Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, May 9, 1891

Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Sandra Brown and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.



May 9, 1891.


"Shiver my timbers!" said the Scribe.

"Haul down my yard-arm with a marling-spike!" cried the Artist.

And with these strictly nautical expressions, two of _Mr. Punch's_
Own entered the Royal Naval Exhibition, which now occupies the larger
portion of the grounds of the Military Hospital, Chelsea. That so
popular a show should be allowed to occupy so large a site speaks
wonders for the amiability of the British Public. When the Sodgeries
appeared last year, it was, so to speak, with fear and trembling that
"the powers that were" appropriated a little of the ground usually
over-run by the Nobility and Gentry of the Pimlico Road and its
vicinity; or, rather, by their haughty offspring. This year the tough
old sea-dogs of the Admiralty have had no hesitation in taking
what they required, apparently without causing comment, much less
objection. And the result? In lieu of the dusty arena of 1890,
scarcely large enough for a ladies' cricket-match, there appears in
1891 an enclosure containing lakes and lighthouses, panoramas, and
full-size models of men-of-war! And the Public take their exclusion
philosophically, either paying their shillings at the door, or
attempting to get a view of the hoofs of the nautical horses through
the gaps in the surrounding hoardings.

The Scribe and the Artist, having been ordered by He Who Must Be
Obeyed in the world generally, and at 85, Fleet Street, in particular,
to make a sort of preliminary cruise through the wonders of the
(Admiralty) Deep, hastened from the inviting grounds into the main
building, with its pictures, its plans, and last, but (it is only
just to say) least, its pickles. The first object that attracted their
favourable attention was a trophy of arms, representing the fashions
of the past and the present. On one side were shrapnel and magazine
rifles, on the other flint-locks and the ordnance of an age long gone
by. Next they passed through the Arctic section, wherein they found
dummies drawing a sledge through the canvas snow of a corded-off North
Pole. Then they entered the Picture Galleries called after NELSON and
BENBOW, wherein magnificent paintings by POWELL, full of smoke and
action, served as an appropriate background to the collection of
plate, lent by that gallant sailor-warrior and industrious collector
of well-considered trifles, H.R.H. the Duke of EDINBURGH. They glanced
at the relics of Trafalgar, and then hurried away to the HOWE Gallery,
which, containing as it did specimens of the implements used in
the game of golf, might have as appropriately been christened the
WHEREFORE. Next they skirted a corridor full of plans, and here they
discovered that the Committee of the Exhibition must be wags, every
Jack Tar of them! This corridor was close to the Dining-rooms, and the
Committee (ha! ha! ha!) had called it (he! he! he!) after COOK! (Ho!
ho! ho!) Oh, the wit of it! How the Members of the Executive must have
nudged one another in the ribs as the quaint idea dawned upon them!
And how they must have laughed, too, on the Opening Day, when the
Guard of Honour, presenting arms, and the "Greenwich Boys" singing
"_Ye Mariners of England_," were drenched in the rain! And what a
capital notion it was on that occasion to put "the Representatives of
the Fourth Estate" (no doubt called by _them_, with many a sly twinkle
of the eye, "the Press Gang") into a pen that soon, thanks to a series
of water-spouts, assumed the appearance of a tank!

After leaving the Galleries, the Scribe and the Artist looked up at
the model of Eddystone Lighthouse, and entered a shed declared to be
an "Arctic Scene." Here they were reminded by the introduced ship
of those happy days of their boyhood spent in the toy-shops of the
Lowther Arcade. Next they visited the Panorama of Trafalgar, and
revelled in the carnage of a sea-fight that only required Margate in
the distance to be entirely convincing. They glanced at the arena, and
gazed with awe at the lake which is to be devoted to the manoeuvring
of miniature ironclads. It will be interesting to note whether these
mimic combats will hold their own in the coming season against the
introduction of capsized clowns, drenched old women, and comic police.
Keeping the best for the last, the Scribe and the Artist now entered
the model of the _Victory_--a really admirable exhibition. There they
saw before them the old battle-ship with its full equipment, as it
was in the days of NELSON--when that deathless hero expected every
Englishman (not excluding even those passing the Custom House--as
the Committee would say) "to _do_ his duty." To make the illusion
complete, the great sea-captain was observed dying in the cook-pit in
the agonies of wax. And to think that this work was executed by a firm
of house-decorators! Why, who would not, after this, have his back
drawing-room converted into the quarter-deck of the _Shannon_, and his
spare bed-room into a tiny reproduction of the Battle of Copenhagen!

[Illustration: Mr. Punch's Representatives, after partaking of
Chelsea Hospitality (_a purely fancy sketch_).]

The Scribe and the Artist, on their visit, were invited by all sorts
and conditions of men to partake of champagne. The moment it was
discovered that they were "connected with the Press," the offerers
of hospitality were absolutely overwhelming. But, obeying the best
traditions of their order, they sternly, but courteously, refused all
refreshment. It is fortunate they pursued this course, for had they
received the entirely disinterested kindness of their would-be hosts,
their recollections of the marvels of the Royal Naval Exhibition would
no doubt have been of the haziest character imaginable. As it was,
they were able to take their departure through the main entrance
with some show of dignity, and not in a less imposing manner (as the
Committee--_Cook's_ Gallery near the Dining-rooms--ho! ho! ho! ha! ha!
ha!--would probably and amusingly suggest), by Tite Street.

* * * * *


Mr. PUNCH would be failing in his duty to Art and the British
Public if he did not place on imperishable record his notes of the
exceptionally brilliant Royal Academy Banquet of last Saturday. H.R.H.
the Prince of WALES made one of his best and briefest speeches, in
which he feelingly alluded to the late Sir EDGAR BOEHM, R.A. Never
was the President, Sir FREDERICK, more eloquent, or his themes more
varied; for this occasion is noteworthy as being the first time in the
history of this great annual representative gathering that the toast
of Music and the Drama has been duly honoured. Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN
responded for the first, and HENRY IRVING for the second. Both made
excellent speeches. Sir ARTHUR'S solo was most effective; his notes
were in his head; he gave us several variations on the original
theme, and cleverly played upon one word in saying that music had been
"instrumental" on various historical occasions. HENRY IRVING followed
suit; he spoke of Mrs. SIDDONS, Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, and of a
professional gentleman, one ROSCIUS, mentioned, we believe, by
_Hamlet_ as having been, some considerable time ago, "a man of parts,"
that is an Actor, in Rome. It was a great success. Sir FREDERICK then
proposed the LORD MAYOR, which may be briefly expressed as "a toast
with a Savory to follow." For "The Visitors," Lord Justice BOWEN,
catching sight of the President's classical picture (No. 232), made a
happy hit about the delights of a honeymoon in the Infernal Regions,
ending in the return of Proserpine to her mother Ceres by order of the
Court above. Finally, the President, in summing up the losses to Art
during the past year, paid a graceful tribute to the memory of CHARLES
KEENE, who, but a short while ago, was our fellow-worker on the staff
of _Mr. Punch_ With a hopeful allusion to the Storage of Artistic
Force in the near future, the President concluded: but this Banquet of
1891 will long live in the recollection of all whose privilege it was
to be present on so memorable an occasion.

* * * * *


I SAY! YSAYE! _Why say?_ Why _not_ say that YSAYE is a grand Yolinist,
since he is this; and, as 'ARRY would observe, "No error!" and whoever
says the contrary, is not speaking the absolute truth, but "_Ysaye
Worsay_." The Yolinist had the advantage of the co-operation of a fine
Orchestra, under the Magic Wand of Conductor COWEN.

On the 27th, Heard young JEAN GERARDY, Little boy, but player hardy,
Not the slightest Lardy-Dardy, Not yet out of care of "Guardy," Heard
him _Lundi_, not on _Mardi_. But, whene'er he plays, your Bardy,
Always spry, and never tardy, Will again hear JEAN GERARDY.

* * * * *


* * * * *


* * * * *



(_A Song of the Season, a very long way after Herrick_.)

"London town is another affair
Since HERRICK wrote his perfect rhymes."


True, sadly true, shaper of rattling rhymes,
London hath changed with process of the times.
Aurora now may "throw her faire
Fresh-quilted colours through the aire,"
But our conditions atmospheric
Are not as in the days of HERRICK.
Nathless the Muse to-day may see
Flora at urban revelry.
See how the goddess trippeth from the West,
Fragrant, though something fashionably drest;
The Season waketh at her tread,
Art lifteth a long-drooping head;
Music doth make a merry din.
'Tis profanation, keeping in,
Whenas a hundred Shows upon this day
Spring, lightly as the lark to fetch in May.

Rise, Nymph, put on fresh finery, and be seen,
To come forth like the Spring-time, fresh and green!
And gay as Flora. Art is there,
With flowing hyacinthine hair.
Fear not, the throng will strew
Largess abundant upon _you_,
When Burlington's great Opening Day is kept.
Gone is thy Grosvenor rival, not unwept;
But a New Nymph, with footing light,
Trips it beside thee, nor hath night
Shadowed sweet "Aquarelle" whose skill,
As of a Water-Nymph, is still
Well to the fore. Pipe up! playing means paying,
When Fashion's Urban Flora goes a-Maying.

Come, my CORINNA, come; and, coming, mark
How each street turns a grove, each square a park,
Made green and trimmed with trees: see how
The pinky hawthorn decks the bough!
Each Bond Street porch, or door, ere this
Of Art a Tabernacle is;
Nor Art alone. With May is interwove
Seaweed, which Neptune's favourites love.
SWINBURNE should sing in stanzas fleet,
How NELSON may, at Chelsea, meet
ARMSTRONG! Sound conch-shell! Let's obey
Thy Proclamation made for May.
Wild marine whiffs from the salt sea are straying,
And the brine greets us as we go a-Maying.

There's not a London-Teuton but this day
Hath a new welcome for the English May.
Germania from her distant home
In Flora's train this year doth come.
She hath despatched her country's cream
Of things, to make the Cockney dream.
Neptune and she have wooed and plighted troth,
And her we give May-welcome, nothing loth,
As many a welcome we have given
To France, Spain, Italy! War hath riven
Many true hearts, but we're content
Of Peace to make experiment.
Blow Teuton horn--(not like "_Hernani's_" braying!)--
It makes new music as we go a-Maying!

Come, let us go, while May is in its prime,
And make the best of the brief Season's time.
HERRICK'S CORINNA might not see
An Urban May Queen such as we
Behold disport in our rare sun.
Rouse, Nymph! The Season is begun!
We'll trust no blizzard, and no boreal rain
May mar "Our Opening Day." Sound flutes again!
Pipe, Sir FREDERICK! Ah, well played!
Tootle thy new strains, fair Maid.
Blow, oh Briny One, with might!
Teuton BRUNEHILD, glad our sight!
Fashion's Floralia, Nymph, invite our straying;
Come, my CORINNA, come; let's go a-Maying!

* * * * *




* * * * *


(_Namely of Parliament, as seen through Harry Furniss's fancy._)

AIR--"_The Wooing o't._"

LIKA JOKO makes us laugh,
Ha! ha! the humour o't!
With caricature and caustic chaff;
He! he! the humour o't!
Parliament strikes some as slow,
LIKA JOKO deems not so;
Visit _his_ St. Stephen's Show!
Humph! humph! the humour o't!

GLADSTONE stern and GLADSTONE staid,
Ha! ha! the humour o't!
GLADSTONE in war-paint arrayed,
He! he! the humour o't!
GLADSTONE with colossal chin,
Giant collars plunged within,
Humph! humph! the humour o't!

SMITH with bland perennial smile,
Ha! ha! the humour o't!
BALFOUR, pet of the Green Isle,
He! he! the humour o't!
HARCOURT, big as Babel's tower,
GOSCHEN, with myopic glower,
JOSEPH of the orchid-flower.
Humph! humph! the humour o't!

How they muster, how they "tell,"
Ha! ha! the humour o't!
Woes of the Division Bell,
He! he! the humour o't!
_All_--from Prayers to "Who goes Home?"
O'er St. Stephens you may roam;
LIKA JOKO bids you. Come!
Humph! humph! the humour o't!

LIKA JOKO is a wag,
Ha! ha! the humour o't!
All the tricks are in his bag,
He! he! the humour o't!
He can mimic, he can mime,
Draw, and act, and--what is prime--
_Keep you laughing all the time._
Humph! humph! the humour o't!

* * * * *

Why doesn't some Musical Photographic Artist of Scotch Nationality
compose a March for his fellow Professors and Practisers, and call it
"_The March of the Camera Men_"? Sure to be popular.

* * * * *

AN UN-"COMMON" GOOD HORSE.--The Winner of this Year's Two Thousand.

* * * * *


(_Condensed and Revised Version by Mr. P.'s Own Harmless Ibsenite._)



SCENE.--_The same Room, but--it being evening--darker than ever--The
crape curtains are drawn. A Servant, with black ribbons in her cap,
and red eyes, comes in and lights the gas quietly and carefully.
Chords are heard on the piano in the back Drawing-room. Presently_
HEDDA _comes in and looks out into the darkness. A short pause. Enter_

_George_. I am _so_ uneasy about poor LOeVBORG. Fancy! he is not at
home. Mrs. ELVSTED told me he had been here early this morning, so I
suppose you gave him back his manuscript, eh?

_Hedda_ (_cold and immovable, supported by arm-chair_). No, I put it
on the fire instead.

_George_. On the fire! LOeVBORG'S wonderful new book that he read to
me at BRACK'S party, when we had that wild revelry last night! Fancy
_that!_ But, I say, HEDDA--isn't that _rather_--eh? _Too_ bad, you
know--really. A great work like that. How on earth did you come to
think of it?

_Hedda_ (_suppressing an almost imperceptible smile_). Well, dear
GEORGE, you gave me a tolerably strong hint.

_George_. Me? Well, to be sure--that _is_ a joke! Why, I only said
that I envied him for writing such a book, and it would put me
entirely in the shade if it came out, and if anything was to happen to
it, I should never forgive myself, as poor LOeVBORG couldn't write it
all over again, and so we must take the greatest care of it! And then
I left it on a chair and went away--that was all! And you went and
burnt the book all up! Bless me, who _would_ have expected it?

_Hedda_. Nobody, you dear simple old soul! But I did it for your
sake--it was _love_, GEORGE!

_George_ (_in an outburst between doubt and joy_). HEDDA, you don't
mean that! Your love takes such queer forms sometimes, Yes, but
yes--(_laughing in excess of joy_), why, you _must_ be fond of me!
Just think of that now! Well, you _are_ fun, HEDDA! Look here, I must
just run and tell the housemaid that--she will enjoy the joke so, eh?

_Hedda_ (_coldly, in self-command_). It is surely not necessary, even
for a clever Norwegian man of letters in a realistic social drama, to
make quite such a fool of himself as all that?

_George_. No, that's true too. Perhaps we'd better keep it
quiet--though I _must_ tell Aunt JULIE--it will make her so happy to
hear that you burnt a manuscript on my account! And, besides, I should
like to ask her whether that's a usual thing with young wives. (_Looks
uneasy and pensive again._) But poor old EJLERT'S manuscript! Oh Lor,
you know! Well, well! [Mrs. ELVSTED _comes in_.

_Mrs. E._ Oh, please, I'm so uneasy about dear Mr. LOeVBORG. Something
has happened to him, I'm sure!

_Judge Brack_ (_comes in from the hall, with a new hat in his hand_).
You have guessed it, first time. Something _has!_

_Mrs. E._ Oh, dear, good gracious! What is it? Something distressing,
I'm certain of it! [_d._

_Brack_ (_pleasantly_). That depends on how one takes it. He has shot
himself, and is in a hospital now, that's all!

_George_ (_sympathetically_). That's sad, eh? poor old LOeVBORG! Well,
I _am_ cut up to hear that. Fancy, though, eh?

_Hedda_. Was it through the temple, or through the breast? The breast?
Well, one can do it beautifully through the breast, too. Do you know,
as an advanced woman, I like an act of that sort--it's so positive, to
have the courage to settle the account with himself--it's beautiful,

_Mrs. E._ Oh, HEDDA, what an odd way to look at it! But never mind
poor dear Mr. LOeVBORG now. What _we've_ got to do is to see if we
can't put his wonderful manuscript, that he said he had torn to
pieces, together again. (_Takes a bundle of small pages out of the
pocket of her mantle._) There are the loose scraps he dictated it to
me from. I hid them on the chance of some such emergency. And if
dear Mr. TESMAN and I were to put our heads together, I _do_ think
something might come of it.

_George_. Fancy! I will dedicate my life--or all I can spare of it--to
the task. I seem to feel I owe him some slight amends, perhaps. No use
crying over spilt milk, eh, Mrs. ELVSTED? We'll sit down--just you and
I--in the back drawing-room, and see if you can't inspire me as you
did him, eh?

_Mrs. E._ Oh, goodness, yes! I should like it--if it only might be

[GEORGE _and_ Mrs. E. _go into the back Drawing-room and
become absorbed in eager conversation_; HEDDA _sits in a chair in the
front room, and a little later_ BRACK _crosses over to her._

_Hedda_ (_in a low tone_). Oh, Judge, _what_ a relief to know that
everything--including LOeVBORG'S pistol--went off so well! In the
breast! Isn't there a veil of unintentional beauty in that? Such an
act of voluntary courage, too!

_Brack_ (_smiles_). Hm!--perhaps, dear Mrs. HEDDA--

_Hedda_ (_enthusiastically_). But _wasn't_ it sweet of him! To have
the courage to live his own life after his own fashion--to break away
from the banquet of life--_so_ early and _so_ drunk! A beautiful act
like that _does_ appeal to a superior woman's imagination!

_Brack_. Sorry to shatter your poetical illusions, little Mrs. HEDDA,
but, as a matter of fact, our lamented friend met his end under other
circumstances. The shot did _not_ strike him in the _breast_--but--

_Hedda_ (_excitedly_). General GABLER'S pistols! I might have known
it! Did they _ever_ shoot straight? Where _was_ he hit, then?

_Brack_ (_in a discreet undertone_). A little lower down!

_Hedda_. Oh, _how_ disgusting!--how vulgar!--how ridiculous!--like
everything else about me!

_Brack_. Yes, we're realistic types of human nature, and all that--but
a trifle squalid, perhaps. And why did you give LOeVBORG your pistol,
when it was certain to be traced by the police? For a charming
cold-blooded woman with a clear head and no scruples, wasn't it just a
leetle foolish?

_Hedda_. Perhaps; but I wanted him to do it beautifully, and he
didn't! Oh, I've just admitted that I _did_ give him the pistol--how
annoyingly unwise of me! Now I'm in _your_ power, I suppose?

_Brack_. Precisely--for some reason it's not easy to understand.
But it's inevitable, and you know how you dread anything approaching
scandal. All your past proceedings show that. (_To_ GEORGE _and_ Mrs.
E., _who come in together from the back-room._) Well, how are you
getting on with the reconstruction of poor LOeVBORG'S great work, eh?

[Illustration: "What! the accounts of all those everlasting
bores settled?"]

_George_. Capitally; we've made out the first two parts already. And
really, HEDDA, I do believe Mrs. ELVSTED _is_ inspiring me; I begin to
feel it coming on. Fancy that!

_Mrs. E._ Yes, goodness! HEDDA, _won't_ it be lovely if I can. I mean
to try _so_ hard!

_Hedda_. Do, you dear little silly rabbit; and while you are trying I
will go into the back drawing-room and lie down.

[_She goes into the back-room and draws the curtains. Short pause.
Suddenly she is heard playing_ "The Bogie Man" _within on the piano._

_George_. But, dearest HEDDA, don't play "_The Bogie Man_" this
evening. As one of my aunts is dead, and poor old LOeVBORG has shot
himself, it seems just a little pointed, eh?

_Hedda_ (_puts her head out between the curtains_). All right! I'll be
quiet after this. I'm going to practise with the late General GABLER'S

[_Closes the curtains again_; GEORGE _gets behind the stove_, Judge
BRACK _under the table, and_ Mrs. ELVSTED _under the sofa. A shot is
heard within._

_George_ (_behind the stove_). Eh, look here, I tell you what--she's
hit _me!_ Think of that!

[_His legs are visibly agitated for a short
time. Another shot is heard._

_Mrs. E._ (_under the sofa_). Oh, please, not me! Oh, goodness, now
I can't inspire anybody any more. Oh!

[_Her feet, which can be seen
under the valance, quiver a little, and then are suddenly still._

_Brack_ (_vivaciously, from under the table_). I say, Mrs. HEDDA,
I'm coming in every evening--we will have great fun here togeth--
(_Another shot is heard._) Bless me! to bring down the poor old
cock-of-the-walk--it's unsportsmanlike!--it's--.

[_The table-cloth is violently agitated for a minute, and presently
the curtains open, and_ HEDDA _appears._

_Hedda_ (_clearly and firmly_). I've been trying in there to shoot
myself beautifully--but with General GABLER'S pistol--(_She lifts the
tablecloth, then looks behind the stove and under the sofa._) What!
the accounts of all those everlasting bores settled? Then my suicide
becomes unnecessary. Yes, I feel the courage of life once more!

[_She goes into the back-room and plays_ "The Funeral March of a
Marionette" _as the Curtain falls._

THE END (_with the usual apologies_).

* * * * *


[Illustration: "J'y suis."
Pro Arris et focus.]

_Monday.--Le Prophete_.--Notable performance. Profit to those who
were there; loss to those who weren't. The two Poles, NED and JOHN DE
RESZKE, excellent as the Tipster, or Prophet, and the Chief Anabaptist
Swindler. Madame RICHARD--"_O Richard, Oma Reine!_" repeated her grand
impersonation of _Fides_, but being a trifle "out of it" as to tune
occasionally, I cannot be _Fidei Defensor_, and swear she was quite
correct, so can only report that RICHARD was a bit "dicky"; otherwise,
sings like a Dicky-Bird. Cathedral Scene magnificent. Rites are wrong,
probably; but these are trifles, except to strict ritualists. Skating
Scene not up to date; it was a novelty once upon a time, but rinks
have done for it. There was an unrehearsed effect in the Prison Scene,
when the walls collapsed--the imprisoned Madame RICHARD escaped, and
the Curtain descended. Nobody hurt. The walls, which had fallen,
like those of Jericho, to the sound of the trumpet, were put away
carefully, for alteration and repairs. The prisoner, issuing from
her narrow fire-escape, was recaptured, and the Opera ended with the
Drinking Scene, the Prophet among the Peris, a peri-lous situation,
which makes the Opera go, at the climax, "like a house-a-fire." Burns
Justice is done to the Impostor, and, at a late hour, we call our
cabs, and return to hum "_beviam_" over "a modest quencher."

_Saturday_.--BOITO'S _Mefistofele_. Strong combination. Excellent. But
big "waits" made it heavy.

* * * * *



1. A field is ploughed three years running. Can it still have a shy
at its little go? Examine this, and say all you know about "PIERS, or
PEARS, the Ploughman." Did he use his own soap?

2. How do you extract the square of a Beet-root? In connection with
this, say how much it will take to square a "Swede?"

3. Explain the use of the "Sewing-machine" for agricultural purposes.
What do you mean by "going against the grain?"

4. You plant a field of corn. What plaster do you adopt when it begins
to shoot? Also give the best remedy you know for _corn in the ear_.

5. Write a Sentimental History of the Harvest Moon. Is it really twice
as big as any other moon, or does it only look so, after drinking the
landlord's health several times over?

6. To what _gourmet_ giving a dinner-party in January is attributed
the historical saying, "_Peas_ at any price"?

7. How many black beans will make five white ones? Given the number,
explain the process, and solve the equation.

8. What pomade do you recommend for "top-dressing"?

9. What would be an M.P.'s first step towards squaring a circle of
Agricultural Voters?

* * * * *

SAD STORY.--A painter, who had on several occasions aspired to a place
in the Chantrey Collection, and invariably been refused, on being
encouraged to launch a fresh venture, and spread his canvas, which
would be soon filled, for a sale, replied dejectedly, "Chantrey be
blowed; I _shan't try_ any more!" Poor fellow! He must indeed have
been bad. He has not been heard of since. The Serpentine has been

* * * * *

THE HANSOM CAB STRIKE!--Remarkable Conversion!! Not yet concluded!
Last week another lot of Hansoms became Growlers.

* * * * *


Both parties in the recent extraordinary abduction case, where a
Mrs. JONES was carried off down a rope-ladder at midnight by her own
husband, Mr. JONES, have published statements defending their own line
of conduct. The following is Mrs. JONES'S version:--

"As public opinion appears to have erroneously taken
my--so-called--husband's side, as far as I can gather from my having
been twice chased through the streets by an infuriated mob, and
four separate attempts having been made to blow up my house
with nitro-glycerine, I feel compelled to explain--with much
reluctance--why it was that I declined to live with Mr. JONES.

"To begin with, it was only under _the most awful threats_ that Mr.
JONES prevailed on me to become his wife. His words--I remember them
well--were, 'My darling, you know how tenderly I adore you; if you
don't marry me _at once_ I'll break every bone in your body!' He then
snatched my bonnet, a _new one_, from my head, and so acted on my
_nerves_ that I went off to the Registry Office and was married. That
he was actuated by merely mercenary motives is proved by the fact that
the gratuity (of half-a-crown), which he presented to the Registry
Clerk, he actually _borrowed from me!_ I knew him already to be
unprincipled; but never until that moment had it flashed upon me that
he was a _fortune-hunter!_ However, as he had the drawing-room poker
with him--he kept it concealed up his back during the ceremony at the
Registry Office--I did not at that time say anything, but handed him
the coin. I do not know if I should have left him at once, had he not
aggravated the baseness of his conduct by using the vulgar expression,
'Fork it out quick!' But I regret to say that his origin is painfully
_low_. Whereas, anybody who consults _my_ relatives will hear from
them that they belong to the very highest County Families. Indeed, he
would hear it all day long if he lived with them, as I do!

"On the day of the abduction, I was treated _barbarously!_ Even the
cab in which I was taken off was, so the coachman informed me, 'put
down to my account.' Oh, had I but guessed the truth about Mr. JONES
when I went to the Altar--I mean the Registry Office! Supper consisted
of _cold mutton and pickles_ (!) which latter he upset, and I had a
dress _ruined_."

On perusing the above, Mr. JONES decided that he could no longer keep
silence, and has made public the subjoined explanation:--

"When I first saw Mrs. JONES--then Miss THOMPSON--her youthful grace
quite captivated me. Her age was under fifty-six, and mine was just
sixty. She was, in fact, as I told her at the time, almost old enough
to know her own mind. It is true that she was wealthy, but that had
no influence on my conduct. On the contrary I felt it as a positive
drawback, as my domestic ideal has always been Love in a Cottage! But
as she was bent upon our marrying, I agreed to waive this objection.

"In proof of this assertion I need only say that on the _very day
after_ our first meeting, I received the following letter:--

"'PRICELESS AND ADORABLE PET,--How _are_ your little
tootsy-wootsicums? _Did_ they get wet in conducting me home after
that _delicious_ interview? If so, and you were to catch cold in your
precious head, I should never forgive myself. Oh, come and see me
_soon!_ Your Own, till Death, ANGELINA.'

"Possibly I may be blamed for publishing this letter. I do it for
_her_ sake, not for mine. Even now I believe that, were I left alone
with her for an hour, with none of her relatives nor a policeman near,
I could persuade her to retract her calumnious statement about the
poker. I conclude by saying that it is my belief that her relatives,
who are all of them powerful mesmerists, have _hypnotised her!_"

* * * * *


_My Face is My Fortune_, by Messrs. PHILIPS and FENDALL. Why don't
they agree to spell both names with an "F," and make it FILLIPS and
FENDALL. I fancy that FENDALL couldn't do without the sensational
fillips. This story excites curiosity throughout the first volume,
and then, in the other volume, satisfies it in so disappointing and
commonplace a fashion as to suggest the idea that one of the authors,
becoming weary of his share in the work, suddenly chucked it up,
and said, "Oh, bother! let's finish anyhow;" and then the other
_collaborateur_, whichever it was, did finish it as best and as
quickly as he could. There is evidence of laziness or of lack of
invention in the story. If it were for the first time in fiction that
a secret is learnt by some one hiding behind some pantomime plants
in a conservatory, then too much praise could not be bestowed on the
ingenious devisers of so strong and original a situation. But as "we
know that situation,--he comes from Sheffield," and as it has done
duty some scores of times before, on or off the stage, why, the
thoroughgoing novel-reader shakes his head and asks, "Couldn't they
have devised something better than this between them?" "I expected
much from this combination in Authorship, and am disappointed," says

* * * * *



_His Prudent Little Wife._. "OH, JOHN DEAR, HOW EXTRAVAGANT OF YOU!

* * * * *


"Last year the CHANCELLOR of the EXCHEQUER frittered away his
resources in a number of small remissions, for which hardly
anyone was grateful. This year he squanders the greater
part of his surplus in providing for Free, or--as the phrase
is--Assisted Education--an innovation for which there is
hardly any genuine demand, and which a very large class of the
community, including many of the most loyal supporters of the
Government, view with rooted distrust."--_The Standard_.

MRS. GAMP (_the "Old Regular_") _loquitur_:--

"More changes, too, to come afore we have done with changes!"
Ah! I said that to good Mister MOULD years agone; which 'ow memory
All over them dear "Good Old Times," as I wish them wos back agen,
bless 'em!
Which the new ones ain't much to _my_ mind; there's too many fresh
"monthlies" to mess 'em.
No; monthlying ain't wot it were; the perfession's too open, a lump.
Nusses now ain't no more like old SAIREY, no not than the old Aldgit
Like the Cristial Palluses fountings; A Pilgjian's Projiss is life,
And a Nuss ain't no more _like_ a Nuss than a Wife now resembles a

Heigho! Which it's no use a frettin'. But _Fondlings_! Ah, well, I
_did_ think
Our respectable fam'lies, _though_ mixed, from sich ojus demeaning
would shrink,
Which no greater hinsult to _me_, the old reglar, could well be
And though I've to live and to learn, I confess as this turn I'm
A Fondling!!! Turned up unbeknownst on a doorstep permiskus, no doubt.
And then to _adopt_ him! Oh dear, wot the plague is our Party about?
Wich to monthly to _it_ were my pride; its legitermit offspring I've
Many years with the greatest success, but to-day I feels flurried and
And my eyes is Saint Polge's fontin with tears, and this brat is their
As it isn't no offspring of _ourn_--of the fam'ly I mean, Ma'am, in
But a Brummagem bantling, picked hup, as were not worth its swaddlin'
and food,
And I never yet knowed any brat from _that_ source as turned out any
Missis G., Mum, it's all a mistake, as you know in your 'art all the
For you turned up your nose at the child when JOE CHAMBERLING give him
a name,
Afore we was thick with his set, when you snubbed him, and laughed him
to scorn,
And heaped naughty names on this kid, as you swore was his nat'ral
And now you come dandling, and doddling, and patting the brat on the
And forgetting the things as you promiged, and backing on all as you
Missis G., you do raly amaze me! This comes of our precious mix-up;
Which the child's no more like one of ourn than a pug's like a

In the best-regulated o' fam'lies things will go askew, I'm aweer;
As I says to my friend Mrs. HARRIS, as says to me, "SAIREY, my dear,
You looks dragged, my sweet creetur," she says. "Missis HARRIS," I
makes 'er reply,
"When the 'art in one's buzzum beats 'ot, there's excuge for the tear
in one's heye.
Which wales isn't in it for worrit, my love, with your poor old pal,
Along o' the Fam'ly," I says; "as things _do_ seem to go that
_My_ services now ain't required, with 'adoptions' all over the shop,
From Brummagem, yus, and elsewheres; and I ast 'Where is this thing to
RITCHIE'S 'pick-up' was tryin', most tryin'; and as to those bad Irish
As BALFOUR interjuced--dear! jest fancy our Party adopting small Pats!
And now this here Brummagem babby! You say he's a promising cheild,
Missis G., and 'you're learning to love him!' All this makes old
SAIREY feel wild.
It's wus than kidnapping, this bizness of picking up 'Fondlings' all
You're nussing a wiper, _I_ say, and you'll soon feel 'is bite, _I'll_
be bound.
Who arsked for 'im, BETSY--I mean Missis G.--who demanded the brat?
_You_'ve altered your mind, and you pet him; you'd much better mind
what you're at.
Drat the boy's bragian imperence! _I_ says. He's a halien, a fondling,
a waif,
And _I_ never knew, for my part, _any_ Brummagem goods as wos _safe!_"

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE ADOPTED CHILD.



* * * * *



_House of Commons, Monday, April 27_.--"Well, I never!" said GEORGE
ELLIOT, beaming on House from back bench; "have known HARCOURT man
and boy for forty years; seen him in divers moods; watched him through
various occupations. These have been so many that I have had time to
forget he was once Chancellor of the Exchequer; but he was, and
upon my word, listening to him to-night, and knowing something
about figures myself, I believe he would have made a splash at the

[Illustration: Genial George.]

JOKIM doesn't enjoy performance quite so much as GENIAL GEORGE. Oddly
enough, Budget Night, which ought to be the apex of comfort and
glory for CHANCELLOR of the EXCHEQUER, is with him ever the season of
tribulation. House of Commons is, regarded as audience, always at its
best on Budget Night. Will laugh immoderately at feeblest joke
uttered by CHANCELLOR; cheers to the echo his moral sentiments; sits
enraptured when he soars into eloquence; and is undisguisedly grateful
when he has completed his peroration. JOKIM'S muddle of Thursday
night made the best of. Opposition silenced by promised legislation
establishing Free Education. Everything in sunshine-glow of
prosperity. Thought JOKIM might keep some of the sunbeams for himself.
Then comes HARCOURT with the abhorred shears of facts and figures,
and slits the thin-spun web of JOKIM'S ingenious fancy; shows that,
instead of a surplus, he has, when honest arithmetic is set to work, a
deficit; instead of increasing the rate of reduction of National Debt,
he has done less in that direction than his predecessors; and that
whilst expenditure on Army and Navy has exceeded any figures reached
by former Chancellors of the Exchequer, the floating debt is ever

JOKIM sits on Treasury Bench affecting the virtue of a smile though
he has it not. Wriggles like a snail under dispensation of salt. When
HARCOURT finished, HENRY FOWLER stepped in, and with fresh array of
figures and new marshalling of argument, completed the demolition of
JOKIM'S system of finance. Mr. G. looked smilingly on, delighting in
the energy and aptitude of his Young Men. JOKIM, anxious to change the
subject on any terms, tried to draw Mr. G. into the controversy. "I
think not," said Mr. G., with a smile of ineffable sweetness. "Right
Hon. Gentleman need not go so far afield: will have pretty tough job
in answering HARCOURT."

A pretty scene; admirable Parliamentary play. Oddly enough boxes
empty; stalls a wilderness; pit only half full. Energies of House
so sapped with dreary flood of talk on Irish Land Bill cannot be
reanimated even for a brisk battle over the Budget.

_Business done_.--JOKIM pummelled to pulp.

_Tuesday_.--OLD MORALITY walked out of House just now, his back
suffused with sense of duty done, alike to QUEEN and Country. Irish
Land Bill, which, as CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN says, makes a Moated Grange of
House of Commons, on again all day. SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE and
his Party active as usual. The PARTY a little doubtful of the SAGE.
Sometimes, in blessed intervals of silence, is discovered gazing on
a bald space on back of SAGE'S head, striving, as it were, to pierce
through this weak spot, and discover what is in the SAGE'S mind. The
SAGE in outward manner most deferential and encouraging. Misses no
opportunity of publicly applauding him. It is true that when the SAGE
has got him on his legs, starting afresh on new Amendment, he seizes
the opportunity to slink out of the House, and take another cigarette,
quite certain that the PARTY is good for half-an-hour. This, and one
or two other little things, create a suspicion in the mind of the
PARTY, who was not brought up in India for nothing. WILFRID LAWSON,
who sits close by, and keenly watches progress of events, says he has
no doubt the time will come when the PARTY will revolt.

"KEAY," says WILFRID, "occupies a strategical position, which gives
him a great pull over LABBY. His respected Leader sits on the bench
immediately below him. Some day SEYMOUR KEAY'S wild Mahratta blood may
boil over, an unsuspected scimitar may flash forth from his trouser
pocket, and the SAGE'S head, falling gory on the floor of the House,
may gently, from mere force of habit, roll in the direction of Queen
Anne's Gate."

"For a real sanguinary-minded man," said RITCHIE, to whom I told this
story, "give me a teetotaller."

The PARTY, with some assistance from Windbag SEXTON, wasted sitting
till quarter to seven. By this time, all Amendments to Clause 3 being
wearily worn off, opportunity just left to pass Clause before Sitting
adjourned. Question put that Clause 3 pass. Then SAGE, smelling
obtrusively of cigarettes, interposed, and declared it "would be
indecent" to accept the Clause without further discussion. Nothing
House shrinks from just now more abjectly than from charge of
indecency. Accordingly debate stood over, and Thursday may, if
the SAGE and his Party please, and the Closure is not invoked, be
appropriated for further discussion of Clause 3.

OLD MORALITY might have moved Closure at twelve minutes to seven,
and carried Clause 3. Committee naturally expected he would. But OLD
MORALITY had another card up his sleeve. At very last moment, whilst
Members trooped out, and it was thought all was over, OLD MORALITY
gave notice of motion to take the whole time of House, including
Tuesday and Friday nights' evening sittings.

"I think you had them there," I said, as we walked across to Grosvenor

"Yes, TOBY," he said, a little flush mantling his modest face; "we've
given them rope enough, and now we'll hang them. They've had their
run, now we'll take ours. It's the main thing I always look to. Never
forget when I was still in the seminary writing out copy of verses
about a shipwreck. A graphic scene; the riven vessel, the raging seas,
the panic-stricken crowd on deck, and then this little self-drawn
picture of the sole survivor, the one man left to tell the story:

Some fell upon their bended knees
And others fell down fainting,
But I fell to on bread and cheese;
For that, Sir, was the main thing.

It's the bread and cheese I look to, TOBY, dear boy. For others the
glory of debate, the prize of Parliamentary oratory. Give me the bread
and cheese of seeing business advancing, and I'm content."

_Business done_.--Once more Committee on Irish Land Bill.

_Thursday_.--A pretty little game on to-night. OLD MORALITY moved his
Resolution taking power to appropriate Tuesdays and Fridays evening
sittings, and all Wednesdays for Irish Land Bill. In ordinary
circumstances there would have been stormy protest led from Front
Opposition Bench against this inroad on time of private Members. Other
fish to fry to-night. Wednesday week assigned for Second Reading of
Woman's Suffrage Bill; if Government take that day for Irish Land
Bill, obviously can't be utilised for furtherance of Woman's Rights.
This an awkward question for some Members; don't like it, but daren't
vote against it. Here's opportunity of getting rid of it by side-wind.
Not necessary in arranging proceedings to mention Suffrage Bill,
or even Wednesday, 13th of May. It was principle for which Members
struggled; "the principle of uniformity," as Mr. G. beautifully put
it. "Let us," he said, though perhaps not quite in this phrase, "go
the whole hog or none; take all the Wednesdays, or leave them."

Pretty to see OLD MORALITY protesting against this unprecedented
access of generosity. The very picture, as MCEWAN said, of a good
man struggling with the adversity of overwhelming good fortune. Was
prepared to take a Wednesday here and there: but, really, too much to
appropriate everyone. "Not at all--not at all," said Mr. G.

But it was only under compulsion of a Division that he consented to
accept the endowment. In meanwhile, the Woman's Suffrage Debate on
Wednesday week snuffed out, and final opportunity of Session lost.

"I'm inclined," said WM. WOODALL, "as a rule, to take kindly views of
my fellow men, to put the best construction upon their actions; but,
upon my word, I'm not satisfied in my own mind that we advocates of
Woman's Rights have not been made the victims of deep and dastardly

"Order! Order!" said COURTNEY; "no more am I."

_Business done_.--Woman's Rights men dished.

_Friday_.--Brer FOX looked in to-night, and, finding Brer RABBIT
absent, undertook charge of Irish affairs. Desirous of introducing
novelty into situation, began by patronising Prince ARTHUR. "So
conciliatory, you know; so anxious to meet the views of Irish Members;
really, they ought to meet him half-way, and refrain from annoying him
by unnecessary Amendments."

Brer FOX'S voice faltered as he spoke, and, bringing round his tail,
he gently brushed away a falling tear. Unfortunately for him, TIM
HEALY present. TIM jumped up, and fell upon his ancient chief,
flouting his counsel, and repudiating his right to leadership. Effect
upon Brer FOX something like that which followed on the flight of the
piece of old red sandstone which struck in the abdomen a gentleman,
who chanced to be standing round. The subsequent proceedings
interested him no more. He walked out, and was not seen again.
"Exceedingly rude man," he said; "never come near TIM HEALY but I feel
an infinite yearning for a fire-escape." _Business done_.--Land Bill

* * * * *

"MORE FREE THAN WELCOME."--MR. GOSCHEN'S Education Scheme, to the

* * * * *

A REGIMENT OF "THE LINE."--The Royal Academicians.

* * * * *


(_A Parliamentary Drama too good for words, after "L'Enfant Prodigue"
at the Prince of Wales's Theatre._)]

* * * * *


[Illustration: No. 199. Doctor Dubitans. "I'm afraid I've
given him the wrong stuff." Luke Fildes, R.A.]

[Illustration: No. 742. "He's got 'em on!" or, Nanny, wilt
thou gang with me in that new suit and those tight boots? By Phil. R.
Morris, A.]

[Illustration: Grand Combination Picture, "Liddell and
Scott!" [Liddell (289) by H. Herkomer, R.A., and Scott (281) by G(ee)
W(oa) Joy! "Joy and Woe!" Comedy and Tragedy.]]

[Illustration: No. 226. The Penance of Zaeo in the presence
of some Members of the County Council. P.H. Calderon, R.A.]

No. 5. "_Long Ago_." LONG (EDWIN, R.A.) and more or less of "a go."
Instead of "_Long Ago_" which is egotistical, why not _Long Egit_ or
_Long Fecit?_

Nos. 21, 22, 23. "_The Lyons Mail_" (and Female). BRITON RIVIERE,
R.A. [N.B.--"R.A.," _i.e._, "Royal Academician" and "Royal

No. 27. The Viscount CROSS looking quite Viscount Cheerful. "_Painted
for the Grand Jury Room, Lancaster Castle_," the Catalogue informs
us. Suggestive of their arguing among themselves "at cross purposes."

No. 77. "_On Strike_." Very striking. Who could have painted this? Ah!
_Who but_ HERKOMER. R.A.

No. 82. Apparently this must have been intended for a portrait of the
late Mr. DION BOUCICAULT, but subsequently adapted to represent
WALTER GILBEY, Esq. Looks quite the GILBEY'S "fine, old, dry," but
not "crusted." No doubt whatever of its being the excellent work of
W(erry) Q(uaint) ORCHARDSON, R.A.

No. 112. "_Hanson is as Hanson does_." By J. HANSON WALKER. Naturally
pleased with "the promise of May," and

No. 118. Another Young Lady only Younger. By the same Artist.

No. 143. The Right Hon. A.J. BALFOUR, M.P., as seen by L. ALMA-TADEMA,
R.A. Taken while considering

No. 147. The Irish Question as represented by Sir FREDERICK LEIGHTON,
P.R.A.'s "_Perseus and Andromeda_." Allegory, _Andromeda_, Ireland.
_The Monster_, "Parnellism and Crime;" and _Perseus_, BALFOUR.
Marvellous Monster! DRURIOLANUS should at once order a dozen of
'em, hot and strong, for next Christmas Pantomime. Poor Miss ANNE
DROMEDA,--"a dainty morsel _a croquer_," quoth the Monster.

No. 148. No possible doubt whatever about this being A. BERTIE;
FREEMAN-MITFORD, C.B., painted by the President of the Painters, who
has hit him off to the life. B.M. is taken at the moment when, as a
spectator of the Perseus and Andromeda _ballet d'action_, he remembers
having seen something like it in "Old Japan."

No. 201. "_Poor Tom's a Cold!_" LAURENCE SCOTT. Picture illustrating
the shortest and easiest way of catching his death of cold.

No. 206. "_Two's company, Three's none_," observed the Sun, as
blushing deeply, he sank away in the far distance. By MAURICE GREIFFEN

No. 209. The original Pieman met by SIMON going to the fair in very
full dress. ARTHUR S. COPE.

No.220. "_A Student_" of ALMA-TADEMA'S style. THOMAS R. SPENCE.

No. 231. "Is it one o'clock?" she said to herself, anxiously. "I
hope luncheon will be punctual." The picture will be known as "_Grace
before Meals_," delightfully (of course) painted by Sir JOHN E.

No. 232. By the P.R.A. "What's that?" said one well-educated clerical
visitor to his matronly wife. She read it out, pronouncing it thusly,
"_Return of Percy Fone_." "What!" exclaimed the Clergyman. Then,
taking the Catalogue into his own hands, he read "_Return of
Persephone_." "It's pronounced," he informed his help-mate,
"Per-s[)e]ph-[)o]-n[)e]." "Is it?" she returned, in a tone expressive
of unmitigated incredulity. "Then," she asked suddenly, as a
brilliant idea struck her, "why isn't 'telephone' pronounced
'tel-[)e]ph-[)o]-n[)e]'?" And turning her back on him, would not hear
another word on the subject.

No. 283. _Not Crossley, but Kindly_. CLAUDE CALTHROP.

No. 333. _Professor Huxley_. By Hon. JOHN COLLIER. When it isn't the
Professor, it might serve for Sir GEORGE GROVE. Bravo, Honourable
JOHN! "Hang him, JOHN COLLIER!" (SHAKSPEARE adapted.)

No. 390. A Boy to the very life, or a Life Boy. JAMES SANT, R.A. It's
a picture of Master HUGH BURDETT MONEY COUTTS. How well this name will
look on a cheque for a cool thousand or so! But to see the _Hue_ of
health on his cheek is better than seeing the colour of that HUGH'S

No. 414. Portrait of Author W. PINERO, Esq. Painted by JOSEPH
MORDECAI, who has done to Author PINERO what HAMAN would have done to
MORDECAI, _i.e._, hung him.

No. 439. Sitting for Don Quixote. WILLIAM E. LOCKHART.

No. 459. _Stiff Collar Day; or, Just Back from the Wash_, "And,
confound it! she's been washing my shirt and tie together, and spoilt
'em both. Wish I had another lot ready, but haven't, so must go to
Academy as I am," said WALTER S-WASH-BUCKLER LETHBRIDGE, and finished
up with an impetuous and irrepressible "Hang it!" "I will," replied
the Artist, JOHN PETTIE, R.A.

No. 544. _Josephine Grimaldina; or, Female Clown_, the next novelty
in Pantomime, dedicated to the author and composer of _L'Enfant
Prodigue_. JOHN S. SARGENT.

No. 667. _Feeling his Bumps; or, Phrenology in the Olden Time._"

No. 651. Gentleman ready for riding, but no spurs. "Where the deuce
have I put them?" he is evidently saying. "All ready but that. Can't
find 'em anywhere!" A picture which quite tells its own (JULIAN)

* * * * *


(_At the service of the Ch-nc-ll-r of the Exch-qu-r, if he purposes
writing a Prophetic Romance._)

MACAULAY'S New Zealander had arrived prematurely. London Bridge was
not reduced to its centre pier, and St. Paul's Cathedral was certainly
not in ruins. Still there was an uncanny look about town. On the
Embankment electric tram-cars were running, but they seemed to be
little patronised. Here and there he noticed a pedestrian leisurely
going his way, but the side-walks appeared, to all intents and
purposes, abandoned. At length he reached a garden-seat, upon which
was sprawling a Typical Working Man. The New Zealander gave this
interesting individual "Good morning," and made some common-place
remark about the weather.

"Fine day!" returned the T.W.M., rather surlily. "Well, what does it
matter to me? If it rains, I stay at home; if it don't, why I don't

"I am a stranger seeking for information," explained the New
Zealander; "so I am sure you will excuse me if I ask you how much do
you pay for your house?"

"Pay for my house!" ejaculated the T.W.M. "Why, nothing of course! And
I pay nothing too for my sons at Oxford, and the girls at Cambridge.
And I get my clothes free, and my food comes in gratuitously. Why, you
must be a stranger if you don't know that! Why everything and anything
is paid by the Government--out of the Income Tax."

"And don't you ever work?"

"Work! bless you, no. I can't afford to work! If I did, I should have
to pay the Income Tax myself!" returned the T.W.M., with a grin.

"Then who does contribute to this evidently highly-important source of

"Why, the professional men, under Schedule D!" cried the hardy son of
toil. "The authors with families, and the City clerks. All _that_ set,
you know. They pay the Income Tax, sure enough. It's as much as they
can do to keep bodies and souls together. But _somebody_ must pay--why
not they?--pay for themselves--and for me!"

* * * * *

THE DUMB SHOW.--It sounds odd that the serious pantomime, _L'Enfant
Prodigue_, the play without words, should be "the talk of London."

* * * * *


[Illustration: Canvas and Scrutiny.]

"_George Hotel," Billsbury, Friday, April 25th_.--Arrived this morning
in order to attend a "Monstre Open Air Conservative Fete, which was
held in the grounds of the Billsbury Summer Palace. The programme
was a very attractive one. First, there was a "reception of town
and county delegates and their ladies" by the Earl and Countess of
ROCHEVIEILLE. The Earl is a scrubby little fellow of about sixty,
who looks more like an old-clothes-man than anything else. Norman
noses--at least their descendants in this generation--are curiously
like the Semitic variety sometimes. The name is pronounced "Rovail,"
and both the Earl and Countess get blue with rage if anybody makes
a mistake about it, as nearly all the delegates did. They stood on a
raised dais, and received delegates' addresses to the number of about
thirty. Lady ROCHEVIEILLE is a stout lady--very. It was a blazing hot
day, and she was "overcome" just as she was shaking hands with Colonel
and Mrs. CHORKLE, who were accompanied by BENJAMIN DISRAELI CHORKLE.
The rest of the CHORKLE family, including WILLIAMINA HENRIETTA SMITH
CHORKLE, who was in a nurse's arms, were somewhere about the grounds
looking for the "Magic Haunts of the Fairy Bulbul," and eating
enormous quantities of macaroons, which I had given them. Colonel
CHORKLE rather lost his head when Lady R. collapsed. He made an effort
to pick her up, but had to drop her heavily on the boards of the
dais. Eventually, however, she was carried away and revived, and
the proceedings went on. There were Conservative merry-go-rounds,
Conservative negro-minstrels, Conservative acrobats and Conservative
dancing bears, distributed about the grounds. I was taken about by
Alderman MOFFAT and HOLLEBONE, who introduced me right and left to
hundreds of my supporters and their wives and daughters. At the end
of it all I felt as if I had got a heavy sort of how-do-you-do
smile regularly glued on my face. One of my chief supporters is an
undertaker named JOBSON. HOLLEBONE brought him up to me and said, "Mr.
JOBSON, permit me to introduce you to our popular young Candidate, Mr.
PATTLE. Mr. PATTLE let me have the honour of introducing you to our
popular young undertaker, Mr. JOBSON." Gave me rather a shock, but
JOBSON seemed quite a pleasant man. His wife was there too, gorgeously
dressed in red plush with an Indian shawl on her shoulders, and a
sealskin muff. She must have felt the heat horribly.

Later in the afternoon there was a political meeting, at which we all
spoke, but we had to make it short, as everybody was anxious to get
away to the "Refined Musical _Melange_ (with incidental dances) of
the Sisters WILKINS," which was held in a specially erected tent.
Fireworks, illuminations, and dancing, ended the affair.

_April 26_.--Was made an Oddfellow to-day. Initiation didn't last
long. CHORKLE and JERRAM were initiated with me, and we all had to
make speeches afterwards, declaring our devotion to the great cause of
Oddfellowship. Afterwards sentiments were called for. The only one I
remember was given by a man called TABSEY, a tailor, who seems to be
rather famous for this kind of thing. After holding his hand to his
head for some time, and knitting his brows, he cleared his throat, and
said, in a loud voice,--"May the tear of true sympathy crystallise
as it falls, and be worn as a radiant jewel upon the finger of
affliction." This was vociferously applauded. I congratulated TABSEY
afterwards, and paid him a compliment about it. He told me he found
it a great relief, after a hard day's work in the shop, to throw off
a sentiment or two. He's going to publish a book of them, and I've had
to subscribe for six copies, at half a guinea each.

* * * * *

FROM A WATCHFUL OBSERVER.--SIR,--The other day I saw advertised in a
shop-window, "The Invisible Trouser Stretcher." Who wears "Invisible
Trousers"? Do you remember the story of _The Emperor of China's
Clothes?_--when they all cried, "He's got 'em on," and he hadn't. That
Invisible Trousers should exist is quite enough stretch of imagination
without any further stretcher.--Yours, THE DAY WATCHMAN.

* * * * *

MRS. R. AT THE OPERA.--Mrs. RAMSBOTHAM Junior went to hear _La
Traviata_. She expressed her sympathy with _Violetta_, between
two _Gourmands_. Remarking on the touching finish to the converted
_Traviata's_ career, Mrs. R. observed that it reminded her of the
poet's line about "She who stopped to cough, remained to pray."

* * * * *

-->NOTICE,--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
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