THE BIG GUN"THE BIG GUN!"Grand Old Gunner(inspecting Cannon). "IT'S BEAUTIFULLY LOADED! WHY, THE MERE LOOK OF IT IS ENOUGH TO SHAKE SM-TH'S 'RESOLUTION.'"
Grand Old Gunner(inspecting Cannon). "IT'S BEAUTIFULLY LOADED! WHY, THE MERE LOOK OF IT IS ENOUGH TO SHAKE SM-TH'S 'RESOLUTION.'"
Our old friendMaddison Morton'sBox and CoxrunsShakspeare'sworks generally very near in the matter of daily application. But fancy its being quoted as an authority by SirHorace Davey, in his masterly reply to t'other side in the Bishop ofLincoln'scase. Yet so it was. "BishopCosin," said SirHorace, "had erroneously assumed that a letter had been written byCalvintoKnox, whereas it had been really written to an Englishman named Cox." So it was a mistake of the postman, after all, and it only wants the introduction of the name of Box to make the whole thing perfect and satisfactory. "It will be within the recollection of the Court," SirHoracemight have continued, "that Cox was prevented from becoming the husband ofPenelope Anne, relict ofWilliam Wiggins, Proprietor of Bathing Machines at Margate and Ramsgate, by the sudden and totally unforeseen union of the lady in question with oneKnox, whose residence, as the Musical Revised Version has it, was usually 'in the Docks'; and with this marriage ofPenelope Anne Wigginswith Mr.Knoxof the Docks, Messrs.Box and Coxprofessed themselves entirely and completely satisfied, as it is my earnest hope that Your Grace, and My Lords the Bishops, will also be. And should this be the result, then I assure Your Grace that there will not be a happier party sit down this night to supper than 'Readand others,' of which fact you may take your Davey."
On the Learned Counsel resuming his seat, there would have been considerable applause, which, of course, would have been instantly suppressed.
Notes "in Globo."—Dorothywas long ago taken off the stage of the Prince of Wales's to make room forPaul Jones. But anotherDorothyhas recently reappeared at the Globe Theatre in the pretty Shakspearian fairy-play entitled,A Midsummer Night's Dream, whereinDorothy Deneenacts the part ofHippolyta. By the way, the lady who used to speak of that immortal work,Dixon's Johnsonary, the other day referred toShakspeareas being "contemporaneous with that great wit—dear me—what was his name?—who wroteEvery Man in his own Humour—oh, I remember—John Benson." Eminently satisfactory.
cartoon
"The St. Petersburgh tailors have hit upon an effectual device for obtaining payment of their bills. Immense black-boards are hung up in the most conspicuous place in the reception-room; thereon are chalked, in letters as big as arrow-headed inscriptions, the names of their hopelessly-indebted clients, and the amount of their indebtedness."
"The St. Petersburgh tailors have hit upon an effectual device for obtaining payment of their bills. Immense black-boards are hung up in the most conspicuous place in the reception-room; thereon are chalked, in letters as big as arrow-headed inscriptions, the names of their hopelessly-indebted clients, and the amount of their indebtedness."
Daily Paper.
Who always seemed serene and bland;Who never asked for "cash in hand,"Quite pleased that my account should "stand"?My Tailor!Who catered for the gilded throng,Who chid me when my taste was wrong,Whose credit—and whose price—was long?—My Tailor!Who chatted when I felt depressed,Who proffered wine with friendly zest,Whose weeds were ever of the best?—My Tailor!Who with sartorial oil anointsMy vanity, who pads my joints,And fortifies my weakest points?—My Tailor!But who in future, much I fear,Will greet me with no words of cheer,But talk of "settling"—language queer?—My Tailor!Who silently will point his handTo figures white on black-board grand.Where all my unpaid "items" stand?—My Tailor!Who'll thus expose me to my peers,Bring on me jibes, and flouts, and sneers,Male sniggerings, and female tears?—My Tailor!Who'll frown when I suggest a loan,And ne'er produce Clicquot or Beaune,But for his "checks" demand my own?—My Tailor!Who'll take my "measures" when he wills,But only if I take his "bills,"And add one more to human ills?—My Tailor!
Who always seemed serene and bland;Who never asked for "cash in hand,"Quite pleased that my account should "stand"?My Tailor!
Who always seemed serene and bland;
Who never asked for "cash in hand,"
Quite pleased that my account should "stand"?
My Tailor!
Who catered for the gilded throng,Who chid me when my taste was wrong,Whose credit—and whose price—was long?—My Tailor!
Who catered for the gilded throng,
Who chid me when my taste was wrong,
Whose credit—and whose price—was long?—
My Tailor!
Who chatted when I felt depressed,Who proffered wine with friendly zest,Whose weeds were ever of the best?—My Tailor!
Who chatted when I felt depressed,
Who proffered wine with friendly zest,
Whose weeds were ever of the best?—
My Tailor!
Who with sartorial oil anointsMy vanity, who pads my joints,And fortifies my weakest points?—My Tailor!
Who with sartorial oil anoints
My vanity, who pads my joints,
And fortifies my weakest points?—
My Tailor!
But who in future, much I fear,Will greet me with no words of cheer,But talk of "settling"—language queer?—My Tailor!
But who in future, much I fear,
Will greet me with no words of cheer,
But talk of "settling"—language queer?—
My Tailor!
Who silently will point his handTo figures white on black-board grand.Where all my unpaid "items" stand?—My Tailor!
Who silently will point his hand
To figures white on black-board grand.
Where all my unpaid "items" stand?—
My Tailor!
Who'll thus expose me to my peers,Bring on me jibes, and flouts, and sneers,Male sniggerings, and female tears?—My Tailor!
Who'll thus expose me to my peers,
Bring on me jibes, and flouts, and sneers,
Male sniggerings, and female tears?—
My Tailor!
Who'll frown when I suggest a loan,And ne'er produce Clicquot or Beaune,But for his "checks" demand my own?—My Tailor!
Who'll frown when I suggest a loan,
And ne'er produce Clicquot or Beaune,
But for his "checks" demand my own?—
My Tailor!
Who'll take my "measures" when he wills,But only if I take his "bills,"And add one more to human ills?—My Tailor!
Who'll take my "measures" when he wills,
But only if I take his "bills,"
And add one more to human ills?—
My Tailor!
My Dear Editor,
It was most kind of you to ask me to go to the St. James's Theatre, the other evening, to see Mrs.Langtry, after I had told you that since my recovery from the influenza, I had unfortunately lost my memory. "Don't you know anything aboutAs You Like It?" you asked. I pondered deeply, and then replied, that I half fancied it was aGerman Reed'sEntertainment, that would have gone better had it included a part for Mr.Corney Grain. You told me I was wrong, but intimated that my ignorance on the subject would make my notice the more impartial. So I went.
As to the play—was I pleased withAs You Like It? Well, I have known worse, but I have seen better. It seemed a mixture of prose and verse, with several topical allusions that appeared, somehow or other, to have lost their point. For instance, a dull dog of a jester (played in a funereal fashion by Mr.Sugden) stopped the action of the piece, for what seemed to me (no doubt the time was actually less) some three-quarters of an hour, while he explained the difference between the "retort courteous" and "the reproof valiant." The plot was as thin as a wafer, but as it is, no doubt, generally known, I need not further refer to it. Mrs.Langtrywas a most graceful and pleasingRosalind. She acted with an earnestness worthy of a better cause, and afforded not a trace of the amateur. Of MissViolet ArmbrusterasHymen, I might say, with a friend who spent several hours in knocking off the impromptu—
TO A SEASONABLE VIOLET.
TO A SEASONABLE VIOLET.
Had always HymenSuch mien, such carriage,You ne'er would fly, men,The state of marriage!
Had always HymenSuch mien, such carriage,You ne'er would fly, men,The state of marriage!
Had always Hymen
Such mien, such carriage,
You ne'er would fly, men,
The state of marriage!
A New PieceA New PieceA New Piece.
Mr.Lawrence Cautley, asOrlando, had an uphill part. At times (thanks to the author) he appeared in situations that were absolutely ridiculous. For instance, he leaves an old retainer (capitally played by that soundest of sound actors, Mr.Everill) dying of starvation, and, sword in hand, appears at a pic-nic of the banishedDuke, to demand refreshment. "I almost die for food, and let me have it," saysOrlando, and is welcomed by theDuketo his table. And what doesOrlandodo? Does he seize the boar's head, or something equally attractive, and rush back to his fainting servitor with the prize? Not a bit of it! He leisurely delivers fourteen lines of blank verse about the "shade of melancholy boughs," "the creeping hours of time," and "blushing, hides his sword!" In my neighbourhood happened to be one of the greatest advocates of our generation, and I heard this legal luminary whisper, "while that fellow is talking, the old servant will die of starvation," and the legal luminary was entirely and absolutely right.Adam wouldhave died of starvation while his garrulous master was posturing. A country wench calledAudreywas admirably impersonated by MissMarion Lea, and the remainder of the cast was, on the whole, satisfactory. Stay, it is only just that I should single out for special commendation Mr.Arthur Bourchier, who played a character, to whom reference was frequently made as "the melancholyJaques," faultlessly. Here again the author committed an indiscretion.Jaques(by the way, why was not Mr.Sugden'srôle described as, "the more melancholyTouchstone?") is permitted to stop the action of the piece to deliver some thirty lines commencing with the trite truism, "all the world's a stage." Mr.Bourchierspoke his words with excellent discretion, but I cannot help thinking that, in the cause of Art, the speech should have been cut out, and I have no doubt, that Mr.Bourchier, as a true artist, will cordially agree with me.
And so, to quote Mrs.Langtryin the Epilogue, "farewell;" but in spite of what you have said to the contrary, I am still of opinion, my dear Editor, thatAs You Like Itmust have been originally intended for Mr. and Mrs.German Reed'sEntertainment, minus Mr.Corney Grain.
Sincerely Yours,
A Correspondent Without a Memory.
Art-Auctioneer's Religion, "Christie-anity."
Art-Auctioneer's Religion, "Christie-anity."
cartoon
In periods of sleep, despair,Of aberration, we have guessedWe were not altogether there,But seldom known where was the rest.Our Astral Bodies wander far,Whenever they will not be missed.Strange things in earth and heaven areFor the devout theosophist.YoungWilfridwooed the wealth ofClare;But ah, in spite of golden dearth,His mind and heart approved more fairKate'sintellect and moral worth."Prudence my steps inspire!" he said;And automatically toThe residence ofClarehe sped,And gained an instant's interview."Fairest," he cried, "my homage deepAh, not your rank, your wealth command!These idle baubles, lady, keep.Give me alone this lily hand!""I will," she said. (The dinner gongThat moment sounded.) "Haste away;But meet me in the social throngTo-morrow—that is, Saturday."That self-same hour—the clock struck eight—In Holloway began to museThe charming and the giftedKateOn logarithms most abstruse.Her door stood wide! Who entered there?'TwasWilfridspoke in hollow tone."With me life's logarithms share,Kate, that I cannot solve alone!""I will," she answered. "But begone!Strange chaperons inspect, explore.The Principal, the stairs is on!"He sighed, and vanished from the door.Next eve, amid the social throng,Serene stoodClareatWilfrid'sside;And dreaming not that aught was wrong,She gaily questioned and replied.TillWilfridsuddenly was 'ware,Close by, of a familiar face,And realised with wild despairAll, all the horror of the case!"Oh, what is wrong?" criedClarein awe.Calmly, he answered. "It was He,My Astral Body, that she saw.Oh, which am I? Oh, woe is me!"
In periods of sleep, despair,Of aberration, we have guessedWe were not altogether there,But seldom known where was the rest.
In periods of sleep, despair,
Of aberration, we have guessed
We were not altogether there,
But seldom known where was the rest.
Our Astral Bodies wander far,Whenever they will not be missed.Strange things in earth and heaven areFor the devout theosophist.
Our Astral Bodies wander far,
Whenever they will not be missed.
Strange things in earth and heaven are
For the devout theosophist.
YoungWilfridwooed the wealth ofClare;But ah, in spite of golden dearth,His mind and heart approved more fairKate'sintellect and moral worth.
YoungWilfridwooed the wealth ofClare;
But ah, in spite of golden dearth,
His mind and heart approved more fair
Kate'sintellect and moral worth.
"Prudence my steps inspire!" he said;And automatically toThe residence ofClarehe sped,And gained an instant's interview.
"Prudence my steps inspire!" he said;
And automatically to
The residence ofClarehe sped,
And gained an instant's interview.
"Fairest," he cried, "my homage deepAh, not your rank, your wealth command!These idle baubles, lady, keep.Give me alone this lily hand!"
"Fairest," he cried, "my homage deep
Ah, not your rank, your wealth command!
These idle baubles, lady, keep.
Give me alone this lily hand!"
"I will," she said. (The dinner gongThat moment sounded.) "Haste away;But meet me in the social throngTo-morrow—that is, Saturday."
"I will," she said. (The dinner gong
That moment sounded.) "Haste away;
But meet me in the social throng
To-morrow—that is, Saturday."
That self-same hour—the clock struck eight—In Holloway began to museThe charming and the giftedKateOn logarithms most abstruse.
That self-same hour—the clock struck eight—
In Holloway began to muse
The charming and the giftedKate
On logarithms most abstruse.
Her door stood wide! Who entered there?'TwasWilfridspoke in hollow tone."With me life's logarithms share,Kate, that I cannot solve alone!"
Her door stood wide! Who entered there?
'TwasWilfridspoke in hollow tone.
"With me life's logarithms share,
Kate, that I cannot solve alone!"
"I will," she answered. "But begone!Strange chaperons inspect, explore.The Principal, the stairs is on!"He sighed, and vanished from the door.
"I will," she answered. "But begone!
Strange chaperons inspect, explore.
The Principal, the stairs is on!"
He sighed, and vanished from the door.
Next eve, amid the social throng,Serene stoodClareatWilfrid'sside;And dreaming not that aught was wrong,She gaily questioned and replied.
Next eve, amid the social throng,
Serene stoodClareatWilfrid'sside;
And dreaming not that aught was wrong,
She gaily questioned and replied.
TillWilfridsuddenly was 'ware,Close by, of a familiar face,And realised with wild despairAll, all the horror of the case!
TillWilfridsuddenly was 'ware,
Close by, of a familiar face,
And realised with wild despair
All, all the horror of the case!
"Oh, what is wrong?" criedClarein awe.Calmly, he answered. "It was He,My Astral Body, that she saw.Oh, which am I? Oh, woe is me!"
"Oh, what is wrong?" criedClarein awe.
Calmly, he answered. "It was He,
My Astral Body, that she saw.
Oh, which am I? Oh, woe is me!"
East-ern Art in Bond Street.—"So let the world jog along as it will, I'll be Japanese-y still! Japanese-y, Japanese-y. I'll be Japanese-y still!" Can't help singing when we see Mr.East'spictures of Japan at the Fine Art Society's Gallery. This clever artist sojourned in that country from March to September. He kept his eyes open and his hand ever busy, and has brought back more than a hundred pictures—fresh, brilliant, and original. Such marvellous aspects of scenery, such wealth of colour, such novelty do we behold, that we long to start off at once to Yokohama, to Nikkô, to Hakone, to Tôkiyo, or any one of these delightful places—singing. "Let's quit this cold climate so dull and Britannical, And revel in sunshine and colour Japanical!"
Probable Publication.—Companion work toSardine and the Sardes, by the same author, to be entitledSardinia and the Sardines, illustrated in oils, and sold in tincases. Great reduction (at lunch time) on taking a quantity.
THE GREAT LINCOLN TRIAL STAKESTHE GREAT LINCOLN TRIAL STAKES AT LAMBETH.(As seen by Mr. Punch's Artist in a Fog.)
Lambeth is in darkness. A Policeman with a bull's-eye prevents my driver's energetic endeavours to drive through the Palace wall. I stumble into the large hall known as the Library. "Here," said I to myself, "is taking place the historic trial of the Bishop ofLincoln." The weird scene strongly resembles the Dream Trial inThe Bells, where the judges, counsel, and all concerned, are in a fog. Will the limelight flash suddenly upon the chief actor, the Bishop ofLincoln, as he takes the stage and re-acts the part that has caused the trial? ArchbishopBancroftfounded this library, so theatrical associations are natural. The only lights in the long and lofty library (excepting the clerical and legal) are a dozen or two wax candles and a few oil-lamps, but of daylight, gaslight, or electric, nothing. I can hear the voice ofJeune, Q.C., theJeunepremierof this ecclesiastical drama.
They have commenced proceedings. In this, the Archbishop's Court, they, very properly, begin with prayer. So does the House of Commons. "Any special form of orison?" I ask in a whisper of theJeunepremier, Q.C. "Yes," he answers in a subdued tone. "Look in your prayer-book for 'form of prayer to be used by those at sea.' That's it." Then he has to continue his argument.
At the further end of the library we have the Church, represented by an Archbishop and five Bishops; also a Judge, in a full-bottomed wig, who has evidently got in by mistake. Then we have the Law, represented by a row of Q.C.'s, their juniors, and attendants; and then a chorus of ordinary people, and common, or Thames Policemen. But where's the Bishop ofLincoln? Not among the Thames Policemen? Not in the Dock? Where? Aha! I see him. I focus him. I sketch him.Veni, vidi, vici!I show result on paper to Official. "Oh, no," he says; "that's not the Bishop, that'sThingummy," a Clerk of the Court, or something. HangThingummy! Official disappears. Lights, ho! a link on Lincoln! I determine to find him. The Bishops sit round three tables, on a raised platform. The Archbishop ofCanterburysits in the centre; on his right is the mysterious Judge, in full wig, and red robes; this is the Vicar-General, SirJames Parker Deane, Q.C.; next to him sits Assessor Dr.Atlay, Bishop ofHereford, who looks anything but happy; his hair has the appearance of being impelled by a strong draught, and his hand is to his face, as if the draught had produced toothache. The portly Bishop ofOxfordis on his right, and like the other corner man, the Bishop ofSalisbury, he scribbles away at a great rate in a huge manuscript book, or roll of foolscap. On the left of the Archbishop sits the Bishop ofLondon, who severely questions the Counsel, and evidently relishes acting the school-master over again. The Bishop ofRochestersitting onLondon'sleft, supplies the comedy element, so far as facial expression goes; his mouth is wide open, and he holds some papers in front of him in an attitude which suggests that he will presently break forth into song. But where, oh where, is the Bishop ofLincoln? Ah, I see him. I sketch him. I write his name under sketch, and show it to one of the Reporters. He scribbles across it, "Wrong." I write, "Where is he?" He waves me away. I believe the Bishop is at the other side of the long table, by his Counsel. There is a candle in front of him. I make my way to the other side. I find the Bishop is an old lady! I write, "Where does the Bishop ofLincolnsit?" on a piece of paper, and take it to an Official. He cannot see to read it, so some time is lost while he finds a convenient candle. He looks towards me, and points to a corner.
Good! At last! There is an old gentleman, in plain clothes it is true, but still otherwise every inch a Bishop or a Butler, or perhaps both in one,—say BishopButler. I have just finished a careful study of him, when he turns round and whispers, "Please, Sir, can you tell me which is the Bishop ofLincoln?" I shake my head angrily, and move away. I'll bide my time.Jeunepremieris answering the hundred-and-seventh question of the Bishop ofLondon, and is being "supported" by SirWalter Phillimore. It amuses me to hear these two clever Counsel, in this natural and ecclesiastical fog, carrying on an animated legal conversation with each other, ignoring the Bishops; not that the latter seem to mind, as they scribble merrily away at their folios. Are their Right Reverend Lordships engaged in writing their Sunday sermons?
But where istheBishop? He ought to be near his Counsel. The severe SirHorace Daveysits writing letters; next to him the affable Dr.Tristram, then the rubicund Mr.Dankwerts, but no Bishop. One o'clock! The Bishops rise for Lunch and Levée. "Where, oh where! is the Bishop ofLincoln?" I askJeunepremier. "Quick—I want to sketch him before he leaves!"
"The Bishop!" returns the First Ecclesiastical Young Man, smiling. "Oh, he never comes near the place."ExitJeunepremier. I appeal to the austere SirHorace Davey. "I can't tell you," says sirHorace—"Daveysum, non Œdipus." And off he goes, to argue another sort of a case about Baird language and the Pelican Club. He will say no more. On this occasion only,HoraceisTacitus. I do not find the Bishop, and quit Lambeth.
Confound these BlacksLIKELY—VERY!"Confound these Blacks! They follow me everywhere!" "Yes, my dear Fellow; they take you for a Missionary!"
"Confound these Blacks! They follow me everywhere!" "Yes, my dear Fellow; they take you for a Missionary!"
Therestaurateurevidently considered that he "didn't kill a pig every day," when he stuckLe Petit Ducfor this now historic bill, which, as given in full by theFigaro,Mr. Punchreproduces here for general edification:—
Un artichaut barigoule12fr.Un châteaubriand16"1 sole10"1 noix de veau10"1 homard25"1 salade3"1 caneton aux navets25"6 écrevisses15"Hors d'œuvre5"Une assiette de fruits16"
Whenever it may be the lot of any distinguished Member of the Upper House to be sent to the Tower of London, or a Member of the Lower to be shut up in the Clock Tower, the Provisional Government for the time being will know what to charge for its provisions. Therestaurateuraddressed his little account, "À Sa Magesté (sic) Louis Philippe-Robert('Robert' was in it)Duc d'Orléans." In stylingLe Petit Duc"His Majesty" the artfulrestaurateurevidently had in view a futurerestauration. Therestaurateur, who expected to provide the young Duke ofOrleanswith a second dinner, of course quotedShakspeare, and exclaimed enthusiastically—
"I must go victual Orleans forthwith!"
"I must go victual Orleans forthwith!"
Henry V., Part I., Act I., Sc. 5.
But the youthful Duc or Duckling wasn't to be caught and stuffed a second time.
A Saturday Series.—"Hunters' Dams" was the heading of an article in last week'sSaturday Review. As the counter-jumper politely says, "What will be the next article?" We look forward with interest to "Shooters' Swearings," "Anglers' Affirmations," "Coursers' Curses," and a few others that may suggest themselves.
Royal Society of Painter-Etchers.—At the pleasant Gallery, 5A, Pall Mall East, is a good show of needle-work. One of the most prolific contributors is a certain clever gentleman whose name may possibly be familiar to some of our readers, oneRembrandt Van Rhyn, who sends no less than a hundred works.
(By Mr. Punch's Own Type-Writer.)
(By Mr. Punch's Own Type-Writer.)
No. III.—THE YOUNG M.P.
No. III.—THE YOUNG M.P.
MODERN TYPES
For the proper production of the young M.P. there are many receipts, but only one is genuine. Take a rickety boy, and provide him with a wealthy father, slightly flavoured with a good social position and political tastes. Send him to a public school, having first eliminated as much youthfulness as is compatible with continued existence. Add some flattering masters, and a distaste for games. Season with the idea that he is born for a great career. Let him be, if possible, verbose and argumentative, and inclined to contradict his elders. Eliminate more youth and transfer hot to a University. Add more verbosity, and a strong extract of priggishness. Throw in a degree, and two speeches at the Union. Set him to simmer for two years in a popular constituency, and serve him up, a chattering pedant of twenty-four, at Westminster.
In the course of the contest which resulted in his return to the House of Commons, the young M.P. will have tasted the sweets of advertisement by seeing his name constantly placarded in huge letters on coloured posters. He will have been constantly referred to as "Our popular young Candidate," and he will thus have become convinced that the welfare of his country imperatively demands his immediate presence and permanent continuance in Parliament. When the genial butcher who, besides retailing the carcases of sheep and oxen, sits in the Town Council, and presides over one of the local political associations, declared, as he often has at other contests and of other candidates, that never, in the course of his political career, had he listened to more mature wisdom, adorned with nobler eloquence, than that which had fallen from "Our young and popular Candidate," he was merely satisfying a burning desire for rhetorical expansion, without any particular regard to accuracy of statement. But the candidate himself greedily gulps that lump of flattery, and all the praise which is the conventional sauce for every political gander. On this he grows fat, and being, in addition, puffed up by a very considerable conceit of his own, he eventually presents an aspect which is not pleasing, and assumes (towards those who are not voters in the Constituency) a manner which can scarcely be described as modest.
The majority of his Constituents regard him simply as an automatic machine for the regular distribution of large subscriptions. He regards himself as a being of great importance and capacity, and endowed with the power of acting as he likes, whilst the local wirepullers look upon him as a convenient mask, behind which they may the more effectively carry on their own petty schemes of personal ambition.
As a Candidate, moreover, the young M.P. will have discovered that the triumph of his party depends not merely or even chiefly upon the due exposition of those political principles with which he may have lately crammed himself by the aid of a stray volume ofMill, and aCompendium of Political History, but rather upon the careful observance of local custom and local etiquette, and the ceaseless effort to trump his adversary's every trick. He will thus have become the President of the local Glee Club, the Patron of a Scientific Association, and a local Dog Show, the Vice-President of four Cricket Clubs and of five Football Clubs, a Member of the Committee of the Hospital Ball, and of the Society for Improving the breed of Grey Parrots; to say nothing of the Guild for Promoting the happiness of Middle-aged Housemaids, and the local Association for the Distribution of Penny Buns, at cheap prices, to the deserving poor. Moreover, before he has discovered the true relation of benefit societies to politics, he will find himself a Member of the Odd Fellows, the Foresters, the Hearts of Oak, the Druids, and the Loyal and Ancient Order of Free and Accepted Buffaloes, with the right, conferred by the last-named Society, of being addressed on lodge nights as if he were a Baronet, or, at least, a Knight.
Having thus met and shaken hands with the working-man during his hours of festive relaxation, the young M.P. will be properly qualified for discussing those social questions which form the chief part of every aspirant's political baggage. Being gifted with a happy power of enunciating pompous platitudes with an air of profound conviction, and of spreading butter churned from the speeches of his leaders on the bread of political economy, he will be highly thought of at meetings of political leagues of either sex, or of both combined. It is necessary that he should catch the eye of the Speaker during his first Session. He will afterwards talk to his Constituents of the forms of the House in the tone of one who is familiar with mysteries, and is accustomed to mingle on terms of equality with the great and famous. He will bring in a Bill which an M.P. who was once young, has abandoned, and, finding his measure blocked, will discourse with extreme bitterness of the obstruction by which the efforts of rising political genius are oppressed.
In London Society the young M.P. may be recognised by an air of conscious importance as of one who carries the burden of the State upon his shoulders, and desires to impress the fact upon others. He may be flattered by being consulted as to the secret intentions of foreign Cabinets or the prospects of party divisions. He will then speak at length of his leaders as "we," and will probably announce, in a voice intended not so much for his immediate neighbours as for the thoughtless crowd beyond, that "we shall smash them in Committee," and that "Akers-Douglas" (orArnold Morley, as the case may be) "has asked me to answer the fellows on the other side to-morrow. I am not sure I shall speak," the MS. of his speech being already complete. On the following day he will speak during the dinner-hour to an audience of four, and, having escaped being counted out, will be greatly admired by his Constituents. He will assiduously attend all social functions, and will not object to seeing his name in the paragraphs of Society papers. It is not absolutely necessary that the young M.P. should be bald, but it is essential that he should wear a frock-coat. It is well, also, that his dress should be neat, but not ostentatiously spruce, lest the more horny-handed of his supporters should take umbrage at an offensive assumption of superiority over those whose votes keep him in place.
Custom demands that the young M.P. should travel extensively, and that he should enlighten his home-staying Constituents as to the designs of Barataria, the labour question in Lilliput, and the prospects of federation in Laputa, by means of letters addressed to the local newspaper. He will also interview foreign potentates and statesmen, and cause the fact to be published through the medium ofReuter. On his return, he will write a book, and deliver a lecture before the Mutual Improvement Society of the town he represents. He will then marry, in order that he may attend Mothers' meetings by deputy, and cause his wife to make lavish purchases at a local bazaar, which he will have opened. Shortly afterwards he will select an unpopular fad, which certain members of his own party approve, and will take a vigorous stand against it on principle, thus earning the commendation of all parties as a man of independent views, and unswerving rectitude.
If, at a subsequent election, he should chance to be rejected at the poll, he will publicly profess that he is delighted to be relieved of an uncongenial burden, whilst assuring his friends in private that the country in which able and honest men are neglected must be in a very bad way. He will, however, publish an address to the electors, in which he will claim a moral victory, and will assure them that it will ever be one of his proudest memories to have been connected with their constituency. He will spend his period of retirement on the stump, and, unless he be speedily furnished with another Constituency, will entertain doubts as to the sanity of his party leaders. Subsequently he will find himself again in the House of Commons, and, having been spoken of as a young man for about a quarter of a century, will at last become an Under-Secretary of State, and a grandfather, in the same year.
Master Singers.—Sir,—In accordance with your request, I visited the Meistersingers' Club (an institution which, seemingly from its name, has been established as a memorial toWagner), where a "dramatic performance" was given last week that had many points of interest to the languid pleasure-seeker, wearily thirsting for fresh sources of amusement. The evening's entertainment commenced with a play obligingly described by the author as a farce, which was followed by a new and original operetta, containing some very pretty music by Mr.Percy Reeve, with the exquisitely droll title ofThe Crusader and the Craven. The one lady and two gentlemen who took part in this were, from a prompter's point of view, nearly perfect. Mr.R. HendonasSir Rupert de Malvoisie(the Crusader) suggested, by his accent and gestures, that he must have come from the East—how far East, it boots not to inquire. MissFlorence Darleywas a goodLady Alice, and Mr.J. A. Shalean efficient "Craven." Later on an operatic performance is threatened. If the thrilling series of arrangements on the back of the Programme is to be accepted as authentic, the members of the Club will be invited to havePatience. It would be difficult to find a more appropriate accessory to a Night with the Meistersingers. No one asked me to have any supper, Yours,A Hand at Clubs.
pointing finger
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