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Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, September 2nd 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

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LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

TO FAILURE

[Illustration]

_Ecce iterum!_ Well, why not? So long as I do not exanimate you with
my letters, I remain content. Besides, I have not yet fully-developed
all my theories. Let us, therefore, continue to chat together for a
little.

I cannot proceed for ever by the negative method. No doubt I might in
the end, exhaust the list of those who are not your subjects, but the
process would be long, and, I fear, tedious. No; I must come to the
point and produce my cases. What shall we say of them, then? HOOD
declares that--

  "There is a silence where hath been no sound,
  There is a silence where no sound may be,
  In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea."

and so forth; doubtless you remember the sonnet. Not there, however,
is the true silence--

  "But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
  Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
  Though the dun fox, or wild hyena calls,
  And owls, that flit continually between,
  Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,--
  There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone."

As with silence, so with failure, say I. The man who has never felt
the spur of ambition nor the intoxication of a success, who has
travelled always upon the level tracts of an unaspiring satisfaction,
on him, surely, failure sets no mark, and disappointment has for him
no stings. But the poor souls who soar only to sink, who melt their
waxen wings in the fierce heat of the sun, and fall crashing to earth,
theirs is the lot for pity. And yet it is not well to be too sure. For
in the eyes of the world a man may be cheated of his purpose, and yet
gain for himself the peace, the sober, contented joy, which is more
to him than the flaunting trophies of open success. And some clasp the
goddess in their arms, only to wither and decay in the embrace they
sought with so eager a passion. But I tarry, while time creeps on.

From the mist of memory rises a scene. A knot of laughing Freshmen is
gathered in the ancient Court outside the lecture-room staircase. It
wants a minute or two to the hour. They are jesting and chaffing with
all the delightful unconcern of emancipated youth, and their cheerful
faces shine brighter in the October sunshine. Some thirty yards away
from them a strange figure, in dingy cap and gown, paces wearily
along. It is that of a prematurely aged man, his back bent, his head
sunk upon his chest. The Freshmen begin to knock one another about;
there is what we used to call a "rag," and one of them, seizing a
small lump of turf, throws it at a companion. It misses him, and
strikes the old, weary figure on the back of the neck. He totters
forward with outstretched hands, just saves himself from falling, and
turns round. There is a terrible, hunted, despairing look on the face,
made more pitiful by the grey, straggling beard. The Freshman has
darted forward with an apology. The old man mutters, half to himself,
"What was it? Did some one call for me? I am quite alone, and I
scarcely remember----" and then shuffles away quickly, without
listening to the words of apology. The adventure chills the
laughter of the young men, the clock strikes, and they vanish to the
lecture-room.

This poor, rambling, distraught wreck of a man, was all that was left
in those days of a great and brilliant scholar, whose fame a quarter
of a century before had been alive in the mouths of Cambridge men.
From the moment that he entered at St. Mark's, HENRY ARKWRIGHT began
a glorious career of prize-winning. Scholarships were to him a part
of his daily bread. He swallowed them as other men swallow rolls for
breakfast. A magic influence seemed to smooth for him the rough
and rocky paths of learning. While his comrades stumbled along with
bruised limbs, he marched with firm and triumphant step to the summit.
And he had other advantages. He was handsome, his manner was frank
and winning, he was an athlete of distinction, he spoke with fiery and
epigrammatic eloquence at the Union. It is needless to add that his
popularity was unbounded amongst his companions. He took the best
degree of his year, and was made a Fellow of his College.

There was no lack of glowing prophecies about his future. The only
doubt was whether the Lord Chancellorship or the post of Prime
Minister would more attract his genius. Nobody supposed that he would
stay on at Cambridge. But he did. A few years after taking his degree
he published a monumental edition of a Greek classic, which is still
one of the fountain-heads of authority, even amongst the severe
scholars of the Fatherland. And after that there was an end of him.
Nobody quite knew what had happened to him, and as the years rolled
on fewer and fewer cared to inquire. He went to hall, he sat silent
in the Combination-room, he withdrew himself gradually from all
intercourse with friends. His whole appearance changed, he became
dishevelled, his face grew old and wrinkled, and his hair turned grey
before his time. And thus dwindling and shrinking he had come to be
the pitiable shadow who, as I have related, faded dismally across the
College Court before a knot of cheerful Undergraduates on an October
morning many years ago. What was the reason? I have often wondered.
Did his labours over his book displace by a hair's-breadth some minute
particle of matter in his brain? Or was there in his nature a lack
of the genuine manly fibre, unsuspected even by himself until he felt
himself fatally recoiling from the larger life of which the triumphs
seemed to be within his grasp, if only he would stretch out his hand
and seize them? I know not. Somebody once hinted that there was a
woman at the bottom of it. There may have been, but it is a canon of
criticism to reject the easier solution. When he died a few years ago,
it appeared to be a shock to all but a few to remember that he had not
died ages before.

And as I write this, I am reminded, I scarce know why, of poor
Mrs. HIGHFLYER. _Poor_ Mrs. HIGHFLYER! I hear somebody exclaim in
astonishment. Why is she poor? Why must we pity her? Is she not rich?
Do not the great and the titled throng to her parties during the
London Season? Has she not entertained Princes in the country? What
lot can be more enviable? Granted, I reply, as to the riches and
the parties. But can it be seriously supposed that a life spent in
a feverish struggle for recognition, its days and nights devoted
to schemes for social advancement, to little plots by which Lady
MOTTLING, the wife of the millionaire Member of Parliament, shall be
out-witted; or Mrs. FURBER, the wife of the returned Australian, shall
be made to pale her ineffectual fires; to conspiracies which shall
end in a higher rung of the giddy ladder of party-giving ambition--can
such a life, I ask, with all its petty miseries, its desperations,
its snubs, and its successes no less perilous than desperation, be
considered an enviable one? Ask Mrs. HIGHFLYER herself. Visit that
poor lady, as she is laying her parallels for her tenth attempt
to capture some stout and red-faced royalty for her dance or her
country-house, and see for yourself how she feels. She may bear aloft
a smiling face, but there is unhappiness in her heart, and all her
glories are as nothing to her, because she has read in the _Weekly
Treadmill_ that Lady MOTTLING'S latest party was attended by a Royal
Duke, two Ambassadors, and a Kamtchatkan Chieftain. There is failure
in the meanest shape. Was I right to pity her?

Are there not, moreover, critics and literary celebrities who----but I
dare too much, my pen refuses its office, so tremendous is the subject
on which I have rashly entered. And with that, farewell.

  D. R.

       *       *       *       *       *

EFFEMINACY OF THE AGE.

Mr. JAMES PAYN says that "some boys are really missed at home." Well,
_Mr. Punch_ has observed that some fond and foolish parents tog and
tittivate their boys till they look behind like girls. But to "_miss_"
them, as though they were maidens or barmaids is _too_ bad. To adapt
KO-KO'S celebrated song, he would say:--

  A boy may wear his hair in curls, or bear a pudding face,
    Some mothers, as you wist, that folly can't resist!
  Of true boy in dress and manners they may leave him scarce a trace,
    But he never should be "missed"--he never should be "missed."
  Maternal idiots molly-coddle little lads they own,
  Till they're girlish in demeanour, and effeminate in tone,
  But the _mater_ who her "TOMMY" spoils, and dresses like a guy,
  Till he doesn't think he crickets, and has no desire to try;
  Is a silly, weak anomaly who ought to be well hissed;
  Boys never should be "missy," and they never should be "missed."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. R. is delighted. "My youngest niece," she says, "has lately
become engaged to a very illegible young man."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DIVER.

(_Fragments of a Modern Parliamentary Version. A very long way after
SCHILLER._)

[Illustration]

  "Oh! where is the youth or man so bold
    To dive mid yon billowy din?
  There's a cup of the purest (Hibernian) gold,
    Lo! how the whirlpool has sucked it in!
  'Tis a crown of glory, that golden cup,
  To the venturous hand that shall bear it up!"

       *       *       *       *       *

  They listened, that goodly Company,
    And were mute both squire and knight;
  For they liked not the look of that wild (Irish) sea.
    And they funked a fight with that maelstrom's might,
  And a Voice, for the second time, loudly spake,
  "Will no man dive for Ould Oireland's sake?"

  But silently still they gaze and stand,
    Till a grey-pate grand and old
  Steps lightly forth from the shuddering band.
    Oh, the glances that greet him are stern and cold!
  And a whispered warning around doth pass:
  "Now, Grand Old Diver, don't be an ass!"

  And lo! as he stands on the uttermost verge,
    He sees, in the dark seas rushing,
  Obstructive monsters that swell and surge
    From the depths of the muttering whirlpool rushing,
  And their sound is the sound of hoot and hiss,
  And they leap in foam from the black abyss.

  Then quick, ere his fellows were half awake,
    That old man grand and grey
  Plunged headlong! Ah! it made them quake
    As he whirled in the whirling stream away;
  And they cried, "'Tis pity the land should suffer
  This suicide of the Grand Old Duffer!"

       *       *       *       *       *

  Down! down he shot like a lightning flash!
    When lo! from the depth of the rocky ground,
  Did a thundering torrent to meet him dash.
    Like a child's frail top he span around,
  Powerless and pale; for how should he fight
  With the _double_ stream in its banded might?

  The obstructive darkness of the deep
    Lay all beneath him, above, about;
  And goggle-eyed monsters that made him creep,
    Glared at him there in a menacing rout;
  For the dismal depths of those waters dark
  Seemed alive with the kraken, the sword-fish, the shark.

  There, there they clustered in grisly swarm,
    Curled up into many a labyrinth knot,
  The octopus with its horrible arms,
    And the sea-snake fierce, with a mouth like a slot;
  And the glassy-eyed dog-fish with threatening teeth,
  Hyena fierce of the sea beneath.

  And the Grand Old Diver he felt half-choked,
    And he mused to himself, "_Must_ I give it up?"
  In ledge and rock-cranny he peered and poked,
    Till he caught the glint of that golden cup
  Hung on a rock, as though it had grown
  In the depth which the sea-snake calls her own.

       *       *       *       *       *

  But see! What shines from the dark flood there
  As a swan's soft plumage white?
  A thin, wan face, scant, wave-washed hair,
    And arms that move with a summer's might.
  It is he, and lo! in his left hand high
  He waveth the goblet exultingly!

  He is breathing deep, he is gasping long,
    As he clings to a rock--for his strength half fails.
  "By Jove, he has got it!" yelled forth the throng,
    "He lives! he is safe!" But he pants, he pales!
  The Grand Old Diver the goblet grips!
  Will he live to lift it wine-brimmed to his lips?

       *       *       *       *       *

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "SUNT LACHRYMÆ RERUM--NOS ET MUTAMUR IN ILLIS!"

_Old Adonis (gazing at his bust, which was done in the early
Fifties)._ "AH! IT NEVER DID ME JUSTICE! AND IT GETS LESS AND LESS
LIKE ME EVERY DAY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

CURE-IOUS!

Saw advertisement to-day, "Wanted, a few hopeless Drunkards," from a
person who has a new Patent Remedy for Dipsomania. Fancy that I answer
the description. Why should I not apply? Funds rather low just at
present, and I might get the price of a few bottles of gin out of this
Anti-Alcoholic Enthusiast. He asks us to "apply by letter." Better to
see if it's all a hoax or not. Shall go in person.

Have just made my application. Four other inebriates had also gone
in person. They were in the waiting-room when I arrived, in advanced
stage of _delirium tremens_. Scandalous! All of them had fiery
serpents coming out of their boots, too, which they set at me directly
I appeared. What the police are about in allowing such people at large
I cannot understand. Obliged to defend myself against the serpents.
I believe a shindy ensued, and I was accused--most unjustly--of being
intoxicated, whereas I had purposely abstained from taking more than
half a bottle of neat Cognac that morning, in order to have my
head quite clear for the interview. However, had a chat with the
Enthusiast, who said he thought I would "do very well." Wants me to
get a couple of "good testimonials" from my friends, saying that I
have "really made a hopeless beast of myself for at least two years
past." Rather awkward this, as most of my old chums refuse to see me
now. Such is friendship!

Testimonials secured at last. Had to create a slight disturbance
outside the houses of my friends before I could get them to do what I
wanted. When they _did_ really understand what was expected, they gave
me the highest character for inebriety. One says that he "has good
reason for knowing that I have not been really sober for more than
a day at a time for the last five years." The other "willingly
certifies" that "a more absolutely besotted specimen of gin-soddened
humanity" it would be impossible to find. Sent the replies off to the
Enthusiast, who returns me some of the Patent Remedy in a bottle, "to
be taken as directed," but no money! What a swindle! Pawnbroker round
the corner declines to advance a farthing on the Remedy. Nothing left
but to try it!

Have tried it! Awfully good stuff! Must have gin in it, I think. Leave
off my nightly potation of spirits, and drink half the bottle instead.
Refreshing sleep. Haven't had such a night for ages. Enthusiast calls
to see how I am getting on. Immensely pleased. Leaves me another
bottle of the Remedy, and--on my threatening to strike unless he gives
me some money--half a sovereign. Get in more gin.

Extraordinary thing has happened. Gin seems positively nasty to me
now! Forced myself to drink a little. Deadly sick! There must be
something very unwholesome about the Remedy. Pitch rest of it out of
window.

Glad to say that my taste for gin has come back. Was able to finish
half a bottle at a sitting. Go round to Enthusiast's office, to
tell him about dangerous effect of his alleged Remedy. He says "the
sickness and the distaste for gin was just what he wanted to produce."
The inhuman monster! Give him a little of my mind, and he retreats
into an inner room, and his Clerk comes out to try and remove me from
the premises. Curiously enough, the Clerk's front teeth all suddenly
drop out and turn into green and red dragons, which writhe about the
floor. Some sort of disturbance happens--believe Clerk tries to kill
me--forget all the rest.

_Later._--Appear to be in a Police cell! Why don't they shut up the
keyhole to prevent those gamboge-coloured elephants getting through?
Why has the Warder fifteen heads? Shall complain to the Home
Secretary. Also shall make it hot for that Enthusiast when I get out.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ADVENTURES OF PICKLOCK HOLES.

(_By Cunnin Toil._)

No. IV.--THE ESCAPE OF THE BULL-DOG.

I think I have mentioned that the vast intellect of my friend HOLES
took as great a delight in unravelling the petty complexities of some
slight secret as in tracing back to its source the turbid torrent of a
crime that had set all Europe ablaze. Nothing, in fact, was too small
for this great man; he lived only to unravel; his days and nights were
spent in deciphering criminal cryptograms. Many and many a time have I
said to him, "HOLES, you ought to marry, and train up an offspring
of detective marvels. It is a sin to allow such a genius as yours to
remain unreproduced." But he only smiled at me in his calm, impassive,
unmuscular, and unemotional manner, and put me off with some such
phrase as, "I am wedded to my art," or, "Detection is my wife; she
loves, honours, and _obeys_ me--qualities I could never find in a mate
of flesh and blood." I merely mention these trifles in order to give
my readers some further insight into the character of a remarkable
man with whom it was my privilege to be associated on more than one
occasion during those investigations of which the mere account has
astonished innumerable Continents.

During the early Summer of the year before last a matter of scientific
research took me to Cambridge. It will be remembered that at that
time an obscure disease had appeared in London, and had claimed
many victims. Careful study had convinced me that this illness, the
symptoms of which were sudden fear, followed by an inclination to run
away, and ending in complete prostration, were due to the presence in
the blood of what is now known as the Proctor Bacillus, so called
on account of two white patches on its chest, which had all the
appearance of the bands worn by the Proctor during the discharge of
his unpleasant constabulary functions in the streets and purlieus of
University towns. In order to carry on my investigations at the very
fountainhead, as it were, I had accepted a long-standing invitation
from my old friend Colonel the Reverend HENRY BAGNET, who not only
commanded the Cambridge University Volunteers, but was, in addition,
one of the most distinguished scholarly ornaments of the great College
of St. Baldred's.

On the evening to which my story relates we had dined together in the
gorgeous mess-room which custom and the liberality of the University
authorities have consecrated to the use of the gallant corps whose
motto of "_Quis jaculatur scarabæum?_" has been borne triumphantly in
the van of many a review on the Downs of Brighton and elsewhere. The
countless delicacies appropriate to the season, the brilliant array of
grey uniforms, the heavy gold plate which loaded the oak side-board,
the choice vintages of France and Germany, all these had combined with
the clank of swords, the jingle of spurs, the emphatic military words
of command uttered by light-hearted undergraduates, and the delightful
semi-military, semi-clerical anecdotes of that old war-dog, Colonel
BAGNET, to make up a memorable evening in the experience of a careworn
medical practitioner who had left the best part of his health and his
regulation overalls on the bloody battle-field of Tantia-Tee, in the
Afghan jungle.

Colonel BAGNET had just ordered the head mess-waiter to produce
six more bottles of the famous "die-hard" port, laid down by his
predecessor in the command during the great town and gown riots of
1870. In these terrible civic disturbances the University Volunteers,
as most men of middle age will remember, specially distinguished
themselves by the capture and immediate execution of the truculent
Mayor of Cambridge, who was the prime mover in the commotion. The
wine was circulating freely, and conversation was flowing with all the
_verve_ and _abandon_ that mark the intercourse of undergraduates with
dons. Just as I was congratulating the Colonel on the excellence of
his port the door opened, and a man of forbidding aspect, clothed in
the heavy garments of a mathematical moderator, entered the mess-room.

"I beg your pardon, Colonel," said the new arrival, bringing his hand
to his college cap with an awkward imitation of the military salute.
"I am sorry to disturb the harmony of the evening, but I have the
Vice-Chancellor's orders to inform you that the largest and fiercest
of our pack of bull-dogs has escaped from his kennel. I am to request
you to send a detachment after him immediately. He was last heard
barking on the Newmarket Road."

In a moment all was confusion. Colonel BAGNET brandished an empty
champagne bottle, and in a voice broken with emotion ordered the
regiment to form in half-sections, an intricate man[oe]uvre, which was
fortunately carried out without bloodshed. What might have happened
next I know not. Everybody was dangerously excited, and it needed but
a spark to kindle an explosion. Suddenly I heard a well-known voice
behind me.

"One moment, Colonel," said PICKLOCK HOLES, for it was none other,
though how he had obtained an entrance I have never discovered; "you
desire to find your lost canine assistant? I can help you, but first
tell me why a soldier of your age and experience should insist on
wearing a lamb's-wool undervest."

The guests were speechless. Colonel BAGNET was blue with suppressed
rage.

[Illustration: "How now, Sirrah?" he replied; "how dare you insinuate
that----"]

"How now, Sirrah?" he replied; "how dare you insinuate that----"

"Tush, Colonel BAGNET," said my wonderful friend, pointing to the
furious warrior's mess-waistcoat; "it is impossible to deceive me.
That stain of mint-sauce extending across your chest can be explained
only on the hypothesis that you wear underclothing manufactured from
lamb. That," he continued, smiling coldly at me, "must be obvious to
the meanest capacity." For once in his life the Colonel had no retort
handy.

"I am at your orders," he said, shortly. "The man who can prove that
I wear lamb's-wool when I am actually wearing silk is the man for my
money." In another moment HOLES had organised the pursuit.

"It would be as well," he remarked, "to have an accurate description
of the animal we are in search of. He was----"

Here the impatient Colonel interrupted. "A brindled bull, very deep
in the chest, with two kinks in his tail; has lost one of his front
teeth, and snores violently."

"Quite right," said HOLES; "the description tallies."

"But, HOLES," I ventured to say, "this is most extraordinary. You, who
have never been in Cambridge before, know all the details of the dog.
It is wonderful."

HOLES waved me off with as near an approach to impatience as I have
ever seen him exhibit. Having done this, he once more addressed the
Colonel.

"Your best plan," he said, "will be to scour the King's Parade. You
will not find him there. Next you must visit the Esquire BEDELL, and
thoroughly search his palace from basement to attic. The dog will not
be there, but the search will give you several valuable clues. You
will then proceed to the University Library, and in the fifth gallery,
devoted to Chinese manuscripts, you will find----"

As HOLES uttered these words the mathematical moderator again entered.
"Sir," he said to the Colonel, "it was all a mistake. The dog is quite
safe. He has never been out of his kennel."

"That," said HOLES, "is exactly what I was coming to. In the fifth
gallery, devoted to Chinese manuscripts, you will find no readers.
Hurrying on thence, and guiding your steps by the all-pervasive odour
of meat-fibrine biscuits, you will eventually arrive at the kennel,
and find the dog."

"Zounds! Mr. HOLES," said the admiring Colonel, in the midst of the
laugh that followed on HOLES'S last words, "you are an astounding
fellow." And that is why, at the last Cambridge Commencement, the
degree of LL.D. honoris causâ was conferred on PICKLOCK HOLES,
together with a Fellowship at St. Baldred's, worth £800 a year. But my
friend is modesty itself. "It is not," he said, "the honorary degree
that I value half so much as the consciousness that I did my duty, and
helped a Colonel in the hour of his need." And with these simple words
Dr. PICKLOCK HOLES dismissed one of his finest achievements.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAY OF THE "ANCIENT."

[Illustration]

  As I sit in my chambers, old and bare,
    That look on the busy street,
  And hear the roar of the town below,
    And the tramp of hurrying feet,
  I think, as I smoke my well-worn pipe,
    Ensconced in my old arm-chair,
  Of the days that have passed, like the sigh of the blast,
    When the world was fresh and fair.

  Of the joyous time when I joined the inn,
    Nearly forty years ago,
  When the fire of youth was in my veins,
    Where the blood now runs so slow.
  'Twas well in that far off happy time,
    That I could not see before,
  When we flirted and gambled, and sometimes worked,
    In the student days of yore.

  When all was common to him in need,
    And nothing we called our own.
  Gone are those days, and can never return--
    We reap the crop we have sown.
  Each of us thought that we should succeed,
    Though others of course might fail;
  And we went with the tide in our youthful pride,
    Like a ship without a sail.

  Where are they now all these friends of our youth?
    Scattered abroad o'er the earth.
  Some few are famous and some are dead,
    And the world knew not their worth.
  Some, like myself, are still found in "Hall,"
    Pitied by those we meet,
  And who pray that their end it may never be
    To sit in the ancients' seat.

       *       *       *       *       *

NO GOT!

  REICHEMBERG and GOT declare
  _La Maison de Molière_
  They'll resign and leave for ever.
  Ah! SUZANNE, the sparkling, clever,
  Long the _Comédie's_ pride and pet,
  Don't desert your votaries--yet.
  Try a quarter-century longer,
  Years but make you brighter, stronger;
  And GOT'S "go" we can't spare. No,
  Chaos comes if GOT should go!

       *       *       *       *       *

PEDESTRIAN POETRY.--"_The pleasures that lie about our
feet_"--Comfortable slippers after a long walk.

       *       *       *       *       *

HAUNTED!

[Illustration]

  The quarter where I linger,
    My square, is Fashion's acme;
  I'm conscious that the finger
    Of scorn may well attack me;
  At number six a Viscount
    Resides, in proper season;
  No wonder, then, that _I_ count
    As vulgar now, with reason.

  To stay in London, here too!--
    This neighbourhood majestic!
  Oh! what must it appear to
    A nobleman's domestic?
  I feel, I can't help stating,
    Each morn I feel (it tries me),
  His Lordship's lords-in-waiting
    Both pity and despise me.

  His blinds are drawn sedately;
    Mine blazon low disaster;
  How desolate, how stately,
    That mansion mourns its master!
  His Lordship is at Como--
    At least so folks are saying;
  His Lordship's Major-Domo
    Reproaches me for staying.

  But, prowling, like a Polar
    Bear, up and down the pavement
  Last eve, and grinding molar
    Teeth over forced enslavement,
  A miracle I noted,
    A "spook," deserving quires
  Of commentaries quoted
    By "psychic" Mr. MYERS.

  Upon his Lordship's hinges
    Revolved his Lordship's portal,
  Till thence, with stealthy twinges,
    Emerged what seemed a mortal;
  A lamp was nigh to show him,--
    I'd not been quaffing toddy,--
  I'm privileged to know him,--
    It _was_--His Lordship's _Body_.

  Now _if_ his Major-Domo
    Told truth--and who can doubt him?
  His Lordship was at Como,
    And number six without him.
  His Lordship, I reflected,
    Can earthly trammels o'erstep,
  And, "astrally projected"
    From Como, reach his doorstep.

  'Twas very odd--I know that;
    But then the "spook"-deriding
  Must undertake to show that
    His Lordship was in hiding;
  That London still detained him--
    Him one of Britain's leaders!
  And frank avowal pained him.--
    Well, you must judge, my readers.

       *       *       *       *       *

HER SAILOR HAT.

[Illustration]

  Oh, AMARYLLIS, in the shade
    Of Rotten Row, with ribbons, feather,
  And wide-spread brim your hat is made!
    Down by the sea, in windy weather,
          A sailor hat,
          So small and flat,
    Is far more natty altogether.

  Down by, or on, the waves where swim
    The tribes which poets christen "finny,"
  This hat might not, with narrow brim,
    Become a spinster sear and skinny--
          Some say "old cat"--
          Nor one too fat,
    Nor little brat, small piccaninny.

  But, with it fixed upon your hair,
    When breezes blow your flapping dresses,
  You look, if possible, more fair;
    There's one beholder who confesses
          He dotes on that
          Sweet sailor hat,
    When gazing at those sweeter tresses.

       *       *       *       *       *

BALFOUR'S BOON.

(_By an admiring M.P._)

  After hours of dullard, rasper, ranter,
  Sweet an interlude of BALFOUR'S banter!
  JOSEPH'S venom, HARCOURT'S heavy clowning,
  Tired us, in a sea of dulness drowning;
  When, hillo! here is PRINCE ARTHUR chaffing
  Mr. G. and all the House is laughing!
  Never were such light artistic raillery,
  Nothing spiteful, naught played to the gallery;
  Finished fun, _ad unguem_, poignant, polished.
  Fled fatigue, and dulness was demolished.
  Even the great victim chortled merrily,
  That short speech should be "selected," verily,
  For the next edition of the _Speaker_.
  No coarse slogger, and no crude nose-tweaker
  Is PRINCE ARTHUR. GLADSTONE first is reckoned
  At gay chaff, but BALFOUR'S a good second.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE EXPRESSED DIFFERENTLY.

_Miss Bessy._ "WON'T _YOU_ SING SOMETHING, CAPTAIN BELSIZE?"

_Captain Belsize._ "OH! I NO LONGER SING NOW. _DO_ I, MISS CAROLINE?"

_Miss Caroline._ "I'M AFRAID YOU _DO_, CAPTAIN BELSIZE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TRYING HER STRENGTH.

    ["The one certain result of the elections will be to give
    increased stability to the Republic."--_Daily Chronicle._]

_Madame La République loquitur_:--

  Ouf! What a pull! Who said my muscularity
    Was dwindling? It is truly Amazonian!
  _Ma foi!_ _Phraseurs_ are not all blessed with clarity,
    Even when their eloquence _is_ Ciceronian.
  How now, MILLEVOYE? How now, mad DÉROULÈDE?
  And what of the grim prophecies you made?

  Both out of it--as prophets and as Strong-Men!
    Discredited, disqualified, defeated!
  The _Ralliés_ too! Results prove them the wrong men.
    How the _Gazette de France_ has blared and bleated!
  What lots of foes have I left in the lurch!--
  Thanks largely to "the attitude of the Church"!

  "_Cléricalisme, voilà l'ennemi?_" _Non!_
    That phrase, oft-quoted, comes not now so readily.
  Perennially beautiful as NINON,
    I've proved my claim to power of pulling steadily;
  Just like my rowing lads upon the Seine,
  Who've shown big BULL that strength _can_ go with brain.

  From Revolution round to firm Stability!!
    Upon my word, I think that pull is splendid.
  _Les dames_, long pooh-poohed, now display ability
    To do--most things as well as ever men did.
  Because I'm _gai_ and witty, fools--of course--
  Fancied me destitute of sinewy force.

  Ah, DELAHAYE, DRUMONT, and ANDRIEUX, verily
    You've found the game was hardly worth the--scandal!
  My firebrand foes played up that game right merrily;
    Against me _anything_ would serve as handle;
  Yet, after WILSON, Panama, (_and_ Siam),
  They find that if there is an athlete, _I_ am.

  Babblers of "British Gold," canard-concocters,
    Reactionaries, _Ralliés_, Rowdies, Royalists--
  All who would act as my exclusive doctors--
    You find the Voters are the real loyalists,
  And, spite of partial failures in the past,
  I've pulled this State Machine right round--at last!

       *       *       *       *       *

  BRUTUS OF BRUMMAGEM. On a "False Foe" my venom I may spend,
  But what of my "Right Honourable Friend"?
  Ask "the ironic fiend." He'll give an answer,
  Neatly combining Scorpio with Cancer,
  As "Right" I'll prove him ever in the wrong;
  As "Honourable," trickiest of the throng;
  While as "my friend," well there, I would not swagger,
  But CÆSAR sharpest found the "friendly" dagger!

       *       *       *       *       *

WORDS! WORDS! WORDS!

(_By an Unpaired M.P., who has "Sat it Out."_)

  M.P.'s gagged? Why, tongues have wagged
      Seventy days, or eighty.
  Little said on any head
      Has been wise or weighty.
  Gag's all hum! How shall we sum
      Seven long weeks' oration?--
  _Polyphrasticontinomemegalondulation!_

  BARTLEY, BOWLES--loquacious souls!--
      HANBURY and RUSSELL,
  Have kept going, seldom "slowing"
      In the talky tussle.
  SAUNDERSON went sparring on,
      JOE pursued jobation.--
  _Polyphrasticontinomemegalondulation!_

  Righteous causes, wicked clauses,
      All meant bleats and blethers.
  Beaming BOLTON had to moult on,
      Gone his old Rad feathers.
  "Yaller Jaunders" seized on SAUNDERS.
      All drew "explanation!"--
  _Polyphrasticontinomemegalondulation!_

  Grim MACGREGOR--dogged beggar!--
      Had "ideas"--and told them;
  So had bores in tens and scores,
      Why should _they_ withhold them?
  What result from all this cult
      Of roundaboutation?--
  _Polyphrasticontinomemegalondulation!_

  With composure I the Closure
      Welcome--our sole saviour
  From the gabble of the rabble,
      And their bad behaviour.
  The Front Benches? Well, one blenches
      E'en from their "oration"--
  _Polyphrasticontinomemegalondulation!_

[Illustration: TRYING HER STRENGTH.

MADAME LA RÉPUBLIQUE. "AHA!--I HAVE PULLED 'IM NOW--AT LAST!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE LOWER CREATION--SEEKING FOR A JOB.]

       *       *       *       *       *

MEETING OF THE ANTI-BIOGRAPHERS.

(_From Notes supplied by Superhuman Reporters._)

A meeting was recently held in the early dawn to consider "Biographies
in General, and the lives of British Celebrities in Particular." The
site chosen for the gathering was so indefinite, that it is impossible
to give it accurate geographical expression. There was a large number
of shades present, and Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON was unanimously voted to the
chair.

The President, in thanking those who had done him the favour of thus
honouring him, observed that, although he appreciated the compliment
that had been bestowed upon him, he could not express any particular
esteem for the intelligence of those who had been the cause of his
occupying his present position. (_Laughter._) He did not understand
the reason which had prompted merriment as a fitting recognition
of his remarks. If they were satisfied, he was content. He had been
called to take the chair, he supposed, because he had nothing to do
with his own biography. That had been written by a Scottish gentleman,
with whom he had no sympathy.

Mr. BOSWELL: I hope, Sir, you do not mean what you say.

The President (with great severity): Yes, Sir, I do. I think that
the man who would write the life of another without his sanction is
unworthy---- (_Cries of "Agreed."_) The learned Doctor continued.
He did not wish to force his sentiments upon any one. No doubt his
opinions were considered behind the time. Everything had changed
nowadays, and even his Dictionary was, more or less, superseded by an
American Lexicon. He called upon the Emperor NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE to
move the first resolution.

The Emperor NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE expressed his satisfaction that he
should have been allowed to take the lead in this matter. It reminded
him of old times, when he took the lead in everything. ("_Hear,
hear._") He represented, he supposed, "Biographies in General,"--as he
had not much sympathy with British worthies. He wished bygones to
be bygones (_"Hear, hear"_), but he must say that the conduct of Sir
HUDSON LOWE was---- (_Interruption._) Well, he did not wish to press
the matter further. ("_Hear, hear._") There was no doubt that unless a
man wrote his autobiography he was always misrepresented. (_Cheers._)
It was high time that some control should be put upon the publication
of the lives of those who had joined the majority. He had much
pleasure in proposing the following resolution: "It is the opinion
of this meeting of Shades assembled in council in Elysium that steps
should be taken to prevent the dissemination of false information
about their prior existences."

Sir WALTER SCOTT said that it gave him great pleasure to second a
resolution moved with such admirable discretion by his imperial and
heroic friend the last speaker. He had the greater satisfaction in
doing this as it might lead to a new and amended edition of his own
"_Life of Napoleon_."

A Shade, who refused to give either his name or address, begged to
oppose the motion. In his opinion modern biographies were a great deal
better than work of the same kind of an earlier date. ("_No, no._")
But he said "Yes, yes." It was now quite the fashion to whitewash
everyone. He would testify that he recently read a biography of
himself without recognising the subject. Since then his self esteem
had increased a hundred fold. (_Laughter._) He thought it would be a
great mistake to interfere. They had much better leave things as they
were.

Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE (who was received with applause) asked
permission to offer a practical suggestion. Although he was a poet,
he was also a man of business. (_Laughter._) He spoke smarting under
a personal grievance. It was common knowledge that only a short while
ago the bulk of his works was declared to have been written by Bacon.
(Cries of "_Shame._") However, it was no use to pass resolutions
unless they could carry them into effect. He would therefore move
an amendment to the resolution already before them, to the following
effect: "That to carry out any arrangement that may be considered
necessary, those present pledge themselves to subscribe a crown
a piece." He proposed this under the impression that, granted the
requisite funds, it would be possible to communicate with the mundane
authorities.

Sir ISAAC NEWTON had much pleasure in seconding the amendment. He
might add, that it was quite within the resources of science to do all
that was required. He would explain in detail how it could be done.

The learned gentleman then began a lecture, with the effect that the
meeting rapidly dissolved. After he had been speaking for an hour and
a quarter, he discovered that he had no auditors.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE BABES IN THE WOOD.

_Ernest._ "I SEE YOU ARE GETTING ON, FOREMAN."

_Foreman._ "YES, SIR; WE SHALL HAVE THE WALLS PLASTERED TO-MORROW."

_Agatha._ "OH, ERNEST, DON'T LET'S HAVE PLASTER! YOU NEVER SEE IT NOW;
EVERYBODY HAS WALL-PAPERS, AND YOU CAN GET LOVELY ONES QUITE CHEAP!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"BALLADE JOYEUSE."

(_Not by Théodore de Banville._)

  Though you're pent up in town
    While you pant for the breeze
  Upon moorland and down,
    For the whispers of trees,
    And the hum of the bees
  Winging home to the hive,
    Drain your cup to the lees--
  Aren't you glad you're alive?

  Though you miss the renown
    Yonder dolt wins with ease,
  And you're mocked by the clown
    You've a fancy to squeeze.
    Though your blood boil and freeze
  When folk say he will wive
    With the maid you would please--
  Aren't you glad you're alive?

  Though with pout, or with frown,
    Or in shrillest of keys,
  Madam seek a new gown,
    And no less will appease,
    While your creditors tease,
  Or by dozens arrive,
    And behave like Pawnees--
  Aren't you glad you're alive?

  Though your argosies drown
    In the deepest of seas,
  And you lose your last crown,
    Not to say bread and cheese;
    Though you cough and you wheeze
  Till you barely survive,
    At existence don't sneeze--
  Aren't you glad you're alive?

_Envoi._

  O my friends, paying fees,
    The physicians still thrive,
  For your motto is "spes"--
    Aren't you glad you're alive?

       *       *       *       *       *

TEA AND TWADDLE.

    ["A somewhat mawkish sentimentalism, of which Germany is
    still the fountain-head in Art, and perhaps also in
    Letters."--_Illustrated London News, in obituary notice of
    Professor Carl Müller of the Düsseldorf School._]

  A fountain-head--of weak and tepid tea,
  Æsthetic catlap, "bleat"--infused Bohea!
  A strange Pierian Spring for the stark Teuton!
  God Ph[oe]bus cannot play the German flute on.
  MARS-BISMARCK, TITAN-WAGNER, stalwarts these,
  Who would not twaddle at "Æsthetic Teas;"
  HERACLES-VIRCHOW is a valorous slayer,
  And JOVIAN GOETHE proves a splendid stayer;
  But the mild, mawkish, modern German muse
  Olympian nectar will for "slops" refuse.
  Submerged in sentimentalism utter,
  Asked for Art-bread she proffers--Bread-and-butter!

       *       *       *       *       *

"HEAVY MARCHING ORDER" (IN AUGUST).--"Shirt-sleeves and Sherbet."

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM

THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, August 21._--Some excellent speaking
to-night. SQUIRE OF MALWOOD in fine form. Opportunity made to his
hand. With JOSEPH, friend and ally of Conservative Ministry that
had invented and applied Guillotine Closure, indignantly protesting
against the "gag," there was room for obvious remark. Then there was
J. C.'s article in monthly magazine of so recent date as 1890, in
which, in his forcible manner, he had, with circumstance, demanded
application of gag not only to successive stages in important
measures, but to Supply.

"Oh that mine enemy would write an article in the _Nineteenth
Century_!" exclaimed GEORGE CURZON. "Anyone could make a speech with
such opportunity as the SQUIRE has."

"Exactly," said the Member for SARK; "but perhaps they mightn't do it
so well."

Another good speech from unexpected quarter was WHITBREAD'S. WHITBREAD
is the Serious Person of the Liberal Party. Whenever Mr. G. gets into
difficulties on constitutional questions or points of Parliamentary
practice, WHITBREAD solemnly marches to front, and says nothing
particular with imposing air that carries conviction. To-day came out
quite in new style; almost epigrammatic, certainly pointed. Quite a
model of Parliamentary speech of the old stately, yet flexible style
now little known.

[Illustration: THE TOURIST SEASON. HOTEL BRIGANDAGE.]

[Illustration: Prince Arthur the Jester]

Best of all, PRINCE ARTHUR. Never heard him to greater advantage. As a
former Leader once said, the House of Commons, above all things, likes
to be shown sport. PRINCE ARTHUR showed the way to-night, crowded
House merrily following. It was ticklish ground, for he was chaffing
Mr. G. Not a good subject upon which to expend wit or satire. The
PRINCE did it so daintily, with such light, graceful touch, such
shining absence of acerbity, such brimming over with contagious good
humour, that the cloud vanished from the brow of Jove. Beginning to
listen with a frown, Mr. G. presently beamed into a laugh. As for his
colleagues on either hand, their merriment was as unrestrained as it
was on remoter benches. Only MUNDELLA managed to keep a Ministerial
countenance. The play was good, but the theme too sacred to be lightly
handled. To him, seated on the left, Mr. G. gratefully turned in
earlier stages of the speech and whispered his scathing comment.
MUNDELLA behaved nobly. The SOLICITOR-GENERAL, who had his share
in the genial roasting, might roar with Homeric laughter. MUNDELLA
gravely shook his head in response to Mr. G.'s whispered remarks.
Fancy, however, he was grateful when Mr. G. began to laugh and the
President of the Board of Trade was free to smile. Speech as useful
as it was delightful. Showed to whom it may concern that venerable
age may be criticised without discourtesy, and high position attacked
without insolence.

_Business done._--Settled that Report Stage of Home-Rule Bill shall
close on Friday.

_Wednesday._--"Mr. SPEAKER, Sir. One or two ideas occur to me." It
was the voice of MACGREGOR uplifted from back bench, where a retiring
disposition (he retired from medical practice some years ago) leads
him to take his seat. Moment critical; debate long proceeding on
Amendment moved by NAPOLEON BOLTONPARTY, which had called down on
Imperial head a fearsome whack from hand of Mr. G.; House growing
impatient for Division; SPEAKER risen to put question, when THE
MACGREGOR interposed. Evidently in for long clinical lecture. Hand
partly extended, palm downwards; eyes half closed; head thrown back,
and the voice impressively intoned.

"Mr. SPEAKER, Sir, a few ideas have occurred to me."

THE MACGREGOR got no further; a shout of hilarious laughter broke
in upon his reverie. Opened his eyes, and looked hastily round. He,
DONALD MACGREGOR, First Prizeman in Chemistry and Surgery; Second
Prizeman in Physiology and Midwifery; Licentiate of both the Royal
Colleges of Physicians and of Surgeons, Edinburgh; practised at
Penrith, Cumberland, and in London; formerly Medical Officer and
Public Vaccinator for Penrith and district; Resident Physician at the
Peebles Hydropathic Institute; Medical Superintendent of the Barnhill
Hospital and Asylum, Glasgow--yes, all this, and House of Commons was
laughing at him!

"What--what," he gasped, making motion as if he would feel the
SPEAKER'S pulse. "I don't understand. I very rarely speak; have said
nothing before on this Bill. Now, when something occurs to me hon.
members laugh."

House touched by this appeal; generously cheered. Doctor, resuming his
oratorical attitude, proceeded.

"I think," he remarked, with hand again outstretched, eyes half
closed, and head thrown back as before, "it was SYDNEY SMITH who said,
When doctors differ who shall decide."

The Doctor was awakened out of his oratorical trance by another shout
of laughter. What on earth was the matter now? Perhaps if he kept
his eyes open he would see better where the joke came in. Took the
precaution, but had not proceeded more than two minutes before SPEAKER
down on him; after which he thought it best to resume his seat.

"I give it up, TOBY," he said; "as ASQUITH yesterday gave up that
conundrum I put to him as to why, if repeated breaches of the
vaccination law justify the remission of penalties, the same practice
should not apply in case of breaches of the land laws. The House of
Commons for pleasure, I suppose; but for "ordinary" sanity give me
Peebles and its Hydropathic Institute."

_Business done._--Report Stage of Home-Rule Bill.

[Illustration: "All's well that ends well."]

_Thursday._--"Been up to see Fulham," said Member for SARK, hurrying
in just in time to miss Division. "The place fascinates me. No lions
there, and no necessity for getting up a lamp-post; so would not
interest GRANDOLPH. But HAYES FISHER is Member for Fulham, and he, you
know, is the man who discovered, after (as he said) he had taken LOGAN
by the scruff of the neck and 'so begun the scrimmage,' that Mr. G.
was more criminally responsible for what followed 'even than LOGAN.'
That is delightful. Fulham not to be outdone by its Member. Last night
indignation meeting held in Town Hall to protest against conduct of
HAYES FISHER and 'proceedings in House of Commons on Thursday, July
27.' Hall crowded; indignation seething; gentlemen of Fulham could
hardly contain themselves in contemplation of iniquity of a man
who, differing from another on matter of opinion, took him by the
coat-collar and shook him. Meeting summoned at instance of Fulham
Liberal and Radical Association. Seemed at first that all in room were
good Radicals. As evening advanced, presence of one or two gentlemen
of another way of thinking manifested. One called out. 'Three cheers
for Fisher!' and what, my TOBY, did these men of Fulham do--these
gentlemen met in solemn conclave with avowed object of denouncing
physical outrage and clearing fair name of Fulham from slur brought
upon it by athletic proceedings of HAYES FISHER? Why, they up and
at the Fisherites, with the result, as I read in the papers, 'that a
struggle ensued, one man being seized and violently hustled from the
Hall.' After this the meeting settled down, and unanimously passed
a resolution expressing its condemnation of 'the disorderly and
disgraceful scene in the House of Commons on Thursday, July 27.' Don't
know how it strikes you. But to me that is most delightful incident in
the day's news. Felt constrained to make pilgrimage to Fulham, to see
a place where Member and Constituency are so rarely matched. Don't
suppose I've missed much here?"

No, nothing; just filling up time; waiting for to-morrow night, and
Closure to come.

_Business done._--None.

_Friday midnight._--Report Stage Home-Rule Bill just agreed to; a
dull evening till the last quarter of an hour, when TIM HEALY took
the floor and thoroughly enjoyed himself. Everyone concerned, more
especially those concerned in prolonging debate, glad it's over.
DONALD CRAWFORD so excited at prospect of approaching holidays that
on first Division he got into wrong Lobby; voted against one of JOHN
MORLEY'S new Clauses, reducing Ministerial majority to 36. On two
subsequent Divisions was carefully watched into right Lobby, and
majority maintained at 38.

_Business done._--Report Stage Home-Rule Bill passed.

       *       *       *       *       *

GREAT FALL IN GOVERNMENT SECURITIES.--The dropping of the Guillotine.

       *       *       *       *       *