The Opera time began in May,And ended but last Saturday.We hope it has been made to payChorus.Augustus Druriolanus!Solo.Not in the days ofMarioWas there anImpresario,Arranger ofscenario,Who knew so "where he are!" he o-peratical campaign can planWith sure success! no better manFor operatic venture thanChorus (in unison).Augustus Druriolanus!
The Opera time began in May,And ended but last Saturday.We hope it has been made to payChorus.Augustus Druriolanus!Solo.Not in the days ofMarioWas there anImpresario,Arranger ofscenario,Who knew so "where he are!" he o-peratical campaign can planWith sure success! no better manFor operatic venture thanChorus (in unison).Augustus Druriolanus!
The Opera time began in May,
And ended but last Saturday.
We hope it has been made to pay
Chorus.Augustus Druriolanus!
Solo.Not in the days ofMario
Was there anImpresario,
Arranger ofscenario,
Who knew so "where he are!" he o-
peratical campaign can plan
With sure success! no better man
For operatic venture than
Chorus (in unison).Augustus Druriolanus!
All.
The Opera time, &c. (as above).
Maxim for Cyclists.—"Try-cycle before youBuy-cycle."
THE PARLIAMENTARY SWIMMING BATH.(A Seasonable Suggestion.)"It is proposed to establish Baths at the Houses of Parliament for the use of Members."—Daily Press.
(A Seasonable Suggestion.)
"It is proposed to establish Baths at the Houses of Parliament for the use of Members."—Daily Press.
REAL ENJOYMENT.Non-Golfer (middle-aged, rather stout, who would like to play, and has been recommended it as healthy and amusing)."Well, I cannot see where the Excitement comes in in this Game!"Caddie."Eh, mon, there's more Swearing used over Golf than any other Game! D'ye no ca' that Excitement?"
Non-Golfer (middle-aged, rather stout, who would like to play, and has been recommended it as healthy and amusing)."Well, I cannot see where the Excitement comes in in this Game!"
Caddie."Eh, mon, there's more Swearing used over Golf than any other Game! D'ye no ca' that Excitement?"
EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
House of Commons, Monday, July 23.—Quite like old times to hearTim Healysaying a few plain things about landlords;Prince Arthurreplying;Timgrowling out occasional contradiction; whilstO'Brienhotly interrupts. To make the reminiscence completeJosephcontributes a speech in which he heaps contumely and scorn on representatives of Irish nationality.Timreminds him how different was his attitude, how varied his voice, at epoch of Kilmainham Treaty.
Timhas a rough but effective way of fastening upon a name or phrase, and even blatantly reiterating it. Thus, whenOld Morality, in his kindly manner, once alluded to a visit paid to him at a critical time by his "old friend Mr.Walter,"Timleaped down upon it, and, characteristically leaving out the customary appellation, filled the air with scornful reference to "my old friendWalter." To-night, desiring to bring into sharp contrastJoseph'spresent attitude towards Ireland and the landlord party with that assumed by him twelve years ago, he insisted upon calling the Arrears Bill of 1882 "the Chamberlain Act." It wasn'tJoseph'spersonal possession or invention any more than it was theSquire of Malwood's. But that way of putting it doubly suitedTim'spurpose. It permitted him, without breach of order, to allude by name to the member for West Birmingham; there's a good deal in a name when the syllables are hissed forth with infinite hate and scorn. Also it accentuated the changed positionvis-à-visIreland to which further reflection and honest conviction have brought the prime mover in the Kilmainham Treaty.
Irish Members, forgetting their own quarrels withTimas he fustigated the common enemy, roared with delight. A broad smile lighted up the serried ranks of the Liberals.Prince Arthurwore a decorous look of sympathy with his wronged right hon. friend. The Duke ofDevonshire,—"late the Leader of the Liberal Party,"—from the Peers' Gallery surveyed the scene with stolid countenance.Joseph, orchid-decked, sat in his corner seat below the gangway, staring straight before him as one who saw not neither did he hear.
Business done.—Tim Healygoes on the rampage. Evicted Tenants Bill read second time.
Tuesday.—As has been noted on an earlier occasion, Britannia has no bulwarks, no towers along her steep. It is, consequently, the more comforting to know thatEllis Ashmead-Bartlett(Knight) keeps his eye on things abroad as they affect the interests of British citizens. The Member forSarktells me he has a faded copy of theSkibbereen Eaglecontaining its famous note of warning toNapoleon the Third. Was published at time of the irruption of Colonels. These gentlemen, sitting on boulevards sipping absinthe, used to twirl their moustache and—sacrrée!—growl hints of what they would do when they as conquerors walked down Piccadillee, and rioted in the riches of Leestar Square.
Napoleon the Thirddid not escape suspicion of fanning this flame. Howbeit theSkibbereen Eaglecame out one Saturday morning with a leading article commencing: "We have our eye onNapoleon the Third, Emperor of the French."
ThusEllis Ashmead-Bartlett(Knight) digs eagle claws into the aerie heights of the Clock Tower, and watches over the interests and cares of an Empire on which the sun rarely sets.
"All the kinder of him,"Sarksays, "since they cannot be said directly to concern him. In an effort to redress the balance between the Old World and the New, United States has lent usAshmead. The temporary character of the arrangement makes only the more generous his concern for the interests of the Empire in which he lodges."
In the peculiar circumstances of the case those able young men,Edward GreyandSydney Buxton, might be a little less openly contemptuous in their treatment of the Patriotic Emigrant. Hard to say at which office door, Foreign or Colonial,Ashmeadbangs his head with more distressful result. He takes them in succession, with dogged courage that would in anyone else excite admiration. Of the two janitors, perhapsEdward Grey'stouch is the lightest. He replies with a solemn gravity that puzzlesAshmead, and keeps him brooding tillSpeakerstays the merry laughter of the House by calling on the next question.Buxtonis more openly contemptuous, more severely sarcastic, and sometimes, whenAshmead'sprattling, of no consequence in the House, might possibly have serious effect when cabled to the Transvaal where they think all Members of Parliament are responsible men, he smartly raps out. Between thetwo the Patriot—made in Brooklyn, plated in Sheffield—has a bad time of it. Has long learned how much sharper than a serpent's tooth is the tongue of an Under Secretary of State.
Business done.—Second Reading of Equalisation of London Rates Bill moved.
Thursday.—Lords took Budget Bill in hand to-night.Markissasked for week's interval. This looked like fighting. At least there would be a reconnaissance in force led by theMarkiss. House full; peerless Peeresses looked down from side gallery;Markissin his place;Devonshirein his—not Chatsworth; that going to be shut up; but corner seat below gangway;Roseberyhovering about, settled down at length in seat of Leader. Clerk read Orders of the Day. "Finance Bill second reading." "I move the Bill be read a second time," saidRosebery, politely taking his hat off to lady in gallery immediately opposite. Then he sat down.
Here was a pretty go! ExpectedPremierwould make brilliant speech in support of Bill; theMarkisswould reply; fireworks would fizz all round, and, though perhaps Budget Bill might be saved,Squire of Malwoodwould be pummelled.Roseberytakes oddest, most unparliamentary view of his duty. The Lords, he said, when last week subject was mooted, have nothing to do with Budget Bill, unless indeed they are prepared to throw it out. "Will you do that?" he asked. "No," saidMarkiss, looking as if he would much rather say "Yes." "Very well then," saidRosebery, "all speeches on the subject must be barren."
This to the Barons seemed lamentably personal.
Roseberyillustrated his point by declining for his own part to make a speech. Still there was talk; barren speeches for three hours; audience gradually dwindling: only a few left to witness spectacle ofHalsbury'sblue blood boiling over with indignation at sacrilegious assault on landed aristocracy.
"If you want to make your flesh creep," saysSark, "you should hearHalsbury, raising to full height his majestic figure, throwing the shadow of his proudly aquiline profile fiercely on the steps of the Throne where some minions of the Government cowered, exclaim, 'My Lords, I detect in this Bill a hostile spirit towards the landed aristocracy.'"
"AHalsbury! aHalsbury!" menacingly mutteredFevershamand some other fiery crusaders.
For the moment, so deeply was the assembly stirred, a conflict between the two Houses seemed imminent. But Black Rod coming to take away the Mace the tumult subsided, and LordHalsburywent home in a four-wheeler.
Business done.—Budget read second time in Lords.
Friday.—Scene in Commons quite changed; properties remain but leading characters altered. After unprecedented run, Budget Bill withdrawn; Irish Evicted Tenants Bill now underlined on bills.John Morleysucceeds theSquire; Irish Members take up the buzzing of the no longer Busy B's.
As for theSquire, he takes well-earned, though only comparative rest; preparing for congratulatory feast spread for him next Wednesday. Like good boy whose work is done is now going to have his dinner. AlsoRigbyandBob Reid, who bore with him the heat and burden of the day. It's a sort of Parliamentary Millennium. TheChancellor of the Exchequersits down with theAttorney-General; theSolicitor-Generalputs his hand on the cockatrice's den (situate in the neighbourhood ofTommy Bowles); andFrank Lockwoodhas drawn them.
Three Good Boys, who, having done their Work, get their Dinner.
Business done.—In Committee on Evicted Tenants Bill.
Mrs. R. observes in a newspaper that a man was summoned for "illegal distress." She is much puzzled at this, as she thought England was a free country, where people might be as unhappy as they liked!
WPrivate Box.
ell, my dearMr. Punch, you, who hear everything, will be glad to receive from me the particulars of our Annual Farewell Charity Fête, given this year at the Grafton Gallery for the excellent object of providing the undeserving with pink carnations. It was a bazaar, a concert, and a fancy-dress ball, all in one; everyone who is anyone was there, and as they were all in costume, nobody could tell who was who. It was indeed a very brilliant scene.
I refused to hold a stall, for I had enough to do writing out autographs of celebrities (they sell splendidly), but it was hard work, and there was an absurd fuss just because I made the trifling mistake of signing "Yours truly,George Meredith" across a photograph ofArthur Roberts. What did it matter? I really cannot see that it made the slightest difference; the person had asked for an autograph ofMeredithand he got it,anda portrait ofRobertsinto the bargain! so he ought to have been satisfied; but some people are strangely exacting! There was a great run on the autograph ofSarah Bernhardtand I grew quite tired of signingYvette,Rosebery, andCissie Loftus, however, it was all for the charity. I went as a Perfect Gentleman, and it was quite a good disguise—hardly anyone knew me! I sawSir Bruce Skenedressed as a Temperance Lecturer;Gringoirewas there as theEnemy of the Peoplewith a bunch of violets in his button-hole; theNew Boywent asBecket, andCharley's Auntas theYellow Aster.The Gentleman of Francelooked well asThe Prisoner of Zenda. I recognised our old friendDorian Grayin a gorgeous costume of purple and pearls, with a crown on his head of crimson roses. He said he had come as a Prose Poem, and he was selling Prose Poem-granates for the good of the charity.
Here are some scraps of conversation I overheard in the crowd:—
Enemy of the People(toSirBruce Skene). Been having a good time lately?
Sir Bruce.Rather! Tremendous! I've been doing nothing but backing winners, and, what's more—(chuckling)—I've at last got that astronomer fellow to take my wife and child off my hands. Isn't that jolly?
Enemy of the People.Ah, really? She is coming to us in the autumn, you know.
Vivien, the Modern Eve(to theNew Boy). I cannot stay here any longer. They never dust the drawing-room, the geraniums are planted all wrong, and I do not like the anti-macassars. Will you come with me?
New Boy.What a lark it would be! But I'm afraid I must stay and look after my white mice. You see,Bullock Major——
Lady Belton(after her marriage,toCharley's Aunt,tearfully). He doesn't understand me, Aunty.
Charley's Aunt.Never mind, my dear. Don't cry! You shall come with me to Brazil; you've heard me mention, perhaps, it's the place where the nuts come from; and we'll get up an amateur performance of thePantomime Rehearsal!
We had all sorts of amusements. Under a palm, a palmist was prophesying long journeys, second marriages, and affairs of the heart to the white hand of giggling incredulity. Beautiful musicians, in blue uniforms, with gold Hungarian bands round their waists, were discoursing the sweetest strain that ever encouraged the conversation of the unmusical. A feature of the bazaar, that I invented, was a mechanical Sphinx behind a curtain. They asked it questions—chiefly, what would win the Leger—and put a penny in the slot. There never was any answer, and that was the great joke!
The whole thing was undoubtedly a wonderful success—and I knew it would be. I believed in myFête, having always been rather a fatalist.
And, in the rush of a worldly, frivolous existence, how great a pleasure it is to think we should have aided—if ever so little—in brightening the lives of the poor young fellows, kept, perhaps, all the season through, in or near the hot pavement of Piccadilly, and with not so much as a buttercup to remind them of the green fields, the golden sunlight, the blue sky of the glorious country. To have helped in so noble a cause as ours is a privilege that made us leave the bazaar with tears of sympathy in our eyes, feeling better and purer men and women. Long, long may the button-hole of improvidence be filled by the wired carnation of judicious charity.
Believe me, dearMr. Punch,
Yours very truly,
"Jemima the Penwoman."
P.S.—An absurd name they gave me on account of the autograph incident. You remember what "Jim the Penman" was? Of course, but there's no chance of my becoming thePen-"Wiper"in the bosom of a family.Au revoir!
Transcriber Notes:Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted.
Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.
The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.
Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted.