All.

The Opera time, &c. (as above).

Maxim for Cyclists.—"Try-cycle before you Buy-cycle."

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

House of Commons, Monday, July 23.—Quite like old times to hear Tim Healy saying a few plain things about landlords; Prince Arthur replying; Tim growling out occasional contradiction; whilst O'Brien hotly interrupts. To make the reminiscence complete Joseph contributes a speech in which he heaps contumely and scorn on representatives of Irish nationality. Tim reminds him how different was his attitude, how varied his voice, at epoch of Kilmainham Treaty.

Tim has a rough but effective way of fastening upon a name or phrase, and even blatantly reiterating it. Thus, when Old Morality, in his kindly manner, once alluded to a visit paid to him at a critical time by his "old friend Mr. Walter," Tim leaped down upon it, and, characteristically leaving out the customary appellation, filled the air with scornful reference to "my old friend Walter." To-night, desiring to bring into sharp contrast Joseph's present 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't Joseph's personal possession or invention any more than it was the Squire of Malwood's. But that way of putting it doubly suited Tim's purpose. 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 position vis-à-vis Ireland to which further reflection and honest conviction have brought the prime mover in the Kilmainham Treaty.

Irish Members, forgetting their own quarrels with Tim as he fustigated the common enemy, roared with delight. A broad smile lighted up the serried ranks of the Liberals. Prince Arthur wore a decorous look of sympathy with his wronged right hon. friend. The Duke of Devonshire,—"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 Healy goes 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 that Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett (Knight) keeps his eye on things abroad as they affect the interests of British citizens. The Member for Sark tells me he has a faded copy of the Skibbereen Eagle containing its famous note of warning to Napoleon 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 Third did not escape suspicion of fanning this flame. Howbeit the Skibbereen Eagle came out one Saturday morning with a leading article commencing: "We have our eye on Napoleon the Third, Emperor of the French."

Thus Ellis 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," Sark says, "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 us Ashmead. 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 Grey and Sydney 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, Ashmead bangs 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, perhaps Edward Grey's touch is the lightest. He replies with a solemn gravity that puzzles Ashmead, and keeps him brooding till Speaker stays the merry laughter of the House by calling on the next question. Buxton is more openly contemptuous, more severely sarcastic, and sometimes, when Ashmead's prattling, 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 the two 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. Markiss asked for week's interval. This looked like fighting. At least there would be a reconnaissance in force led by the Markiss. House full; peerless Peeresses looked down from side gallery; Markiss in his place; Devonshire in his—not Chatsworth; that going to be shut up; but corner seat below gangway; Rosebery hovering 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," said Rosebery, politely taking his hat off to lady in gallery immediately opposite. Then he sat down.

Here was a pretty go! Expected Premier would make brilliant speech in support of Bill; the Markiss would reply; fireworks would fizz all round, and, though perhaps Budget Bill might be saved, Squire of Malwood would be pummelled. Rosebery takes 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," said Markiss, looking as if he would much rather say "Yes." "Very well then," said Rosebery, "all speeches on the subject must be barren."

This to the Barons seemed lamentably personal.

Rosebery illustrated 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 of Halsbury's blue blood boiling over with indignation at sacrilegious assault on landed aristocracy.

"If you want to make your flesh creep," says Sark, "you should hear Halsbury, 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.'"

"A Halsbury! a Halsbury!" menacingly muttered Feversham and 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 Lord Halsbury went 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 Morley succeeds the Squire; Irish Members take up the buzzing of the no longer Busy B's.

As for the Squire, 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. Also Rigby and Bob Reid, who bore with him the heat and burden of the day. It's a sort of Parliamentary Millennium. The Chancellor of the Exchequer sits down with the Attorney-General; the Solicitor-General puts his hand on the cockatrice's den (situate in the neighbourhood of Tommy Bowles); and Frank Lockwood has drawn them.

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!

OUR CHARITY FÊTE.

ell, my dear Mr. 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 of Arthur Roberts. What did it matter? I really cannot see that it made the slightest difference; the person had asked for an autograph of Meredith and he got it, and a portrait of Roberts into the bargain! so he ought to have been satisfied; but some people are strangely exacting! There was a great run on the autograph of Sarah Bernhardt and I grew quite tired of signing Yvette, Rosebery, and Cissie 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 saw Sir Bruce Skene dressed as a Temperance Lecturer; Gringoire was there as the Enemy of the People with a bunch of violets in his button-hole; the New Boy went as Becket, and Charley's Aunt as the Yellow Aster. The Gentleman of France looked well as The Prisoner of Zenda. I recognised our old friend Dorian Gray in 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 (to Sir Bruce 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 the New 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, to Charley'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 the Pantomime 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 my Fête, 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, dear Mr. 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 the Pen-"Wiper" in the bosom of a family. Au revoir!