Snookson (who has got "Gentleman" on the Brain, and thinks himself one). "AYAAS-JONES IS A VERY GOOD FELLOW-A-I DON'T KNOW THAT I QUITE CALL HIM A GENTLEMAN, YOU KNOW."

Miss Sharp (who has a liking for Jones). "DON'T YOU REALLY? OH-BUT PERHAPS YOU ARE NOT A VERY GOOD JUDGE!"

Ought to support me, and Bobbies, and Foresters, Maters with children, and Paters with pockets.

Ah, take the tips of the Nursery, too, Sirs, concerning my pantomimes, plumcakes, and rockets.

Sure of their suffrages, as of their shillings! Did ever a "bob" in the whole world's long history

Give so much music, and mirth, and amusement, as in my glass halls. it's really a mystery

How they've allowed me to get impecunious. Think of my Rose-Shows! what are you going

Oh,

And

To do with your Shahs and your Emperors in future? For when I am gone there'll be nothing worth showing.

Say, must I pass like old KUBLAI-KHAN's Pleasure-Dome-fade like the LookingGlass World of sweet Alice?

Nay, I am sure, from the Court to the Cot, all will aid a "whip-round" for the poor Crystal Palace!

NEWS FROM AN OLD FRIEND.-"We are thinking of visiting Cannes," writes Mrs. RAM, "and, remembering her lamented Grandmother's tour, as recorded by THEODORE HOOK, she adds: "If we go so far, we shall go farther, and on to Rome. The Rome of the Roman Scissors does not interest me so much as the Rome of the Pops. I shall always regret not having been there in the time of the Economical Council. I should like to have seen the rejoicings when Pop Pro NONO (so called because he always replied Non posthumous to everyone) pronounced himself Invaluable. I shall wait until the weather is quite settled, as I am very nervous, and I fear nothing so much as collusions in the Channel."

BEWARE!-A Morning Contemporary announces a novel variety of sweet things in tea-gowns. One is a dress of "cream brocade" opened from throat to feet over a cream lace petticoat," secured above with "gold and cream white satin ribbon loops," and comprising "striped cream and gold gauze sleeves." Another elegant article of apparel is a creamy white plush jacket." We've seen some very sweet things in tea-and-cream gowns. But, take care! Marry one of these, and you'll be cream-mated alive!

BATTLE-CRY OF THE UNION.-" St. George for Merry GoSCHEN!"

"NO ORDER!"

A Soliloquy in the Seat of Justice.

[Mr. School-Board Inspector has just been making application for an order for the committal of sundry poor women, for the crime of not assuring the regular attendance of their little ones at the Board School.]

PRISON or fine? Poor souls! A Mother's weakness
Brings a new Nemesis in our Christian day.
But Law is Law; let Nature bow in meekness
To an enlightened State's paternal sway.

And yet the still small voice of human kindness
Hide-bound legality cannot hush or quench;
Yet the heart tells cold Law that callous blindness
Is blind and callous-even on the Bench.

Here, where in flesh and blood, want-pinched and pallid,
Their smugly-settled problems take a guise,
That makes the reasonings pedants find so valid
Hollow as dream-world's spectral phantasies.
Poor flesh and blood! How apt they are to shatter
The neatest formula of prig or prude,

The dogmatist's phrase-fortresses to batter,
And prove the bigot's schemings harsh and crude.
Educate! Educate! The cry rings round us;
There's reason in the late-raised plea for light.
But shouters shirk the problems that confound us,
Hustling the uglier questions out of sight.
They 'll not be hustled, they will not stay hidden;
Harsh facts, complacent to no soft appeal,

Jut forth in naked horror unforbidden,

And the raw follies of rash haste reveal. Educate! Educate! A popular chorus,

Swelled both by voice of Sage and shriek of fool. But still unsolved the problem stands before us,How justly to put Poverty to school.

Justly! Wills the wise world that Education

Shall to pinched women and pale children come
The happy herald of emancipation,

Light to the blind, and language to the dumb?
Or that to sordid slum and crowded hovel
As tyrant and tormentor it shall go;
Taskmaster at whose threatenings they must grovel,
Armed with a goad to aggravate their woe?
No querulous questionings these of dull reaction-
No peevish promptings of sectarian spite !
Harsh facts inspire them, not the heat of faction;
Shall justice not make answer in their light?

One six-year-old pale shoeless poor defaulter
Shrinks from a chilling six-mile daily trudge,
Daring with rigid School-Board law to palter,
From fear of frozen feet and soaking sludge!
Bad case of course! Prompt prison for the mother
Of so mature a truant seems so fit!

Impatient at the Inspector's pompous pother?
Nay, halting Rhadamanthus, wait a bit.

.

Deserted by her husband, left to labour,

For three small children, helpless and alone,
Toil for sole friend, famine for nearest neighbour,
Another erring mother makes her moan.

SALLY, age twelve, the eldest child, and skilful
At baby-tending, kept from school to keep
The tinier bairns from mischief. Wrong so wilful
Will surely make the School-Board Draco weep.
Mothers must toil, leave home intent on forage,
But check compassion's promptings; these encourage
Like parent-birds from an untended nest.
All sorts of ills, home-love amongst the rest.
Committal asked for! Mothers thus neglectful

Of the Three R.'s for the mere sake of food Must learn, from fine or cell, to be respectful To Law which loves-and starves-their hungry brood. Another? Ah, these Mothers! They embarrass Cut-and-dried schemes confoundedly. And yet These poor maternal hearts to hunt and harass Is work at which the Public's prone to fret.

Her boy played truant whilst at tub or treadle

She worked to feed, clothe, school him; 'twas her task. Here's a sweet moral maze wherewith to meddle. Mr. Inspector, what is it you ask? Committal for the woman, or consignment Of truant Jack to an Industrial School ? Faugh! Cruel kindness in its last refinement! At least, she feels it so, poor tender fool. Pleads that such places prove too oft a training For thieves and convicts, which one can't deny; Dares to declare, her eyes with hot tears raining, She'd rather sell up her poor home, and fly.

Committal? Nay, my smug, well-fed official.
To make the pedagogic staff a flail
For Poverty's pinched limbs may seem judicial
To souls cold-set to legal line and scale.
But widow-harrying and child-hunting sicken
The hearts of men, on whatsoever plea;
The Law must find some gentler way to quicken
The brain-life of these thralls of penury.
Make Education one more scourge to chasten,
And one more petty tyrant to oppress?

One more sharp goad among the rest to hasten

Poverty's graveward creep through labour's stress? Nay, Sir. "No Order!" Law must shape and fashion Some way to teach, and not torment. Till then The rule of right, the promptings of compassion, Dispute her empire o'er the hearts of men.

STUDIES FROM MR. PUNCH'S STUDIO.
No. XVII.-THE PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION.

Ir is more than arguable whether DEMOSTHENES might not have made himself an even finer orator than he undoubtedly became, if, instead of wasting time in declaiming to the ocean with his mouth full of shingle, or running up-hill repeating select passages of poetry, he had laid out a few minæ in private tuition with some practical rhetorician of the period.

Indeed, PLUTARCH implies that he did actually adopt so obviously prudent a course, and he would scarcely have acquired his reputation by unassisted effort; but, without pronouncing any opinion upon a point of some obscurity, we should feel sincerely thankful that we live in an age when every man may be endowed with as much eloquence as he requires in a series of professional lessons on moderate terms.

The philanthropist who accomplishes this, and alters his client into an orator in a miraculously brief space of time, does not style himself a necromancer, but, with a modesty which is almost excessive, is content to be

known as an Elocution Professor." He is big and bland, with a booming voice, which he has under admirable control. Long intercourse with Curates has imparted an ecclesiastical tone to his conversation, though he will undertake, with equal readiness, to prepare candidates for the Church, the Bar, Parliament, or the Stage. Of course a pupil should be explicit concerning the particular career he intends to adopt, otherwise there might be a danger of his importing into his pulpit the blandishments of the Common Law Bar, addressing a British Jury as his "dear Brethren," or intoning the parts of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Let us suppose, reader, that you require preparation for some more temporary purpose than a profession.

You have to go before the Radical Three Hundred of the MidHecklingham District, and you want to learn to speak up; or you are asked to a public function, in which you have reason to believe that some appropriate remarks will be expected from you, while you are too conscious that, even if you could contrive to manufacture a few coherent commonplaces, you cannot undertake to deliver them beyond a certain radius without breakage.

So you naturally rush to that convenient vehicle for all modern incompetents, the "coach." The Professor's mode of reception will remind you equally of consultations with your solicitor and your physician: he listens gravely to your needs, and makes a rapid diagnosis of your case.

Perhaps, after hearing you read a passage from the police-reports, he informs you that your accent is affected by a provincial burr, which he has no doubt of being able to extract eventually; or it may be that early privation has led you to adopt a rigid economy, which still causes you to deny yourself indulgence in an occasional aspirate, and he has an infallible system for curing any deficiencies of this kind. So he invites you to follow him to his Class-Room, a room with blank walls, and furnished with a black-board on an easel, and a long table laid out with volumes of exercises for elocutionists.

Here his first act is to test the compass of your voice, which he does by retiring to some station near the top of the house, and requesting you to remain where you are, and shout your sentiments on things in general. A leaflet which some benevolent person in the street has lately bestowed on you, will provide you with the requisite ideas. You declaim your tract till you are hoarse, and in ten minutes your instructor returns with the information that he did not catch your observations distinctly until he had actually turned the door-handle. A little practice, however, reveals that you are the possessor of a latent bellow which, with a moderate amount of effort, can be successfully produced.

But to shine in oratory, more than this is needed. You must work hard at acquiring the nuances, the inflections proper to all the varying moods, so, under your instructor's superintendence, you invoke ruin on a ruthless King with the fire of inspiration; lament, with only the suspicion of a sneer, that you are no orator as BRUTUS is," and throw a note of infinite tenderness into your recollections of the last occasion on which you saw the Queen of FRANCE.

You may not feel immediately at home with these new acquirements, especially in the ordinary affairs of life. The Mark Antony sneer may cost you a couple of dear friends, and the note of infinite tenderness will assert itself unbidden when you are asking your fishmonger the price of a pair of soles, or requesting to be furnished with a second-class return-ticket to Gower Street.

Still, you are really advancing, and you go on until you only need the finishing touches of a speaker-the readiness and fluency, which can be gained by practice alone.

This practice your Professor supplies. He outlines speeches on the black-board, and you fill them up from your own internal resources; he attacks your policy in bitter invective, and you make as withering a reply as you can command at short notice; he proposes your health in flattering terms, and you rise to acknowledge the compliment; he presents you with one of the pewter inkstands on the table, and you express the emotion and gratitude that fill your breast; then you present the inkstand to him, with an eloquent panegyric, and he finds it impossible to convey to you any adequate idea of the degree to which he is affected by a testimonial so splendid, so unexpected, and by eulogies so out of proportion to his meagre merits." After a few exercises of this kind, you feel impatient for an opportunity of exhibiting your new accomplishment, and rehearse, with enthusiasm, the little impromptu speech which you foresee will shortly be required of you, but which no longer fills your breast with terror.

Your Elocution Professor teaches you a useful exordium, which probably begins: "My Lord SOANSO, Gentlemen,-No one here could have entered the Hall this evening with less expectation of being called upon for a speech than the humble individual who now addresses you. But, at the risk of seeming tedious, I venture, however unworthily, to crave your kind indulgence for the few crude and ill-digested reflections which have been suggested to me by the very able and eloquent address of the practised speaker who has just resumed his seat, and whom I regret, for some reasons, that I shall have to follow."

With this opening committed to memory, and glycerine jujubes in a pocket where you can get at them, you go to your meeting or your public dinner with a calm conviction that you are not unlikely to distinguish yourself.

You will deliver your exordium with a few inevitable excisions and alterations due to circumstances and quite natural agitation, but upon the whole the passages which are variations of the original text are positive improvements upon it, as will appear from the following shorthand note:

Gentlemen, and my Lord SOANSO,-No one could have entered this Hall with less expectations than I did. I must, however, crave your crude and ill-digested indulgence for the very able and eloquent address which I have practised for this evening, though I have to follow the humble individual who, at the risk of seeming tedious, and however unworthily, has, I regret for some reasons, just resumed his remarks." And when you sit down at the close of your oration, flushed with triumph and deafened by applause, do not forget that you are indebted for some little portion of your success to the untiring devotion of your Professor of Elocution.

VAN DYCK'S VISITORS. SCENE-The Grosvenor Gallery. Any Time. Elderly Methodical Person (who, on entering by the glass doors, naturally concludes that the first room in which he finds himself must be No. 1,-to his companion a lady of contented disposition). Now our best way is to begin at the beginning, and go right through to the end.

[Looks round smilingly on some other people, as if triumphantly challenging them to suggest a better plan than this, and, if they can't, tacitly permitting them to adopt it themselves. Contented Lady. Yes, that will be quite the best way. (Looks at a picture, which, from its position, she imagines is No. 1 in the Catalogue.) Now, what's this?

Methodical Person. "No. 1. Portrait of Sir ANTHONY VAN DYCK.' Contented Lady. Really! But there are so many figures in itMethodical Person (annoyed). My dear, why don't you tell me the number? this is 125. Scriptural subject. (Justly irritated.) Now where on earth's Number One?

[Sees that his whole plan of campaign is upset by the Grosvenor Gallery arrangement.

Contented Lady. We had better go round till we find it. Methodical Person (thoroughly roused). What! And then begin after we've seen everything? Ridiculous waste of time.

[Exeunt into fourth room discussing the best way of finding No. 1. Rather deaf Old Gentleman (who has given his wife the Catalogue, and is standing before No. 124). I should like to know who this is? Old Lady with Catalogue (reads the one line exactly opposite the number, and then says). It's a portrait of Sir PETER.

Rather deaf Old Gentleman (slightly astonished). St. Peter! (Then testily, as the improbability breaks upon him.) But he's wearing the order of the Golden Fleece,-(feeling still more convinced that it can't be St. Peter),—and he's in a sort of Charles the First dress. Rather deaf Old Lady (without referring again to Catalogue, but examining portrait). Well, it says so!

Rather deaf Old Gentleman (thinking how silly she is becomingwith decision). Give me the Catalogue! (Snatches it from her, reads-then, in a tone of withering contempt, -as much as to say, "You stupid old idiot! Why, you read only half of it, and that you can't read correctly.") It's not St. Peter, it's Sir PETER PAUL RUBENS!

[Points emphatically to name in Catalogue as he returns it to her. Old Lady (rather more deaf than ever). Yes. I said so. (Calmly examines picture.) Very fine.

[Exit Old Gentleman huffily to buy a Catalogue for himself. Impassioned Young Gentleman (seated close to Young Lady, who is looking down while he is addressing her most earnestly in a low tone). I assure you that if, &c., &c., &c. Do try to, &c., &c., &c. Say before they come back.

Demure Young Lady (looking up). Don't you think we'd better, &c., &c.

Impassioned Young Gentleman (briskly). I'll see where they are. (Jumps up and hurries to door, returns radiantly). It's all right. Your Aunt's explaining something to them, and they're not a quarter round the room yet.

[Takes up his former position, only a little closer, and resumes in low tone- of course all about the pictures. Enthusiastic Lady with Eye-glass. Oh! who's that dear little child? Do see, No. 74.

Lazy Gentleman (evidently bored by enthusiasm,—refers negligently to Catalogue). That- -(sees at a glance, and says in a tone which implies familiarity with the subject)-oh, that's a young Carnarvon (as if he were some species of animal).

Enthusiastic Lady. Is it! (Suddenly grasping the idea.) What! -an ancestor of the present Lord CARNARVON?

Lazy Gentleman (tired of the subject). S'pose so. [Sits down, stretches his legs, yawns, and wishes he hadn't let himself in for this sort of thing by an injudicious offer. Fashionable Lady (leaning back in chair opposite Nos., 6, 7, 8, 9, languidly). Who's the man? I've seen him before somewhere. Aristocratic Elderly Gentleman (most correctly dressed and with a critical air). Eh? Yes-there's no name to it-lent by MUNDELLA. Fashionable Lady (evincing a languid interest). Ah-I'm sure I've seen him before. I've got such an excellent memory for faces.

Learned and Artistic Amateur (standing with his head rather on one side, like a raven, and his hands clasped in front of him). What character! What tone! What finish! See how the colours have lasted! We haven't got such pigments now as the old fellows had two hundred years ago.

Lady Amateur. Two hundred! but that dress is of the time of ELIZABETH. In fact it is Queen ELIZABETH, isn't it?

Learned and Artistic One (glancing at Catalogue). No-I don't think so

Lady Amateur. It's quite different to the dress above-a later period.

Learned and Artistic One. Ah-yes-very probably. It's the same lady; only hits on happy thought)-up above she's in her dinner-dress, and below, No. 6, she's in walking dress.

Another Superior Person (examining it closely). Yes; the one above is in VAN DYCK's later style.

Amateur Lady. Ah, very likely. But (still unconvinced) the dress is Elizabethan.

First of Two Young Ladies (coming up with Two Young Gentlemen). Oh, yes; that's exactly what we were arguing about. Did VAN DYCK live in ELIZABETH's time? Second. We haven't got a Catalogue.

Amateur Lady (turning to Superior Person, who has pretended to be deeply engaged in scrutinising a picture). Here's the gentleman to tell us. He's an authority on everything literary and historical. Young Ladies. Oh, yes; do! We've got a bet on it. (Young Gentlemen smile and nod fatuously.) Didn't VAN DYCK live in ELIZABETH'S time?

Superior Person. Well-(Smiles knowingly, but wishes he had employed the last few seconds in reading about Van Dyck in the Catalogue)-Well

First Young Lady (impulsively). What was his date ? Superior Person (skilfully evading the question). Well-he couldn't exactly have lived in ELIZABETH's reign-feels on safe ground now) because he was always painting CHARLES THE FIRST. All. Oh, of course! [Bets arranged, and party moves on. First Young Lady. Oh, yes. And-(suddenly)-here's the Charles Family. Second Young Lady. Who's the baby?

[All turn for correct information towards Superior Person. Superior Person (blandly and cautiously). What is the question? First Young Lady (pointing at seated figure of King Charles). Well, there's CHARLES THE FIRST

First Young Man (coming out of his shell, and pointing to Boy in the picture). And there's CHARLES THE SECOND.

First Young Lady (rebuking him). Not at that age. He wasn't CHARLES THE SECOND then. [Young Man abashed. Second Young Lady. And that's the Queen, or the Nurse? Who was the Queen?

First Young Lady (joyfully). I know-MARIA THERESA. [Turns for corroboration to Superior Person. Superior Person (magisterially). Let me see-what is the number? (Pretends to be short-sighted while referring to Catalogue. Pause. Wonders whether it was Maria Theresa or not. Is about to decide in favour of the supposition, when he hits upon the right name in the Catalogue.) Did you ask me what was the Queen's name? (They nod.) Of course CHARLES THE FIRST's Queen was HENRIETTA MARIA.

All (in chorus). Oh, of course! how stupid!

Second Young Lady. But who's the baby ?-There's CHARLES THE FIRST, CHARLES THE SECOND

The other Young Man (who hasn't yet spoken-with sudden inspiration). CHARLES THE THIRD!

All (unanimously). Why, there was no CHARLES THE THIRD! First Young Man (sagely). P'raps the baby's a girl. Second Young Lady. Oh, but had CHARLES THE SECOND any sisters ?

[Turns to refer to Superior Person who, however, has quietly retired.

Artistic Person (with long hair and very bad hat, throwing himself back as he admires No. 11, labelled, Marquis Cattaneo of Genoa"). Thoroughly Italian about the jaw. Quite an Italian type! [Wishes every picture were labelled.

Contented Lady (delighted, to Methodical Person, who, after going into all the other rooms and looking at most of the pictures as they caught his attention, is still grumbling at not having been able to carry out his plan). Oh! Here's Number One!!

Methodical Person (still labouring under a sense of cruel personal injury). Ah! (grumbling.) At last! (Examines the number to see if he isn't being deceived.) Yes. Number One. Now, we've been here very nearly an hour! (Appeals to Contented Lady, as if she were not entirely free from all blame in the matter, but addressing visitors and authorities generally.) Why on earth do they put Number One in the last room, instead of at the entrance?

Jocose Acquaintance (overhearing as he comes up). Because they like taking care of Number One. Pleasantly.) How are you? Methodical Person (unbending). Ah, how d'ye do? [Recommences all his grievance to Jocose Acquaintance, who begins to wish he had kept his witticism to himself. Demure Young Lady (suddenly, as the Young Gentleman is bending down and whispering earnestly). Oh-(sees her party returning, and rises quickly, then, with remarkable sangfroid)—Oh, Auntie dear! aren't the pictures lovely! Mr. SPOONER has been pointing out all the beauties to me.

Aunt (frigidly acknowledging Mr. Spooner's presence). Very kind of him, I'm sure. HENRIETTA, we must go now-it's getting rather late. [Exit with Henrietta; and, for Spooner, the Scene closes.

TURNING THE TABLES.

Lord Chancellor loquitur :

Он, come, my dear PEEL, this is getting too dreadful!
Not yet through that farce which you dub "the Address"?
On twaddle and trash all these nights you have fed full,
And still you are stuck in the midst of the mess.

An awful example your practice affords

To those you are apt to pooh-pooh-us poor Lords!

Dear! dear! Half the bores in your Chamber have blathered,
And still you're "no forrader." Tell me, my friend,
One sparklet of wisdom or wit have you gathered,
Or cast any light on one politic end?

That yawn is an answer. I'm sure you have not.

I should say-if big-wigs might talk slang-it's all rot.

True, RANDOLPH has tipped you his two explanations,
And GRAHAM cut many a music-hall joke;

But, eugh! what Saharas are HOWORTH's orations!
Your CONYBEARES, too, are the feeblest of folk.
In fact the whole thing is a hideous waste,

As empty of sense as deficient in taste.

You call us obstructive! Look here! here's a bundle
Of Bills we have passed in our few odd half-hours.
'Twould cheer you to see how serenely we trundle

Through clause after clause. There no Irishman lours,
No popinjay proses, no dunderhead "blocks."
And so your delay our celerity mocks!

Too bad, my dear PEEL! If your House doesn't quicken,
And quash its obstructives and muzzle its bores,

The Public of you, I assure you, will sicken.

Ha ha! 'Tis the Peer at this moment who scores. When the Public find out that your game's all my eye, 'Abolish the Commons!" won't be a bad cry.

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