"M. Hanotaux, Minister of Foreign Affairs, will shortly have distributed in the Chamber and the Senate a Yellow Book relative to the conventions recently concluded between France and Great Britain for the delimitation of their respective possessions on the West Coast of Africa."
Our Artist could not be restrained from designing a Cover, which we respectfully offer to M. Hanotaux.
The Jabez is coming! Oh dear! how queer!
Is Jabez a-coming? What cheer? what cheer?
There's nothing much left though to hear We fear.
We'll believe he has come when he's here.
Hear! Hear!
Note by a Highly Cultivated but Unsuccessful Dramatist.—About the most fatal opinion that can be given on any play is to say that "it reads well." A play that is "a treat to read" is, as a rule, utter boredom to see; for in proportion to the success in the study is, in the majority of cases, the failure on the stage.
Gamp Triumphant, and Justice to an Old Friend at last!!—In the Times' "Court Circular" lately appeared the information that "Mrs. Harris had the honour of dining with the Queen yesterday." Now, and henceforth, the immortal Mrs. Gamp, rising "morally and physically," can denounce any "bage creetur" who would dare to repeat Mrs. Prig's "memorable and tremendous words," spoken of Mrs. Harris, the dear friend of "Sairey," "I don't believe there's no sich a person."
SWIG UP THIS (COCOA) CUP!
Air—"Drink of this Cup."
Swig up this cup—you will find there's a spell in
Its depths for the ills and the aches of mortality.
Drink! Of dyspepsia's dire woes you'll be well in
A Yankee split second! (No fudge, but reality).
Would you forget wine, or whiskey, or gin?
Only skim off the film that will gather a-top of it,
('Tis merely the milk in coagulate skin,)
Then stir it up briskly and drain every drop of it!
Swig up this cup, &c.
Never was nectar-cup brewed with such power,
Or philtre; while here nought to injure or hurt is meant.
Of Cocoa this is the pure pick and fine flower.
There's no starch or fat in it (vide Advertisement!).
They who with this have their stomachs well filled,
Are proof against hunger, fatigue, and bad weather.
This wonderful draught is not brewed or distilled,
But it licks all the liquors and cordials together.
Swig up this cup, &c.
And though, perhaps,—but oh! breathe it to no one!—
'Tis stodgy and runs to obesity awfully.
If you've no coat to your tum-tum, you'll grow one!
(The rival advertisements tell us so—jawfully.)
What though it tasteth insipid and tame?
When tea is taboo, and when coffee's forbidden,
Try cocoa from—well, let each fill up the name,
There are fifty at least, and their light is not hidden!
Swig up this cup, &c.
So swig up the cup of—each "'Tiser" is telling
In every paper, with great actuality,
The fame of his brand, with much swagger and swelling,
Other ads. may be fiction, but his is reality.
So swig up the cup when you breakfast, tea, sup,
Of so-and-so's (string of superlatives) cocoa!
(I'd "give it a name," but I daren't try that game,
For fear of severe (editorial) Toko).
Swig up this cup, &c.
Latest From Paris.—"Moore of Moore Hall, with nothing at at all," has not "slain," nor has he "foughten with," nor given any kind of "satisfaction" to, the Dragon of Wantley, represented (as the incident is to be "relegated to the realms of comic opera") on this occasion by the Wictorious "Whistler Coon." It is, however, reported that the impressionist artist, animated by the sportsmanlike desire of getting a shot at something or somebody, the McNeil, or Jacques le Siffleur, would like to engage a Moore for the shooting season. The most recent wire reports, "No Moore at present. J. McN. W." And, probably, here closes the incident.
Last Week's Business.—Everything very much up in the City—especially the pavement in Cannon Street.
(To the Editor of "Punch.")
Sir,—A most excellent institution, run on moral lines, has recently been advertising "A tour on the Continent" for £5. This modest sum is to cover travelling and hotel expenses, and no doubt has been worked out on the most virtuous principles. In these days of rapid progress, however, we can never stand still, and the question arises, Cannot the holiday be cheapened? I contend it can, and as your paper represents the human race in general and the British public in particular, I desire to make known my discovery through your columns. Of course "Trips for nothing"—the journeys I wish to organise—cannot be managed without a little thought and arrangement. For my purpose it is best not to insist too harshly upon the importance of truth and honesty. After all, both these words represent abstract ideas, that may be necessary for publication, but need not be absolutely accepted as a guarantee of good faith.
Without further preface I jot down my programme. Say that a would-be traveller without means desires to visit the Capital of France gratuitously. I would have him present himself at the Victoria Station garbed in the uniform of a guard. The necessary costume, on application, would be supplied to him by one of the agents of the Unprincipled Touring Company—the institution it is my aim to establish. Just as the night mail was starting for Dover he would enter the luggage-van, and then all would be clear until he reached Paris. He would accompany the boxes and portmanteaus to Calais, and be transferred (being registered) to the Chemin de Fer du Nord, and remain undisturbed until he reached the terminus.
On coming out of the van he would be met by one of the agents of the Unprincipled Touring Company, and be accused of being a spy. This would immediately secure his arrest and safe custody in a Parisian police-station. The agent, having played his part, would disappear. It would now become the duty (and I trust the pleasure) of the would-be traveller to look after himself without further assistance. He would appeal to the British Ambassador. He would tell his simple tale, how he had been drugged and conveyed in a state of coma to the luggage-van; how he had no money, and had been so affected by the narcotics, that his mind had become a perfect blank. The British Minister would, doubtless, secure his release, and supply him with funds. He would see some of the cheaper sights for which Paris is celebrated, and then return home by an inexpensive route, highly delighted with his adventures.
It will doubtless occur, in this practical age, to persons having even the most moderate amount of brains, that hitherto the profits of the Unprincipled Touring Company have remained unmentioned. "Where do they come in?" will be the universal question. My answer is simply, "Hush money." The would-be traveller, having availed himself of the services of the proposed organisation, would, for the remainder of his existence, be under an obligation to pay as much as he could conveniently (or even inconveniently) spare to a society which had secured for him so much semi-innocent recreation.
It may be advanced by ultra purists that the system of business that would be inaugurated by the U. T. C. would be immoral. To this I triumphantly reply, not more immoral than other systems in full working order in many companies of the highest respectability compatible with limited liability.
In The Theatre, a "review and magazine" most useful as well as entertaining to all interested in the drama at home and abroad, there appears, in the critical notice of what is just now successful on the Parisian stage, a short account of a piece called M. le Directeur. "It is," says the writer, "an amusing but not very savoury skit upon the life of the petty official, and the advantage taken by the head of a public office to subserve his amorous propensities in the management of his department and the promotion of his subordinates." Quite evident from this what sort of a farcical comedy it must be. This appears at p. 238. But at p. 246, among "The Echoes from the Green Room," we find that this piece, M. le Directeur, which is at present "drawing all Paris to the Vaudeville Theatre, is certainly one of the most amusing plays," &c. &c., "and it depends for its success more upon genuine humour and innocently comic incident than upon salaciousness of situation or untranslatable wit." Which of these accounts of the same play is the correct one?
"When are you coming out with me, Mummy?"
"Not this Morning, Darling, I've too much to do!"
"Oh, but you must, Mummy. I've already put it in my new Diary that you did!"
EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
House of Commons, Monday, April 1.—There is about John Aird an artlessness of look and manner the price whereof is beyond rubies. Sark fancies it is the beard that has much to do with it. When you get a man light-hearted as a boy endowed with long grey beard, complications certain to ensue. Aird's beard has precisely same preternaturally proper look whether he is sitting in parish church listening to sermon, or dancing a hornpipe on the white deck of the P. & O. Caledonia. Only he dances better than the average rector preaches.
Just the man to take part in the old Parliamentary game known as asking friendly question. Usually played with Minister taking a hand. If Treasury Bench wants to bring out some fact or appearance of fact Whip gets Member on back bench to put question on subject. Pretty to see Minister on such occasions; his startled look on hearing himself addressed; his glance round to see if this is really his hon. friend who is presuming to trouble him with what might be awkward inquiry; then his slow, almost hesitating answer which effectually corrects a calumny or nips a slander i' th' bud.
To-night, in view of pending division on second reading Welsh Disestablishment Bill it was felt desirable to produce effect of overwhelming national indignation at threatened spoliation of the Church. Since Bill introduced petitions against it been dribbling in from teeming population of English hamlets sternly saying This thing shall not be. Apart from political importance of question, petitions have peculiar interest as revealing existence of unknown clusters of cottage homes. Thomas Hardy never invented such quaint, charming names as the industry of compilers of petitions against this Bill have brought to light. St. Dogmaels, St. Twynnel's, Pattiswick, Neen Sollars, Chittlehamholt, Hampton Poyle. Woodeaton, Pawler's Pury, Abbey Dore, Penwortham, Lillingstone Lovell, Crockham Hill, Weston-under-Penyard, Itchen Stoke, Dunton Green—names musical with the sound of church bells, sweet with the scent of newly mown hay, the breath of cowslips.
This upheaval of the people on behalf of Mother Church loses its effect by reason of ordinary procedure whereby petitions presented at the Table are straightway thrust into a sack, and carted off to a lumber room. Thing to do was to get Member to publicly inquire from Chairman of Petitions Committee how the matter stood in the ledger; how many petitions against Bill, how many in favour. Who could do this better than John Aird? So he put question to Dalrymple, and learned with dramatically ill-concealed surprise that whilst over a thousand petitions against the Bill have poured in on the House, not one had been received in its favour. It is true that another question from opposite side of House brought out fact that at least one of these State documents was result of labours of wife of Clerk to Guardians of St. Asaph Union, who had been instrumental in obtaining the unbiassed opinion of the resident paupers on question at issue. But that a mere detail.
Business done.—Second Reading Welsh Disestablishment Bill carried by majority of 44 in House of 564 Members. "Clwych! Clwych!" roared Mabon, and was with difficulty restrained from singing "The March of the Men of Harlech."
Tuesday.—Evidently in for another dull time. Welsh Disestablishment Bill off, enter Irish Land Bill. Time precious; business pressing; every quarter of hour worth a Chancellor of the Exchequer's ransom. Ministers anxious above all things to get along with business. John Morley, accordingly, sets useful example by delivering speech an hour and twenty minutes long. This, as he mentioned, followed upon exorbitant demands on patience of House when he introduced the Bill. Carson, not to be outdone, certainly not to be blamed, took up about as much time. Later came St. John Brodrick, astonished at his own moderation in speaking for only seventy minutes.
"This is not debating," Sark says. "It is just making speeches by the yard. Hasn't the remotest effect upon the human mind, still less upon deliberate action of House. Isn't even pretence of a fight; second reading will be passed without division; Bill will go to Committee in precisely same state as would have been the case had it been read a second time before dinner, and Members spent rest of evening in bosom of their families. Towards end of Session there will be complaint of nothing done. At least Treasury Bench mustn't lift up its voice in reproach at such conclusion. If right hon. gentlemen set us such evil example, they mustn't complain if we follow it."
House in desolate state throughout spirit-sapping performance. Tim Healy sat it all out. Contributed almost only token of life to the dull monotony. In dangerously explosive state. If anybody had sat on safety-valve would have burst to dead certainty. Happily got off a few life-saving grunts and groans. Played sort of chorus to Carson's speech and Brodrick's monologue. They severely ignored him—treatment which had no effect on his exuberance of spirits.
"Who are these Irish owners," Brodrick asked, looking severely across table at John Morley, "who want to buy their tenants' interest in order to sell it at a higher price?"
"I'll give you their names," cried Tim, after the fashion of the naughty boy safe at the outer edge of a crowd.
"I defy the right hon. gentleman to produce a single instance," Brodrick continued, taking no notice of Tim.
"I'll give you half a dozen," shouted Tim, ever ready to oblige, though leaving it in doubt whether the half dozen he offered were lashes or other instances. Then the policeman, in shape of Speaker, appeared on scene, and for awhile there was silence on the back benches, and dullness regained its sway.
Business done.—Second Reading Irish Land Bill moved.
Campbell-Bannerman and his National Emblem (Unsuited to the Convenience of a Button-hole).
Thursday.—For illustration of soft answer that turneth away wrath, Cawmel-Bannerman's reply just now on the shamrock incident perfect in its way. The heart of Ireland stirred by fresh stories of how her sons, turning up on parade on St. Patrick's Day proudly wearing shamrock, were ordered by brutal Saxon officers to "fling it on the ground." Tim Healy had cases brought under his notice. Never do for this branch of United Ireland to appear as sole champion of national rights in this matter. So wearisome Willie Redmond swaggers on scene with another case.
T. W. Russell between Landlord and Tenant.
A delicate subject for Secretary of State for War to handle. On one hand, discipline must be maintained. On the other, national sentiment must not be affronted, especially when represented in House by sufficient votes to turn the scale in any division. Cawmel-Bannerman not only said right thing, but said it in right way. "I myself," he murmured with prettily apologetic air, "stand in a somewhat neutral position, because I belong to a country whose national emblem does not lend itself to the convenience of the button-hole."
House laughed at idea of Cawmel-Bannerman bustling in on St. Andrew's Day with bunch of thistles in his button-hole. With the laugh the battle was won; what might have been in less skilful hands an awkward incident passed off amid genial laughter.
Business done.—Still explaining why we are not going to oppose Second Reading Irish Land Bill, though we regard it as most revolutionary and dangerous measure of recent times.
Friday.—Second reading Irish Land Bill through at last. Passed stage without division, which seems odd considering apprehension with which Opposition regard it. Situation largely due to Boanerges Russell, one of few men who understand Bill. Explained it in luminous speech, like some others thrown away on scanty audience. Boanerges later indicated his impartial attitude by seating himself between landlord and tenant, represented by Joseph of Birmingham and son Austen. Joe incidentally mentions he has only one tenant, that is Austen, "who," he added, with plaintive note, which found echo with the Irish landlords, "pays no rent, and is always coming down on me for compensation."
Business done.—Irish Land Bill read second time.
The present generation affirms that it cannot away with Pickwick, and is not attracted by Vanity Fair. The balance of modern opinion would be rather in favour of Thackeray than of Dickens. Take, for example, the two works already quoted, Pickwick and Vanity Fair. A common modern objection made to Pickwick is, that the characters in Pickwick are perpetually guttling or imbibing, or both simultaneously. This is, to a certain extent, true. But how about Thackeray's characters in Vanity Fair? A careful student has sent us a list of the numerous eatings and drinkings in both novels. In Pickwick, reckoning from the brandy-and-water partaken of by Mr. Jingle, at the Pickwickians' expense, after the scene with the pugnacious hackney-coachman, and finishing with the breakfast that celebrated the marriage of Mr. Snodgrass with Miss Emily Wardle, there are exactly (so we are informed) one hundred and one instances of drinking and eating; some of them being of drinking only, unqualified.
In Vanity Fair, from the introduction of Miss Pinkerton's "seed cake," to Becky taking Amelia a cup of tea, vide chapter sixty-seven, we learn, on the same authority, that there are one hundred and fifteen cases "allowed for refreshment" in some form or other.
A collection of the meals of heroes and heroines in the most popular works of fiction, and menus compiled therefrom, might be found interesting, especially if carefully criticised by Sir Henry Thompson in a separate chapter to be added to the next edition of his really invaluable work, namely, Food and Feeding. Do the modern novelists feed their characters as plentifully as did Dickens and Thackeray theirs? Be this as it may, these two great Twin Brethren—so utterly dissimilar in every thing except in the possession of the gift of genius—fed their readers well and bountifully.