PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 101.

July 18, 1891.

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

No. II.—TO SOCIAL AMBITION.

DEAR SIR, OR MADAM,

I had not intended to annoy you with another letter. But since I addressed you last week I have received one or two communications—not from you, bien entendu, for you are too wary to dispute the accuracy of what I have written; but from concrete human beings, who pretend to speak on your behalf, and deny that I have "proved my case." I might answer by saying that I never set out to prove a case—that I wished merely to enjoy a friendly chat with you, and to appeal to your clemency on behalf of the large class whom I ventured to represent by the DABCHICKS. "But," says one of my detractors, in a letter now lying before me, "you have only given one instance. You have talked grandly about Queens, and Dukes, and actresses, and, in the end, you have put us off with a wretched story about the parvenu DABCHICK. For my part, I refuse to admit your authority until you prove, in greater detail, that you really know something of the subject on which you presumed to write." "Sir," I reply, "you are brusque, and somewhat offensive in the style you use towards me. For my part I do not admit that you are entitled to an answer from me, and I have felt disposed to pass you by in silence. But since there may be other weak vessels of your sort, I will do violence to myself, and pen another letter." And thus, my dear SOCIAL AMBITION, I once more take the liberty of addressing you, not without an inward tremor lest you should pounce upon me unawares, and cause me to expiate my rashness by driving me from the calm seclusion in which I spend my days, to mingle with the feverish throng who wrangle for place and precedence, myself the most feverish wrangler of them all. But, on the principle that we are both, in some sort, hawks, I think I may trust you to spare my eyes, while I remind you of one or two incidents in which you bore a part.

And first BLENKINSOP knocks at the door of my memory. I bid him enter, and I see a tall slim youth, not ill-favoured, wearing well-cut clothes, and carrying a most beautiful, gold-topped Malacca cane delicately in his hand. He is smoking a cigar, and complains to me that his life is a succession of aimless days, and that he cannot find any employment to turn his hand to. That very night, I remember, he dined with me. We went to the play together, and afterwards looked in at Lady ALICIA PARBOIL's dance. Dear Lady ALICIA, how plump she was, and how good-natured, and how well she married her fiddle-headed daughters. Her husband too, that clumsy, heavy-witted oaf, how cunningly and how successfully withal she schemed for his advancement. Quid plura? you knew her well, she was devoted to you. I only speak of her to remind you that it was in her hospitable rooms that GERVASE BLENKINSOP met you—and his fate. He had danced for the second time that evening with ELVIRA PARBOIL, and, having returned that blushing virgin to her accustomed corner, was just about to depart when the ample form of Lady ALICIA bore down upon him: "Oh, Mr. BLENKINSOP," her Ladyship began, "I really cannot allow you to go before I introduce you to Mr. WILBRAHAM. I hear," she continued, "he has just lost his Private Secretary, and who knows but that—" Here she paused, and archly tapping her protégé's cheek with her fan, she bore him off to introduce him to the Cabinet Minister. I watched the ceremony. Something whispered to me that BLENKINSOP was lost. Must I go through the whole painful story? He became Private Secretary to his new Right Honourable friend, and from that moment he was a changed man. His cheery good-nature vanished. Instead of it he cultivated an air of pompous importance. One by one he weeded out his useless friends, and attached to himself dull but potentially useful big wigs who possessed titles and influence. At one of our last speaking interviews (we only nod distantly now when we meet), he hinted that in the next distribution of honours his name might be expected. It appeared, but, alas for gratitude, he had to satisfy himself with a paltry K.C.M.G., which his wife (I forgot to say that he married ELVIRA) despises. He is now a disappointed man whom his friends, if he had any, would pity. He is getting on in life; the affectations he so laboriously cultivated no longer amuse. The witlings of his Clubs remark openly upon his ridiculous desire to pose as an earth-shaking personage, and when he goes home he has to listen to a series of bitter home-truths from the acrid ELVIRA. Would it not, I ask, have been better for Sir GERVASE BLENKINSOP, K.C.M.G., to have continued his ancient and aimless existence, than to have had a fallacious greatness dangled before his eyes to the end of his disappointed, but aspiring life?

One more instance, and I have done. Do you remember TOMMY TIPSTAFF at Trinity? I do. He was, of course, a foolish youth, but he might have had a pleasant life in the fat living for which his family intended him. In his second year at the University, he met Sir JAMES SPOOF, an undergraduate Baronet, of great wealth, and dissolute habits. Poor TOMMY was dazzled by his new friend's specious glare and glitter, and his slapdash manner of scattering his money. They became inseparable. The same dealer supplied them with immense cigars, they went to race meetings, and tried to break the ring. When Sir JAMES wished to gamble, TOMMY was always ready to keep the bank. And all the time poor Mrs. TIPSTAFF, in her country home, was overjoyed at her darling's success in what she told me once was the most brilliant and remarkable set at Cambridge.

Where is TOMMY now? The other day a ragged man shambled up to me, with a request that I should buy a box of lights from him. There was a familiar something about him. Could it be TOMMY? The question was indirectly answered, for, before I could extract a penny, or say a word, he looked hard at me, turned his head away, and made off as fast as his rickety legs would carry him. Most men must have had a similar experience, but few know, as I do, that you, my dear SOCIAL AMBITION, urged the wretched TOMMY to his destruction.

On the whole, I dislike you. Those who obey you become the meanest of God's creatures.

Pardon my candour, and believe me, Yours, without respect,

DIOGENES ROBINSON.

AUTHOR! AUTHOR!

LORD COLERIDGE's summing up to the Jury in the action taken by Jones (author of burlesques) v. Roberts (player of the same) was excellent common sense, a quality much needed in the case. Mr. JONES,—not our ENERY HAUTHOR, whose contempt for Burlesque generally is as well known as he can make it,—wrote to Mr. ARTHUR ROBERTS, formerly of the Music Halls and now of the legitimate Stage, styling him "Governor," and professed that he would "fit him to a T." Poeta nascitur non "fit."—and the born burlesque-versifier was true to what would probably be his comic version of the Latin proverb. But the inimitable ARTHUR, who does so much for himself on the stage, hardly required any extraneous help, and at last rejected the result of poor JONES's three months' hard labour at the Joe-Millery mill. This, however, was no joke to JONES, who straightway decided that this time he would give the inimitable ARTHUR something quite new in the way of a jest; and so, dropping the dialogue, he came to "the action," which, in this instance, was an action-at-law. Whatever Mr. ROBERTS may have thought of the words, he will hardly have considered the result of this case as "good business" from his own private and peculiar point of view. But all Dramatic Authors,—with the solitary exception of Mr. YARDLEY, formerly famous in the field, but now better known in "The Lane," at pantomime time, than to any Court where he has a legal right to appear in wig and gown,—from the smallest, who write to please a "Governor," up to the biggest, who write to please themselves, should rejoice at the decision in the case of Jones v. Roberts.

AN OMISSION AT THE GUILDHALL LUNCHEON.—On the occasion of the Civic Banquet to the German EMPEROR, an Alderman, distinguished for his courtesy to strangers, and his appreciation of good dishes, especially of anything at all spicy, wished to know why, as a compliment to their Imperial guest, they had omitted "pickelhaubes" from the bill of fare? He had understood, from well-informed friends, that the EMPEROR seldom went anywhere without some "pickelhaubes," whatever they might be, as he himself, the worthy Alderman, had never had the opportunity of tasting one.

THE RED QUEEN AND THE WHITE; OR, ALICE IN THUNDERLAND.

JOLLY JULY.

The storm of rain comes swirling down,

Our helpless flow'rets droop and die;

The thunder crashes o'er the town—

In wet July.

Our cricket-match is spoilt, the stumps

We draw beneath a drenching sky;

Then homeward wend in doleful dumps—

In wet July.

The lawn's a lake, whereon there float

The balls that erst would o'er it fly;

We can't play tennis from a boat,

In wet July.

Our garden-party's ruined quite,

Of invitations friends fight shy;

They wisely shun the sloppy sight

In wet July.

Take that old aneroid away,

A new barometer we'll try;

With hope for haply one fine day—

In wet July.

BEATING THE RECORD.—Mrs. MALAPROP's "Cerberus, as three single gentlemen rolled into one," was "not in it" last week with H.R.H. the Prince of WALES, who, in the course of the Royal Entertainments given to our Imperial Cousin-German, appeared as "a host of illustrious personages." An admirable performance.

A Nursery Echo from Carlow.

PARNELL put the KETTLE on,

TIM HEALY came it rather strong,

HAMMOND was the people's man,

And he's now M.P.

IN DESPERATE STRAITS.

ALICE IN THUNDERLAND.

Alice ... The TH-ND-R-R. White Queen ... H-RC-RT. Red Queen ... CH-MB-RL-N.

"I'll tell you what it is, your Majesty," said ALICE in a severe tone (she was always rather fond of scolding the White Queen), "it'll never do to swagger about all over the place like that! Dignitaries have to be dignified, you know!"

Everything was happening so oddly (since Thunderland had turned against Blunderland) that she didn't feel a bit surprised at finding the Red Queen and the White Queen sitting close to her, one on each side. But she found it rather difficult to be quite civil to them—especially the White Queen, who had once been rather a favourite with her, but at whom she now never lost an opportunity of girding.

"Always speak the truth," said the Red Queen (cocking her nose at the White)—"think before you speak—and write it down afterwards. It's safest, if you're dealing with some persons."

"That's just what I complain of," said the White Queen, loftily. "You couldn't tell the truth—about that Table—if you tried with both hands."

"I don't tell the truth with my hands," the Red Queen objected, icily.

"Nobody said you did," said the White Queen. "Nobody said you told it anyhow. I said you couldn't if you tried. And you don't try either. So there!"

"She's in that state of mind," said the Red Queen, "that she wants to deny something—only she doesn't know what to deny!"

"A nasty vicious temper," the White Queen remarked; and then there was an uncomfortable silence for a month or two.

The White Queen broke the silence by saying to the Red Queen, "I invite you to ALICE's Party—which used to be neutral ground—to explain, if you can, that nondescript nonsense of yours about National Councils as a substitute for Home Rule."

The Red Queen smiled sourly, and said, "And I invite you"

"I didn't know I was to have a Party at all," said ALICE. "Parties are things I don't hold with, as a rule; too great a tax and a tie. I like my freedom, I do. But, if I am to have one, I think I ought to invite the guests."

"ALICE of Thunderland, you require some lessons in manners," the White Queen remarked.

"Manners are not taught in lessons," said ALICE. "Lessons teach some people to do sums, and things of that sort."

"Can you do addition?" the Red Queen asked scornfully of the White. ("Bah, she can't do sums a bit!" she added, aside.)

"She is doubtless better at Division," interposed ALICE, significantly.

"Divide a State by a Statutory Parliament," said the Red Queen, with a derisive wink. "What's the right answer to that?"

"Much the same as dividing a Nation by an indefinite number of Councils," retorted the White Queen, smartly. "Talk about tu quoques, there's one for you!"

"Oh, as for that," rejoined the Red Queen, sniffing, "try another subtraction sum! Take a Grand Old Leader from a 'Party' of discredited 'Items,' and what would remain?"

"Why, a Policy, of course," replied the White Queen. "And another Leader," she added, sotto voce. "Here's another for you," she pursued, aloud. "Take a Liberal-Unionist Tail from a Radical 'Rat,' what would remain then?"

"I suppose you think nothing would remain," sneered the Red Queen.

"Wrong, as usual," said the White Queen; "the Rat's nasty temper would remain."

"But I don't see how!"

"Why, look here," the White Queen cried; "the Rat would lose its temper with its 'tail,' wouldn't it?"

"Perhaps it would," ALICE replied, cautiously.

"Then, if the 'Rat' went away from its 'Tail,' its temper would remain," the White Queen exclaimed.

ALICE said, as gravely as she could. "They might go different ways—the 'Rat,' the 'Tail,' and the 'Temper.'" But she couldn't help thinking to herself, "What dreadful nonsense we are talking!"

THE ONLY ONE.—A ready-penning writer in his Daily Graphic notice of doings in the Houses of Parliament, winds up his description of giving the Royal Assent to Bills in the Upper House with these words—"So ends the ceremony, which seems to take one away from the Nineteenth Century"—a little sum in subtraction—i.e., take one away from the Nineteenth Century, and the Eighteenth Century remains; but to continue—"back to the days of the Edwards and the Henrys." But why go back to any other century than the "so-called Nineteenth"? Isn't it only a very few years ago that the EDWARDS, the singular HENRY with plural surname of EDWARDS, sat for Weymouth? What other HENRYS or EDWARDS could ever occur to any well-conditioned Parliamentary scribe?

VOCES POPULI.

A RECITATION UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

SCENE—An Evening Party; Miss FRESIA BLUDKINSON, a talented young Professional Reciter, has been engaged to entertain the company, and is about to deliver the favourite piece entitled, "The Lover of Lobelia Bangs, a Cowboy Idyl." There is the usual crush, and the guests outside the drawing-room, who can neither hear nor see what is going on, console themselves by conversing in distinctly audible tones. Jammed in a doorway, between the persons who are trying to get in, and the people who would be only too glad to get out, is an Unsophisticated Guest who doesn't know a soul, and is consequently reduced to listening to the Recitation. This is what he hears:—

Miss Fresia Blud. (in a tone of lady-like apology).

I am only a Cowboy—

[Several Ladies put up their glasses, and examine her critically, as if they had rather expected this confession. Sudden burst of Society Chatter from without.

Society Chatter. How d'ye do?... Oh, but her parties never are!... How are you?... No, I left her at ... Yes, he's somewhere about ... Saw you in the Row this mornin'.... Are you doing anything on ——?... Oh, what a shame!... No, but doesn't she now?... No earthly use trying to get in at present ... &c., &c.

Miss Fresia B. (beginning again, with meek despair, a little louder).

I am only a Cowboy; reckless, rough, in an unconventional suit of clothes;

I hain't, as a rule, got much to say, and my conversation is mostly oaths.

[Cries of "Ssh!" intended, however, for the people outside, who are chattering harder than ever.

When the cackle of females strikes my ear—

Society Chatter (as before). Oh, much cooler here ... Yes, delightful, wasn't it? Everybody one knows ... No, you don't really?... Oh, POPSY's flourishing, thanks ... The new Butler turned out a perfect demon ... but I said I wouldn't have his tail dooked for anything ... so they've painted it eau de Nil, and it looks so nice!

Miss F.B. (pointedly).

When the cackle of females strikes my ear, I jest vamose, for they make me skeered,

And I sorter suspicion I skeer them too, with my hulking form, and my bushy beard!

[Here, of course, she strokes a very round chin.

Society Chatter. Seems to be somethin' goin' on in there—singin', actin', dancin', or somethin' ... Well, of course, only heard her version of it as yet, y'know ... Have you seen him in ... white bensaline with a Medici collar, and one of those ... nasty gouty attacks he will have are only rheumatism, &c., &c.

Miss F.B. (when next heard).

I cleared my throat, and I tried to speak—but the words died strangled—

A Feminine Voice outside. So long since we had a quiet talk together! Do tell me all about, &c., &c.

Miss F.B. —strangled by sheer alarm.

For there in front—

[Here she points dramatically at a stout matron, who fans herself consciously.

—was the slender form, and the sweet girl-face of our new "School Harm"!

Say, boys! hev' ye heard an Æolian harp which a Zephyr's tremulous finger twangs?

Wa'al, it kinder thrills ye the way I felt when I first beheld LOBELIA BANGS!

Soc. Chat. Oh, you really ought to go—so touching! DICK and I both regularly howled all through the last Act ... Not in the least, thanks. Well, if there is a seat ... You're sure there are any ices? Then, strawberry, please—no, nothing to drink!... Will you allow me?... Told she could dress hair perfectly, but I soon found she was ... a Swedenborgian, my dear, or something horrid ... Haven't you? I've had it three times, and ... so many people have asked me for cards that really I ... had the drains thoroughly looked to, and now they're ... delicious, but rather overpowering in a room, I think! &c., &c.

Miss F.B. (with genuine feeling).

Who would imagine one meek-voiced girl could have held her own, in a deafening din!

But LOBELIA's scholars discovered soon she'd a dead-sure notion of discipline;

For her satin palm had a sting like steel, and the rowdiest rebel respected her,

When she'd stretched out six of the hardest lots in the Bible-Class with a Derringer!

Soc. Chat. No, a very dull party, you could move about quite easily in all the rooms, so we ... kicked the whole concern to shivers and ... came on here as soon as we could ... Capital dinner they gave us, too ... &c., &c.

Miss F.B. (with as much conviction as possible under the circumstances).

And the silence deepened; no creature stirred in the stagnant hush, and the only sound

Was the far-off lumbering jolt, produced by the prairie rolling for leagues around!

Soc. Chat. (crescendo). Oh, an old aunt of mine has gone in for step-dancing—she's had several lessons ... and cut her knees rather badly, y'know, so I put her out to grass ... and now she can sit up and hold a biscuit on her nose ... but she really ought to mix a little grey in her wig!

[&c. &c., to the distraction of the Unsophisticated Guest, who is getting quite interested in LOBELIA BANGS whom he suddenly discovers, much to his surprise, on horseback.

Miss F.B.

And on we cantered, without a word, in the midday heat, on our swift mustangs.

I was only ignorant Cowboy CLEM—but I worshipped bright LOBELIA BANGS!

Soc. Chat. (fortissimo). Not for ages; but last time I met him he was ... in a dreadful state, with the cook down with influenza ... and so I suppose he's married her by this time!

Miss F.B. (excitedly).

But hark! in the distance a weird shrill cry, a kinder mournful, monotonous yelp—

(Further irruption of Society Chatter) ... is it jackal?—bison?—a cry for help?

Soc. Chat. Such a complete rest, you know—so perfectly peaceful! Not a soul to talk to. I love it ... but, to really enjoy a tomato, you must see it dressed ... in the sweetest little sailor suit!

Miss F.B.

My horse was a speck on the pampas' verge, for I dropped the rein in my haste to stoop;

Then I pressed my ear to the baking soil—and caught—ah, horror—the Indian whoop!

Soc. Chat. Some say it isn't infectious, but one can't be too careful, and, with children in the house, &c., &c.

Miss F.B.

I rose to my feet with quivering knees, and my face turned white as a fresh-washed towel;

I had heard a war-cry I knew too well—'twas the murderous band of Blue-nosed Owl!

Soc. Chat. Nice fellow—I'm very fond of him—so fresh—capital company—met him when I was over there, &c.

Miss F.B.

"What? leave you to face those fiends alone!" she cried, and slid from her horse's back;

"Let me die with you—for I love you, CLEM!" Then she gave her steed a resounding smack,

And he bounded off; "Now Heaven be praised that my school six-shooter I brought!" said she.

"Four barrels I'll keep for the front-rank foes—and the next for you—and the last for me!"

Soc. Chat. Is it a comic piece she's doing, do you know? Don't think so, I can see somebody smiling. Sounds rather like SHAKSPEARE, or DICKENS, or one of those fellahs ... Didn't catch what you said. No Quite impossible to hear oneself speak, isn't it?

Miss F.B.

And ever louder the demons yelled for their pale-faced prey—but I scorned death's pangs,

For I deemed it a doom that was half delight to die by the hand of LOBELIA BANGS!

Then she whispered low in her dulcet tones, like the crooning coo of a cushat dove!

(At the top of her voice). "Forgive me, CLEM, but I could not bear any squaw to torture my own true love!"

And she raised the revolver—"crack-crack-crack!"

[To the infinite chagrin of the Unsophisticated Guest, who is intensely anxious to hear how Miss BANGS and her lover escaped from so unpleasant a dilemma—the remaining cracks of her revolver, together with the two next stanzas, are drowned in a fresh torrent of small-talk—after which he hears Miss F.B. conclude with repressed emotion:

But the ochre on Blue-nosed Owl was blurred, as his braves concluded their brief harangues;

And he dropped a tear on the early bier of our Prairie belle, LOBELIA BANGS!

[Which of course leaves him in a state of hopeless mystification.

Soc. Chat. Is that the end? Charming! Now we shall be able to talk again! &c., &c.

OFF TO MASHER LAND.

(By Our Own Grandolph.)

(THIRD LETTER.—C.)

LANDS-CAPE POLITICS.

Haven't time to send you much information this week, as We,—the firm of Self and Corresponding Captain,—have had to write rather a heavy packet for the Daily Graphic. I suppose you will have got Herr Von GERMAN EMPEROR with you by the time you receive this from yours truly; or His Imperialness may have quitted your,—that is, our, though I'm here now,—hospitable shores. À propos of Hospitable Shores, remember me to the most hospitable of all Shores—Captain SHAW—of the Fire-and-Water Brigade. My companions—"Jolly companions everyone"—the Cautious Captain, or the Wily WILLIAMS, Doubting Doctor, Energetic Engineer, all well. Wily WILLIAMS hard at his MS., giving an account of the "agricultural and mineral resources" of the What-can-the-Matterbeland, "through the instrumentality of the Chartered Company." He's great at this. Think I shall start new Company—"The Chartered Libertine." If my memory doesn't fail me, that's a Shakspearian title. But who was the "Chartered Libertine"? I notice these South-African States are independent of Home Government. 'Pon my word, I fancy W.E.G. was right about Home Rule. On whose shoulders can the G.O.M.'s mantle fall, without enveloping him in entire obscurity, except on those of the Leader or the once united, but now fractured quartette party, "quorum pars magna fui?" I still keep up my Latin, you see. I wasn't sent to Eton for nothing; nor was any other boy that I've ever heard of.

CAPERS.

No wonder we've had so many dancing parties at the Cape, when all the inhabitants are Capers. I make this a present to my dear old DRUMMY; he can bring it out in his new Persian Joe Miller. Cheeky little street-boys give you Capers' sauce. They can lead you a pretty dance if you chivy them.

AMUSEMENTS OF THE BOERS.

To-day came across a Peep-Boer-Show. Seen it all before. Also a kind of Punch-and-Judy performance going on, translated into South-African dialect. There was not a paying public to witness it; and, with all my desire and with every intention to encourage native talent, I was compelled to turn away, "more in sorrow than in anger," (SHAKSPEARE again—Hamlet's Ghost, I think,) when the pipe-and-drummer man came to me for a contribution. Not a penny in my pocket. "I will reimburse thee nobly," said I, "on my return from the Mine-land." He quoted some line or other, which I did not catch, and gave the name of the writer, one "WALKER," as his authority. WALKER is associated in my mind with an English Dictionary, but, though it has been much added to in recent years, I doubt whether the words the Showman used on this occasion can be found in my pocket edition, or in any other edition of that excellent and trustworthy compilation.

CHANGE OF HAIR.

Called at native barber's to-day. Gave him no instructions. Thought of course he was going to cut it; and so fell asleep. I almost always fall asleep when under the mesmeric influence of a capillary administrator. I should like him to keep on doing it; cut and comb again. So soothing! Woke up and found myself—like this. (See Hair Cut.) Herewith please receive portrait, and treasure it.

ARMA VIRUMQUE.

Must send you a sketch of some of our B.B.B.'s or the Bold Bobbies of Basuto all armed. Ha! ha! as dear old WOLFFY would have said, "I was quite all-armed at seeing this!" Hope to be on the track of TOM TIDDLER's ground very soon. But anyhow till I am sur la tache, "on the spot," any one of these letters of mine (emphasis on the "mine") of which all are genuine—"proofs before letters" you have in my signed promise—is well worth a hundred pounds, and cheap at the price. It's my note of hand in exchange for the cash,—for the "ready ay ready!" as we say at sea. Away to the fields of gold!

PROSPECTING POSSIBILITIES.

N.B.—Rather think I am going to call on Queen ZAMBILI this afternoon. Ahem! Do you remember the ballads of "My heart is true to Poll," and "The King of the Owyhees"? Again, ahem! "Black Queen to mate in three moves." Of course, can't go in for this sort of thing myself, but by deputy, eh? Representative Government and King PROXY THE FIRST, with myself for Prime Minister. How's that Empire?

FROM OUR OWN BEN TROVATO.—Said an artistic collector to Mr. PARNELL, "Now I'll show you a beautiful specimen of CARLO DOLCI." "I wish you could have shown it me some days ago," replied the Ex-misleader of the Irish Party, "when I was presented with a specimen of Carlow without the Dolci."

COOK'S TOURIST PRIZE JUBILEE JOKE.—Mem. for Travellers contemplating a first visit to the Continent.—Being raw to the business, get Cook'd. Depend upon it, you won't be "done."

"THE HUNDRED BEST BOOKS."—Punch's Half-Yearly Volumes from the commencement, i.e., July 17, 1841, to June 27, 1891.

SOCIAL AGONIES.

"GOOD-BYE, GRANDMAMMA!"

(A Long Way after "Childe Harold.")

Adieu, adieu. Old Albion's shore!

I leave, to bound the blue.

My Yacht lies yonder! 'Tis a bore,

But I must part from you.

I sniff the brine, I love the sea;

Half Englishman am I.

Farewell to England, and to thee,

Dear Grandmamma—good-bye!

I leave your isle, the truth to tell,

With qualified regret.

July in London would be well,

But for the heavy wet.

The soaking shower, the sudden squall,

Spare not Imperial "tiles."

May it be dry when next I call,

Your slushiest of isles!

Yet I've enjoyed my visit, much,

In spite of wet and wind.

I with JOHN BULL have been in touch;

You have been passing kind.

My father and grandfather gone

Once trod your city sad;

Now I the daring deed have done,

And—it is not half bad.

That Opera Show was quite a sight;

Your Sheriff HARRIS—well—

AUGUSTUS, after Actium's fight,

Was scarce a greater swell.

The long parade, led by the Blues,

Gave me the blues again.

Not that the citizen were screws,

No, Grand'ma, 'twas that rain!

I—ahem! blessed it fervently,

Emperors must not complain;

But do, do keep your Babylon dry,

When I come back again.

For Garden Parties, Shows, Reviews,

And civic functions pale,

When water soaks the stoutest shoes,

And it blows half a gale.

Your Lord MAYOR and his liveried lot,

They know a thing or two.

Speeches of course are always rot,

But then—the skies were blue!

As for your Crystal Palace—ah!

Your pride I would not shock,

But you owe much, dear Grandmamma,

To PAXTON and to BROCK.

Your warriors are fine, if few;

But still, if you ask me,

You leave far too much power to

A Railway Company.

I would not let civilians snub

My paladins—no fear!

But then a Teuton—there's the rub!

Is no mere Volunteer!

And now I really must be gone

Upon the wide, wide sea.

Stiff state no more shall make me groan,

Hurrah for liberty!

I'm tired to death of functions fine,

And ceremonial rot;

Hurrah for ease! the breezy brine

Tar-toggery, and my Yacht!

With yonder bark I'll gladly brave

The seas about your isle.

Thanks, Grand'ma, for that kerchief wave,

And that right royal smile!

Welcome, ye billows, tumbling brisk

Beneath a cloud-swept sky!

Give your white kerchief one more whisk,

Dear Grandmamma—Good-bye!

SCOTT (ANYTHING BUT) FREE.

["It is human nature, after all. When conscientiously I cannot praise actors or actresses, or authors, they turn their backs upon me. But when conscientiously I am able to draw attention to their great merits, they simply overflow."—Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT, in The Illustrated London News.]

Unlucky Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT!

Since those who act our plays or write them,

Are so exacting that he's got

The greatest trouble to delight them.

When conscience tells him not to praise

They "turn their backs" and will not know him,

When their "great merits" make him raise

His voice—they "simply overflow" him!

NOTE FOR AN IMPERIAL DIARY.—There were just a couple or so of real good wet days for our Imperial and Royal Highnesses. Jupiter Pluvius ladled it out to us unstintingly in Imperial buckets full. Our Cousin German, so affectionately dutiful to "Grandmamma," won't forget La Rain d'Angleterre in a hurry. Mem. Next visit to London, bring fewer uniforms and more waterproofs and umbrellas.

"GOOD-BYE, GRANDMAMMA!"

IMPERIAL AND OPERATIC.

After considerable calculation as to re-imbursement for present outlay by a consistent course of future economy, I took a six-guinea stall for the EMPEROR's state visit to the Opera. "Court dress" being "indispensable," I decided to summon to my aid the well-known amateur theatrical costumier, DATHAN & Co. DATHAN sees at a glance what I want. He measures me with his eye. "Co." in waiting is dispatched to bring down two or three Court suits. In less than ten minutes I am perfectly fitted, that is, in DATHAN's not entirely disinterested but still highly artistic opinion, with which "Co." unhesitatingly agrees. For my own part, as a mere lay-figure, I should have preferred the continuations being a trifle less tight round the knee; also if the coat were a little easier about the shoulders, and not quite so baggy in the back I should breathe more freely; and, while we are on the subject, the collar might be lower, as it is in close proximity to the lobes of my ears and irritatingly tickles me. The white waistcoat—"well," as "Co.," in the absence of DATHAN, rapturously observes, "might ha' been made for yer!" "It might," true: but it certainly wasn't, as it is somewhat long, and there's a little shyness on the part of the last button but one in meeting the button-hole with which it ought to be on the best possible terms. But sharp-eyed little "Co." sees his way out of the difficulty; he hoists up the collar, he adjusts pins in the back, and, in a second, button and hole are in each other's embrace. The coat-collar can be taken in and done for—"nothing easier," says the undaunted Co.—and the part across my manly chest can be let out,—of course not a difficulty, as the whole suit, will be "let out" for the evening.

I am generally satisfied with my appearance in the glass as a portrait of a gentleman in repose, but I feel that any display of emotion, even of irrepressible loyalty, would probably be disastrous to some portion of my attire. The Court sword, too, is rather embarrassing, and, though Co. has adroitly fixed it for me by some mysterious process of invisible arrangement, yet, when I shall be left alone with the sheathed weapon, and have to do all this buckling and hitching for myself, I feel sure that that sword, which is only worn on the left to defend the right, will give me no inconsiderable trouble. Fortunately our washerwoman's husband, who comes late on a Wednesday for the linen, is a retired sergeant, and knows how this sort of thing should be done. He will assist in arming me for the operatic fray. Tout va bien.

At Opera, Wednesday Night, July 8.—Grand sight. Very grand; not only that, but beautiful. Costumes, uniforms, military, diplomatic,—all sorts, the real article and the Dathanic,—impossible to tell one from the other, taking them as a lot; but still, I feel that it is better to remain in my Stall, where only the upper part of me is visible to the unclothed eye. The consciousness that I am here, not as myself, but in disguise as somebody else, name unknown, rather oppresses me; only at first, however, as very soon I recognise a number of familiar faces and figures all in strange array. A stockbroker or two, a few journalists, several ordinary people belonging to various callings and professions, some others noble, some gentle, some simple, but most of us eyeing each other furtively, and wondering where the deuce the other fellow got his costume from, and what right he has to wear it.

Every moment I expect some gaily attired person to come up and say to me confidentially, "I know that suit; I wore it last so-and-so. Isn't it a trifle tight about the shoulders? Beware! when I wore it, it went a bit in the back." Man in gorgeous uniform makes his way to the vacant Stall next to me. I am a bit flustered until he salutes me heartily with—"How d'ye do? How are you?" Why, it's—well, no matter who it is. I have met him everywhere for years; we are the best of friends. I knew he is something; somewhere in the City, but not much anywhere else, and at all events he is no more a military man than I am a courtier, but when he confides to me that he was once upon a time in the Dampshire Yeomanry, and that this uniform has served him for years, and looks uncommonly well at night though it wouldn't bear the light of day, I begin to comprehend the entire scene.

My friend—we will call him TOMMY TUCKER, (for I have frequently encountered him at supper, and am aware of his capacity)—is full of information. Some of our neighbours of an inquiring turn are asking one another who that is, and who this is, and so forth; and when the answers are incorrect, or even before the answers can be given, TOMMY TUCKER has replied in a low voice, with a view to imparting general information gratis, that So-and-So, in scarlet and silver, is Mr. BLACKSTONE, of BLACKSTONE & SONS, head of the great Coal Merchant Firm; that the man in blue and silver, supposed to be a Hungarian attaché, is the junior partner in BUNNUMS & Co., the Big Cake Purveyor; and that the warlike person, with a jingling sabre, is not a Prussian officer, but is Deputy JONES, in the gorgeous uniform of the Old Buckshire Yeomanry; and when he's in the City, where he began in the usual way that millionnaires always do begin, by sweeping out an office, he is simply JONES, of Messrs. BROWN, JONES, ROBINSON & Co., Wharfingers. TOMMY TUCKER knows everybody, and everything about everybody, too. Who is that lady with a splendid tiara of diamonds?—that is the Duchess of BURLINGTON, "who"—and here, in a semi-whisper, intended for everybody's information, he tells how those brilliants come out for "one night only," and how they will be called for to-morrow morning by a confidential agent from POPSHOPPER's Establishment in the Great Loan Land. TOM TUCKER is full of these stories. There isn't a person he doesn't know, until happening to recognise here a one and there a one, I correct him of my own private and personal knowledge, when he frankly admits that I am right; and after casually explaining how he does occasionally mistake the Countess of DUNNOYER for Lady ELIZABETH MARTIN, he goes off at a tangent, and picks out several other distinguished-looking personages, numbering them as "first to right," "second to left," and so forth, as if in a collection of wax-works, giving to each one of them a name and a history. His acquaintance with the private life of the aristocracy and the plutocracy is so extensive that I can only wonder at his knowledge, his or marvel at wondrous powers of ready invention.

So it goes on. Then enter the chief characters. All rise; the orchestra plays the "National Anthem," in German, suppose, out of compliment to our Imperial visitors; and afterwards in English (translated, and, I fancy, "transposed"), in honour of H.R.H. the Prince and Princess. All the wax-work figures form in a row, under the direction of Lord Chamberlain LATHOM; the machinery is put in motion; they all bow to the audience; glasses are riveted on them; everybody is craning and straining to get a good view; the people in the gallery and just over the Royal Box loyally enjoy the scene, being quite unable to see any of the distinguished persons who are, in this instance, "quite beneath their notice." And then Signor MANCINELLI turns his back on everybody, and gets to business.

After this, I feel that a buckle, somewhere or other, has turned traitor, and inventing an excuse with a readiness worthy of TOMMY TUCKER himself, I suddenly, but cautiously, retire. I descend the grand staircase between two rows of beefeaters reclining drowsily at their ease. Fast asleep, some of 'em, after too much beef. Imagine myself a prisoner, in disguise of course, escaping from the Tower in the olden time. Then, fearing the collapse of another buckle or button, or the sudden "giving" of a seam, I steal cautiously past the Guards—then past serried ranks of soldiers under the colonnade—then—once more in the street of Bow, and I am free! I breathe again.