Punch (77.1879)

November 15, 1879.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 221

THROUGH A CHINK,

" Tho Cabinet Council deliberated yesterday for nearly two hours and a
half. Another meeting will be held to-day."—Morning Paper.

Scene—The Cabinet Room. Glances interchanged. Ministers

assembled,

he Premier.
Very sorry to
bring you up to
town, but glad
to see you look-
ing so well.
Well, Gentle-
men, 1 suppose
you 're all duly
sensible of the
situation ? Ra-
ther strained.
But of all solu-
tions of the
political pro-
blem, I am
decidedly for

one-

Th e Ho m e
Secretary. Dis-
solution X

The Premier.
Quite the re-
verse. Resolu-
tion. I spell the
first syllable of
my name with
one S. No. I
have only one
rule. As bunt-
ing men, you
will appreciate
it. " Harden
your heart, bus-
tle your horse,
and never say
die!" But as we
must all die,

sooner or later, it may be well to think, in good time, over the best
cry to go to the country with.

The President of the Council. Just what I was thinking myself.
I have turned over a few. What do you say to '' Reciprocity among
Relations " ?

The Premier. Good idea. Has anybody else anything to suggest ?

The Foreign Secretary. Wasn't my Manchester speech about the
right thing ? The old motto of the Berlin flag—eh ?

The Premier. Worn out. Shreds and tatters—" Pieces without
honour." Ha! ha! {All the Ministers laugh quietly.) Anything
else, anybody ?

First Lord of the Admiralty. What do you think of "a Free
Fleet—and no cat! " ? It sounds popular and catchy, don't it ?

War Secretary. Or " A half-time Army " ? Reads like a saving
of twelve millions right off.

Colonial Secretary, Suppose we tried "Crown and Colonies"?
Good Imperial ring about that.

Lord Chancellor. Hardly domestic enough, I fancy. Don't come
home to men's business and bosoms. 1 should say something
like " Justice without Jury—and down with Law Costs ! "—or you
might even go the length of-

The Premier {rising). '' An Economic Woolsack—and no Chan-
cellor ! " No, my Lords and Gentlemen, you 're all wrong. The
country wants something a leetle stronger. I should suggest-

All {expectantly). Yes?

The Premier. Another European blaze !

Foreign Secretary {enthusiastically). Excellent! And for phrase ?
The Premier. "Armed England against alarmed Europe." No-
thing like national sentiment. We 're quite agreed—eh ?
All {unanimously). All!

The Premier. Very well, then ; here goes ! (Wires off simulta-
neously to Simla, Petersburg, and Constantinople.) Now for Council
matters. Suppose we run through our programme ? Marquis, may
I ask you to refer to your " Agenda " ?

Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. " Threatening Letter to
Russia-" "Quarrel with France about Egypt." "Put screw on
Sultan"-

Premier. Ah—perhaps that will do for the present. Nothing like
a spirited Foreign policy.

Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. We have received an
inheritance from our ancestors-

Premier. Oh yes,—we know,—excellent, out of doors. Could not

be better! But not here-■ And now, Hardy—I beg your pardon

—Cranbbook—-

Secretary of State for Lndia {attempting to read a paper of instruc-
tions). Can't quite make it out yet. I think it's something about
annexing Herat—or is it Merv ?

Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs {angrily). No, no ! That is
in my programme, /have to annex Merv--

Premier. My dear Marquis, you are a leetle impetuous !

Secretary of State for Lndia {indignantly). Please, he is always
interfering with me. As if he had anything to do with our Indian
Empire!

Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs {contemptuously). Ob !
haven't I j ust ?

Secretary of State for Lndia. No you haven't. India ain't Foreign
—it's domestic.

Premier. My dear friends, you mustn't quarrel. Take my word
for it, we will find you both plenty to do.

Secretary of State for Lndia. Oh, I have it at last! {Reading.)
"Look up the Scientific Frontier on the side of "—what wretched
writing!—oh, I see—" China "—or is it " Persia " ?

Premier. Either will do—but both will keep. En attendant, Sir
Michael, what have you got for us ?

Secretary of State for the Colonies. Lots. There's the Yictoria
Row in full swing—and here—cautious public letter to Sir Gabnet,
to tell him to be careful what he's about; civil private note to beg
him to go ahead and do what he " darned pleases ! "

Premier. Yery concisely put. However, that's your own affair—
strictly. You must see we can't be bothered with John" Dunn and
the Transvaal. And now, Smith ?

First Lord of the Admiralty. Oh ! I'm all right. A few millions
to be used judiciously in the dockyards. Beep Cyprus in the back-
ground, and tell Hoenbt to bounce the Sultan a bit. It will be a
capital point for the Election.

Premier. Connu ! And you, Stanley ?

Secretary of State for War. Snub the Militia, and Red-tape
the Volunteers. Caedwell gave both their head far too much.
Caedwell was wrong. The only way to save the Election—I mean
the Army—is to-

Premier. Undo Caedwell's work—only don't be in too great a
hurry. My dear Boy, you quite understand the situation. Ah ! if
your brother had been as intelligent! But that's a painful subject!
And now, my dear Chancelloe of the Exchequee, we have left
you and the Home Seceetaey to the last! I know you are all right.
You always are. You 're so conciliatory, and so reasonable.

Chancellor of the Exchequer. No, I am not, and it's cruel to
chaff me ! Why don't you let me change places with Cross ? He's
got nothing to do but to keep the Publicans in good humour ! It's
too bad! With all you fellows spending right and left, how am I
to make a decent Budget ? What have I got to appeal to P

Premier. Fireworks, my dear Boy ! fireworks, with the appro-
priate mottoes ! Blaze away enough of them, and John Bull won't
bother himself about figures. Never fear, I'll pull you through!
And now, my dear friends, you all know your cues. (Whispers a date.)
We advertise " Last Nights of the present Parliament," to be followed
by a General Election! {Airily.) So holiday is over, and the business
of the Establishment is just agoing to begin. Apropos—those fire-
works for the Lord Mayor's Banquet! You've your speeches
ready? [All rummage their pockets.

Scene closes.

Sorrow without Salt.

"The Aylesbury Dairy Company have been trying a new, and, as yet
secret, treatment for butter, which preserves it fresh and sweet for an
indefinite period without salt. We shall have unsalted butter from America
in any quantity."—Spectator.

Aylesbury ducks ! Aylesbury geese, say I!

Who 'd teach us, sans salt, to keep butter sweet,
When Uncle Sam's cow-streams, that ne'er run dry,

In all shapes save this, make the sea their street.
Beef, dead and living, cheese, tinned milk, salt butter—■
Must Yankeedand all its " pecunia " utter
Upon our marts ? And now, in our dejection,
You take our salt—poor John Bull's sole protection !
What more from Neptune shall Britannia seek ?
Take with our " silver side " our " silver streak " !

something like a reward.

They have made our illustrious Professor Owen free of the Lea-
thersellers' Company ! Our national debt to him has long been owin.
This is payin' it with a vengeance at last!