Punch (74.1878)

100 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [Mabch 9, 1878.

wants to be the Deceased "Wife's Successor, is the British Peer. The
Commoner would politely bow her out of the table of prohibited
degrees within the altar-rails.

Thursday {Lords).—Lord Dorchester gave tongue to the indig-
nation of the War-at-any-price Party—it is quite as fair to apply
that name to those who are clamouring against Lord Derby's
pacific influence in the Cabinet as it is to call those who oppose
this faction, the " Peace-at-any-Price " Party. His pretext was a
question where the Turkish Ironclads were just now.

Lord Derby parried the attack and put aside the question. He
knew where the fleet was, but declined to say—because it was not
our business to answer as to the movements of foreign fleets, and
next, because if, instead of peace being signed, war should be re-
newed, the friends of the Turk would have little reason to be obliged
to him for revealing the whereabouts of the Turkish Ironclads.

[Commons.)—Sir D. Wolff gave notice of his intention of sub-
mitting Lord Stratheden's perpetual Motion to the House to-
morrow. Captain Bedford Pim received a livelier answer to an
asinine question than it deserved. Sir Stafford Northcote, in
answer to Lord Hartlngton, said that Lord Napier and Sir Gar-
net Wolseley had not been appointed, but selected, for command
of expeditionary forces, such forces had to be despatched. Creat
virtue in an "if." The questions of the night disposed of, the
House went into Committee work on the Factories and Workshops'
Bill, and, progress thereon reported, listened to Mr. Lowther's ex-
position of an Irish Grand Juries' Bill, which, as a Government
measure, is of course denounced by the Home-Eulers as a mockery,
a delusion, and a snare.

Friday (Lords).—Lord Derby hoped that peace would be signed
to-morrow. One thinks of the Immortal's—

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
Creeps on this petty pace from day to day,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools,
And hopes, to dusty death "-

He had heard, "from various sources, as to the accuracy of which
he hoped there could be no doubt,"—odd that there should not be
ground for something more than " hope" in such a case—" that the
demand for the cession of the Turkish Ironclads had been with-
drawn."

Hang that Lord Derby, he's always whittling away our war-
sticks—as if any stick wasn't good enough to beat a Russian—to
nothing!

(Commons.)—Great cry of Wolff (Sir H. D.) over the spilt milk of
the Treaties of 1856 and 1871.

Sir Stafford Northcote comforted him ; no arrangement will be
valid without formal recognition of the signataries of these Treaties.
The wonder will be if they can recognise them, after the Dogs of
War have had their will of the precious parchments !

Mr. Hibbrrt asked for a Select Committee on the Election of
Boards of Guardians. Mr. Sclater-Booth promised him the
fashionable settling machine of the day—a Conference. Mr. Cart-
wrig-ht (Wine Carte-right henceforth) tried in vain to get a Select
Committee to inquire into the Wine Duties. Sir Stafford North-
cote admitted our Wine Carte wanted overhauling, but didn't see
why Government should not do it without a Committee, nor does
Punch. Only he wishes they would set about it, and see if it can't
improve our Spanish relations. They want improvement sadly.
Then to work on Factories and Workshops.

City Legges.

At the Mansion-House dinner given last week to the money-mag-
nates of the City, the Lord Mayor, in proposing the toast of
" Lords and Commons," and coupling the former with Lord Dart-
mouth, observed, incidentally:—

" Lord Dartmouth's ancestor, Thomas Legge, was Mayor of London in
1541, and was the first to wtiotn the Crown had granted the title of ' Lord '
Mayor."

Evidently then in this case the Crown gave the City a Legge up.
It was not setting "a beggar on horseback." " Necessitas non habet
Legges" and has not had since they rose from the Mayoralty to the
Peerage.

Females and Feesicians.

The Lancet understands that Sir W. Jenner has sent in his
resignation as a member of the British Medical Association, on
account of the share Women are allowed to take in its proceedings,
but will postpone his actual retirement until the Council has de-
liberated as to the course of action it may see fit to take. What
can the Council do to please Sir W. Jenner ? Only turn the young
Women out of their Society ? The British Medical Association will
always contain a certain number of irremovable old Women.

'ARRY TO THE FRONT!

(Being an epistle from that popular and pugnacious Patriot to his Chum
OffARLis, still imprisoned in rural parts.)

Dear Charlie,
Still doing the rural?
You're quite out of
luck, my dear boy.
We 're going it proper in
town, in a style as 1 know
you 'd enjoy.
Public meetings and patriot
patter, old pal, is our last
little lay;
Which, I tell you, it's nuts
and no error, and keeps up
the game of the day.

The brave British Lion, at
last, has just set up his
back—and quite right!
Old Beakey's a brick, and
means pepper, — there's
hopes it '11 end in a fight.
That Bear is in want of a
basting ; we 're piling our
powder and shot;
He is in for a larrup, that's
clear, and I 'ope we shall
give it 'im 'ot.

But, Charlie, old chip, there's a Party, a nasty, mean, snivelling
gang,

Led on by that gassy old Gladstone—a traitor they'll yet have to
'ang—

As goes in a mucker for Rooshia; but, bless yer, they hain't 'arf a
chance

Us patriots lately, my pippin, have led 'em the devil's own dance.

Steam's hup, and we go it like blazes. 0, Charlie, the lummiest
larks!

Ssch sweet little mobs at their meetings, sech out-and-rut shines in
the Parks!

The traitors are great on the gab, but the tongue ain't no match for

the stick,

And a spouter turns off at the main when his tater-trap's bunged
with a brick.

This patriot caper is proper ! The Nobs, as a general rule,
Are down on us Commoners' gammocks like ginger and gooseberry
fool;

But, bless yer, just bellow for Beakey, or howl down the Gladstonite
crew,

And it's all " public spirit," I tell yer, and go it, my boy, till all's
blue.

And go it we does, I assure you; which, Charlie, yer see, here's
the jam,

The Swells as was used to pooh-pooh us, now folders our lead like
a lamb.

Your stuckuppy 'Orspital Sawbones, your picter-card, big City sort,
Jines in with our jinks like Jemtmer, and seems to be nuts on the
sport.

They carn't call us Cads any longer, my pippin, with any good grace.
You should see 'em go in for a hustle, or howl till they 're black in
the face.

Wy, I twigged a stout Stock-Exchange party, bare-headed and

smothered in dust,
A-singing " We don't want to fight" till I thought the old bloke

would a' bust.

They was down on the Music-Halls once, called 'em caddish and
wulgar and low,

But they've took a leaf out of our book, and our War songs is now
all the go.

No wonder ; we 're birds of a feather, our notions percisely agree,
And the Great Bounce's row-de-dow chants hits off both our hidears
to a t.

Yes, Patriotism's the lay, hoys. I ain't 'ad sech fun for an age.
Jest toddle your trots up to town, and we '11 find you some sport, I '11
engage.

It cuts me to think you aren't here, so snuff it, old pal, and don t
tarry,

I'm off to a Great Demonstration. Ta-ta!

Yours tolbobbishly, 'Arry.