Vol. 109.

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July 27, 1895.

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THE LOST RECORD.

(The Wail of a Wiped-out Wheelman.)

Air—"The Lost Chord."

Reading one day in our "Organ,"
I was happy and quite at ease.
A band was playing the "Lost Chord,"
Outside—in three several keys.
But I cared not how they were playing,
Those puffing Teutonic men;
For I'd "cut the record" at cycling,
And was ten-mile champion then!

It flooded my cheeks with crimson,
The praise of my pluck and calm;
Though that band seemed blending "Kafoozleum"
With a touch of the Hundredth Psalm.
But my joy soon turned into sorrow,
My calm into mental strife;
For my Record was "cut" on the morrow,
And it cut me, like a knife.
A fellow had done the distance
In the tenth of a second less!
And henceforth my name in silence
Was dropt by the Cycling Press.

I have sought—but I seek it vainly—
With that Record again to shine.
Midst crack names in our Cycling Organ,
But they never mention mine
It may be some day at the Oval
I may cut that Record again,
But at present the Cups are given
To better—or luckier—men!

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Of Course.—Directly it was known that Sir William Harcourt had accepted an invitation to contest West Monmouthshire, and that Mr. Warmington had generously offered to retire in his favour, there was a rush for the evident joke of styling the self-effacing Q.C. "Mr. Warmingpan." It is uncertain which paper was the first to get the Warmingpan into its sheets. Sir William did not find the vacated seat too hot to hold him. Just nice.

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New Titles.—Sir Henry Loch is created Baron Loch of Drylaw. The title will be appropriately written out on parchment. For was there ever a more dry-as-dust title than that of a Barren Loch and Dry Law!! Mr. Stern comes to the front as Baron Wandsworth: not of Wandsworth Common, "and so," as a Shakspearian clown might say, "the title is uncommon." Finally

Cock a doodle doo!
Lord Houghton's Earl of Crewe!

being, evidently, the living representative of Shakspeare's "Early Village Cock."

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SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

Ballotery.—The Cork Agricultural Society had before it a proposal of the County Board to rent their ground for holding sports. The Chairman said,

"It was to be understood that the grounds would only be let on the understanding that no drink would be sold, and that no political meetings or gambling would be allowed."

Rather hard on politicians this, to bracket their patriotic endeavours with pitch-and-toss and alcoholic indulgence! If politics are like strong drink, nobody at any rate can call them a form of "refreshment"! But defeated candidates will quite agree that the game of "bleu et jaune" is a good deal worse than "rouge et noir."

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A Day Shift.—From the North British Daily Mail comes news of a daring electoral outrage. The Liberal candidate wanted to address the colliers in one of the Lanarkshire towns; but his meeting was very poorly attended. The cause was that the colliers were all waiting at the bottom of the pit ready to be drawn up, but "it was found necessary to send down an extra quantity of wood at that particular time"; so that the colliers could not get to the surface for an hour, when the political meeting was over! Smart man, the Conservative agent in that division! The pitmen could not be wound up, so the meeting was. It isn't only in Lanark that the Liberal Party wants a lift!

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"Litteral" Truth.—The effects of the General Election on the Press seem to be most marked in Ireland. An Irish contemporary has the following:—

"Ireland. The Viceroyalty to be abolilhed.—Colonel Saunderson, addressing the Orangemen of Diamond, near Armagh, said that Lord Lalisbury's Government would bring in a Bil to obolieh the office of Irish Viceroy."

What is really to happen to the Irish Viceroy is rather mysterious. Is he to be "abolilhed," or only "oboliehed"? Perhaps "Lord Lalisbury" will kindly explain.

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DRINKING SCENE OF THE FUTURE.

(In consequence of the Growing Demand for Lighter Liquors.)

Scene—The interior of a Dining-room. The ladies have just left, and the gentlemen are discussing their beverages.

Smith. I say, Brown, if it is not an impertinent question, where did you get that toast-and-water?

Brown. I thought you would be deceived! It was a cup, not the pure article! My butler is a first-rate hand at it. I will give you the recipe if you like.

Smith. Do. It was excellent. What is the secret?

Brown. Something, I fancy, to do with watercress.

Jones. I say, Brown, that was really very nice sherbet. Turkish or Persian?

Brown. Neither. Came from the Stores. Home-made.

Jones. Well, it certainly was capital. I could have sworn that it had been manufactured East of the Levant.

Brown. More likely East of Temple Bar. And now shall we have a whitewash before we join the ladies?

Six Guests. No, thanks! Really not!

Half-a-dozen more of the Company. Really not! No, thanks!

Brown. Nonsense! (Produces a pint bottle of lemonade.) Nonsense, I repeat! Look here, my boys. (Locks door.) Not one of you fellows shall leave the room until you have finished this!

[Draws cork of pint bottle, and distributes the lemonade amidst the good-natured protestations of the revellers. Scene closes in upon the Temperance orgy.

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Not in the "Newcastle Programme."—Last week Sir Charles Freemantle, K.C.B., was presented with his portrait painted by Hon. John Collier, in Hon. John's best style; and so, for this work, Collier cannot be "hauled over the coals." À propos, evidently the artist to paint the present Ministry should be a Collier, as it is a Coalition Cabinet. If the Collier were a Radical, how coal-black the portraits would come out!

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'ARRY ON THE ELECTIONS.

Dear Charlie,—O 'ip, 'ip, 'ooray, an' three more, and a tiger! Great Scott!
I'm as 'appy as ten on 'em, Charlie, though thusty and thundering 'ot.
I've bin up to my eyes in it this time, and now these 'ere Polling Returns
Are a-sending me slap off my chump, though I'm sorry they didn't chuck Burns.

Oh! I'm feeling O K and a arf; I could stand on my 'ed with delight,
For the Rads are knocked out in three rounds, 'Ome Rule's smashed, and Old England's all right.
And although it is late, and I'm tired, I'm so full of our Glorious Win,
That I feel I must sit down and drop yer a line, mate, afore I turn in.

I'm the Pet of the Primrosers, Charlie, and, 'ang it, I've earned it all round,
For I've worked like a nig, and no error. It suits me right down to the ground.
I've canvassed and posted tremenjous, I'm 'usky with cheer and chi-ike,
And I've mounted the Unionist colours, and blazed round the streets on a bike.

There was full arf a mile on us, Charlie, a scarlet percession on wheels;
With Japanese lanterns a-flying, and 'underds o' kids at our 'eels.
I felt I was "charging the guns," like that brave Ballyclava Brigade,
With shouts for "Lord Mungo and Malt!" and a little one in for "The Trade."

I tell yer, old man, 'twos hexciting. We dashed along Mulberry Scrubs.
And up the 'igh street a rare buster, 'ocrayed by the bhoys at the Pubs.
We scooted around for ten mile, the 'ole distance one thunderin' cheer;
And when we pulled up at the "Crown," if you'd just seen me lower the beer!

I lapped off a quart in one quencher. "That's rippin'!" sez I to the Bung.
"I felt liked a dashed wooden 'orse, with a lump o' red leather for tongue."
"Ah!" sez 'e, "and jest fancy, old man, if them Vetoers 'ad their vile way,
Wy, I couldn't sell you a tankard, and you wouldn't 'ave any say!"

But jimminy-whizz, 'ow we squelched 'em! We got our man in two to one,
Though our neighbourhood used to vote Rad, and a Tory was not in the run.
Wot beans it must be to old 'Arcourt, wot toko to Lawson and Caine!
Well, they've got their fair arnser this time; let us 'ope they won't try it again.

Workin'-men on the Radical ramp? You should jest 'ear wot I 'ear, old pal.
Let big pots make the round o' the pubs, and they won't talk that footy fal-lal.
Labour wants steddy work and good wyges, and likes to see England look big;
And then, with its baccy and beer, it's all one to it, Tory or Whig.

Wot's it care for Welsh Churches, or Scotch 'uns, as don't 'ardly enter its own?
And as to 'Ome Rule—for yer worker there's dashed little meat on that bone.
Talk of Betterment, Progress, Peer-smashing, and such-like, may do for the Clubs;
But all Labour gits is 'igh rates, shocking trade, and a raid on its pubs.

Workman sez it's too good enough, Charlie; believes as it's better by far
To vote for Old Sol, a big Navy, an' maybe a olly good war.
He's sick of the bloomin' old forriners copping our trade and our tin,
And 'e's game for Protection and Peers—anythink, so Old England may win!

If the Rads wont his vote for the future, they've got somethink solid to do!
Village Councils and Vetoes won't work it, for all Billy 'Arcourt's boohoo!
'E don't wont less beer, but more beer-money, ah! and 'e don't care a blow
If 'e gits it from Rosebery and 'Arcourt, or Solsbury, Balfour and Joe!

But 'ang it, I'm preaching, old oyster, and giving them Rads the straight tip.
One thing, they won't take it, this lot won't; they ain't got no savvy, no grip.
Bin sloppin' all over the place like, a-fillin' their cup, and that rot,
And now, arter tackling the pewter, they find as they've all gone to pot.

O ain't it ske-rumptious, my pippin? I feel I could washup Brum Joe,
And I'm bound to admit, next to Bung, us true Tories must thank him this go.
He's crumped 'is old pals a fair knock-out. If Solsbury's saddle 'e'll carry,
And run straight in 'arness with Arthur, 'e'll do! Yours, tolbobbishly,

'Arry.

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Not the Only Difference between Them.—Lord Rosebery the Derby Winner; Sir W. V. Harcourt the Derby Loser.

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DISSOLVING VIEWS.

(A Reminiscence of the Recent Elections.)

Scene—The corner of Northumberland Avenue, opposite the National Liberal Club, where a screen is erected, on which the latest results of the second day's pollings, together with photographs of prominent Liberal politicians, and scathing caricatures of Unionist leaders, are being exhibited by a magic lantern for the benefit of a large and good-humoured crowd. The sympathies of the majority are, as might perhaps be expected, with the winning side, but the minority is very fairly represented, while in "booing" and "brayvo"-ing they are incontestably the stronger party. Time—Between 10 P.M. and 12.30 A.M.

Spectators (as the portrait of Sir William Harcourt is displayed). Yah! Tike 'im down! 'Ow about Durby?... Brayvo!... Three cheers fur 'Ar-court! 'E'll come back yet! (Lord Rosebery's likeness follows.) Good ole Ladas! Cheer up! Put a smile on 'im!

[Mr. Gladstone's face, leonine and benignant, is next shown.

A Chivalrous Conservative (magnanimously). 'E's a grand old chap, any'ow; I ain't goin' to chevy 'im.

[Which, to the credit of the assembly, seems to be the general sentiment, as conveyed by unanimous applause.

A Sanguine Radical. We shall 'ave the results in soon now; it's past ten. We shall do better to-day than what we did Saturday, you see.... Ah, here's the first—"Hereford. Unionist Majority, 313. No change." You can't expeck none in a rotten place like that! You wait a bit.... "Croydon. Increased Unionist majority of 835. No change." Well, 'Utchinson done very well; it's a strong Tory seat, is Croydon. They're on'y 'olding their own so far—that's all.

Radical Group (as a series of cartoons is next displayed). Hor-hor! There's Joey, d'ye see? Boo-oo. "'E tiles not now!"... 'Oo's that? The ole Dook o' Cambridge? No, it's Lord Solsbury, that is. So it is. That's a good 'it, eh? Look at the size of 'is boots! What's written on them? "Comfort," or somethink! "Chuck-out," is it? Oh, I couldn't make the writing out. Hor-hor; got 'im there, they 'ave. Garn. King Bomba!... Look at ole Goshin. 'E 'ave give 'im a 'at, ain't 'e? I arsk you, is that a fice, as orter be in Parliment?... 'Ave they 'ad Balfour up yet? Yuss, they did 'im with 'is trousers shrunk up to 'is knees. Kepital it was. Harhar! that's the way to show that lot up, and no mistake! (&c., &c.)

The Crowd (as several results are announced in succession). Comin' in quick now, ain't they? Look there! "Boston. Unionist gain!" 'Oo-ra-ay! bo-oo-oo! "North Lambeth. Unionist gain." .... "Rochdale. Unionist gain!".... "Bristol (South), increased Conservative majority. No change."

The Sanguine Radical. Tell ye what 'tis, they're putting in all the Conservative wins first. And them bigoted beggars at Bristol, they dunno what they're votin' for, they don't. We shall pull up afore long. There, what did I tell you? Look a' that. "Durham. Liberal majority, 1—Objection raised." Hooray! we're beginning ter buck up now, ye see! (Radical groups cheer in a spirit of thankfulness for small mercies.) "Pontefract. Liberal majority, 57. No change." (Frantic Radical enthusiasm and cries of "Good ole Pontefrack!") "Huddersfield. Radical gain." (Roars of delight from Radicals.) 'Ave a few more like that, and we shall do.... "Oldham. Conservative gain o' two seats." (Tremendous cheering from Conservatives.) Well, after that, I'm prepared for anythink, I am!

Elderly Radical Solon. It's jes this way, them Conservatives, they ain't got no prinserples, o' course, but they do stick together, and that's 'ow they git the advantage over us. But it jes serves the Govment right fur not parsin' the Second Ballot. They could ha' done it, and they orter ha' done it!

His Companion (disguising a slight vagueness as to the precise nature of this measure). I dessay, I dessay; but it's these 'ere Labour Kendidates as are playin' the dooce with us. Lost us several seats a'ready, they 'ave.

The R. S. My argument on that is this—the ole question o' the Labour was concocted four year ago at Devonshire 'Ouse.

His Companion (guardedly). It might ha' bin, but I don't foller yer, John.

An Independent. Anyway, you can't say as the Labour Candidate made any difference 'ere—he on'y polled twelve 'undred and fifty-one votes, and the Unionist had neely five thousand!

His Neighbour. No difference? 'Ow d' yer make that out? Why, the Radical was on'y four'underd or so be'ind, and it stands to reason, as if arf the Labour votes 'ad bin given to 'im, he'd 'a won easy!

The Independent (hastily). Yes, yes; jesso, jesso; but that wasn't my point. And Keir 'Ardie sez there'll be three 'underd Labour Kendidates next elections. Ah, and they'll find 'em, too!

A Unionist. I 'ope they may. More on 'em the merrier—for our side!

The Independent. Any'ow, Keir 'Ardie's safe for West 'Am. Majority o' twelve 'underd and thirty-two last time. Take a lot o' pulling down, that will! (Polling at West Ham (South) announced. Keir Hardie defeated by 775. Impartial joy of Tories and Liberals.) What? Chucked? 'Im! The on'y man with the morril courage to wear a deerstalker in the 'Ouse! They ain't fit to 'ave a vote!

[Exit disgustedly.

A Red-hot Radical. Ah, what I ses is, it don't matter which you fetch a man out of—whether it's Newgit, or whether it's a mad 'ouse, 'e's good enough to make a Tory of! Look at 'im as 'as got in agen for West Puddlesford, 'e's a beauty—the 'ottest member in the 'Ouse, 'e is—that feller, why, 'e's a reg'lar tinker's cuss, as I 'appen to know! (Another result is exhibited. A Conservative Brewer gets in for Worcester. No change.) Good ole Bung'ole! It's the beer as does it!

First Mechanic (after a Radical majority at Devonport has been announced). Well, I can't understand a dockyard town voting for a Radical; they get twice the amount o' work under a Tory government, that's a matter of common knowledge.

Second Mechanic. What's the good o' that when others have got none at all? I'm all for ekalizing the work—let 'em have 'alf the work and give others a chance.

First Mech. You wouldn't accept 'alf the work you've got, I'll lay. You would? Well, yer missis wouldn't, then!

Second Mech. She'd 'ave to. And why should 'alf of us starve?

First Mech. Why should all of us? But there's no use o' you and me argufying about it.

[Which, of course, they continue to do notwithstanding; there is a lull in the returns, and the photographs and caricatures are once more in request; Mr. Chamberlain's being exhibited upside down by way of variety.

A Radical. What d' yer think o' Joe now? 'E's met with a reverse, eh!

A Tory. That's all right, mate; it on'y means as 'e's a goin' to do it on 'is 'ed!

An elderly and excited Irishwoman. Ah, bad luck to 'im, the murtherin' scounthril! wants a toitle, dees he? Jist th' loike of all thim Saxon opprissors, th' toirant. What does he care hwhat becomes o' th' poor Oirish, so long as he gets his billyfull?

[She pours a stream of denunciation into the ears of the nearest Radical.

The Radical (soothingly). Good 'ole Bridget. But look 'ere, you needn't come and talk to me about it. (Indicating a Tory neighbour. You go an' tell 'im!

[Which Bridget does, volubly; more portraits are exhibited. One of Mr. Justin McCarthy being hailed with cries of "Brayvo, Labby!" and "Our Cartoonist" being instantly recognised as the late Mr. Parnell.

Radical Spectators (after results of polling at Deptford, Halifax, Hartlepool, Bristol (North), (&c.). Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Well, I'm sure! Macnamara, the man 'oo polled the 'ighest votes in the School Board Election—and look at him now! If Sidney Webb 'ud ha' contested that, 'e'd a' won it!... There's another seat we've lost. Well, I was 'appier standing 'ere this time three years ago, blow'd if I wasn't!... Oh lor, my brother-in-law 'll go wild over this. My ole uncle 'll go arf orf his 'ed. (&c., &c.)

An Irrelevant Person. Tork about Tories! Why, I'll lay anybody a shillin' Jem Smith, the fighting man, 's a Tory, and all o' them prize-fighters are—and that's 'ow it's done!

First Lounger. 'Oo ain't a workin' man? I lay I work as 'ard as what you do, come now!

Second Lounger. What are yer then? A mat-seller?

First Lounger (indignantly). Garn! A mat-seller? I'm a bloomin' toe-walker, I am. Lean up agin the doors o' public-'ouses, I do, and work 'ard at it!

[His claim is reluctantly admitted.

The Sanguine Radical. Twelve Unionist gains to three Radical! Well, there's no denying things ain't gone quite as well as I expected. But there, there's no telling; by this time to-morrow we shall all know more than what we do now. I shall turn in to Lockhart's and 'ave a large cocoa after this. I want it, I can tell yer!

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OPERATIC NOTES.

Monday, July 15.—TannhÄuser Combination Company night. Made in Germany, brought into England, and sung in French. Albani unexpectedly out, like Harcourt; Eames in as Liberal-Unionist. "Miss Eames and miss Albani," quoth Wagstaff. Maurel unwell: apologised for Eames, distantly related to "'Eames Ancient and Modern," (which superseded Tate and Brady,) nervous but charming. Protean Mlle. Bauermeister as Little-Bo-Peep, the shepherd's boy, excellent. Venus-Adini fine and large, offering to excellent TannhÄuser-Alvarez a great contrast to beloved Elizabeth-Eames. House crammed.

Saturday.—Peacefully comical and classical Philemon et Baucis followed by warlike, modern, and tragical La Navarraise. Bang go the drums and cannons. CalvÉ to the front! C'est magnifique! Literally stunning! Druriolanus must get an opera written with a naval engagement in it (he can easily add this to his other engagements for next season), ending with general explosion and Admiral's cocked hat going off. No charge for suggestion. Bombardier Bevignani or Marine Mancinelli might revel in it. Vive la Guerre!

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Breach of Promise Couplet.

[Last week Miss Edman sued Jakobowski for breach of promise and won her case with £700 damages.]

O Jakobowski many tears you'll shed man,
You lost your money when you lost your 'Ed-man!

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Election Notes from the West.

Plymouth.—Clarke secures seat, but Hubbard, like dog of celebrated ancestress, has none.

Falmouth.—Horniman in. "Fabula narratur de Tea."

Camborne Division.—Strauss conducting great campaign in a Miner key. Key to situation.

Ashburton Division.—Radicals fighting nix or nothing. Unionist war-cry, "Nix my dolly, pals, vote away!"

Torquay Division.—Electors continue policy of filling up the cup by returning Phillpotts.

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COUPLET, JUST OUT.

On faults only two in our rule I can touch:
We gave 'em too little and promised too much.

Sir Henry Campbell Balladman.

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"Goode Goods."—"The Goode Collection" sold at Christie's Tuesday and Thursday last. Goode enough, of course; but because it was the Goode Collection it evidently could not have been the Best.

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RECIPROCITY.

Scene—A London Dinner Party.

Mr. Lambert and Mrs. Crumpington (chance partners).

Mr. Lambert (feeling his way). Been to the Opera often this season, Mrs. Crumpington?

Mrs. Crumpington. Oh, very often. I am so devoted to music, you know, that I go whenever I can. And, talking of music, have you heard that new pianist, Herr—what is his name?—oh yes, Herr Widowski? He's too delicious for words!

Mr. L. No; I can't say that I go to concerts much. You should talk to my daughter Ethel—she's devoted to music, and they tell me that she's got a really fine voice. I'm sure she practises enough.

Mrs. C. Indeed? Well, I've no voice, I'm sorry to say; but I play the piano a little—only a very little, you know.

Mr. L. Wonderful what a lot of people do play in these days—(hastily)—not like you, of course; but one hears pianos and fiddles going in every house, and most of them are simply instruments of torture.

Mrs. C. (smiling). Rather a rash remark—isn't it? You've never heard me play, you see! (Mr. L. endeavours to protest.) Oh, but I assure you I quite agree with you. For instance, my next-door neighbours are always making the most awful noises—playing and singing morning, noon, and night. The wall is very thin, and I am nearly driven crazy.

Mr. L. (warmly). My dear Madam, I can sympathise with you entirely. I've often thought that Parliament ought to pass a Bill for enforcing a close-time in domestic music. Of course it only matters to me in the evening, but we're troubled exactly in the same way as yourself. And my poor Ethel finds her singing constantly interrupted by the disgusting row made by our next-door neighbour. I suppose he must take a pleasure in annoying us—anyhow he's jammed his wretched piano right up against our drawing-room wall, and bangs and thumps on it for about six hours a day. Of course it would be bad enough if the fellow played well; but you never heard such ghastly noises as he makes!

Mrs. C. How sorry I am for your poor daughter! Yes; people complain in the papers and grumble about street-bands and piano-organs; but at least one can send them away—which, unfortunately, one can't do in the case of next-door neighbours! However, I suppose I ought to be grateful that the people on the other side don't play at all.

Mr. L. Ah! I live in a corner-house. But I think a little opposition noise would almost be a relief—a kind of homeopathic cure, you know.

Mrs. C. One's quite enough for me. It's been getting worse, too, these last few weeks, and I'm delighted to meet a fellow-sufferer. Come; can't we concoct some joint scheme of deliverance? Do you think it would answer if I sent round a polite note—"Mrs. Crumpington presents her compliments to Mr."—whatever their name is—"and would be extremely obliged,"—and so on. How would that do?

Mr. L. (decisively). Wouldn't be the least use, I assure you, or I'd have tried that plan myself long ago. The only result would be that they'd make more row than ever, on purpose to score off you. No, I fancy I've got a better plan than that.

Mrs. C. (eagerly). Oh, do tell me what it is!

Mr. L. Well, I happened to notice in a shop in Holborn the other day one of these new American toys, it's a kind of small fog-horn, driven by a pair of bellows. And the noise it makes is something terrific, I assure you—loud enough to drown half-a-dozen pianos. So I've ordered one of these, and as soon as ever that scoundrel strikes up next door, I shall turn on the horn; then, directly he stops, I'll stop too, you see. Rather a good idea, don't you think?

Mrs. C. (much amused). It is, indeed! If only the poor wretch next door knew what was in store for him! Oh, if only I could silence my enemy in that way! But then, of course, I can't a blow a horn.

Mr. L. That isn't necessary; all you have to do is to work the bellows, and the thing goes by itself. Really, I strongly recommend you to invest in one.

Mrs. C. It would be a good plan, wouldn't it? Where did you say they are to be had?

Mr. L. I'll write down the address, if I can find a scrap of paper.

[Takes out a card-case from his pocket, pencils address on back of visiting card, and hands it to Mrs. C.

Mrs. C. Thank you so much, I'll certainly think about getting one (looks absently at the other side of the card) if they're not too dear, and——(Gasping.) Good gracious heavens!

Mr. L. (anxiously). What's the matter? Are you ill?

Mrs. C. (pointing to the printed side of the card in her hand). Is this your real address?

Mr. L. (much astonished). "No. 1, Yarborough Gardens?" Yes, certainly it is. Why do you ask?

Mrs. C. (faintly). Because—because I live next door at No. 3!!

[Tableau! Curtain.

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THE OLLENDORF GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE.

THE CARETAKER.

Is it time to leave town? Yes, it is time to leave town, because the good neighbours have put up their shutters (i.e., the shutters of the good neighbours). Do all the good neighbours put up their shutters? Yes, all put up their shutters, but one of them stays in town at the back of the house. Why does one of the good neighbours stay in town at the back of the house? To escape the expense of leaving town incurred by the other good neighbours who have put up their shutters. Is that expense a great one? Yes, a very great one. Have they any other drawbacks? Yes, they have the annoyances of a caretaker. What are the annoyances of a caretaker? The annoyances of a caretaker are her husband, her children, her cat, her dog, her mother, and all her relations. When a caretaker enters the house of one of the good neighbours, is she accompanied by her annoyances? Yes, the caretaker is accompanied by her annoyances. Does the caretaker lead a happy life in the house of one of the good neighbours? Yes, she leads a happy life, and so do her husband, her children, her cat, her dog, her mother, and all her relations. What do the relations of the caretaker do in the house of one of the good neighbours? They smoke in the drawing-room in the house of one of the good neighbours. If anyone calls to see the good neighbour, what does the caretaker do? The caretaker generally refuses to attend to the bell. Should the caretaker attend to the bell, what does she do? She tells the caller who wishes to see the good neighbour that she knows nothing of the master of the house's movements (i.e., the movements of the master of the house). Does the caller then retire under the impression that the house has been sold up, and that the good neighbour has entered the Court of Bankruptcy (i.e., the Bankruptcy Court)? The caller does leave the house under that impression. While this impression is being created in London, is the good neighbour unconsciously attempting to enjoy himself in Switzerland? Yes, the good neighbour is undoubtedly attempting to enjoy himself in Switzerland, in spite of the cookery, the lack of accommodation, the expense, and the weather. If the good neighbour ceased to be unconscious, and became aware of the damage that was being done to his credit by the caretaker, what would that good neighbour do? The good neighbour would probably swear. Then would the good language of the good neighbour change in its character? Yes; for it would become the bad language of the bad neighbour. Would the bad language of the bad neighbour have any immediate effect upon the caretaker, her husband, her children, her cat, her dog, her mother, and all her relatives? No, for the bad language would be uttered in Switzerland, and the caretaker, her husband, her children, her cat, her dog, her mother, and all her relatives would be in London. Then what would the caretaker, her husband, her children, her cat, her dog, her mother, and all her relatives do in the house of one of the good neighbours during the protracted absence of the good neighbour on the Continent? They would continue to smoke in the drawing-room.

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"HONOURS EASY."

Mr. Treloar wrote to the Times the other day À propos of Mr. Williamson's peerage. Messrs. Treloar and Williamson are in the same business, i.e. the linoleum trade, and Mr. Treloar suggested that "Lord Linoleum would not be a bad title." Quite agree with him. Let persons take titles from some specialty of their trade or calling. Suppose peerages granted to

Numerous variations will occur to readers. They can be forwarded to our office as probably useful when the next "honours easy" are dealt out.

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"Oh, the Irony of it!"—Last week, whilst reports of Tory successes in the boroughs daily reached London, the leading Liberal paper, regardless of expense, had the walls covered with large placards announcing that "the Daily News has the best election intelligence." "If this is the best," said Sir William Harcourt, observing one of the placards on his way back from Derby, "I shouldn't like to know the worst."

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Variety Stage, by Charles Douglas Stuart and A. J. Park (Fisher Unwin), is a history of the Music-halls from the earliest period to the present time. And a very interesting history it is, admirably told withal. One comes upon names familiar in boyhood, and is a little shocked to find that the Great Vance was really named Alfred Peck Stevens. The pages glow with pleasant peeps of London at midnight, as Pendennis saw it, and as, once at least, it was looked upon by Colonel Newcome. It is sad to find how many of the old favourites of the music-hall fall upon evil times, and even die in the workhouse. Sam Collins was more fortunate. He was sumptuously buried in Kensal Green, where a marble pedestal carries his portrait and his epitaph. This last is notable as containing what, as far as my Baronite knows, is the most audacious rhyme in the English language. As it was admitted to consecrated ground, it may perhaps be quoted here. "A loving husband," so it runs—

"A loving husband and a faithful friend,
Ever the first a helping hand to lend:
Farewell, good-natured, honest-hearted Sam,
Until we meet before the great I AM."

Pro Baron de B.-W.

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Diplomatic Intelligence.—Mr. Chauncy Depew has arrived. On business, of course. De-pew-ted by American Government.

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ON THE TRACK IN BATTERSEA PARK.

"Where there's a Wheel there's a Way."