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    PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

    VOLUME 93, OCTOBER 15, 1887.

    _edited by Sir Francis Burnand._




    'ARRY ON OCHRE.

[Illustration]

    DEAR CHARLIE,

    Hoctober, my 'arty, and 'ARRY, wus luck!'s back in town,
    Where it's all gitting messy and misty; the boollyvard trees is all
      brown,
    Them as ain't gone as yaller as mustard. I _do_ 'ate the Autumn,
      dear boy,
    When a feller 'as spent his last quid, and there's nothink to do or
      enjoy.

    Cut it spicy, old man, by the briny, I did, and no error. That Loo
    Was a rattler to keep up the pace whilst a bloke 'ad a brown left to
      blue.
    Cleared me out a rare bat, I can tell yer; no Savings Bank lay about
     _her_.
    Yah!--Women is precious like cats, ony jest while you strokes 'em they
      purr.

    Lor', to think wot a butterfly beauty I was when I started, old pal!
    Natty cane, and a weed like a hoop-stick, and now!--oh, well, jigger
      that gal!
    Cut me slap in the Strand ony yesterday, CHARLIE, so 'elp me,
      she did.
    Well, of sech a false baggage as Loo is, yours truly is jolly well rid.

    Wot a thing this yer Ochre is, CHARLIE! The yaller god rules
      us all round.
    Parsons patter of poverty's pleasures! I tell yer they ain't to be
      found.
    If you 'aven't the ha'pence you're nothink; bang out of it, slap up
      a tree.
    That's a moral, as every man as is not a mere mug must agree.

    They talks of "the Masses and Classes,"--old Collars is red on that
      rot!--
    There is ony two classes, old pal, them as 'as it and them as 'as not.
    The Ochre, I mean, mate, the spondulicks, call the dashed stuff wot
      you please.
    It's the Lucre as makes Life worth livin', without it things ain't
      wuth a sneeze.

    O CHARLIE, I wish I'd got millions! I _ought_ to be rich, and no kid.

    I feel I wos made for it, CHARLIE. To watch every bloomin' arf quid,

    Like a pup at a rat 'ole is beastly. Some stingy 'uns _carn't_ go the
      pace,
    But I know I should turn out a flyer, and so ought to be in the race.

    Oh, it ain't every juggins, I tell yer, who's built for the bullion,
      dear boy!
    You must know the snide game that's called "Grab," you must know what
      it means to "enjoy."
    Neither one without tother's much use, but the true Ochre Kings are
      the chaps
    As can squeeze millions out of "the Masses." They win in life's game,
      mate, by laps.

    That's jest wot "the Masses" is made for; _them asses_ I calls 'em,
      old man,
    Same letters, same thing, dontcher know. Yus, Socierty's built on this
      plan.
    Many littles makes lots, that's the maxim; and he is the snide 'un,
      no doubt,
    Who can squeeze his lot out of the littles of half the poor mugs
      who're about.

    Twig, CHARLIE, old twister? Yer sweaters, yer Giant
      Purviders, and such
    Is all on that lay. Many buds, and one big bloated Bee, that's the
      touch!
    Wy, if bees was as many as blossoms, or blossoms as few as the bees,
    Him as nicked a whole hive to hisself would find dashed little honey
      to squeeze.

    The honey--or money--wants _massing_, that's jest wot the Masses
      can do--
    And the "Classes," my boy, are the picked 'uns, as know 'ow to put on
      the screw.
    That's the doctrine of "DANNEL the Dosser," a broken-down
      toff, as I know;
    And if DANNEL ain't right, I'm a Dutchman. _That's_ ow
      yer big money-piles grow.

    Rum party the Dosser is, CHARLIE--I can't make him out, mate,
      not quite.
    Laps beer, when he can, like a bricky, though brandy's his mark. His
      delight
    Is to patter to me about Swelldom, Socierty, wot he calls gammon--
    That's Ochre, dear boy, dontcher know. I suppose arf his gab is sheer
      mammon.

    He eyes me in sech a rum style, CHARLIE, sort of arf smile and
      arf sneer,
    Though he owns I'm a Dasher right down to the ground--when he's well
      on the beer.
    A pot and a pipe always dror him, and I'm always game to stand Sam,
    For his patter's A1, and I pump 'im,--a lay as he stands like a lamb.

    "You _ought_ to be rich, my young Cloten!" sez he. It's a part of
      his game
    To call me nicknames out of _Shakspeare_, and so on; but "Wot's in
      a name?"
    "My brain and your 'eart now together, would make a rare Dives," says
      "Dosser."
    I don't always know wot he means, and I doubt if _he_ does, poor
      old josser!

    'Owsomever, the Ochre's my toppic. Some jugginses talk about "Thrift,"
    Penny Savings' Bank bosh, and that stuff. Wouldn't 'ave their dashed
      brains at a gift.
    _Save_, hay,--out of two quid a week! No, it doesn't fetch me in
      that shape.
    You must _swag_ in this world to get rich; if yer carn't, it's no
      bottles to _scrape_.

    The Turf or the Stock Exchange, CHARLIE, would suit me, I'd trust
      to my luck,
    And my leariness, _not_ to get plucked like that silly young
      Ailesbury duck,
    Wot's life without sport? Wy, like billiards without e'er a bet or a
      fluke,
    And that's wy I'd be a Swell Bookie--that is if I carn't be a Dook.

    In fact if I 'ad my own chice, I should jest like to _double the
      part_,
    As I fancy a few on 'em do. Oh, Jemimer! jest give me a start.
    With a 'undered or two, and the Ochre I'd pile 'twould take waggons to
      carry.
    The world loses larks, mate, you bet, when among the stone-brokers is

    'ARRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

TURNING TO THE LEFT.--At a recent meeting of the Court of Common Council
(in the teeth of a strong opposition of some of the members of the
Board) it was decided to exclude strangers and the Press during a part
of the proceedings. The matter under secret consideration, it is said,
was the appointment by the Recorder of the Assistant-Judge of the
Mayor's Court. It is rumoured that, acting on the opinion of Mr. R. S.
WRIGHT, (with him the Attorney-General) the Court decided not to confirm
that appointment. But why all this mystery? What had the Councillors to
fear? Obviously, they could be doing nothing wrong if they were
sustained by WRIGHT!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: JUMPING AT CONCLUSIONS.

"WHO'S THAT _TINY_ LITTLE GENTLEMAN TALKING TO MAMMA, TOM?"

"MR. SCRIBBINS, THE WRITING MASTER AT OUR SCHOOL."

"AH! I SUPPOSE HE TEACHES _SHORT-HAND!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A LORD MAYOR'S DAY IN DUBLIN.

(_A Lay of the Criminal Law Amendment Act._)

    "Shure it's BALFOUR would be troublin', meeself Lord Mayor o' Dublin,
      But every charge he makes I'll meet in fashion you'll call nate;
    For I'll face the accusation that he brings against the _Nation_,
      Attired from head to foot, my boys, in all my robes of State.

    "So on with hat and gown, boys, for we're goin' through the town, boys,
      And you must help your City's Chief to make a real display,"
    Thus TIM SULLIVAN he cried out, as straightway he did ride out,
      In civic pomp to near the Court on that eventful day.

    And Town Councillors in numbers, woke from their normal slumbers,
      And, donning gowns and tippets, rose and put on all they knew,
    And with approbation glancing at the City Marshal, prancing
      On a hired hack, they followed him, a rather motley crew.

    At length the Court they entered, when attention soon was centred,
      On a squabble that had risen about the Sword and Mace:
    For some swore they were not able to lie upon the table,
      Though the Lord Mayor hotly argued it was their proper place.

    So when 'twas shown quite plainly, after pushing for it vainly,
      Beyond the "bar" the civic baubles had to be conveyed,
    With vow that none should floor them, their guardians upstairs bore
       them,
      And in the front seats flaunted them conspicuously displayed.

    Then up stood Mr. CARSON, quite as quiet as a parson,
      And read out his indictment with a settled, stone-like face,
    Till TIM HEALY, quick replying, rose then and there, denying
      That the Counsel for the Crown had a shadow of a case.

    And then as legal brother argued each against the other,
      The while TIM SULLIVAN reclined in all his civic blaze,
    O'DONEL he looked vexed there, and he seemed somewhat perplexed there,
      As if the matter struck him as involved in doubtful haze.

    But after some reflection, with a _soupcon_ of dejection,
      He announced that he had settled (though, doubtless, mid some fears
    He might stir up BALFOUR'S fury), there was no case for a jury.
      His judgment was received in Court with hearty ringing cheers.

    Then, wild with exultation, up rose Mayor and Corporation,
      And, greeted by the crowd without, were cheered along the way,
    Til the Mansion House on nearing, the mob cried,'midst their cheering,
      A speech they wanted, and would hear what he had got to say.

    Then TIM SULLIVAN he spouted;--the mob they surged and shouted,
      And the upshot of the speech was this, that if, through legal flaws,
    By any chance your way you see, to battle with the powers that be,
      You're hero both and martyr if you break the Saxon's laws.

    So it's no use, BALFOUR, troublin' the Civic powers of Dublin;
      For if you do, you know that they will meet you just half way;
    And if fresh accusation you but bring against the _Nation_,
      The City shure will answer with another Lord Mayor's Day!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REAL GRIEVANCE OFFICE.

(_Before_ Mr. Commissioner PUNCH.)

_An Official of Epping Forest introduced._

_The Commissioner._ Now, Sir, what can I do for you?

_Witness._ You can confer a favour upon me, Sir, by correcting some
sensational letters and paragraphs on "Deer-Maiming in Epping Forest,"
that have lately appeared in the newspapers.

_The Commissioner._ Always pleased to oblige the Corporation. Well, what
is it?

_Witness._ I wish to say, Sir, that deer-shooting in Epping Forest, so
far as its guardians are concerned, is not a sport, but a difficult and
disagreeable duty?

_The Commissioner._ A duty?

_Witness._ Yes, Sir, a duty; because, in fulfilment of an agreement with
the late Lords of the Forest Manors (to whom we have to supply annually
a certain amount of venison), and in justice to the neighbouring
farmers, whose crops are much damaged by the deer, we are obliged to
keep down the herd to a fixed limit.

_The Commissioner._ But how about the stories of the wounded animals
that linger and die?

_Witness._ We have nothing to do with them--we are not in fault. I mean
by "we" those who have a right to shoot by the invitation of the proper
Authorities.

_The Commissioner._ But are not the poor animals sometimes wounded?

_Witness._ Alas, yes! Unhappily the forest is infested by a gang of
poachers of the worst type, and it is at their door that any charge of
cruelty must be laid. So far as we are concerned, we kill the deer in
the most humane manner. We use rifles and bullets, and our guns are
excellent shots. As no doubt you will have seen from the report of the
City Solicitor, such deer as it has been necessary to kill, have been
shot by, or in the presence of, two of the Conservators renowned for
their humanity and shooting skill.

_The Commissioner._ It seems to me that you should put down the
poachers.

_Witness._ We do our best, Sir. You must remember the Corporation has
not been in possession very long. We have to protect nearly ten square
miles of forest land, close to a city whose population is counted by
Millions.

_The Commissioner._ Very true. Can I do anything more for you?

_Witness._ Nothing, Sir. Pray accept my thanks for affording me this
opportunity of offering an explanation. I trust the explanation is
satisfactory?

_The Commissioner._ Perfectly. (_The Witness then withdrew._)

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OCTOPUS OF ROMANCE AND REALITY.

(AS MUCH FACT AS FANCY.)

[Illustration: "I had one curried, and found it most
excellent--something like tender tripe."--_Extract from Mr. Tuer's
Letter_.]

    "Devil-fish" of VICTOR HUGO,
    Dread _Pieuvre_ of caves where few go
      But are made your palsied prey,
    Where are now your gruesome glories,
    Dwelt upon in shocking stories?
    Realism a big bore is
      "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

    You who, worst of ocean's gluttons,
    Swallowed man, his boots, and buttons,
      Cooked in this familiar way?
    You who, in the tales of dreamers,
    Sucked down ships and swallowed steamers,
    Made the prey of kitchen schemers?
      "Octopus _is_ cheap to-day!"

    Swallowed, _you_ colossal cuttle?
    Nemesis is really subtle!
      Carted on the Coster's tray,
    Dressed in fashions culinary,
    Which the cunning _chef_ will vary
    After every vain vagary?
      "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

    Your huge arms, so strong, so many,
    Like tarantula's _antennae_,
      Just like tenderest tripe, they say!
    Only wait a little longer,
    Turtle soup--as from the Conger--
    They will make from _you_, but stronger.
      "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

    Octopus--or is't Oct[=o]pus?--
    Fame, that should outshine CANOPUS,
      All too swiftly fleets away.
    Yet our feelings it must harrow,
    That _your_ demon-fame should narrow
    To cook-bench and coster barrow.
      "Devil-fish is cheap to-day!"

       *       *       *       *       *

SALUBRITIES ABROAD.

("Is this the Hend?"--_Miss Squeers_.)

[Illustration]

SKURRIE puts us in the train, gives us our COOK'S tickets all ready
stamped and dated. No trouble. Then he insists on comparing his notes of
our route with mine, to see that all is correct.

"Wednesday," he says, "that's to-day. Geneva _dep_. 12, Bale _arr_.
7.45." He speaks a _Bradshaw_ abbreviated language. "Change twice,
perhaps three times, Lausanne, Brienne, Olten. Not quite sure; but you
must look out." Oh, the trouble and anxiety of looking out for where you
change! "Then," he goes on, "Thursday, Bale _dep_. 9.2 A.M., Heidelberg
_arr_. 1.55."

"Any change?" I ask, as if I wanted twopence out of a shilling.

"No; at least I don't think so. But you had better ask," he replies. Ah!
this asking! if you are not quite well, and don't understand the
language (which I do not in German Switzerland), and get hold of an
austere military station-master, or an imbecile porter, and then have to
carry that most inconvenient article of all baggage, a hand-bag, which
you have brought as "so convenient to hold everything you want for a
night," and which is so light to carry until it is packed! "Then," goes
on the imperturbable SKURRIE, "you'll 'do' Heidelberg, dine there, sleep
there, and on Friday Heidelberg _dep_. 6 A.M.----"

Here I interrupt with a groan--"Can't we go later?"

"No," says SKURRIE, sternly. "Impossible. You'll upset all the
calculations if you do."

JANE says, meekly, that when one is travelling, and going to bed early,
it is not so difficult to get up very early, and, for her part, she
knows she shall be awake all night. Ah! so shall I, I feel, and already
the journey begins to weigh heavily on me, and I do not bless SKURRIE
and his plan. "But," I say aloud, knowing he has done it all for the
best, and that I cannot now recede, "go on."

He does so, at railroad pace:--"Heidelberg _dep_. 6. Mannheim _arr_.
7.5, _dep_. 7.15. Mayence _arr_. 8.22, in time for boat down the Rhine
8.55. Cologne _arr_. 4.30. And there you are."

"Yes," I rejoin, rather liking the idea of Cologne, "there we are--and
then?"

"Well, you'll have a longish morning at Cologne; rest, see Cathedral,
breakfast," and here he refers to his notes, "Cologne _dep_. 1.13 P.M.,
and Antwerp _arr_. 6.34."

"Change anywhere?" I inquire, helplessly. "Yes," he answers,
meditatively. "At this moment I forget where, but you've got examination
of baggage on the Belgian frontier, and you have two changes, I think.
However, it's all easy enough."

"I'm glad of that," I say, trying to cheer up a bit, only somehow I am
depressed: and Cousin JANE isn't much better, though she tries to put
everything in the pleasantest possible light, and remarks that at all
events "the travelling will soon be over."

SKURRIE continues reading off his paper and comparing the details with
my notes, "Sunday--Antwerp _dep_. 6.34 P.M. Rosendael _arr_.
7.45--yes--then Rosendael _dep_. 8.44, and catch the 10.10 P.M. boat at
Flushing. Queenborough _arr_. 5.50, fresh as a lark, and up to town by
7.55."

"But we don't want to go up to town, we want to go to Ramsgate."

"Ha!" he says slowly, giving this idea as just sprung upon him his full
consideration. "Ha!--let me see----" Then, as if by inspiration, he
continues quickly--"sacrifice your London tickets, book luggage for
Flushing, only then at Flushing re-book it for Queenborough, and once
you're there you catch an early train to Ramsgate, and you'll be there
nearly as soon as you would have arrived in London. Train just off. Wish
you _bon voyage_."

I thank him for all his trouble, and ask, with some astonishment, if he
is not going to accompany us?

"Can't--wish I could," returns SKURRIE, "but I've got to go off to
Petersburgh by night mail. Business. Should have been delighted to have
looked after you and seen you through, but you've got it all down and
can't make any mistake. _Au plaisir!_"

And he is off. So are we.

Oh, this journey!! Everything changes. My health, the scenery, the
weather, all becoming worse and worse. Poor Cousin JANE, too.

Oh, the changes of carriage! The rushing about from platform to
platform, carrying that confounded bag, and sticks, and umbrellas, and
small things, of which JANE--poor JANE!--has her share, and, but for her
sticking to every basket and package, I should, in despair, have
surrendered to chance, left them behind me somewhere, and should have
never seen them again. All aches and pains, and weariness! At last at
Bale, rattled over stones and bridge in a jolting omnibus, through
pouring rain to the hotel of "The Three Kings."

Our treatment in the _salle-a-manger_ of that Monarchical Hostelrie is
enough to make the most loyal turn republican. A willing head-waiter
with insubordinate assistants--and we are miserable.

Off early to Heidelberg. Delighted, at all events, to bid farewell to
the worthy Monarchs. This trip seemed to invigorate us, and if civility,
polite attention, good rooms, and an excellent _cuisine_ could make any
invalid temporarily better, then our short stay at the Prinz Karl
Hotel--a really perfectly managed establishment--ought to have revived
us both considerably. And so it did. A lovely drive to the heights among
the pine woods and in the purest air went for something, but alas the
knowledge that we had to rise at 5 A.M., to be off by six--it turned out
to be a 6.30 train--drove slumber from our eyes, and only by means of a
cold bath, the first thing on tumbling out of bed, could I brace myself
for the effort. Then on we went, taking SKURRIE'S pre-arranged tour.

Let the remainder be a blank.

When abroad I had bought a French one-volume novel which I had seen
praised in the _Figaro_. I will not give its name, nor that of its
author. If it indeed portrays persons really living in Paris, and if
these persons are not wholly exceptional (but, if so, why this novel,
which implies the contrary and denounces them?) then is the latest state
of Republican Paris worse than its former state in the days of the
_degringolade_ of the Empire, and Paris must undergo a fearful purgation
before she will once again possess _mens sana in corpore sano_. I read
this disgusting novel half-way through until its meaning became quite
clear to me, and then I proceeded by leaps and bounds, landing on dry
places and skipping over the filth in order to see how the author worked
out a moral and punished his infamous scoundrel of a chief personage.
No. Moral there was none, except an eloquent appeal to Paris to rise and
crush these reptiles and their brood. On the wretched night when
feverish, ill, and sleepless, I lay miserably in the saloon of the
Flemish steamer crossing to Queenborough, I opened the porthole above me
and threw this infernal book into the sea. After this I bore the
sufferings of that night with a lighter heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

Suffice it that I arrived at home--and how glad I was to get
there--broken down, prostrate and only fit for bed----where with
railways running round and round my head, steamboats dashing and
thumping about my brain, the shrieks of German and Flemish porters
ringing in my ears, SKURRIE always forcing me to travel on, on, on,
against my will, I remained for about three weeks.

_Advice gratis to all Drinkers of Waters_.--"The story shows," as the
Moral to the fables of AESOP used to put it, that when you have finished
your cure, make straight by the easiest stages for the seaside at
home. Avoid all exertion: and ask your medical man before leaving to
tell you exactly what to eat, drink, and avoid, for the next three weeks
at least after the completion of your cure.

       *       *       *       *       *

While ill, but when beginning to crave for some amusement or
distraction, I asked that my dear old BOZ'S _Sketches_ should be read to
me, to which in years gone by I had been indebted for many a hearty
laugh. Alas! what a disappointment! Except for a little descriptive bit
here and there, the fun of these _Sketches_ sounded as wearisome and
old-fashioned as the humours of the now forgotten "Adelphi screamers" in
which Messrs. WRIGHT and PAUL BEDFORD used to perform, and at which, as
a boy, I used to scream with delight, when the strong-minded mistress of
the house, speaking while the comic servant was laying the cloth for
dinner, would say of her husband, "When I see him I'll give him----"
"Pepper," says the comic servant, accidentally placing that condiment on
the table. "He shan't," resumes the irate lady, "come over me with
any----" "Butter," interrupts the comic servant, quite unconsciously, of
course, as he deposits a pat of Dorset on the table. And so on. Later
on, I tried THACKERAY'S _Esmond_. How tedious, how involved, and full of
repetitions! It is enlivened here and there by the introduction of such
real characters as _Dick Steele_, _Lord Mohun_, _Dean Atterbury_, and
others, and by the mysterious melodramatic appearances and
disappearances of _Father Holt_, a typical Jesuit of the "penny
dreadful" style of literature. But the work had lost whatever charm it
ever possessed for me, and, indeed, I had always considered it an
over-rated book, not by any means to be compared with _Vanity Fair_,
_Pendennis_, or even with _Barry Lyndon_, which last is repulsively
clever.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then I asked for a book that I never yet could get through, and to which
I thought that now, with leisure and a craving for distraction, I might
take a liking. This was _Little Dorrit_. I tried hard, but it made my
head ache even more than _Esmond_ had done, and I laid it down, utterly
unable to comprehend the mystery which takes such an amount of dreary,
broken-up, tedious dialogue in the closing chapters to unravel.

       *       *       *       *       *

I took down WASHINGTON IRVING'S _Sketch-book_, and read it with
delight. Fresh as ever! It did me good. So did CHARLES LAMB'S Essays.
And then guess what moved me to laughter, to tears, and to real
heartfelt gratitude that we should have had a writer who could leave us
such an immortal work? What? It is a gem. It is very small, but to my
mind, and not excepting any one of all he ever wrote, the most precious
in every way for its true humour, for its natural pathos, and for its
large-hearted Christian teaching, is _The Christmas Carol_, by CHARLES
DICKENS. Had this been his only book, it would have sufficed for his
imperishable fame.

       *       *       *       *       *

And then what made me chuckle and laugh? Why, THACKERAY'S _Sultan Stork_,
which, somehow or other, I never remembered having read before this time
of convalescent leisure. It is THACKERAY in his most frolicsome humour,
and, therefore, THACKERAY at his best.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am almost recovered, and am finding my "Salubrity at Home."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

FROM AN ANXIOUS HOUSEHOLDER.

[Illustration]

DEAR TOBY,--It was in my mind to write to you some days ago, but I have
had my time much occupied with a subject of domestic interest. In fact,
I have just been laying the carpet presented to me by our
fellow-citizens of the ancient and important community of Kidderminster.
The carpet, regarded individually, is a desirable and an acceptable
thing. It is, as you have observed in the newspaper reports, woven of
the wool known to the trade as the Queen's Clip. In colour it is a rich
damson, and in quality Wilton. Apart from its suitability and
acceptability, we here see in it the beginning of what I confess we
should be inclined to regard as a pleasing habit on the part of our
fellow-countrymen. As you are aware, my wife and myself have for some
years been the recipients of gifts consisting of what a well-known
person of the name of _Wemmick_ was accustomed to call, articles of
portable property. Our journeys to Scotland were always marked by the
presentation of gifts that even became embarrassing by reason of their
quantity and variety. We have quite a stock of Paisley shawls. Dundee
marmalade is a drug in our domestic market. Plaids, snuff-boxes,
walking-sticks, and, above all, axes I have in abundance. Through the
medium of an interesting periodical, of which you may have heard--(it is
known as _Exchange and Mart_)--we have managed to average our
possessions, a process not entirely free from adventure. In one instance
an unscrupulous individual, probably a member of the Primrose League,
succeeded in obtaining a two-dozen case of marmalade and a Scotch plaid
presented by the working-men of Glasgow, in promise, yet unfulfilled, of
delivery of a bicycle warranted new. I have rather a hankering after
trying a bicycle. LOWE gave his up with the ultimate remainder of his
Liberal principles. But in old times I have heard him speak with
enthusiasm of the exercise. When I noticed this person advertising in
_Exchange and Mart_ his desire of bartering his bicycle, we entered upon
the negotiation which has ended so unfortunately. He has our Paisley
plaid and Dundee marmalade, and we have not his bicycle.

This, however, by the way. What I had at heart to write to you about,
suggested by the Kidderminster carpet, is the new opening here offered
for manifestations of political sympathy at a serious political crisis.
We are, to tell the truth, towards the close of a long career, a little
overburdened with articles of portable property of the kind already
indicated. But our residence is large, and, if I may say so, receptive.
Carpets, though a not unimportant feature in the furnishing of a house,
do not contain within themselves the full catalogue of a furnishing
establishment.

If Kidderminster has its carpets, there are other localities throughout
the Kingdom which have their tables and chairs, their bed-room
furniture, their curtains, their brass stair-rods, and their
gas-fittings. History will, I believe, look with indulgent eye upon an
ex-Premier, the Counsellor of Kings, the leader of a great Party,
assisting at the hauling in and laying down of an eleemosynary carpet,
the wool of which is made from Queen's Clip, has a rich damson colour,
and is of Wilton quality. Why should I not give a back to an arm-chair
presented by an admiring Liberal Association? or walk upstairs with a
bolster under either arm, token of the esteem and admiration of the West
of England Home Rulers?

I throw out these thoughts to you, dear TOBY, as I sit in my study and
survey the carpet of