_A few minutes later._
_Sir Rup._ (_to_ UNDERSHELL, _after the introductions have been gone
through_). And so you missed the 4.55 and had to come on by the 7.30,
which stops everywhere, eh?
_Und._ It--it certainly does stop at most stations.
_Sir Rup._ And how did you get on to Wyvern--been here long?
_Und._ N-not _particularly_ long.
_Sir Rup._ Fact is, you see, we made a mistake. Very ridiculous, but
we've been taking that young fellow, Mr. SPURRELL, for _you_, all this
time; so we never thought of inquiring whether you'd come or not. It was
only just now he told us how he'd met you in the Verney Chamber, and the
very handsome way, if you will allow me to say so, in which you had
tried to efface yourself.
_Und._ (_to himself_). I didn't expect him to take _that_ view of it!
(_Aloud._) I--I felt I had no alternative.
[Lady MAISIE _regards him with admiration_.
_Sir Rup._ You did an uncommon fine thing, Sir, and I'm afraid you
received treatment on your arrival which you had every right to resent.
_Und._ (_to himself_). I hoped he didn't know about the Housekeeper's
Room! (_Aloud._) Please say no more about it, Sir RUPERT. I know now
that you were entirely innocent of any----
_Sir Rup._ (_horrified_). Good Gad! you didn't suppose I had any hand in
fixing up that booby trap, or whatever it was, did you? Young fellows
will get bear-fighting and playing idiotic tricks on one another, and
you seem to have been the victim--that's how it was. Have you had
anything to eat since you came? If not----
_Und._ (_hastily_). Thank you, I--I _have_ dined. (_To himself._) So he
_doesn't_ know where, after all! I will spare him _that_.
_Sir Rup._ Got some food at Shuntingbridge, eh? Afraid they gave you a
wretched dinner?
_Und._ Quite the reverse, I assure you. (_To himself._) Considering that
it came from his own table!
_Lady Maisie_ (_in an undertone, to_ Captain THICKNESSE). GERALD, you
remember what I said some time ago--about poetry and poets?
_Capt. Thick._ Perfectly. And I thought you were quite right.
_Lady Maisie._ I was quite _wrong_. I didn't know what I was talking
about. I do now. Good night. (_She crosses to_ UNDERSHELL.) Good night,
Mr. BLAIR, I'm so very glad we have met--at last!
[_She goes._
_Und._ (_to himself, rapturously_). She's _not_ freckled; she's not even
sandy. She's lovely! And, by some unhoped for good fortune, all this has
only raised me in her eyes. I am more than compensated!
_Capt. Thick._ (_to himself_). I may just as well get back to Aldershot
to-morrow--_now_. I'll go and prepare Lady C.'s mind, in case. It's hard
luck; just when everything seemed goin' right! I'd give somethin' to
have the other bard back, I know. It's no earthly use my tryin' to stand
against _this_ one!
[Illustration: "I'm so very glad--about Emma, you know!"]
* * * * *
FEMINA DUX FACTI.
_The Tumulus, Parliament Hill, Nov. 5._
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Do not confuse me with a boa-constrictor story. Cursed
be he that disturbs my _bona fides_; and the above is my real address.
True, the ancient Romans knew me as the Old Pretendress, but let that
pass. What I want to know is this. Will _nothing_ check the energy of
the L. C. C.?--nothing allay their fever for expurgation? I am not a
Promenader. I only ask to lie still. Nor a Living Picture either, and
have not been for more than eighteen centuries. Talk of Roman noses! Why
their eagle was a chicken compared with the London Carrion Crows! Such a
power of scent!
It is Guy Fawkes day, and I hear talk of blowing up the Lords. But
surely one must draw the line somewhere this side of an insidious
exhumation of the Monarchy!
After all, if they do get at my bones, the real marrow of me has
transmigrated into the New Woman. Sir, there _were_ New Women in my day.
We invented everything. I see the _Daily Telegraph_ says they have found
a pellet. That reminds me that after the death of my late husband,
PRASUTAGUS, King of the Iceni (not to be confused with the PLIOCENI of
about the same period), I was subjected to the most revolting barbarity
at the hands of the Veterans (their name was legionary), and I was
obliged to invent a pellet-proof corset.
Then, again, we held all the commissions in the army. How does TACITUS
report my famous speech to the Queen Consort's Own Regiment of Pioneers
(new style)? "_Vincendum illa acie vel cadendum esse. Id mulieri
destinatum. Viverent viri et servirent._" Let the men live on in
slavery! What a prophetic utterance!
By the way, not many Emancipated Women of the present day could speak
better Latin than that. Indeed, we took all the University degrees. I
myself was an honorary _felo de se_.
Don't tell me that I am prehistoric, and that TACITUS was a forger of
the fourteenth century. No testimony is sacred now-a-days, not even the
most profane!
I conclude with a passage from Madame SARAH GRAY, which I think comes in
rather well.
Beneath this storied hump there lies concealed
A heart once pregnant with a Righteous Plan,
Hands that the rod of Empire used to wield,
And whacked to ecstasy the human Man.
Dear _Mr. Punch_, may you live for ever; or, failing that, may no rude
spoiler mar your "animated bust." Excuse these disjointed remarks, but I
am writing in a barrow.
Yours, in the spirit,
BOADICEA.
P.S.--I have thought of a proverb. New Women should be put into new
_tumuli_.
* * * * *
A GAY WIDOW COURTED.
[Illustration]
Nothing could be better than the acting all round in the new three-act
play at the Court. It is distinctly first-rate, and those who want a
hearty laugh should proceed to the Court to enjoy it. And yet there is
also serious relief, as there should be--light and shade. First there is
Miss LOTTIE VENNE, who shows us that she can mingle pathos with comedy,
temper smiles with tears. She is as bright as sunshine in the comic
scenes, and when she has to say good-bye to her newly-married daughter,
she glides from peals of merriment into sobs of sorrow that are
intensely touching because they are intensely natural. Then Mr. HAWTREY,
in a part that fits him down to the ground (in the Stalls) and up to the
ceiling (in the Gallery), is greatly amusing. And he, too, has his more
mournful moments. People accustomed to seeing this accomplished actor in
butterfly touch-and-go parts would scarcely credit him with the power of
becoming pathetically unmanned. And yet so it is. Mr. HAWTREY, indignant
at a false accusation emanating from his wife, commences a letter full
of angry reproaches, addressed to her solicitors, and gradually forgets
everything in his despairing appeal for the love he craves but which he
fears he has lost. Nothing better than this has been seen for a long
time in a London theatre. Then Mr. GILBERT HARE (inheritor of his
father's cleverness) causes roars of laughter by his comical sketch of a
man with a cold. But here, again, the mirth is tempered with sympathy.
The echo of the "ha, ha, ha," in spite of its inappropriateness, is
"Poor fellow!" Mr. THORNE, too, is good, and so is Mr. RIGHTON, and so
is everyone concerned.
* * * * *
FINISHING TOUCHES.
["Canon FURSE said he believed no man's education was complete who did
not attend public meetings."--_Daily News._]
[Illustration]
My classics were not shaky, nor my mathematics weak,
My great linguistic fluency enabled me to speak
In half-a-dozen languages with quite surprising skill,
And yet--I always felt it--there was something lacking still.
But, though profoundly conscious of a lingering defect,
The cause of imperfection I was puzzled to detect,
But Canon FURSE explains it; for I sorrow to relate,
I shunned all public meetings, which accounted for my state.
Well, over chances past and gone, 'twere idle to shed tears,
I'm striving now to rectify the fault of former years,
And every afternoon and night I rush from street to street,
Endeavouring to make my education more "complete."
Where Anti-Vivisectionists their armaments encamp,
Where Democrats democratise, and stage-reformers ramp,
Where fervent Ulstermen point out that MORLEY is a fool,
Where Parnellites insist upon the beauty of Home Rule;
Where lecturers with lanterns make the vice of drinking clear,
Where publicans prove amply that our only hope is beer,--
To each and all of these I come, a champion of the cause,
And sit imbibing wisdom, and I join in the applause;
I join in the applause, and--yes! The Anti-Smoking cranks
Invited me, not long ago, to move a vote of thanks!
Ah, happy, happy moment, when I stood, composed but proud,
And looked at Mr. Chairman, and the hushed, expectant crowd!
Yes, Canon FURSE, I thank you for your warning so discreet;
Indeed, our education now is wholly incomplete
Unless we meet and "sympathise," "insist on," and "deplore,"
And listen to the prattling Prig, the Faddist, and the Bore!
* * * * *
HOME FOR ADVERTISERS.--"Puffin Island." Of course this is only for those
who find themselves in "many straits."
* * * * *
[Illustration: DRAWING-ROOM INANITIES.
_He._ "I LIVE IN HILL STREET. WHERE DO YOU LIVE?"
_She._ "I LIVE IN HILL STREET, TOO."
_He (greatly delighted to find they have something in common)._
"_REALLY!_" (_After a moment's hesitation._) "ANY PARTICULAR NUMBER?"]
* * * * *
THE CHIEF MOURNER.
"----Past
To where beyond these voices there is Peace."
TENNYSON'S "_Guinevere_."
Peace! Lo! her hand is on thine heart at last.
No boding echoes of the battle-blast,
Whose hated sound thy earthly slumbers broke,
Shall break the rest whereunto thou hast past.
Earth's mightest autocrat, and yet a man
Unwitched by War's wrath-stirring rataplan!
A phantom haunted thee from the red snows
Where with the blood of legions Plevna ran.
Where War took on its deadliest, dreadfullest guise,
The love of Peace possessed thee. Those closed eyes
Frowned back Bellona's long solicitings.
Peace smiles on them, though lid on lid now lies.
Peace smiles in love, and weeps in true lament,
Mourner for one who, worn and trouble-bent,
Yet with firm hand held fast the Janus gates,
A despot's aid to the dove-carrier lent.
Therefore the hearts of freemen to thee warmed
Great Autocrat, because the strong man armed,
And irresponsible, kept sheathed the sword,--
By Glory's glittering lure unmoved, uncharmed.
In uncheered isolation, fear-beset,
Who shall divine what longing, what regret,
Ached in the heart within that Titan frame,
How oft with anguish those stern eyes were wet?
Pinnacled in thy peril-compassed post,
With Terror like a grey and boding ghost
Haunted continually, of what avail
The boundless realm, the huge embattled host?--
Of what avail to solace, gladden, bless?
From wife's endearment or from child's caress
Starting dread shaken, Power sees danger lurk,
In Peace more menacing than in War's fierce press.
But this man spurned not Peace in fear, nor shook
In his allegiance to her; but would brook
The fierce revilings of her angry foes
Rather than face her with unfriendly look.
"Otus and Ephialtes held the chain"[1]
That bound the mighty Mars. So through his reign
He helped to hold the god in "fetters bound,"
The fierce false god who raged and roared in vain.
So Peace beside his bed chief mourner stands,
The Great White TSAR late lord of limitless lands,--
And on that broad brave breast, now still in death,
Lays her own olive-branch with reverent hands.
[1] Iliad, B. V., 478.
* * * * *
WHAT HIS LORDSHIP MUST HAVE SAID.--A juryman in a recent case objected
to a private soldier, who is a public servant, being described as "one
of the lower classes." The LORD CHIEF JUSTICE explained that the witness
had said "rough classes," not "lower," adding his dictum that "patent
leather boots do not make a man first class." This remark was _à propos
de bottes_; and what the Chief meant to say was evidently that "patent
leather boots were not to be considered as a patent of nobility." When
FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., Attorney-General, heard of it, he wept as
for another good chance gone for ever.
* * * * *
CAUGHT PUNNING.--In some of the theatrical items for the week we see it
announced that a certain playwright is at work on a comic opera which
has for its subject _Manon Lescaut_. "If it is to be a travestie,"
observed "W. A.," the World's Archer, who makes a shot at a pun whenever
the chance is given him, "then its title should of course be '_Manon
Bur-Lescaut_.'"
* * * * *
"REFORM IN CONVEYANCING."--Certainly, a reform much needed. Let us have
some new Hansoms which are not "bone-shakers" and whose windows will not
act as so many guillotines. Some improved growlers (they have been a bit
better recently), drawn by less dilapidated horses, would be a welcome
addition.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE CHIEF MOURNER
"----PAST
TO WHERE BEYOND THESE VOICES THERE IS PEACE."--TENNYSON.]
* * * * *
THE DECADENT GUYS.
(_A Colour-Study in Green Carnations._)
They were sitting close together in their characteristic attitudes; the
knees slightly limp, and the arms hanging loosely by their sides; Lord
RAGGIE TATTERSALL in the peculiar kind of portable chair he most
affected; FUSTIAN FLITTERS in a luxurious sort of handbarrow. The
lemon-tinted November light of a back street in a London slum floated
lovingly on their collapsed forms, and on the great mass of weary
cabbage-stalks that lay dreaming themselves daintily to death in the
gutter at their feet.
They were both dressed very much alike, in loosely-fitting,
fantastically patched coats. Lord RAGGIE was wearing a straw hat, with
the crown reticently suggested rather than expressed, which suited his
complexion very well, emphasising, as it did, the white weariness of his
smooth face, with the bright spot of red that had appeared on each
cheek, and the vacant fretfulness of his hollow eyes; he held his head
slightly on one side, and seemed very tired. FUSTIAN FLITTERS had
adopted the regulation chimney-pot hat, beautiful with the iridescent
sheen of decay; he was taller, bulgier, and bulkier than his friend, and
allowed his heavy chin to droop languidly forward. Both wore white
cotton gloves, broken boots, and rather small magenta cauliflowers in
their button-holes.
"My dear RAGGIE," said Mr. FLITTERS, in a gently elaborate voice, and
with a gracious wave of his plump straw-distended white fingers towards
his companion's chair; "you are looking very well this afternoon. You
would be perfectly charming in a red wig and a cocked-hat, and a checked
ulster with purple and green shadows in the folds. You would wear it
beautifully, floating negligently over your shoulders. But you are
wonderfully complete as you are!"
"That is so true!" acquiesced RAGGIE, with perfect complacency. "I am
very beautiful. And you, FUSTIAN, you are so energetically inert. Are
you going to blow up to-night? You are so brilliant when you blow up."
"I have not decided either way. I never do. It will depend upon how I
feel in the bonfire. I let it come if it will. The true _impromptu_ is
invariably premeditated."
[Illustration: "My dear RAGGIE, you are looking very well this
afternoon."]
"Isn't that rather self-contradictory?" said RAGGIE, with his pretty
quick smile.
"Of course it is. Does not consistency solely consist in contradicting
oneself? But I suppose I _am a trifle décousu_."
"You are. Indeed, we are both what those absurd clothes-dealing
Philistines would call 'threadbare'--you and I."
"I hope so, most sincerely. There is something so hopelessly
middle-class about wearing perfectly new clothes. It always reminds me
of that ridiculous Nature, who will persist in putting all her poor
little trees into brand-new suits of hideous non-arsenical green every
spring. As if withered leaves, or even nudity itself, would not really
be infinitely more decent! I detest a coat that is what the world calls
a 'fit!'"
"Clothes that fit," observed Lord RAGGIE, gravely, "are the natural
penalty for possessing that dreadful deformity, a good figure. Only
exploded mediocrities like TUPPER and BUNN and SHAKSPEARE ought to have
figures."
"_Had_ SHAKSPEARE a figure? I thought it was only a bust."
"We shall have _our_ little bust by and by, I suppose," said RAGGIE,
pensively. "I wonder _when_. I feel in the mood to sally forth and paint
the night with strange scarlet, slashed with silver and gold, while our
young votaries--beautiful pink boys in paper hats--let off marvellous
pale epigrammatic crackers and purple paradoxical squibs in our honour."
"See, RAGGIE, here come our youthful disciples! Do they not look
deliciously innocent and enthusiastic? I wish, though, we could contrive
to imbue them with something of our own lovely limpness--they are so
atrociously lively and active."
"That will come, FUSTIAN," said Lord RAGGIE, indulgently. "We must give
them time. Already they have copied our distinctive costume, caught our
very features and colouring. Some day, FUSTIAN, some day they will adopt
our mystic emblem--the symbol that is such a true symbol in possessing
no meaning whatever--the Magenta Cauliflower! And then--and then----."
"----It will be time for Us to drop it," continued Mr. FUSTIAN FLITTERS,
with his peculiar smile of inscrutable obviousness.
"Beautiful rose-coloured children!" murmured Lord RAGGIE, dreamily;
"how sad to think that they will all grow up and degenerate into
pork-butchers, and generals, and bishops, and absurdly futile persons of
that sort! But listen; it is so sweet of them--they are going to sing an
exquisite little catch I composed expressly for them, a sort of
mellifluously raucous chant with no tune in particular. That is where it
is so wonderful. True melody is always quite tuneless!"
One by one the shrill, passionate young voices chimed in, until the very
lamp-posts throbbed and rang with the words, and they seemed to wander
away, away among the sleeping pageant of the chimney-pots, away to the
burnished golden globes of the struggling pawnbroker.
"Please ter remember. The Fifth o' November. For Gun Powder Plot.
Ter blow up the King and 'is Porliment. Shall never. Be. Forgot!
'Oller, Boys, 'Oller!"
Lord RAGGIE, with his head bent, listened with a smile parting the
scarlet thread of his lips, a smile in his pretty hollow eyes. "I wonder
why people should be exhorted to remember such a prosaic and commonplace
crime as that," he meditated aloud: "a crime, too, that had not even the
vulgar merit of being a success!"
"Only failures ever _do_ succeed, really," said FUSTIAN, leaning largely
over his barrow. "How deliciously they are joggling us! Don't you like
having your innermost shavings stimulated, RAGGIE?"
"There is only one stimulating thing in the world," was the languid
answer; "and that is a soporific. But see, FUSTIAN, here comes one of
those unconsciously absurd persons they call policemen. How stiffly he
holds himself. Why is there something so irresistibly ludicrous about
every creature that possesses a spine? Perhaps because to be vertebrate
is to be normal, and the normal is necessarily such a hideous
monstrosity. I love what are called warped distorted figures. The only
real Adonis nowadays is a Guy." And the shrill voices of the young
choristers, detaching themselves one by one from the melodic fabric in
which they were enmeshed, grew fainter and fainter still--until they
slipped at last into silence. "FUSTIAN, did you notice? Our rose-white
adherents have abandoned us. They have run away--'done a guy,' as
vulgarians express it."
"They have done _two_," said Mr. FLITTERS correctively; "which only
proves the absolute sincerity of their devotion. Is not the whole art of
fidelity comprised in knowing exactly when to betray?"
"How original you are to-day, FUSTIAN! But what is this crude blue
copper going to do with you and me? Can we be going to become
notorious--_really_ notorious--at last?"
"I devoutly trust not. Notoriety is now merely a synonym for respectable
obscurity. But he certainly appears to be engaged in what a serious
humourist would call 'running us in.'"
"How pedantic of him! Then shan't we be allowed to explode at all this
evening?"
"It seems not. They think we are dangerous. How can one tell? Perhaps we
are. Give me a light, RAGGIE, and I will be brilliant for you alone.
Come, the young Shoeblack bends to his brush, and the pale-faced Coster
watches him in his pearly kicksies; the shadows on the mussels in the
fish-stall are violet, and the vendor of halfpenny ices is washing the
spaces of his tumblers with primrose and with crimson. Let me be
brilliant, dear boy, or I feel that I shall burst for sheer vacuity, and
pass away, as so many of us have passed, with all my combustibles still
in me!"
And with gentle resignation, as martyrs whose apotheosis is merely
postponed, Lord RAGGIE and FUSTIAN FLITTERS allowed themselves to be
slowly moved on by the rude hand of an unsympathetic Peeler.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PREHISTORIC LORD MAYOR'S SHOW.]
* * * * *
THE POLITE GUIDE TO THE CIVIL SERVICE.
(_By an Affable Philosopher and Courteous Friend._)
THE CHOICE OF A PRIVATE SECRETARY.
Having explained the mode of entering the service of the Crown by
becoming the Secretary of the Public Squander Department, I now proceed
to consider the best manner in which you should comport yourself in that
position. The moment it is known that you have accepted the appointment
you will receive a deluge of letters recommending various aspiring young
gentlemen for the post of Private Secretary. Of course the notes must be
civilly answered, but on no account pledge yourself to any one of the
writers. And here I may give what may be termed the golden rule of the
service, "always be polite to the individual in particular, and
contemptuous to the public in general." The tradition of many
generations of officials has been to regard outsiders as enemies. There
may be small jealousies in a Government Department, but every man in the
place will stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellow to repel the
attacks of non-civilians. And the word "attack" has many meanings.
Practically, everything is an attack. If an outsider asks a question,
the query is an attack. If an outsider complains, the grievance is an
attack. If an outsider begs a favour, the petition is an attack. If you
bear this well in mind, you cannot go wrong. Adopt it as your creed, and
you may be sure that you will became immediately an ideal head of a
Government Department.
Say that you have accepted your appointment, and are prepared to take up
at once the duties appertaining to your new position. No doubt during
your "attacks" upon the Milestones you will have come across several of
the officials of the Public Squander Department. So when you arrive in
the hall of your new bureau you will be recognised at once by most of
the messengers. You will be conducted with deference to your new
quarters. You will find them very comfortable. Any number of
easy-chairs. Large writing-desk. Several handsome tables. Rich carpet,
rugs to match, and a coal-scuttle with the departmental cypher. On the
walls, maps and some armour. The latter, no doubt, has come from the
Tower, or Holyrood, or Dublin Castle. Most probably one of your
predecessors has given an official dinner in your room, and the armour
is the result of the importunity of his Private Secretary.
"I say, TENTERFORE," your predecessor has observed, "don't you think
these walls are a bit bare? Don't you think you could get them done up a
bit?"
"Certainly, Sir," TENTERFORE has replied, and the result of his energy
has been the trophies you see around you. TENTERFORE has applied to the
people at the Tower, or Holyrood, or Dublin Castle, and got up quite a
collection of quaint old arms. They have been duly received by the
Public Squander Department, and retained. It is a rule of the _bureau_
that anything that has been once accepted shall be kept for ever. That
is to say, if it can be clearly proved that the things retained can be
useful somewhere else. You look round with satisfaction, and then greet
with effusion the chief clerk. He has been waiting to receive you. As
you do not know the ropes, it is advisable to be civil to every one.
Later on, when you have a talented assistant to prompt you, you can
allow your cordiality to cool. However, at this moment it is better to
be extremely polite to all the world, and (if you know her) his wife.
The chief clerk is delighted to exchange expressions of mutual respect
and common good-will. He will put in something neat about the Milestones
as a concession to your labours in that direction.
"My dear Sir," you will reply with a smile, "don't bother yourself about
_them_. I can keep _them_ quite safe. We have nothing to fear from
them."
The face of the chief clerk will beam. He will see that you are one of
them. Milestones for the future are to be defended, not attacked. He
will accept you as an illustrious bureaucratic recruit. He will see that
you are ready to stand shoulder to shoulder in defence of the office.
Could anything be better?
Then for about the thirtieth time you will be asked if you have selected
a private secretary, and the chief clerk will suggest his own particular
nominee. With much cordiality you will receive the proposal, but keep
the matter open. You must remember that upon the appointment your future
success depends. Moreover, it is a nice little piece of patronage which
you may as well retain for yourself.
When you have selected your private secretary it will be time to get
into harness, and of this operation I hope to treat on some future
occasion.
* * * * *
[Illustration: HOW OPINION IS FORMED.
_He._ "HAVE YOU READ THAT BEASTLY BOOK _THE MAUVE PEONY_, BY LADY
MIDDLESEX?"
_She._ "YES. I RATHER LIKED IT."
_He._ "SO DID I."]
"NO FEES!"--The new seats in the Drury Lane pit "by an ingenious
arrangement," says Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT, in the _Daily Telegraph_, "'tip
up' of their own accord the instant they are vacated." Then, evidently,
the system of "fees to attendants" is not abolished at T.R. Drury Lane.
In theatres where it is abolished no "tipping up" could possibly be
permitted.
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
[Illustration]
_Gleams of Memory; with Some Reflections_, is the happy title of Mr.
JAMES PAYN'S last book, published by SMITH AND ELDER. The wit of the
title flashes through every page of the single volume. Within its modest
limits of space will be found not only some of the best stories of the
day, but stories the best told. Not a superfluous word spoils the gems,
which have been ruthlessly taken out of their setting and spread
widecast through the circulation of many newspapers reviewing the work.
My Baronite, fortunately, has not space at his disposal to join in this
act of flat, though seductive, burglary. He advises everyone to go to
the book itself. The reader will find himself enjoying the rare
privilege of intimacy with a cultured mind, and a heart so kindly that
temptation to say smart things at the expense of others, which underlies
the possession of overflowing humour, is resisted, apparently without
effort. Like the German Emperor or Mr. JUSTIN MCCARTHY, Mr. PAYN
probably "could be very nasty if he liked." He doesn't like, and is
therefore himself liked all the better.
That little tale entitled _The Black Patch_, by GERTRUDE CLAY
KER-SEYMER, introduces to the public a rather novel character in the
person of a _Miss Clara Beauchamp_ an amateur female detective, to whom
SHERLOCK HOLMES, when he chooses to "come out of his ambush," (for no
one believes he fell over that precipice and was killed about a year
ago,) ought at once to propose. It would be an excellent firm. CLARA
would make our HOLMES happy, and a certain advertising medicine provider
bearing the same name as the heroine of this sporting story would have
another big chance of increasing his "hoardings." The Baron, skilled as
he is in plots, owns to having been now and again puzzled over this one
which clever CLARA the Clearer soon makes apparent to everybody. The
story is a working out of the description of twins, how "each is so like
both that you can't tell t'other from which." But mind you, not ordinary
biped twins--oh dear no--they are.... No ... the Baron respects a lady's
secret, and recommends the inquisitive to get the book and penetrate the
mystery.
To all those who like a mystery, and who gratefully remember FLORENCE
WARDEN'S _House on the Marsh_, let the Baron recommend _A Perfect Fool_,
by the same authoress. Dickensian students will be struck by the fact of
a "_Mr. Dick_" being kept on the premises. He is a caged Dickie, poor
chap; but, like his ancestor the original _Mr. Dick_, he sets everybody
right at last. The Baron dare not say more, lest he should let the
Dickie out of the cage. The only disappointment, to old-fashioned
novel-readers, at least, who love justice to be done, and the villain to
receive worse than he has given, is in the moral of the tale; yet in
these decadent Yellow Asterical and Green Carnational days it is as
good as can be wished. FLORENCE WARDEN is neither priggish nor
Church-Wardenish; and so, when the scoundrel----But here, again, the
Baron must put his finger to his lips, and ask you to read the story;
when, and not till then, he may imagine whether you do not agree with
him, "_Mystère!_"
Curiosity has ever been a weakness of human nature, and that seems to be
the only reason why so many make themselves uncomfortable by taking
journeys to the Pole. Imitating NANSEN, GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.,
sends his hero _To Greenland and the Pole_, which he reaches after much
"skilöbning" (the book must be read to grasp its meaning), and receiving
a chilly but polite welcome, with the arrogance of an Englishman breaks
the cold silence by singing the "_National Anthem_," when of course the
Pole is thawed at once!
Writes a Baronitess Junior, "Those little boys and girls who delight in
fairy lore will find a charming story of magical adventures in _Maurice;
or, the Red Jar_, by the Countess of JERSEY, or more appropriately
Countess of J_A_RSEY. It is fantastically illustrated by ROSIE M. M.
PITMAN, and published by MACMILLAN & CO., and shows how unpleasant a jar
can be in a family. And yet has not the poet finely said, 'A thing of
beauty is a Jar for ever!'"
The Baron is anxiously expecting the appearance from The Leadenhall
Press of Mr. TUER'S _Chap-book_. Of course, all "the Chappies" from
"Chap 1" to "Last Chap" are on the look out for it. The Baron fancies it
will be a perfect fac-simile, and if not perfect, the merciful critic
who is merciful to his author will say with the poet POPE
"_Tu er_ is human,"
which is a most pope-ular quotation; while as to the latter half of the
line "to forgive, divine"--that, in a measure, is one of the unstrained
prerogatives of the
BENEFICENT BARON DE B.-W.
* * * * *
A SLIGHT ADAPTATION.
(_Suggested by the recent Debate (Ladies only) at the Pioneers Club on
the Shortcomings of the Male Sex._)
[Illustration: Nova mulier vociferatur more Whitmanico.]
Come my modern women,
Follow me this evening, get your numbers ready,
Have you got your latchkeys? have you your members' axes?
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
To the club in Bruton Street
We must march my darlings, one and all a great ensemble,
We the strenuous lady champions, all extremely up to date,
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
O you girls, West-End girls,
O you young revolting daughters, full of manly pride and manners,
Plain I see you West-End girls (no reflection on your features!).
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
[Illustration]
Have our lords and masters halted?
Do they humbly take a back-seat, wearied out with Madame SARAH GRAND?
We take up the dual garments, and the eyeglass and the cycle.
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
From North Hampstead, from South Tooting,
From far Peckham, from the suburbs and the shires we come,
All the dress of comrades noting, bonnets, fashions criticising,
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
We primeval fetters loosing,
We our husbands taming, vexing we and worrying Mrs. GRUNDY,
We our own lives freely living, we as bachelor-girls residing,
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
[Illustration]
Literary dames are we,
Singers, speakers, temperance readers, artists we and journalists,
Here and there a festive actress (generally to be found in our
smoking-room),
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
Raise the mighty mistress President,
Waving high the delicate President, over all the Lady President
(bend your heads all),
Raise the warlike Mrs. M-SS-NGB-D, stern impassive Mrs. M-SS-NGB-D,
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
* * * * *
This sort of thing goes on for about twenty more verses, for which
readers are kindly referred to the original in _Leaves of Grass_. It
really applies without any further adaptation.
* * * * *
A "MAN IN ARMOUR" TO THE MULTITUDE.
_On Lord Mayor's Day._
Remember, remember, the Ninth of November!
A civic procession you've got!
I know no reason why L. C. C. treason
Should send the old custom to pot.
There is a great glamour about men in armour,
Will London turn out all a-pant
At sound of the bugle to stare at MCDOUGALL,
Or hear Mrs. ORMISTON CHANT?
Though city crowds hurtle to welcome the turtle,
And shout at the Mayor and the mace;
What Council Committee will choke up the City
With mobs and a smile on each face?
The old "panorama"'s a popular drama.
An alderman _may_ be a glutton;
But multitudes jog after MAGOG and GOG
Who don't care a button for HUTTON.
So remember, remember, the Ninth of November!
A holiday glorious you've got;
But "unification" will rob the whole nation
Of one good old spree--which is rot!
[Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]