LONDON:

PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE, 85, FLEET STREET,

AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

1893.

PREFACE

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

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

Nobody answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pooh!" sniffed the Strong-minded Woman. "It will spread. Read Mr. H. Fowler's Bill, and Dr. Alfred Russel Wallace's Woman and Natural Selection; put this and that together, and perpend!"

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

"Hear! hear! hear!" chorussed everybody.

"You shall hear!" said the Oracle. "Stand round, all of you, and adjust your ear-tubes! Dionysius's Ear was not an aural 'circumstance' (as your countryman would say, Cleveland) compared with this. Vox, et præterea nihil, indeed!"

"Nihil—or Nihilism," growled the Trafalgar Square Anarchist, "is the burden of the vox populi of to-day——"

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

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

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

One Hundred and Fifth Volume!"

Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, July 8th 1893

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

THE HEALTH SEEKER'S VADE MECUM.

(Revised up to Date.)

TO CRICKETERS.

"OUT! FIRST BALL! A CATCH!!"

UNDER THE ROOSE.

Rondel by a Restored One.

(Some way after a Swinburnian Model.)

Old Proverb Verified.—"Miss Verne, whose renown as a pianist is rapidly increasing, has hitherto been known to concert-goers as Miss Mathilde Wurm." So at last "the Wurm has turned," and become Miss Verne!

What our Evening Papers are coming to (suggested by the newest thing in Pink and Green).—Penny plain, and halfpenny coloured!

1893; OR, THE GOVERNMENT GUILLOTINE.

SUB JUDICE.

(An entirely Imaginary Report of an utterly Impossible Case.)

The Mustard Mystery. 120th Day.

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

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

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

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

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

FASHION.

"Oh, Mummy, have you been Vaccinated on both Arms?"

THE THREE GEORGES.

The following two letters have reached Mr. Punch, curiously enough, by the same post. Here they are, just as they were received:—

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

G-orge M-r-d-th.

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

Yours (naturally) as fresh as paint,

G-orge M-re.

Something that had been better left Unsaid. (By an ex-Old Bachelor, discontented with his condition in general, and his Mother-in-law in particular).—"I will!"

A Wedding Favour.—A reserved first-class compartment on the London, Chatham and Dover.

AD FRATREM.

By a Remonstrative Sister.

(See "Ad Examinatorem," Punch, July 1, 1893.)

THE SONG OF THE SESSION.

Air—"What shall he have that kill'd the Deer?"

A TESTIMONIAL MANQUÉ.

(A Sketch from the Suburbs.)

The Argument—Mr. Hotspur Porpentine, a distinguished resident in the rising suburb of Jerrymere, has recently been awarded fourteen days' imprisonment, without the option of a fine, for assaulting a ticket-collector, who had offered him the indignity of requiring him to show his season-ticket at the barrier. The scene is a Second-Class Compartment, in which four of Mr. Porpentine's neighbours are discussing the affair during their return from the City.

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

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

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

Well, he's had a sharp lesson,—there's no denying that."

Mr. Sibbering (who has never "taken to" Porpentine). Well, he's had a sharp lesson,—there's no denying that.

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

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

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

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

Mr. Cocker. I'm with Sibbering there. The less fuss there is about it, the better Porpentine'll be pleased. My idea is to give him something of daily use—a useful thing, y' know.

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

Mr. Sibb. If it's to be like Porpentine, it certainly won't be ornamental, whatever else it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Sibb. A touchy chap like Porpentine would be sure to fancy we thought he wanted something soft after a hard bench and a plank bed—you can't go and give him furniture!

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

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

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

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

Mr. Balch. There you are, right enough; but I don't see where we come in, exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Balch and Mr. Filk. I'm bound to say there's a good deal in what Sibbering says. Porpentine's never shown himself what I should call sociable.

Mr. Cocker. I've never found him anything but pleasant myself, whatever he may be to others. I'm not denying he's an exclusive man, and a fastidious man, but he's been 'arshly treated, and I [pg 5] should have thought this was an occasion—if ever there was one—for putting any private feelings aside, and rallying round him to show our respect and sympathy. But of course if you're going to let petty jealousies of this sort get the better of you, and leave me to do the 'ole thing myself, I've no objection. I daresay he'll value it all the more coming from me.

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

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

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

Mr. Balch. And mine.

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

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

OPERATIC NOTES.

"O my prophetic sole, my ankle!"

Tuesday, June 27.—Faust, in French. Jean de Reszke was to have been Faust, but the "vaulting ambition" of the eminent Polish tenor led him to attempt a high jump with another Pole—the leaping-pole—and whether he had not his compatriot well in hand, or whether, "with love's light wings," Roméo did not manage to "o'ertop" the highest note above the line, deponent sayeth not, but this much is known, that he fell at the high jump, and, feeling the pain first in the under part of his foot, and then in the leg, he exclaimed, with Hamlet, "O my prophetic sole, my ankle!" the result being that he appeareth not to-night as Faust. If Frère Jean de Reszke is going on by "leaps and bounds" in this manner, he will be known as "Brother John the Risky." Madame Nordica happy as Marguerite—at least she looked it, for even in the most tragic scenes there is always a sweet smile on her dimpled cheeks. Mlle. Bauermeister makes a Marta of herself as the merry old dame; Mlle. Guercia, as Siebel, is a Siebeline mystery; Lassalle, as Valentine, pleases la salle; but Brother Edward "prends le gâteau" as Mephistopheles.

Wednesday.—Tristan und Isolde, which may be rendered Triste 'un und I solde-not-so-many-tickets-as-usual, or Triste 'un und I'm Sold. "The fourth of the Wagner Cycle." If there are eight of them then this is the Bi-Cycle, but there's more woe than weal in it, and though extracts may be relished by the learned amateur, yet, as a whole, Wagner's Tristan does not attract our opera-going public.

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

ON TICK.

Seedy Swell. "I Say, old Chap, tell us the Time. I'm sure your Watch goes well."

Second S. S. "It goes beautifully. It went Six Months ago to my Uncle's!"

TO THE FRENCH OARSMEN.

(From Mr. Punch, at Henley.)

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

THE RISING GENERATION.

Host. "What a Smart Set of People we've got to-night, Deary!"

Hostess. "Yes. How I wish one of our Dear Girls would come and sit by us, and tell us who Everybody is!"

"HYMEN HYMENÆE!!!"

July 6, 1893.

*: Horace, "Ad Iulum Antonium," Ode 2, Book IV.]

†: Horace—ut supra.]

"HYMEN HYMENÆE!"

A TALE OF THE ALHAMBRA.

Scene from New Ballet.

Conductor Jacobi Demonio charming the public to the Alhambra.

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

Your Representative.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

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

A Clerk in Our Booking-Office.

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

The Baron de Book-Worms.

WEAR AND TEAR IN AFRICA.

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

Scene—A Station on the Mombasa Railway.

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

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

A Porter arrives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Arrival of the express. Retreat of the natives.

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

[Offs it accordingly.

AN OLD MAN'S MUSINGS.

(After an Afternoon Pipe, at Nazareth House, Hammersmith.)

INTELLIGENCE À L'AMERICAINE.

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

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

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

PISCATORIAL POLITENESS.

(From a Yorkshire stream.)

Privileged Old Keeper (to Member of Fishing Club, of profuse and ruddy locks, who is just about to try for the Big Trout, a very wary fish). "Keep yer Head doon, Sir, keep yer Head doon!" (Becoming exasperated.) "'Ord bou it, Man, Keep yer head doon! Yer m't as weel come wi' a Torch-leet Procession to tak' a Fish!"

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

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

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

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

Business done.—Some votes in Navy Estimates.

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

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

That he should take part in debate on Army Estimates not only natural, but, in national interests, imperatively desirable. Hanbury's case quite otherwise. He never set a squadron a field, [pg 12] nor the division of a battle knows more than Alpheus Cleophas. Yet Alpheus Cleophas is not more glib, authoritative, or, on the whole, more entertaining when Army Estimates are to the fore.

Business done.—Army Estimates in Committee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Business done.—Sat for thirteen hours, and negatived first Amendment to Closure Resolution.

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

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

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

GOOD NEWS!

'Arry. "'Taint no good miking a fuss about it, yer know, Guv'nor! Me and my Pals must 'ave our 'D'y out'!"

Foreign Fellow-Traveller. "Aha! Die out! You go to Die out? Mon Dieu! I am vairy glad to 'ear it. It is time!"

Coming Events at the Lyceum.—With the exception of Becket, the part of Shylock is Henry Irving's most powerfully striking impersonation, and certainly Ellen Terry is at her best as Portia. It is played once again this month before our Henry's departure for America, and should not be missed by any genuine lover of Shakspeare and of true dramatic art. À propos of this, a certain excellent lady, whose name, beginning with R, is not absolutely unknown to Mr. Punch, asked this question:—"Isn't there some character in one of Shakspeare's plays called 'Skylark'?" Then, as she proceeded to give a hazy idea of the plot, it gradually dawned upon the listeners that the Merchant of Venice was the person of whom she was thinking.

"Memoria Tecknica." July 1.

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

Mrs. R. on Music.—Her nephew, who is an excellent amateur musician, read out an advertisement of a concert at St. James's Hall—"Sarasate will play Suite No. 2." His excellent relative, who is not well up in such matters, interrupted him with—"Ah! I should like to hear Miss Sarah Sarty play 'Sweet No. 2'! I daresay it has something to do with 'Sweet seventeen.'" No explanation was necessary.