egoist-ically,

  G-ORGE M-R-D-TH.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--The Alderman in Art is beaten, and even the City is
one continuous tribute to "G. M." Critics, envious of my _Speaker_
reputation, may carp, and say the tribute's all gas--a half-truth,
concealing truth; but the public evidently know where to look for the
true critical insight. I am obliged to them, and I thank you for this
opportunity of saying so.

  Yours (naturally) as fresh as paint,
  G-ORGE M-RE.

       *       *       *       *       *

SOMETHING THAT HAD BEEN BETTER LEFT UNSAID. (_By an ex-Old Bachelor,
discontented with his condition in general, and his Mother-in-law in
particular_).--"I will!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A WEDDING FAVOUR.--A reserved first-class compartment on the London,
Chatham and Dover.

       *       *       *       *       *

AD FRATREM.

BY A REMONSTRATIVE SISTER.

(_See "Ad Examinatorem," Punch, July 1, 1893._)

  Dear Tom, you astonished me quite
  With your vigorous verses last week,
  It will be an unceasing delight
  In future, sweet brother, to speak
  Of the family poet--yourself!
  Yet I feel I must bid you beware.
  It may not be nice, but the word of advice
  Is your favourite, "Don't lose your hair!"

  Yes, I own it was rather a blow
  When they brought out the merciless list,
  For you primed up the Pater, I know,
  With such rubbish, and just _would_ insist
  The Exam. was as hard as could be.
  Ah! you painted it all at the worst,
  It was hard lines on you, THOMAS, not to get through,
  While the "crock" of a MAUD got a first.

  Still, why did you rush into print
  With your torrent of bitter complaint?
  To do so without the least hint,
  Well, brotherly, dear, it quite _ain't_.
  'Twere wiser and better by far
  To have laid all the blame on a tooth,
  For whatever's the use of a lovely excuse
  If not in concealing the truth?

  So bottle your anger, dear boy,
  Forget how to shuffle and shirk,
  Find intelligent purpose and joy
  In a season of honest hard work.
  You'll pass when you go in again,
  And eclipse in the passing poor me;
  For a girl, though she can beat the whole tribe of Man,
  Isn't fit, TOM, to have a degree!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SONG OF THE SESSION.

AIR--"_What shall he have that kill'd the Deer?_"

  What must he have who'd kill the Bill?
  A leathern skin, and a stubborn will.
  Brummagem's his home.
  Take then no shame to name his name!
  Bill-slaughtering is his little game.
  He'd be its death--he swore it,
  As limb from limb he tore it--
  The Bill, the Bill, the lusty Bill!
  Is it a thing Brum JOE _can_ kill?

       *       *       *       *       *

A TESTIMONIAL MANQUÉ.

(A SKETCH FROM THE SUBURBS.)

THE ARGUMENT--Mr. HOTSPUR PORPENTINE, _a distinguished resident in the
rising suburb of Jerrymere, has recently been awarded fourteen
days' imprisonment, without the option of a fine, for assaulting a
ticket-collector, who had offered him the indignity of requiring him
to show his season-ticket at the barrier. The scene is a Second-Class
Compartment, in which four of_ Mr. PORPENTINE'S _neighbours are
discussing the affair during their return from the City_.

_Mr. Cockcroft (warmly)._ I say, Sir--and I'm sure all here will bear
me out--that such a sentence was a scandalous abuse of justice. As
a near neighbour, and an intimate friend of PORPENTINE'S, I don't
'esitate to assert that he has done nothing whatever to forfeit our
esteem. He's a quick-tempered man, as we're all aware, and to be asked
by some meddlesome official to show his season, after travelling
on the line constantly for years, and leaving it at home that
morning--why--I don't blame him if he _did_ use his umbrella!

_Mr. Balch. (sympathetically)._ Nor I. PORPENTINE'S a man I've always
had a very 'igh respect for ever since I came into this neighbourhood.
I've always found him a good feller, and a good neighbour.

_Mr. Filkins (deferentially)._ I can't claim to be as intimate with
him as some here; but, if it isn't putting myself too far forward to
say so, I very cordially beg to say ditto to those sentiments.

_Mr. Sibbering_ (_who has never "taken to"_ PORPENTINE). Well, he's
had a sharp lesson,--there's no denying that.

_Mr. Cocker._ Precisely, and it occurs to me that when he--ah--returns
to public life, it would be a kind thing, and a graceful thing, and
a thing he would--ah--appreciate in the spirit it was intended, if
we were to present him with some little token of our sympathy and
unabated esteem--what do you fellers think?

_Mr. Filk._ A most excellent suggestion, if my friend here will allow
me to say so. I, for one, shall be proud to contribute to so worthy an
object.

_Mr. Balch._ I don't see why we shouldn't present him with an
address--'ave it illuminated, and framed and glazed; sort of thing
he could 'ang up and 'and down to his children after him as an
_heirloom_, y' know.

_Mr. Sibb._ I don't like to throw cold water on any proposition, but
if you want _my_ opinion, I must say I see no necessity for making a
public thing of it in that way.

_Mr. Cocker._ I'm with SIBBERING there. The less fuss there is about
it, the better PORPENTINE'll be pleased. My idea is to give him
something of daily use--a _useful_ thing, y' know.

_Mr. Balch._ Useful _or_ ornamental. Why not his own portrait? There's
many an artist who would do him in oils, and guarantee a likeness,
frame included, for a five-pound note.

_Mr. Sibb._ If it's to be like PORPENTINE, it certainly won't be
_ornamental_, whatever else it is.

_Mr. Filk._ It can't be denied that he is remarkably plain in the
face. We'd better, as our friend Mr. COCKCROFT here proposes, make it
something of daily use--a good serviceable silk umberella now--that's
_always_ appropriate.

_Mr. Sibb._ To make up for the one he broke over the collector's head,
eh? that's _appropriate_ enough!

_Mr. Cocker._ No, no; you mean well, FILKINS, but you must see
yourself, on reflection, that there would be a certain want
of--ah--good taste in giving him a thing like that under the
circumstances. I should suggest something like a hatstand--a handsome
one, of course. I happen to know that he has nothing in the passage at
present but a row of pegs.

_Mr. Sibb._ I should have thought he'd been taken down enough pegs
already.

[Illustration: "Well, he's had a sharp lesson,--there's no denying
that."]

_Mr. Filk. (who resents the imputation upon his taste)._ I can't say
what the width of Mr. PORPENTINE'S passage may be, never having been
privileged with an invitation to pass the threshold, but unless it's
wider than ours is, he couldn't get a hatstand in if he tried, and
if my friend COCKCROFT will excuse the remark, I see no sense--to say
nothing of good taste, about which perhaps I mayn't be qualified to
pass an opinion--in giving him an article he's got no room for.

_Mr. Cocker. (with warmth)._ There's room enough in PORPENTINE'S
passage for a whole host of hatstands, if that's all, and I know
what I'm speaking about. I've been in and out there often enough.
I'm--ah--a regular tame cat in that house. But if you're against the
'atstand, I say no more--we'll waive it. How would it do if we gave
him a nice comfortable easy-chair--something he could sit in of an
evening, y' know?

_Mr. Sibb._ A touchy chap like PORPENTINE would be sure to fancy
we thought he wanted something soft after a hard bench and a plank
bed--you can't go and give him _furniture_!

_Mr. Cocker. (with dignity)._ There's a way of doing all things. I
wasn't proposing to go and chuck the chair _at_ him--he's a sensitive
feller in many respects, and he'd feel _that_, I grant you. He can't
object to a little present of that sort just from four friends like
ourselves.

_Mr. Balch. (with a falling countenance)._ Oh! I thought it was to be
a general affair, limited to a small sum, so that all who liked could
join in. I'd no notion you meant to keep it such a private matter as
all that.

_Mr. Filk._ Nor I. And, knowing Mr. PORPENTINE so slightly as I do, he
might consider it presumption in me, making myself so prominent in the
matter--or else I'm sure----

_Mr. Cocker._ There's no occasion for anyone to be prominent, except
myself. You leave it entirely in my 'ands. I'll have the chair taken
up some evening to PORPENTINE'S house on a 'andcart, and drop in, and
just lead up to it carelessly, if you understand me, then go out and
wheel the chair in, make him try it--and there you _are_.

_Mr. Balch._ There _you_ are, right enough; but I don't see where _we_
come in, exactly.

_Mr. Filk._ If it's to be confined to just us four, I certingly think
we ought _all_ to be present at the presentation.

_Mr. Cocker._ That would be just the very thing to put a man like
PORPENTINE out--a crowd dropping in on him like that! I know his ways,
and, seeing I'm providing the chair----

_Mr. Balch. (relieved)._ You are? That's different, of course; but I
thought you said that we four----

_Mr. Cocker._ I'm coming to that. As the prime mover, and a particular
friend of PORPENTINE'S, it's only right and fair I should bear the
chief burden. There's an easy-chair I have at home that only wants
re-covering to be as good as new, and all you fellers need do is to
pay for 'aving it nicely done up in velvet, or what not, and we'll
call it quits.

_Mr. Balch._ I daresay; but I like to know what I'm letting myself
in for; and there's upholsterers who'll charge as much for doing up a
chair as would furnish a room.

_Mr. Filk._ I--I shouldn't feel justified, with my family, and, as,
comparatively speaking, a recent resident, in going beyond a certain
limit, and unless the estimate could be kep' down to a moderate sum, I
really----

_Mr. Sibb. (unmasking)._ After all, you know, I don't see why we
should go to any expense over a stuck-up, cross-grained chap like
PORPENTINE. It's well-known he hasn't a good word to say for us
Jerrymere folks, and considers himself above the lot of us!

_Mr. Balch and Mr. Filk._ I'm bound to say there's a good deal in what
SIBBERING says. PORPENTINE'S never shown himself what _I_ should call
sociable.

_Mr. Cocker._ I've never found him anything but pleasant myself,
whatever he may be to others. I'm not denying he's an _exclusive_ man,
and a _fastidious_ man, but he's been 'arshly treated, and _I_ should
have thought this was an occasion--if ever there was one--for putting
any private feelings aside, and rallying round him to show our respect
and sympathy. But of course if you're going to let petty jealousies
of this sort get the better of you, and leave me to do the 'ole thing
myself, _I've_ no objection. I daresay he'll value it all the more
coming from me.

_Mr. Sibb._ Well, he _ought_ to, after the shameful way he's spoken of
you to a friend of mine in the City, who shall be nameless. You
mayn't know, and if not, it's only right I should mention it, that
he complained bitterly of having to change his regular train on
your account, and said (I'm only repeating his words, mind you) that
Jerrymere was entirely populated by bores, but you were the worst of
the lot, and your jabber twice a day was more than he _could_ stand.
He mayn't have _meant_ anything by it, but it was decidedly uncalled
for.

_Mr. Cockcr. (reddening)._ I 'ope I'm above being affected by
the opinion any man may express of my conversation--especially a
cantankerous feller, who can't keep his temper under decent control. A
feller who goes and breaks his umbrella over an unoffending official's
'ead like that, and gets, very properly, locked up for it! Jerrymere
society isn't good enough for him, it seems. He won't be troubled with
much of it in future--_I_ can assure him! Upon my word, now I come
to think of it, I'm not sure he shouldn't be called upon for an
explanation of how he came to be travelling without a ticket; it looks
very much to me as if he'd been systematically defrauding the Company!

_Mr. Filk._ Well, I didn't like to say so before; but that's been _my_
view all along!

_Mr. Balch._ And mine.

_Mr. Sibb._ Now perhaps you understand why we'd rather leave it to you
to give him the arm-chair.

_Mr. Cockcr._ _I_ give a man an arm-chair for bringing disgrace on the
'ole of Jerrymere! I'd sooner break it up for firewood! Whoever it was
that first started all this tomfoolery about a testimonial, I'm not
going to 'ave _my_ name associated with it, and if you'll take
_my_ advice, you'll drop it once and for all, for it's only making
yourselves ridiculous! [_His companions, observing that he is in
a somewhat excited condition, consider it advisable to change the
subject._

       *       *       *       *       *

OPERATIC NOTES.

_Tuesday, June 27._--_Faust_, in French. JEAN DE RESZKE was to have
been _Faust_, but the "vaulting ambition" of the eminent Polish
tenor led him to attempt a high jump with another Pole--the
leaping-pole--and whether he had not his compatriot well in hand,
or whether, "with love's light wings," _Roméo_ did _not_ manage to
"o'ertop" the highest note above the line, deponent sayeth not, but
this much is known, that he fell at the high jump, and, feeling the
pain first in the under part of his foot, and then in the leg, he
exclaimed, with _Hamlet_, "O my prophetic sole, my ankle!" the result
being that he appeareth not to-night as _Faust_. If Frère JEAN DE
RESZKE is going on by "leaps and bounds" in this manner, he will
be known as "Brother JOHN the Risky." Madame NORDICA happy as
_Marguerite_--at least she looked it, for even in the most tragic
scenes there is always a sweet smile on her dimpled cheeks. Mlle.
BAUERMEISTER makes a _Marta_ of herself as the merry old dame;
Mlle. GUERCIA, as _Siebel_, is a Siebeline mystery; LASSALLE, as
_Valentine_, pleases _la salle_; but Brother EDWARD "_prends le
gâteau_" as _Mephistopheles_.

[Illustration: "O my prophetic sole, my ankle!"]

_Wednesday._--_Tristan und Isolde_, which may be rendered _Triste
'un und I solde-not-so-many-tickets-as-usual_, or _Triste 'un und I'm
Sold_. "The fourth of the WAGNER Cycle." If there are eight of them
then this is the Bi-Cycle, but there's more woe than weal in it, and
though extracts may be relished by the learned amateur, yet, as a
whole, WAGNER'S _Tristan_ does not attract our opera-going public.

       *       *       *       *       *

MEM.--No Nursery of Music can possibly be complete without
"Leading-Strings."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ON TICK.

_Seedy Swell._ "I SAY, OLD CHAP, TELL US THE TIME. I'M SURE YOUR WATCH
GOES WELL."

_Second S. S._ "IT GOES BEAUTIFULLY. IT WENT SIX MONTHS AGO TO MY
UNCLE'S!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE FRENCH OARSMEN.

(_From Mr. Punch, at Henley._)

  Here's a hand, my fine fellows; in friendship you come,
  And _Punch_, who likes courage, would scorn to be dumb.
  He greets you with cheers; may your shades ne'er diminish,
  Though you row forty-four from the start to the finish.
  You will bear yourselves bravely, and merit your fame,
  For brave man and Frenchman mean mostly the same.
  We shall do what we can--it's our duty--to beat you,
  But we know it will take a tough crew to defeat you.
  And whatever the upshot, howe'er the race ends,
  You and we, having struggled, shall always be friends.
  So accept, while we cheer you again and again,
  This welcome from Thames to his sister, the Seine.

       *       *       *       *       *

SKINNERS AND SKINNED.--One portion of the ancient award of Sir ROBERT
BILLESDON, Lord Mayor of London, in settling a dispute between the
Skinners and Merchant Taylors, was, that these two Companies should
dine together once a year. Mr. Justice BRUCE, alluding to this at
the banquet on Skinners Day, when, as was natural, many lawyers were
present, suggested that it would be a good thing if power were given
to judges to "condemn litigants to dine together, and to order that
the costs of the dinner should come out of the Consolidated Fund"--a
very good notion. The idea might be extended to entertaining Wards in
Chancery, of whom two unhappy infants the other day were had up at the
Police Court for picking and stealing, in order to feed themselves and
keep themselves alive until they should reach the age when they would
come into their Chancery-bound property of something like £20,000. The
magistrate ordered an inquiry, but of "subsequent proceedings" we have
not as yet seen any record.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE RISING GENERATION.

_Host._ "WHAT A SMART SET OF PEOPLE WE'VE GOT TO-NIGHT, DEARY!"

_Hostess._ "YES. HOW I WISH ONE OF OUR DEAR GIRLS WOULD COME AND SIT
BY US, AND TELL US WHO EVERYBODY IS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"HYMEN HYMENÆE!!!"

JULY 6, 1893.

    ["Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake!"

    _Spenser's Epithalamion._

    "A contract of true love to celebrate; And some donation
    freely to estate On the bless'd lovers."--_The Tempest._]

  Hymen, the rose-crowned, is in sooth awake,
  And all the world with him!
  Shall drowsy opiate dim
  The eyes of Love to-day? No, let all slake
  A loyal thirst in bumpers, for Love's sake,
  Full beaded to the brim!

  Like the Venusian's "mountain stream that roars
  From bank to bank along,
  When autumn rains are strong,"[A]
  A deep-mouthed People lifts its voice, and pours
  Its welcome forth, that like a Pæan soars
  In strains more sweet than song.

  More sweet than song, in that it straightway comes,
  Unfeignéd, from frank hearts;
  From loyal lips it starts,
  Unprompted, undragooned. The highway hums
  With the full sound of it. Fifes, trumpets, drums
  Bravely may play their parts.

  In the Imperial pageant, but the swell
  Of the free English shout
  Strikes sweeter--who dares doubt?--
  On Royal ears. Music of marriage bell
  Clang on, and let the gold-mouth'd organ tell
  Of love and praise devout!

  But the crowd's vigorous clamour has a voice
  Finer and fuller still;
  A passion of goodwill
  Rings, to our ears, through all the exuberant noise,
  Which the recipient's heart should more rejoice
  Than all Cecilia's skill.

  So rivals for Apollo's laurel wreath
  May loudly strike the lyre,
  "To love, and young desire;"[B]
  But "bold and lawless numbers grow beneath"[B]
  The people's praise, and give the crowd's free breath
  A "mastering touch of fire."[B]

  "Hymen, O Hymen!" beauteous ladies cry,
  "Hymen, O Hymen!" loud
  Shout forth the echoing crowd
  The city through; patricians perched on high,
  And the plebeian patient plodding by,
  Raise incense like a cloud.

  And Hymen's here, kind eye on all to keep,
  Hymen, with roses crowned,
  Leads on the Lion, bound
  In floral bonds and blossom-bridled, deep
  In scattered flowers. Your lyres ye laureates sweep,
  And marriage measures sound!

  Not Una's guardian more gladly bare
  Burden more pleasant--pure!
  With footing gently sure
  Leo on-paces. Hymen's torch in air
  Flames fragrantly. Was ever Happy Pair
  So served, or so secure?

  Take the rose-reins, young bridegroom; bridled so
  Leo's not hard to ride.
  Sweet MAY, the new-made bride,
  Will find her lion palfrey-paced. And lo!
  The genial god's unfailing torch aglow
  Burns bravely at her side!

  Epithalamia seem out of date;
  Hymen cares not to-day
  To trill a fulsome lay,
  Or hymn High Bridals with Spenserian state.
  Goodwill to goodness simply dedicate,--
  Such homage _Punch_ would pay.

  "Hymen, O Hymen!" Like this torch's flame,
  Bright be your wedded days!
  May a proud people's praise,
  Well earned, be your award of honest fame;
  And on each gracious head,
  Light may it lie, the crown you yet may claim,
  As rest these roses red!

[Footnote A: HORACE, "Ad Iulum Antonium," Ode 2, Book IV.]

[Footnote B: HORACE--_ut supra._]

[Illustration: "HYMEN HYMENÆE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A TALE OF THE ALHAMBRA.

Mons. JACOBI is a wonderful man. The undefeated hero of a hundred
ballets--there or thereabouts--still beats time and the record with
his bâton at the Alhambra; and his music, specially composed for
_Fidelia_, is to be reckoned among his ordinary triumphs. _Fidelia_ is
"a new Grand Romantic Ballet," in four tableaux, and its performance
justifies its promise. It is "new," it is decidedly "grand," it is
absorbingly "romantic," and there's no denying that it is a _Ballet
d'action_. But, as in the oft-quoted reply when little _Peterkin_
asked "what it was all about," so will the ballet-case-hardened
spectator say, "'Why that I cannot tell,' quoth he, 'But 'twas a
splendid victory!'" Somebody, possibly one _Tartini_, played by
Signorina CORMANI, is in love with _Fidelia_, Signorina POLLINI, as
naturally anyone would be; when a comic servant, Mr. GEORGE LUPINO,
is frightened by a Demon Fiddler with his fiddle (both being played by
PAGANINI REDIVIVUS) who either assists the lovers or does his best to
prevent their coming together, I am not quite clear which. Up to the
last it seemed doubtful whether the Demon Doctor was a good or bad
spirit, or a little mixed. His appearance is decidedly against him,
as he looks the very deuce. But I am inclined to think that he was
a "_bon diable_," and was doing everything, as everybody else on the
stage and in the orchestra does, for the best. After all, and before
all, the show is the thing, and this will rank, as it does now, among
the best of the greatest attractions hitherto provided by the Alhambra
Company for an appreciative public and for

  YOUR REPRESENTATIVE.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Scene from New Ballet.

Conductor Jacobi Demonio charming the public to the Alhambra.]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Madam DARMESTETER'S _Retrospect and other Poems_ is turned out by
FISHER UNWIN in that dainty dress with which he has made attractive
his Cameo Series. We used to know Madam DARMESTETER as Miss MARY F.
ROBINSON, a writer of charming verse. That in her new estate she has
not lost the old touch is witnessed by several pieces in this volume,
notably the first, which supplies the title. The penultimate verse of
this little lyric is most musical. There are several others nearly as
good. But occasionally Madam writes sad stuff. Of such is _The Death
of the Count of Armaniac_, of which this verse is a fair sample:

  "ARMANIAC, O ARMANIAC,
  Why rode ye forth at noon?
  Was there no hour at even,
  No morning cool and boon?"

My Baronite, though not yet entered for the Poet Laureateship, thinks
that kind of thing might be reeled off by the mile. Why not

  My Maniac, O my Maniac,
  Why rode ye forth at eve?
  Was there no hour at morning tide,
  No water in the sieve?

[Illustration: A Clerk in Our Booking-Office.]

Three years ago an American firm issued a princely edition of _The
Memoir of Horace Walpole_, written by AUSTIN DOBSON. It was too
expensive for mere Britishers, and only a small number of copies found
their way to this country. But the literary work was so excellent,
that it was pronounced a pity it should be entombed in this costly
sarcophagus. Messrs. OSGOOD, MCILVAINE, & CO. have now brought out an
edition, in a single handsome volume, at a reasonable price. HORACE
WALPOLE has often been written about since he laid down the pen,
but never by a more sympathetic hand than Mr. DOBSON'S, nor by
one bringing to the task fuller knowledge of WALPOLE'S time and
contemporaries. The charm of style extends even to the notes, usually
in books of this class a tantalising adjunct. Mr. DOBSON'S are so full
of information, and so crisply told, that they might with advantage
have been incorporated in the text. The volume contains facsimiles of
HORACE WALPOLE'S handwriting, an etching of LAWRENCE'S portrait, and
a reproduction of the sketch of Strawberry Hill which illustrated the
catalogue of 1774. Altogether a delightful book that will, my Baronite
says, take its place on a favourite shelf of the library that has
grown up round the memory of one of the most interesting figures of
the Eighteenth Century.

  THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

WEAR AND TEAR IN AFRICA.

    [In the report on the proposed Mombasa Railway, it is
    suggested that the station-buildings should be enclosed with a
    strong live-thorn palisade, impenetrable to arrows.]

SCENE--_A Station on the Mombasa Railway._

_New Station-Master_ (_to_ Telegraph Clerk). Did you send my message
this morning, asking for a consignment of revolvers and arrow-proof
shields?

_Telegraph Clerk._ Yes, Sir. I can't make out why we haven't had an
answer. Something may have gone wrong with the wires. I sent one of
the porters to examine them. Ah, here he comes.

_A Porter arrives._

_Porter._ Just as I thought, Sir. Them blessed niggers have run short
of cash, and they've bin and took a mile of our best wire.

_Station-Master._ Taken a mile of wire? What the deuce do you mean?

_Porter._ Ah, Sir, you're new to this 'ere job. Fact is, they can all
buy theirselves a wife a-piece for two yards of our wire; and as there
was a raid last week, and all their wives was made off with, they've
just bin and took our telegraph wire to buy theirselves a new lot.

_Station-Master._ Dear me, how very provoking. I must make a report of
this occurrence immediately! But what does this crowd in the distance
mean?

_Porter._ Why bless my heart, it's a Wednesday, and I'd quite
forgotten all about it. They always attacks us of a Wednesday, but
they're a good half hour earlier than last week.

_Station-Master._ This is very strange, very strange indeed. I doubt
if the directors will approve of this. (_An arrow pierces him in the
calf of the leg._) Oh, I say, you know, this will never do. Close the
points--I mean shut the doors and barricade the windows. Let us at
least die as railway men should.

_Porter._ Lor' bless you, Sir, we shan't die. We've only got to pick
off two or three dozen of 'em, and the rest will skip in no time.

  [_They retire within the palisade, and during the next half hour
  fight for their lives._

_Telegraph Clerk_ (_plucking three arrows out of his left leg_).
Things are getting a bit hot. Hurrah! here's the 5.30 down express
with revolvers and ammunition. Now we shall settle 'em.

  [_Arrival of the express. Retreat of the natives._

_Station-Master._ I don't think I quite like this life. I'm going to
off it.

  [_Offs it accordingly._

       *       *       *       *       *

AN OLD MAN'S MUSINGS.

(_After an Afternoon Pipe, at Nazareth House, Hammersmith._)

  ["Here again, clustered close round the fire
  Are a number of grizzle-lock'd men, every one is a true 'hoary
          sire.'
  Bowed, time-beaten, grey, yet alert and responsive to kindness of
          speech;
  And see how old eyes can light up if you promise a pipe-charge to
          each.
  For the comforting weed KINGSLEY eulogised is not taboo in this
          place,
  Where the whiff aromatic brings not cold reproval to Charity's
          face."

  "_An Autumn Afternoon at Nazareth House._" _Punch, Nov. 5, 1892._]

[Illustration]

  I don't just know who KINGSLEY was, but he was a good sort, I
          reckon!
  When nerves are slack and spirits low, the glowing pipe-bowl seems
          to beckon
  Like a good ghost or spirit kind to the fireside where age reposes.
  Yes! bacca makes an old man's chair as easeful as a bed of roses.

  Bad habit! So the strict ones say; expensive, wasteful, and
          un-Christian!
  I cannot argue of it out; I'm only a poor old Philistian.
  But oh the comfort of a pipe, the company it lends the lonely!
  It seems the poor soul's faithful friend, and oftentimes the last
          and only.

  Thanks be, they're not the hard sort _here_, in Nazareth House.
          The gentle sisters
  Take on a many helpful task; some of 'em, I misdoubt, are twisters.
  I don't suppose our "shag"-fumes seem as sweet to them as to us
          others;
  But--well, they do not treat us here as badged machines, but human
          brothers.

  Stranded, alone, at seventy-five, after a life of luckless labour,
  One feels what 'tis to be esteemed not as a nuisance, but a
          neighbour;
  A neighbour in the Good Book's sense; a poor one, and a helpless,
          truly,
  But--_not_ a plague, who'll live too long, if he is cossetted
          unduly.

  Lawks me, the difference! Don't you know the chilly scorn, the
          silent snubbing
  Which makes a man, as _is_ a man, feel he'd far rather take a
          drubbing?
  Old age and workhouse-duds may hide a deal of nature--from
          outsiders;
  But do you think old "crocks" can't _feel_, when they're shrunk
          from, like snails
  or spiders?

  After my dinner, with my "clay," stringed round the stem, that
          gums, now toothless,
  May grip it firmer, here I sit and muse; and memory's sometimes
          ruthless
  In bringing up a blundering past. We own up frank, me and my
          fellows,
  Where we've gone wrong, and, in regrets employ our wheezy, worn
          old bellows.

  What might have been, if--if--ah, _if_! That little word, of just
          two letters,
  Stops me worse than a five-barred gate. I wonder if it does my
          betters?
  We never tire round Winter's fire, or settle-ranged in Summer
          weather,
  Of telling of the wandering ways by which we gathered _here_
          together.

  If some who prate of paupers' ways, their tantrums, or their love
          of snuffing,
  Their fretting at cold, hard-fast rules, their fancy for sly
          bacca-puffing,
  Could only scan the paupers' past a little closer than their mode
          is,
  They'd learn that still some sparks of soul burn in those
          broken-down old bodies.

  And soul does kick at iron rules, and icy ways. Old blood runs
          chilly,
  And craves the heat, of love, fire, pipe, to warm it up like. Very
          silly,
  No doubt, from BUMBLE'S point of view! _Here_ we're held human,
          though so humble;
  And, Heaven be blessed!--at Nazareth House we've never known the
          rule of BUMBLE.

  The very old and very young are much alike in many a matter;
  Comfort and cheeriness we want, play or a pipe, romps or a chatter.
  The Nazareth Sisterhood know this, and what is more, they work
          according.
  'Tis love and comfort make a Home, without 'em 'tis bare roof and
          boarding!

  Bitter-sweet memories come sometimes; but a gay burst of
          baby-laughter,--
  For we all _laugh_ at Nazareth House!--will banish gathering
          blues. And after?
  Well, there's the free-permitted whiff, the "old-boy" gossip, low
          but cheery;
  Rest and a Sister's sunny smile soon drive off whim and
          whig-maleery.

  And so laid up, like some old hulk that can no more hope for
          commission,
  I sit, and muse, and puff; and wait that last great change in
          man's condition
  That shifts us to that Great High House to which the Sisters point
          us daily;
  Awaiting which in homely ease, Old Age dwells calmly if not gaily.

       *       *       *       *       *

INTELLIGENCE À L'AMERICAINE.

_Telegram No. 1._--Nothing could have been more terrible than the
scene following upon the earthquake. The houses sank through the
ground, and immediately a number of lions, tigers, and poisonous
serpents, attracted by the unusual occurrence, sprang upon the poor
inhabitants, and by their fierce attacks increased their misfortune.
But this was not all. Men and women, using swords, battle-axes, and
revolvers, fought amongst themselves, until the commotion created by
the landslip assumed the appearance of a pandemonium. At this moment,
to make confusion worse confounded, a heavy storm broke over the
fast-disappearing village, and thunderbolts fell like peas expelled
through a peashooter. As if this were not enough, several prairie
fires crept up, and the flames augmented the general discomfort. Take
it all and all, the sight was enough to make the cheek grow pale with
terror and apprehension.

_Telegram No. 2._--Please omit lions, tigers, poisonous serpents,
swords, battle-axes, revolvers, thunderbolts, prairie fires and cheek.
They were forwarded in Telegram No. 1 owing to a clerical error.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. R. STARTLED.--"Most extraordinary things are reported in the
papers!" observed Mrs. R. "Only the other day I either heard or read
that there was a dangerous glazier somewhere about in the Caucasus,
that he was using horrible language, and threatening to d---- you'll
excuse my using such a word--the Terek (whoever he may be), and that
then he was going to amuse--no, the word was 'divert'--somebody.
Clearly a lunatic. But who can be diverted by such antics? And why
don't they lock up the glazier?" [_On referring to the report, her
nephew read that "A glacier was causing great alarm." &c., &c., that
it was expected temporarily to "dam the Terek, and divert a vast body
of water_," &c.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PISCATORIAL POLITENESS.

(_From a Yorkshire stream._)

_Privileged Old Keeper_ (_to Member of Fishing Club, of profuse and
ruddy locks, who is just about to try for the Big Trout, a very wary
fish_). "KEEP YER HEAD DOON, SIR, KEEP YER HEAD DOON!" (_Becoming
exasperated._) "'ORD BOU IT, MAN, KEEP YER HEAD DOON! YER M'T AS WEEL
COME WI' A TORCH-LEET PROCESSION TO TAK' A FISH!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, June 26._--Hardly knew House to-night.
Benches mostly empty; few present seemed to have no fight in them.
Little round at outset on Betterment principle. Members roughly and
not inaccurately illustrated it by staying outside. "In principle,"
said PHILIPPE EGALITÉ, "the Terrace is Better meant for this weather
than the House." Mr. G. in his place, listening eagerly to speeches by
KIMBER, FERGUSSON, and other oratorical charmers. Generally believed
that he had gone off to Hatchlands for holiday; nothing for him to do
here; Home-Rule debate postponed till Wednesday; Supply, in meantime,
might well be left to Minister in charge.

"The fact is, TOBY," said Mr. G., when I remarked upon the pleasurable
surprise of finding him in his place, "I really did think of making
a little holiday, staying away till Wednesday. But when I got up
this morning, looked round at green fields and lofty trees, they
irresistibly reminded me of benches in House of Commons, and the
pillars that support the gallery. Then the sunlit sky is very nice
in its way; but do you know anything softer, more translucent or
attractive than the light that floods the House of Commons from the
glass roof? The more I thought of these things the more restless I
grew amid tame attractions of rural life. This morning it might have
been said of me, in the words of the poet,

  Although my body's down at Hatchlands
  My soul has gone aloft----

to Westminster. The country is there all through the year and every
day: Parliamentary Session lasts only seven, or at best eight months.
This year, if we've luck, we may run it into ten. But then House
doesn't meet every day. One is expected to go off to seaside, or
somewhere else, from Saturday to Monday. Thinking of these things,
couldn't resist temptation. So suddenly packed up, drove off, and here
I am. Needn't stop all night, you know, if you fellows grudge me a
little enjoyment; but shall at least begin evening pleasantly.
Shall vote in division on Betterment question, and make statement on
arrangements for Indian Currency."

_Business done._--Some votes in Navy Estimates.

_Tuesday._--CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN and W. WOODALL, V.C., the Casabiancas
of the evening. They sit on Treasury Bench, whence all but they have
fled; listen with polite attention to talk round Army Estimates; and
when there's anything like a lull get up and say few words. Whole
proceeding a farce of drearily colossal proportions. Major-General
HANBURY prances to front, reviews British forces under present
Administration, finds many buttons loose, and numerous gaiters askew.
Opportunity useful for showing that this Eminent Legislator has not
given up entirely to Home Rule what was meant for mankind. Omniscience
HANBURY'S forte; Army Reform his foible. Honourable distinction for
him that he has never drawn the sword on any tented field. Debates on
Army Estimates invariably call to the front an amazing reserve force
of unsuspected men of war. There are Colonels, Majors, and Captains
enough to officer the army at Monaco.

There's WEBSTER of East St. Pancras for example. The few Members
present gasped for breath when, just now, he offered few observations
on War Office management. What did he do in this galley? Well known
that in interval of revising his popular Dictionary he trifles with
the law. Might, in course of time, come to be Lord Chancellor;
but never Field Marshal. That only shows how limited is current
information, how true the observation that the world knows nothing
of its greatest men. Why, for sixteen years WEBSTER served with
distinction in the Third Battalion South Lancashire Regiment! Under
his civilian waistcoat to this day he coyly hides the bronze medal for
Blameless Conduct.

That he should take part in debate on Army Estimates not only natural,
but, in national interests, imperatively desirable. HANBURY'S case
quite otherwise. He never set a squadron a field, nor the division of
a battle knows more than ALPHEUS CLEOPHAS. Yet ALPHEUS CLEOPHAS is
not more glib, authoritative, or, on the whole, more entertaining when
Army Estimates are to the fore.

_Business done._--Army Estimates in Committee.

FRIDAY, 4 A.M.--Came upon NUSSEY an hour ago putting himself to bed
on a chair in the Library. This his first experience of Parliamentary
life; introduced at four o'clock yesterday afternoon, and took his
seat for Pontefract. "Lawka mussey! and is this NUSSEY?" cried WILFRED
LAWSON, whose aptitude for dropping into poetry beats _Silas Wegg_
hollow. It certainly was NUSSEY yesterday afternoon, and this is what
is left of him in the sunshine of a summer morning.

"Didn't think," he said, with a feeble smile, "that on occasion of my
proud entrance upon Parliamentary life I should forthwith be made into
an all-night NUSSEY. All very well to grow gradually into that state
of life. Begin, say, with suspending twelve-o'clock rule, and getting
off at one or two in the morning. But to plunge straight in like this
is, if I may say so, a little hard on newcomer fresh from country.
I suppose, from look of it, that it is only beginning of things. An
all-night NUSSEY to-day; a weekly NUSSEY before parched July has wet
its lips; and so on, till I become a monthly NUSSEY. Very kind of
you to come and see me, but if you don't mind, I'll just drop off to
sleep. Put the Amendments to the Home Rule Bill on the chimbley, and
I'll take a look at them when I feel dispoged."

A nice night we've all had; moreover than which, at a quarter to
three, lemon squashes gave out, and as one of waiters in hoarse
voice assured me, there wasn't "a hounce of hice" left on premises.
Yesterday afternoon Mr. G. moved his time-table Closure scheme
in speech cogency of which testifies to miraculous advantage of
limitation of delivery within space of half-hour. PRINCE ARTHUR
followed in best debating speech he has delivered since he became
Leader. Most adroit in argument, excellent in manner, felicitous in
phrasing. He, too, brief, and therefore necessarily to the point.
After this flood-tide of talk opened, and flowed, shallow but
persistent, for next four hours. NAPOLEON BOLTONPARTY, getting on
board the Raft of Tilsit-cum-North-St.-Pancras, drifted up and down on
washy flood. Erect, arms folded, and imperial hat cocked defiantly
at Mr. G. Liberals howled at him; shouts of "Moscow! Moscow!" mingled
with cries of "Waterloo!" and "St. Helena!" N. B. shook his golden
lilies in their teeth, and punted his Raft into the Tory harbour.

JOEY C. turned up after early dinner, and the waters were speedily
lashed into foam. Following the illustrious example of NAPOLEON
BOLTONPARTY, JOSEPH threw off all mask of deference to former leader.
Hitherto, even in moments of hottest conflict, JOEY C. has been sly,
dev'lish sly, in his hearing towards his "right hon. friend."
To-night he went for him, just as in days not so very far off good
Conservatives like GRANDOLPH, amid thunderous Tory cheers, used to
gird at the hero of the Aston Park Riots. "I admire the artful----"
Here he paused, and looked down with bitter smile on the apparently
sleeping figure of Mr. G. on the Treasury Bench. Five hundred lips in
the listening throng involuntarily formed the syllables in familiar
conjunction with the adjective. No, not yet. At present pace of
progression "dodger" may come. To-night JOSEPH content, having
gained the desired effect, to conclude the sentence with the words
"----minister who drew up this resolution."

At two o'clock this morning note was taken of fact that Mr. G., having
been in his place almost incessantly since four yesterday afternoon,
had carried his more than four score years off to bed. SQUIRE OF
MALWOOD thought all sections of House would be anxious to spare the
PRIME MINISTER further vigil. JOSEPH up like catapult. "Perfectly
absurd," he snapped, "to attempt to make a fetish of name and age of
PRIME MINISTER."

"There's one good thing we may hope to see come out of this night,"
said Member for Sark. "It should make an end of the treacly farce
which bandies between hopelessly parted colleagues the title 'right
hon. friend.'"

_Business done._--Sat for thirteen hours, and negatived first
Amendment to Closure Resolution.

_Friday._--Having got away late last night, made up for it by coming
back early this afternoon. Morning sitting, but no more fight
left. Quite content with heroic struggle through long summer night;
everything over by seven o'clock.

Hear touching story, which shows how deeply rooted in human mind is
habit of censoriousness. Not two more respectable-looking men in House
than BARTLEY and TOMLINSON. To be in their company is to receive a
liberal education in deportment. Walking home this morning, after
all-night sitting, in sad converse on possibilities of fresh
development of iniquity on part of Mr. G., they passed couple of
British workmen going forth to day's labour. Said first British
Workman, nudging his companion, and pointing with thumb over his
shoulder at wearied legislators: "Tell you what, BILL, _them_ coves
ain't been up to much good."

_Business done._--Closure Resolutions agreed to. Home-Rule Bill packed
up in compartments, to be opened as directed.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GOOD NEWS!

_'Arry._ "'TAINT NO GOOD MIKING A FUSS ABOUT IT, YER KNOW, GUV'NOR! ME
AND MY PALS MUST 'AVE OUR 'D'Y OUT'!"

_Foreign Fellow-Traveller._ "AHA! DIE OUT! YOU GO TO DIE OUT? MON
DIEU! I AM VAIRY GLAD TO 'EAR IT. IT IS TIME!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

COMING EVENTS AT THE LYCEUM.--With the exception of _Becket_, the part
of _Shylock_ is HENRY IRVING'S most powerfully striking impersonation,
and certainly ELLEN TERRY is at her best as _Portia_. It is played
once again this month before our HENRY'S departure for America, and
should not be missed by any genuine lover of SHAKSPEARE and of true
dramatic art. _À propos_ of this, a certain excellent lady, whose
name, beginning with R, is not absolutely unknown to _Mr. Punch_,
asked this question:--"Isn't there some character in one of
SHAKSPEARE'S plays called '_Skylark_'?" Then, as she proceeded to give
a hazy idea of the plot, it gradually dawned upon the listeners that
the _Merchant of Venice_ was the person of whom she was thinking.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Memoria Tecknica." July 1.

  "O mighty Mars! If in thy homage bred,
  Each point of discipline I've still observed;
  Of service, _to the rank of Major-General
  Have risen_; assist thy votary now!"

  _The Critic, Act ii., Sc. 2._

       *       *       *       *       *

A FEW BARS REST.--According to the _Globe_ the Cavalier ROBERT STAGNO,
a well-known tenor, was arrested on a charge of forgery. What was
it? Did he sign himself guaranteed as a tenner, worth two fivers, and
'twas afterwards found he wasn't? The report requires confirmation, as
it is most unlikely that a tenor should go so low and do anything so
base.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. R. ON MUSIC.--Her nephew, who is an excellent amateur musician,
read out an advertisement of a concert at St. James's Hall--"SARASATE
_will play Suite No. 2_." His excellent relative, who is not well up
in such matters, interrupted him with--"Ah! I _should_ like to hear
Miss SARAH SARTY play 'Sweet No. 2'! I daresay it has something to do
with 'Sweet seventeen.'" No explanation was necessary.

       *       *       *       *       *



Transcriber's Note:

Sundry damaged or missing punctuation has been reepaired.

['Vox et præterea (praeterea) nihil: A voice and nothing else; sound
without sense.]

This issue contains some dialect, which has been retained.

Page 9: 'spendid' corrected to 'splendid'. "'But 'twas a splendid
victory!'"

Page 13: 'A' corrected to 'At'. "At last, however, we managed to calm the
indignant ladies,..."