PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 93.
AUGUST 13, 1887.
AT THE OVAL.
Surrey versus Notts. August 1st, 2nd, and 3rd 1887.
(By One of the Fifty Thousand.)
Enthusiastic Surreyite loquitur:—
Hooray! Oh, you must let me holloa. I’m one of the famed “Surrey Crowd,”
And a roar for a win such as this is, cannot be too long or too loud.
Lo! man!
Won by four wickets! As good as though Walter had scored half a million,
Great Scott! what a rush from the ring! what a crowd round the crowded Pavilion!
Lohmann! Maurice Read!! Shuter!!! they shouted. Key!!! Key!!! Lohmann!!! Lohmann!!!
“Took down the number” of Notts, Sir, and she’s a redoubtable foeman.
We haven’t licked her for years, and she crowed, Sir, and not without reason;
And now, under Shuter, we’ve done it at last, Sir, and twice in one season!
After a terrible tussle; how oft was my heart in my mouth, Sir.
Luck now seemed to lean to the North, and anon would incline to the South, Sir.
Game wasn’t won till ’twas lost. Hooray, though, for Surrey! ‘Twas her win.
We missed our Wood at the wicket, Notts squared it by missing her Sherwin,
Both with smashed fingers! Rum luck! But then cricketing luck is a twister.
And Sherwin turned up second innings. Did you twig his face when he missed her,
That ball from J. Shuter, our Captain? It ranked pretty high among matches,
But Surrey did make some mistakes, Sir, and Notts——well, they couldn’t hold catches.
Shuter shone up, did he not? Forty-four, fifty-three, and such cutting!
Hooray! Here’s his jolly good health, and look sharp, for they’re close upon shutting.
Partial be blowed! I’m a Surreyite down to my socks, that’s a fact, Sir.
Shrews—bery!
Must shout when my countymen score, and don’t mind being caught in the act, Sir.
Cracks didn’t somehow come off. Arthur Shrewsbury, Notts’ great nonsuch,
Didn’t make fifty all told, and our Walter—the world holds but one such—
A poor twenty-five and eighteen—a mere fleabite for W. W.
Still, he’s our glory; and if you can spot such another, I’ll trouble you.
Grace? Why, of course, in his day he was cock of the walk—that’s a moral.
I won’t say a word against him; but our Walter!—well, there, we won’t quarrel.
I’m Surrey, you know, as I said. I remember Jupp, Humphry, and Stevenson,
Burly Ben Griffith, and Southerton! Well, if it ever was evens on
Match, it was surely on this one. Oh, yes, I gave points, six to five, Sir,
But then I have always backed Surrey, and will do so whilst I’m alive, Sir.
And t’other was Notts, don’t you see, so I couldn’t well show the white feather.
Ah! well, ’twas a wonderful match; such a crowd, such a game, and such weather!
K. J. K. (that’s Mr. Key) showed remarkably promising cricket—
I did feel a little bit quisby when Sherwin snapped him at the wicket.
Gunn and Barnes.
‘Twas getting too close, Sir, for comfort; two hundred and five takes some making—
When Barnes nicked Read, Shuter, and Henderson, ‘gad, there were lots of hearts quaking.
Seventy-eight for a win, Sir, and five of our best wickets levelled.
Notts then began to pick up, and I own I felt rather blue-devilled;
But Surrey has got a rare team, and you see, when the toppers do fail, Sir,
They look at it this way, my boy,—there is all the more chance for the “tail,” Sir.
That’s what I call true cricket pluck, and so, even when Maurice Read quitted him,
That’s what young Lohmann perceived; the place wanted cool grit—and it fitted him.
His thirty-five, and not out, was worth more, Sir, than many a “Century.”
Played like an iceberg, he did; style neither too tame nor too venture-y.
Poor crippled Wood backed him bravely, and he made the winning hit, he did.
Won by four wickets! Hooray! Gallant Surrey at last has succeeded
In knocking the dust out of Notts. I’ve hoorayed till my tongue feels quite furry.
Yes, I like the best side to win,—but I’m thundering glad, though, it’s Surrey!!!
“Over the Water With Lawson” (Change of Name).—Jack Tar to be
known in future as Tom Fool.
PARLIAMENTARY NOTICES.
House of Commons for August.
Disorders of the Day.
Legalised Duels (England) Bill—Report.
Shillelagh (Irish) Supply Bill—Second Reading.
Ways and Means (Assaults)—Committee.
Speaker’s Wig Destruction Bill—As amended to be considered.
Questions.
Mr. Dillon.—Whether Her Majesty’s Government
contemplate allowing Mr. De Lisle to smile, and if so,
whether any precautions will be taken to prevent his
receiving a thrashing.
Dr. Tanner.—To ask the Chief Secretary of the Lord-Lieutenant
whether he has any objection to tread upon
the tail of his coat.
Colonel Saunderson.—To ask the First Lord of the
Treasury as to the condition of the eyes and noses of
certain Members of the Nationalist Party.
Notice of Motion.
Mr. T. Healy.—Physical Force, House of Commons
(England)—Bill to facilitate the establishment of a Bear
Garden in St. Stephen’s.
HAVOC!
In wrath redundant Swinburne turns and rends
The “good grey” bard. Alack for Swinburne’s “friends”!
He worshipped once at thy red shine, Revolt,
Now thou’rt a mark for his Olympian bolt;
But when he rounds on poor barbaric Walt,
One can but gasp, and wonder where he’ll halt.
Coupled with Byron in one furious “slate”?
O poor Manhattan mouther, what a fate!
Algernon’s blunderbuss is double-barrelled;
Down at one shot go “Drum Taps” and “Childe Harold.”
Just fancy being levelled down to—Byron!
Alas! what woes the poet’s path environ.
What next, and next? Byron called Southey “gander.”
But then the lordly rhymester railed at Landor,
One of the Swinburne fetishes, enough
To prove that all he wrote was soulless stuff—
But stop! Who knows that Swinburne, on the ravage,
May not, next time, pitch into Walter Savage?
The idols he once worshipped now he’d burn,
So e’en Mazzini yet may have his turn—
Nay, since the hour for palinodes has struck,
At Hugomania he may run amuck;
And, Victor being laid upon the shelf,
There’ll be but one to round upon—himself.
ELEGANT EXTRACTS BY EMINENT MEN.
A very interesting article appears in the current
number of the Fortnightly Magazine, in which the
favourite “quotations” of many celebrated persons are introduced
with much effect. Always ready to take a hint,
Mr. Punch has asked everyone he knows to furnish him
with his predilections. The following is the result:—
Mr. Briefless, Junior, of Pump-handle Court writes,
“I have carefully considered the circular you have forwarded
to me, and am distinctly of opinion that my
favourite reading is, ‘With you the Attorney-General.'”
“Robert” says that his favourite phrase is, “‘Ere’s
‘alf a sovereign for yourself, but you deserves more!”
“‘Arry” says he can’t think of anything more “fust
class” than, “The ‘orn of the ‘unter is ‘eard on the ‘ill.”
And (more or less) the whole world declares that there
is no pleasanter announcement than “Punch, or the
London Charivari, is published every Wednesday.”
Mem. for Our Muddlers.
It cannot be in the interests of peace that we turn
our swords into—corkscrews, and our bayonets into—button-hooks.
That extremely secular reading of a
sacred passage, appears to be the accepted one, however,
in Ordnance Departments, and other places where
they play the fool.
GERMAN ENGLISH.
German Belle. “Ach! you are font of Yachting! Zen I zuppose you are
a goot Salesman?”
THE END OF THE JUBILEE.
I’ve been to the Abbey, the Naval Review,
The Maske at Gray’s Inn and the Institute too;
In fact I feel just like the Wandering Jew,
Or other historical rover:
I’ve turned day into night and the night into day,
In a regular rollicking Jubilee way,
And now I can truly and thankfully say,
I’m uncommonly glad that it’s over.
I’ve been to a number of Jubilee balls,
And I’m really worn out by the parties and calls;
I’ve fed in the City ‘neath shade of St. Paul’s,
And ate little fish by the river:
I’ve been to big picnics both up and down stream,
I’ve wallowed in strawberries smothered in cream,
Which, following lobster, most doctors would deem
Was remarkably bad for the liver.
I’ve read all the Jubilee articles, loads
Of Jubilee leaders and Jubilee odes,
And seen how each poet his Pegasus goads,
Though gaining but slight inspiration;
A chaos of Jubilee Numbers I’ve seen,
And Jubilee pictures and lives of the Queen,
And the Jubilee coinage that’s greeted, I ween,
With anything but jubilation.
But, now all is over, sincerely I trust
The Nation no longer will kick up a dust,
The Jubilee really has done for me just
As “Commodious” scared Mr. Boffin:
Any more jubilation would finish me quite,
As it is I’ve a horrible dream every night
That a Jubilee demon is screwing me tight
Down into a Jubilee coffin!
The Correct Card.
Mr. Goldwin Smith says:—”The one thing certain
about Tory-Democracy, besides its origin, is, that it is
the card of a political gamester.” It may perhaps help
the ponderous Professor, in a future philippic, to know,
in addition, that the associations of Tory-Democracy
at once suggest “Clubs,” and the game it is playing, the
“deuce.”
THE PARLIAMENTARY BALLYHOOLY.
Air—”Ballyhooly.“
There’s a dashing sort of bhoy who was once his country’s joy,
But his ructions and his rows no longer charm me,
He often takes command in a fury-spouting band
Called the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army.
At Donnybrook’s famed fair he might shine with radiance rare,
A “Pathriot” he’s called, and may be truly,
It is catching, I’m afraid, for when he is on parade
There seems scarce a sober man in “Ballyhooly.”
Chorus.
Whililoo, hi ho! Faith they all enlist, ye know,
Though their ructions and their shindies fail to charm me,
Bad language, howls, and hate put an end to fair debate
In the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army.
The Spayker, honest soul, finds they’re quite beyond control,
Discussion takes a most extinded radius,
It’s about as fine and clear as the stalest ginger-beer,
But the “bhoys,” they never seem to find it “tadyious.”
And what is worse, to-day all the Army march one way,
That is in being ructious and unruly,
If a Mimber in debate wants to argue fair and straight,
Faith they howl him out of court in “Ballyhooly.”
Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
They’re supposed to hould debate in the interests of the State,
Which one and all they do their best to injure;
I have said their talk’s as clear as the stalest ginger-beer,
And they mix the vilest vitriol with the ginger.
The bhoys are not alone, for in sorrow one must own
The young Tories are as noisy and unruly,
And the Rads they rave and rail till one longs to lodge in gaol
The intemperate brigade of “Ballyhooly.”
Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
There’s a moral to my song, and it won’t detain yez long,
Of Party spirit e’en the merest “nip” shun.
It’s poison, that is clear, Ballyhooly “ginger-beer,”
As ye’ll own when I have given the prescription.
You take heaps of Party “rot,” spirit mean, and temper hot,
Lies, blasphemy, and insult; mix them duly;
For sugar put in salt, bitter gall for honest malt,
Faith, they call it “Statesmanship” in “Ballyhooly.”
Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
Encore Verse.
Since you’re kind enough to crave just another little stave,
I’ll explain the furious ferment that now leavens
A tipple once so sound is just Party spite all round,
And of course my Ballyhooly is St. Stephen’s.
‘Twill be very long before you will wish to cry “Encore!”
To the row that makes our Parliament unruly;
For good sense would put a stop on the flow of Party “Pop”
That makes a Donnybrook of “Ballyhooly.”
Chorus.
Whililoo, hi, ho! ‘Tis a huge mistake, ye know,
To let ructions and recriminations charm ye.
If they don’t abate their hate, they’ll bring ruin on the State,
Will the Ballyhooly Parliamentary Army.
Very Like a Wales.
The zeal of the Actor who blacked himself all over to play Othello,
is at last outdone—by Mr. Gladstone, who, it is stated, is learning
the Welsh language, under the tuition of Mr. Richard, M.P., in
order to deliver his speech at the forthcoming Eisteddfod in Taffy’s
own tongue. “Not for Cadwallader and all his goats,” as Pistol
says, would an ordinary politician go through such an ordeal for
such an end. “Gallant Little Wales” will, however, no doubt be
duly grateful, and, by lending its support to her adroit flatterer, enable
him to say, with Gower, to the opponents of Home-Rule, “Henceforth
let a Welsh correction teach you a good English condition.”
UN DUEL DE CAFÉ-CONCERT.
MM. Boxe et Coxe.
M. le Général Boxe. “Savez-vous vous Battre?“
M. Coxe (homme d’état). “Non!“
M. le Général Boxe. “Eh bien, alors! Allons-y-donc!“
(Translation.—”Can you fight?” “No!” “Then come on!”)
Jest in Earnest.
(What might have happened.)
Monday.—The Fleets started on their manœuvres. Before leaving,
the Ironclads ran down, accidentally, all the unarmoured vessels in
the harbour.
Tuesday.—Collision. Sinking of the Ajax.
Wednesday.—Mistake in steering. Foundering of the Minotaur.
Thursday.—Error in seamanship. Loss of the Neptune.
Friday.—Misapprehension of signal. Ramming of the Devastation.
Saturday.—Something wrong somewhere. The remainder of the
Fleet goes to the bottom.
MR. PUNCH’S MANUAL FOR YOUNG RECITERS.
It is a charming characteristic of the Young Amateur Entertainer
that—whether he possesses or not the smallest acquaintance with
any language beyond his own—he is always prepared to impersonate
a foreigner of any given nationality at a moment’s notice; and
Mr. Punch is confident that the most backward of his Pupils will
be perfectly at home (and how his audience will envy him!) with the
following Anglo-German recitation, which may be given under the
following title:—
Professor Bompp Relates a Little Anecdote.
(To do this effectively, you must assume an air of childlike candour.)
I deach my dong in Engeland for dventy years and more;
And vonce I dvell at Vigmore Shtreet, ubon ze zegond floor—
(Pull yourself up suddenly.)
Bot dat has nodings hier to zay—zo, blease, (professorial air for this) you vill addend!
I gom to dell you gurious dings vat habbened mit a vriend.
He vas a hanzom-headed man, zo like me as a pea,
And eferyveres I valk about he gom along mit me;
Bot all ze efenings, beaceful-quiet, he shtay in-doors and shmoke.
And choggle at himzelf at dimes in hatching out a yoke;
Ontill von day his choggling stobbed—he’d tombled deep in lôf,
And he bassed ze dime vith gissing at a leedle vemale glôf!
Ubon two shpargling eyes he dink, von deligate cock-nose—
Dill zoon his dinkings vork him op mit gourage to bropose.
Zen, ach! zat nose vas dilted more, and gruel vorts she shpoke:
“I vill not dwine aroundt no heart vat shmells zo shtrong mit shmoke!
Vor you yourzelf I might, vith dime, bersuade myzelf to gare—
Bot nevare mit no ogly bipes vill I avection share!”
(Pause, and glance round your audience with a slightly pained air.)
I dink I hear zom laty make a symbathetic shniff—
You Englisch shendlevomens dreats a shmoker var too shtiff!
For look—meinzelf I shmoke a bipe, mit baintings on ze bowl,
I shtoffs him vith dat sheepstabak vat’s dwisted in a roll,
I gif my vort it ton’t daste pad—zough yust a leedle veak—
Shtill, ven I schmokes inzide a drain,—I vinds zom laties seeck!
(Amiable surprise, as you mention this instance of insular intolerance.)
Bot, zere, you makes me chadderbox, and dakes op all my dime!
I vant to dell you how mein vriend behafed himself sooblime:
“If you vill pe mein Braut,” he zaid, “tobaggo I’ll renounce,
And shvear to nefer puy no more von solidary ounce!”
Zo she gif him out her lily hand, and shmile on him zo shveet:
“Vith sodge a sagrifice,” she zaid, “you brove your lôf indeet!
And I dakes you—on your zolem vort mit shmoking to ged rid,
Pe off and purn your bipes and dings!” vich—boor yong man, he—did!
Dree sblendid bipes he sacrificed, in china, glay, and vood,
He vatched zem craggle in ze vlames—I vonder how he could!
And mit zem vent his brime zigars of pest Havana prandt,
Imborted hier vrom Hampurg, in his own dear Vaderlandt!
[With sentiment.
Henzefort he lif a shmokeless life, vor vear to lose his bride,
And nefer vonce gomblained to her of soferings inzide!
Bot—zough she gif him zentiment and rabdures ven zey met—
Zomdimes he vish she vouldn’t mind von leedle zigarette! [Pause.
Now game along ze night pefore his veddings was to pe—
And he dried to galm his jomping soul mit bonderings and tea—
Ven, zoddenly—he hear a zound, as eef zom barty knock,
And it gom vrom his tobaggo-jar, long embdy of its shtock!
“Gom in! I mean—gom out!” he cried (he was a viddy chap!)
[Here you should be convulsed with inward laughter.
“For nonn of your nockdurnal knocks I do not gare von rap!”
Bot—vile he yoked—ze lid fly off, and sblash into his cop,
[Business here.
And a kind of leedle voman’s form inzide the jar sbring op!
Her face vas yust the golour of a meerschaum nod quide new,
And her hair vas all in ribbling vaves—like long-cut honnydew!
In golden silber she vas roped, all shpangled o’er mit shtars,
For it zeemed as eef she dress herzelf mit baper round zigars,
And like an eel his bagbone squirmed, his hair god up erect,
For beoples in tobaggo-jars is tings you ton’t exbect!
“Bervidious von!” she shpeak at him, zo broud as any queen,
“Pehold your homage-objects vonce—ze goddess Nigodeen!
I galls to know ze reason vy you leafs my aldars cold,
And nefer purns me incense like your bractice vas of old?”
“To bay you more resbects, I must,” he plurted out, “degline,
For I’m vorshibing at bresent mit an obbosition shrine.”
“And zo you makes yourzelf,” she gries, “a dankless renegade
To von who, oftendimes invoked, yet nefer vailed her aid
To charm avay your lonely dimes, and soffogate your care!
If dat’s your leedle games, mein vriend, dake my advice—bevare!”
“I’d gladly zend mein zoul inzide a himmeldinted gloud,
Bot as a Penedick,” he zaid, “I vill not pe allowed!
I dells you vrank”—(I haf exblained he vas a vonny vellow!)—
“Mitout mein bipe, ze honnymoon shall nod daste quide so mellow!”
“Enoff!” she said, “you vatch your eye, and zee vat vill bekom!”
She bopped inzide … he search ze jar—’twas embdy as a drom!
And zen he vipe his sbecdagles, and shtare, and rob his head,
(Business.) And dink he’d grown too vanziful, and pedder go to bed.
[Impressive pause, and continue in lowered voice.
Vell, next day, on ze afdernoon, his honnymoon pegan——
And Dandalus vas nodings to zat boor dormented man!
For ven he dry to giss his vife ubon her lips zo ripe—
Petween his own brojected fort a pig soobyectif bipe!
And efer more, in sbite of all ze dender vorts he zay,
Ze sbegtral image of a bipe kept gedding in his vay!
Ondill ubon ze burple sky shone out ze efening shtar—
And zen ze bipe dransform himzelf, and change to a zigar!
Bot, vorst of all, his vife vould veel no bity for his fate!
She dink it all a hombogsdrick—and zoon zey sebarate;
And benidently he redurned, and zaid to Nigodeen:
“Forgif, and nefer more I’ll pe ze vool I vonce haf peen!
I lôfed my vife—but now I vind I gares for you ze most—
And I’m dired of shmoking dings vat is no pedder as a ghost!”
Zo Nigodeen she dakes him back, begause his vife vas gone,
And now ze bipe he shmokes is nod an immaderial von!
You vonder how I goms to know?—Brebare yourzelves to jomp!—
(Sensationally.) I vas zat yong boor man meinzelf—der Herr Brofessor Bompp!
THE TRAVELLER’S VADE MECUM.
Question. I understand that you are leaving Town. Why?
Answer. Because it is the fashion.
Q. Have you any plans?
A. I am a little undecided. At first I thought of going to an
English watering-place, but abandoned the idea because the papers
said I should be sure to be laid up with typhoid fever, German
measles, or something equally pleasant.
Q. Had it not been for this dread, should you have gone?
A. I suppose so. We are acclimatised to the discomforts of seaside
lodgings, the discords of second-rate German bands, and the
disillusions of country views.
Q. For the sake of argument, abandoning the English watering-place—where
shall you go?
A. My wife says Paris—and means it.
Q. Do you object yourself to the gay capital?
A. Well—just now—yes; chiefly because it is not gay.
Q. I suppose you would prefer the principal theatres to be open?
A. If I could attend them without being sure that I should find
the “hot room” of a Turkish bath considerably cooler. Not that
there would not be a risk of being grilled to death on the Boulevards
and bored out of my life by running across hundreds of personally-conducted
tourists.
Q. Then why should you go?
A. Because my wife wishes to see the bonnets.
Q. Could she see them nowhere else?
A. Not to her satisfaction, although I believe she could find their
counterparts in Tottenham Court Road and the Westbourne Grove.
Q. After Paris where shall you go?
A. Either to Switzerland, Italy, or Holland.
Q. Do you expect much amusement?
A. Not much, because I know them by heart. Still I know the
best hotels, or rather the best table d’hôtes.
Q. Is that all you care for?
A. Nearly all. However it is a languid satisfaction to compare
St. Peter’s with St. Paul’s to the disadvantage of the former, and to
think there is nothing in Switzerland to equal the Trossachs, Loch
Maree and the Cumberland Lakes.
Q. But the Art treasures?
A. May be found en bloc at the South Kensington Museum.
Q. Then you travel in rather a gloomy mood.
A. Rather. Still I am buoyed up with a delightful prospect in
the future.
Q. A delightful prospect! What prospect?
A. The prospect of returning home!
Scarcely “Butter.”—To change the nickname of Madge to
Margarine.
LADIES’ LAW.
Some little while since a book was published for the exclusive
benefit of the fair sex, which purported to teach men’s mothers,
sisters, cousins, and aunts, the advantages
bestowed upon them by the
Married Women’s Property Act, and
other statutes of a like character. No
doubt the volume was an excellent
guide to females fond of litigation;
but still there are many who prefer,
in spite of everything, to retain their
own fixed opinion on the subject of law.
For that feminine majority the following
congenial hints are published:—
If a woman makes a will, she can
never revoke it, and is likely to die
soon afterwards, as it is not only unnecessary,
but unlucky.
A marriage without bridesmaids is
nearly illegal. This applies, in a lesser
degree, to marriages where children,
dressed in Charles the First costumes,
are not employed to hold up the bride’s
train.
A mortgage is a sort of thing that causes a house to become the
possession of a dishonest Agent, who is usually a Solicitor.
The best way of settling a County Court summons, brought in the
absence of the master of the house, is to ask the man into the
dining-room, and tell him about the accomplishments of the children.
This will soften his heart, and get him to prevent the Judge
from sending everyone to prison.
A nice Solicitor never contradicts a Lady, and therefore knows the
law infinitely better than the disagreeable fogies, who are so
obstinate. And, lastly, the best way to learn the real provisions of
the law, is to study a modern novel by a lady Authoress.
SALUBRITIES ABROAD.
“Salubrities at Home” (pace Mr. Atlas, who will recognise this
temporary adaptation of his world-renowned title) I should say are
Buxton (for most people), Bath (for some), Harrogate (for others),
and,—besides a variety of North, South, East and West, too numerous
to be mentioned in these notes,—Ramsgate for nearly all.
“Salubrities Abroad” are Homburg, Aix-les-Bains, Carlsbad,
&c., &c., and Royat, where I find myself again this year. “Scenes
of my bath-hood, once more I behold ye!” There is “A Salubrity at
Royat,” which people of certain tendencies cannot easily find elsewhere.
It is a cure for eminent persons of strong Conservative
tendencies. Lord Salisbury was here last year, and my friend
Monsieur Ondit, who is in everybody’s confidence, tells me that his
Lordship will revisit a place where the traitement did him so much
good. I believe he underwent the “Cherry-cure,” at all events his
Lordship was seen in public constantly eating them out of a paper-bag.
What did he do with the bag? My answer is, “he popped it.”
Down went the cherries, and bang went the bag and fifty centimes.
Well, did not Royat effect some change in his conservatism? What
has been the result? But I am not here to talk politics.
Everybody is talking of the Boulanger-Ferry incident. This is
Aug. 4, and nothing has happened.
“Il n’y a pas de danger,”
Dit Général Boulanger;
“Tout va, je crois, s’arranger,
Chez Ferry, mes amis.”
I haven’t time to proceed with this, but, so far, the idea is at any
poet’s disposition to continue as he pleases, my only stipulation being
that the air to which it is to be sung shall be “Marlbrook.”
My other friend, Benjamin Trovato, of Italian extraction, tells
me that Boulanger is half English, and had an English education.
Ben informs me that the General has never forgotten the rhythms
he learnt in his happy English nursery; and that, when he read
that M. Ferry had called him a “St. Arnaud de Café-Concert,”
he sang out, recollecting the old catch,—
A Note, a Note!
Haste to the Ferry!
in which his friends were unable to join, owing to their ignorance of
the words and tune.
When driving through Clermont-Ferrand from the Station up to
Royat, we (three of us) had a small omnibus to ourselves. One of
the party (a wag, of whom, and of the circumstances of our meeting,
more “in my next”) insisted on our calling out, “Vive Boulanger!”
We did this several times in the most crowded parts, but the cry
obtained no response, and aroused no excitement, as, being uttered
with the greatest caution (at my instance), nobody heard it.
But what a thing to fight about! If duelling were an English
fashion, how fruitful of “incidents” this Session would have been.
How often would Mr. Tim Healy have been “out”? And Mr.
De Lisle’s life would have hung upon a Lisle thread!
Note for strangers about to visit Royat.—The Continental Hotel
has lost a little territory, as half of what was its terrace has been
returned to the present proprietor of the hotel next door, with whom
we Continentals have no connection, not even “on business,” it not
being “the same concern” and under one management as it was
last year. But what the Continental Hotel has sacrificed in domain,
Monsieur Hall, our obliging landlord, has more than made up in
comfort and cooking. Dr. Brandt sees his patients in a charming
Villa of Flowers. The weather is lovely.
We are all surprised at seeing one another here. Each person (or
each couple or party) seems to think that he alone (or they alone)
possess the secret of Royat’s existence. We certainly are not a
mutual admiration society at Royat. When we come upon one
another suddenly, each exclaims, “Hallo! what are you here for?”
is if the other were a convict “doing his time.” Everyone thinks
he knows what he is here for, but very few tell what he thinks he
knows. And, by the way, the best-informed among us doesn’t know
very much about it.
In the Reading-room of the Cercle there ought to be (as advertised
in a local journal) at least three English newspapers daily. I
have not seen them as yet. The only London paper arriving here
regularly, and to be purchased every day early at the Newsvendor’s,
is the Morning Post. Vive Sir Algernon! Can this be the attraction
for Lord Salisbury? Why come out so far afield to read the
Morning Post? Or wasn’t it here, during Lord Salisbury’s visit
last year, and is he still ignorant of its having been subsequently
demanded and supplied this season? And when he comes and finds it—”O
what a surprise!”—no, thank goodness, we have escaped
from this song—for a time, at least.
Too hot to write any more journal. The hundredth bell is sounding
for the fiftieth déjeuner. My déjeuner is finished. There are bells
here perpetually. All day and all night. In vain would Mr. Irving
as Mathias, put his hands to his ears and close the windows. The
bells! The bells! Distant bells, near bells, sheep-bells, goat-bells,
a man with pipe (not tobacco but tune, or what he and the goats
consider a tune), dinner-bells, guests’-bells, servants’-bells, church-bells
(not much), chapel-bells (early and occasionally), horse-bells,
donkey-bells, breakfast-bells, supper-bells, arrival-bells, departure-bells,
tramway bells, crier’s-bells, with variations on drum or trumpet,
and several other bells that I shall notice in the course of the twenty-four
hours, but have forgotten just now.
The “petits chevaux” have not been stopped by the Government;
they are running as fast as ever. There are two bands, playing
morning, afternoon, and evening. The Casino Samie is as lively as
ever, or, as my waggish acquaintance at once expressed it, in that
vein of humour for which he is so specially distinguished, “The
Samie old game,” and to sit out in the garden, with a fragrant cigar
and coffee, before retiring for the night, is indeed a calm pleasure, or
would be but for the aforesaid waggishness, of which more anon.
Soldiers about everywhere, Boulangering. Up in the hills is a
splendid echo. This morning, having caught the very slightest cold,
I went up into the mountains to get it blown away. Suddenly I
sneezed. Such a sneeze! It reverberated all over the mountain like
the firing of a battery. Again! again! These sneezes nearly shook
me off the rock, and sent me staggering on to the plateau below.
The effect must have been alarming, as the third sneeze fetched
out the military, horse and foot, at full gallop, and the double.
L’ennemi? C’était moi! They scoured the mountain sides, but I
did not sneeze again. I have a sort of idea that my sneeze upset the
entire preconcerted arrangements for a review. The Boulangerers
retired—so did I.
‘Tis the hour of douche. Richard, the attendant, will be there
to give it me. Douche-ment, douche-ment. Gently does it!
O Richard, O Mon Roy-at!… Au revoir!
Mrs. R. went to see the première of a new piece about which there
had been considerable excitement in the theatrical world. “It was
quite a novelty for me,” said the good lady to a friend; “every literal
person was there of any imminence, and my nephew, who is connected
with papers himself, told me that the stalls were full of
crickets. He pointed them all out to me. Most interesting.”
“LE MONDE OÙ L’ON S’AMUSE.”
Miss Ponsonby de Tomkyns (just out). “Oh, Papa! such an exquisite Concert it was at Lady Midas’s! The Duchess was
there, and the Mowbray-Mashams, and Lord and Lady Wrottenham, and Count Edelweiss, and Captain de Courcy, and
Sir Mainwaring Carshalton and his Wife, and—in fact Everybody one cares to meet.“
Mr. P. de T. “Indeed! And who Played and Sang?“
Miss P. de T. “Who Played and Sang? Well—a—a—really, do you know, I don’t remember!“
“GLASS FALLING!”
Head of the House, loquitur:—
Dear me! Going back? I can hardly conceive it.
I thought we were in for a spell of “Set Fair.”
A serious change? No, I will not believe it;
I can’t, I declare.
I’ve tapped it with confidence morning by morning,
This glass which has never deceived me before;
And now to go wrong in this way, without warning!—
It’s really a bore.
Of course it’s too bad to be true, for the weather
So settled has seemed, and has promised so well,
And why it should go and break up altogether
Nobody can tell.
Tap! Tap! Yes, it’s true, it is certainly dropping.
Things seem—for the moment—a bit out of joint,
For of course there is not the least fear of its stopping
At such a low point.
No, no, that’s absurd; the idea makes one pallid.
This many and many a day from my door
Without a top-coat or a gingham I’ve sallied;
And now, will it pour?
O nonsense! The omens have all been so cheery;
The Times, in its forecasts, have been so cock-sure.
Can we all have been wrong? Nay, a prospect so dreary
I cannot endure.
Some local disturbances truly I’ve heard of.
Our foes make the most of such little mishaps;
But then they mean nothing; it’s really absurd of
The ignorant chaps.
At Spalding or Coventry weather may vary;—
And yet, when the “area of change” gets too wide,
Men fancy it’s more than a passing vagary;—
Ay, even our side.
Tap! Tap! Yes there is a perceptible tumble.
One can’t “square” the weather or “get at” the glass.
A storm? Oh! ’twas merely the least little rumble,—
‘Twill probably pass.
Yes. Up in the North there ’tis always unsettled;
I fancy we shan’t be so shifty down South.
No, really there’s not the least call to be nettled,
Or down in the mouth.
I’ll take my umbrella,—a useful possession,
Yes, even in summer with wind in the east.
But this—oh! it’s merely a “local depression”;—
I hope so, at least!
THE HAZARD OF A—DYE.
Supposing that when our soldiers and sailors were armed with
worthless bayonets and useless cutlasses, a war had broken out.
And supposing that our Army had been defeated on account of
those worthless bayonets.
And supposing our sailors had been slaughtered by hundreds on
account of those useless cutlasses.
And supposing the country had been successfully invaded because
the nation had improper arms of defence.
And supposing, wild with ruin, revenge, and misery, the remains
of the Army and Navy had met Sir John Adye.
Supposing they had. Well, what then?
Prize Parliamentary Puzzle.—”The End of the Session.”
“GLASS FALLING!”
“HM!—GOING BACK! AH!—ONLY A LOCAL DEPRESSION!!”
A SOOTHING SONG FOR AUGUST.
Taking a Pull on the
Watery Main.
Far from placid pleasure
Fashion’s nomads roam;
Wisdom finds the treasure
In its fullest measure
Peacefully at home.
Free from by-the-way bores
Of hotel and train,
Rest we from our labours,
With our fair young neighbours
Round us once again.
Bees in drowsy fettle
Lazy lilies rob;
Slumbrously they settle,
Thrumming like a kettle
On the Summer’s hob.
Flies their mystic mazes
Intricately thread,
Where the sunshine blazes
Through the cedarn hazes,
Just above my head.
Pussy, with her fur feet
Curled beneath her breast,
Drowzes where the turf-heat
Soothes her with a surfeit
Of delicious rest.
Now a laughing quarrel
Stirs the stilly air,
Where, beyond the laurel,
With their white apparel
Glistening in the glare,
Boys and girls together
Make a gallant crew,
Boys in highest feather,
Girls like summer weather,
Bright and sweet and true.
OUR EXCHANGE AND MART.
Some more Holiday Inquiries.
NOVEL YACHTING EXPEDITION. UNIQUE CHANCE.—A
Gentleman of marked nautical proclivities, who has lately,
through the demise of a great-uncle, come into the possession of a
Penny Steamer in a very fair condition of repair, is anxious to meet
with one or two persons of similar tastes who would be disposed to
start with him on a Summer Tour, for the purpose of leisurely navigating
the vessel, in a tentative fashion, round the British Isles.
As he would not take a Pilot with him, but proposes when in doubt
either to ask his way from the nearest Coastguard by signal, or run
in shore and get out and walk, he thinks the voyage would not be
without excitement and variety, and would be likely to afford some
novel seafaring experience to the naval amateur in search of pleasing
adventure. The course, as at present mapped out, would be from
Putney Bridge to Margate, Plymouth, Holyhead, Skye, Aberdeen,
by the German Ocean past Hull, Yarmouth, Clacton-on-Sea, Southend,
back again, finishing the journey at Battersea Reach, but it
would probably be varied by wind and weather, the exigences of
which would naturally have to be taken into account. The crew
will consist of three experienced Channel stewards, a bargee, a
retired pirate, and a cabin-boy, and will be under the command of
the advertiser, who, though fresh to the work, has little doubt but
that, with a friendly hint or two from his fellow-yachtsmen, he will
be able to manage it. N.B.—Each Passenger provided with a Royal
Humane Society’s drag. For all further particulars apply to “Port-Admiral,”
117, Rope Walk, Chelsea, S.W.
EXCEPTIONAL PSYCHOLOGICAL OPPORTUNITY.
HAUNTED CASTLE TO LET.—A Baronet, in the North
of England, who can himself stand residence in it no longer, is
anxious to meet with a suitable Tenant for his Family Mansion
likely to appreciate the mysterious horrors with which, owing to the
crimes of his ancestors in times past, it is now nightly associated.
The chief manifestation consists in the appearance, after midnight,
in an oak-panelled bedroom, of a huge black wolf, accompanied by a
little old man in a bag-wig and faded blue velvet coat, who, looking
sadly at the occupant, and saying, in a mournful voice, “I’ve lost
my return-ticket!” vanishes suddenly, together with his swarthy
companion, into the linen-cupboard. As this apparition is frequently
followed by the sound as of a man in a complete suit of armour
falling head-over-heels down six flights of
stairs, and ultimately, amidst prolonged and
piercing shrieks, apparently lodging in the
coal-cellar, a member of the Society for
Promoting Psychical Research could not fail
to find the whole experience a singularly
pleasing one. Several people having already
been frightened into fits through passing a
night in the castle, a practical joker, who
wished to have a little fun at the expense
of an aged and invalid relative or two, could
not do better than ask them down for a
week, and let them take turns at sleeping
in the bedroom in question. Address,
“Baronet,” Goblynhurst, Howlover.
TIGER-SHOOTING AT HOME. PRIME SPORT WITH BIG
GAME.—A Country Clergyman, who, having taken charge
of a Menagerie for an invalid friend, has had the misfortune
to let nearly the whole of it escape and get loose in his parish, would
be glad to have the assistance of several Sportsmen of wide Indian
and African experience, who would be willing to join him in an
effort either to kill, or, if possible, recapture it at the very earliest
opportunity. Though the Advertiser has succeeded in temporarily
securing three lions, a chimpanzee, a couple of hyænas, and a young
hippopotamus in the Vicarage drawing-room, and has managed to
envelope a boa-constrictor in a lawn-tennis net, yet, as five full-grown
Bengal tigers, and about thirty other wild beasts of a miscellaneous
character are at large in the village, and have, to his
knowledge, already devoured the Postman, the Curate, a School
Inspector, and both the horses of the Local Railway Omnibus, he
feels that no time ought to be lost in replying to his appeal. One or
two Experts, armed with Hotchkiss Guns, would be of use, and might
write. Would be glad to hear from a Battery of Horse Artillery.
Address, The Vicar, High Roaring, Notts.
AERIAL VOYAGE. ADVANTAGEOUS EXPERIMENT FOR
THE SHORT-SIGHTED.—A Gentleman who has long been
suffering from a chronic affection of the eyes, and has been recommended
by his medical adviser to try the stimulating effect of
mountain air, having conceived the idea of procuring it for himself
by making an ascent in a second-hand and slightly damaged balloon
that he has purchased for the purpose, will be glad to hear from one
or two thoroughly skilled and experienced Aëronauts similarly afflicted,
who would regard the beneficent results of being able to accompany
him as an equivalent for the professional services they might render
to the carrying out of the undertaking. As the Advertiser’s idea is
to start from some convenient Gas-Works in the Midland Counties,
and keep a steady northward course by holding on, before the wind,
with a line and grappling-hook to the system of telegraphic wires
running alongside one of the great central railways, and as he
proposes merely stopping occasionally en route to unroof the house of
some local medical man when any of the party are in need of advice,
he confidently anticipates that the trip will not be devoid of novel
and exciting features that will invest it with a distinctively fresh
and exhilarating character. For full and further particulars of the
enterprise, which have been carefully thought out, apply, by letter,
to “In Nubibus,” Uppingham Lodge, Mount-Rising, Ayrshire.
THREE THOUSAND BLAZING ACRES TO LET.—A Scotch
Laird, who has, by some accident in celebrating Her
Majesty’s Jubilee, managed to set fire to his entire property, the
whole of which, after smouldering for a season, has since burst into
a violent conflagration, which he can neither diminish nor control,
would be willing to let it at a comparatively low rental to a London
Sportsman sufficient novice in grouse-shooting not to be surprised
at picking up his birds already roasted in the heather. As at the
end of a day’s trudging in the blinding heat of a Sahara through
smoking covers, accompanied by a powerful steam fire-engine, he
will probably discover that he has only succeeded in making a bag
consisting of one singed “cheeper,” the “shooting” is likely to
prove more attractive to the amateur unfamiliar with the rifle, but
accustomed to the tropical heat of a Central African Summer, than
satisfactory to a professional marksman counting on dispatching
from a breezy moorland fifty brace or so to his relatives and friends.—For
terms, &c., apply to The Mac Salamander, Flaimhaugh,
Glen Blayse, N.B.
By a Canterbury Belle.
(Song at the End of the great Cricket Week.)
Fine weather, fair cricket, the bold “Men of Kent”
To flirt and bet gloves—thirty pairs are my winnings!—
Why, yes, on the whole I’m extremely content;
‘Tis the nicest of outings to witness such innings.
Chorus—A Cricketer should be an excellent match
Because he is certain to be “a good catch.”
SNAP-SHOTS FOR THE TWELFTH.
An Extended Tract of Moor.
A Second Laying.
Heavy Bags are Difficult to Secure.
ANTHROPOPHAGOUS.
Little Nephew. “Uncle, you must be a sort o’ Cannibal, I——”
Uncle (on a visit). “A what, Sir!? Wha’d’yer mean, Sir?“
Nephew. “‘Cause Ma’ said you was always Livin’ on Somebody!“
FOREIGN (LANGUAGE) COMPETITION.
Care Editor,—Sentio obligatus scribere ad te propter extraordinariam novam departuram
quam Gubernator recenter fecit. (Scribo Latinè, quia si ille legit hoc, non poterit intelligere!
Prætendit intelligere Classica perfectè, sed habeo graves dubitationes de illo. Hoc est inter nos.)
Sunt nostri holidies nunc, ut tu sine dubio es awarus; et, alio mane, Pater subito nunciavit
suam intentionem detrahere me de Etonis, et mittere me ad aliquem Tutorem in Germaniâ, “in
ordinem ut discam modernas linguas, sic importantes (ille ait) in cursu vitæ nunc-dies.”
Fui attonitus, ut tu potes imaginare. Nam Gubernator, ut totus mundus noscit, semper fuit
laudator Classicorum. (“Omne ignotum pro magnifico,” intelligis; habeo illum illic, nonne? Hoc
quoque est inter nos.) In facto, pro momento ego fui “percussus omnis cumuli,” ut dictum est.
Habere linquere Etonas, tam jolliam scholam! Et ire ad istos Teutones, qui non possunt ludere
vel cricketum vel footballum, et sunt generaliter horribiles muffi! Id est nimis malum pro verbis.
Vide explanationem paternæ inconsistentiæ! Forsitan vidisti, O Punche, quomodo aliqui
journales pestilentes recenter abusi sunt Classicas linguas. Bene, Gubernator legit hos journales,
et nunc odit Græcum et Latinum. Ego ipse odi Græcum, sed Germanum est multo pejus, si possibile.
Ut pro Gallico, non est ita difficile, exceptâ pronunciatione, quæ est bestiissima res umquam inventa.
Sed “malo mispronunciare ad Etonas, quam in Continenti rectè dicere,” ut Cicero dicit.
Protestavi contra novam ideam Gubernatoris tantum quam audeo; sed habeo esse cautus, quia
Gubernator non amat contradictionem. Fit cereus, si contradicitur. Argui tamen ut obliviscar
omnia mea Classica in Germaniâ celerius quam potes dicere “Johannes Robinson;” nam unum
caput non potest tenere Græcum, Latinum, Germanum, et Gallicum. Gubernator iracundè
respondit ut “meum caput non potest tenere aliquam rem, ut videtur.” Hoc est abominabilis
libellus (inter nos iterum).
Tunc posui ante eum pericula
duellorum. Juvenes Teutonici omnes
ineunt pro duellis, ut habeo auditum.
Pater (crudelis!) fecit extremè leve
hujus periculi. “Si redeam sine
naso, quid tum?” dixi. “Erit propria
pœna,” Gubernator sarcasticè
respondit, “pro negligente Nasonem
ad scholam.” Ille, percipis, “ridet
ad cicatrices, quia nunquam sensit
vulnus.” Laudat Caput-Magistros
Marlburienses et Harrovienses et
Winchesterenses pro expellendo
Græcum de Intranti Examinatione
pro illis scholis. Sperat ut “in nullo
tempore ero bonus Germanus scholaris”;
sed ego dubito. Dixi ad
eum ut sola Germana verba que nosco
sunt “Die Wacht am Rhein.” Gubernator
respondit ut meus Tutor
donaret mihi “die whacks am Rhein”
si negligo curriculum studiorum.
Jocus est extremè pauper. Admiror
si Tutor verè donabit id mihi calidum?
O care Editor, nonne potes
facere aliquam rem pro retinente me
ad Etonas? Tuus disconsolatus,
Tommius.
SEA-DREAMS.
By John Bull à propos of the Naval
Manœuvres.
Falmouth in flames! By Jove, that sounds a stunner!
Fremantle’s given Hewett a fair “oner,”
Somehow I feel I’d rather by a hantle,
Hewett had given toko to Fremantle.
I dare say it’s all right; yet there’s no telling,
What might be the result of real shelling.
Like the far-famed young lady of Devizes,
Fremantle’s forte appears to be surprises,
Splendid no doubt, but, after all expenses,
I feel more interested in defences.
Of course for Fremantle to dumfog Hewett,
(And show a world of watchers how to do it)
Is first-rate practice; an eye-opener verily;
Only I fancy I should laugh more merrily,
If my eyes were the only optics gazing,
Upon a feat that’s no doubt most amazing;
The Thames’ mouth occupied by a fine fleet!
The sight—as the fleet’s mine—of course is sweet,
But there’s one thought that rather makes me blench:—
Supposing that Fremantle had been French?
“Bootiful.“—The good people of
Stafford have given Her Majesty as
a Jubilee present a cabinet containing
about two hundred pairs of boots and
shoes. Evidently the stock is intended
to last until Her Majesty
reaches her next Jubilee, when, no
doubt, the gift will be repeated!
Striking Effects.—For further
particulars, apply to the Midland
Railway Company.
INTERIORS AND EXTERIORS. No. 50.
GRAND PARLIAMENTARY CRICKET MATCH.
(Facsimile of Sketch by Our Electric Special.)
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
E. H. P-ck-rsg-ll.
M-cl-n interposes.
Monday Night, August 1.—Prince Louis of Battenberg had better be making inquiries
as to return trains for Germany. W. Redmond “has had his attention called to him,” and
Pickersgill has his eye upon him. German Prince been appointed to command of Dreadnought
over thirty British Officers who had precedence for promotion. W. Redmond elicited
more general cheering than usually falls to his lot when he wanted to know what reason could
be given for so extraordinary a mark of confidence? Georgy Hamilton explained that there
was best possible reason. Prince Louis a heaven-born sea-Captain. No one like him among
ordinary Britishers. Appointed to Dreadnought simply because he was best possible man.
Then Pickersgill came to front. Couldn’t object to First Lord’s personal preference, but
gave notice that if Prince Louis were confirmed in command of Dreadnought he would move
that his salary be disallowed. More cheers. Idea of German Princeling holding office, however
honourable, without drawing a salary struck Commons as comical. Subject seemed to
drop here. But Commerell, having by this time had another question on other subject put
and answered, collected his thoughts, rose and begged to say that “Prince Louis of Battenberg
served under me, and a more efficient officer——” Here sentence came to abrupt
conclusion. Angry cries of “Order!” stormed round gallant Admiral. Commerell a man of
proved valour, as the Victoria Cross worn on his breast on Jubilee Day and other high festivities
testifies. But his bronzed cheek blanched under this assault. He stared round a
moment speechless, and resumed his seat.
House in Committee through long hours on Irish Land Bill. Dulness enlivened towards
midnight by encounter between Chamberlain and Grandolph. Chamberlain began it;
Grandolph by no means backward. Rebuked Chamberlain for “characteristic sneer,”
upon which Chamberlain smartly retorted. The interesting episode concluded by Hartington
announcing his intention to vote against Chamberlain and with the Government.
Harcourt much pleased.
[pg 72]“This is only the beginning,” he said. “Grandolph and Chamberlain
have evidently quarrelled. Hartington doesn’t bind himself
to go with Chamberlain; and altogether the Unionist Party
seems a little disunited.”
Business done.—Irish Land Bill in Committee.
Tuesday.—Questions over there was a pretty scene. John Dillon
complained of allegation in provincial newspaper that he had applauded
a statement that in a riot at Belfast several children and a
young lady school-teacher, the daughter of Lord Sligo’s Agent, were
seriously hurt. Hadn’t proceeded far with explanation when voice
from neighbourhood of Treasury Bench called out, “It is true!”
“Who says it’s true?” shouted John, flashing a baleful glance
on Treasury Bench.
At first he thought the interrupter was Old Morality, but his air
of perfect innocence repulsed suspicion. Was it De Worms, turning
as, it is written, his family sometimes do? Edward Clarke looked
more guilty, so John “named” him; denied the soft impeachment.
Halsey admitted it, and was backed up by half-a-dozen Members,
including Maclean. Bore personal testimony to having heard the
applause when incident was mentioned.
“I say it is true!” they repeated one after the other.
“And I say it is false!” John Dillon roared, and proceeded to
denounce Members opposite in language which speedily brought up
the Speaker.
After a while Maclean again interposed. Demanded to be heard
whilst he asserted in detail the general accuracy of the newspaper
paragraph, whilst of course acquitting Dillon “if he said he did
not join in applause.” Parnellites, oddly enough, left all the fighting
to John, who was finally put down by Speaker. After this pleasant
interlude, House resumed Committee on Land Bill. Proceedings
dolorous, and House empty. At one time sitting nearly brought to
end by a Count.
Business done.—Irish Land Bill.
Enter Tr-v-ly-n.
Exit R-ss-ll.
Thursday.—Enter Trevelyan; exit Edward
Russell, the latter carrying with him the consciousness
of that rare possession—popularity with
both sides of the House. Everybody sorry he has
gone, especially “the Dissentient Liberals.” As
Plunket says, “He was the gentlest-mannered
Radical in the House.” Crowded House. Trevelyan
brings his sheaves (1401) with him, in shape
of rattling majority won at Glasgow. Everybody
there but Hartington and Chamberlain. Meeting
in such circumstances with old colleague would have
been too touching. But older colleagues, under
wing of Gladstone, in full force. Determined to
kill the fatted calf for the returning prodigal.
Gladstone would, of course, play the part of
Aged Parent; Trevelyan the repentant son. But who was to stand
for the fatted calf? General impression that Harcourt best suited by
natural gifts for the character. Harcourt’s habitual modesty not to
be overcome. “Wouldn’t,” he said, “like to play such a prominent
part.” Finally agreed that they should “imagine the calf.” All went
admirably well. Might have been managed by that veteran strategist
the Sage of Queen Anne’s Gate.
Childers and Cameron (both out of step with new Member)
personally conducted him to Table. Enormous cheering, which
Childers gently deprecated. “No, my good friends,” he said. “This
is very kind of you. But there’s really no credit due to me. I
bring our young friend up because I, too, am a Scotch Member.
Perhaps my success at Edinburgh may have given fillip to Liberalism
in the Lowlands. But pray don’t mention it. Any little services
I may have rendered are overpaid by this magnificent ovation.”
More cheers when new Member was introduced to Speaker.
Delighted to see him. Had often heard his name. Pleased with
this opportunity of making his personal acquaintance. Should be
sure to know him again if he met him. All this lively and entertaining.
But great scene artistically conceived for end of play.
Trevelyan, passing round back of Speaker’s chair, proceeding in
search of quiet seat, beheld strange spectacle on Front Opposition
Bench. There was the Aged P. signalling from his tent. Signal
taken up by retainers and carried down crowded bench. Only in
the place of honour must the new Member sit. Never made so much
fuss of before. Last time took oath and seat, no particular notice
taken of double event. What had happened in meantime? Had he
grown more eloquent; had he performed some conspicuous service;
or had he increased in personal esteem of those who know him?
The latter impossible. In the former no change. He had merely
kicked over traces and was now come back to run in them. Thought
of this with some bitterness. But reception well meant. There was
the Aged P. violently beckoning with venerable forefinger, and the
errant son made his way up to him, fell on his neck and kissed him——this
of course in a Parliamentary sense.
Business done.—Army Estimates.
Friday.—House of Lords rent to its centre by deadly, blood-curdling,
butter-melting controversy. Question is, shall it be
Butterine or Margarine? The usually hostile camps streaked with
enemies. A Noble Lord, who stands stoutly for Butterine, finds
himself seated with another Peer, who swears by Margarine, and
vice versâ. When division comes there is woful cross-voting. It
is Basing who appropriately brings on subject, and Wemyss who
moves that the compound be called Butterine, instead of Margarine.
Everyone in high spirits, sustained by a free collation, served out at
the door. This attraction rather militated against full success of
debate. Noble Lords “asking for more,” of course having to linger
outside till they’d eaten it. Basing (long known to us as Sclater-Booth)
revelled in his subject, and thanked the Markiss he was
made a Peer in time to take part in discussion. Argyll brought
his massive mind to bear on Butterine; Granville toyed with the
subject; and Wemyss was more than usually emphatic. Bramwell
had promised to speak for Butterine. Place empty when turn came.
“Where’s Bramwell? He should be up next,” said Wemyss.
“Ah,” said Rosebery,
“Would you know where last I saw him,
He was eating bread and butterine.”
Messengers despatched to corridor and Bramwell brought in with
his mouth full. A stirring debate, but Butterine was nowhere.
Bramwell having demonstrated Margarine was “not the correct
name for the substitute known as Butterine,” their Lordships by
large majority voted for Margarine.
Business done.—In Commons Land Bill again.
A NEW WERSION OF AN OLD SONG.
(By a thorough Port-soakian.)
The Lord Mare leads an appy life,
He has no cares of party strife,
He drinks the best of hevry wine,
I wish the Lord Mare’s lot was mine.
And, yet all appy’s not his lot,
Although he has his title got;
He hardly once alone can dine—
would not that his lot was mine.
A Alderman more pleases me,
He leads a life of jollitee:
He nobly dines, has naught to pay,
And has his health drunk ev’ry day.
And though he has to sham delite
At weary speeches nite by nite,
And to administer the Law
Without no blunders or no flaw,
Still, though I but a Waiter be,
The Lord Mare’s life would not suit me,
But, while I drains my flowing can,
I’ll fancy I’m a Alderman!
Robert.
Poetry of Parliament.—A debate in the House of Commons
corresponding to the verse named Alexandrine—”Which, like a
wounded snake, drags its slow length along.”
Seasonable Field-Sport.—Leather-hunting.
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*** Transcriber’s Note: “I” inserted into the beginning of the last line of the sixth stanza of “Glass Falling”, page 66.***