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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Volume 93

December 17th 1887

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

From the Minister to Persia.

Hampstead, Saturday.

Dear Toby,

I am, as you will understand, so busy in my preparations for departure, that I fear I may not find time to call upon you, p.p.c., and therefore take up my pen to write these few lines, hoping they will find you well, as they leave me at present. It is an odd reflection to one who has reached my time of life, that henceforward sixteen-shilling trousers shall have no more interest for me. Already, in the privacy of my room, I don the flowing robes of the East, and sit by the hour as you see me in a little sketch I have had made, and beg your acceptance herewith. It is all very strange to me yet. As Gr-nd-lph says, it is the oddest thing in the world that the Ark and I, after much tossing about in troublous waters, should finally settle down in the neighbourhood of Ararat. If I had had my choice, I would not have gone so far afield. The wise men, you know, come from the East, they do not go there; at least, not further than Constantinople, which would have suited me admirably. Rome I have eyed askance. I could have dressed the part for St. Petersburg. Berlin would not have been bad; and I feel that I was born for Paris. But the Markiss of course has his way, and he has mapped mine out for Teheran.

It is odd to reflect (and as I sit here trying to grow accustomed to the hookah, I feel in a reflective mood) that if Br-dl-gh had not been elected for Northampton in 1880, I would never have been Her Majesty's Minister at the Court of the Shah. Do you remember the night, nearly eight years gone, when I jumped up from my seat below the Gangway and physically barred Br-dl-gh's passage up the House? In the loose way history is written, Gr-nd-lph gets the credit of incubating the Fourth Party. But if it had not been for me, that remarkable cohort would never have existed, and the history of English politics for the last seven years would have been written differently. Gr-nd-lph was actually not in the House when I created the Br-dl-gh difficulty. Three weeks earlier, on Br-dl-gh's first presenting himself, Freddy C-v-nd-sh had moved for a Select Committee to consider his claim to make affirmation. St-ff-rd N-rthc-te had seconded the hum-drum motion, the Committee was agreed to, and there the matter ended. When Gr-sv-n-r moved to nominate the Committee, I came to the front, was snubbed by H-lk-r at the instance of our respected Leaders, but stuck to it then and after, till presently, the Conservative Party, seeing the advantage, came round to my view and poor St-ff-rd N-rthc-te had to eat his words. Gr-nd-lph came on the field and the ball was set rolling; but it was I who gave it the first kick.

And now behold me solemn, sedate, responsible, the Representative of the greatest of Western Powers at the Court where once Artaxerxes ruled! In quitting Parliamentary life I leave behind me an example which young Members will find it profitable to study. The opportunities I possessed were held in common with hundreds of others whom I leave in obscurity. I had no particular gifts that promised the comfortable pre-eminence I have reached. The coarsest flatterer could not accuse me of oratorical ability. Gr-nd-lph, I confess, excelled me there, and so did G-rst, an abler man than either of us, but lacking in the quality that brought Gr-nd-lphand me to the front and kept us there. What I did, was to keep myself in evidence, and to make myself as disagreeable as possible to people in authority. If the object of attack were Gl-dst-ne, good; if it were N-rthc-te, better, as showing more independence, and as securing the favourable attention of the Opposition. It is a commonplace, ordinary thing to be cheered by your own side. What the young aspirant to Parliamentary distinction should look to, is to gain the applause of the Benches opposite. R-b-ck knew that in old days, and so did H-rsm-n, and in these later times Gr-nd-lph better and more successfully than either.

I quit the House of Commons with unfeigned regret, tempered only by the anticipated pleasure of watching from Teheran the coming cropper of my old friends. The deluge is surely coming for them, whilst I loll landed high and dry upon Ararat. I like to make B-lf-r uneasy by telling him this. But he boasts of an infallible receipt the Government have for keeping up their Parliamentary majority. Here and there a bye-election may reduce it, "but," says B-lf-r, "we can always play next, and win. For every bye-election lost we clap an Irish Member in gaol, or, for the matter of that, a Radical, and thus maintain an even balance. We lose Coventry and they lose O'Br-n's vote. Spalding goes, and T. H-rr-ngt-n's vote is crossed out. Northwich is lost, and the Lord Mayor of Dublin is lagged. We lose a vote in the Exchange Ward, Liverpool, and they are bereft of Sheehy, whilst we have left to the good Cox and E. H-rr-ngt-n, with P-ne safe within the mud walls of his castle."

That is all very well, but evidently it cannot go on indefinitely. I at least am out of the scuffle happily, and in good time, and, political life's fever over, shall live well.

Yours faithfully,
H. D. W-lff.

THE STRAIGHT TIP.

THEATRICAL RECIPROCITY.

First of all came The London Savoyards, who, after sending their D'Oyly Carte de visite in advance, showed our cousins-German the way to perform Burlesque Opera of native English growth. Then followed Herr Wyndham, and Fraülein Moore, who have just been instructing the Berliners in the art of playing Comedy, and have achieved an undeniable success in David Garrick. Odd international combination this, English actors playing before a German audience a piece adapted by an English author from a French play translated into German. Our actors and actresses will go in for the study of German, and as we now hear in England that German labour ousts native labour from the market, so we may expect very soon to hear German actors protesting against the influx of English Theatrical Companies who are taking the bread out of their mouths. What will be the next move in this game? Will Sardou adapt The Butler to be played here by Coquelin, in Toole's part, and at his theatre, with Sarah Bernhardt as the Cook, just to strengthen the cast? Herr Wyndham appeared at the Residenz Theatre. We hope he is not going to take up his Residenz there, as we can't spare him.

Fling at Fair-Traders.

Duet in the "Tempest." Stephano and Trinculo.

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A MALADE IMAGINAIRE.

"Why!—has your Dachs got a Sore Throat, Lizzie?"—"No; but he thinks he has!"

ALTERAM PARTEM.

Sir,—The reason why I have not hitherto contributed to the controversy on the recent unhappy (Police) Divisions is, because I have been laid up in the Hospital. Never mind which Hospital—but I have not been so comfortable since I had the mumps, years and years ago, at school. Being a born economist, I naturally turned out in my myriads to assist at a gratis show in Trafalgar Square; and, Sir, I never came so near realising what a "dead head" was in the whole course of a chequered (not to say chuckered) career. But do I turn round and abuse the Police? Why, ever since that fortunate Sunday, I have enjoyed, at no expense to myself, the most delicate of viands, the tenderest of nursing, and a complete immunity from even the suggestion of getting anything to do; and, in addition to all this, the satisfaction of having employed the services of a force to whose maintenance I have never contributed one farthing. But soft, a nurse approaches, and I must dissemble.

Yours, in Clover,
Freeman Grubber.

"Re-Joyce!"

A RASHER THEORY OF BACON.

Dear Mr. Punch,

I. It is plain that the soi-disant Shakspeare was poor to the end of his days. This is proved by Milton's sonnet beginning—

"What needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd bones?"

This shows that the person in question was in the habit of selling his kitchen refuse, and more noteworthy still, that Milton was in the habit of buying it. Whether out of respect for the vendor, which would go a long way towards proving the esteem in which he was held, or because Milton was in the marine store line at this period, I leave to Mr. Donnelly to decide.

II. It is certain that there is a cypher in the Midsummer Night's Dream. Pyramus has the line, "O, dainty duck. O, dear!" Now "duck" stands with cricketers for 0, and 0 is a cypher (or is it figures that are cyphers? but, never mind). Therefore we have here the expression, "O, dainty cypher, O, dear!" which proves conclusively, that the cypher was dainty,—exquisite, elaborated; and also that Bakspeare was heartily tired of it, unless, "dear" refers to the terms he had to pay to Shakon to hold his tongue. But the fact that the supposed author used to sell bones, and inferentially rags, to Milton, rather militates against this hypothesis. And here note what a flood of light is thrown upon the disappearance of the manuscripts. They were indubitably sold, with the honoured rags and bones to Milton, who has certainly more than one suspicious coincidence of thought and phraseology, especially in his earlier poems.

III. My play, Piccoviccius, contains the clue to the whole matter. There is a picture on the title-page of a boy blowing an egg, while an elderly gentlewoman, who is remarkably like the bust of the poet in Stratford Church, looks on with every appearance of interest. Underneath is the legend, "Lyttel Francis teaching his Crypto-gra'mother." I am firmly convinced that Piccoviccius was written by both of them. The style is not the least like that of either, which proves that they didn't want everyone to know. I subjoin a specimen. The scene is the palace of the usurping Duke Jingulus, who is about to wed the Lady Rachel.

Yours,
Roderick Tweddle.

Hydropathic Art.—"O give me the sweet shady side of Pall-Mall," sang Captain Morris, the Laureate of the Old Beef-steak Club. At the present period of the year we have a greater liking for the sunny side. And the sunniest spot on the sunny side we have discovered during the last week is undoubtedly in the rooms of the Sanatorium presided over by Sir John Gilbert. The Royal Society of Painters in Water Colours is a capital hydropathic establishment at this season of the year.

A Necessary Explanation.—Considerable remark has been excited by the sudden departure from London of Count Corti, the Italian Ambassador. The fact is, Count Corti was compelled to appear at Rome, in person, as an answer to the imperious order of recall which (to translate the legal process exactly) is of the nature of a "County Corti Summons."

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"M. LE PRÉSIDENT FAUTE-DE-MIEUX."

SOCIETY SIBYLS.

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'ARRY ON HIS CRITICS.

WELL PROTECTED;

OR, WHAT IT WILL COME TO.

A Demonstration was held yesterday afternoon at St. Giles's Hall, in connection with the Imperial Association, for the raising of Agricultural and other Prices, "to protest still further against the late unrestricted ability to live on their means enjoyed by the British Middle Classes," and "to take ulterior measures for rendering it more impossible." A large number of members of the Association were assembled, among whom were the Duke of Glutland, the Right Hon. James Mowther, Mr. Gruntz, Mr. C. W. Bray, M.P., and others.

Mr. Flowerd Mispent, M.P., said he was proud to take the chair on such an occasion, and to congratulate the assembly on the immense progress made in the country of the principles they were met to advocate. ("Hear, hear!") Their great object had been, by forcing the Government to put a prohibitive tax on all foreign imports whatever, to so stimulate home industries, that while the producer flourished at the expense of the consumer, the latter, representing four-fifths of the nation, was driven to the verge of desperation by a general rise of prices, that he was powerless either to stave off or meet. (Loud cheers.) He thought that the great bulk of the Middle Classes of the country must, if not already hopelessly ruined, at least have got it pretty hot. (Laughter.) Take his own case. Owing to the new import duties levied on foreign wool and silk, the tweed suit in which he stood up before them on that platform had been charged to him by his tailor at £37 15s. (laughter), while his hat, for the appearance of which he could not say much, had cost him £5 18s. 6d. (Renewed laughter.) Such prices as these must tell in the long run on the pocket of that great enemy of national industry, the "Consumer." (Cheers.)

The Chairman then read letters of apology from the Duke of Twickenham, Lord Starch, and Baron Dimock, M.P., who declared their readiness to favour any motion calculated to stimulate a still further rise of prices. Mr. Jollis, M.P., wrote in a similar sense, and in a letter expressing regret that he was unable to be present, Lord Hapence said:—The brilliant future that is now dawning on the prospects of the British Agricultural Interests must be patent to all. Only yesterday I was charged 18s. 6d. in a local hotel bill for a small omelette, and, on asking for some explanation, was informed by the waiter that since the importation of French eggs had ceased, the market price of those procurable from English poultry had risen to 4s. 6d. (cheers), and they were not to be relied on at that. This is as it should be. Need I say I paid my bill, not only without a murmur, but with positive satisfaction. (Loud cheers.)

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Sir Edward Mulligan, M.P., wrote:—"Your meeting is a very important one, and has my cordial support. But with British-made ladies' gloves at £1 3s. 6d. a pair, British-made chocolate at 17s. 6d. a pound, and British-made silver watches at £38 a piece, it cannot be denied that the absence of foreign competition has favourably affected home prices. May this encouraging catalogue be continued. I hear, too, that since prohibitive duty has been imposed on the importation of petroleum the coarsest kinds of composite candles have been selling at 9s. 6d. a pound. Living for the Middle Classes must be getting unendurable. I hail the prospect as a hopeful sign of the times." (Cheers.)

Mr. Joynter, the Chairman of the Association, then rose to move the first Resolution:—"That in consideration of the fact that, though the threepenny halfpenny loaf was now at 3s. 9d., and that though the agricultural labourer was paying 4s. 7d. a pound for bacon, £3 17s. for a smock, and £1 15s. 6d. for a second-hand spade, and that yet, notwithstanding these fiscal advantages, he did not seem entirely satisfied with his improved condition, the meeting should urge upon the State, the necessity of imposing still further prohibitive duties on foreign imports in the hope of introducing even greater complications into the vexed question of how to make the British Consumer entirely support the British Producer."

Mr. Waitland seconded the motion. He added, however, that notwithstanding the undeniably flourishing condition of British trade at home, he could not regard its prospects as equally satisfactory abroad. Owing to the retaliatory action of Foreign Governments, our Exports appeared somehow entirely to have disappeared. (Laughter.)

Mr. Gruntz, said that was so. Still there could be no doubt as to its healthy progress in our midst, and that reflection ought to quiet the misgivings and comfort the heart of the ardent Imperial Associationist. He had in his pocket at that moment a British-made cigar. (Cheers.) It hadn't a nice flavour, it wouldn't draw, and it cost him 12s. 6d.—(laughter)—still, it was made of British-grown tobacco, and that was everything. (Hear, hear!) Perhaps it was in their wine that people of his class suffered most. In the old days he used to drink Dry Monopole; but since a Government duty of £20 a dozen was imposed on all imported Champagne, he had had to have his from the "British Home-manufactured Wine Company;" and, though they charged him eleven guineas a dozen for it, and he believed it frequently made his guests seriously ill, still he felt he was supporting a "home industry," and did not scruple to put it freely before them. (Roars of laughter.)

After the enthusiastic singing of "Rule Britannia" by the whole meeting, a vote of thanks to the Chairman brought the proceedings, which were of a very animated character, to a conclusion.

To the Modern Men of Gotham.

New Work by Mr. O'Brien.—Under the general heading of Tullamore Tales, we are to expect a good story, entitled, Reverses on the other side of the Tweed.

OUR CHRISTMAS BOOKING-OFFICE.

Wrapped Up in a Book.

QUITE CHRISTMASSY.

"Dancing Dolls in Chancery.—The solicitors' table was cleared of papers, and the ballet-girl doll, having been wound up, commenced to dance on the table, to the amusement of a crowded court. Mr. Justice Kay watched the performance with evident interest, and when the dance was concluded the doll was handed up to him and carefully examined. He then handed it to the Registrar of the Court, with an injunction 'not to hurt it.'"

Daily News.

Occasionally our Mrs. Ram likes to display her perfect knowledge of the French language. "I've just been reading," she said, "a most interesting work, the life of Monsignor Dupanloup, who was the Bishop—or, as they call it in French—the Equivoque d'Orléans."

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SOCIETY'S NEW PET.

Delacruche (the rising young Tragedian at the Parthenon). "Oh, the Fickleness of Woman! Look at that Idiot they're all swarming over now! Ugh! I should like to Kick him, if ever I get an opportunity!"

Brown, F. R. S., &c., &c. (who is fond of Tragedies, but dislikes Popular Tragedians). "Oh, Do, my dear Fellow, Do! And, I say, let Me be there to see the Result."

Delacruche. "Humph! Who is the Beast?"

Brown. "Slogg, the Pugilist from California, Champion of the World!"

[Delacruche thinks better of it!]

"QUITE ENGLISH, YOU KNOW."

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"QUITE ENGLISH, YOU KNOW."

President Cleveland (to Columbia). "WILL YOU ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE THIS YOUNG LADY?"

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[pg 285]

THE PLUCK OF GGGRRANDDDOLLLMANN'S CAMP.

(A Story of the Welsh Gold Fields.)

By Britt Part.

There was commotion in Gggrrandddolllmann's Camp. It could not have been a fight, for in those days, just when gold had been discovered on Welsh soil, such things as fights were unknown. And yet the entire settlement were assembled. The schools and libraries were not only deserted, but Jones's Coffee Palace had contributed its tea-drinkers, who, it will be remembered, had calmly continued their meal when even such an exciting paper as the Grocers' Journal had arrived. The whole Camp was collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of the clearing. Conversation was carried on in a low tone, but the name of a man was frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the Camp—"W. E. G.—a first-rate feller." Perhaps the less said of him the better. He was a strong, but, it is to be feared, a very unstable person. However, he had sent them a message, when messages were exceptional. Hence the excitement.

"You go in there, Taffy," said a prominent citizen, addressing one of the loungers; "go in there, and see if you can make it out. You've had experience in them things."

Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection. Taffy had once been the collector for a Trades Union Society, and it had been from some informality in performing his duty that Gggrrandddolllmann's Camp was indebted for his company. The crowd approved the choice, and Taffy was wise enough to bow to the majority.

The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. Physically they exhibited no indication of their past lives and character. They were ordinary Britons, and there was nothing to show they had been less contented than their neighbours; and yet these men, in spite of their loneliness, had never wanted for a single reform. Until now they had been absolutely satisfied with their lot.

There was a solemn hush as Taffy entered the Post Office. It was known that he was reading the despatch. Then there was a sharp querulous cry—a cry unlike anything heard before in the Camp. It was muttered by Taffy. He told them that the document called upon the whole community to ask for Disestablishment and Home Rule. The Camp rose to its feet as one man. It was proposed to explode a barrel of dynamite in imitation of the Irish Nationalists, but in consideration of the position of the Camp, which would certainly have been blown to pieces, better counsels prevailed, and there was merely a cutting of bludgeons from the trees the levelling of which W. E. G. was known to love so well.

Then the door was opened, and the anxious crowd of men, who had already formed themselves into a queue, entered in single file. On a table lay the document they had come to read.

"Gentlemen," said Taffy, with a singular mixture of authority and ex officio complacency; "gentlemen will please pass in at the front door and out of the back. Them as wishes to contribute anything towards the carrying out of the written wishes of the document will find a hat handy."

The first man entered with his hat on; he uncovered, however, as he looked at the writing, and so unconsciously set an example to the next. In such communities good and bad actions are catching. As the procession filed in, comments were audible. "A lot for the money!" "Just like him!" "Gets a deal into three lines!" And so on. The contributions were as characteristic. A life assurance policy, a pledge to abstain from intoxicating drinks, several volumes on political economy.

THE NEW SHYLOCK.

From a Portrait sketched by the Great McDermott, Q.C., during a recent Irish Trial.

So the despatch was read and re-read a score of times, and it was found necessary to give it a name. The natives of Wales are generally sagacious, and so they gave it the name of the Pluck. For the sake of the Pluck they did everything. It was certain, of late, they had not been very successful. They had certainly not paid their rents, and refused to patronise the Parson, and so the work of degeneration began in Gggrrandddolllmann's Camp. Instead of working as of old, the inhabitants gave up labour and shouted to one another. They repeated the phrases of the despatch crying, "Be worthy of yourself, gallant little Wales," "Remember Michelstown!" and went to sleep. Before the arrival of the despatch they had been a clean, hard-working, thrifty race. Latterly, however, there had been a rude attempt to let things go from bad to worse. The newly discovered mines were deserted and all industry was at a discount. "It is the Pluck of Gggrrandddolllmann's Camp that's doing it," said Taffy, as he gazed at the document as it lay on the table before him.

But at length things came to a crisis. The converted miners, as it has been explained, refused to work, and then neglected to pay their rents. Then came evictions, supported by the law. There was a confusion of staves and bayonets, buck-shot and black-thorn sticks. The Camp disappeared amidst much excitement. Some of the Campers emigrated, and others were sent to gaol. Taffy was missing. At length he was found in a ditch, holding a postcard bearing some warlike words, and signed "W. E. G."

"I have got the Pluck with me now," he said, as he was arrested; and the strong man, clinging to the thin document so full of wild advice, as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw, was marched off to prison!

A Cry from the Counting-House.

A Sound Opinion.—Our Own French-Pronouncing Impressionist says that the new Cabinet in Paris cannot possibly be a success, as it commences with a Fallière.

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A FESTIVE PROSPECT!

Husband. "Didn't I tell you not to invite your Mother back in my——"

Wife. "Dear, that's the very Thing she's come about! She read your Letter!"

[Tableau!

ADDIO, ADELINA!

As Madame Patti would have said, if she had thought of quoting Bacon last Tuesday week, and as somebody probably will say after reading this, and then send it, a few months hence, to Mr. Punch as quite new and original, "When my Kuhe comes, call me." And when her Kuhe (English pronunciation) did come, she came up to time and tune, and came up smiling. Of course with such names as Mmes. Patti, Trebelli, Messrs. Lloyd and Santley with Miss Eissler on the violin, Mr. Leo Stern ("Leo the Terrible") on the 'cello (sounds uncomfortable this), Miss Kuhe on the pianoforte (unpleasant position), Mr. Ganz as "accompanyist," (what an ugly word!) and the Great Panjandrum himself, Mr. W. G. Cusins (Sir W. G. Cusins as is to be,—which was our Jubilee Midsummer Knight's Dream) as Conductor, what could the result be, but success? Every seat taken; up gets the Conductor, "Full inside, all right!" and on we goes again! And after this, off goes Madame Patti to America to earn any amount of dollars by singing her well-known répertoire, which, with one or two exceptions, she may leave t'other side of the Atlantic, and return to tell us of "The songs I left behind me," and to chant with feeling "I cannot sing the old Songs." Au plaisir! Adelina, and all good Engels guard thee! I beg to sign myself, re-signing myself to the absence of the Diva,

The Critic on the Harp.

THE FISTIC CRACK, SMITH.

Toying with Truth.—The Annual Truth Toy Exhibition, which shows the toys provided for any number of Children in our hospitals, workhouses, and infirmaries at Christmas time, will be held at Willis's Rooms, December 19 and 20. No further intimation is necessary. When there a Will is, there a Way is.

BACON v. SHAKSPEARE.

Song for Mr. Pritchard-Morgan, of Mawddach Valley, near Dolgelly.—"Darling Mine!"

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SEVERAL ROUNDS.

[Prize-Fighting having once again come into fashion, the above Pugilistic Encounters must be recorded as anticipations of "Boxing-Day."]

THE PROFESSOR AT THE DINNER-TABLE.

Professor Mahaffy's book on The Art of Conversation, seems witty, and (in parts) wise. People who want to learn to talk well in society had better consult the genial Professor, who declares that the art can be acquired. In fact he hands to each of his readers, across the visionary "walnuts and the wine," the pinch of Attic Salt which seasons dinner-parties. The theory must, of course, be taken cum grano. A few hints (strangely omitted in Mahaffy's "Haffy Thoughts,") are here appended:—

Should you happen to be in company with a number of eminent Statesmen belonging to one Party (say, at a dinner, when they can't get away from you,) mind and point out in a loud voice what you conceive to have been the chief errors of policy which they committed in their last Ministry, and what would have been your line in their place. If they are smarting under recent defeat, and have just been turned out of Office, they will be sure to thank you heartily for your kind advice.

Supposing politicians of every shade of opinion to be present, your best course will be to at once introduce some "burning" subject of the day—say, Home Rule, or the personal character of Mr. Gladstone or Lord Salisbury. Your host will be delighted, and you will be surprised to find what a brisk conversation you have initiated.

Always talk "shop." It gives local colour to your style. For instance, if you are a lawyer, and you see another legal gentleman at table, engage him in a conversation as to "that curious Equity point in the case of The Queen v. the Executors of Muggins, deceased, before the V.-C." Make your comments as technical as possible. If you don't soon "get the table in a roar," it will be astonishing. By the way, there are two kinds of "roar."

Avoid the least appearance of shyness. This is a pushing age. If you are really bashful by nature, assume a haughty and forbidding demeanour to cover it. This will make you universally liked.

Spice your talk with jokes. Invent at least six good puns for use at any dinner to which you may be invited, and bring them out,—naturally, if you can, but at any rate bring them out! E.g. If you are in Dublin, in a company consisting of fervid Nationalists, who bitterly resent the imprisonment of their Chief Magistrate, remark jocosely that "you hope his Lordship is not suffering much from mal de Mayor!" Conversely, when present at a dinner of Loyalists, refer to the eminent Liberal-Unionist Leader as "Half-Hartington." In either case your host is sure to ask you to come again.

Monopolise the conversation. Carlyle did this, and so did Macaulay, so why shouldn't you? You may be a Macaulay without knowing the fact.

Remember that people like anecdotes. This is how Hayward got his reputation. Don't hesitate because somebody has said that "all the good stories have been told." If so, tell them again without flinching.

Practise allusive and apparently unconscious swagger in private. When you are sure that you can refer to "my friend the Duke of St. David's," at a dinner-party without the slightest change of inflexion in your voice and in a perfectly natural manner, you are fitted to adorn any society—even the lowest.

Never humour women who try to talk learnedly. Bring the conversation down to feeding-bottles and keep it there. They will in reality appreciate your kindness and knowledge of female nature, even if they appear at the moment to resent it deeply.

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VOCES POPULI.

Scene—An Italian Restaurant—anywhere in the Metropolis. Only a few of the small dining-tables are occupied as Scene opens. Near the buffet is a small lift communicating with the kitchen, and by the lift a speaking-tube.

Enter an Adorer with his Adored; he leads the way down the centre of the room, flushed and jubilant—he has not been long engaged, and this is the very first time he has dined with Her like this.

Adorer (beaming). Where would you like to sit, Pussy?

Pussy (a fine young woman—but past the kitten stage). Oh, it's all the same to me!

Adorer (catching an aggrieved note in her tone). Why, you don't really think I'd have kept you waiting if I could help it? There's always extra work on Foreign Post nights! (Pussy turns away and arranges hat before mirror). Waiter! (A Waiter who has been reading the "Globe" in the corner, presents himself with Menu.) What shall we have to begin with, eh, Pussy?

[The Waiter, conceiving himself appealed to, disclaims the responsibility with a shrug, and privately reflects that these stiff Englishmen can be strangely familiar at times.

Pussy. Oh, I don't feel as if I cared much about anything—now.

Adorer. Well, I've ordered Vermicelli Soup, and Sole au gratin. Now, you must try and think what you'd like to follow. (Tentatively.) A Cutlet?

Pussy (with infinite contempt for such want of originality). A Cutlet—the idea!

Adorer (abashed). I thought perhaps—but look down the list. (Pussy glances down it with eyes which she tries to render uninterested.) "Vol au vent à l' Herbaliste,"—that looks as if it would be rather good. Shall we try that?

Pussy. You may if you like—I shan't touch it myself.

Adorer. Well, look here, then, "Rognons sautés Venézienne,"—Kidneys, you know—you like kidneys.

Pussy (icily). Do I? I was not aware of it.

Adorer. Come—it's for you to say. (Reads from list.) "Châteaubriand Bordelaise," "Jugged Hare and Jelly," "Salmi of Partridge." (Pussy, who is still suffering from offended dignity, repudiates all these suggestions with scorn and contumely.) Don't like any of them? Well, (helplessly) can't you think of anything you would like?

Pussy. Nothing—except—(with decision)—a Cutlet.

Adorer (relieved by this condescension). The very thing! (Tenderly.) We will both have Cutlets.

Waiter (who has been waiting in dignified submission). Two Porzion Cutlet, verri well—enni Pottidoes?

Pussy (sharply). Potted what?

Adorer (to Waiter). Yes. (To Pussy, aside, in same breath.) Potatoes, darling. (The Waiter suspects he is being trifled with.) Do you prefer them sautés, fried, or in chips,—or what?

Pussy (with the lofty indifference of an ethereal nature). I'm sure I don't care how they're done!

Adorer. Then—Potato-chips, Waiter.

Pussy (as Waiter departs). Not for me—I'll have mine sautés!

Adorer (when they are alone, leaning across table). I've been looking forward to this all day!

Pussy (unsympathetically). Didn't you have any lunch then?

Adorer. I don't mean to the dinner—but to having you to talk with, quite alone by our two selves.

Pussy (who has her dignity to consider). Oh, I daresay. I wish you'd do something for me, Joshua.

Adorer (fervently). Only tell me what it is, darling!

Pussy. It's only to get me that Graphic—I'm sure that gentleman over there has done with it.

[The Adorer fetches it with a lengthening face: Pussy retires behind the "Graphic," leaving him outside in solitude. At length he asserts himself by fetching "Punch," (which he happens to have seen) from an adjoining table. A Bachelor dining lonely and unloved on the opposite side of the room, watches them with growing sense of consolation.

At the Speaking-Tube.

Waiter. Una voce poco fa maccaroni! (At least, it sounds something like this. A little cupboard arrives by the lift containing a dish which the Waiter hastens to receive. The new arrival is apparently of a disappointing nature,—he returns it indignantly, and rushes back to tube.) La ci darem la mano curri rabbito Gorgonzola!

A Voice (from bottom of lift—argumentatively). Batti, batti; la donna é mobile risotto Milanaise.

Waiter (losing his temper). Altro! Sul campo della gloria vermicelli!

The Voice (ironically). Parla tele d'amor o cari fior mulligatawni?

Waiter (scathingly). Salve di mora casta e pura entrecote sauce piquante crême à l'orange cotelettes pommes sautés basta-presto!

[Corks up tube with the air of a man who has had the best of it.

At another Table.

Two Brothers are seated here, who may be distinguished for the purposes of dialogue as the Good Brother and the Bad Brother respectively. The Good B. appears (somewhat against his will) to be acting as host, though he restricts his own refreshment to an orange, which he eats with an air of severe reproof. The Bad B. who has a shifty sullen look and a sodden appearance generally, is devouring cold meat with the intense solemnity of a person conscious of being more than three parts drunk. Both attempt to give their remarks an ordinary conversational tone.

The Bad B. (suddenly, with his mouth full). Will you lend me five shillings?

The Good B. No, I won't. I see no reason why I should.

The B. B. (in a low passionate voice). Will you lend me five shillings?

The G. B. (endeavouring to maintain a virtuous calm). I don't think I will.

B. B. You've been giving money away all the afternoon to people after I asked you for some!

G. B. (roused). I was not. It's dashed impertinence of you to say such a thing as that. I'm sick of this dashed nonsense—sick and tired of it! If I hadn't some principle left still, I should have gone to the East long ago!

B. B. I'm glad you didn't. I want five shillings.

G. B. Want five shillings! You keep on saying that, and never say what you want it for. You must have some object. Do you want it to go and get drunk on?

B. B. (with a beery persistence). Lend me five shillings.

G. B. (reflectively). I don't intend to.

B. B. (in a tone of compromise). Then lend me a sovereign.

G. B. (changing the subject with a chilling hospitality). Would you like anything after that beef?

B. B. (doggedly). I should like five shillings.

G. B. (irrelevantly). Look here! I at once admit you've got more brain than I have.

B. B. (handsomely). Not at all—it's you that have got more brain than me.

G. B. (rejecting this overture suspiciously). I've more principle at any rate, and, to tell you the truth, I'm not going to put up with this dashed impertinent treatment any longer!

B. B. You're not, eh? Then lend me five shillings.

G. B. (desperately). Here, Waiter—bill. I pay for this gentleman.

Waiter (after adding up the items). One and four, if you please.

[The G. B. pays.

B. B. And dashed cheap too!

[A small Cook-boy in white comes up to Waiter and whispers.

Waiter. Ze boy say zat gentilman (pointing to B. B.) tell him to give twopence for him to ze Cook.

G. B. (austerely). I have nothing to do with that—he must settle it with him.

B. B. (with fierce indignation). It's a lie! I gave the boy the money. It was a penny!

Waiter (impassively). Ze boy say you did not give nosing.

B. B. (to G. B.). Be d——d! Don't you pay it—it's a rascally imposition! See, Garcong, I'll tell you in French. J'ai donné l'homme, le chef, doo soo (holding up two fingers) pour lui-même-à servir.

G. B. I'm sorry to have to say it—but I don't believe your story.

[To the B. B.

B. B. (rising). I'm going to have it out with Cook. (Lurches up to door leading to kitchen and exit. Sounds of altercation below. Re-enter B. B. pursued by Voice. B. B. turning at door.) What did you say?

Voice. I say you are dronken Ingelis pig, cochon, va!

B. B. Well,—it's just as well you didn't say any more. (Goes up to Waiter, confidentially). That man down there was mos' insultin'—mos' insultin'. But, there, I'll give you the penny—there it is. (Presses that coin into Waiter's hand and closes his fingers over it.) Put it in your pocket, quick—say no more 'bout it, Goo' ni'. Only—remember (pausing on threshold à la Charles the First) if anyone wantsh row—(with recollection of Duke's motto)—I'm here! That 'sh all. (To G. B.) I shall say goo' ni' to you outside.

[Exit B. B. unsteadily.

The G. B. (solemnly to Waiter). I tell you what it is—I'm ashamed of him. There, I am. I'm ashamed of him!

[He stalks after his Brother; sounds of renewed argument without, as Scene closes in.

Bacon Again.—An erudite student informs us that "the crest of Shakspeare's mother's family was a boar," so that there is something Baconian about the Immortal Bard.

À propos of the Welsh Gold Find.—Advice Gratis:—Beware of Welshers.