Volume 107, October 6th 1894

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

OCTOBER 6TH 1894

THE CLUB; A GRIM STORY OF CHANGE.

LORD ROSEBERY IN THE NORTH.

THE PRIME MINISTER has been having a high old time of it lately in the North, and has become the "youngest burgess" of goodness knows how many ancient boroughs. But it has been left to a reporter to note with an eagle eye the really interesting performance which Lord ROSEBERY has put to his credit. "Immediately on leaving Dornoch," says this gentleman (the reporter, not the PREMIER), "Lord ROSEBERY and the Duke of SUTHERLAND drove to the Meikle Ferry, a distance of four miles, crossed the ferry, and again drove to Tain, four miles farther on. Crossing the ferry they both took a turn at the oars, and _generally discussed the sport of seal shooting_!" This suggests quite a fresh phase of the New Journalism. We shall soon read such paragraphs as the following:--

"Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT left town for Malwood on Tuesday. Going down in the train the right hon. gentleman played marbles with a fellow-passenger, and discussed generally the virtues of resignation."

"Mr. H. H. FOWLER transacted important business at the India Office yesterday. He and his private secretary played a game of trundling hoops, and had an animated talk on the subject of whist."

"Mr. A. J. BALFOUR played at golf with a gentleman, with whom he had a very interesting conversation on the sport of chute shooting."

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The moral of which would seem to be that, since even conversation is now reported, silence is more golden than ever; though _Mr. Punch_ notices that the PRIME MINISTER showed rare diplomacy in his choice of a subject. Not even a reporter could extract any political meaning out of the sport of seal shooting!

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VERY NEAR.--The _Record_ has been taking Mr. HALL CAINE to task for the baptismal scene in _The Manxman_, and the novelist has been telling the _Record_ to remember its Rubrics. "Mr. CAINE," says the _Record_, "has been in a hurry." The _Record_ lost a chance, as, evidently expecting a storm of fury, it should have deprecated the author's anger by saying, "Don't be in a hurry-CAINE."

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"TERRIBLE IN HIS ANGER!"

MR. J-ST-N MCC-RTHY (_reading the speech of the German Emperor to the Mayor of Thorn_). "For you know, I can be very disagreeable too!" _Ah! and so can I--when I like!_

I CAN BE VERY NASTY, WHEN I LIKE!

(_The Song of a Mouton Enragé._)

["I own that I am sorry that a louder, and a stronger, and a prompter note of reassurance has not been given to the Irish people with regard to this obstructive power of the House of Lords, and that I look to the Autumn Campaign with anxious hope for a clear and certain signal."--_Mr. Justin McCarthy in the "New Review."_]

_Enraged (and enrhumé) Leader, with his feet in "hot water," sings:--_

Yes, I'b wud with the yug Ebperor id this-- Extreebs--as has beed ofted said--_do_ beet! (_Wow!_ this water, I declare, is od the hiss, Id is very hot iddeed to by poor feet!) By cowd is beastly troublesub, at tibes; But, although I ab as patied as poor Sbike, I'b bowd to kick whed subwud galls by kibes; Ad I _cad_ be very darsty, whed I like!

Yug WILLIAB fides it needful to speak out, Ad, like that Hebrew persod id the play, He _cad_ be "very darsty," there's no doubt; Ad so cad I, of course id by owd way. A buttud's wudrous angry _whed_ aroused. Ad if those Liberals sell be, I shall strike. Owd Oirelad has so freaquadly bid choused-- Ad Pats cad be very darsty, whed they like!

Bister BORLEY we all dow, and _he_'s all right, Ad SHAW-LEFEVRE's sowd upod the goose; Sir WILLIAB "is a fighter"--will he fight?-- Yug ROSEBERY--well, jokes are dot _buch_ use. That ASQUITH's dot a fascidatig bad, As hard as dails, plaid-spokud as a pike! I wish agaidst the Lords they had sub _plad_,-- Oh I cad be very darsty, _whed_ I like.

There bight have bid a protest strog ad sterd, But do! they let the Peers, id sileds, score. Sir WILLIAB dever said a siggle word Whed they kicked "Evicted Tedadst" frob their door. It bight have bid a local turdpike Bill, Or Act to regulate the Scorcher's "bike." I bust idsist od "bizdess," ad I _will_, For I cad be _very_ darsty, whed I like!

The Irish are begidded to have doubts (Ad REDBUD, he is goid to give be beads). If "Ids" betray by Cudtry, there _are_ "Outs"! Hobe Rule bust dot be shudted, like stale greeds, The Shabrock bust be shaked at those Peers; Or BcCarthyites _bay_ go upod the Strike!-- Ad the Rads he chucked frob Office--yes, for years!-- Oh! I _cad be precious_ darsty--whed I _like!_

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In Nuce.

THE pith of LABBY'S caustic elocution Is that long war of words should end in deeds. After the lead of the Leeds Resolution, He wants to feel that Resolution leads! A House of Words but little help affords In a hot contest with a House of Lords. But LABBY, were the issue quite so glorious If--as some fear--the Lords should prove victorious?

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NEW READING FOR THE NEW ART.

ONE might conclude from many a spindly shank, Some read _Ars longa est_ as "Art is Lank"!

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THE LUNNON TWANG.

I'VE heard a Frenchman wag his tongue Wi' unco din an' rattle, An', 'faith, my vera lugs hae sung Wi' listenin' tae his prattle; But French is no the worst of a' In point o' noise an' clang, man; There's ane that beats it far awa', And that's the Lunnon twang, man.

You wadna think, within this land, That folk could talk sae queerly, But, sure as Death, tae understand The callants beats me fairly. An', 'faith, 'tis little gude their schules Can teach them, as ye'll see, man, For--wad ye credit it?--the fules Can scarcely follow _me_, man.

An' yet, tae gie the deils their due, (An' little praise they're worth, man,) They seem tae ken, I kenna hoo. That I come frae the Nor-r-rth, man! They maun be clever, for ye ken There's nought tae tell the chiels, man: I'm jist like a' the ither men That hail frae Galashiels, man.

But oh! I'm fain tae see again The bonny hills an' heather! Twa days, and ne'er a drap o' rain-- Sic awfu' drouthy weather! But eh! I doubt the Gala boys Will laugh when hame I gang, man, For oo! I'm awfu' feared my voice Has ta'en the Lunnon twang, man!

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Demolition of Doctors' Commons.

SIR HERBERT JENNER FUST what would you say To Doctors' Commons being done away! No wonder its machinery is rusty, Since in _your_ time at best it was but Fusty!

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LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)