Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Wayne Hammond,
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL 93
December 3rd 1887




          THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

        +From the Lord Mayor of Dublin.+

        _Mansion House, Dublin, Saturday_.

+Dear Toby+,

The news from Ireland, not all of which finds its way into your daily
papers, grows in excitement. The exploit of Mr. +Douglas P-ne+, M.P., of
Lisfinny Castle, has taken root, and all the landed gentry among the
Irish Members are fortifying themselves in their castles, and hanging
themselves outside the front-door by ropes to deliver addresses to their
constituents. The regular thing now is to hang out our M.P.'s on the
outer wall. I do not see accounts of these proceedings in your London
papers. I was, as you know, a Journalist before I was Lord Mayor; so, if
you don't mind, I'll send you a few jottings. If there is anything due
for lineage, please remit it anonymously to the Land League Fund "From A
Sympathiser."

Foremost in this band of heroic patriots is the _châtelain_ of
Butlerstown, +Joseph G-ll-s B-gg-r+, M.P., Butlerstown Castle, as
everyone acquainted with Ireland knows, stands on the summit of a Danish
rath, and was once the seat of an +O'Toole+. Now it is the den of
+Joseph G-ll-s+. For some time he has been practising a flying leap from
the eastern to the western turret, a distance of fifty feet over a
yawning abyss, amid the cavernous depths of which the petulant plummet
has played in vain. It is thrilling, whether at early dawn, or what time
the darkening wing of Night begins to flap, to hear a shrill cry of
"Hear, hear!" to see a well-known figure cleaving the astonished air,
and to behold +Joseph G-ll-s+, erewhile upright on the eastern turret,
prone on that which lifts its head nearer the setting sun. To be present
on one of the occasions when +Joey B+. reads a Blue Book for three hours
to a deputation shivering in the moat, is enough to convince the dullest
Saxon of the hopelessness of enthralling a nation which has given birth
to such as he. As +Joseph+ himself says, quoting, with slight variation,
my own immortal verse,--

  "Whether on the turret high,
  Or in the moat not dry,
  What matter if for Ireland dear we talk!"

But the affairs at Butlerstown should not withdraw our gaze from a not
less momentous event which recently happened in the neighbourhood of
Cork city. Mr. +P-rn-ll+, as he has recently explained to you, has not
found it expedient or even necessary to take part in our recent public
proceedings in Ireland. But this abstention is to a certain extent
illusory. It is no secret in our inner circles that our glorious Chief
was but the other day in close communication with his constituents in
the city of Cork. He arrived shortly after breakfast in a balloon which
was skilfully brought to pause over the rising ground by Sunday's Well.
At the approach of the balloon the trained intelligence of the Police
fathomed the plot. The Privy Council was immediately communicated with.
Sworn information was laid, and the meeting was solemnly proclaimed by
telegraph. In the meanwhile, Mr. +P-rn-ll+ had addressed the meeting at
some length and met with an enthusiastic reception. The Police massing
in considerable numbers and beginning to bâton the electors, the Hon.
Member poured a bag of ballast over them, and the balloon, gracefully
rising, disappeared in the direction of Limerick. The proceedings then
terminated.

I expect that the success of this new departure, or perhaps I should say
this unexpected arrival, will encourage our great Chief to pay a series
of flying visits to Ireland. His adventure was certainly happier and
more successful than one which befell our esteemed friend +Tim H-ly+,
and nearly brought to an untimely conclusion a life dear to us and of
inestimable value to Ireland. +Tim+ was announced to take the chair at a
mass meeting summoned under the auspices of the local branch of the Land
League of Longford. A room was taken, the word passed round, and all
preparations made for a successful meeting. The Police, however, got
wind of it, and of course the meeting was proclaimed. But +Tim+, as you
may happen to know, is not the man to have his purpose lightly set
aside. It was made known that +Tim+ would make his speech and the Police
might catch him if they could. You know, may be, the big factory in the
thriving town of Longford--the one with a tall chimbly? Well, the word
was passed along again that the bhoys were to assemble about the
factory. "Would they bring a chair or a table," they said, "for +Tim+ to
stand on?" "No," said +Tim+, wiping his spectacles, "you leave it to
me."

Meeting announced to take place at eight o'clock. On the very strike of
the hour, a stentorian voice, not unfamiliar in the House of Commons,
floated over the assembled multitude. "Men of Longford," it said, "we
are assembled here in the exercise of our privilege as free men." First
of all they could not tell where the voice came from. Looking up,
behold! there was +Tim+ planted inside the top of the tall chimbley,
using it like a Bishop's pulpit. It was a capital idea, and worked
admirably for half an hour, with the Police all throbbing and raging
round, and +Tim+ eyeing them quite calmly, and all the crowd roaring and
cheering, and throwing up their hats, and +B-lf-r+ getting it hot.
Somehow, whether from treachery or accident no one knows, and perhaps
never will know, but in the middle of one of his best sentences, +Tim+
suddenly vanished from sight, and was a clear three minutes later picked
up from among the cinders in the furnace below. The proceedings then
terminated.

There is a good deal more I could tell you, +Toby+, my bhoy, if time
permitted. I should like above all to tell you of Major +O'G-rm-n+'s
magnificent oration delivered from the main shaft of the sewer in
Waterford, with his former constituents hanging on his lips and the
grate of the sewer. But I am just off myself to address a meeting of my
fellow citizens. This too, is of course, proclaimed, and equally of
course that makes no difference. I get on the top of the Lord Mayor's
coach, leaning on the Mace, and supported by the Sword-bearer. The
horses move at walking pace, and I address the crowd. It's wonderful
what a lot one can take out of +B-lf-r+ that way.

    Yours faithfully,      +T. D. S-ll-v-n+.

       *       *       *       *       *

AMEN!

    "In deepest reverence and sincere love, the Reichstag is
    mindful of His Imperial and Royal Highness the Crown Prince.
    May God protect the dear life of our beloved Crown Prince, and
    preserve it for the welfare of the Fatherland."--_Telegram from
    the Reichstag to the Crown Prince_.

  "So mote it be!" That deep and reverent prayer
  In all true hearts finds echo everywhere;
  Not least in those that flush with British blood.
  Prince, a loved daughter from our Royal brood,
  In trouble as in joy, is at your side,
  Sharing your sorrow as she shared your pride.
  For her dear sake, and for your own not less,
  We wish you, gallant soldier-chief, success
  In a dread struggle keener, sterner far
  Than those you faced in the fierce lists of war.
  We know--have you not proved it?--that 'twill be
  Met with the same cool steadfast gallantry
  As marked your bearing in more martial strife.
  Punch joins in that warm prayer for "the dear life,"
  And echoes, from a far yet kindred strand,
  The pleading voices of the Fatherland!

       *       *       *       *       *

As among the best books for a young man who had to be the architect of
his own fortunes, some one in Mrs. +Ram's+ hearing mentioned +Thomas à
Kempis+. "Oh yes," exclaimed the worthy lady, "I know. He built a great
part of Brighton which was named after him."

               *       *       *

+A Real "Orleans" Plum.+--The forged letters.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S PARALLELS.  No. 4.

SIR W. V. HARCOURT AS _FALSTAFF_.

"+There's no more valour in that _Goschen_ than in a Wild Duck.".... "A
plague of all Cowards still say I!+"

               _Henry the Fourth_, Part I., Act ii, Scenes 2 and 4.]

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. +Ram+, at this time of year, takes a great interest in the state of
the weather, and studies the daily Meteorological chronicle. She says
that she always reads the reports from Ben Nevis's Observatory. She
hopes that, one of these fine days, this learned astronomer will be made
a Knight. Sir +Benjamin Nevis+ would be, she considers, a very nice
title. "Of course," she adds, "judging by his name, he must be a Jew.
They're such clever people. And, let me see, ain't there a proverb, or
something of that sort, about 'the Jew of Ben Nevis'?"

       *       *       *       *       *

BISHOP AND PORT.

+My Dear Mr. Punch+,

In my Autobiography, which I am glad and proud to say, has met with your
cordial approbation, I have recorded how the late lamented Bishop, Dr.
+Sumner+, said to me, "I have drunk a bottle of port wine every day
since I was a boy." Well, his son, the Archdeacon, is annoyed at this
statement. Now, my memory is a very good one, and if I am wrong in one
point so circumstantially narrated, why not in several, why not in all?
If the Bishop did not say this, to me, _who did_? Somebody said it, that
I will swear. Who said it? If my memory fails me, is it not also likely
that the Bishop's memory was not particularly good, and consequently,
that he was mistaken in thinking that he had drunk a bottle a day since
his boyhood? I have little doubt that the Bishop only imagined it, and
perhaps he was joking. Perhaps he was playing on the words "bishop" and
"port." "Bishop" was a hot drink, I fancy, made with port wine. I have
no hesitation in comforting his Archidiaconal offspring by assuring him
that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, his father, the Bishop,
did not drink a bottle of port every day since his boyhood. He was a
very fine old clergyman--I forget whether he was exactly portly or not,
or whether he resided in Portman Square,--and I should say that
first-rate port, such as the _elixir vitæ_ that made a hale centenarian
of Sir +Moses Montefiore+, taken frequently, would have tended to make
him the genial prelate he was. Had he only gone into port once, that
would not have sufficed to have produced such a Bishop, for "One swallow
does not make a +Sumner+."

    Yours ever,

    +W(ithdraw) P(ort) Frith+.

P.S.--The Archdeacon is satisfied, and if he will only come round to see
me and bring a bottle of the port the Bishop didn't drink, why, on my
word as an artist, _I'll draw the cork_.

       *       *       *       *       *

"_What shall he have who kills the Deer_?" Why, something to eat, of
course. At least this was, among others, the notion of the poor starving
Cottars. And they have now given up venison-eating because the food is
deer.

               *       *       *

+Two French Presidents Rolled Into One.+--M. +Grévy+, on being told that
he must resign, wept copiously. This showed a want of resignation.
Curious sight, +Grévy+ and Tears!

               *       *       *

Sir +Charles Warren+ has been presented with the freedom of the
Leathersellers' Guild. Capital motto for Policemen in a mob, "Nothing
like leather! Leather away!"

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT AT KILBURN.

I had the cureosity one day to arsk a lerned gennelman on whom I was
waiting, whether the poor fellers who lived in the world ever so many
hundred years ago had got any Copperashuns. He pretended not to
understand me at fust, and said, with a larf, as he dared say as they
was made much as we was; that is to say, sum with large ones, and some
with little ones; but when I xplained what I reely meant, he told me as
they had, speshally amung the Romuns as lived in Ittaly. He was a werry
amusing Gent, and when I arsked him what langwidge the Romuns torked, he
tried to gammon me as they all spoke Latin, ewen the little children and
all, but in coarse I wasn't quite such a hignoramus as to swaller that,
as my son +William+, who isn't by no means a fool, learnt Latin at Skool
for three year and tells me as he carn't speak it a bit. The lerned gent
also told me as it was such a rum tung to speak that they hadn't not no
word for "Yes!" So that if a Gent of those long days had bin a dining at
the "Ship and Turtle" an bin a waited on by an Hed Waiter, like me, and
had said to him "Woud you like arf-a-crown, Waiter?" the pore feller
woodn't have been able to say, "Yessir!" I was jest a leetle shocked at
his torking such rubbish to me, it was hardly respekful, speshally as he
had ony drunk one pint of Bollinger and one of our 63 Port, but its
astonishing how heasily sum peeple's heds is affected. I was in hopes as
he woud have tried the experymint on me, but he didn't, but went smiling
away.

I shood werry much have liked to have heard a good deal more about them
werry old Copperashuns, and weather they was to be compared to that
werry old 'un as I nose so well and respecs so ighly, for good deeds as
well as good living. Take their werry last one as a sample. Earing of
what was a going on down at Kilburn on Guy Fox day, and finding as the
return train would bring me back in time for my perfeshnal dooties, I
went there and found thowsands of peeple all met in a nice little new
Park, that the old +Lord Mare+ was a coming down to fust of all crissen,
and then throw open to the publick. And down he came accordingly in his
full state Carridge, and his full state Footmen, and his full state
Sherryiffs, and their full state Carridges and Footmen, jest for all the
world as if he was a going to make a call on a few Royal Princes and
Dooks, insted of opening a new Park surrounded by numbers of the reel
working-classes. But he always has bin a reel gennelman, and never makes
no difference atween rich and poor when he can do some good. I wasn't
quite near enuff to hear what he said when he made his speech, but a
werry respectable reporter arterwards told me, that the +Lord Mare+ had
written a letter to +Queen Wictoria+ to ask if he might call the Park
after her. And she had wrote to him in reply, "Deer +Handsum+, as
there's alreddy a Wictoria Park, you may call this here one the Qween's
Park. Pleas to remember this 5th of Nowember, Yours trewly, W. R. I."

When the +Lord Mare+ enounced this pleasing intelligence, thus simply
exprest, lorks how we did all cheer, and a little band that had bin hid
in a little tent, struck up the hole of arf a werse of _God Save the
Queen_, at which we all took off our hats, footmen and all, and braved
the bitter blarst with our bare heds. Ah, that's wot I calls trew
loyalty, and long may it continue, not the cold bitter blarst, but the
warm sweet loyalty, for I'm sorry to say as the unusual xposure guv me a
bad cold.

I got back just in time for the Bankwet. The +Lord Mare+ with his usual
kindness had let the Chairman of the Committee, the sillibrated Mr.
+Woodbacon+, the grate bookseller, take the Chair, and a remarkabul good
un he made, setting so good a xample as regards short speeches as made
ewerybody follow suit.

And now what was this hole proceeding all about? This is what I learnt
from what was said:--

It wood seem then, that at Kilburn where it was wunce all green feelds,
there has growed up a reglar crowd of working peeple with far more than
their fair share of children and as the feelds has all come for to be
bilt over, the poor little children afoursaid have been obleeged to do
their playing in the streets, and the nateral or rather unnateral
consequence has follered, as that numbers of the poor little deers was
run over and killed. So a nice little Park has been made for 'em all to
play in, where they can injoy their fresh hair and releeve their poor
Mother's minds, and grow up red and strong and harty, instead of white
and weak and wan. And the old Copperashun having put it all ship shape,
and promist to keep it all in order for hever, arsked the +Lord Mare+ to
go down and open it, as he did, and in sitch full state that one of the
natives said as it was like a lot of sunbeams suddenly cumming out on a
clowdy day. So the +Lord Mare+ finished his long list of good deeds by
adding one more to 'em, and the Copperashun added one more Open Space to
the many they has either secured or helped to secure. So wenever I hears
a sneer at 'em I shall say, "Please to remember that 5th of November!"

    +Robert.+

       *       *       *       *       *

+Barnum's+ Show burnt. Of course he will rise like an American ph[oe]nix
from the ashes. He will advertise it as Burnum's Show.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "PRAVE 'ORTS."

"+By the bye, dear Professor, which would _you_ say--_Abiogén-esis_, or
_Abiogen[=e]s-is_?+"

"+_Neither_, my dear Madam, if I could possibly help it!+"]

       *       *       *       *       *

+An Important Summing-up.+ (_By Our Own Special Reporter in the
recent case of Somebody or Other v. Another Person of the name of_
+Barley+).--Mr. Justice +Mathew+ regretted being compelled to decide
against +Barley+ on the question of "quantities." Of course, there had
been an error on the part of the highly respectable Corporation of
Ramsgate, which might be characterised as a "sin of commission," while
the neglect of their clerk to enter their arrangement with +Barley+ on
the minutes was a "sin of omission." All the witnesses in this case must
be believed, as they had, _à propos_ of +Barley+, taken their oats--he
should say their oaths. Perhaps when the present statute came to be
revised, Mr. +Barley+ might act for the town, for which it appears he
had done good service, and +Barley+ would not have to hide under a
bushel. It was clear that this sort of +Barley+ was worth more than the
present price of 28_s_. a quarter. Counsel on both sides had made an
eloquent display of wheat--he begged pardon, he meant "wit"--and if in
this judgment he had to tread on anyone's corn, he assured them that to
do so went against the grain. As an official, +Barley+ would have the
sack, but sack and all could be taken up to another Court, and there, as
a German speaking French would say, _On beut Barley_, about it still
further. (The Jury thanked his Lordship, and all the parties left the
Court much pleased, humming _All about the Barley_.

               *       *       *

"They acted a Greek Play at Cambridge, my dear," said Mrs. +Ram+ to a
friend, "and fancy, it was written, as I am informed, by a young lady,
Miss +Sophie Klees+. I suppose she is a student of Girton. How clever!
_I_ couldn't write it, I'm sure."

               *       *       *

_The "Quart d'heure de Rabelais,"_ if translated into Anglo-French, may
be taken to express a bad time of it with the roughs in Trafalgar
Square, _i.e., a mauvais quart d'heure de Rabble--eh_?

                *       *       *

The Works of +Charles Dickens+ must have achieved great popularity in
South Eastern Europe, where there is an entire country called Boz-nia.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE NEW SCHOOL.

_Schoolboy (aged 16)_. "Good-bye, old Chappies! Can't waste any more
time with you. 'Good business'!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TOM BROWN & CO.'S SCHOOL DAYS.

_A Glimpse at the Commercial Education of the Future_.

Twelve o'Clock struck, and the Fourth Form at St. Dunstan's left its
class-room with a rush. The old hour of leaving off the morning's
studies was still preserved. Yet, in conformity with the spirit of the
times, the venerable foundation of St. Dunstan's had recently witnessed
great changes. The Governing Body had taken the matter in hand, and had
gone to work with a will. The teaching of Greek and Latin had been
entirely suppressed, polite literature eliminated, and the whole
curriculum of the school arranged solely to the provision of that
glaring want of the times, a sound commercial education. To effect this,
some radical changes had been necessary. The Rev. +Jabez Plumkin+, D.D.,
Oxford Prizeman, through whose unwearied exertions, for the past
five-and-twenty years, St. Dunstan's had been gradually acquiring an
increasing fame in the Class-lists of both Universities, had been
forcibly ejected from the Head-Mastership, and his place filled by a
leading member of a well-known firm of advertising stock-jobbers, and
the Assistant-Masters had all been selected on similar lines.

"Company-floating," was taught by a late Promoter, who had had much
experience in the creation of many bubble concerns, and "Rigging the
Market" was entrusted to a Professor who was known, in his capacity as
Accountant to a wholesale City Cheese Warehouse, to have contracted a
thorough familiarity with this important subject of the new commercial
education. Everything was done to foster a spirit of keen speculative
enterprise in the boys. The whole traditions of the school were changed.
The old idea of honour had died out. How to over-reach each other by
sharp practice was the one idea that animated every youthful breast from
the senior in the Sixth to the junior in the Under Third. The tape was
always working at the Principal's desk. The study-tables were covered
with Stock and Mining Journals. Even the playground was turned into a
Money Market. Cricket had been banished to make way for the more
exciting game of "Bulls and Bears," and the Principal passing through
occasionally, would sometimes stop and say, "That's right, my boys,
learn to do each other, and remember the motto of your School, 'Monies
maketh man.'" Posted up upon the gates, communicated by telegraph hourly
from the City, were every day to be found the latest prices. And it was
to get a first look at this that the Fourth Form had just left its
class-room with a rush.

A crowd of eager faces were anxiously scanning the latest quotations,
and notes were being taken in a score of pocket-books, whipped out for
the purpose. +Tom Brown & Co.+--he had earned this _sobriquet_ from his
companions for his shrewd business capacity--did not, however, join the
throng, but stood a little way off, looking on, and waiting for the
excitement to abate. Gradually it calmed down, and the boys broke up
into little knots and groups, discussing the state of the market. Then
he spoke:--

"Look here, you fellows," he said, "I've got a good thing on here, that,
I fancy, will be more worth your attention than even the latest prices."
He pulled a prospectus from his pocket. An interested crowd closed round
him at once. "It's 'Old Mother +Noggins+, Limited,'" he went on, reading
from the paper before him, "This Company has been started for the
purpose of acquiring at wholesale prices all the tarts, bull's-eyes,
apples, toffy, and ginger-beer, forming the present stock-in-trade of
Old Mother +Noggins's+ store, and for retailing the same at a figure,
that will, after paying the guaranteed interest on the fourpenny
debenture shares, admit of the declaration of a dividend of 14 per cent.
on the ordinary paid-up share capital of the Company.

A buzz of excited admiration went up from the throng. The Fourth Form at
St. Dunstan's had not for a long time had such a good thing put before
it.

"I know," continued +Tom+, producing a bundle of forms of application
from his pocket, "that you fellows, would like to hear of it. Who'll go
for it?"

There was a loud responsive shout of "I!" and a dozen hands were at once
stretched towards the speaker. Business commenced, and sixpences,
shillings, and half-crowns were pouring into +Tom's+ pockets faster than
he could cram them there. He was making a very good morning's work of
it. Presently, a dull, heavy-looking boy joined the group.

"Hullo, +Flopper+!" cried +Tom+, addressing this last arrival, "why
don't you put that ten bob your Uncle sent you into this thing? I'll be
bound he told you to turn it over. You won't get such a chance every
day."

"What is it?" asked +Flopper+.

A chorus of voices instantly joined in a brief explanation of the
advantages of investing in "Old Mother +Noggins'+ Limited."

"By Jove!" said +Flopper+, "I don't know that I won't."

"Not if I know it," cried an authoritative voice, breaking in upon the
scene. It was +Snagsby+, the "Sharper" who spoke. There was a general
look in his direction, and a disposition to make way for him as he
approached. He had been mixed up disadvantageously in a recent "corner"
in marbles, and had from time to time floated several concerns that had
never paid any dividends, and was generally regarded as a "queer"
customer in consequence. It was for this reason that he had been
nicknamed the "Sharper."

"And what do you want him to do with his money?" asked +Tom+, stepping
forward in a defiant attitude.

"He'll put every blessed halfpenny of it into my 'General Pen-knife
Supply,'" was the laconic reply. "He signed for the allotment last
night."

"But I've changed my mind," pleaded +Flopper+, helplessly, and he handed
the half-sovereign to +Tom+.

"You give that up!" cried the Sharper, menacingly.

"You try to take it!" replied +Tom+, grimly.

In another instant the Sharper had flown at +Tom+. There was a brief
struggle. +Tom+ hit out at him, and caught him in the face.

"Oh, that's your game, is it!" shouted the Sharper. "You'll fight me for
that."

"Fight you? When and where you like," replied +Tom+.

There was a general cheering and throwing up of hats.

"Hooray! There's going to be a fight between the Sharper and +Tom Brown
& Co.+," shouted the Fourth Form. They hadn't had such good news for a
long time.

       *       *       *       *       *

The whole School was there, and the third round had been fought. Betting
had been fast and furious, and there had been several attempts made by
the supporters of both champions to break the ring and put an end to the
contest when the fortunes of the day seemed to be going against their
own special favourite. But now a curious thing happened. After a little
preliminary sparring in the fourth round, +Tom Brown & Co.+, suddenly
dropping on one knee, went to the ground.

In a few seconds the surprising news was known that he had given in. The
sponge was thrown up, and the Sharper declared the victor. +Tom+ was
quickly surrounded by his friends, and led off the field. +Flopper+ ran
up to him. "I'm so sorry, +Tom+," he said, "that you should have fought
in my quarrel, and have got licked."

There was a twinkle in +Tom's+ eye. "My dear fellow," he replied. "Don't
imagine I wouldn't have thrashed him; but business is business, and I
got a good price for not doing so. Didn't you twig that _I sold the
fight_?"

       *       *       *       *       *

That night +Tom Brown & Co.+ wrote home an enthusiastic account of his
day's doings to his parents. The next morning, +Tom Brown+, Senior,
referring to the letter with a glow of pride on his commercial face,
remarked to his better-half that the boy's training seemed perfect, and
that he was destined to turn out remarkably well. "I can't tell you," he
added, "how I long to see that boy loose upon the Stock Exchange. He
will be a credit to the family."

       *       *       *       *       *

A book has been recently published entitled _The Amateur's Guide to
Architecture_, by +Sophie Beale+. Sophie shows us how a house should be
Beale't. But just imagine an Amateur Architect!!

                *       *       *

The complaint of the Charity Organisation Society, slightly varied from
+Shakspeare+, is that "The quality of Mercy is not _trained_."

       *       *       *       *       *

SHOWS VIEWS.

_By Victor Who-goes-Everywhere_.

What can be more dismal than the fourth day of a Fancy Bazaar for a
"Sale of Work," in aid of a parochial charity? Honestly, I do not know.
I fancy that even the proverbial "Mute at a funeral," must be livelier.
That is my present opinion, and it was the same last Thursday, when
lured by a programme quaintly printed in "old-faced" type, and having
"ye" in lieu of "the," and "Maister" instead of Mister, I made my way to
the Portman Rooms in Baker Street, (formerly Madame +Tussaud's+) and
sought admission to "Old Marybone Gardens, A.D. 1670." Outside the ex
_depôt_ of Waxworks, were two persons in the costume of the last Century
distributing circulars, and later on I met another couple similarly
apparelled heading a procession of Sandwich-men walking down Waterloo
Place. In the Hall of the Bazaar lads in the same sort of dresses, were
selling programmes (marked sixpence) for twopence. I entered by a small
canvass-cottage "y'clept" (as the Sale of Workers would call it) "the
Rose of Normandy," and found myself in the once famous "Hall of Kings"
without the figures. I discovered two or three dwarf trees, some
lattice-work and a lot of canvass-covering. I must confess it did not
cause me much surprise to find only a few spectators. The moment I
appeared, a lady advanced and asked me in a tone of authority to take a
button-hole. I refused with courtesy suggestive at once of the gallant
and the miser, and the Sale of Work-woman retired rather crest-fallen.
Then two girls, costumed as two females of a past but vague period,
dashed at me as I turned away, and breathlessly explained that if I
bought a half-crown ticket I should be entitled to a chance in a raffle
for a five-guinea sofa-cushion. I slightly frowned as I expeditiously
refused the invitation, and the ladies disappeared into a corner--I
trust more in sorrow than in anger--to read the evening paper. In the
centre of the room was a "fish pond" full of presents, where a
mild-looking curate was feebly attempting to secure a prize. On the
whole the entertainment was scarcely exhilarating. The programme
promised "from V to VI of ye clocke" (how silly!) "a _séance_ of
Mesmerism," in two "partes," (how really stupid!) and "Maister +Charles
Bertram+" (Why "Maister?") was to appear later on. Then at eight "of ye
clocke" (dear, dear! _how_ idiotic!) "the Welbeck Dramatic Club" (what a
name!) was "to performe ye Comic Drama by +L. S. Buckingham+, y'clept"
(of course!) "_Take that Girl away_." Later still "Mistresse +Jarley+"
was to give her waxworks with the assistance of "Maister +Sidney Ward+,"
(tut, tut!) the Festival finally closing with "Music" at "X of ye
clocke" (stuff and nonsense!). It will be seen that I cannot even now
look at the programme (priced at sixpence and sold for twopence) without
some signs of impatience. The afternoon was too young to allow of my
assisting at any of these toothsome merry-makings, so after mooning
about for a quarter of an hour I came away. As I left, a newly-arrived
dame of mature years was putting on a nurse's cap hurriedly, evidently
with the view to starting in hot pursuit of me to secure my custom for
some toys. The ladies with the cushion looked at me languidly as I
passed them, and then returned to a perusal of their paper. When last I
had had the advantage of paying a visit to "the Portman Rooms, formerly
Mme. +Tussaud's+," I had seen nothing but waxwork figures in eccentric
attitudes. On the whole, I think the former denizens of the place looked
more at home in their quaint costumes than the Sale of Workers "from
Tuesday, November 22 to Saturday, November 26, inclusive!"

Finding myself in its neighbourhood, I could not help taking a turn in
the present palace of the eminent "Portrait Modellist." I paid the
necessary shilling and the optional sixpence, and renewed my
acquaintance with "The Kings and Queens," "The Coronation Group," and
"The Chamber of Horrors." A group representing a reception at the
Vatican was quite new, if I except two or three funeral attendants, who,
I fancy I remember, made their last (but one) appearance at the Lying in
State of +Pio Nono+. After examining a rather cheerful presentment of
the latest assassin in "The Chamber of Comparative Physiognomy" (as the
Chamber of Horrors was once, for a short period, "y'clept"), I
passed through a turnstile, and entered the Refreshment Department.
Here I noticed that an "overflow meeting," consisting, amongst other
more-or-less-interesting exhibits of Mr. +Lewis Wingfield's+
historical costume-wearers (from the Healtheries), and that now
rather-imperfectly-remembered worthy, the late Sir +Bartle Frere+ (from
the rooms above), had been humorously arranged, no doubt with a view to
provoking healthy and hearty laughter. Having refreshed my mind with a
hurried inspection of this delightful, albeit, somewhat miscellaneous
gathering, and my body with a twopenny Bath bun, I gracefully retired,
greatly pleased with the afternoon's entertainment.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Reviewing the Pages.

What a set these Emperors, Empresses, Kings, Queens, Princes and
Princesses, Dukes and Duchesses, &c., &c., and all such great people
everywhere seem to have been, according to the _Memoirs of Count Horace
de Viel Castel_ (published by Messrs. +Remington & Co.+), who was a kind
of small French +Pepys+, a great snob, and a Parisian _Sir Benjamin
Backbite_. Yet there is in this +Horace+ something of the Horatian
satirist, only without the poetry.

"But +Horace+, Sir, was delicate, was nice,"

which is not exactly the characteristic of the writings of +M. de Viel+
Castel, who tells us

              "Of birth-nights, balls, and shows,
  More than ten +Hollinsheds+, or +Halls+, or +Stowes+.
  When the +Queen+ frowned, or smiled, he knows; and what
  A subtle Minister may make of that:
  Who sins with whom:"----

And such like tittle-tattle _ad nauseam_, not sparing his own father and
brother. Imagine the sort of man who, night after night, could sit down
and chuckle over the composition of this precious diary! "With the
exception of the President and the Princess" (+Mathilde+, at whose house
he was perpetually dining), he says, "all the (+Buonaparte+) family are
good for nothing."

Of the _bourgeois_ class he writes, "They are always the same stupid,
craven-hearted, vain race." He was shocked at the production of _La Dame
aux Camelias_, and considered it as a degradation of the French stage
and a disgrace to the Public that patronised the performance. To have
shocked M. +de Viel Castel+ was a feat indeed. +Fould+ "the foxy Jew"
got ten millions out of the Crédit Foncier; so the public was fool'd
also. +D'Orsay+ was "a ridiculous old doll," and the Duke of +Brunswick+
"an old fool." He sneered at England, but considered at the moment that
an alliance with us was the best policy. The Empress at one time went in
for spirit-rapping, and consulted a table which told her a variety of
lies about the result and duration of the Crimean War. Such a table must
have been very black and supported by blacklegs, though it had
sufficient french polish about it to be silent in the presence of a
bishop. It is not until the last page of the _Memoirs_, 1864, that the
name of M. +de Bismarck+ appears. I suppose that "Society," high, low,
or middle-class, has always gone on in much the same way, more or less
openly, according to the spirit of the Court, since what is called
"Society" came into existence; and invariably with a +Viel Castel+, or a
+Greville+, or some one even less particular and more observant "among
them takin' notes" for future publication. Mr. Bousfield, the
translator, seems to have done his work with a judicious regard for a
certain section of English readers. It strikes me that he has had the
good taste to omit a few anecdotes about some of our own exalted
personages which would not have been received with unmixed satisfaction
in every quarter. This is only a surmise on my part, as I am
unacquainted with the original work.

Let me recommend everyone who values a powerful study of character more
than a merely cleverly-constructed story, to read _Marzio's Crucifix_,
by +Marion Crawford+. I do not know what special opportunities the
author had for the work, but the characters are individually,
masterpieces. The scene between _Marzio_ and _Don Paolo_, when the
latter is wrapt in devout contemplation of the artist's _chef
d'[oe]uvre_, is most striking, and would have been more so had _Marzio_
carried out his intention of knocking his brother down, and disposing of
him out of hand.

With Mr. +Saunders's+ _The Story of some Famous Books_ (+Elliot Stock+)
I was rather disappointed, in consequence of there not being enough
"famous books," and not much more story than the needy knife-grinder had
to tell. Still, I thank him for introducing me to a delightful
name--"+Theopompus+ of Chios"--whom, for this present, I will take as my
godfather, and sign myself,

      Yours,      +Theopompus, Baron de Book Worms+.

       *       *       *       *       *

+Staff Appointments.+--The Specials.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN EYE FOR "ELECTIVE AFFINITIES."

_Sir Edwin_. "+Hullo, Angy? Stew-pan? Apron? Tripe and Onions? What on
earth's up?+"

_The Lady Angelina_. "+Yes, Dearest! Since _you've_ become a _Special
Constable, I'm_ doing my little utmost to become a Special _Cook_! I
thought it might bind us still closer together!+"

_Sir Edwin_. "+My own _Love!!_!+"]

       *       *       *       *       *

LIGHTING THE DUBLIN BEACON.

(_A Ballad of the Brave Old Sort_.)

  "It was all for the Union
    We left fair Albion's land.
  It was all for the Union
    We first saw Irish land,
                        My Boy!
    We first saw Irish land!

  "All must be done that man can do.
    Shall it be done in vain?
  My +G-sch-n+, to prove that untrue
    We two have crossed the main,
                        My Boy!
    We two have crossed the main!"

  He turned him round and right-about
    All on the Irish shore.
  Said he, "We'll give +P-rn-ll+ a shake,
    And make the Rads to roar,
                          My Boy!
    And make the Rads to roar!"

  He was a stout and trusty carle.
    Said he, "A flare we'll raise,
  And, spite the Leaguers' angry snarl,
    We'll make the Beacon blaze,
                          My Boy!
    We'll make the Beacon blaze!

  "Who says our friends a handful are,
    Our foes a serried host?
  Our Beacon, blazing like a star,
    Shall check the blatant boast,
                        My Boy!
    Shall cheek the blatant boast.

  "Not all are to sedition sworn,
    Or shackled by the League.
    Cheer up! We'll laugh, their hate to scorn,
  And baffle their intrigue,
                        My Boy!
    And baffle their intrigue.

  "Puff, +G-sch-n+, puff! Like Boreas blow!
    And I the logs will pile.
  The Beacon, now a slender glow,
    Shall blaze across the Isle,
                            My Boy!
    Shall blaze across the Isle.

  "Eh? What? The wood is damp, you say?
    There comes more smoke than flame?
  Nay; pile, and poke, and puff away!
    We'll not give up the game,
                        My Boy!
    We'll not give up the game.

  "If we should let this fire die out
    All on the Irish shore,
  To Unionism stern and stout
    Adieu for evermore,
                        My Boy!
  Adieu for evermore!"

       *       *       *       *       *

+The Two Canons and Bean-baggers.+--The Bean-baggers are likely to come
badly off with two such big guns against them as Canons +Liddon+ and
+McColl+. Let the matter be settled amicably by agreeing that whatever
it was they did see was a "What-you-+McColl+-it."

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW TO ESCAPE THE FOG.

Fogs? Nonsense! Fogs are always mist. And the way to miss them is to go
to the Institute of Painters in Oil. That will oil the wheels of life in
this atrociously hibernal weather, and make existence in a fog
enjoyable. There, in the well-warmed, pleasantly-lighted rooms, will you
find countless pleasant pictures--delightful sea-subjects, charming
landscapes, and amusing scenes, by accomplished painters, which will
infuse a little Summer into the dull, depressing, brumous, filthy
atmosphere of a weary London Winter. If you cannot get away to Monte
Carlo, Mentone, Nice, or Rome, hasten at once and take one of Sir +John
Linton's+ excursion _coupons_, and personally conduct yourself--if you
don't conduct yourself as you ought, you'll probably be turned
out--round the well-filled galleries in Piccadilly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sir +Drummond+ is ordered off to Teheran. "Well, we're successful in
keeping one +Wolff+ from our door," as Sir +Gorst+, Q.C., observed to
+Grandolph+. "Poor +Wolffy+!" sighed +Grandolph+. "I shall write a fable
on 'The +Wolff+ and the Shah!'"

                *       *       *

+Sardou and Sara.+--+Sara B.+ has made a hit in what is reported to be a
poor play called _La Tosca_, by +Sardou+. But in consequence of +Sara's+
acting, it is in for a run. _Che Sara sara_, _i.e_. (free translation),
"Who has seen +Sara+ once will see +Sara+ again."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LIGHTING THE DUBLIN BEACON.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A DOWN-Y PHILOSOPHER;

_Or, Memoirs of a Missing Link_.

I've no particular reason to think an account of my life will interest
anybody. That being so, I don't know why I write it. But I do. I suppose
it's Chance. +H-xl-y+ (who _is_ such fun!) calls my Memoir, because I'm
a F.R.S., a case of "_Fellow-De-Se_."

[Illustration: Seal making a Deep Impression.]

Talking of Chance, everything that has ever happened to me _has_ been
Chance!

For instance, what could have been more a matter of luck than my
choosing a house at Down? +H-xl-y+ says something about being "Down on
my luck." (What a master of style old +H-xl-y+ is, to be sure!)

Then there was that voyage on the _Sea-Mew_. If it hadn't been that my
Uncle kicked me six times round his garden at Shrewsbury, because I said
"I'd be jiggered if I went," I don't believe I should ever have had
courage to accept the appointment of Naturalist to the expedition. That
voyage gave me an object in life. My nose had _made_ me an object in
life before that (_vide Portrait_), but Natural Selection triumphed over
my nose, and so I became in due time famous, and an Ag-nose-tic!

+My Schooldays.+

At school I was an exceptionally naughty boy. I cannot conceive what
induced me to tell another little boy that I had often produced
crab-apples by taking a dead crab and burying it in an orchard, but I
did. My little friend, I recollect, didn't believe me, and indeed pulled
my nose (always a sore point with me, but he made its point much sorer)
for telling what he called "beastly crams." We had a fight, I also
remember. Perhaps I ought to call it a "struggle for existence." He was
much the "fittest," and he survived. _I_ got licked.

+Choice of Calling.+

My extreme naughtiness continued unabated when I became a young man.
Nobody expected I should ever "do" anything--except six months' hard
labour! At Cambridge I was so shockingly "rowdy," that my father
declared, there was no alternative but to send me into the Church. But
as I was hunting with the College drag at the hour when I ought to have
been in for my Ordination Examination, the Bishop failed to see matters
in the same light. I then decided to be a Doctor. If I had stuck to this
profession I fancy that my turn for trying experiments would have landed
me in some exalted position--possibly at Newgate. As it was, after
attending a lecture on Surgery, I was discovered in the local Hospital
trying to cut off a patient's leg on an entirely new principle, with a
pair of scissors and an old meat-saw, and I was nearly "run in" for
manslaughter. I decided to give up Medicine, and a slight shindy over a
supposed error of mine in calculating a score having prevented my
becoming a success as a Public-house Billiard-marker, I thought I would
make my mark in another way, as a breeder of race-horses. Being,
however, forcibly chucked out of Newmarket Heath one day for an alleged
irregularity which I never could understand, I began really to wonder
what profession I _was_ fitted to adorn.

+I become a Naturalist.+

It was at this time that the Captain of the _Sea-Mew_ offered me that
post of which I have before spoken. I accepted it, and began at once to
lower the record in sea-sickness, being never once well on board ship
_for three whole years_! It was a new experience, and altered me a good
deal. From being rowdy and idle I became quiet and abnormally diligent.
If you don't believe this, ask +H-xl-y+ (who is such fun!). On returning
to England I at once settled Down, and began to write books.

+The "Origin of Species."+

This work is my title to fame. It only took me thirty-three years and
six months to write. I felt quite glad when it was finished. People who
have read it tell me they feel the same, The row it caused was
frightful! If you want to see "+Soapy Sam's+" slashing _Quarterly
Review_ article pulverised, read +H-xl-y's+ reply. (But, query--isn't
this scientific log-rolling?) The remark which was made, after perusing
the book, by that eminent Botanist, my friend Professor +Hookey+,
was--"Walker!" But he was soon converted.

+My Way of Working.+

This, also, can't interest anybody, yet I give it. I get up at 4 A.M.,
and take a walk. From 7 to 10 I work. After dinner--with champagne--I
take another stroll. I have made most astonishing scientific discoveries
at this time. I could, point out the exact spot in the road where I
became convinced that _the whole country had been elevated sixteen feet
since the morning_! +H-xl-y+, who was with me, quite agreed, and said
that we must all have been elevated at the same time, without knowing
it.

+My Favourite Authors.+

These are, of course, +Lyell+ on _Lias_, and +Hookey+ on _Herbaceous
Foraminifera_. They are far superior to +Shakspeare+, who bores me. I
like novels, the trashier the better. Only let 'em end well, and I don't
care how they begin, or whether they begin at all. In newspapers, the
best part, I think, is the Parliamentary Debates. In reading them I have
often got valuable hints as to the "Origin of Speeches," and they
frequently afford conclusive evidence of the "Descent of Man." I thought
of bringing Parliamentary manners in as a chapter in my book on
"Earth-worms," but +H-xl-y+ advised me not to, and I didn't.

+My Nose.+

I think I've mentioned this feature before. It troubles me. It is
undoubtedly of a low type, yet it has survived! Why have I not been
fitted with a fitter one? It is another instance of the fact that
everything--including my fame--has come to me by sheer luck. +H-xl-y+
says "there's a Dar-winning modesty about this last remark." Also says,
"I've found the 'Philosopher's Tone.'" (What screaming fun +H-xl-y+
always is!)

+My Portraits.+

Perhaps I may be allowed to say one word as to the Photographs preceding
these volumes. _They aren't the least little bit like me_! In Volume One
I appear as the unmistakable "Country Butcher." In Volume Two I am "The
Gorilla Asleep," or "Beetle-brow Napping" (after a beetle-hunt,
probably). Volume Three represents me as the Typical Brigand of
Transpontine Melodrama.

Why, too, has the Photographer insisted on bringing out that unfortunate
feature of mine so prominently?

Why? indeed! Who nose?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LARKS AND THE ROSES.

(_Ballad, by Milton Featherly Jonsone_.)

[Illustration: Rose on the Swell.]

  The roses were blowing, like whales in the sea
  Where the apple-bloom icebergs plunged fearless and free,
  And the larks carolled madly their high jubilee
          In the ether.
  The daisies ran riot in sunshine and shade,
  And the call of the cuckoo was heard from the glade,
  Where Summer with mellow monotony play'd
          On her zither.

_Tempo di Valse_.

  Ho, larks and roses!
    Hey, the bonny weather!
  Hey, we rose at morning prime;
    Ho, we lark'd together!

  'Mid roses and larks in our shallop we glide
  By Inglesham poplars, on Teddington's tide,
  Where the water of Thame under Sinodun slide,
                  And at Marlow,
  By Cliveden's green caverns, and Abingdon's walls,
  Where wirgles the Windrush, where Eynsham weir falls,
  By Sonning, or Sandford (whose lasher recalls
                  _Mr. Barlow_).

_Con tenerezza_.

  Oh, larks, and ro(w)ses
    On the shining river;
  Silver water-lilies, love;
    Love will last for ever!

  But the blooms turn'd to apples for urchins to munch,
    And the roses were sold at a penny a bunch,
  And the larks were served up for an Alderman's lunch,
                  Dead and cold, love;
  And the lustre has faded from tresses and cheek,
  And the eyes do not sparkle, the eyes that I seek,
  And the temper is strong and the logic is weak
                  Of my old love.

_Snuffiamente_.

  No larks and roses
    In a winter gloaming;
  Ruby-red love's nose is;
    Chilblain time a-coming'.

       *       *       *       *       *

+The Watchword of the Sugar-Bounty Conference.+--"England expects that
every man (and woman) will pay an import duty."

                *       *       *

+Latest French Cookery.+--Spilling the +Grévy+.

[Illustration: HOW WE ADVERTISE NOW.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "SABLES."

_Pastor_. "+How I do regret, my dear Madam, to see you wearing these sad
Habiliments of Woe!+"      _Widow_. "+'M ye-es. Black never did suit
me!+"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PALACE OF (ADVERTISING) ART.

(_A Long Way After the Laureate_.)

  I found myself a huckster's pleasure-place,
    Wherein 'twas horrible to dwell.
  I said, "O Soul, _the_ object of our race
        Is ever one--to sell."

  A huge-walled wilderness of ways it was,
    With hoardings of exceeding height,
  Which no one without pangs of fear, could pass,
        And spasms of affright.

  Its purpose, though, was plain; 'twas simply pelf;
    Whether a woman wild of glare,
  Or a colossal man shaving himself,
        All, all meant money there.

  "And while the world rolls round and round," I said,
    "Advertisement is the one thing
  Which need concern the wise and worldly head
        Of huckster, histrio, king."

  To which my soul made answer readily,--
    "In patience I must fain abide
  In these vast vistas of vulgarity.
        Stretching on every side."

       *       *       *       *       *

  Full of long-reaching bulks of board it was,
    Where, glaring forth from ghostly gloom,
  Were gibbering monkeys grinning in a glass,
        In a dame's dressing-room.

  And some were hung with daubs of green and blue,
    As gaudy as a cheap Cremorne,
  Where actors postured in the public view,
        Some frantic, some forlorn.

  One seemed all glare and gore--a stabbing hand,
    A woman flopping with a groan;
  An ill-drawn idiot trying to look grand,
        Big-nosed, and high in bone.

  One showed an ochre coast and emerald waves;
    You seemed to see them rise and fall,
  As infant supers--wretched little slaves--
        Under the canvass crawl.

  And one a full-faced, flashed comedian--low--
    Showing his teeth, with nervous strain,
  With queer goggle-eyes striking like a blow,
        And causing quite a pain.

  And one a miser, hoarding fruits of toil,
    In front a bony beak, behind,
  Wisps of grey hairs all destitute of oil,
        Blown hoary on the wind.

  And one a foreground with three hideous hags,
    Each twice as tall as life, or higher,
  Medusa-monsters, clothed in wretched rags,
        And crouching round a fire.

  And one an English home--lantern-light poured
    On a forced safe, skeleton keys,
  Whilst gloating o'er the family plate there stored,
        Glowered the murderer, +Peace+.

  Nor these alone, but everything to scare,
    Fit for each morbid mood of mind;
  Murder and misery, want and woe were there
        As large as life designed.

       *       *       *       *       *

  There was a fellow in a pretty fix,
    "Tied to a corpse," all wild alarm,
  Struggling across a sort of sooty Styx,
        The "body" on his arm.

  Or in a snow-choked city wretchedly,
    Dead babe at breast, with bare blown hair,
  A ruined woman crawled with quivering knee;
        Two bobbies scowled at her.

  Or, posing in a footlight paradise,
    A group of Houris smirked to see
  Young fools with clapping hands and ogling eyes
        Which said, "_We_ come for _ye_!"

  Or else a lost and deeply wounded one,
    In a wild swamp all bilious greens,
  Came on a corpse a bare branch dangling on;
        The ghastliest of scenes!

  Holloaed a half-choked boy with horrid fear,
    A brute the rope about to draw;
  A second with a knife and axe was near
        To give the first Lynch Law.

  Or in a railway-tunnel, iron rail'd,
    A man lay bound; his blood ran ice
  Who looked thereon, an engine shrieked; he paled,
        And fainted in a trice.

  A monkey by her hair a woman clasp'd;
    From her poor head it seemed half torn,
  One ape-hand dragged it back; the other grasp'd
        A steel blade's haft of horn.

  A hideous babe in nauseous nudity,
    Huge-headed, grinning like a clown,
  Advertised Soap. A vile monstrosity,
        The terror of the Town!

  Nor these alone; but every horror rare,
    Which the sensation-poisoned mind.
  Imaged to advertise vile trash, was there--
        As large as life design'd.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Deep dread and loathing of these horrors crude,
    Fell on my Soul, hard to be borne,
  She cried, "Why should these _incubi_ intrude
        And plague us night and morn?

  "What! is not this a civilised town," she said,
    "A spacious city, cultured, free?
  Why give it up to dismalness and dread,
        Murder and misery?"

  In every corner of that city stood,
    Unholy shapes, and spectral scares,
  And fiends, and phantoms, brutal scenes of blood,
        And horrible nightmares.

  "We are shut up as in a tomb, girt round
    With charnel scenes on every wall;
  Wherever echoes of town-traffic sound,
        Or human footsteps fall.

  She cried, "By Jove, it is a pretty game
    That Man, the Advertiser's thrall,
  Should have these scenes of grimness, gore, and shame,
        Shock him from every wall.

  "The very cab-horses go wild with fears!
    I rather fancy it is time
  To stop these poster-terrors, placard-tears,
        And advertising crimes.

  "Yes, yes, pull down these pictured screens that are
    All dedicate to gore and guilt.
  _Not_ solely for Soap-vendor or Stage-star
        Was our big Babylon built!

       *       *       *       *       *

VOCES POPULI.

+Scene+--_A Promenade Concert. Interval between Parts I. and II. Crowd
collecting before Platform_.

_Highly Respectable Matron (to female Friend)_. As to being _beautiful_,
it's not for me to say, but they're clean-limbed, healthy children,
thank Heaven! and what more do you want? (_The_ Friend _makes a
complimentary protest_.) Well, it may be so; but, to come back to her. I
don't like her present home so well as I did her first--not so tasty, to
my mind. She's got nice things about her, though, I _will_ say--a nice
sideboard, a nice ... (_Inventory follows here_.)

_The Friend (darkly)_. All the same, it's a constant wonder to me how
she can ever bring herself to sleep in _that_ bed!

_The H. R. M_. I couldn't myself; but (_charitably_) we've not all the
same feelings. (_Crush increases; Female Promenader with very yellow
hair passes, with apologies_.) "Excuse me, Madame" (_with attempt at
mimicry_); ah--and she _needs_ it! The orchestra's coming back now. I
didn't notice that young woman among them before--what's _she_ going to
play, I wonder?

_The Friend_. Whatever it is, she might look more pleasant over it!

_The H. R. M_. So she might--we can't all be good-looking, but we can
all be pleasant--but they wouldn't have engaged her here, if she hadn't
her gift!

_The Friend_. Oh, you may depend on it, she's got a gift--but I do call
her plain, myself.

_A Man with a very red nose (to Companion)_. And then, you see, I've
this special advantage--my _immense_ knowledge of the world. Think
there's time for another before they begin again, eh?

[_Companion is of that opinion; adjournment to bar of house_.

_Second Part begins; Lady Vocalist retiring after Song_.

_First Promenader_. Brayvo! Engcore! What, she won't sing no more--sssh!
     [_Hisses furiously_.

_The H. R. M_. There's the orchestra themselves clapping her--and
_they'd_ know what's good.

_Her Friend_. She was dressed very nice, I thought.

_The H. R. M_. I never care to see hair done up that style myself.

+On the Platform.+

_Ladies of Chorus tripping up from below Stage for the Vocal Valse_.

_Ladies of Chorus (all together)_. Am I too black under the eyes, dear?
Mind where you're going, Miss, please! Treading on people's toes like
that--the great clumsy thing! I'm next to you, aren't I? I do feel so
funny, my dear, don't you? For goodness sake, don't go setting me on the
giggle _now_!

[_They range themselves modestly in a row at edge of platform_.

_Rude Person (in upper box with Punch squeak)_. Rooti-too-ti!

[_Roars of laughter_.

_Ladies of C. (indignantly)_. Beast! I wish they'd give him something to
make him rooti-toot, I do!

_Conductor-Composer (from behind)_. Now, Ladies, ready please--keep the
laugh steadier than you did last time, and wait for me at the repeat!

[_He taps on desk: each Lady of Chorus stiffens herself perceptibly and
makes a little grimace_.

_One Lady (in whisper)_, Oh, dear, I wish I was at home with my Ma!
                                 [_Her companions giggle_.

_The H. R. M_. It's as much as they can do to sing for laughing--they're
_called_ "Laughing Beauties," though. I like this one's face up at this
end--she's so quiet and lady-like over it, and pretty too; they put all
the pretty ones in front, but there's one quite an old woman behind.
They're having all the fun down at the other end--how they are going on,
to be sure!

[_End of Vocal Valse: loud applause. Ladies of Chorus retire after_
encore _with air of graceful dignity_.

_The Person with the Squeak_. Goo'-bye, duckies!

[_Roars of laughter again: renewed indignation among Chorus_. Person
with Squeak _feels like_ +Sheridan+ _and_ +Theodore Hook+ _rolled into
one_.

+In the Grand Circle.+

_A Young Gentleman (who has set himself to form his_ fiancée's _mind,
but finds it necessary to proceed very gradually_). Now, +Caroline+,
tell me--isn't this better than if we had gone to the Circus?

_Caroline (from the provinces; unmusical; simple in her tastes)_. Yes,
+Joseph+, only--(_timidly_)--there's more of what I call variety in a
Circus--more going _on_, I mean.

_The Y. G. (with a sense of discouragement)_. I quite see your meaning,
dear, and it's an entirely true observation; still, you _do_ appreciate
this magnificent orchestra, don't you now?

_Caroline_. I should have liked it better with different coloured
curtains--maize is so trying.

_The Y. G. (mentally)_. I won't write home to them about it _just_ yet.

_Orchestra begins a "Musical Medley" with Overture to "Tannhäuser."_

_The Y. G. (who has lost his programme)_. Now, +Caroline+--this is
+Wagner+--you'll like +Wagner+, darling, I'm sure.

_Caroline (startled)_. Shall I? Where is he? Will he come in here? Must
I speak to him?

_The Y. G_. No, no--he's _dead_--I mean, this is from his _Opera_--you
must listen to this.

[_He watches her face for the emotion he expects; "Tannhäuser" melts
suddenly into "Tommy, Make Room for your Uncle."_

_Caroline (her face absolutely transfigured)_. Oh, +Joseph+,
dear--+Wagner's+ perfectly _lovely_!

_The Y. G. (gloomily)_. I see, I shall have to put you through a course
of +Bach+, +Caroline+!

_Caroline (alarmed)_. But there's nothing whatever the _matter_ with me,
+Joseph+! I'm not flushed am I?

[_Young Gentleman suppresses a groan_.

+In a Box.+

(_Musical Medley still in progress_.)

_A Lady (not much of an Opera-goer, who has been given a box at the last
moment, and has insisted on her husband turning out to escort her)_. It
was silly of you to drop that programme, +Robert+--I should like to know
what this piece is, it seems quite familiar--(_Orchestra playing
"Soldiers' March" from Faust_)--_I_ know--it's Faust, +Robert+,
_+Gounod's+ Faust_!

[_Much pleased with herself for recollecting an Opera she has only heard
once_.

_Robert (sleepily)_. _I_ know, my dear, all right.

[_Faust melts into air from "Pinafore."_

_His Wife_. Do you mean to say you don't remember that, +Robert+? how
exquisite +Patti+ was in the part, to be sure!

_Robert_. Umph!

[_"Pinafore" becomes "La ci darem"--which transforms itself without
warning into "Two Lovely Black Eyes."_

_The Lady_. There's nobody like +Gounod+!      [_Clasps her hands_.

_Robert (captiously)_. +Gounod's+ all very well, I daresay, my dear; but
it don't seem to me he's altogether _original_. I've heard something
very like this tune before, and I'll swear it wasn't by him!

_The Lady_. That's very likely; _all_ the best airs get stolen nowadays,
and dressed up so as to be quite unrecognisable; but that's not
+Gounod's+ fault, is it?

[_Fans herself triumphantly, after vindicating her favourite
Composer_. +Robert+ _slumbers_.

+Behind the Platform.+

_Erratic Promenader_. Beg your pardon, Sir--tha' shtick, not
'tended meet _your_ eye, Sir--_'nother_ gerrilm'n's eye, Sir.

_Fair Promenader (to Lady Friend)_. And I'm sure I don't know
how it is, but I'm always crying now for just nothing at all, whenever
I'm alone.

_The Lady Friend_. That's because you give way to it, dear. Come
and have something to cheer you up--you'll be a different person
after it.                     [_Advice taken; prediction verified_.

_The Err. Prom_. I shay, here'sh lark! see tha' Bobby over there?
he thinksh I'm _tight_! (_Waltzes up to him solemnly_). Kn'ive
pleshure nexsht dansh you, Sir Charlesh?

_The Policeman (severely)_. You keep your 'ands off of me, will
you, and take yourself home--that's my advice to _you_!

_Err. Prom. (outraged)_. You 'pear me to under 'preshionthish is
Hy' Par' or Trafa----(_with an effort_)--Trafa-ralgarar Square. I'm
goin' teash you, free Briton not goin' put up with P'lice brurality!

[_Hits Policeman in the eye, and is removed, smiling feebly.
Scene changes_.

       *       *       *       *       *

An Open Question.

  Lord +Solly+, at Paddies presuming to rail,
  Must sneer at their "brogue," which the Markis finds stale.
  Does he think a poor fellow must fain be a rogue
  Because, born in Erin, he speaks with a brogue?
  Celtic ears finds the drawl of the Saxon Swell flat,
  And a Cockney may chaff at the _patois_ of +Pat+.
  But which is in fault--is it _really_ so clear?--
  The Irishman's tongue, or the Englishman's ear?

                *       *       *

In a recent case on appeal, +Hammond & Co.+ _v_. +Bussey+, Mr. Justice
+Bowen+ was understood (by Our Special Reporter) to say that a judgment
relating to coals must be decided by the principles of +Coke+. The
Master of the Rolls and Mr. Justice +Fry+ concurred; the latter
observing that in winter a coal merchant must always be a +Bussey+
person, though his Lordship admitted that this had nothing to do with
the case. The Master of the Rolls and Mr. Justice +Bowen+ at once
concurred.

       *       *       *       *       *

[illustration-pointer] NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or
Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any
description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a
Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there
will be no exception.




Transcriber Notes:

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=.

Passages in small caps were indicated by +crosses+.

Throughout the document, the oe ligature was indicated by "[oe]", and the
letter E with a macron was indicated by [=E].