Part 2

End of operatic season, and a fine season too. The PATTI nights exceptionally brilliant. DE RESZKE _frères_, the accomplished Bicycling Brothers, did not appear, but Sir DRURIOLANUS sang the old song "_We're going to do without them_" and did so, uncommonly well. MAUREL, ANCONA, PLANÇON, were bright particular stars; while MELBA suddenly shone forth as Comet with magnificent tail, _i.e._ a great following. CALVÉ held her own against all comers: and, as _Santuzza_, it was a case of "honours divided" with Mdme. BELLINCIONI, who, it must not be forgotten, was the original of the part. The Beneficent BAUERMEISTER, of talent unlimited, has shown that "woman," like man, "in _her_ time can play many parts." Mlle. BAUERMEISTER has played them; and all equally well.

So farewell Operatics till next year, when DRURIOLANUS need fear no storms, if still provided with his lightning Conductors BEVIGNANI, MANCINELLI & Co. Nor need the Liberal-Conservative DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS think of having to reckon with any formidable rivalry, should the utterly improbable happen and a new Opposition Opera be started. Why two Opera Houses cannot succeed in London may be a problem, but hitherto it is one which dissolution of the weaker was the only solution. The strong company went to Covent Garden, and the weak went--to the wall.

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REPORT FROM A MINOR CANON.--Archdeacon FARRAR, hitherto performing "Archi-diaconal functions" at Westminster, has just been "installed" Dean of CANTERBURY. There are, clearly, only two notable installations, one of the Electric Light, and the other of a Dean. Canterbury has now the chance of being thoroughly enlightened and electrified.

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YOUNG PRIMROSE'S PARTY.

A PLAINT OF THE POLLS.

AIR--"_Hans Breitmann's Party_."

Young PRIMROSE had a Party, He led it--like a lamb. It fell in love with a motley thing They called the Rad Pro-gramme. They swore that plan to fight for, Aye, fight till all was Blue; But when it came unto the Polls, That Party split in two.

Young PRIMROSE had a Party, For Progress it was bound; But all the progress that it made Was staggering round and round. The liveliest shindies in the House, And mockery out-o'-door, Was all that Party caused, and so It dwindled more and more.

Young PRIMROSE had a Party. I tell you it cost him dear. The Rads he led "rolled into" him Because he was a Peer: They tried to knock Bung's spigot in, The Caineites raised a cheer. I think that so fine a Party Never went bust on beer.

Young PRIMROSE had a Party, They were all "_Souse undt Brouse_,"[1] A more divided company Ne'er wrangled in the House: They talked of "filling up the cup," Vetoing the Vitler's guilt; But soon they found the pot was full, And that the cup was spilt.

Young PRIMROSE had a Party, Although it was not big, It tried to break the power of beer, And check the sway of swig! But soon they found 'twas all in vain, The brewer they did "cop"; And the company scattered like fighting crowds When the constable bids them stop.

Young PRIMROSE _had_ a Party, Where is that Party now? Where are the lovely golden dreams Of the Newcastle pow-wow? Where are the Democratic plans, The L. C. C.'s delight? All floated away on a flood of beer Away--in the _Ewigkeit!_[2]

[Footnote 1: "Saus und Braus": _Ger._ Riot and bustle.]

[Footnote 2: "Ewigkrit": _Ger._ Eternity: "gone for ever".]

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EAST NORFOLK ELECTION.--When women are stoned by cowardly ruffians, of any party, or, more probably, of no party, it is not a time for jokes. But _Mr. Punch_ wishes he had been there, with a few of his young men and a few revolvers, and then some persons more deserving to be hit might have been hit, and with something sharper than stones. In East Norfolk, during the excitement of an election, it is evidently almost as necessary to carry firearms for self-defence as in any quite uncivilised and savage country--such as Bulgaria, under the government of the brave FERDINAND.

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METEOROLOGICAL MISGIVINGS.

_Saturday._--How warm it is! Shall go for my holiday somewhere on the sea. A month's cruise on the coast of Norway, perhaps.

_Sunday._--What a tremendous gale! Imagine a month of this on the sea. Shall go inland, quite in the country--say to a cottage on Dartmoor.

_Monday._--What a dull day! Couldn't stand the country in this gloom. Try Paris.

_Tuesday._--A glorious day. Very hot and sunny in Paris now. Shall go to the Lakes.

_Wednesday._--Steady rain. Don't like the idea of the Lakes. Always damp and depressing. In this sort of weather better be at Scarborough or Brighton.

_Thursday._--Drizzle and mist. No doubt sea fog on coast. Hate sea fog. Better go to a dry place abroad. How about North Italy?

_Friday._--What beastly dust everywhere! No good going to a dry, sunny climate. Try Cornwall.

_Saturday._--Damp, close day. Couldn't stand much of this. Too enervating. Shall go to the Alps--anywhere up high in the mountain air.

_Sunday._--Chilly for the time of year. Probably snowing on the Alps. Very dismal, cowering over a stove in a Swiss inn. What a difficulty this holiday is! Good idea! Will postpone it till the settled weather in the winter.

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NEW ADAPTATION OF ANCIENT CHAFF TO THE DEFEATED CANDIDATES.--"Does your mother know you're 'Out'?" [N.B.--What view "mother" will take of it depends on "mother's" politics.]

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TO JULIA, KNIGHT-ERRANT.

["After the noble lord's dinner-party, at which the ladies appeared in their cycling costumes, consisting of ..., the company set off at half-past ten on their bikes for the region between St Paul's and the Tower, where at that hour, except an occasional policeman, hardly a soul is to be seen. Their example is now being generally imitated." _People of To-Day_.]

When night her sable pall doth spread Above the city's sleeping head So as it seemeth to be dead;

And labour hath a short surcease, And burglars taste a halcyon peace, Save where the vigilant police,

All fearless on their darkling beat, With sound of heavy-sandalled feet Wake awesome echoes in the street;

When weary chapmen go their ways To halls of song or sit at gaze In front of elevating plays;

Or haply drop into the club, And pausing for a friendly rub Defy the deadly nuptial snub;

Or watch in fond paternal mood The slumber of their infant brood In some suburban neighbourhood:--

Then, JULIA, then, at such an hour I gather that you quit your bower And seek the purlieus of the Tower;

Encased in wanton breeks and wide, A solid regiment, you ride With swains revolving at your side;

By stilly thoroughfares you strike Th' astonied silence with your bike; Earth never yet hath seen the like!

Not she, that fair of whom they sing, Who wrought her city's ransoming, GODIVA dared so bold a thing.

High Heaven alone sees such a sight When Dian wheels her orb by night With many a starry satellite.

But, JULIA, though the mode decree, By all the rites of Battersea, That you career in company,

The conscious object of remark, Whenas the lusty-throated lark Disporteth o'er the People's Park;

Yet certes it were more discreet, When Hesper from his vantage-seat Illuminateth Cannon Street,

To ride with none but me to know Just how th' enamoured breezes blow Round your ineffable _trousseau!_

How say you, sweet? To-morrow, then, We assignate for half-past ten Upon the punctual stroke of Ben?

On Cupid's chaste commission bent We twain will meet, with your consent, 10.30, by the Monument.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

To recommend _Lyre and Lancet_ to readers of _Punch_ is to preach to the converted, and, as Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT said when he opened his election campaign in Derby, that is a work of supererogation. There is, however, this new thing to be said, that SMITH, ELDER & CO., including the work in their Novel Series, have presented it in dainty form, and have preserved Mr. PARTRIDGE'S illustrations. My Baronite has read it through again with increased admiration for the perilous audacity of the plot, the skill with which it is worked out, and the many felicities of the phrasing. It would be so easy to spoil it by a coarse or slovenly touch. In no scene of the breathless drama does Mr. ANSTEY'S hand forget its cunning.

The larger number of the verses that make up the little volume SMITH, ELDER & CO. publish under the title _Tillers of the Sand_ have, Mr. OWEN SEAMAN states in his preface, appeared in the _National Observer_. Whilst they are above the average of the cleverness of that really smart journal, they are tainted by its besetting sin. Purporting to present "a fitful record of the ROSEBERY Administration," the recorder finds it all very bad. This is hard on the late Government, but it is harder still on the clever versifier. True art requires light and shade, and here is none. Appearing week by week the pungent admixtures were passable, were even titillating. But the monotony of vituperation, however cleverly compounded, grows a little wearisome, even in a volume that does not much exceed a hundred pages. My Baronite likes best "The Lament of the Macgregor," not because its literary style is more masterly than that of its companion verse, but because its fun is less acrid. The rest, with significant exception of two pieces that appeared in these pages, is too hotly spiced with ASHMEAD-BARTLETTISM to please one who looks to Mr. SEAMAN for the wine of scholarly verse and finds the vinegar of election squibs.

THE BARON DE B.-W.

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Shakspeare on the recent R. A. Elections.

ONSLOW FORD, Sculptor, R. A. W. B. RICHMOND, Painter, R. A.

"Good Master FORD, be contented."

_Merry Wives of Windsor_, Act III., Scene 3.

"For RICHMOND'S good."

_Richard the Third_, Act V., Scene 3.

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MRS. GAMP ON "LOCAL OPTION."--"I never could have kep myself up but for a little drain of spirits, which I seldom touches, but could always wish to know where to find, if so dispoged."--_Martin Chuzzlewit_, c. xlvi.

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The case of slandering Major RASCH, M.P., was dismissed on defendant TURP tendering apology and paying costs. Rash on the part of TURP, but the case was settled in a Rashional way.

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TO MR. A. F. MUMMERY.--The Recollections of his foreign _Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus_ might suggest to the author a new work to be entitled "_Pleasant Mummeries_." Of course nothing to do with amateur acting, or with Miss MILN'S _Strolling Players in the East_.

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THE LAST PAGE OF SOMEBODY'S DIARY.

(_Picked up in the neighbourhood of Dorchester House_)

Before leaving England I finish this book. I have seen much and would have liked to see more. It was a great disappointment to me that the Polytechnic had changed its character. It was the dream of my childhood to be present at a lecture "Illustrated with brilliant experiments." Still the British Museum was a very good substitute. Then I was pleased with the Imperial Institute, and appreciated STRAUSS'S band. Although I have yet to learn what the latter had to do with the spread of the British Dominion. And I was delighted with the State Balls and the Ascot races. I was pleased, too, with my visit to the Board School. And there seemed to be much doing in the Houses of Parliament. But what struck me most of all was the great prosperity I noticed everywhere. There is no poverty in England. All is rich. Everyone is great. There are none who are not powerful; it is marvellous, but true. I should like to return to this great country to learn a little more. I have not yet seen a paper printed. I have not dined at the table of those who are responsible for the gaiety of nations. I have not watched the manufacture of a clock. I have not examined waxworks. I have not risen in the air in a balloon, nor sunk below the level of the sea in a diving-bell. But all this pleasure can wait till I pay England a second visit. And I am pleased to find that certain places are myths, the more especially as these places were said to be "disgraces to civilization." There is no East End. There are no prisons. Poverty is a word that has become obsolete. Everyone is satisfied. A strike never happens because all Englishmen are contented. This is the lesson that I have learned at the hands of the great British Government. It is strange, but undoubtedly true, that the English nation has no "seamy side." So I leave the country of prosperous content with a salaam of heart-felt respect. And now for Paris, with its wicked distractions. I hope I may survive. In the meanwhile Britannia, Brave, Brilliant, Beautiful and Beneficial, farewell!

P.S.--Always supposing I can overcome my terror of _malade de mer_.

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HIGHLY PROBABLE.--For a draught of a new Irish policy the present Government is pretty sure to return to the Old Butt.

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THE ELECTION PLEASANT PHRASE BOOK.

(_For the use of Unpopular Candidates expected to accept attacks "good-naturedly."_)

I am much obliged to you for the unsavoury egg.

Pray do not apologise for breaking my arm with a stone three inches in diameter.

Thanks for that pail of mud emptied over my head and hat.

It is really capital fun being pelted with gravel.

Never mind having smashed my dog-cart and killed the horse attached to it.

Really, dodging this storm of bludgeons is the most amusing occupation imaginable.

Never mind having crushed my skull, as I really wanted a chance to give a good turn to the local doctor.

Finally, I would willingly acknowledge all these little humours of a contested election in a spirit of genial amiability had you not unfortunately broken my jaw and reduced me to a condition of semi-insensibility.

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GOOD NEWS, AND STRANGE TOO!

The Northern Railway Company of France, as the _Daily Telegraph_ informs us, has decided to spend four millions of francs in improving its rolling-stock. This move ought to send up all its "stock" in the market. Also there is to be a train of an entirely new pattern, replete with every convenience, running in correspondence with the London Chatham and Dover Company's most convenient continental service. This is first-class (and second also) news for persons about to travel. The _D. T._ further says that "the adoption of bogies will make the running easy." Good gracious! The cutting and running would come quite naturally to most of the passengers on beholding only one "bogey"; but when it comes to "bogies," there would be a general stampede! Very kind of the Northern to "adopt" bogies. Some poor little orphan bogies, left at the door of a Bogey-Foundling Hospital, deserted by their ghostly and unnatural parents, but "adopted" by the spirited Great Northern of France! "Hush! Hush, Hush, it is the Bogey Train!" But no tricks on travellers, spirited Great Northern of France.

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ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

I spoke last week of the General Election, more particularly with regard to its influence on the speakers who take part in it. A treatise on this aspect of the matter has yet to be written. One of the main points to be determined will be the amount of influence exercised by the speech, not on its hearers, but on the speaker himself.

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Nothing is more remarkable than the rapidity and definiteness with which a speaker's opinions crystallise during the course of a speech. Let us assume, for example, that a Radical candidate has been approached on the subject of an Eight Hours Bill, and, in order to gain time, has promised to deal with it in his next speech, at the same time giving an assurance of general sympathy. Probably he has not thought much about the question before. In the evening he will speak upon it; and suddenly, to his own intense surprise, he will find himself declaring that all legislation will be vain, all social effort fruitless, until the load of toil that presses on the mass of his fellow-countrymen is lightened, and a universal Eight Hours Bill is carried through both Houses.

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Or again, a Conservative is confronted with the question of old-age pensions. Precisely the same process takes place, and under the necessity of convincing himself, while endeavouring to convince and to please his audience, he will vow never to cease his efforts in support of Mr. CHAMBERLAIN until a general system of State pensions for the aged is established throughout the United Kingdom.

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So it is with votes of thanks and laudatory speeches of all kinds. If you have to move a vote of thanks to A., a politician whom you do not specially admire, the odds are about ten to one that you will describe him as a great statesman, a profound thinker, an eloquent orator, and the man of the future. All this may be due to your having embarked on a rhetorical period which required more words than you had prepared yourself to supply; and in the agitation of filling up the gap, and rounding off the period, you say what you had not the remotest intention of saying when you got on to your legs. Hence come in after years parallel columns, and aggravating charges of inconsistency.

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It was roses, roses all the way. But that was some time ago in the case of Mr. ISAAC HOYLE, late Liberal Member for the Heywood Division of Lancashire. He was asked to support Mr. SNAPE the Liberal Candidate at this election, but he refused to "take any part in sending Mr. SNAPE to Parliament, charged with duties for which, as I think, his votes show he has no qualification." The receipt of this letter caused the greatest excitement in the Division, and at the Heywood Reform Club Mr. HOYLE'S portrait has been smashed to pieces and thrown out of the building. It is stated also that his subscriptions are being returned. Clearly a case of adding Hoyle to the flames of controversy.

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Mr. THOMAS MILVAIN, the Conservative who vainly endeavoured to oust Sir WILFRID LAWSON from the Cockermouth Division, was once a great boxer--a heavy-weight champion amongst amateurs, if my memory serves me. In the course of his late contest he addressed a hostile meeting at Dearham. Many questions were put to him. One was, "What weight was ta when thoo was a boxer?" Mr. MILVAIN'S answer was, "I was 13 st. 8 lb. That was twenty-eight years ago, and I have not had the gloves on since." (_Laughter and cheers, and a Voice_: "_Would you like to have them on now?_") "I am quite prepared to give any of you a turn, if you want one." (_Great laughter and cheers._)

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When a Candidate, heckled by enemies, finds All his efforts to keep the place still vain, Let him try one resource ere he pulls down the blinds, And conform to the model of MILVAIN.

For when politics palled he referred to the years When his skill as a boxer was lauded; An allusion to gloves won him laughter and cheers, Which was more than the "point of his jaw" did.

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In a provincial contemporary I find the following startling information, under the heading, "Mothers of Great Men." SCHUMANN'S mother was gifted in music; CHOPIN'S mother, like himself, was very delicate; WORDSWORTH'S mother had a character as peculiar as that of her gifted son; RALEIGH said that he owed all his politeness of deportment to his mother. There are other statements about other mothers, but those I have quoted may suffice in the meantime. What I want to know is why any reasonable human being should care, or be supposed to care, about these ridiculous scraps of information collected from a rubbish-heap of useless knowledge. Here is another that I cannot leave out: HAYDN dedicated one of his most important instrumental compositions to his mother. Amazing.

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In the parish of Swaffham Bulbeck (Phoebus, what a name!) there are apparently two bridges. At the adjourned quarterly meeting of the Parish Council the other day, Mr. C. P. FYSON in the chair, "it was reported that Bridge No. 1 required to be re-built.... The Chairman reported Bridge No. 2 required the same treatment, and eventually the whole matter was adjourned"--presumably in the hope that in the interval the bridges would rebuild themselves.

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HOW I LOST MY POLL.

MR. PUNCH, HONOURED SIR,--By way of supplementing efforts of _Daily Chroncile_ to obtain authorised statements showing cause for defeat of certain distinguished candidates, have secured following satisfactory explanations, for authenticity of which I have pleasure in vouching. Have suppressed names of men and places, thus sacrificing verisimilitude on altar of discretion.

A. explains:--Opponent started with every natural advantage, having only appeared in constituency three weeks and two days ago, and being entirely unknown. (_Omne ignotum pro benefico._) I, on other hand, had been on spot for five-and-twenty years, and was _only two well known_.

B. explains:--Attribute my defeat (by exactly 4529 votes) to over-confidence on part of my supporters. Seems that recollection of ample margin of two (one voting-paper disputed) by which I was returned to late Parliament produced reckless and culpable apathy.

C. explains:--Mistake to suppose that Local or any other Veto had appreciable bearing on result of election. Fact is that opposition chartered every available traction-engine to bring up rural electorate. All other traffic practically suspended. Terrorised owners refused to risk their stables in unequal struggle. Was reduced to average of one horse a piece for my four-in-hands. Also other man's wife prettier than mine.