A HINT FROM THE GALLERY.
Mr. Punch observes that his friends the parliamentary reporters did a sensible thing lately. An Irish faction-fight was detaining the House of Commons from its bed at the unseemly hour of three in the morning, and seemed likely to last until six. As the dawn broke, the gentlemen of the gallery, wearied with the gesticulations of Lord Claude Clamourous—for the best Peter Waggey that ever came out of the Lowther Arcade ceases to amuse after a time—wearied with the iterations of Lord Chaos, for a man cannot always have an eminent statesman, or an old friend, to carp at—wearied with what Mr. Gladstone gently called the "freshness" of Mr. Connoodle, fresh as dew from the mountain—the reporters, we say, suddenly shut up their note-books, and retired into their own apartment. The tongues of the Irish orators faltered, they looked up piteously at the long row of empty benches, murmured that it was unreasonable that the reporters should think that eleven hours and a half of talk was as much as the journals for which they work could conscientiously republish, and the profitless squabble was brought to a speedy close. Mr. Punch cordially approves of the remedy, and suggests that on another and a similar occasion it be tried a little earlier.