The poets sing of a Golden Age.Are we trying to start its fellow?TheYellow Asteris all the rage;The Yellow Races in war engage;The Primrose League wild war doth wage,And the much-boomed Book in cover and pageLike the Age itself is—Yellow.Well, Yellow's the tint of Gold—and Brass!Of the Golden Calf—and the Golden Ass!Of the "livery" face and the faded leaf,But 'tis tedious, very, beyond belief.I own I am little inclined to smileOn the colour of age, decay, and bileAnd mustard, andOthello;I'm tired, I own, of it's very look,And I feel compelled to cock a snookAt the Yellow Primrose, the Yellow Book.Though an Age indeedThat runs to seedIs like to run to Yellow!
The poets sing of a Golden Age.Are we trying to start its fellow?TheYellow Asteris all the rage;The Yellow Races in war engage;The Primrose League wild war doth wage,And the much-boomed Book in cover and pageLike the Age itself is—Yellow.Well, Yellow's the tint of Gold—and Brass!Of the Golden Calf—and the Golden Ass!Of the "livery" face and the faded leaf,But 'tis tedious, very, beyond belief.I own I am little inclined to smileOn the colour of age, decay, and bileAnd mustard, andOthello;I'm tired, I own, of it's very look,And I feel compelled to cock a snookAt the Yellow Primrose, the Yellow Book.Though an Age indeedThat runs to seedIs like to run to Yellow!
Machine Gunner
People in field
Little Girl (of inquiring mind, to Stud Groom, looking at a Mare in field with Foal)."How old is that little Horse?"Stud Groom."Well, Missy, he's only Five Days old."Little Girl (to her Governess)."Oh, Nana, didIrun about the Fields when I was Five Days old?"
Sunday.—How exhausting is London life! Up late, night and morning. Club. See summer number of illustrated paper. Pictures of pretty girls, reclining in punts, hammocks, or deck-chairs, doing nothing, men helping them. True holiday for jaded Londoner. Perhaps better without pretty girls. Even more reposeful. Must get right away. Secluded place. No pretty girls. That tiny innJonestold me about. Miles from everywhere.
Monday.—At Tiny Inn. Fine afternoon. Feel quite happy. With summer clothes, summer numbers, flannels, straw hat, and other suitable things. Seven miles from station. Beautifully clean. Perfectly quiet. Weather changing. Raining. Landlord says, "Soon over." Eggs and bacon for supper. To bed early.
Tuesday.—Wake at five. Up at six to enjoy morning air. Eggs and bacon for breakfast. Still raining. Landlord says, "Very remarkable, since in this place it never rains." Somehow the clouds always pass over neighbouring village, following the course of the river, the ridge of the hills, or something. Have noticed in all country places that the clouds always do this, except whenIam there. Impossible to lounge under a tree in this rain. Stop indoors, smoke, and read summer numbers. Eggs and bacon for lunch. Rain going on steadily. Put on flannels, go out. Drenched. Eggs and bacon for dinner. Landlord says they hope to give me some meat to-morrow. Butcher calls once a week apparently. Wet evening. Somewhat tired of sitting on horsehair sofa with damaged springs. Know all the summer numbers by heart. To bed at ten.
Wednesday.—Wake at four. Toss about till six. Then up. Still raining. Breakfast,—eggs and bacon. Landlord says if I cross two fields I shall find the river and a punt. Thanks. Will wait till rain stops. He says it is sure to stop soon. Ask him if one can get a London paper. Says they sometimes have one at the stationer's, four miles off, but generally only when ordered. Lends me a local paper of last week. Reduced to summer numbers again. Begin to wish there were some pretty girls here, after all. They might enliven things. After lunch,—of eggs and bacon,—resolve to go out. Ask landlord where one can go. Don't like to ask "if any girls about anywhere?" Accidentally landlorddoeshappen to mention FarmerMuggeridge'sdaughters. I pretend indifference, but inquire as to direction ofMuggeridge'sfarm. Lose my way. Wander helplessly. Steady downpour. Return, drenched. Butcher has not been. Eggs and bacon for dinner. Smoke, and read advertisements—plenty of them—in summer numbers. To bed at nine.
Thursday.—Wake at three. Toss about till seven. Then breakfast—usual dish. Rain, not quite so heavy. With fuller directions as to road, start hopefully forMuggeridge'sfarm. Arrive there. Heavy rain again.Muggeridgeloafing about. Country people always loaf about in rain. They seem to enjoy it. Chat with him. He asks me in to have some cider. Accept. Chance of seeing charming daughters. They enter! Now!... Oh! awful!... Cider acid. Obliged to drink it. Hurry back. Lunch. Usual dish. Still raining. Call in landlord, and ask eagerly about trains to London. The next is to-morrow morning, at 8.20. Give way to despair. Refuse eggs and bacon for dinner. Bed eight.
Friday.—Leave in landlord's cart at seven, after usual breakfast. Still raining steadily. Gave landlord all those summer numbers to amuse future weather-bound visitors with imaginary pictures of rural happiness. London once more! Hurrah! Dinner—noteggs and bacon. Theatre. Smoke at club. AvoidJones. TellSmithI know the sweetest place for country peace and seclusion. He writes down the address eagerly. Those summer numbers will amuse him. To bed—any time!
At the Window.—Judging from the tone ofJames Payn'sdelightfulNote-Bookthis week, one fears that charming and cheery gossiper has been "laid up," has been compelled to take his "Notes" from a sick-couch at a window—has, in fact, for the time, become a window-Payn! Well, a window is no bad coign of vantage for an observant penman. "The World from a Window" would make an excellent book, andJames Paynwould be the very man to write it. Let Mr.Paynthink of it.Mr. Punch'spresent purpose, however, is to wish his good friend and favourite writer speedy emancipation from the bonds of sickness and compulsory window-watching.
Prehistoric scene
The Naval Manœuvres afforded much pleasurable Excitement to those concerned!
"Rusticus," who is clearly "Rusticus Expectans," wasmoved to write to theChronicleon July 31st, to say that,though not a rich man, he lives in a pretty Surrey village within an eightpenny return railway fare of the City; and has a fairly large and quiet garden, with field, &c. "The trees are all at their finest," he proceeds, "the flowers looking very gay and walking in the garden." Capital fun this, when flowers actually walk about. But no! it's "walking in the garden to-day the thought came to me," so it's a walking thought, comparable, doubtless, to a running commentary. Anyhow. "Rusticus" is moved—by the thought of a "tired working-man or band of City workers" who would find in his garden pleasure on a quiet Saturday afternoon—to make an offer. Here are his words:—
"I am a bachelor, therefore I say, men, you are welcome to my very simple hospitality if it is of any use to you. I can do with a limited number every or any Saturday. Any creed or class is welcome. All I stipulate for is honest souls. Come and smoke and talk under the trees and spend a quiet time away from the town. I simply condition—no publicity or fuss, the giving and acceptance of the invitation quietly, honestly, brother to brother. Would you, Sir, forward any letters on to me?"
This is of course an example which will be followed, andMr. Punchhas already had the following letter (amongst others), which he now prints with pleasure.
Sir,—Owing to the Death Duties, I am no longer a rich man, but I have a little house in Piccadilly, not more than a twopenny 'bus ride from Charing Cross. It has occurred to me that some hungry working-man might like to drop in to a quiet little dinner some night. I am a Duke, therefore I say, comrades in depression, you are welcome to my roof, if it's of any use to you. I can dine a hundred or so of you any or every night. All I stipulate for is that there shall be no speaking, for speaking bores me horribly.
D-v-nsh-re.
Golfer and boy
Jones."Well, my little Man, what areyouthinking about?"London Boy (who has never been out of Whitechapel before)."I'm thinkin' it's time yer Mother put yer intoTrousers!"
Rates, rates, rates,Of an exigent L. C. C.!And I'm glad they can't hear the languageWe utter so frequentlee!O well for the excellent ChairmanFor trying to reduce them a bit!O well for those Councillors waryWho on costly "improvements" sit!And "demand-notes" still go on,And our pockets are steadily bled;But "O (we oft sigh) for a tenpenny rate,And the sins of a 'Board' that is dead!"Rates, rates, rates!Thanks, men of the L. C. C.!We trust the farthing now taken offWill never go back to ye!
Rates, rates, rates,Of an exigent L. C. C.!And I'm glad they can't hear the languageWe utter so frequentlee!
O well for the excellent ChairmanFor trying to reduce them a bit!O well for those Councillors waryWho on costly "improvements" sit!
And "demand-notes" still go on,And our pockets are steadily bled;But "O (we oft sigh) for a tenpenny rate,And the sins of a 'Board' that is dead!"
Rates, rates, rates!Thanks, men of the L. C. C.!We trust the farthing now taken offWill never go back to ye!
Scene—A Ball Room at the Mansion House.
He. (resting).Good floor, isn't it?
She.Quite. But tell me, have you been attending the Congress?
He.Of course; that is why I received an invitation to-night.
She.And you found the lectures and all that most interesting?
He.Yes, very; and then there were the Opera and the theatres in the evening.
She.But do let us talk about the Congress. Did you not discuss sanitation?
He.Discussed it very much indeed. So fortunate too that we had the meeting before everybody had left town.
She.Yes. But did you not inquire into microbes and all that?
He.Certainly; had a lot of talk about them, and finished them all up just in time not to interfere with Goodwood.
She.And I suppose you found out the way to keep everyone in perfect health?
He.That was the idea, and yet we floored Lords and the Oval.
She.But oughtn't every town to be in a satisfactory condition?
He.Why, yes. But that depends upon the season of the year. Of course, some places are deadly dull when nothing's going on from a social point of view.
She.I mean from a health point of view—oughtn't everything nowadays to be simply excellent?
He.Yes, of course. That's the modern theory.
She.And yet, according to the papers, London is full of fever and insanity.
He.I daresay; the Press men generally get their figures right.
She.But if, theoretically, everything is right, why should most things be practically wrong?
He.You must really ask me another.
She.But you are strong upon health, are you not?
He.Very—in the lecture-room. And now, if you are rested, we will have another turn.
[Exeunt dancing.
House of Commons, Monday, July 30.—Having settled Budget Bill, and, incidentally, broughtChancellor of Exchequerto Death's Door by observations on Death Duties,Tommy Bowleshas time to turn his attention to another social question. Looks as if he were going to take the Bicycle Fiend by the scruff of the neck. Herein he has opportunity of deepening and enlarging his hold on affection and esteem of British public. Bicycle Fiend has increased, is increasing, and, at least, ought to be registered. He comes upon the hapless rider or pedestrian in quiet country lanes, brushing him aside as if the earth were the Fiend's and all the highways thereof. Bad enough in the country, where there is room to get out of the way. In crowded streets of metropolis, Fiend pounces round unsuspected corners upon elderly gentlemen, scattering streams of peaceful passengers at peremptory sound of fearsome bell.
Tommy B. got his eye on him. Not without suspicion that this new departure has something to do with old, now closed, campaign against the Budget.Tommywarned theSquirewhilst in Committee that his Death Duties would not reap the full harvest anticipated. Every little helps. What with actual concussions and sudden frights, Bicycle Fiend leads in course of financial year to considerable succession of property changing on sudden death, with concurrent toll paid to Treasury. If the Bicycle Fiend can only be placed on same footing as the common carrier, or the harried hansom-cab driver, the death-rate would appreciably decrease, and with it the flow of legacy and succession duties.Tommymay or may not look thus far ahead. No matter, if he only succeeds in restraining a nuisance that is a disgrace to a civilised community.
The Member forSarktells me he has a Short Way with the B. F., which makes him to considerable extent indifferent to slower action ofHome Secretary, who has evidently never had his shins barked by this agency.Sarksays when he takes his walks abroad he usually carries a stick or umbrella. When, crossing a road, he hears the tinkle of the Fiend's bell, insolently and imperatively orderinghim out of the way on pain of being run over, he, instead of flying for his life, as is the use of the ordinary citizen, carelessly throws stick or umbrella lance-wise across hollow of right or left arm, according as the Fiend approaches from one direction or the other. Thus armed he leisurely pursues his way. If the Fiend continues on the track, he will run with face or chest on to the point of the umbrella. As that would be inconvenient to him, he slows up or goes on another tack, and when he arrives home writes a letter to theBicycling Blister, indignantly denouncing a street passenger who wouldn't get out of his way.
Business done.—Vote on Account through Committee.
Tuesday.—"Prince Arthur," saidSark, looking across at the Front Opposition Bench whilstCourtneywas speaking, "succeeds in hiding all traces of storm behind a smiling countenance.Joseph, on the contrary, more ingenuous, less acute in practice of worldly wiles, enables one to realise, even at this long distance of time, whatBalak, the son ofZippor, King of Moab, looked like when he stood in the high places of Baal, and listened toBalaam'sremarks on the motion for the time-closure to be applied to the Children of Israel, who had pitched their tents in the plains of Moab beyond the Jordan at Jericho, and declined to budge at the bidding ofBalak."
Appearance of ParliamentaryBalaamon scene dramatically effective. Crowded House worked up to highest pitch of excitement by swift encounter, in whichJohn Morleyhad followedPrince Arthur, andJoseph, springing in from behind, had clouted theChief Secretaryon the head. TheSquirehad moved time-closure on Evicted Tenants Bill in speech the studied tameness and provoking brevity of which had riled Opposition much more than if he had belaboured them with Harcourtian phrase.Sage of Queen Anne's Gatesaid a few words, preparatory to packing up for holiday; thenCourtneyrose fromJoseph'sside to continue debate. Members, taking it for granted that he, possibly with some reservations in favour of Eviction Bill whose second reading he had supported, was about to say ditto toJosephon question of Closure, began to move towards door. Arrested byCourtney'ssolemn tone, and his expression of regret, evidently unfeigned, at deplorable condition in which the House found itself. "Woe to those through whom offences come!" criedCourtneyin voice which, as he said, was of one crying in the wilderness, and seemed for its perfect effect to lack only hirsute garb, stave and honeypot. "Through whom did the offence come? Surely," continued the Prophet, bending shaggy eyebrows upon the bench where the Busy B's hive, "the offence lies with those Members who, disregarding the true uses, functions, duties, and high mission of the House, abuse their powers, intent to destroy possibility of the right conduct of public business."
Not Ministers, then, with theSquireat their head, responsible for the deadlock, asPrince Arthurhad painted the scene, and asJosephhad touched it up with stronger colour. It was the Busy Bees. They and "a junta of irresponsible landlords enforcing their will upon those who ought to resist them."
O Balaam! Balaam!M.P. for Bodmin. Was it for thisJosephled thee into the field of Zophim, to the top of Pisgah? For this didPrince Arthurbuild seven altars, and offer up theSquire of Malwoodon every one of them? Long time since such a scene was wrought in the House.Saundersonpished and pshawed, and looked anxiously round forLogan.Bartleyblushed;Hanburywas hushed; and a tear trickled down the pale cheek ofTommy Bowles—Cap'en no longer, disrated and denounced.
Business done.—Time-Closure resolution carried.
Thursday.—Such larks! Yesterday time-closure came into operation in connection with Evicted Tenants Bill. Arranged that if debate on Clause I not finished by eleven o'clock to-night, all Amendments remaining on paper shall be submitted to vote without further debate. Obstruction scotched; wriggles helplessly, like eel in muddy depths of river, smitten by the spear.
"Shan't play," whimperPrince ArthurandJoseph, mingling their tears at this fresh evidence of tyranny, this last illustration of man's inhumanity to man.
Strike ordered in Unionist lines. Men throw down the pick; hand in the shovel and the hoe; put on their coats; hang about corners of Lobby in approved strike fashion. IfHanburyand the BlamelessBartleycould only be induced to stick short clay pipe in side of mouth (bowl downwards), fasten a leather strap outside their trousers just below the knee, and drink four-half out of pewters at bar in the Lobby, scene would be complete.
Strike only partial. Fully one half the men refuse to go out; stand by the masters, turning deaf ear to blandishments and threats of pickets outside. Strange thing is that, working at half strength, output more than doubled. Time-closure, with all hands at work, proposed to complete Committee by eleven o'clock next Tuesday night. At ten minutes past six this afternoon the whole thing through. Not hurried either. Thoroughly debated, divided on, and Bill, in more than one instance, amended.
"Fact is," said theSquire, beaming with chastened delight at turn events taken, "we are over-manned just as London is over-cabbed. Must see if something can't be done to reduce numbers by refusing licenses for fresh elections when vacancies occur."
Business done.—Evicted Tenants Bill through Committee. Building Societies Bill far advanced.
Friday.—Back in the mud again. Strike operative only when Evicted Tenants Bill under consideration. That standing over now for Report Stage. Meanwhile take up again Equalisation of Rates Bill. Men on strike stream in, tired of "playing." Wonderful their eagerness to get to work again, their keen delight in sound of their own voices, so strangely intermitted.Bartley,Kimber,Fisher,Jokim, and theWoolwich Infantall here again, withWebster(of St. Pancras) wobbling all over the place, like a hen that has laid an egg somewhere and can't for the life of her just at the minute think where she left it.
Business done.—Hardly any. AsBartleysays, "must make up for lost time when yesterday and day before work advanced by leaps and bounds."
Banshee
John Morley."You see it's all right, my little man. I told you you needn't be frightened ofhim. It was only his vapour. We're through the Commons now! Come along, and I'll leave you at the door of the Lords'. See how you get on there!"
Cryptogrammatist Wanted.—After a plain matter-of-fact paragraph in theDaily Telegraph, stating that "LordGrevilleleaves town to-day for Harrogate" (to undergo the "tonic sul-phur" cure, of course,i.e., of water-course), there appeared this mysterious announcement, "LordRowtonleaves London to-day for some weeks." Now where is "some weeks"? Of course as his Lordship has quitted town for "some weeks," he evidently prefers "some weeks," wherever it is, to London. And that is all we know at present. Strange disappearance. Weird.
The Coster Knight.—There are pictures on almost all the hoardings, in the suburbs especially, of the celebrated Mr.Albert Chevalier. This chevalier "sans peur et sans reproche" is so busy a man that in the best sense of the term he may well be considered asthetype of an honest "Chevalier d'Industrie."
Query.—"The Lancashire Rubber Company"—is this something new in the way of Massage? or is it a Company got up for the express purpose of supplying Society with Whist-players?
The Latest Made of Honour at Richmond.—Sir James W. Szlumper, Knight.