SCENE XV.--_The Verney Chamber.

_Spurr. (to himself)._ My word, what a room! Carpet all over the walls, big fourposter, carved ceiling, great fireplace with blazing logs,--if this is how they do a _vet_ here, what price the _other_ fellows' rooms? And to think I shall have to do without dinner, just when I was getting on with 'em all so swimmingly! I _must_. I can't, for the credit of the profession--to say nothing of the firm--turn up in a monkey jacket and tweed bags, and that's all _I_'ve got except a nightgown!... It's all very well for Lady MAISIE to say "Take everything as it comes," but if she was in _my_ fix!... And it isn't as if I hadn't _got_ dress things either. If only I'd brought 'em down, I'd have marched in to dinner as cool as a----(_he lights a pair of candles._) Hullo! What's that on the bed? (_He approaches it._) Shirt! white tie! socks! coat, waistcoat, trousers--they _are_ dress clothes!... And here's a pair of brushes on the table! I'll swear they're not _mine_--there's a monogram on them--"U.G." What does it all mean? Why, of course! regular old trump, Sir RUPERT, and naturally he wants me to do him credit. He saw how it was, and he's gone and rigged me out! In a house like this, they're ready for emergencies--keep all sizes in stock, I daresay.... It isn't "U. G." on the brushes--it's "G. U."--"Guest's Use." Well, this is what I call doing the thing in style! _Cinderella_'s nothing to it! Only hope they're a decent fit. (_Later, as he dresses._) Come, the shirt's all right; trousers a trifle short--but they'll let down; waistcoat--whew, must undo the buckle--hang it, it _is_ undone! I feel like a hooped barrel in it! Now the coat--easy does it. Well, it's _on_; but I shall have to be peeled like a walnut to get it off again.... Shoes? ah, here they are--pair of pumps. Phew--must have come from the Torture Exhibition in Leicester Square; glass slippers nothing to 'em! But they'll have to do at a pinch; and they _do_ pinch like blazes! Ha, ha, that's good! I must tell that to the Captain. (_He looks at himself in a mirror._) Well, I can't say they're up to mine for cut and general style; but they're passable. And now I'll go down to the Drawing Room and get on terms with all the smarties!

[_He saunters out with restored complacency._

* * * * *

SOCIETY FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF LITERATURE

The first annual meeting of this society, which, as our readers will remember, has been in process of formation for some years past, was held yesterday. We cannot congratulate the society on its decision to exclude reporters. It is true that our representative, on seeking admission, was informed that his presence would be unnecessary, as members of the society, having for some time past done their own reviewing, intended for the future to report themselves. The public, however, whose eager interest in literature is sufficiently attested not only by the literary page of democratic newspapers, but by the columns which even reactionary journals devote to higher criticism and literary snippets--the public, we say, will not brook this absurd plea, and will refuse to accept any but an impartial report of a gathering such as was held yesterday. This we have obtained, and we now proceed to publish it for the benefit of the world.

The meeting opened with a prayer of two thousand words specially written for the occasion by Mr. RICHARD L- G-LLI-NNE in collaboration with Mr. ROBERT B-CH-N-N. As this is shortly to be published in the form of a joint letter to the _Daily Chronicle_ it is only necessary to say at present that it combines vigour of expression with delicacy of sentiment and grace of style in the very highest degree. By the way, we may mention that the new Prayer-book of the Society is to be published by Messrs. E-K-N M-TTH-WS and J-HN L-NE, at the "Bodley Head," before the end of the year. It will be profusely illustrated by MESSRS. A-BR-Y B-ARD-L-Y and W-LT-R S-CK-RT, who have also designed for it a special fancy cover. Only three hundred copies will be issued. To return, however, to the meeting.

After harmony had been restored, Mr. W-LT-R B-S-NT asked leave to say a few words. His remarks, in which he was understood to advocate the compulsory expropriation of publishers, were at first listened to with favour. Happening incautiously to say a word or two in praise of a Mr. DICKENS and a Mr. THACKERAY he was groaned down after a sturdy struggle. Mr. DICKENS and Mr. THACKERAY were not, we understand, present in the room at the time.

Mr. H-B-RT CR-CK-NTH-RPE rose and denounced the previous speaker. Literature, he declared, must be vague. What was the use of knowing what you were driving at? What was the use of anyone knowing anything? Personally he didn't mean to know more than he could help, and he could assure the meeting that he could help a great deal; yes, he could help his fellow-creatures to a right understanding of the value of patchwork and jerks. That was the religion of humanity.

Mr. N-RM-N G-LE said he wasn't much good speaking, but he could do something in the dairy and orchard style. He then gave the following example:--

Enter CELIA, robed in white, CELIA'S been a-milking. CELIA daily doth indite Praises to the Pill-king.

CELIA'S flocks and CELIA'S herds (Only she can teach 'em) All produce their cream and curds, Helped by Mr. B-CH-M.

A loud cheer greeted the recital of this charming pastoral, and one editor, who is not often a victim to mere sentiment, said it reminded him of his happy childhood, when he used to take Dr. GREGORY'S powders after a day spent in the neighbouring farmer's orchard.

The next speaker was G-ORGE EG-RT-N. All women, she said, must be GEORGES. GEORGE SAND and GEORGE ELIOT were women she believed. GEORGE MEREDITH was an exception, but that only proved her rule. Women were a miserable lot: it was their own fault. Why marry? ("Hear, hear," from Mrs. MONA CAIRD.) Why be born at all? She paused for a reply.

At this point Mr. W. T. ST-AD entered the room and offered to talk about "JULIA in Chicago," but the meeting broke up in confusion, without the customary vote of thanks to the Chair.

* * * * *

HOW IT WILL BE DONE HEREAFTER.

(_A Serene Ducal Romance of the Future._)

His Highness was smoking a pipe at the close of the day in the fair realm of Utopia. He had finished dinner, and was discussing his _lager_ beer, which had quite taken the place of coffee.

"Dear me," said the Duke, rather anxiously, as he noticed the Premier was seating himself in a chair in his near neighbourhood; "I am afraid I am in disgrace."

"Not at all, Sir," replied the Minister, graciously. "On the contrary, in the name of the people of Utopia, I beg to offer you my sincere thanks."

"For what?" queried the Duke.

"For doing your duty, my liege. Not that that is a novelty, for, as a matter of fact, you are always doing it."

"I am pleased to hear you say so," observed His Highness; "as I was under the impression that I had rather shirked my engagements."

"Not at all, Sir--not at all. If you consult your memory, you will find you carried out to-day's programme to the letter."

"Had I not to lay a foundation stone, or something, this morning?"

"Assuredly; and you touched a cord as you were getting up, and immediately the machinery was set in motion, and the stone was duly laid. Much better than driving miles to have to stand in a drafty marquee."

"And had I not to open an exhibition?"

"Why, yes. And you opened it in due course. Your equerry represented you and ground out your speech from the portable phonograph."

"Well, really, that was very ingenious," remarked His Highness. "But was I not missed?"

"You would have been, Sir," returned the Premier, "had we not had the forethought to send down the lantern that gives you in a thousand different attitudes. By revolving the disc rapidly the most life-like presentment was offered immediately."

"Excellent! and did I do anything else?"

"Why your Highness has been hard at work all day attending reviews, opening canals, and even presiding at public dinners. Thanks to science we can reproduce your person, your speech, your very presence at a moment's notice."

"Exceedingly clever!" exclaimed His Highness. "Ah, how much better is the twentieth century than its predecessor!"

And no doubt the sentiment of His Highness will be approved by posterity.

* * * * *

* * * * *

COUNTING THE CATCH.

_A Waltonian Fragment._

_First Piscator_, R-S-B-RY. _Second Piscator_, H-RC-RT.

_First Piscator._ Oh me, look you, master, a fish, a fish!

[_Loses it._

_Second Piscator._ Aye, marry, Sir, that was a good fish; if I had had the luck to handle that rod, 'tis twenty to one he should not have broken my line as you suffered him; I would have held him, as you will learn to do hereafter; for I tell you, scholer, fishing is an art, or at least it is an art to catch fish. Verily that is the second brave Salmon you have lost in that pool!

_First Piscator._ Oh me, he has broke all; there's half a line and a good flie lost. I have no fortune, and that Peers' Pool is fatal fishing.

_Second Piscator._ Marry, brother, so it seemes--to you at least! Wel, wel, 'tis as small use crying over lost fish as spilt milk; the sunne hath sunk, the daye draweth anigh its ende; let us up tackle, and away!

_First Piscator._ Look also how it begins to rain, and by the clouds (if I mistake not) we shal presently have a smoaking showre. Truly it has been a long, rough day, and but poorish sport.

_Second Piscator._ Humph! I am fairly content with _my_ catch, and had all been landed that have been hookt--but no matter! "Fishers must not rangle," as the Angler's song hath it.

_First Piscator._ Marry, no indeed! (_Sings._)

O the brave fisher's life It is the best of any! He who'd mar it with mere strife Sure must be a zany. Other men, Now and then, Have their wars, And their jars; Our rule stil Is goodwill As we gaily angle. We have hooks about our hat, We have rod and gaff too; We can cast and we can chat, Play our fish and chaff too. None do here Use to swear, Oathes do fray Fish away. Our rule still Is goodwill. Fishers must not rangle.

_Second Piscator._ Well sung, brother! Oh me, but even at our peaceful and vertuous pastime, there bee certain contentious and obstructive spoil-sports now. These abide not good old Anglers' Law, but bob and splash in other people's swims, fray away the fish they cannot catch, and desire not that experter anglers should, do muddy the stream and block its course, do net and poach and foul-hook in such noisy, conscienceless, unmannerly sort, that even honest angling becometh a bitter labour and aggravation.

_First Piscator._ Marry, yes brother! the Contemplative Man's Recreation is verily not what it once was. What would the sweet singer, Mr. WILLIAM BASSE, say to the busy B's of our day; DUBARTAS to B-RTL-Y, or Mr. THOMAS BARKER, of pleasant report, to TOMMY B-WL-S?

_Second Piscator._ Or worthy old COTTON to the cocky MACULLUM MORE?

_First Piscator._ Or the equally cocky BRUMMAGEM BOY?

_Second Piscator._ Or Dame JULIANA BERNERS to B-LF-UR?

_First Piscator._ Or Sir HUMPHREY DAVY to the haughty autocrat of H-TF-LD?

_Second Piscator._ Wel, wel, I hate contention and obstruction and all unsportsmanlike devices--when I am fishing.

_First Piscator._ And so say I. (_Sings._) The Peers are full of prejudice, As hath too oft been tri'd; High trolollie lollie loe, high trolollie lee!

_Second Piscator._ The Commons full of opulence, And both are full of pride. _Then care away_ _and fish along with me!_

_First Piscator._ Marry, brother, and would that I could always do so. But doomed as we often are to angle in different swims, I may not always land the big fish that you hook, or even----

_Second Piscator._ Wel, honest scholer, say no more about it, but let us count and weigh our day's catch. By Jove, but that bigge one I landed after soe long a fight, and which you were so luckie as to gaff in that verie snaggy and swirly pool itselfe, maketh a right brave show on the grassie bank! And harkye, scholer, 'tis a far finer and rarer fish than manie woule suppose at first sight!

[_Chuckleth inwardly._

_First Piscator._ You say true, master. And indeed the other fish, though of lesser bigness, bee by no manner of meanes to be sneezed at. Marry, Master, 'tis none so poor a day's sport after all--considering the weather and the much obstruction, eh?

_Second Piscator._ May bee not, may bee not! Stil, I could fain wish, honest scholer, you had safely landed those two bigge ones you lost in Peers' Pool, out of which awkward bit of water, indeed, I could fain desire we might keep _all_ our fish!

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO A WOULD-BE AUTHORESS.

Though, MAUD, I respect your ambition, I fear, to be brutally plain, No proud and exalted position Your stories are likely to gain;

And, frankly, I cannot pretend I Regard with the smallest delight The vile _cacoëthes scribendi_ Which led you to write.

Your talk is most charming, I know it, You readily fascinate all, But yet as a serious poet Your worth, I'm afraid, is but small; Your features, though well-nigh perfection, Of the obstacle hardly dispose That you haven't the faintest conception Of how to write prose!

You think it would be so delightful To see your productions in print? Well, do not consider me spiteful For daring discreetly to hint That in this too-crowded profession, Where prizes are fewer than blanks, You'll find the laconic expression, "Rejected--with thanks."

And so, since you do me the pleasure To ask for my candid advice, Allow for your moments of leisure Some other pursuit to suffice; And, if you would really befriend me, One wish I will humbly confess,-- Oh, do not continue to send me Those reams of MS.!

* * * * *

A MODERN TRAGEDY.

Our hostess told us off in pairs, I had not caught my partner's name, But learned, when half way down the stairs, She long had been a Primrose Dame; And, ere the soup was out of sight, She'd found, and left behind, her text on A speech, if I remember right, Attributed to Mr. SEXTON.

And I--I sat and gasped awhile, And only when we reached the pheasant, Assuming my politest smile, And with an air distinctly pleasant, Attempted firmly to direct Her flow of talk to other channels, Books--shops--the latest stage-effect-- The newest ways of painting panels.

I tried in vain. "Ah, yes," she said, "And that reminds me--this Dissent"-- And thereupon began, instead, Discussing Disestablishment! The case was clearly hopeless, so I hazarded no more suggestions, But merely answered Yes or No At random, to her frequent questions.

Yet, while that gushing torrent ran, I made a solemn private vow That, though no ardent partisan, Those Ministers I'll vote for now Who'll introduce a drastic bill To bring about her abolition, To banish utterly, or kill The modern lady-politician!

* * * * *

THE OYSTER AND THE SPARROW.

_A Pessimistic Tale._

At Whitstable one summer day, An oyster gave his fancy wings; He very indolently lay In bed, and thought of many things;

Of what his life had been; of weeks All spent in having forty winks-- You know an oyster never speaks, But lies awake in bed, and thinks.

He thought, with pardonable pride, That he had never worked--a plan Which showed, it cannot be denied, That he was quite a gentleman.

He lived more calmly in his sea Than any Bishop; never crossed In any sort of wishes, he Had never loved, and never lost.

No cruel maid had ever spurned His heart, such grief no oyster knows; Nor hatred ever in him burned Against the rival whom she chose.

Yet, when considered, all appeared Too softly calm, too free from strife; He thought, and, sighing, stroked his beard, "There does not seem much use in life."

By chance, upon this very day A London sparrow, for a minute, Was thinking somewhat in this way Of life, and what the deuce was in it,

And how he fluttered up and down, Like Berthas, Doras, Trunks, or Yankees-- His nest was far above the town, Upon the buildings known as Hankey's.

He thought, with pardonable pride, Unlike a pampered, gay canary, He worked--it cannot be denied That "_Laborare est orare_."

He worked with all his might and main, Yet now he chirped with some misgiving, "Shoot me if I know what I gain, There does not seem much use in living."

Soon after this the bird and fish Were slain by old, relentless foes, When death was near, each seemed to wish! To keep his life--why, no one knows.

The bird was knocked upon the head-- A crack no gluing could repair; The oyster rudely dragged from bed, Died from exposure to the air.

They helped in one great work, at least, To make some greedy beings fat; The oyster graced a City feast, The bird was eaten by the cat.

Thus, though they led such different lives, One fat from sloth, from work one thinner, Their end was that for which man strives, And mostly ends his days with--dinner!

* * * * *

VERSES TO THE WEATHER MAIDEN.

Lady, the best and brightest of the sex, Whose smile we value, and whose frown we fear, Let me proclaim the miseries that vex The numerous throng who all esteem you dear; 'Tis not that you habitually appear Serenely contemplating the Atlantic In raiment which, if fashionable here, Would greatly shock the properly pedantic, Make Glasgow green with rage, and Mrs. GRUNDY frantic;

Your classical costume a true delight is To all who study you from day to day, And even if it hastens on bronchitis It serves your graceful figure to display: But now your thousand fond admirers pray Amid the tumult of the London traffic And in each rural unfrequented way-- "O weather-goddess, look with smile seraphic And prophesy 'Set Fair' within the _Daily Graphic_!"

Too long, too long, each worshipper relates, You've told of woe with melancholy glance, Predicted new "depressions" from the States, Or "V-shaped cyclones" nearing us from France; Our summer flies, oh, herald the advance Of decent weather ere its course be ended, Put your umbrella down, and if by chance PISCATOR grumble, let him go unfriended, Heed not his selfish moan, but give us sunshine splendid!

Our confidence towards you never flinches, Let others be unceasingly employed In working out the barometric inches, Or tapping at the fickle aneroid, Wet bulb and dry we equally avoid, In you, and you alone, our hopes remain, Then be not by our forwardness annoyed, Nor let our supplications rise in vain,-- Oh, _Daily Graphic_ maid, smile, smile on us again!

* * * * *

THE YELLOW RIDING-HABIT.

Chang, he had a yellow jacket Fitting rather nice and slick; When the garment got the sack, it Made him simply deathly sick; And he swore, with objurgations, It was due--or he'd be hung-- To the fiendish machinations Of a man who rhymed with Bung.

But his lord in mild, celestial, Manner moralised and said-- "There are other really bestial Things I might have done instead; Might, in point of fact, have tied you To a poplar with a splice, And explicitly denied you Every claim to Paradise.

Nay, I even wondered whether I should play another card, And reduce your dorsal tether By a matter of a yard; Or curtail your nether raiment, (This I waived as rather coarse,) Or appropriate your payment As a marshal of the force.

But I gave you just a gentle, If humiliating, shock, Much as any Occidental Castigates the erring jock, Who in place of freely plugging At a reasonable rate, By irregularly lugging Lets a rival take the plate.

Thus I delicately hinted It was time to jog your gee; And the proper view is printed, In the pagan _P. M. G._, Namely, that you might be chary Of a deal of sultry dirt, And do better in an airy Waistcoat with a cotton shirt.

Doubtless habits have a lot to Do with character as such, Yet the prophet warns us not to Trust in colour very much; And indeed your yellow custard Came to smack of rotten cheese, Since they took to making mustard Books and Asters over-seas."

* * * * *

* * * * *

Noble Half Hundred!!!

"We mean to keep our Empire in the East!" So sang the music halls with noisy _nous_, Well, one thing now is very clear at least, Our Empire in the East can't keep--a House! Is our Indian Government fairly cheap? men ask Are Anglo-Indian rulers wise and thrifty? The Commons meet to tackle that big task, And FOWLER'S speech is listened to by--_Fifty_!

* * * * *

ROBERT AT GRINNIDGE.

How werry particklar sum peeple is in having it adwertised where they have gone to spend their summer holliday. I wunce saw it stated, sum years ago, that the Markis of SORLSBERRY had gone with the Marchoness to Deep, I think it was, and then follered the staggering annowncement that Mr. Deputy MUGGINS and Mrs. MUGGINS was a spending a hole week at Gravesend! I'm a having mine at Grinnidge, and had the honner last week of waiting upon the Ministerial Gents from Westminster, and a werry jowial lot of Gents they suttenly seems to be.

I likes Grinnidge somehow; it brings back to fond memmory the appy days when I fust preposed to my Misses ROBERT in Grinnidge Park, and won from her blushing lips a fond awowal of her loving detachment for me!

Ah! them was appy days, them was, and never cums more than wunce to us; no, not ewen in Grinnidge Park.

I'm told as how as Appy Amsted is not at all a bad place for this sort of thing; but I cannot speak from werry much pussonal xperience there myself.

Having a nour or two to spare before the Westminster Dinner, I took a strol in the butiful Park. Not quite the place for adwenters, but I had a little one there on that werry particklar day as I shant soon forget.

I was a setting down werry cumferal on a nice cumferal seat, when a nice looking Lady came up to me, and setting herself down beside me asked me wery quietly if I coud lend her such a thing as harf a crown! I was that estonished that I ardly knew what to say, when to my great surprise she bust out a crying, and told me as how as she had bin robbed, and had not a penny to take her home to London! What on airth coud I do? I coudn't say as I hadn't no harf crown coz I had one, and I carnt werry well tell a hunblushing lie coz I allers blushes if I tries one, so I said as how as it was the only one as I had, and so I hoped as she woud return it to me to-morrow, and I told her my adress, when she suddenly threw her arms round my neck and acshally kist me, and then got up and ran away! and I have lived ever since in a dredful state of dowt and unsertenty for fear as she shoud call when I was out and tell Mrs. ROBERT the hole particklers! and ewen expect her to believe it!

ROBERT.

* * * * *

THE NEXT WAR.

(_Fragment from a Romance of the Future._)

The successful General, after winning the great victory, acted with decision. He cut all the telegraph wires with his own hands, until there was but one left in the camp--that which had its outlet in his own tent. He called for the special correspondents. They came reluctantly, writing in their note-books as they approached him.

"Gentlemen," said he, with polite severity, "I have no wish to deal harshly with the Press. I am fully aware of the services it does to the country. But, gentlemen, I have a duty to perform. I cannot allow you to communicate to your respective editors the glorious result of this day's fighting. For a couple of hours you must be satisfied to restrain your impatience."

"It will yet be in time for the five o'clock edition," murmured one of the scribes.

"And I shall be able to get it into the Special," murmured another.

Then the General bowed and retired to his own tent. At last he was alone. Over the receiver to the telephone was a board inscribed with various numbers, with names attached thereto. He saw that 114 stood for "Wife," 12,017 for "Mother-in-law," and 10 for "Junior United Service Club." But he selected none of these.

"No. 7," he cried, suddenly applying his lips to the receiver and ringing up, "are you there?"

"Why, certainly; what shall I do?"

"Why, buy 30,000 Consols for me," was the prompt reply. And then the General a few minutes later added, "Have you done it?"

"I have--for the next account."

And then the warrior smiled and released the Press-men. Nay, more, he ordered the telegraph wires to be repaired. All was joy and satisfaction. The glorious news was flashed in a thousand different directions. The name of the general received immediate immortality.

And the great commander was more than satisfied. His fortune was assured. Before allowing the news to be spread abroad he had taken the precaution to do a preliminary deal with his stockbroker!

* * * * *

AN ALPINE RAILWAY.

Abominable work of man, Defacing nature where he can With engineering; On plain or hill he never fails To run his execrable rails; Coals, dirt, smoke, passengers and mails, At once appearing.

To Alpine summits daily go The locomotives to and fro. What desecration! Where playful kids once blithely skipped, Where rustic goatherds gaily tripped, Where clumsy climbers sometimes slipped, He builds a station.

Up there, where once upon a time Determined mountaineers would climb To some far _châlet_; Up there, above the carved wood toys, Above the beggars, and the boys Who play the _Ranz des Vaches_--such noise Down in the _Thal_, eh?

Up there at sunset, rosy red, And sunrise--if you're out of bed-- You see the summit, Majestic, high above the vale. It is not difficult to scale-- The fattest folk can go by rail To overcome it.

For nothing, one may often hear, Is sacred to the engineer; He's much too clever. Well, I must hurry on again, That mountain summit to attain, Good-bye. I'm going by the train. I climb it? Never!

* * * * *

* * * * *

AN ANGLO-RUSSIAN ECHO.

[At Baku, on the Caspian, a Society has been formed to abolish hand-shaking and kissing, on the ground that bacilli are propagated by such personal contact. The ladies, however, have protested against this to the Governor-General.

_Daily Telegraph._]

Baku is a place that is pretty well Grundyfied, Where the good folks have all frolic and fun defied, Where I'd be shunned, if I'd Play at Whit-Mondayfied Games such as "Catch-can" and Kiss-in-the-ring!

For the greybeards, it seems, of this naptha-metropolis (Really, their reason about to o'ertopple is) All o'er the shop'll hiss, Hollering, "Stop! Police! Hi, there! hand-shaking the mischief will bring!"

And kissing, they think, only leads to diphtheria-- Well, I should say, such a dread of bacteria Quite beyond query, amounts to hysteria! No, it won't "wash"--they don't either, I fear!

But SONIA and OLGA and VERA are mutinous, Rightly, I think, at such nonsense o'erscrutinous. "_This_ rot take root in us? No, keep salutin' us!" Echo our MABELS and MAUDS over here!

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TORY, M.P.

_House of Lords. Monday, August 13._--Sorry I didn't hear the Duke of ARGYLL. Have been told he is one of finest orators in House; a type of the antique; something to be cherished and honoured.

"Were you ever," SARK asked, "at Oban when the games were going on? Very well then, you would see the contest among the pipers. You have watched them strutting up and down with head thrown back, toes turned out, cheeks extended, and high notes thrilling through the shrinking air. There you have Duke of ARGYLL--God bless him!--addressing House of Lords. He is not one piper, but many. As he proceeds, intoxicated with sound of his own voice, ecstatic in clearness of his own vision, he competes with himself as the pipers struggle with each other until at last he has, in a Parliamentary sense of course, swollen to such a size that there is no room in the stately chamber for other Peers. Nothing and nobody left but His Grace the Duke of ARGYLL. Towards end of sixty minutes spectacle begins to pall on wearied senses; but to begin with, it is almost sublime. For thirty-two years, he told ROSEBERY just now, he had sat on the opposite benches, a Member of the Liberal Party. He sat elsewhere now, but why? Because he was the Liberal Party; all the rest like sheep had gone astray. Pretty to see the MARKISS with blushing head downcast when ARGYLL turned round to him and, with patronising tone and manner, hailed him and his friends as the only party with whom a true Liberal might collogue. In some circumstances, this bearing would be insupportably bumptious. In the Duke, with the time limit hinted at, it is delightful. He really unfeignedly believes it all. Sometimes in the dead unhappy night, when the rain is on the roof (not an uncommon thing in Inverary) he thinks in sorrow rather than in anger of multitudes of men hopelessly in the wrong; that is to say, who differ from his view on particular subjects at given times."

_Business done._--Second Reading of Evicted Tenants Bill moved in Lords.

_Tuesday._--For awhile last night, whilst LANSDOWNE speaking, CLANRICARDE sat on rear Cross Bench immediately in front of Bar where mere Commoners are permitted to stand. Amongst them at this moment were TIM HEALY, O'BRIEN, and SEXTON, leaning over rail to catch LANSDOWNE'S remarks. Before them, almost within hand reach, certainly approachable at arm's length with a good shillalegh, was the bald pate of the man who, from some points of view, is The Irish Question. CLANRICARDE sat long unconscious of the proximity. SARK, not usually a squeamish person, after breathlessly watching this strange suggestive contiguity, moved hastily away. This is a land of law and order. Differences, if they exist, are settled by judicial processes. But human nature, especially Celtic nature, is weak. The bald pate rested so conveniently on the edge of the bench. It was so near; it had schemed so much for the undoing of hapless friends in Ireland. What if * * *

To-night CLANRICARDE instinctively moved away from this locality. Discovered on back bench below gangway, from which safe quarter he delivered speech, showing how blessed is the lot of the light-hearted peasant on what he called "my campaign estates."

The MARKISS and CLANRICARDE rose together. It was ten o'clock, the hour appointed for Leader of Opposition to interpose; in anticipation of that event the House crowded from floor to side galleries garlanded with fair ladies. Privy Councillors jostled each other on steps of Throne; at the Bar stood the Commons closely packed; TIM HEALY, anxious not again to be led into temptation, deserted this quarter; surveyed scene from end of Gallery over the Bar. The MARKISS stood for a moment at the table manifestly surprised that any should question his right to speak. According to Plan of Campaign prepared beforehand by Whips now was his time; ROSEBERY to follow; and Division taken so as to clear House before midnight. CLANRICARDE recks little of Plans of Campaign: stood his ground and finally evicted the MARKISS; cast him out by the roadside with no other compensation than the sympathy of HALSBURY and of RUTLAND, who sat on either side of him.

When opportunity came the MARKISS rose to it. Speech delightful to hear; every sentence a lesson in style. Hard task for young Premier to follow so old and so perfect a Parliamentary hand. MARKISS spoke to enthusiastically friendly audience. ROSEBERY recognised in himself the representative of miserable minority of thirty; undaunted, undismayed, he played lightly with the ponderous personalities of ARGYLL, and looking beyond the heads of the crowd of icily indifferent Peers before him, seemed to see the multitude in the street, and to hear the murmur of angry voices.

_Business done._--Lords throw out Evicted Tenants Bill by 249 votes against 30.

_Thursday, Midnight._--Spent restful evening with Indian Budget. There is nothing exceeds indignation with which Members resent postponement of opportunity to consider Indian Budget, except the unanimity with which they stop away when it is presented. Number present during FOWLER'S masterly exposition not equal to one per ten million of the population concerned. Later, CHAPLIN endeavoured to raise drooping spirits by few remarks on bi-metallism. Success only partial. CLARK did much better. Genially began evening by accusing SQUIRE OF MALWOOD of humbugging House. That worth at least a dozen votes to Government in Division that followed. TIM HEALY, who can't abear strong language, was one who meant to vote against proposal to take remaining time of Session for Ministers. After CLARK'S speech, voted with and for the SQUIRE.

CLARK closed pleasant evening by insisting on Division upon Statute Law Revision Bill running through Committee.

"Will the hon. Member name a teller," said Chairman, blandly.

"Mr. CONYBEARE," responded CLARK, instinctively thinking of Member for Camborne as most likely to help in the job he had in hand.

But CONYBEARE is a reformed character. Even at his worst must draw line somewhere. Drew it sharply at CLARK. Appeared as if game was up. On the contrary it was WEIR. Deliberately fixing a pair of cantankerous pince-nez that seem to be in chronic condition of strike, WEIR gazed round angered Committee. With slowest enunciation in profoundest chest notes he said, "I will tell with the hon. Member."

Committee roared with anguished despair; but, since procedure in case of frivolous and vexatious Division seems forgotten by Chair, no help for it. If there are two Members to "tell," House must be "told." But there tyranny of two ceases. You may take horse to water but cannot make him drink. Similarly you may divide House, but cannot compel Members to vote with you. Thus it came to pass that after Division CLARK and WEIR marched up to table with confession that they had not taken a single man into the Lobby with them. They had told, but they had nothing to tell.

"They're worse off by a moiety than the Squire in the _Canterbury Tales_," said SARK--

"Him who left half told The story of Cambuscan bold."

"Yes, poor needy Knife-grinders," said the other SQUIRE; "if they'd only thought of it when asked by the Clerk, 'How many?' they might have answered, Members, God bless you, we have none to tell.'"

_Business done._--Indian Budget through Committee.

_Friday._--Something notable in question addressed by BRYN ROBERTS to HOME SECRETARY. Wants to know "whether he is aware that the Mr. WILLIAMS, the recently appointed assistant inspector, who is said to have worked at an open quarry, never worked at the rock but simply, when a young man, used to pick up slabs cast aside by the regular quarrymen, and split them into slates; and that, _ever since_, _he has been engaged as a pupil teacher and a schoolmaster_."

Shall put notice on paper to ask BRYN ROBERTS whether the sequence therein set forth is usual in Wales, and whether picking up slabs and splitting them into slates is the customary pathway to pupil teachership.

Long night in Committee of Supply; fair progress in spite of WEIR and CLARK. TIM HEALY sprang ambush on House of Lords: moved to stop supplies for meeting their household expenses. Nearly carried proposal, too. Vote sanctioned by majority of nine, and these drawn from Opposition.

_Business done._--Supply.

* * * * *

A HAWARDEN PASTORAL;

_Or, The Grand Old Georgic._

["The whole care of poultry, the production of eggs, care of bees, and the manufacture of butter--of itself a most important branch of commerce--are really included within the purposes of this little institution."--_Mr. Gladstone on "Small Culture," at the Hawarden Agricultural and Horticultural Fête, August 14, 1894._]

What am I piping about to-day? _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ What shall I praise in my pastoral way? _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ Here I am, smiling, afar from strife, (Indifferent substitute, true, for my wife!) Discussing, as though they'd absorbed my life: _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

A Georgic, my lads, is my task this time, _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ HORACE I've Englished in so-so rhyme, _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ To-day I am in a Virgilian vein, My pastoral ardour I cannot restrain; And so I will sing, like some Mantuan swain, _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

Home Rule? Dear me, no! Not at all in the mood! _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ (Though Irish butter, you know, is good.) _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ I hear they're yet wrangling down Westminster way; The "Busy B's" there are still having their say. Now the care of _those_ B's--but that is not _my_ lay. _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

"The frugal bee," (as the Mantuan sings), _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ Is valued for honey, and not for stings, _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ Poor HARCOURT'S hive has a good many drones, And more sting than honey. Eh! Who's that groans? Well, well, let me sing, in mellifluous tones, _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

The ladies have taken to speeches of late, _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ Serious matter, dear friends,--for the State! _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ On Female Suffrage I hardly dote, But ladies may speak, while they have not the vote.-- Beg pardon! That's hardly the pastoral note! _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

Not only to flowers we look, but fruits; _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ Nay, not to them only, but also to _roots_. _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ The root of the matter, in Irish affairs, Of course is Home Rule--but there, nobody cares For such subjects here! Let's sing poultry, and pears, _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

This "little culture"'s the theme I'd touch, _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ (Tories pooh-pooh it!--they've none too much!) _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ But "mickles" soon merge into "muckles" you know, And from "little cultures" big aggregates grow, Just as small majorities--Woa, there, woa!-- _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

Hawarden's example will do much good,-- _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ Nay, friends, I am not in a militant mood,-- _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ So I don't mean _mine_, but your own example. The powers of the soil are abundant and ample; _You_'ll teach men to furnish--and up to sample-- _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

I'm a little bit tired--in a physical sense-- _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ But my pleasure in pastoral things is immense, _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_ My Georgic to-day I must cut short, I fear, But--if you desire--and we're all of us here, I may give you a much longer Eclogue--next year! _Butter, and eggs, and the care of bees!_

* * * * *

RHYME TO ROSEBERY.

(_On his Revival of the Ministerial Whitebait Dinner at the "Ship," Greenwich, Wednesday, August 15, 1894._)

GOOD, PRIMROSE! If not a fanatical "Saint," At least you're a genial "Sinner." At the thought of a Race--and a Win--you won't faint, Nor squirm at a loss--with a Dinner! Pluck, patience, and cheer make good Statesmanlike form. We trust that you relished the trip, Sir! If not--_yet_--"the Pilot who weathered the Storm," You're the Skipper who stuck by the "Ship," Sir!

* * * * *

The Old (Parliamentary) Adam.

(_On the Eve of Prorogation._)

_Would-be Abdiel (M.P.) loquitur:_--

With rest-thirst and holiday-yearning to grapple I strive, but in August begin to despair. I pity poor EVE with the thirst at her thrapple, Though what tempted her was a snake and an apple, My lures are "a brace" and a "pair."

[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]