First Mem. Well, Sir, if you won’t see us any more, good-bye!

Em.  S. Good-bye!  Mind the steps!  Good-bye! [The Deputation leave. Eminent Statesman turns his attention to other matters with a smile of satisfaction.

* * * * *

“EXCELSIOR!  OR STRAIGHT UP!”—­Sir DOUGLAS STRAIGHT was knighted last week.  N.B.—­Would have been mentioned earlier, if we had had the straight tip.

* * * * *

’ARRY IN VENICE.

[Illustration]

  DEAR CHARLIE,—­’Ow ’ops it, my ’earty?  Yours truly’s still stived
          up in Town. 
  Won’t run to a ’oliday yet, mate.  I’m longing to lay on the brown
  By a blow from the briny, but, bless yer, things now is as bad as
          they’re made. 
  Hinfluenzas, Helections, and cetrer, has bloomin’ nigh bunnicked
          up Trade.

  My screw’s bin cut down by a dollar; along of ’ard times, sez
          our bloke. 
  I did mean doin’ It’ly this year; but sez Luck, “Oh, go ’ome and
          eat coke!”
  Leastways, that’s as I hunderstand ’er.  A narsty one, Luck, and no
          kid;
  Always gives yer the rough of ’er tongue when you’re quisby, or
          short of a quid.

  When I ’eard about Venice in London, I thinks to myself, mate,
          thinks I,
  ’Ere’s a ’oliday tour on the cheap!  ’Ere’s a barney as ’ARRY must
          try. 
  No Continong this year, that’s certain, old man, for the likes of
          poor me;
  But whilst I’ve a bob I’ve a chance for a boss at the Bride o’ the
          Sea.

  Them posters of IMRE KIRALFY’s for gorgeousness quite takes the
          cake. 
  Friend IMRE’s a spanker, you bet, and quite fly to the popular fake. 
  “Stupendious work,” IMRE calls it, and I.K. is O.K. no doubt. 
  Your old Country Fair Show takes a back seat when ikey young
          I.K.’s about.

  Oh, the jam and the mustard, my pippin, the crimsing, the blue,
          and the gold! 
  Scissorree, CHARLIE, rainbows ain’t in it, and prisums is out in
          the cold. 
  I do like a picteresk poster, as big as a bloomin’ back yard,
  With the colour slopped on quite regardless; if that ain’t ’Igh
          ’Art, wy it’s ’ard.

  ’Owsomever I mustn’t feeloserphise.  Off to Olympia I ’ooks,
  To see Venice the Bride of the Sea, as set forth in them sixpenny
          books. 
  Bless his twirly merstache, he’s a twicer, this IMRE KIRALFY, dear
          boy,
  And he give me a two hours’ spektarkle old LEIGHTON hisself
          might enjoy.

  Bit puzzling the “Pageant” is, CHARLIE, until that Synopsis you’ve
          read;
  Wish I’d mugged it all up overnight; but I carn’t get it straight
          in my ’ead. 
  Sort o’ mixture of Shylock and BYRON, with bits of Othello
          chucked in,
  Muddled up with “Chioggian wars,” as seemed mostly blue fire and
          bright tin.