E-text prepared by Matt Whittaker, Juliet Sutherland,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 104.
February 25, 1893.
MIXED NOTIONS.
No. V.—AGRICULTURAL DEPRESSION.
(Scene and Persons as usual.)
First Well-informed Man. There hasn't been much in this debate on the Addresses.
Second W. I. M. Oh. I don't know. They've promised a pretty big list of measures. How they're going to find time for the lot I can't make out.
First W. I. M. (contemptuously). Yes, that's always the way with these Governments. They all talk mighty big at the beginning of the Session, and then, at the end, they've done nothing, absolutely nothing; at least, nothing that's any good to anybody. Parliament's getting to be nothing but a bear-garden. The House won't be a fit place for a gentleman to be seen in soon.
Second W. I. M. (spitefully). You didn't seem to think it would be such a bad place for one gentleman, about eight months ago. You were after a constituency yourself, weren't you?
First W. I. M. Well, and what if I was? I told you at the time why I thought of standing. I thought I could do some good, but I precious soon found they were a miserable lot, so I made 'em my bow. "Gentlemen," I said, "you can worry it out among yourselves, and, when you've agreed, you can let me know."
Second W. I. M. And they never did let you know, did they? Went and elected another Johnny. Deuced bad taste I call it.
Inquirer (creating a diversion). Look here, I say, what's all this talk about Agricultural Depression? What does it mean?
First W. I. M. What does it mean! Why, my dear chap, I should have thought that any schoolboy knew that our agriculture is being simply ruined. If things go on like this, we shan't have a farmer left. They're all on the verge of bankruptcy.
Inquirer (doggedly). I daresay you're right; but, anyhow, I know, when I was at Chilborough, the other day, I saw a lot of farmers about, and they looked pretty fat and comfortable. That's why I can't make out what it all means.
First W. I. M. (resignedly). Well, I suppose I must explain it all, from the very beginning. The first point is, we've got Free Trade, and the farmers want Protection; and old Gladstone and all the rest of them say they're not to have it. Well, that isn't likely to put the farmers in a good temper, is it? Then, of course, the Americans, and the Russians, and the Indians see their chance, and they send ship-loads of food into this country, and the taxes have to be paid all the same by our farmers.
Second W. I. M. (interrupting). What taxes?
First W. I. M. (flustered). I wish you wouldn't break in just as I'm trying to make things clear. Why, the taxes on food, of course.
Second W. I. M. There aren't any taxes on food.
First W. I. M. Oh, indeed! Well, then, how do you explain Free Trade, and rent, and all that?
Second W. I. M. Now you're getting a bit nearer. It's all a question of rent. Free Trade's got absolutely nothing to do with it. What we want in this country is a Sliding-scale.
Inquirer. What's a Sliding-scale?
Second W. I. M. (taken between wind and water). A Sliding-scale? Let me see—it's very difficult to put these things shortly. A Sliding-scale is a——well, it's a sort of patent mechanical contrivance for weighing out things, so as to make it fairer than ordinary scales do. (Plunges recklessly.) You can make it slide up or down, you know, and fix it at any point you like.
Inquirer. Really! What a rum-looking thing it must be. Have you ever seen one?
Second W. I. M. Oh yes. They've got two or three in every big town.
Average Man. When did you last see it?
Second W. I. M. (suspiciously). Oh, I haven't seen one for some time. It may perhaps be a little different now.
Average Man. Ah! [A pause.
Inquirer. I see the Government's going to have an inquiry about Agricultural Distress. How are they going to work it?
First W. I. M. Royal Commission, of course.
Second W. I. M. No, no. It's going to be a Select Committee.
First W. I. M. Well, what is the difference?
Second W. I. M. Surely you know that. They only have Royal Commissions for labour and that sort of thing. Committees don't get any pay, you know.
Inquirer. Of course. I ought to have remembered that. But who's this Lord Winchilsea and Nottingham, who's cutting about the country, talking about agriculture! What does he know about it? I don't seem to recollect his name.
First W. I. M. He's a Peer.
Inquirer. Yes, I know that; but why do they call him Lord Winchilsea and Nottingham?
Average Man. Because that's his name. [A pause.
Inquirer (resuming). But what is he driving at?
First W. I. M. He's got hold of the right end of the stick. It's just this way. (To Inquirer, who winces under the imputation.) You're a foreign country, and I'm a British farmer. Well, you grow your corn for nothing, and then you chuck it into my markets. Well, what I want to know is, where do I come in? You may call that Free Trade, if you like—I call it ruin. The result is, I'm smashed up, and the whole country goes to the devil!
Second W. I. M. But you ought to consider the consumer.
First W. I. M. What do you mean by the consumer?
Second W. I. M. Why, myself, for instance. I get the benefit of it.
First W. I. M. Ah, you may think you do, but you don't really. In the end you've all to pay more for everything.
Average Man. Well, I'm pretty happy as things are.
First W. I. M. Oh, of course—and you'd let the land go out of cultivation. That's mere selfishness.
Inquirer. How's that? Can't they work the land now?
First W. I. M. What a question! Of course they can't.
Inquirer (anxiously). But I've seen 'em ploughing a bit lately.
First W. I. M. My dear Sir, they do it just to occupy time—they must do something.
Inquirer. Of course—of course. [Terminus.
THE RESOURCES OF CIVILISATION.
M.P. (apostrophising ruined hat). "Very well, then, next time there's going to be a Rush, I'll bring a Japanned Tin Hat charged with Electricity—then let him Sit on it!!"
Our amiable old friend, Mrs. R., came across a book entitled Playthings and Parodies, by Barry Pain. "Oh, I must buy that!" she exclaimed. "I've seen him so often in the Pantomime at Drury Lane! And fancy his being an Author, too! But I don't so much wonder at it, because I remember that, when I was a little girl, there was a celebrated Shakspearian Clown at Astley's called Barry, and he sailed in a tub drawn by geese down the Thames, and there was a wonderful Pantomime actor of the name of Pain. And now this talented gentleman turns out to be an Author as well!!"
"RETURN OF "GRANDOLPH" THE WANDERER! "BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME!"
THE EVIDENCE OF WEALTH.
And who lives in the Big House opposite?"
"Mr. Flinders, Sir,—and Mrs. Flinders,—the old Veterinary Surgeon and his Wife."
"They must be pretty well off, I should think, to live in a House like that?"
"Oh yes, Sir, very Rich indeed. Why, they 'ad a Golden Wedding there, the Week before last!"
FINALITY.
["He was one of those who believed that, even in the ordinary legislation of the House, and still more in a measure of such complexity, it was the utmost folly to talk of finality!"—Mr. J. Redmond the Home-Rule Bill.]
Are our sage legislators, then, set upon finding
A measure that's "final, conclusive, and binding,"
As lawyer-phrase puts it? They might as well try
To fix dawn in the East, or nail clouds to the sky!
There's nothing that's "final" in infinite time,
That great, goalless, measureless race-course sublime?
In which relays of runners must keep up the race?
There's nothing "conclusive" in limitless space;
And "binding" man's soul to his best of to-day
For the future of growth, in an absolute way,
Were folly as futile as binding an oak
To the seedling's first prop, or the sapling's first yoke;
For provisional law, not for secular life,
Such phrases are fit. Yet to heal age-long strife
By the very best "betterment" now in our ken,
Till—a better shines forth's the first duty of men.
Do right to the height of our sight's actuality!—
Yes, that is our best—and our only—Finality!
An odd Advertisement frequently catches our eye. It is "Dr. Gordon Stables's Health Series." Have the Gordon Stables anything to do with "the Gordon Hotels"? If not, why not? as evidently they could work together to their mutual benefit.
A History of Medicine, by Dr. Edward Berdoe, is announced as shortly to appear. It will be illustrated by a Black (-and-White) draughtsman.
DESIGNS FOR MI-CARÆME.
(To be worn as Costumes at the next International Fancy-Dress Ball.)
The Emperor W-ll-m.—Paul Pry on Tour.
The Czar of R-ss-a.—Protection.
The Sultan of T-rk-y.—Wrecked in Port.
The Khedive of Eg-y-t.—Young Hopeful.
The President C-rn-t.—A Dissolving View.
Prince von B-sm-rck.—The Shadow of the Past.
Count C-pr-vi.—The Substance of the Future.
Vicomte de L-ss-ps.—A Lock on the Suez Canal.
The Pr-m-r.—A Scotch Mixture of Homer and Home Rule.
Sir W-ll-m H-rc-t.—The latest of the Plantagenets.
Mr. J-hn M-rl-y.—"To Dublin from Pall Mall."
Lord R-nd-lph Ch-rch-ll.—The Prodigal Returned.
Mr. Speaker P-l.—The chucker in.
Mr. L-b-ch-re.—The Spirit of Te—ruth.
The Marquis of S-l-sb-ry.—The Irish Emigrant.
Mr. Arth-r B-lf-r.—Golf surviving Government.
Mr. H-nry Irv-ng.—A Canterbury Pilgrim.
Miss Ell-n T-rry.—A Nun, with none like her.
Mr. J. L. T-le.—A Walker, Running, London and the Provinces.
"I'm Manxious to Know."—The Isle of Man, it appears from Mr. Spencer Walpole's book, has thriven on Home Rule. We all know that Club Land gets on very well, Club-law being administered by men only, seeing that men only are the governing and governed. But "Home" is the antithesis of the Club, and Home Rule, domestically, means Female sovereignty. In the Isle of Man-sans-Woman there can be no Home Rule properly so called. It must be "Homo Rule."
"HOME, SWEET HOME!"
(Latest Parliamentary Version.)
Returned Wanderer sings:—
'Mid gold-fields and lion-haunts though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the past seems to hallow us there,
Which, trot round the globe, you will not meet elsewhere.
Home! Home!
Sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
An exile from home freedom dazzles in vain;
Ah! give me my lowly front-bench seat again.
The cheers, sounding sweetly, that come at my call,
Give me these, and old pals of mine, dearer than all.
Home! Ho-ome!
Sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
(Extra or encore verses on his own account.)
The first seat was mine, but I forfeited that;
Will they welcome the waif, kill the calf that is fat?
Will dear Arthur rejoice to receive his lost chief?
Will the Wanderer's return bring regret, or relief?
Home! Ho-ome!
Sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble (winks) there's no place like home!
So humble! Oh yes! So seemed David, no doubt,
Till he struck at Goliath and put him to rout.
My giant—his name, too, begins with a G—
Braves the whole of our hosts. I—no matter—we'll see.
Home! Ho-ome!
Sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble (grins), there's no place like home!
Treats for Tommy.—"What shall I do to amuse our little boy, aged fourteen, when he returns home for Easter Vacation?" Why, certainly improve his mind. Procure for him a free admission to the Geological Society, and let him hear a paper on "Anthracite and Bituminous Coal-beds," likewise on "Inclusions of Tertiary Granite." Take him to the Linnean Society, and treat him to a lecture "On the Differentiation of the Protozoan Body Microscopically Sectionised." Another evening may be given to "Mosses and Sphagnums," not to be confounded with "Moses and Magnums." After this little course, he may write to say that during the next vacation he would prefer remaining at school.
"I can't drink Champagne," quoth General Boozer; "it gives me a red nose." "No, it won't," replied his medical adviser; "that is, not if you drink Pommery and Grey-nose."
THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.
A Story in Scenes.
Scene VIII.—In the Drawing-room—Time, about 10. Mrs. Bodfish and Mrs. Ditchwater are talking in confidential undertones on a settee. Miss Bugle's anxiety concerning her invalid Cockatoo has already obliged her to depart. Mrs. Gilwattle is lecturing her Niece on a couch by the fire, while little Gwendolen is in a corner with a Picture-book.
Mrs. Bodfish (in a wheezy whisper). If he had condescended to make himself agreeable all round, I shouldn't say a word; but to sit there talking to that little forward governess, and never an audible word from first to last—well, I quite felt for poor dear Mrs. Tidmarsh being so neglected at her own table.
Mrs. Ditch. Ah, my dear, if she will have the aristocracy to dine with her, she must put up with such treatment. I wouldn't stoop to such presumption myself. And, if I did, I would have a couple of entrées, and everything carved off the table! He'll go away with such a poor opinion of us all!
Mrs. Bod. He must have noticed how the vegetable dishes were chipped! And I'm sure I was ashamed to see she had put out those old-fashioned doyleys with the finger-glasses. I wonder she never thought of getting some new ones. I saw some the other day in the Grove, hand-worked, at only five-pence three-farthings!
Mrs. Ditch. I could see something was weighing on her mind, or she'd have talked more to him. What is his title? It sounded like "Stratspoddle." I must look it out in my Peerage. Would he be an Earl now, or what?
Mrs. Bod. I don't expect he's more than a Viscount, if so much. I do think she might have presented us to him, though!
Mrs. Ditch. It isn't the fashion to introduce, nowadays. But I consider we are quite entitled to speak to him, if we get an opportunity—in fact, he would think it very odd if we didn't! (&c., &c.)
Mrs. Gilwattle. Well, Maria, I say, as I said before, don't let it turn your head, that's all! Depend upon it, this young nobleman isn't so affable for nothing. He wouldn't dine with you like this unless he expected to get something out of it. What that something may be, you best know!
Mrs. Tid. (to herself). A guinea, at the very least! (Aloud.) I'm sorry you think my head's so easily turned, Aunt Joanna! If you'd noticed how I behaved to him, you wouldn't say so. Why, I scarcely spoke to the man!
Mrs. Gilw. I was watching you, Maria. And sorry I was to see that being next to a member of the nobility overawed you to that extent you could hardly open your mouth. So unlike your Uncle Gabriel!
Mrs. Tid. (hurt at this injustice). Overawed, indeed! I'm sure it was no satisfaction to me to see him here! No, Aunt the only people I welcome at my table are those in my own rank of life—relations and old friends like you and the others. And how you can think I was dazzled by a trumpery title when I sent him in with the Governess——!
Mrs. Gil. Ah, you make too much of that girl, Maria. I've noticed it, and others have noticed it. She takes too much upon herself! The idea of letting her forbid Gwendolen to recite—no wonder your authority over the child is weakened! I should have insisted on obedience.
Mrs. Tid. (roused). I hope I know how to make my own child obey me. Gwendolen, come out of that corner. Put down your book. (Gwen. obeys.) I wish you to repeat something to your Auntie—what you refused to say downstairs—you know what I mean!
Gwen. Do you mean the thing Miss Seaton said I wasn't to, because you'd be angry?
Mrs. Tid. (majestically). Miss Seaton had no business to know whether I should be angry or not. She is only your Governess—I am your Mother. And I shall be extremely angry if you don't repeat it at once—in fact, I shall send you off to bed. So you can choose for yourself.
Gwen. I don't want to go to bed ... I'll tell, if I may whisper it.
Mrs. Tid. Well, if you are too shy to speak out loud, you may whisper. You see, Aunt, I am not quite such a cipher as you fancied!
[Gwen. puts her mouth to Mrs. Gilwattle's ear, and proceeds to whisper.
Scene IX.—Breakfast-room—Time, the same as in the foregoing Scene. Mr. Tidmarsh, after proposing to "join the ladies," much to the relief of Lord Strathsporran, has brought him in here on the transparent pretext of showing him a picture.
Mr. Tid. (carefully closing the door). I only just wanted to tell you that I don't at all like the way you've been going on. It's not my wish to make complaints, but there is a limit!
Lord Strath. (hotly). There is—you're very near it now, Sir! (To himself.) If I quarrel with this little beggar, I shan't see Marjory! (Controlling his temper.) Perhaps you'll kindly let me know what you complain of?
Mr. Tid. Well, why couldn't you say you didn't smoke when my Uncle offered you one of his cigars? You must have felt me kick you under the table!
Mrs. Gilwattle rises slowly, bristling with indignation.
Lord. Strath. I did—distinctly. But I gave you credit for its being accidental. And, if you wish to know, I said I smoked because I do. I don't see why you should expect me to lie about it!
Mr. Tid. I don't agree with you. I consider you ought to have had more tact, after the hint I gave you.
Lord Strath. It didn't occur to me that you were trying to kick tact into me. And, naturally, when I saw your Uncle about to smoke——
Mr. Tid. That was different, as you might have known. Why, one cigar is as much as my wife can stand!
Lord Strath. You—er—wouldn't wish her to smoke more than one, surely?
Mr. Tid. (outraged). My wife smoke! Never did such a thing in her life! She don't allow me to smoke. She wouldn't allow Mr. Gilwattle if he wasn't her Uncle. And I can tell you, when she comes down in the morning, and finds the curtains smelling of smoke, and hears you were the other, I shall catch it!
Lord Strath. Sorry for you—but if you had only made your kick a trifle more explanatory——
Mr. Tid. That's not all, Sir. When you saw me and my Uncle engaged in talking business, what did you cut in for with a cock-and-bull story about the Boxing Kangaroo being formed into a Limited Company, and say the Kangaroo was going to join the Board after allotment? You couldn't really believe the beast was eligible as a Director—an animal, Sir!
Lord Strath. Why not? They have guinea-pigs on the Board occasionally, don't they? But of course it was only a joke.
Mr. Tid. You weren't asked to make jokes. My Uncle doesn't understand 'em—no more do I, Sir!
Lord Strath. No, I gathered that. (Breaking out.) Confound it all, Sir, what do you mean by this? If you didn't want me, why couldn't you tell me so? You knew it before I did! I don't understand your peculiar ideas of hospitality. I've kept my temper as long as I could; but, dash it all, if you force me to speak out, I will!
Mr. Tid. (alarmed). No, no, I—I meant no offence—you won't go and let everything out now! It was a mistake, that's all—and there's no harm done. You got your dinner all right, didn't you? By the way, talking of that, can you give me any idea what they'll charge me for this, eh? What's the regular thing now?
Lord Strath. (to himself). Extraordinary little bounder—wants me to price his dinner for him! (Aloud.) Couldn't give a guess!
Mr. Tid. Well, considering I sent round and all that, I think they ought to make some reduction—y'know. But you've nothing to do with that, eh? I'm to settle up with Blankley's?
Lord Strath. I should say he would prefer your doing so—but it's really no business of mine, and—er—it's getting rather late——
Mr. Tid. (opening the door). There, we'll go up. And look here, do try and be a bit stiffer with my Uncle. It's too bad the way he goes on my-lording you, y'know. You shouldn't encourage him!
Lord Strath. I wasn't aware I did. (To himself.) Trying, this. But never mind, I shall see Marjory in another minute!
Mr. Tid. (to himself). The airs these chaps give themselves! Oh, lor, there's Uncle Gabriel hooking on to him again. If he only knew! [He follows them upstairs uneasily.
Scene X.—In the Drawing-room; Gwendolen is still whispering in Mrs. Gilwattle's ear.
Mrs. Gilw. Eh? You're tickling my ear, child—don't come so close. Louder. Yes, go on. "Sat next to him at dinner?" Well, what about him?... What?... What's the child talking about now?... "A gentleman out of Blankley's shop"!! "Hired for the evening"!!! Let her alone, Maria, I know who's telling the truth! So this is your precious Nobleman, is it? Oh, the deceit of it all!
[The door opens, and Uncle Gabriel enters, clinging affectionately to Lord Strathsporran's arm.
Uncle Gab. And when I take a fancy to a young fellow, my Lord, I don't allow any social prejudices to stand in the way. I should say just the same if you were a mere nobody. We ought to see more of one another. I should esteem it a distinguished favour if you'd honour me and my wife by dropping in to a little dinner some evening; no ceremony; just a few quiet pleasant people like ourselves. We'll see if we can't fix a day with my wife.
[He steers him across to Mrs. Gilwattle.
Lord Strath. (to himself). Now, how the deuce am I going to get out of this? And what have they done with Marjory?
Uncle Gab. Joanna, my love, I've been telling his Lordship here how delighted and honoured we should be to see him at dinner some——
[Mrs. Gilwattle rises slowly, bristling with indignation, and glares speechlessly at the unconscious Lord Strathsporran, while Mrs. Tidmarsh vainly attempts to appease her, as her husband and the other men enter. Tableau.
End of Scene X.
"At the Window."
In dull days of sensational horrors, and wild would-be humorous hums,
What delight to fly darkness, and watch the "Auld Licht," from "A Window in Thrums"!
Let pessimists potter and pule, and let savages slaughter and harry;
Give me Hendry, and Tammas, and Jess, and a smile, and a tear born of Barrie.
"The French," says Mrs. R., "have been shown up in a very queer light by all these Panama candles."
THE HOUSE THAT BILL (SYKES) BURGLED.
(Namely, that of Messrs. Walter Cross & Co., Jewellers, 8, Holywell Street, Strand, as narrated in the Times of the 16th inst.)
This is the House that Bill burgled.
This is the window, plastered with brown-paper and treacle, and then broken, belonging to the House that Bill burgled.
This is the rope-ladder, attached to the window, plastered with brown-paper and treacle, &c.
This is the show-case, reached by way of the rope-ladder attached to the window, plastered with brown-paper and treacle, &c.
This is the "burglar-alarm," lately connected with the show-case, reached by way of the rope-ladder, attached to the window, &c.
This is the bell that belonged to the "burglar-alarm," lately connected with the show-case, &c.
This is the wire that rang the bell, that belonged to the "burglar-alarm," lately connected with the show-case, &c.
This is the telephone that communicated with Bloomsbury, set in motion by the bell, rung by the wire, &c.
This is the dog who barked at the bell, agitated by the telephone that communicated with Bloomsbury, &c.
This is the man unshaven, unshorn, aroused from his sleep in the early morn by the dog who barked at the bell, &c.
These are the "Bobbies," all forlorn, called on by the man unshaven, unshorn, aroused from his sleep in the early morn, by the dog who barked at the bell, &c.
And this is the burglar, smiling in scorn, who escaped by the rope-ladder, window-sill-borne, and evaded the Bobbies all forlorn, called on by the man, unshaven, unshorn, aroused from his sleep in the early morn, by the dog who barked at the bell, agitated by the telephone, set in motion by the wire, attached to the burglar-alarm, connected with the show-case, reached by way of the rope-ladder, hooked to the window, plastered with brown-paper and treacle, belonging to the House that Bill burgled.
SUGGESTIONS FOR RIDE PARK.
"Many improvements," the Daily News writes, "in the arrangement of the Parks in the West End" have been made. Have they? Perhaps visible to the eye assisted by Mr. Weller's "pair o' patent double million magnifyin' gas microscopes of hextra power." But why, for the hundredth time we ask, and every equestrian asks as well, why aren't rides made across Kensington Gardens from Princes' Gate to Bayswater? Beautiful rides they would be under the trees, and thus varying the wearisome monotony of the round and round squirrel-in-a-cage sort of routine exercise, to which the Rotten-Row Riders are purgatorially bound. Also, why not a ride right across Hyde Park from the Achilles Statue to an exit facing about Albion Street, Bayswater? What difficulties can there be which a First Commissioner of Works representing an actively Liberal and Progressive policy could not carry out for the benefit of the Mounted Liver Brigade and the Light Cavalry?
Old Father Thames is still rather dirty. We often hear of "The Thames Basin." Why doesn't Father Thames use it,—with soap? What a chance here for a P**rs' advertisement.
FROM THE EMERALD ISLE.
"Just make it a Couple of Shillings, Captain dear!"—"No!" "Eighteenpence then, Major!"—"No!"
"Och thin, Colonel darling, just Threppence for a Glass o' Whiskey!"—"No, I tell you!"
"Git out wid ye thin, ye Boa Conshthructor, sure an' I know'd ye all the toime!"
[N.B.—The Fare is the Head of an eminent Firm of Furriers in Kilconan Street, and cultivates a martial appearance.]
A BIG LION AMONG THE LITTLE 'UNS.
"Daniel in the Lions' Den" will occur to many on reading how Henry Irving ventured into and actually dined as the distinguished guest of a society styling itself "The Playgoers' Club." But after all, whether these were real leonine cubs, or only "lions stuffed with straw," the Real Lion of the evening was the Daniel come to Judgment, Henry Irving, who, having partaken of the "chicken and champagne," and acknowledged the goodness thereof, gave them the less smooth side of his own tongue with charming frankness.
"I do not hesitate to tell you," purred the Lion, sweetly, "that there have been times when the genius of frankness which possesses the Club"—he did not allude to the existence among them of any other sort of genius—"has not appeared to be allied with the finest discrimination. (Laughter.)"
Yes—the poor little Lions laughed—it was all they could do, unless they had whimpered, and promised not to offend again. It must have been a delightful evening. To what other banquets will our leading Histrion be invited? To the Pittites' Club Dinner? To the Wreckers' Banquet? Will he be entertained by the Dissentient Gallery-Boys' Club, and finish up with a supper strictly confined to the upper Circles' Society? Instead of "Give your orders, Gents—the Waiter's in the room!" of old days, the Chairman will probably advise the enterprising Playgoers to "Ask for 'orders,' Gents—the Manager's in the room." However, if these heaven-born dramatic critics occasionally hear a few words of good advice from so honest a guest as Henry Irving, such gatherings may perhaps serve some useful purpose.
Gladstone's Aside on the Irish Members.
You are, in faith, like women—divil doubt you!—
For "there's no living with you, or without you."
Very Bad Drainage.—Because the London School Board built schools with defective drainage, the London Ratepayers are to be mulcted in £250,000. A nice drain this on our pockets!
THE POLITE SPEAKER.
(Intended for the use of courteous Members of Parliament.)
Question. I trust you quite acknowledge that strong language is absolutely unnecessary in Westminster?
Answer. Quite, especially when a compensating description can be found for every suitable term of abuse.
Q. You grasp the idea. How would you describe Nero fiddling during the burning of Rome?
A. I should say that he was a musician with a turn for pleasing variations.
Q. Very good. And how would you speak of Guy Faux on the eve of blowing up the House of Commons?
A. An experimentalist who would have been a useful lecturer upon chemistry at the Royal Institution.
Q. And could you refer to Blue Beard after the discovery of the cause of his last widowerhood without giving offence?
A. Yes; as a married man who objected on principle to the Mormon practice of being wedded to more than one wife at a time.
Q. Yes. And what would you say of Marie de Medicis, who is reported to have fired at the Huguenots from the Louvre?
A. I should say that her late Majesty took such an interest in field sports, as nowadays would have secured her election to the Gun Club.
Q. And, lastly, were you asked to describe Henry the Eighth after he had slaughtered most of his wives, plundered all the monasteries, and imprisoned or executed many of his subjects, what would you call him?
A. Without hesitation I should refer to him as "an excited politician."
"Continuous-Sounding Machines."—Lots of 'em on view in the House of Commons. But, for the genuine article, consult a "Colomb" of the Times.
"I love those cradle-songs," said Mrs. R. "The other day I heard—I forget who it was—sing a most charming alibi."
A LULLABY.
Nurse G. (sings). "'O HUSH THEE, MY BABY,
TAKE REST WHILE YOU MAY'"——
(To himself.) "AND NOW I MUST GO AND LOOK AFTER THE OTHERS!"
TO SERAPHINE.
Through happy years, that number now I ween
A dozen, or—to be correct—thirteen,
My comfortable better-half you've been,
O Seraphine!
The ups and downs of life we two have seen—