“But while these stirring events were passing in the East, the mind of
England was turned into a very different channel. No faithful
historian could pass over this period without touching upon a pastime
which was now taking a remarkable hold upon the nation, and pervading
with its influence the upper and middle classes of British society.
“Rackets, and the old French game of Tennis, had long been popular
with the English youth; but by those who had left the public schools
and universities they were generally unattainable. It was left for
Major Wingfield, the scion of a Shropshire family, to bring home, I
may almost say to every door, a game which, little inferior to the
classic games which I have just mentioned, was open, without the
paraphernalia of a costly court, to every one at least who possessed a
moderate-sized and level lawn. Lawn-Tennis was now rapidly elbowing
out Archery, a thoroughly English and deep-rooted institution, and
Croquet, its younger sister. Cricket was losing many of its most
earnest devotees. In some parts of England there was an almost daily
_rendezvous_ at one or other of the great houses of the neighbourhood
for the new and popular pastime. In country circles, tournaments were
rousing the keenest excitement. Society was being differentiated into
the good players and the bad. Crowds flocked annually to Wimbledon to
watch the great match for the Championship of the world, to which a
silver goblet had been added by _The Country Gentleman’s Newspaper_.
Masters of hounds deferred cub-hunting that the Lawn Tennis season
might be still further prolonged. A game of Lawn-Tennis was not
unfrequently the innocent finish of the Ruridecanal meetings of the
clergy. “Will he make a fourth?” was the first question to be asked
about the new curate in many a country parish. All-popular among the
public schools was Harrow-on-the-Hill, which had now furnished the
Lawn-Tennis Champion for four consecutive years. Politics were laid
aside in the public press while the rules of the game were discussed.
On one side were ranged the net-volleyers: on the other those who
thought that net-volleying spoilt all the beauty and elegance of the
game. Never, by this latter party, since the time of Guy Fawkes, had
man been so intensely hated as he who, standing close to the net with
uplifted racket, stifled stroke after stroke as they came to meet him.
We shall not enter very fully into the merits of this controversy; to
do so would be dull, and possibly, to future generations,
unintelligible. It is sufficient to say that while the skilled players
defied “the man at the net” to do his worst, another and a larger
party, looking, be it supposed, to the greatest happiness of the
greatest number, was clamouring for such Lawn-Tennis legislation as
would degrade the game to the capabilities of mediocrity, and drive
the odious net-player from the courts. So numerous were the grades of
dexterity that a leader in the Tennis world, and an author of some
repute, had formulated a handicap table by which players of as many
degrees as the letters of the alphabet might be brought together on
even terms; while Henry Jones, the “Cavendish” of the whist-table, and
other mathematicians, had worked out to several places of decimals the
advantages of service. * * * * Such was the state of things which was
distracting the mind of England while the fleets of Europe patrolled
the Mediterranean, and peace and war were trembling in the balance.”
From _Tennis Cuts and Quips_. Edited by Julian Marshall. London, Field
and Tuer.
There are numerous other imitations of Lord Macaulay’s prose writings.
One, written by the late Dean Hook, is to be found in his “Life and
Letters” by W. R. W. Stephens (vol ii., p. 476), it relates only to
ecclesiastical affairs.
Another, entitled _The Story of Johnnie Armstrong_, the Scotch outlaw,
appeared in the Newcastle Weekly Chronicle, September 22, 1888. It was
a prize composition of considerable merit, written by Mr. J. T. Milne,
but it is unfortunately too long to be here inserted.
[Illustration]
MRS. BROWN AT CAMBRIDGE.
_By Arthur Sketchey._
Of all the railroads as I ever came across that Great’rn is out and
out the worst, thro’ bein’ that tejus slow and the carridges a mask of
dirt as you might grow cabbidges on, as the sayin’ is, and took all
the freshness out of my light blue pollynaise, as I’d thought the
kerrect thing at Cambridge, thro’ Mrs. Burgess a-wearin’ the same at
the Boat-race, and some young Cambridge gents a-sayin’ “Mum, you’ve
’it the right colour this time and no mistake,” as pleased ’er no end,
tho’ all the time larfin’ at ’er, I’ve no doubt, thro’ bein’ a orkard
figger from a child and not one to look well in a Joseph’s coat of
many colours, as the sayin’ is.
’Ow ever I met Mrs. Vagg on that everlastin’ endless platform I don’t
know, but I says to ’er, “a pint of four ale I must ’ave,” as I saw a
refreshmint bar ’andy, but of all the stuck-up trollopin’ things that
barmaid was the most orful, as ’ad dressed ’er ’air within a hinch of
’er life, as the sayin’ is, in four false plaits, and three young men
a-hoglin’ of ’er across the slab, as might ’ave known better, and took
cheek from that gal, as I’d ’ave paid ’er back, and let ’er know ’er
place.
I never wish to swaller a better cup of tea than Mrs. Vagg gave me
that evenin’ thro’ ’er bein’ a Bed-maker and in course tea a
perkisite, and is only fair with ’er maid-of-all-work to seven
gentlemen and board and lodge ’erself, not but what ’er house wasn’t
very nice, as bein’ in Regint Street with Wictor Emmanivel’s Collidge
opposight, for all the world like Clerkenwell jail, with bars to the
winders and all, mayhap thro’ fear of burglars a-breakin’ in, and
a-carryin’ off the Uniwersity chest, as I’m told would only be poor
pickins, and not worth the trouble.
Whether it was that cup of tea, or whether it was talkin’ over old
times with Mrs. Vagg, as ’ad been in service with me as a gal, but
nine o’clock struck and took me all of a ’eap, thro’ ’avin’ promised
Brown as I’d send ’im a ’a-penny card just to say I was all right. So
I says “What time do the Post go out?”
“Ten o’clock,” says she, “but you’re never goin’ out there to-night,
and a Town and Gown row on too, as is what no decent woman would
face.”
“Beggin’ your parding, mum,” says I, “their aint no Town nor Gown
neither as shall stand in the way of my duty to my lawful ’usband.”
So seen’ I was in earnest, she ’eld ’er tongue, and ’elped me on with
my shawl, and says “Turn to the left and foller your nose, and that’ll
bring you straight to the Post Office.”
Well up the hairy steps I went, thro’ ’er a-occypying the ground
floor, and a-lettin’ the first, and the very first thing as I sees
were a roamin’ candle goin’ off on Parky Peace as they call it, tho’ a
poorish Park to me as knows Grinnidge, and as for Peace, it’s
a-callin’ peace where there’s no peace, thro’ bein’ a mask of folk all
a-’ustling and a-jeerin’, and a-lettin’ off fireworks, as is things I
don’t ’old with, thro’ John Biggen as was my first cousin on the
mother’s side bein’ blinded with a rocket at Vaux ’all, as were a
piece of luck for Mrs. Biggin, as no one would ’ave married with ’is
eyes open thro’ ’er face bein’ a puffect cullender from the smallpox.
What the rumpus was all about I don’t know, but the streets was full
of young men as would ’ave been better in their beds, some on ’em
a-walkin’ two and two and a-smokin’ pipes, and some jinin’ arms, and
marchin’ up the streets singin’ for all the world like as if they was
tipsy, and the pavemint that narrer as I was shoved off the kerb, and
into a gutter, as was a foot deep and wetted me up to my knees, and
clean spilte a new petticut, as such things should’nt be allowed in
the public streets,――and where’s their Board of ’Ealth?
There was two young fellers a-walkin’ be’ind me, and says one,
a-larfin’, and a-pintin’, “That’s a good make up,” meanin’ me, as
turned round sharp on ’im, and told ’im to mind ’is own business and
not talk about makin’ up to me as were old enough to be ’is mother,
let alone ’avin’ twice ’is wits, as were not much better than a fool,
and looked only three days in the week, as the sayin’ is. But law
bless you, my lord only larfed, and just then I saw a great rampagious
mob a-tearin’ up the street as looked the scum of the earth, and gave
me that turn as I thought swound away I must, and ketched ’old of ’is
arm, and says, “’Elp a lady in distress, and conduc me past them
willains.”
Says he, a-takin’ off ’is ’at quite perlite, “With pleasure, mum,” and
off he walked with me a-’angin’ on to ’is arm, and my ’eart a-thumpin’
with pannikin’ fear as might ’ave been ’eard ’arf a mile away.
Well I was just a-slippin’ my ’a-penny card into the Post, when up
comes an elderly gent a-stridin’ along and a-lookin’ very big, with a
gownd a-trailin’ in the mud, and the banns of marridge round ’is neck
for all the world like a parson, as no doubt was, and says to the
young gent, “Which I must trouble you for six and eightpence for not
a-wearin’ of your hacademic dress,” and pulls out a sort of
bettin’-book for to enter ’is name and Collidge.
Says the young gent, quite cool and brazen-like, “Excuse me, sir, but
I was a-escortin’ of my mother ’ome, and didn’t put on my gownd for
fear of the cads.”
This put my blood up, as never could abear anything deceitful or
under’and, and I lets go of ’im, and says, “You hartful young
’ypocrate, and me never ’avin’ set my eyes on you before this evenin’,
as must ’ave took ’im aback like and serve ’im right, but he didn’t
wait for no more, but ran off like a harrer from a bow, as the sayin’
is, and the old chap sets a long legged feller to run after ’im, as I
’ope didn’t ketch ’im, thro’ bein’ a kind-’earted young man spite of
’is owdacious fibbin’.”
By this time there was a reglar Punch and Judy crowd round us, but I
grabbed tight on to my umbreller, and thinks I “’it me any of you who
dare,” when the elderly gent says, “If so be as you’re a decent woman,
you’ll go ’ome.”
Says I, “who says as Martha Brown aint a decent woman, you old
waggerbone! I aint a goin’ to stand ’ere to be hinsulted,” and was
bouncin’ off feelin’ quite ’urt like, and the crowd a cheerin’ and a
sayin’, “Go it, old Fatchops,” when if that old fool didn’t take and
say as it were ’is duty to see me ’ome.
Says I, “Thank you for nothin’, as would prefer you did no such thing,
thro’ me not bein known ’ere and people might make remarks,” but, law
bless you, words wasn’t no good with ’im, as walked along side of me
all the way with the crowd a-follerin’ and a-hollerin’ and a-pokin’
their fun at ’im and me.
Right glad I was to stand on Mrs. Vagg’s door-step, and fainted clean
away as soon as hever I got down to the kitchen, and you don’t ketch
me a-goin’ down that street after dark again, and, tho’ boys will be
boys, yet I don’t ’old with all their squibbin’ and fibbin’, nor yet
with helderly gents as is paid to hinsult respectable fieldmales, as I
wish my ’usband ’ad been there, as would ’ave broke hevery bone in ’is
skin and serve ’im right.
From _The Light Green_. Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Sons, 1873.
[Illustration]
BENJAMIN DISRAELI,
Lord Beaconsfield.
It must be confessed that the burlesques of the novels of Disraeli are
not, as a rule, very amusing, but there is one brilliant exception,
namely, that written by Bret Harte.
It is entitled “_Lothaw_, or the Adventures of a Young Gentleman in
Search of a Religion,” by Mr. Benjamins. This was first printed in
England by the late Mr. J. C. Hotten in 1871. It consists of nine
short chapters.
LOTHAW.
_Chapter_ I.
“I remember him a little boy,” said the Duchess. “His mother was a
dear friend of mine: you know, she was one of my bridesmaids.”
“And you have never seen him since, mamma?” asked the oldest married
daughter, who did not look a day older than her mother.
“Never; he was an orphan shortly after. I have often reproached
myself, but it is so difficult to see boys.”
This simple yet first-class conversation existed in the morning-room
of Plusham, where the mistress of the palatial mansion sat involved in
the sacred privacy of a circle of her married daughters.
One dexterously applied golden knitting-needles to the fabrication of
a purse of floss silk of the rarest texture, which none who knew the
almost fabulous wealth of the Duke would believe was ever destined to
hold in its silken meshes a less sum than £1,000,000 sterling; another
adorned a slipper exclusively with seed pearls; a third emblazoned a
page with rare pigments and the finest quality of gold-leaf.
Beautiful forms leaned over frames glowing with embroidery, and
beautiful frames leaned over forms inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Others, more remote, occasionally burst into melody as they tried the
passages of a new and exclusive air given to them in MS. by some
titled and devoted friend, for the private use of the aristocracy
alone, and absolutely prohibited for publication.
The Duchess, herself the superlative of beauty, wealth, and position,
was married to the highest noble in the Three Kingdoms.
Those who talked about such matters said that their progeny were
exactly like their parents――a peculiarity of the aristocratic and
wealthy.
They all looked like brothers and sisters, except their parents, who,
such was their purity of blood, the perfection of their manners, and
the opulence of their condition, might have been taken for their own
children’s elder son and daughter.
The daughters, with one exception, were all married to the highest
nobles in the land.
That exception was the Lady Coriander, who――there being no vacancy
above a marquis and a rental of £1,000,000――waited.
Gathered around the refined and sacred circle of their breakfast-table,
with their glittering coronets, which, in filial respect to their
father’s Tory instinct and their mother’s Ritualistic tastes, they
always wore on their regal brows, the effect was dazzling as it was
refined.
It was this peculiarity and their strong family resemblance which led
their brother-in-law, the good-humoured St. Addlegourd, to say that,
“’Pon my soul, you know, the whole precious mob looked like a ghastly
pack of court cards――don’t you know?”
St. Addlegourd was a radical.
Having a rent-roll of £15,000,000, and belonging to one of the oldest
families in Britain, he could afford to be.
“Mamma, I’ve just dropped a pearl,” said the Lady Coriander, bending
over the Persian hearth-rug.
“From your lips, sweet friend,” said Lothaw, who came of age and
entered the room at the same moment.
“No, from my work. It was a very valuable pearl, mamma; papa gave
Isaacs and Sons £50,000 for the two.”
“Ah, indeed,” said the Duchess, languidly rising; “let us go to
luncheon.”
“But your Grace,” interposed Lothaw, who was still quite young, and
had dropped on all-fours on the carpet in search of the missing gem,
“consider the value――――”
“Dear friend,” interposed the Duchess, with infinite tact, gently
lifting him by the tails of his dress-coat, “I am waiting for your
arm.”
_Chapter_ II.
Lothaw was immensely rich.
The possessor of seventeen castles, fifteen villas, nine
shooting-boxes, and seven town houses, he had other estates of which
he had not even heard.
Everybody at Plusham played croquet, and none badly.
Next to their purity of blood and great wealth, the family were famous
for this accomplishment.
Yet Lothaw soon tired of the game, and after seriously damaging his
aristocratically large foot in an attempt to “tight croquet” the Lady
Aniseed’s ball, he limped away to join the Duchess.
“I’m going to the hennery,” she said.
“Let me go with you. I dearly love fowls―――― … broiled,” he added,
thoughtfully.
“The Duke gave Lady Montairy some large Cochins the other day,”
continued the Duchess, changing the subject with delicate tact.
“Lady Montairy,
Quite contrairy,
How do your cochins grow?”
sang Lothaw gaily.
The Duchess looked shocked. After a prolonged silence, Lothaw abruptly
and gravely said――
“If you please, ma’am, when I come into my property I should like to
build some improved dwellings for the poor, and marry Lady Coriander.”
“You amaze me, dear friend, and yet both your aspirations are noble
and eminently proper,” said the Duchess; “Coriander is but a
child――and yet,” she added, looking graciously upon her companion,
“for the matter of that, so are you.”
_Chapter_ III.
Mr. Putney Padwick’s was Lothaw’s first grand dinner-party.
Yet, by carefully watching the others, he managed to acquit himself
creditably, and avoided drinking out of the finger-bowl by first
secretly testing its contents with a spoon.
The conversation was peculiar, and singularly interesting.
“Then you think that monogamy is simply a question of the
thermometer?” said Mrs. Putney Padwick to her companion.
“I certainly think that polygamy should be limited by isothermal
lines,” replied Lothaw.
“I should say it was a matter of latitude,” observed a loud, talkative
man opposite.
He was an Oxford Professor, with a taste for satire, and had made
himself very obnoxious to the company, during dinner, by speaking
disparagingly of a former well-known Chancellor of the Exchequer――a
great statesman, and brilliant novelist,――whom he feared and hated.
Suddenly there was a sensation in the room; among the females it
absolutely amounted to a nervous thrill.
His Eminence, the Cardinal, was announced.
He entered with great suavity of manner, and after shaking hands with
everybody, asking after their relatives, and chucking the more
delicate females under the chin with a high-bred grace peculiar to his
profession, he sat down, saying――
“And how do we all find ourselves this evening, my dears?” in several
different languages, which he spoke fluently.
Lothaw’s heart was touched.
His deeply religious convictions were impressed.
He instantly went up to this gifted being, confessed, and received
absolution.
“To-morrow,” he said to himself, “I will partake of the Communion, and
endow the Church with my vast estates. For the present I’ll let the
improved cottages go.”
* * * * *
_Novels by Eminent Hands_, a series of burlesques upon the works of
Bulwer Lytton, Harry Lorrequer, G. P. R. James, and B. Disraeli, which
first appeared in _Punch_ were written by W. M. Thackeray. That upon
Disraeli came out in 1847, it commenced thus:――
CODLINGSBY.
_By B. De Shrewsbury._
The noise in the old town was terrific; Great Tom was booming sullenly
over the uproar; the bell of Saint Mary’s was clanging with alarm; St.
Giles’s tocsin chimed furiously; howls, curses, flights of brickbats,
stones shivering windows, groans of wounded men, cries of frightened
females, cheers of either contending party as it charged the enemy
from Carfax to Trumpington Street, proclaimed that the battle was at
its height.
In Berlin they would have said it was a revolution, and the
cuirassiers would have been charging, sabre in hand, amidst that
infuriate mob. In France they would have brought down artillery, and
played on it with twenty-four-pounders. In Cambridge nobody heeded
the disturbance――it was a Town and Gown row.
The row arose at a boat-race. The Town boat (manned by eight stout
bargees, with the redoubted Rullock for stroke) had bumped the
Brazennose light oar, usually at the head of the river. High words
arose regarding the dispute. After returning from Granchester, when
the boats pulled back to Christchurch meadows, the disturbance between
the Townsmen and the University youths――their invariable
opponents――grew louder and more violent, until it broke out in open
battle. Sparring and skirmishing took place along the pleasant fields
that lead from the University gate down to the broad and shining
waters of the Cam, and under the walls of Baliol and Sidney Sussex.
The Duke of Bellamont (then a dashing young sizar at Exeter) had a
couple of rounds with Billy Butt, the bow oar of the Bargee boat.
Vavasour of Brazennose was engaged with a powerful butcher, a
well-known champion of the Town party, when, the great University
bells ringing to dinner, truce was called between the combatants, and
they retired to their several colleges for refection.
During the boat-race, a gentleman pulling in a canoe, and smoking a
Nargilly, had attracted no ordinary attention. He rowed about a
hundred yards ahead of the boats in the race, so that he could have a
good view of that curious pastime. If the eight-oars neared him, with
a few rapid strokes of his flashing paddles his boat shot a furlong
ahead; then he would wait, surveying the race, and sending up volumes
of odour from his cool Nargilly.
“Who is he?” asked the crowds who panted along the shore, encouraging,
according to Cambridge wont, the efforts of the oarsmen in the race.
Town and Gown, alike asked who it was, who, with an ease so provoking,
in a barque so singular, with a form seemingly so slight, but a skill
so prodigious, beat their best men. No answer could be given to the
query, save that a gentleman in a dark travelling-chariot, preceded by
six fourgons and a courier, had arrived the day before at the Hoop
Inn, opposite Brazennose, and that the stranger of the canoe seemed to
be the individual in question.
No wonder the boat, that all admired so, could compete with any that
ever was wrought by Cambridge artificer or Putney workmen. That
boat――slim, shining, and shooting through the water like a pike after
a small fish――was a caique from Tophana; it had distanced the Sultan’s
oarsmen, and the best crews of the Capitan Pasha in the Bosphorus; it
was the workmanship of Togrul-Beg, Caikjee Bashee of his Highness. The
Bashee had refused fifty thousand tomauns from Count Boutenieff, the
Russian Ambassador, for that little marvel. When his head was taken
off, the Father of Believers presented the boat to Rafael Mendoza.
* * * * *
――――:o:――――
NIHILISM IN RUSSIA.
(In imitation of Disraeli’s _Sybil_.)
For there opposed each other but two elements in this society at once
strange and simple. Around the throne of the Great Peter, and in the
marble city which is his monument, the gay circles of the Aristocracy
frittered away a frivolous existence amid the blaze of diamonds, the
strains of music, and all those Circean enchantments that dull the
energy and bid care repose. Here was wealth to make life easy, and
here luxury to give it splendour; here was beauty to stir the pulse of
youth, and here wit to waken even the most thoughtless to a sense that
for them too there were pleasures of the intellect. So lived the lords
of those vast plains, whose immensity made aptly significant the proud
title of “All the Russias.” And the tiller of those plains, what of
him? Surrounded by the sad and sombre Steppe, that breathed its
melancholy over him from the cradle, broken by toil and of untutored
mind, his life was suffering without interval of enjoyment,
degradation without hope of change. Too brutish for the aspirations of
Religion, he was well-nigh bereft of that supreme solace wherewith the
ingenuity of the sophistical rhetorician may seek to sooth even the
aged pauper of St. Pancras. And yet Revolution was as impossible for
him as content. For Revolution is the explosion of an Idea, that
overturns Society in its struggle to the light. To the Scythian serf
was altogether wanting the initial force of the fulminating Idea.
Steeped in ignorance, he was also isolated. Through his dreary
continent had never permeated the Secret Societies of other lands, and
for him there was no magic potency in the mysterious name of
“Mary-Anne.” So he thought not of overturning Society, but of effacing
it. For the first time in man’s history was seen that portentous
birth, an Apostle of Nothing. In a word, he was a Nihilist!
Vainly was it attempted to divert his purposes by the lure of foreign
conquest and a fresh Crusade; in vain was dangled before him by the
astute Ministers of Muscovy the long-sought guerdon of his
efforts――the sacred city of the Sultans. One was on the watch who came
of a race not lightly to be beguiled, a race that was ancient thirty
centuries before these Scythian hordes had claimed to be a nation. The
Great Minister of the West, strong with the might and majesty of
England, saw that it was reserved for him to crown that Royal
Mistress, on whose brow he had recently set a new and Imperial
coronet, with the fresh garland of a bloodless triumph. In the lofty
language of the sacred records of his people, ‘Let there be Peace!’ he
said; and that which he achieved became known to the world in his own
historic phrase of “Peace with Honour!”
BROUGHSHANE.
This imitation won the first prize in a parody competition, in _The
World_, September 17, 1879.
――――:o:――――
DE TANKARD.
_By Benjamin Dizzyreally, Esq., M.P._
Chapter XL.
“What majority had they last night, my lord?” asked a fair young man
in the Carlton, from a stately personage who was sitting at a table
near him, occupied with a bottle of Lafitte.
“Fifty-two,” was the reply.
“How did Peel look when he heard it?”
“Oh, he smiled in his usual quiet triumphant way,” said Lord
Mannerley.
“Ah! while Peel is sultan there will be no want of ruined villages for
our political owls to make their nests in,” remarked the youth.
“Yes, these cursed free-traders flourish on the ruins of the
agriculturalists,” said Lord Mannerly savagely.
“And they will be soon howling like jackals in the ruins of the
constitution,” added his young companion, with a sigh.
“This Lafitte is capital,” said the ruined landowner.
At this moment a young man approached the table. His bearing was
proud, his eyes dark and luminous, his figure stately as a palm-tree.
His aquiline nose betrayed his superb organisation. You saw at once
that he was of the purest Caucasian race. Yes! his lineage sprung from
the families who peopled the noble mountain which received the Divine
Ark, and cherished the snowy dove that spread its white wings over the
waters, that had swallowed up the inhabitants of a world! As he passed
up the noble room, how insignificant in _his_ presence appeared the
children of the semi-civilized barbarians, spawned in a northern
swamp!
“May I offer you a glass of claret, De Tankard?” asked Lord Mannerley.
“Thank you, I only drink sherbet, just now,” replied the youth.
“You can get some Persian sherbet at a penny a glass,” said a witty
Milesian lord.
De Tankard smiled compassionately on the aristocratic buffoon. “’Tis
doubtless worthy of your English civilization,” was his calm scornful
reply.
* * * * *
Chapter XLIV.
De Tankard stood at the window of a small country inn, and watched the
storm raging in the forest. Lithely bent the straight poplar with a
low wail beneath the breath of the north wind. The oak roared, the
beech howled, and the wild leaves, caught in the eddies of the winds,
were wreathed by them into chaplets, as though the Spirit of the Storm
wished to crown with them the noble gazer on his work.
“’Tis a great spectacle,” remarked De Tankard, to a man who stood
beside him, of an air――oh, how grand!
Benonia (for it was indeed he!) sneered. “Have you ever seen a
Mediterranean white squall, or a whirlwind in the Desert?” he asked.
“Alas, no!” was the reply. “I must soon visit the glorious East, the
parent of religion, civilization, science, and art,” and the dark eyes
of De Tankard glowed with Eastern fire.
“Ah, you are young,” exclaimed Benonia, with enthusiasm. “Glorious
youth! By youth have all great deeds been accomplished. Ransack the
history of ages. The fact is stamped on every line. The Trojan, Paris,
was but a youth when he ran away with the fair Grecian, and got his
native town destroyed for it ten years after! Cæsar was in the
freshness of life when he destroyed the Republic and founded a
despotism. Nero developed his villany early, and Heliogabalus was a
confirmed glutton before his minority was over! Nay, to come to our
own country, what was the age of the Boy Jones when he passed the
sacred precincts of a Royal palace, and stood where none but Royal
feet had ever trod before?――Barely sixteen! Look at Lord William
Lennox――how young he was when he wrote his great works!”
Benonia paused. De Tankard dropped a warm and sparkling tear. “I will
start to the East to-morrow!” he exclaimed.
“You had better have a couple of millions,” said Benonia. “I have got
about half-a-dozen in my pocket to carry me over the night.”
* * * * *
Chapter XLVIII.
Silence reigns beneath the brilliant azure of an Oriental
sky;――silence, broken only by the silver tinkling of the camel’s bell.
A noble creature is the camel. Compared with that Caucasian of beasts,
the shapeless quadruped of the Northern, is but an ass!
Ever and anon, through the moist perfumed twilight, steals a delicious
breeze. Delicious, but melancholy. For in that breeze floats a
prophet’s sigh. The cypress moans as it passes; and the palm-tree bows
its proud head in honour to it, as it flies along! On the holy
barrenness of the saintly brow of Lebanon, the moon’s rays fall
reverently, and Lebanon looks holier under their light.
In the court in front of the counting-house of an Emir, sits De
Tankard. From among the round pebbles of the pavement, springs a fresh
fountain. On the branches of the trees gleam ripe oranges.
The young man looked sad and solemn. He had that morning seen an
angel, as usual! By his side was a lovely female, and near him the
lively young Emir Baboo smoked his nargilly.
“Do you often see angels, De Tankard?” he asked, laughing.
“Peace!” was the reply.
“I have a combination!” cried out the Emir, jumping up with a violence
which smashed the nargilly. “Let us get the Druses and Maronites to
unite, and we’ll go down to Djouni, and seize the English frigate
there! What would Palmerston say to that?”
De Tankard laughed. “The East is the cradle of glory,” said he after a
pause, with an enthusiastic look.
The Emir stared.
“Ah”! said he, “I had a brave chase yesterday, and ran off with the
baggage of a caravan.”
The lady frowned. The Emir fell at her feet, and began to cry.
Next day, De Tankard started off with him on an excursion.
When employed in these ennobling diversions, he learned that his rich
maiden aunt had arrived at Jerusalem.
* * * * *
From _The Puppet-Showman’s Album_. London.
――――
Another parody on Tancred, written by “Cuthbert Bede” (the Rev. Edward
Bradley), appeared in _The Shilling Book of Beauty_, it was entitled
“Tancredi; or, the New Party.” By the Right Hon. B. Bendizzy, M.P.
In 1887, Messrs. Swan Sonnenschein & Co., London, published a shilling
volume of prose burlesque novels, written by H. F. Lester. The first,
entitled _Ben D’ymion_, was a parody of Lord Beaconsfield’s novel
_Endymion_. The other authors imitated in this collection were William
Black, George Elliot, Henry James, Thomas Hardy, and J. H. Shorthouse.
_Ben D’ymion_ had originally appeared in _Punch_ in 1880.
――――:o:――――
THE AGE OF LAWN-TENNIS.
(_After Lord Beaconsfield’s_ “SYBIL”.)
CHAPTER I.
“Advantage, we win,” shouted Sphairistikos.
“Never,” replied Retiarius, as he made his favourite stroke, which
came speeding, whirling, hissing, the one-thousandth part of an inch
over the top of the net, and fell twisting, twirling, shooting, in the
extreme left-hand corner of the great twelve-yard court, only to be
returned, however, by the flexibility of a wrist which had been famous
in Harrow’s playing-fields in days of yore.
“Forty-thirty.”
“Deuce.”
“’Vantage against you!” “Game and set!” Such were the Babel-like cries
which greeted our ears, as we approached Tong Castle’s level lawn, one
fine autumnal afternoon.
And what was the scene that confronted us?
Ambitious adversaries, on all sides, were hitting to and fro, in
alternated strokes, a gyratory ball, and loudly vociferating amœbean
numerals as either side became involved in some reticular difficulty.
Here was to be seen, in variegated garb, such a galaxy of beauty as
Shropshire seldom sees, assembled to render homage to the great
Lawn-Tennis Champion, and to witness the feats of some of England’s
doughtiest players.
Here were to be seen the eagle-eyed volleyer, the deft half-volleyer,
the swift server, and the nimble net-player; while here, too, the
quick cut, the treacherous twister, and the brilliant back-hander were
exhibited on all sides in their purest perfection.
“Advantage, we win,” repeated Sphairistikos.
“Deuce,” said Retiarius, as his great stroke passed and shot
lightning-like past his adversary’s racket.
And so they played and played on, till the balls began to glance in
the golden light of a glorious sunset, and then to grow dimmer and
dimmer in the deepening shadows of a rich twilight.
CHAPTER II.
But to what was all this tending, and to what condition had the
Lawn-Tennis players brought the Great Western State which they
inhabited?
A monarch on the throne, whose age alone prevented her from casting in
her lot with an aristocracy of wealth and learning, who had already
commenced to narrow life within the limits of the twelve-yard court!!
A gentler sex, forsaking the sacred duties of domesticity that they
might lend grace and elegance to the all-prevailing pastime!!
A degraded peasantry, living but to delineate on level lawns the
bounds past which England’s greatest and noblest born must not propel
the gyrating sphere!!
A rustic generation, rising but to collect for their oppressors the
distant-driven ball, and developing into manhood merely to tend and
trim the smooth-shaven Lawn-Tennis ground, which had now become a
necessary adjunct alike to glebe and manor!!
It was an age of Lawn-Tennis!!
“My prophetical instincts tell me,” said Retiarius, as he and his
friends were waiting for the nets to be arranged,――“My prophetical
instincts tell me that the great coming stroke will be the volley.”
“Why, so?” said Sphairistikos.
“It is as yet,” replied he, “only half-developed. A nation young in
Lawn-Tennis has much to learn; much to forget. My impression is that
the volley, properly understood, will convulse the future.”
“I believe in service for my part,” remarked Sphairistikos,――“Secure
your first stroke. Demoralize first, win afterwards; I would borrow
from the great nation which gave us Tennis, and say, ‘Ce n’est que le
premier pas qui coûte.’”
“But I am looking to a distant future,” continued Retiarius. “We shall
see great changes. There will be hereditary volleyers. The theories of
Darwin must prevail. Volleyers will play with volleyers. The pastimes
of a country lead to its courtships. It has always been so. A
generation of volleyers will rise up who will volley from the
service-line as accurately as their grandfathers have done from the
nets.”
“What news from Afghanistan?” asked a fair player, who was putting on
her shoes.
“Fifteen, the Government loses,” replied a Tennis-steeped youth; “they
have served two faults,――one into Afghanistan; one into Zululand.”
“Bother Afghanistan,” said another damsel in short petticoats, “I want
the scoring question settled.”
But the attendants now announced that the courts were ready.
“Fifteen, I win.”
“Fifteen, all.”
And so on, and on, and on, the adversaries played, with constantly-
varying fortunes, till another day was nearly done, and they were once
more compelled to surrender before the flickering blaze of a vanishing
sun.
From _Tennis Cuts and Quips_. Edited by Julian Marshall. London. Field
and Tuer.
――――:o:――――
It was known that Lord Beaconsfield had drawn many of the characters
in _Endymion_ from prominent members of society, and much curiosity
was felt as to the identification of these individuals. _Notes and
Queries_ published a conjectural list of them, but it must be borne in
mind that Lord Beaconsfield was sufficiently cautious not to paint his
portraits too distinctly like his originals, in fact some of his
puppets represent two or three individuals merged into one
Endymion Benjamin Disraeli
Zenobia Lady Jersey
Berengaria (Lady Montfort) Hon. Mrs. Norton
Agrippina Queen Hortense
Adriana Neufchatel Lady Burdett Coutts
The Neufchatels The Rothschilds
Col. Albert (Prince Florestan) Napoleon III
Lord Roehampton Lord Palmerston
Myra Roehampton Empress Eugenie
Enoch Craggs Co-operation.
Lord Montfort The late Lord Hertford
Lord Rawchester Earl Granville
Earl of Beaumaris The late Earl of Derby
Mr. Bertie Tremaine Lord Houghton
Count of Ferroll Prince Bismarck
Nigel Penruddock Cardinal Manning
Mr. Ferrars (the grandfather) Rt. Hon. George Rose
George Waldershare Mr. George Smythe (afterwards
Lord Strangford)
Job Thornberry Richard Cobden
Mr. Vigo Mr. Poole
Mr. Jorrocks Mr. Milner Gibson
Hortensius Sir W. Vernon Harcourt
Sidney Wilton Sidney Herbert
Mr. Sainte Barbe W. M. Thackeray
Mr. Gushy Charles Dickens
Topsy Turvy _Vanity Fair_
Scaramouch _Punch_
――――:o:――――
A curious story of a plagiarism is related of Disraeli in the Life of
Mr. Abraham Hayward, Q.C., who was formerly on the staff of the
_Morning Chronicle_.
Early in the “fifties,” Mr. Disraeli made sundry depreciatory remarks
on the speeches of military members of Parliament, classing them
contemptuously as effusions of “the military mind.” The men of the
_Morning Chronicle_ replied to Mr. Disraeli’s attack on the intellect
of soldiers by printing a translation of a magnificent eulogium on the
Maréchal de St. Cyr by M. Thiers, setting forth the qualities
necessary to a military commander. Mr. Disraeli was evidently struck
by the brilliancy of the counter hit, for a few years later, when the
Duke of Wellington died, he interpolated the translation, _errors and
all_, in the oration which as leader of the House of Commons it was
his duty to deliver on the death of that great general. The old
writers of the _Chronicle_ secured the insertion of the speech and the
translated passage in the _Globe_. Mr. Disraeli’s friends made every
attempt to explain away the plagiarism till an article in _Fraser’s
Magazine_, written by Mr. Hayward, showed clearly that the passage was
not even taken from the French original, but directly from the
translation which appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_. Mr. Hayward was
very proud of this article of his, in which he also handled Mr.
Disraeli’s “Revolutionary Epick” very roughly.
――――
THE WOMAN IN TIGHTS.
_By Wilkie Collins._
The narrative commenced by Walter Heartbright, teacher of jig-dancing,
of Fulwood’s-rents, Holborn. This is a story of what a woman’s
impatience can procure, and what a man’s irresolution can achieve. If
the law were not such a blundering battering-ram the events which fill
these pages might have merited its attention. I live with my mother,
who keeps a general shop. Events alter my life. I go to Cumberland to
attend on a gentleman. The story continued by Mr. Bearly, Gummeridge
House, Cumberland: I am all self, etchings, and nerves. Why? I know
not. Perhaps Laura knows, or Sir Pursefull. I am asked to make a
statement. Aided by a galvanic battery I make it. Laura has gone on
the stage. I am worried. Why should I be? I give it up. Thank you.
Don’t bang. Send Heartbright here. I would see him dance. Statement by
Hester Teecloth, cook at Count Bosco’s: I remember a lady being
brought to our house last June. She came in a temper and a brougham.
She was laid on the sofa. She looked wildlike, and kept shouting
“There they go, millions of ’em.” When the doctor saw her he winked at
the count and whispered, “Delicious trimmings,” but the poor thing was
plainly dressed. That’s all I know. Heartbright finishes the story: We
are to be married in a week’s time. Laura’s faculties have returned.
Mr. Bearly and his nerves have found Nirvana. Sir Pursefull was
drowned while showing off a lifebelt of his own invention. Bosco is in
an asylum. His time is occupied in plucking green mice from his beard,
and chirruping to pink canaries which he fancies he sees on the wall.
My mother, always of a retiring disposition, has given up business. I
am heir of Gummeridge House. Thus it ends.
WILLIAM EVISON ROSE.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ February 25, 1883.
In this parody competition the compositions were limited to 300 words,
a regulation which sadly hampered the competitors.
In Bret Harte’s _Sensation Novels Condensed_, there is a parody of
Wilkie Collins, called “No Title.”
[Illustration]
THE LUCK OF TORY CAMP.
_By Bread Tart._
There was commotion in Tory Camp. Outside a rude cabin waited an
excited crowd, headed by Solly, a stalwart digger, with a Raphael face
and profusion of dark beard, whose duel with Harden Bill, the Rad-Dog
Woodcutter, was still talked of with bated breath. The name of a woman
was on every lip, a name familiar in the camp――Poll Icy. The less said
of her the better; no better than she should be perhaps; half foreign,
half Ingin; but yet the only woman in camp, and now in woman’s direst
extremity. Suddenly an excited Celestial joined the group. “Lemme
investigate, John,” said he; “me Pal-Mal, me washee-washee dirty
linen, me go see her.” “Scoot, you dern skunk!” thundered Solly; “none
but a down-east johnny-cake ’ud trust you with any woman nowadays.” At
that moment a wail, feeble, yet sufficient to quell the laughter that
greeted Solly’s sally, announced a birth in Tory Camp.… Little Randy,
or the Luck――for by these names the frolicsome miners had christened
the infant (in beer)――grew and throve, and soon became a power in the
camp. His childish jokes with Sairey Gamp, his nurse, were the delight
of the brawny getters of gold from quartz (s), and even Solly smiled
when the Luck “tackled the old ’un,” which he did when Harden Bill
visited the camp now and then. “Rastled with Bill’s little finger, the
derned little cuss,” roared Solly; “rastled with it, dern my skin.”
The winter of 1885 will long be remembered in California. One night
Tea-Pot Gulch and Rad-Dog Fork leaped suddenly over their banks, and
descended in ruin upon Tory Camp. When morning dawned the Luck lay
lifeless in Solly’s arms, and Harden Bill smiled grimly as he watched
the strangely assorted pair floating quietly towards the Sea of
Oblivion.
J. C. ROSE.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ September 13, 1885.
There is a parody on Bret Harte’s prose in _The Shotover Papers_
(Oxford, 1874) entitled _His Finger_, but it is not sufficiently
characteristic to merit reprinting.
[Illustration]
MR. MIDSHIPMAN BREEZY.
A NAVAL OFFICER.
_By Captain Marryat, R.N._
CHAPTER I.
My father was a north-country surgeon. He had retired, a widower from
Her Majesty’s navy many years before, and had a small practice in his
native village. When I was seven years old he employed me to carry
medicines to his patients. Being of a lively disposition, I sometimes
amused myself, during my daily rounds, by mixing the contents of the
different phials. Although I had no reason to doubt that the general
result of this practice was beneficial, yet, as the death of a
consumptive curate followed the addition of a strong mercurial lotion
to his expectorant, my father concluded to withdraw me from the
profession and send me to school.
Grubbins, the schoolmaster, was a tyrant, and it was not long before
my impetuous and self-willed nature rebelled against his authority. I
soon began to form plans of revenge. In this I was assisted by Tom
Snaffle――a school-fellow. One day Tom suggested:
“Suppose we blow him up. I’ve got two pounds of gun-powder!”
“No, that’s too noisy,” I replied.
Tom was silent for a minute, and again spoke.
“You remember how you flattened out the curate, Pills! Couldn’t you
give Grubbins something――something to make him leathery sick――eh?”
A flash of inspiration crossed my mind. I went to the shop of the
village apothecary. He knew me; I had often purchased vitriol, which I
poured into Grubbins’s inkstand to corrode his pens and burn up his
coat-tail, on which he was in the habit of wiping them. I boldly asked
for an ounce of chloroform. The young apothecary winked and handed me
the bottle.
It was Grubbins’s custom to throw his handkerchief over his head,
recline in his chair, and take a short nap during recess. Watching my
opportunity, as he dozed, I managed to slip his handkerchief from his
face and substitute my own, moistened with chloroform. In a few
minutes he was insensible. Tom and I then quickly shaved his head,
beard, and eyebrows, blackened his face with a mixture of vitriol and
burnt cork, and fled. There was a row and scandal the next day. My
father always excused me by asserting that Grubbins had got drunk――but
somehow found it convenient to procure me an appointment in Her
Majesty’s navy at an early day.
CHAPTER II.
An official letter, with the Admiralty seal, informed me that I was
expected to join H.M. ship Belcher, Captain Boltrope, at Portsmouth,
without delay. In a few days I presented myself to a tall,
stern-visaged man, who was slowly pacing the leeward side of the
quarter-deck. As I touched my hat he eyed me sternly:
“So ho! Another young suckling. The service is going to the devil.
Nothing but babes in the cockpit and grannies in the board.
Boatswain’s mate, pass the word for Mr. Cheek!”
Mr. Cheek, the steward, appeared and touched his hat.
“Introduce Mr. Breezy to the young gentlemen. Stop! Where’s Mr.
Swizzle?”
“At the masthead, sir.”
“Where’s Mr. Lankey?”
“At the masthead, sir.”
“Mr. Briggs?”
“Masthead, too, sir.”
“And the rest of the young gentlemen?” roared the enraged officer.
“All masthead, sir.”
“Ah!” said Captain Boltrope, as he smiled grimly, “under the
circumstances, Mr. Breezy, you had better go to the masthead too.”
CHAPTER III.
At the masthead I made the acquaintance of two youngsters of about my
own age, one of whom informed me that he had been there 332 days out
of the year.
“In rough weather, when the old cock is out of sorts, you know, we
never come down,” added a young gentleman of nine years, with a dirk
nearly as long as himself, who had been introduced to me as Mr.
Briggs. “By the way, Pills,” he continued, “how did you come to omit
giving the captain a naval salute!”
“Why, I touched my hat,” I said, innocently.
“Yes, but that isn’t enough, you know. That will do very well at other
times. He expects the naval salute when you first come on
board――greeny!”
I began to feel alarmed, and begged him to explain.
“Why, you see, after touching your hat, you should have touched him
lightly with your forefinger in his waistcoat, so, and asked, ‘How’s
his nibs?’――you see?”
“How’s his nibs?” I repeated.
“Exactly. He would have drawn back a little, and then you should have
repeated the salute, remarking ‘How’s his royal nibs?’ asking
cautiously after his wife and family, and requesting to be introduced
to the gunner’s daughter.”
“The gunner’s daughter?”
“The same; you know she takes care of us young gentlemen; now don’t
forget, Pillsy!”
When we were called down to the deck I thought it a good chance to
profit by this instruction. I approached Captain Boltrope and repeated
the salute without conscientiously omitting a single detail. He
remained for a moment livid and speechless. At length he gasped out:
“Boatswain’s mate!”
“If you please, sir,” I asked, tremulously, “I should like to be
introduced to the gunner’s daughter!”
“O, very good, sir!” screamed Captain Boltrope, rubbing his hands and
absolutely capering about the deck with rage. “O d――n you! Of course
you shall! O ho! the gunner’s daughter! O, h――ll! this is too much!
Boatswain’s mate!” Before I well knew where I was, I was seized, borne
to an eightpounder, tied upon it and flogged!
* * * * *
From _Sensation Novels Condensed_, by Bret Harte. London. Ward, Lock
and Co.
[Illustration]
THE PALE-FACED WARRIORS.
_By Captain Mayne Reid._
CHAPTER I.
“I feel kinder dull,” said Tiger Tom to me one day. “Let us go and
kill some ‘Injins.’” We soon reached the forest, but not a Redskin was
in sight. Tom examined the trail closely, and with an old
backwoodsman’s unerring instinct declared we should see no “Injins”
that day. As I was complimenting him upon his wonderful sagacity, we
were suddenly surprised by a band of the dreaded Chickatoos. With one
thought for those at home Tom took to his heels and vanished. The
savages bound me to a tree, and told me not to run away. I promised
not to.
CHAPTER II.
An exciting discussion upon cookery, of which I was the central
object, followed. One advocated roasting, another baking me! I did not
favour either. Between them I got into a stew. At night, whilst the
rascals slept, I perceived an Indian maiden by my side. She unbound
me, and gave me the full dress of a chief, and some pigment to stain
my skin with. To disguise myself was the work of a minute and
three-quarters, when the savages awoke, and missing me, set up a
terrific yell, and started in pursuit. To avoid observation, I
accompanied them.
CHAPTER III.
The chase was particularly close. I was anxiously awaiting nightfall
to escape them, when, horror! something wet touched my cheek. It was
raining. The rain fell in torrents, and as it washed my colour off and
I gradually became white, the Chickatoos saw through my disguise.
Seizing his rifle, the chief told me to stand apart. He fired, but
missed me. I feigned to be hit, and springing into the air, turned
sixteen distinct somersaults. Before they recovered from their
surprise, I disappeared in the forest.
F. P. DELAFOND.
_The Weekly Dispatch Competition._ February 25, 1883.
In this competition, the compositions were limited to 300 words, which
prevented the authors from giving more than a very rough caricature of
their originals. But in 1867, Mr. Walter Parke contributed a parody of
Captain Mayne Reid to _Judy_ free from any such harrassing
restriction, and succeeded in producing a most blood-curdling romance.
It was entitled “_The Skull Hunters_: A Terrific Tale of the
Prairie!!” By Captain Rayne Meade; and consisted of twenty-one
chapters of thrilling adventures, and daring exploits with
illustrations to match. This was published in book form in 1868,
another and revised edition was brought out in 1887, during the
excitement about Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. This had a tremendous sale,
it was called “_The Skull Hunters_; or, The Warriors of the Wild
West.” _Judy_ Office, London.
――――
ANTICIPATIONS OF THE DERBY.
BY A FRENCH VISITOR.
I. _L’Homme qui Rit._
“In England, everything is great, even that which is not good, even
oligarchy itself!” Thought profound and sublime of the Master;
apothegm initiatory and bitter of the Man who Laughs――who laughs, but
who can also bite.
For Genius, as for Ambition――for Prometheus who thinks, as for
Prometheus who wields the great battalions――seems it not that there is
reserved, by the derisive irony of Fate, an expiatory rock, an island
exile?
For Victor Hugo, this rock, expiatory but glorious, calls itself
Guernsey.
For Napoleon, it had two names; it was Elba, and it was Ste. Hélène.
Patience, Master! Watching the brumous clouds, tainted with Britannic
fogs, that roll around the Islands of the Sleeve in the crepusculary
sadness of an English spring――listening to the breeze, keen, acute,
Arctic, Polar, which groans, which growls, which howls, which whistles
menacing but impuissant, around the walls of Hauteville House――remember
thyself, Master, that History, as for Ambition, so for Genius, repeats
herself, in moments, for the one of remorse, for the other of caprice!
After Elba, the Hundred Days.
After Ste. Hélène, the voyage of the Belle-Poule.
“He laughs best who laughs last,” says the Proverb.
Proverbs are the wisdom of nations.
And thou, oh Master, oh author of the Man who Laughs, thy laugh is as
the laugh of Gwynplaine, sombre but not cynical, permanent but full of
pity, of compassion――a laughter broken with tears――above all, a
laughter which endures!
II. _The Solidarity of the Sportmans._
Yes; in England, everything is great. Even in her sports, she is the
Titaness of the Ocean.
There is a solidarity of peoples; above all, there is a solidarity
amongst the votaries of Diana, huntress pale, chaste, ferocious,
formidable, but ravishing, but divine!
The _sportmans_ of France, the _sportmans_ of England, they are as the
brothers of Corsica. What says your Williams? “As we were being washed
by nurse, we got completely mixed!”
Touching and tender fantasy of this grand old Swan of Stratford-upon-
Thames! Or, what say I――of Corsica? Of Siam――melancholy but affecting
type of the rudimentary solidarity of the Orient!
I had long desired to watch you insularies in the sports of the
hippodrome, in which I am myself not without skill; but the furious
storms of the Sleeve twice detained me at Calais, and once at
Boulogne. I consoled myself in the hope that everything comes to him
who knows how to wait.
I knew how to wait. I waited.
After Chantilly, Epsom’s courses!
The sea appeared calm; not a wrinkle in the folds of the steel-blue
Sleeve.
I embarked myself, with my luggage in my left hand and my “Ruff’s
Guide to the Turf” in my right.
I shall see them, then, at last――these courses, sacred in the past by
the memory of Eclipse and the Flying Admiral Childers, dear to the
patriotic heart of France in the present days by the triumph of
Gladiateur!
III. _Ocean less Perfidious than the Aristocracy of Albion._
The sun was shining. The Ocean stirred gently in its sleep. Its
ripples were as tender, as voluptuous, as the sighs of pleasure which
scarcely derange the diaphanous scarf that lies upon the bosom of
beauty. Oh, Phœbus! Oh, Neptunus! Oh, Venus!
I told you the sun was shining. My heart also. That I was gay! Gaiety
premature, unreasonable, absurd!
As we cross Calais Bar the vessel rolls. I like it not. Can she be
strong enough for the traverse, often fearful and stormy, to Douvres?
I begin to marvel whether she is made of iron, or only made of wood.
I address the question, politely, to a young English _sportmans_ by my
side――“Pardon, Mister! but what is the vessel made of?”
A spasm of uncertainty, if not of pain, passes across his face as he
points to an inscription inside the paddle-boxes.
One can only die one time; nevertheless, it is permitted to exclaim
against the perfidy of the Steam-Lords of the Board of Commerce for
London and Douvres. I read the inscription. Hope abandons me. The
vessel is _not_ made of iron!
She is not even made of wood!!
She is only “Maid of Kent!!!”
IV. _Portentosum Mare._
An agitation which I have never felt before seems to seize upon me.
The further we go, the more it increases.
The young English _sportmans_, with the cynical indifference of the
patrician, contemplates my sufferings, and lights his cigar. Is it
that he calls _that_ “solidarity”?
Two blonde misses with their papa――oligarch, fat, and without
sympathy――sit near me. They talk to each other freely. At times they
laugh. I laugh not, I!
Nor would _they_ laugh, spoilt infants of Fashion, if I were to
express the ideas that are struggling in my bosom――if I were to show
them all that is within me!
V. _After Convulsion, Despair._
I have shown them all that was within me.
They have moved away――it was a prudent step.
Now that they are gone, I could almost wish that I were dead!
VI. _Noblesse Oblige._
The young English _sportmans_ is, after all, a good infant. He brings
me a big goblet and a biscuit, which comfort me, and tries to speak to
me in French.
Words sympathetic, but mysterious.
“_Ah, Monsieur_,” he says, “_il faut décidément maintenir votre
pivert_!”
Enigma! “I must keep up my wood-pecker?” I _have_ no wood-pecker! I
tell him so in his own tongue; adding that I am very fond of shooting
at the doves.
“Ah,” he rejoins, “we don’t call ’em Doves, we call ’em _les hiboux du
coiffeur_――Barbers’ Owls!”
We become more and more friendly, as the pain subsides. When we reach
Douvres, I give him my card.
He says that he has forgotten his; but that I shall have no difficulty
in finding him at any of the _tambours de la chasse_――Sporting
Drums――especially if I ask for Lord William Wiggins, of Wapping.
What a droll of a name! Not facile to pronounce, that! Let us essay,
with the help of the dictionary of pronunciation:
“Ouilliam Ouiggins――of Ouapping.”
VII. _The Babylon of Britain._
Yes: in England everything is great. Behold this London, confused and
chaotic amalgamation of bourg upon bourg, of city upon city, almost of
county upon county――behold its administration, vague, contradictory,
without doubt, but immense, but Titanic, but sublime.
To-day London has but one heart, which palpitates――one thought, which
engrosses――one dream, which possesses――one hope, which enchants. To
the heart, the thought, the dream, the hope, there is one key.
It is the Epsom’s Courses, at Derby!
VIII. _Explications._
Questions to resolve:
“Who is Epsom?”
“And where is Derby?”
Mystery strange and inexplicable, this Epsom! Not one of my
interlocutors, of French or English, can give me any particulars of
his life. Oh fame, oh renown, oh fickleness of popular affection! We
go to the Courses he has founded; and yet the very day of his death is
forgotten or unknown!
Another mystery. Derby is a hundred and twenty miles from London; and
yet many of my friends assure that they will drive down without a
single change of horses! Ah, then, it is no marvel, this predominance
of the old England in the hippic arena, when even the ordinary horses
of the carriage can travel a hundred and twenty miles――two hundred
kilomètres――without fatigue.
These facts were new to me. They were also new to most of my
countrymen with whom I conversed.
The Unknown――behold the Redoubtable!
IX. _Vieille Ecole, Bonne Ecole_.
Happily, I encounter Lord Ouiggins.
He is an aristocrat of the old rock――a little mocking, perchance, a
little reserved, cold, indifferent, proud, but of an antique probity,
a disinterestedness more than Roman.
He takes me under his charge.
_I had been deceived._ They were mocking themselves of me, those who
told me the courses were at Derby. They are run on Epsom’s Salt-Downs.
“Derby” is only the title of their founder, one of those English
eccentrics of whom the type is so familiar in France――poet,
politician, jockey――Premier Minister of Great Britain until he was
overthrown by the intrigues of Sir Benjamin Gladstone!
After one thunder-stroke, another:
_Gladiateur is not to run!_
Is _this_, then, the old Britannic chivalry――the love of what the poet
has proudly called “Greenwich Fair-Play”? Is _this_ the _entente
cordiale_? I survey Lord Ouiggins. He can scarcely meet my eye. He
turns aside.
Let us hope it is to blush!
He tries to defend the invidious exclusion. He pretends that in the
Derby-Course the horses must not exceed a certain age; also that
Gladiateur was at least quite sufficiently near that age when he _did_
run. Puerile evasion! False pride of nationality!
What is to become of the money I have wagered?
Lord Ouiggins tells me to console myself. _He has private
information._ He will not see a foreign gentleman wronged.
X. _Les Nuits de Londres._
We are inseparable.
Milord has backed a favourite to win him thousands of sterlings.
Curious, almost cynical nomenclature of the Turf!
The horse is named Ventre-Tambour, Bellydrum!!
He is assured to win; Milord dreamt, last night, that he saw him four
lengths ahead at Tattenham-court-road Corner.
I wager freely on Ventre-Tambour.
Lord Ouiggins says we had better not go down to his baronial hall at
Ouapping, but “make a night” and start early.
Ah, nights of London, you have not, effectively, stolen your
reputation! What contrasts, fascinating but terrible――here, the
noblesse, like Ouiggins quaffing champagne with visitors from France;
and there the miserables, the Tom-Dick-Harries drinking gin――the
blonde misses, casting aside the Puritanic pudor of the saloon, and
dancing freely with foreign _gentlemans_ at the Duke of Argyle’s
Casino――what contrasts, but also, alas, what jealousies still
existing, what internecine hatred still in rage!
That the English should hate the Irish is but natural.
We always hate those whom we have wronged!
It is less reasonable that they should continue to hate the children
of Cambria, with whom they have been so long in friendly union.
And yet, more than once during this exciting evening, I have heard
Lord Ouiggins spoken of――my patrician _pur sang_――as a Welsher, with
evident contempt.
Brutal antipathies unworthy of the century!
They shall have no influence on the mind of a son of France.
“Lord Ouilliam,” I exclaimed, “regard them not! Generous compatriot of
Llewellyn, I pledge thee in another bumper to the victory of
Ventre-Tambour!”
――――:o:――――
REALITIES OF THE DERBY.
I. _Selters waters, or S. and B?_
After Light, Shadow; after Pleasure, Pain; sad but inevitable
oscillations of the pendulum of life!
Alas, to wake――it is to remember, and to remember is to repent.
Last night, I banqueted with the merchant-princes of London and with
the ancient nobility of Wales; the leaders of the Fashion World, the
Sport, the Turf, the boxers of the most renowned, the comics of the
musical saloons――Lord Ouiggins signalised them all to me. Foaming,
sparkling, vivacious, the wines of Champagne led the way for the
stronger Grogs. A vision, confused indeed, but magnificent in its
confusion, will long recall to me the night before the Derby.
I awoke.
Sad and supreme moment of mortality when awakening means isolation!
For some time, I knew not where I found myself. Presently, as the dim
light of the dawn penetrated, first through the folds of the fog, and
next through the dirt of the windows, I recollected that Lord Ouiggins
had advised me to stay with him at a fashionable hotel, adding that
his own drag would call for us in the morning.
It was still of a good hour. I turned myself to sleep; but heard, with
dreamy ears, the fall――or so it seemed――of cataracts of rain, around
me, beside me, overhead. The sound gave me a strange sensation of
thirst, which I cannot otherwise explain.
Instinctively, I rang the bell, and shouted “Selters! Selters!
Selters!”
A tap at my door; and Lord Ouilliam, in half-toilette, appeared. I
saluted him.
“Is it that the rain will make to be deferred the Courses?”
“What rain?”
“Listen, then!”
“_That?_ Why, it’s only the men tubbing!” (Idiom untranslatable.)
“What did you ring for?” pursued Lord Ouilliam.
“But, for Selters then!”
“_Tout droit._” he rejoined. “_Vous etiez horriblement coupé, mon ami;
bien roide!_”
Strange and picturesque _argot_ of intoxication: “awfully cut,” “very
tight.”
“Listen,” continued Milord, “My carriage is not yet arrived. It has
probably been stopped by the Thames Embankment, which is to run
outside my park at Ouapping. Look you, I will take places for two,
outside an omnibus. It is the usual plan amongst nobility. Admiral
Rous will be one of us. You may easily know him by his wearing a white
hat, a veil, and a flower in his button-hole. Meanwhile, better not
have Selters. Try S. and B!”
Enigma, of which the solution――when it came――was far from
disagreeable.
II. _Lux._
The morning at first was dull and brumous. The _spleen_ of Britannia
seemed to possess me. I had atrocious pains in my head. Every noise
bore upon my nerves. The very sight of food seemed to nauseate me.
Lord Ouiggins, on the contrary, made a breakfast of the most
substantial.
I cannot say much in favour of the cuisine at this fashionable hotel,
one of the first in London, the well-known “Spotted Dog” in the
aristocratic quarter. Route de la Chapelle Blanche (White-Chapel-road),
the Faubourg St. Germain of London. Strange: the hotel is not
mentioned in any of the ordinary London Guides.
We take our places. The best seat is reserved for the Admiral――that
famous old warrior, who turned the fortune of the day at
Chillianwallah by his historical charge at the head of the Naval
Reserve and the Royal Horse Marines. Combination eccentric, but not
without precedent. The horse was sacred to Neptunus. This Rous, see
you, this Admiral so passionately equine in his tastes, he is
Jean-Bart and he is also Murat; he is Kellermann and he is also La
Pérouse! All the great men touch, and recognise one another!
The light still brightens. Behold us then effectively departed!
Hourrah! Hep, hep, hep!
Vive Ventre-Tambour!
III. _Nothing is Certain to Happen but that which is Unforeseen._
We have gone a few miles on our road, still through the streets of the
fashionable quarter, to-day as democratic as the Faubourg St. Antoine,
and crowded with other Derbyites, before we speak much to each other.
Reserve characteristic of the oldest and proudest aristocracy on
earth.
At length Lord Ouiggins whispers me――
“I knew I had forgotten _something_. I’ve left my purse on the piano!”
For the moment I wished that I had done the same.
Suspicion dishonouring and ignoble!
IV. _Si Jeunesse Savait._
Fog, obscurity, cold――yes, you will find them all in the climate of
Great Britain; in England, in Scotland, in Ireland, and in the
mountains of Wales, the cradle of Lord Ouilliam! It is true, but it is
not the only verity. Great Britain also has her moments of fine
weather. There are no such trees in the world as the tall poplars of
my own, my beautiful France――none planted in such mathematical, such
symmetrical order, so methodical, logical, and straight. Nevertheless,
Nature is infinite. Even the chestnuts, hawthorns, lilacs, and
laburnums of the Surrey lanes are not absolutely offensive to the eye.
To-day, also, Phœbus pierces. _Lux!_
There are no women in the world like those of Paris; but there is
still a pleasant freshness in the faces of the young pensionaries who
watch us, at times, over garden walls. To several of these, I kiss my
hand. They smile in reply. Laugh, rosy daughters of Albion, laugh; for
it is still day, and you are young――too young for reverie.
V. _When Poverty becomes ironical, let Wealth take care._
The old Britannic _humour_, as exhibited in Samuel Benjamin Jonson, in
Jonathan Smith, and Dean Sydney Swift, is not absolutely extinct upon
the road.
More than one little Arab of the highway shouts out to me, “I’ll have
your hat!” Wild caprice of the imagination, playfully misrepresenting
the probable eventualities of the future, and yet, at bottom,
profound, almost terrible――a mockery, yes, but a menace――a jest,
without doubt, but a threat also――the voice, grotesque but strident,
of the Miserables.
I impart the reflections to Lord Ouiggins. Alas, to what good? The
pride of his class is too strong for him. His natural instincts are
noble; but he is spoiled by the mephitic atmosphere of the Upper
Chamber. With a laugh cold, sardonic, and glacial, he replies:――
“Throw the little beggar a copper, and let him go!”
He does not even, generous though he is, offer to provide the copper.
Again, ignoble suspicion! I forget that he has left his purse on the
piano!
The Arab――delirious with joy――saved, perhaps, from starvation by the
casual bounty of a foreign _sportmans_, would fain express his thanks.
His emotion overpowers him. He staggers; horror, he falls! No! again!
Gallant child of Poverty, the struggle is vain. Once more he wavers,
he oscillates, he falls, and turning wildly head over heels, in the
convulsion of his death agony, he disappears in a cloud of
dust――doubtless to be driven over by the omnibuses of the haughty, and
the phaetons of the Stock Exchange!
Shocked, but masking my horror under the veil of a politeness a little
cynical I say to Lord Ouiggins.
“And well, then, Milord, did you see what he did? and do you know what
will be his fate?”
Question terrible!
He does not even remove the cigar from his mouth, this impassive
patrician, as he answers, with a laconism which lacerates, which
vibrates on my nerves, which almost makes me bound.
“_Yes; cart-wheel!_”
VI. _London at Epsom._
Dust, heat, emotion――all stimulate thirst.
I soon forget the little Arab. There are plenty of others remaining!
There are worse things in the world, too, than bottled stout. Lord
Ouilliam tells me that none of the aristocracy now drink champagne in
public. It excites a feeling of envy among the lower orders. On
Derby’s Day, the populace gives the tone to the peerage.
The crowd; my faith, and what a crowd! There are two things in the
world which a man never forgets: his first sight of the sea, and his
first sight of the multitude on Epsom Downs!
What a sound, as of ocean! What infinite discords, subdued, by very
force of number and of contradiction, into one sublime monotone! What
minstrelsy, cosmopolitan and comprehensive――the audible expression of
a Colonial System unparalleled in grandeur and extent! The Hindoo may
think in his heart of the days when he fought for his country’s
municipal freedom under the banner of Rammohun Roy and Nana Sahib; but
look! Plaintively submissive, he strikes his _tom-tom_ to amuse the
destroyers of his race.
VII. _Messieurs, faites votrejeu! Le jeu est fait!_
“Would you like to see the horses a little nearer?” says Lord
Ouiggins. “You had better buy a couple of tickets for the Padwick.” I
do so. The Padwick――so called of an eminent British _sportmans_――is an
enclosed space in which the true connoisseurs survey the horses before
they start. As I gaze at Ventre-Tambour, I can hardly refrain from
shouting, amongst all these impassible patricians, “Hourrah! Hep, hep,
hep!”
Lord Ouilliam Ouiggins comes to me, hurriedly, and whispers, “Hush, _I
have just got the straight tip from the Admiral himself_. It’s a
moral; and the horse at twenty-five to one! We must get on every sov.
we have. There is barely time before they start. Quick.” I hand him my
purse――not without a moment of hesitation――of which I am speedily
ashamed.
VIII. _Rien ne va plus._
A minute sometimes seems like hours. Fortune was in my grasp.
The interval of suspense was horrible; and yet its termination, when
it _did_ come, seemed abrupt, sudden, incredible.
I was still struggling with the crowd, when a hoarse sound suddenly
rose like the roar of a tempest on a rocky coast――it rose, and rose,
and grew stronger; I looked; I saw a wonderful white flash of faces as
the heads of the multitude turned all, in one instant, one way; and my
pulses seemed as though they would kill me with their throbbing as,
with one voice, that innumerable assemblage cried――
“THEY’RE OFF!”
IX. _The Word of the Enigma._
They were indeed; and so was Lord Ouilliam Ouiggins of Ouapping!
ANONYMOUS, 1869.
――――:o:――――
ONE-AND-THREE.
In 1874, _Punch_ published a novel under the above title ascribed to
“Fictor Nogo,” but which was popularly (and correctly) attributed to
Mr. F. C. Burnand. Later on it was published in book form by Bradbury
and Co. The fun is rather long drawn out, but Hugo’s style is
admirably parodied. The following is an extract from the preface:――
Letter from M. Fictor Nogo (author of “Une-et-trois”) to our eminent
translator:――“My Honourable Co-Labourer,――Your noble and glorious
translation of my immortal work touches me profoundly. I felicitate
London. London, in publishing a work of mine, draws to itself the
attention of the civilised world. London swells with pride under the
benignant sway of a Lord Mayor. The Lord Mayor crowns poets, glorifies
literature. He decks you with turtle, and this does homage to genius.
You represent genius, for you represent me. Thus I am shadowed: for
this I embrace you in spirit, You have co-mingled your ideas with
mine. You and I, the Translator and the Translated, the Adapter and
the Adapted, it is grand. More than grand――it is stupendous. More than
stupendous――it is colossal.”
――――:o:――――
“THIRTY-ONE.”
(_By the Author of “93,” “The History of a Grime,” &c., &c._)
CHAPTER I.――_Searching._
She was lost! In this world nothing is lost. It is only mislaid. _She_
was Miss Lade: yet she was lost! Where was she? She was in London.
London is in England. It is a great city――as large as Paris! It is as
hard to discover a person in London as “to find a needle in a bottle
of hay.” This is an English phrase. They bottle hay, and rack it, like
wine! It is made into chaff. The people are fond of chaff. The
Scotchman lives on oats, the Irishman on potatoes, the Englishman on
chaff.
Tom Harry sought her. He wanted to marry her! He hoped she also wanted
Tom Harry. But he had lost her. He knew she was in London, therefore
he was in London. He inquired of many. They gave him chaff. He could
not find the needle in it. _She_ was his needle. He was a Pole――an
English naturalized Pole. He would stick at nothing to find her. They
were true to each other as Needle and Pole! but were now as far apart
as two Poles!
CHAPTER II.――_Cum Grano Salis._
The world is always large. Society is small. But Tom Harry and Miss
Lade were in the world. They were not in Society! He had to seek her
_out_ of Society. Endeavour to catch a globule of mercury in a drawer.
It flies――it escapes――it separates into atoms――it joins again and
rolls away――it is lost――it is found――it is never secured! It eludes
you――it is a demon――a wild spirit that vanishes as you think you grasp
it! So was Miss Lade to Tom Harry! He thought that he saw her――but she
became invisible! He could not find her. She found herself――it was in
furnished apartments!
CHAPTER III.――_Arithmetic._
He had a clue! But what was a clue in so wild a maze as the great
London? In Paris the police would have found her, In London there
were, at that time, no police. They were “reserved forces,” and had
been called out in case of war! When so used there are no police. The
authorities then make constables of the prisoners. It is a maxim of
English law, “Set a thief to catch a thief.” But Miss Lade was not a
thief――except that she had stolen the heart of Tom Harry! This was not
a legal felony――therefore the police could not catch her! The clue was
a piece of paper found in her room in Paris. On it was written the
number “31” and “London.” That was all!
CHAPTER IV.――_Circumambient._
How to find this number 31? That was the problem. Tom Harry had
graduated at Oxford――not Cambridge. This was the error! A Cambridge
man would have been able to calculate the probabilities, and obtained
a result. Tom Harry had to discover her equation. She was X (an
unknown quantity). He was A, but he was also――C (that is minus cash)!
The postulate was that A - C + B = X. What was the B in the
equation?――probably a book. What book?――decidedly a London directory!
He bought one. It is a large book――a heavy one! He could not carry
it――yet it was a necessary work of reference. Difficulties must be
conquered. Man was made to overcome them! Tom Harry succeeded! He
purchased a “single” perambulator――not a “double”――one they double up!
The leaves of the directory were doubled down. Therefore the
perambulator and the book were in accord! He wheel’d about his book.
It was his child!――he had bought it! They allow this in England, where
they sell wives at Smithfield! He found his way about. This child was
his guide! Is not childhood the very best and purest guide to manhood?
and does not manhood only lead us into a second childhood? But among
all the numbers “thirty-one,” he had not found her! He was in a fog.
She was mist. He was in a London fog! It was dark and thick as Erebus!
But he could not see e’er a “bus.” They could not run; nor could he.
He had lost Miss Lade――he had now lost himself? He asked a sweeper of
crossings where was he? He was told that he was at the corner of the
Park of Hyde! It was true.
CHAPTER V.――_What Happens is Always the Unforeseen._
There are dark periods in the history of nations. It is the same with
individuals. It was so with Tom Harry. He was at the Park of Hyde――at
one corner of it! It was a place to hide in――hence the name. Was _she_
hidden there? It was a natural thought. He would search it, and would
find her! But how? He knew not the way! Here steps in Fate, which
governs all things. It was a policeman! There were only two left of
the reserves――one to guard the Tower, where the Queen resides; the
other in charge of Constitution Hill, which is by the corner of Hyde
Park. Under ordinary circumstances the police of London are not
permitted to talk. They are only allowed to say, “Move on!” This is
the Englishman’s watchword! The Americans have the same, in effect;
they say, “Go ahead!” The policeman in charge of Constitution Hill was
absolved from this rule by an Order in Council. It was an important
office. The preservation of the Queen and Constitution (which is kept
on the Hill named from it) is of the greatest national consequence.
Therefore the policeman was a high official, and allowed to speak. Tom
Harry addressed him, explaining his position and quest for Miss Lade.
The policeman pointed to his collar and the figures on it,
exclaimed――“I am number ‘31’! Miss Lade lodges with my wife!” The clue
was right! She was found!
_Finis._
C. H. WARING.
_Fun._ August 14, 1878.
――――:o:――――
In Bret Harte’s _Sensation Novels Condensed_ there is an imitation of
Victor Hugo, in ten chapters, entitled “Fantine.” The Prologue is as
follows:――
“As long as there shall exist three paradoxes――a moral Frenchman,
a religious Atheist, and a believing sceptic――so long, in fact,
as booksellers shall wait――say twenty-five years for a new
gospel; so long as paper shall remain cheap and ink at three
_sous_ a bottle, I have no hesitation in saying that such books
as these are not utterly profitless!
_Victor Hugo._”
“_Grinplaine_, or the man who doesn’t laugh.” A serial burlesque of
Victor Hugo’s “L’homme qui rit,” by Walter Parke, appeared in _Funny
Folks_, 1875.
_The Bat_ of June 2, 1885, contained a parody of Victor Hugo, called
_Quel bonheur Marie_ (What Cheer ’Ria?) somewhat coarse in tone, and
not very amusing.
――――:o:――――
THE HOUSE THAT VICTOR BUILT.
On January 24, 1885, the following announcement appeared in _Punch_:――
It being reported that Victor Hugo has just purchased for
the sum of £13,000 a piece of land in the immediate vicinity
of his present abode, with a view of building on it an
entirely new house “of his own designing,” the following
extract from a preliminary letter of instructions to the
contractor who has undertaken the work will be read with
interest.
* * * * *
“You will ask me whether I am an Architect; and I reply to
you, ‘An Architect is one who constructs.’ Do I construct?
Yes. What? Never mind; let us proceed. To construct a house
you require a basement. This is the language of the
Contractor. But the Poet meets him with a rejoinder. A
basement is a prison, and Liberty can not breathe through a
grating. This was the case at the Bastille! What has been
done at the Bastille does not repeat itself. What then? You
will commence the house on the first floor.”
Does this stagger the Architect? Unquestionably! Yet to
commence a house on the first-floor is easy enough. To the
Contractor? No. To the Poet? Yes. How? By a flight. Two
flights will take anyone somewhere. Upstairs? Yes.
Downstairs? Certainly! In my lady’s chamber? Why not? This
is a phenomenon, and surprises you. Just now you were on the
stare. Now you are on the first-floor landing. Therefore,
you have taken a rise. Out of whom――the Architect? Possibly.
Let us resume.
And now for the drawing-room.
This will be colossal. Why? Because the furniture in it will
be stupendous. To talk of stupendous furniture is to suggest
the opening scene of a Pantomime. A big head! Whose? No
matter. But you will inquire as to this furniture. You will
probably say, ‘Will there be chairs?’ No. ‘Arm-chairs?’
Useless. ‘Sofas with six legs?’ A phantom! ‘What then?
Canopied thrones for four-and-twenty, with one of a superior
make and quality?’ Quite so. ‘Why?’ Because it is here that
Genius, after dinner, will meet the Kings and Emperors that
aspire to pay it homage. ‘Will there be windows?’
Rather――and there is this convenient thing
besides――eight-and-forty balconies. You will say at once,
‘Two a-piece?’ But you will quickly add――‘What of the
gardens beneath?’ To this there is only one answer
possible――‘Fireworks!’
Roman candles, rockets, and Bengal lights? No.――A set piece?
Yes. Representing what? Somebody! Now there is this
advantage about a set-piece that represents somebody――if
carefully prepared, regardless of expense, and covering an
area of 90 feet by 120. It may be permanent. Some one
whispers ‘Advertisement.’ To this I make a supreme reply,
‘Fame!’
And now let us pass to another room. Shall we put our foot
in it? Yes. Why? Because it is the kitchen.
――――:o:――――
THE SPOILER OF THE SEA.
_By Victor Hugo._
Chapter I. Gaillard was a wrecker, a smuggler. He was an honest man.
Ships are the effect and cause of commerce. Commerce cheats, commerce
adulterates, commerce is bad. To wreck ships engaged in knavery is
good. Gaillard the smuggler robbed the revenue, you say; so do
monarchs. You take off your hat to a king. I raise mine to
Gaillard――to a man. You call me crazy. Keep your temper; I keep mine.
You are an idiot. I should like to punch your head. Chapter II.
Gaillard was considered ugly. He was not. He had a bump. A dromedary
has a hump. The dromedary is beautiful. He had a squint――it is better
to squint than to be blind. His eyes were green――that is the colour of
Nature’s beauteous sylvan dress. His mouth was extremely large――so is
that of the hippopotamus. The hippopotamus is a charming fellow.
Gaillard had the beauty of the dromedary, the loveliness of Nature in
his eyes, the charm of the hippopotamus. Gaillard was sublime. Chapter
III. Gaillard sprang into the sea to bathe; this happened once a year.
You will admit that once in three hundred and sixty-five days was not
too often. An octopus――a devil fish――was watching him. Man and
monster, they eyed each other. Gaillard trembled at its glance――he was
not brave. I saw it once, and did not tremble; I am brave. It was at
the Aquarium. The octopus has eight legs; Gaillard wished for eighty,
but his two sufficed. Fear gave them the swiftness of two hundred. He
ran. You would have run. Should I have done so? Everything is
possible. It is possible I should have run.
F. P. DELAFOND.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ September 13, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE CAT.
The cat is the concrete symbol of a vacillating politician.
It is always on the fence.
It is the feline embodiment of one of the profoundest human principles
wrenched from the circumambience of the Unknown, and hurled into the
bosom of consciousness.
Nine tailors make one man. The cat has nine times the life of one man,
for it has nine lives. Possession, also, is nine points of the law.
Behold a legal possession of existence equal to the span of eighty-one
clothiers’ lives.
Let us bow reverently before this august fact.
The wanderer by the midnight seashore, when the moon――that argent
cornucopia of heaven――is streaming forth her flowers and fruits of
radiance, and the illimitable is illuminated by the ineffable, will
have remarked the phosphorescent ridges that scintillate along the
billows’ tops, until the breakers seem to curve and snort like horses’
necks with manes of lightning clad.
So, O man, when in the darkness of thine own chamber, thou passeth
thine hand along the furry spine of this feline phantom of the back
yard, the electric sparks dart forth, and a flash of lightning fuses
together the fingers and the fur.
Exquisite antithesis of Nature! The fireside embraces the ocean. The
hearthstone is paved with seashells. The monsters of the deep disport,
reflected in the glowing embers. The infinite Abroad is brought into
amalgamation with the finite at Home.
The ocean roars.
The cat only purrs.
The billows rise and culminate and break.
The cat’s back rises. The feline tide is up, and we have a permanent
billow of fur and flesh.
O impossible co-existence of uncontradictory contradictions!
The duke of Wellington _was_ pronounced the greatest captain of his
age. Gen. Grant _is_ pronounced the greatest captain of his.
The greatest captain of any age was the captain with his whiskers.
Let us not call this the tergiversation of history. Call it rather the
tergiversation of nature.
The whiskers of the captain.
The whiskers of the cat.
The hirsute exponent of martial supremacy. The feline symbolism of the
Bearded Lady, crossing her claws before the family fire.
Jealousy has been called the green-eyed monster.
The cat is the green-eyed monster.
Both lie in wait. Neither destroys its victim without toying with it.
One is the foe, the other the friend, of the fireside. Either is to be
met with in almost every family. Each is of both sexes.
“Old Tom” gin, in excess, is one of man’s bitterest bibulous foes; man
is the bitterest bibulous foe of old tom cats.
Osculations between sky and earth! O lips of the Seen touching the
lips of the Unseen! O wave of thought careering through the asymptotes
of cloudland, crystalizing into angelic foci the tangents of humanity.
The stars are out at night.
So are cats!
――――:o:――――
A MANIFESTO BY HICTOR VUGO
We live and move and have our being. By we I express civilisation,
which consists first of Paris, then the world at large. We are born
with generous instincts. We are naturally humane. I call upon the
French Revolution of ’92-3 to prove this theory. We cannot all be
Arabis. That would be too supreme a dream. But we can all admire him
at a distance. Those horrible _canaille_ the English have warred
against a weak race of striplings, descendants of the glorious
mummies. They have fought, and aided by the magnificent single-minded
abstinent France have won. _Mon dieu!_ Why was I not there? With one
impassioned foot firmly planted on the escarpment of Tel-el-Kebir, I
would have kept these British brutes at bay. I would have quoted one
of my rhythmic poems, and they would have piled arms, awe-stricken and
listened. Or, perhaps, these island savages in their ignorance, would
have shot me. They are sufficiently unrefined for that. Ah! the
thought is too dreadful. France, my beloved France, would in such a
case have died also, for with me will perish all the ideas which go to
make a great race――Adolphe, bring me a cigarette and a _café noir_. I
would be calm.
[Illustration]
THE NINETY-NINE GUARDSMEN.
_By Alexandre Dumas._
This parody, which is to be found in Bret Harte’s _Sensation Novels
Condensed_ is an ingenious mixture of “The Three Musqueteers” and “The
Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
The second chapter is the best:――
CHAPTER II.
THE COMBAT.
On leaving Provins the first musketeer proceeded to Nangis, where he
was reinforced by thirty-three followers. The second musketeer,
arriving at Nangis at the same moment, placed himself at the head of
thirty-three more. The third guest of the landlord of Provins arrived
at Nangis in time to assemble together thirty-three other musketeers.
The first stranger led the troops of his Eminence.
The second led the troops of the Queen.
The third led the troops of the King.
The fight commenced. It raged terribly for seven hours. The first
musketeer killed thirty of the Queen’s troops. The second musketeer
killed thirty of the King’s troops. The third musketeer killed thirty
of his Eminence’s troops.
By this time it will be perceived the number of musketeers had been
narrowed down to four on each side.
Naturally the three principal warriors approached each other.
They simultaneously uttered a cry:
“Aramis!”
“Athos!”
“D’Artagnan!”
They fell into each others arms.
“And it seems that we are fighting against each other, my children,”
said the Count de la Fere, mournfully.
“How singular!” exclaimed Aramis and D’Artagnan.
“Let us stop this fratricidal warfare,” said Athos.
“We will!” they exclaimed together.
“But how to disband our followers?” queried D’Artagnan.
Aramis winked. They understood each other. “Let us cut ’em down!”
They cut ’em down. Aramis killed three. D’Artagnan three. Athos three.
The friends again embraced. “How like old times!” said Aramis. “How
touching!” exclaimed the serious and philosophic Count de la Fere.
The galloping of hoofs caused them to withdraw from each other’s
embraces. A gigantic figure rapidly approached.
“The innkeeper of Provins!” they cried, drawing their swords.
“Perigord, down with him!” shouted D’Artagnan.
“Stay,” said Athos.
The gigantic figure was beside them. He uttered a cry.
“Athos, Aramis, D’Artagnan!”
“Porthos!” exclaimed the astonished trio.
“The same.” They all fell in each other’s arms.
The Count de la Fere slowly raised his hands to Heaven. “Bless you!
Bless us, my children! However different our opinions may be in regard
to politics, we have but one opinion in regard to our own merits.
Where can you find a better man than Aramis?”
“Than Porthos?” said Aramis.
“Than D’Artagnan?” said Porthos.
“Than Athos?” said D’Artagnan.
――――:o:――――
EUGENE SUE.
_Sir Brown_: A mystery of London, by Mons. Dernier Sou. (Illustrated).
See _The Shilling Book of Beauty_ by Cuthbert Bede.
_Parodie du Juif Errant_, par Ch. Philipon et Louis Huart. 300
Vignettes par Cham. Bruxelles, 1845. This is a remarkable book, it
consists of 291 pages octavo, and the illustrations are very droll.
This was translated, and published in London, 1846, by E. Appleyard,
under the title _The Parody of the Wandering Jew_ by Charles Philipon
and Louis Huart.
The first four chapters contained some copies of the illustrations of
Cham very badly executed, the other half of the book had no
illustrations.
[Illustration]
IZAAK WALTON’S COMPLETE(LY) DONE ANGLER.
_Ghost of_ PISCATOR. _Ghost of_ VIATOR.
_Viator._ Whither away, Master? A good morning to you! I have
stretched my legs to catch the train to Tottenham and here I find you
with rod and basket, as of old.
_Piscator._ Faith, Scholar, I have even been too long an angler with
Nero, in the lake of darkness, and would fain take a chub, Tottenham
way, and see mine old haunts.
_Viator._ Then have with you, Master; and I do mind me of pretty
Maudlin that hereabouts would sing us, “_Come, Shepherds, deck your
heads!_”
_Piscator._ Ay, Scholar, methinks Maudlin was the Siren that led thee
to the River Lea more than all my wisdom. But here we are got to
Tottenham, and to the waterside.
_Viator._ Oh, oh, Master, what place is this, and what smell cometh to
my nostrils? See, see, Master, here be no chub, but two dead dogs and
one departed cat!
_Piscator._ In sooth, Scholar, the country seemeth strange, and no man
may live, nor fish neither, hard by such an open sewer. Can this be
the Lea! Nay, Scholars, this is no place for honest anglers more. But
hither walks Corydon. Let us ask him what makes this blackness in the
water, and the smell that abides here, as they say frankincense and
myrrh do cling, more sweetly, to the shores of the blessed Arabia.
What ho, Corydon, what cheer?
_Corydon._[54] Sir, the condition of the River Lea is something really
fearful. From Tottenham downwards the water is a mere open sewer,
emitting the most noxious exhalations. Boating and bathing have
ceased, and the River is now only a danger to the neighbourhood.
_Piscator._ Say you so? And what maketh that it should be so?
_Corydon._ Ah, Master, the drainage of Tottenham is turned bodily into
the stream, and, in spite of Local Boards, the nuisance continues
unaltered.
_Piscator._ And why right they not this wrong; for, marry, the poor
folk here will die, and a pestilence be bred, if ye live not more
cleanly.
_Corydon._ Sir, no man knows this better than the Tottenham
Authorities themselves, who cause a horrible, disgusting nuisance to
the dwellers on the Lea. They simply sow disease broadcast among
thousands of helpless people, to save the expenditure of a certain sum
of money.
_Piscator._ Penny wise, and pound foolish――penny wise, and pound
foolish! Soon shall we have the Great Plague here again, and none to
blame but the chuckled-headed “Authorities,” my Masters! Come away,
Scholars, come away. The silver Lea is bedraggled. ’Tis no place for
peaceful ghosts, that would be quiet, and go a-fishing.
[_They vanish._
_Punch._ August, 15, 1885.
_The Incompleat Angler_, after Master Isaak Walton, by F. C. Burnand,
also appeared in _Punch_. It was afterwards published in book form by
Bradbury Agnew & Co., London, in 1876, and again, with numerous
illustrations by Harry Furniss, in 1887.
_Walton’s Angler Imitated_, in several Parts, another parody, appeared
in _Punch and Judy_, London, 1869.
――――:o:――――
LORD LYTTON.
In Volume V. of this Collection, (p. 222) parodies upon Lord Lytton’s
Poems and Plays were given, burlesques upon his prose works remain to
be noted.
Praises of the Ideal, the Beautiful, the True, and the Virtuous,
abound in Lord Lytton’s Novels, of which desirable qualities his own
life and character were singularly destitute.
Tennyson satirised him as a fop, whilst Thackeray treated him with
well-merited ridicule and contempt, both in the “Epistles to the
Literati,” and in “Novels by Eminent Hands.” The latter series
originally appeared in _Punch_, and the parody of Lytton was entitled
“George de Barnwell.” In this, a paltry thief and murderer was
elevated into a hero, in much the same manner that Lytton had treated
Eugene Aram.
It is quite unnecessary to give any extract from this well-known and
accessible burlesque.
In connection with Thackeray’s well-known burlesque criticism on _The
Sea Captain_ by Lord Lytton (p. 225. Vol. V.) it should be mentioned
that when that play was reproduced at the Lyceum Theatre under the
lessee-ship of Mr. E. T. Smith, a continuation of Thackeray’s
criticism appeared in _The Mask_, London, November 1868.
In this Thackeray’s style and orthography were mimicked, and Mr.
Bandmann, who took the part of the prating hero _Vivyan_, was severely
criticised for his stagey acting.
_The Sea Captain_ had been damned in 1839, and _The Rightful Heir_
scarcely merited a better fate, but it gave rise to a splendid
burlesque, _The Frightful Hair_, by F. C. Burnand produced at The
Haymarket Theatre, in December 1868, with Compton, Kendal, and Miss
Ione Burke in the Cast.
THE DIAMOND DEATH.
_By Sir Pelham Little Bulwer, Bart._
Alphonsine Fleury, _modiste_ of Paris, determined that she should die.
And, all things considered, it was hardly wonderful that the pretty
little girl should come to such a conclusion. Poor child. Fickle
woman! Thou hast hardly known Life these eighteen winters, and, yet,
would’st be already toying with his brother Death! Die, then, child,
if such be thy will. _Facilis descensus Averni._
Everybody must admit that she had reason. She called him her lover,
that false and whiskered Jules, hero of the barricades, best polker at
the _Chaumière_. And he had sworn to love her, and perhaps he meant
it. For between Truth and Falsehood, there lies the Paradise of the
Purposeless (shrouded, as the Doric poets sing, in a sapphire cloud),
and _there_ are kept the vows which expire on earth for lack of the
vivifying presence of the undying Earnest.
Jules was false, and Alphonsine would die. But when one has decided on
doing a thing, one has still to decide on the way of doing it. And in
regard to dying, one ought really to be careful; because (so far as
one sees) there is no way, if one does it awkwardly, of repairing the
blunder. The Biggest can die but once. There ran the Seine, and the
Pont-Neuf was toll-less, which was a consideration, as Alphonsine’s
last _sou_ had gone to purchase her last roll. But the Seine was so
muddy, and then the Morgue, and its wet marble. The poor child
shuddered at the thought. And the costume, too, for she was French,
and, moreover, had instinctive delicacy. Clearly not the Seine.
The towers of Notre Dame. Better, certainly; and she would go rushing
into the arms of Death, with a heart full of Victor Hugo, Peer of
France. But no! Why, she had been quite ill going down one of the
_montagnes Russes_ at the last carnival, even though Jules had held
her in the car. She would never be able to look down from the giant
tower. Could it shake its grim head and hurl her quivering away, it
might be done. But a leap thence! M. D. Lamartine himself never
dreamed of such a _Chute d’un ange_.
Poison. But Jules had taken her to see Frederic Lemaitre, poisoned by
_la Dame de St. Tropez_. His contortions under the arsenic――_quel
horreur_! There would be nobody to see her make faces, certainly, but
what of that? Is one to lose all self-respect because one is going to
kill oneself? Alphonsine’s mind rejected the poison.
It should be charcoal. Certainly, charcoal. Alphonsine would die like
a Countess who had betrayed her husband, gambled away her fortune, and
found a pimple on her nose. It was a lady’s death; and Alphonsine, a
skilful little milliner, had been among ladies until she had taken
measure of their minds as well as of their waists. So she would leave
the world gracefully, and _comme il faut_.
Glow, thou ebon incense for the Altar of Doom; glow in thy little
censer there beside her, in other days the lid of her saucepan. Glow,
for there lies the poor child, Bride of Death, expectant of her
Bridegroom. She has arrayed her _mansarde_ so neatly, that, when the
rough _Commissaires de Police_ force the door, they will pause upon
the threshold――perhaps touch their hats. And she lies with clasped
hands, and upon her maiden bosom rests a daguerreotype of her
faithless lover. Glow, dark charcoal, glow, and let thy fames waft her
spirit from this cold world, to realms where Anteros smiles upon the
True and the Beautiful.
She is dying. But, O kindly Mother of the Dead, thou sendest through
the Portal of Ivory a gentle Dream. Through the closing eyes of
Alphonsine that Dream looks forth, and its look falls upon that
glowing censer, which glares like the eye of a Demon. Full into that
Demon-eye looks the Dream, unscared, and what sees it there?
Alphonsine dreams that a mighty and a pitying Voice hath come forth
from the Treasure-house of Fate, and hath said unto that fiery
charcoal, BE AS THOU WERT WONT TO BE.
The modest charcoal knows its Lord, and blushes. Then, suddenly paling
its fires, they soften into crystal light; and as they subside, the
charcoal glitters in its other and more glorious form, the DIAMOND!
Countless treasures roll at the feet of the expiring Alphonsine. * * *
Expiring?――Oh, no! The world has rose-joy for her yet. Jules,
repentant and terrified, has shattered her door, has dashed her window
into air, has kicked her charcoal to earth: and as he restores her to
life with cold water and warm kisses, he shows her a ticket for them
both for to-night’s _Bal Masqué_.
Clouds and sunrays, ye are Life! But beyond, beyond, whirls and roars
the dread Maelstrom of Inexplicability.
_The Puppet Showman’s Album._ London. No date.
THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD.
_By Sir Ed-d L-tt-n B-lw-r._
BOOK I.
_The Promptings of the Ideal._
It was noon, Sir Edward had stepped from his brougham and was
proceeding on foot down the Strand. He was dressed with his usual
faultless taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had
slipped, and a small round disc of conglomerated soil, which instantly
appeared on his high arched instep, marred the harmonious glitter of
his boots. Sir Edward was fastidious. Casting his eyes around, at a
little distance he perceived the stand of a youthful bootblack.
Thither he sauntered, and carelessly placing his foot on the low
stool, he waited the application of the polisher’s Art. “Tis true,”
said Sir Edward to himself, yet half aloud, “the contact of the Foul
and the Disgusting mars the general effect of the Shiny and the
Beautiful――and yet, why am I here? I repeat it, calmly and
deliberately――why am I here? Ha! Boy!”
The Boy looked up――his dark Italian eyes glanced intelligently at the
Philosopher, and, as with one hand he tossed back his glossy curls
from his marble brow, and with the other he spread the equally glossy
Day and Martin over the Baronet’s boot, he answered in deep rich
tones: “The Ideal is subjective to the Real. The exercise of
apperception gives a distinctiveness to idiocracy, which is, however,
subject to the limits of ME. You are an admirer of the Beautiful, sir.
You wish your boots blacked. The Beautiful is attainable by means of
the Coin.”
“Ah,” said Sir Edward thoughtfully, gazing upon the almost supernal
beauty of the Child before him; “you speak well. You have read
_Kant_.”
The Boy blushed deeply. He drew a copy of _Kant_ from his bosom, but
in his confusion several other volumes dropped from his bosom on the
ground. The Baronet picked them up.
“Ah!” said the Philosopher, “what’s this? _Cicero’s De Senectute_, and
at your age, too? _Martial’s Epigrams_, _Cæsar’s Commentaries_. What!
a classical scholar?”
“E pluribus Unum. Nux vomica. Nil desperandum. Nihil fit!” said the
Boy, enthusiastically. The Philosopher gazed at the Child. A strange
presence seemed to transfuse and possess him. Over the brow of the Boy
glittered the pale nimbus of the Student.
“Ah, and Schiller’s _Robbers_ too?” queried the Philosopher.
“Das ist ausgespielt,” said the Boy modestly.
“Then you have read my translation of _Schiller’s Ballads_?” continued
the Baronet, with some show of interest.
“I have, and infinitely prefer them to the original,” said the Boy
with intellectual warmth. “You have shown how in Actual life we strive
for a Goal we cannot reach; how in the Ideal the Goal is attainable,
and there effort is victory. You have given us the Antithesis which is
a key to the Remainder, and constantly balances before us the
conditions of the Actual and the privileges of the Ideal.”
“My very words,” said the Baronet; “wonderful, wonderful!” and he
gazed fondly at the Italian boy, who again resumed his menial
employment. Alas! the wings of the Ideal were folded. The Student had
been absorbed in the Boy.
But Sir Edward’s boots were blacked, and he turned to depart. Placing
his hand upon the clustering tendrils that surrounded the classic nob
of the infant Italian, he said softly, like a strain of distant music:
“Boy, you have done well. Love the Good. Protect the Innocent. Provide
for The Indigent. Respect the Philosopher.”... “Stay! Can you tell me
what _is_ The True, The Beautiful, The Innocent, The Virtuous?”
“They are things that commence with a capital letter,” said the Boy,
promptly.
“Enough! Respect everything that commences with a capital letter!
Respect ME!” and dropping a halfpenny in the hand of the Boy, he
departed.
The Boy gazed fixedly at the coin. A frightful and instantaneous
change overspread his features. His noble brow was corrugated with
baser lines of calculation. His black eye, serpent-like, glittered
with suppressed passion. Dropping upon his hands and feet, he crawled
to the curbstone and hissed after the retreating form of the Baronet,
the single word:
“Bilk!”
* * * * *
There are three more Chapters of this amusing parody to be found in
Bret Harte’s _Sensation Novels Condensed_.
Another imitation of Lytton’s prose was published in _The Individual_
November 8, 1836 (Cambridge), but it is not of sufficient interest to
reprint.
――――
ON A TOASTED MUFFIN.
_By Sir E. L. B. L. B. L. B. Little, Bart._
Object belov’d! when day to eve gives place,
And life’s best nectar thy fond vot’ry sips,
How sweet to gaze upon thy shining face,
And press thy tender form unto my lips!
Fair as the Naiad of the Grecian stream,
And beautiful as Oread of the lawn;
Bright-beaming as the iv’ry palac’d dream,
And melting as the Dewy Urns of dawn.
For thee I strike the sounding Lyre of song,
And hymn the Beautiful, the Good, the True;
The dying notes of thankfulness prolong,
And light the Beacon-fires of praise for you.
Butter’d Ideal of Life’s coarser food!
Thou calm Egeria in a world of strife!
Antigone of Crumpets! mild as good,
Decent in death, and beautiful in life!
Fairest where all is _fare_! shine on me still,
And gild the dark To-Morrow of my days;
In public Marts and crowded Senates thrill,
My soul, with Tea-time thoughts and Muffin lays.
CUTHBERT BEDE.
_The Shilling Book of Beauty._ London. J. Blackwood & Co.
――――
LORD CHESTERFIELD.
_Chesterfield Travestie_; or School for Modern Manners. Anonymous.
Dedicated to George Colman, whose name is incorrectly spelt “Coleman,”
on the title page. London, Thomas Tegg, 1808.
This has ten Caricatures drawn by Rowlandson. A later and enlarged
edition was published entitled _Chesterfield Burlesqued_.
_Lady Chesterfield’s Letters to her Daughter_, by George Augustus
Sala. London, Houlston and Wright, 1860.
The first edition of this humorous, but rather lengthy burlesque (it
consists of fourteen chapters), contains many excellent woodcuts by
_Phiz_, and is now very scarce.
GOOD MANNERS; OR, THE ART OF BEING AGREEABLE.
(_Being Maxims and Extracts from Lord Jesterfield’s Letters._)[55]
_On Conversation._――The basis of all conversation is Flat
Contradiction. The flatter and the stronger the contradiction, the
more certain and secure is the basis on which the structure of
Conversation is to rise.
Where there is no contradiction, “nothing more need be said,” and
consequently there and then is an end of all conversation.
The word conversation in itself expresses and implies an assertion of
a fact and a denial. It is compounded of two Latin words, “_verso_” to
turn, and “_con_” together, and means, therefore, two people turning
together, or having “a turn at one another,” or a “set-to.” Were
everybody to agree with everybody else, it is evident that there would
be no matter for discussion, and, therefore, no real conversation.
Persons in love, who are, for the time being, in perfect agreement
with each other, never converse. They can’t. It is from this
universally-observed fact that in every language may be found the
significant proverb, “Silence gives consent,” _i.e._, where all agree
there is, as we have said, no conversation.
_A knowledge of Human Nature is absolutely necessary for the
cultivation of good manners, and for getting oneself generally liked
in all sorts and varieties of Society._――This is an extensive subject,
but its study will well repay the most attentive perusal:――
_Rules and Advice._――In whatever society you may be, a moderate share
of penetration will enable you to find out everybody’s weak points.
You may not hit upon them all at once, but make your own private list,
and then try them all round. Enter any room as though you were a
general practitioner called in to pronounce on everybody’s ailments.
You do not want to _see_ their tongues, but only hear how they use
them. You can feel the pulse of each one discreetly.
_How to make yourself Agreeable with a Nouveau Riche._――Be playfully
familiar. Lower yourself to _his_ level; so as not to appear proud of
your superior birth and training. Ascertain how he made his money,
what was his origin; and, if unable to discover what he sprang from,
you can make a safe guess in supposing him to have been a scavenger, a
dustman, or as boy engaged in sweeping out an office (many illustrious
men who have discharged the highest offices, may have themselves been
discharged from the lowest offices for not having kept them clean and
tidy), and on this supposition you can at once address him, and
proceed to compare his former state of abject poverty with his present
apparently inexhaustible wealth, a subject that must afford him the
greatest possible pleasure, especially in a mixed company.
* * * * *
_Punch._ April 26, 1884.
――――:o:――――
THOMAS DE QUINCEY.
His extraordinary work _The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater_
published in 1822, (having originally appeared in the London
Magazine), was the subject of an exceedingly clever parody in
_Blackwood_ for December, 1856, attributed to the pen of Sir E. G.
Hamley.
“A Recent Confession of an Opium-Eater” tells how the O.E., somewhere
about the year 1828, found himself in the sixteenth storey of a house
in the old town of Edinburgh in company with three most unprepossessing
personages, one of the feminine gender. He is at first disposed to
entertain a favourable opinion of the intellectual status of his
entertainers by the sympathising reception accorded to some
appreciative remarks offered by him on the greatness of Burke, but
afterwards sees reason to question whether their Burke and his were
the same person. By-and-by it becomes apparent that his companions are
intent upon drugging him. The idea of anyone presuming to hocus the
opium-eater tickles his fancy immensely; he enters into the joke,
toasts his hosts in laudanum, and obliges them to respond, and in due
time has them all under the table. As he goes down-stairs, a little
misadventure occurs with a candle, and by next morning the sixteen
storeys and the occupants have entirely disappeared. The style of the
parody is excellent, a compound of the Opium-Eater and “Murder
considered as one of the Fine Arts.”
――――:o:――――
LADY MORGAN.
As a specimen of her eccentric style take the following passage from
“The Wild Irish Girl:” “I was _chez moi_, inhaling the _odeur musquée_
of my scented _boudoir_, when the Prince de Z―――― entered. He found me
in my _demi-toilette blasée sur tout_, and pensively engaged in
solitary conjugation of the verb _s’ennuyer_, and, though he had never
been one of my _habitués_, or by any means _des nôtres_, I was not
disinclined, at this moment of _délassement_, to glide with him into
the _crocchio ristretto_ of familiar chat.” The above has been done
into French by M. H. Cocheris in the following style: “J’etais _at
home_, aspirant la _musky smell_ de mon _private room_ lorsque le
Prince Z―――― entra. Il me trouva en _simple dress, fatigued with
everything_, tristement occupée à conjuguer le verbe _to be weary_, et
quoique je ne l’eusse jamais compté au nombre de mes _intimates_, et
qu’il n’etait, en aucune façon, _of our set_, j’etais assez disposée à
entrer avec lui dans le _crocchio ristretto_ d’une causerie
familière.”
――――:o:――――
ARCHIBALD FORBES.
An American paper has the following amusing burlesque of Mr. Archibald
Forbes’ style. Mr. Forbes is supposed to be replying to the toast of
the English press. “Mr. Chairman――I am Mr. Archibald Forbes. I have
been everywhere. I have done everything. I am a very smart fellow. I
am not to be out-done. I know the Emperor of China. I know the King of
the Cannibal Islands. I am intimately acquainted with the Grand Llama.
I have lived with the Shah of Persia. I am the dearest friend of the
Emperor of Russia.” The report comes abruptly to an end with the
editorial remark. “Here our sorts of I’s gave out.”
――――:o:――――
COOKERY BOOKS.
During the Crimean War, when there was a great outcry about the
starving condition of our troops, and the utter breakdown of the
Commissariat, the following parody on Mr. A. Soyer’s cookery book
appeared in “Our Miscellany,” by Yates and Brough:――
CAMP COOKERY.
_By Alicksus Sawder_
_To boil cabbage._――It is necessary to procure a cabbage. Wash in cold
water; which, throw down a gutter, or outside a tent if no gutter be
procurable. Be careful not to splash trousers, especially in frosty
weather. Stick a two-pronged fork boldly into the cabbage (a bayonet
will do equally well), and plunge it into a saucepan of water just at
boiling point. When it has boiled for eight minutes, twenty-five
seconds, throw eleven-fifteenths of a teaspoonful of salt into the
water. _Let the cabbage boil till it is thoroughly done._ At that
moment be on the watch to take it out of the saucepan (taking care to
avert the face from the steam), and place in a vegetable dish. Put the
cover on, and serve up with roast beef, ortolans, venison, pickled
pork, or whatever may come handiest. An old helmet will supply the
place of a saucepan. Cauliflowers may be cooked in the same manner;
and, indeed, most things.
_To fry Bacon._――Cut your bacon into long strips, or rashers. Wipe
your frying-pan out with a coarse towel, or lining of old
dressing-gown. Then place it gently (so as not to knock the bottom
out) over a brisk fire. Place the rashers in, one by one. When they
are done on one side, turn them over to do on the other. When they
have attained a rich brown, take them out and arrange them on a dish,
or slice of bread, or anything. Watch your rashers, so that the
sentinel outside doesn’t get at them; and eat when you feel inclined.
The gravy may be sopped up from the frying-pan with crumbs of bread.
If only biscuit is to be obtained, use the fingers, which lick
carefully. The rind may be preserved in the waistcoat pocket, for
sucking while on duty.
_Roast Potatoes._――Put your potatoes under the stove, and rake hot
embers over them. While they are cooking get as much butter as the
commissariat will allow you, and put it on a clean dish, or, a dirty
one, with half a sheet of writing-paper on it (indeed, in an extreme
case, the writing-paper will enable you to dispense with the dish
altogether). Taste the butter, but don’t eat it all up till the
potatoes are done. Great care will be required for the observance of
the latter regulation. Cut the butter into dice of from six to
seven-eighths of a cubic inch. When the potatoes are done, cut them
open and insert a dice of butter in each, closing the potato rapidly
to prevent evaporation. Eat with pepper and salt, or whatever you can
get.
_Another Method._――If you can’t get any butter, do without it.
_Potatoes and Point._――This is a very popular dish in Ireland, and one
which I have frequently partaken of in that country. The method of
preparing it in the Crimea is as follows:――Boil a dish of potatoes,
and serve up hot, with a watch-glass full of powdered salt. When they
are ready for eating, point, with the fore-finger of the right hand,
in a north-westerly direction, where the regions of beef are supposed
to exist.
* * * * *
There was also an old parody, by Dr. King, on _The Art of Cookery_.
――――
THE MILITARY COOKERY-BOOK.
_How to make a Recruit._――Take a raw lad from the country (the younger
the better) and fill his head with military froth. Add a shilling and
as much beer as will be covered by the bounty-money. Let him simmer,
and serve him up thick before a Magistrate the next morning. Let him
be sworn in, and he then will be nicely done.
_How to make a Soldier._――Take your recruit, and thrust him roughly
into a depôt. Mix him up well with recruits from other regiments until
he has lost any _esprit de corps_ which may have been floating upon
the surface when he enlisted. Now let him lie idle for a few years
until his strength is exhausted, and then, at ten minutes’ notice,
pack him off to India.
_Another Method._――Take your recruit, and place him at headquarters.
Let him mix freely with all the bad characters that have been
carefully kept in the regiment, until his nature has become
assimilated to theirs. For three years pay him rather less than a
ploughboy’s wages, and make him work rather harder than a
costermonger’s donkey. Your soldier having now reached perfection, you
will turn him out of the Service with Economical Dressing.
_How to make a Deserter._――A very simple and popular dish. Take a
soldier, see that he is perfectly free from any mark by which he may
be identified, and fill his head with grievances. Now add a little
opportunity, and you have, or, rather, you have not, your deserter.
_Another and Simpler Method._――Take a recruit, without inquiring into
his antecedents. Give him his kit and bounty-money and close your
eyes. The same recruit may be used for this dish (which will be found
to be a fine military hash) any number of times.
_How to make an Army._――Take a few scores of Infantry Regiments and
carefully proceed to under-man them. Add some troopers without horses,
and some batteries without guns. Throw in a number of unattached
Generals, and serve up the whole with a plentiful supply of Control
Mixture.
_Another and Easier Method._――Get a little ink, a pen, and a sheet of
paper. Now dip your pen in the ink, and with it trace figures upon
your sheet of paper. The accompaniment to this dish is usually hot
water.
_How to make a Panic._――Take one or two influential newspapers in the
dead season of the year, and fill them with smartly written letters.
Add a few pointed leading articles, and pull your Army into pieces.
Let the whole simmer until the opening of Parliament. This once
popular mess is now found to be rather insipid, unless it is produced
nicely garnished with plenty of Continental sauce, mixed with just an
idea of Invasion relish. With these zests, however, it is always found
to be toothsome, although extremely expensive.
_Punch._ November 21, 1874.
――――
HENRY LABOUCHERE AND EDMUND YATES.
It is customary for the Editors of _Truth_ and _The World_ to publish
the latest _on dits_ of Society, and each delights in contradicting
the other on little matters of detail. This sport does not much
interest the general public, but it appears to afford great amusement
to the two Editors. Some of their paragraphs are scarcely less absurd
than the following:――
[“Henry” has promised that he will go and see “Edmund” in Holloway
Prison.]
EXTRACT I. (_From “Truth.”_)
“I made a pilgrimage to Holloway Castle one day last week, and was
pleased to find poor Edmund in excellent spirits. He was lounging in a
handsomely upholstered chair from Gillow’s, while he smoked a capital
Manilla. In the course of our conversation, I learnt that it is his
intention to publish a volume of ‘Prison Recollections’ when he again
emerges into the outer world. Edmund has lost flesh, but is otherwise
in his usual health.”
EXTRACT II. (_From “The World.”_)
“Really, Henry, I am getting quite tired of correcting your blunders.
The chair in which you found me seated was supplied to me by Maple,
whom I much prefer to Gillow. You have also put your foot in it about
the cigar, which was an Intimidad and not a Manilla. Thirdly, I
_don’t_ intend to publish any ‘Prison Recollections;’ and as for my
having lost flesh, that is pure rubbish. How _can_ one lose flesh when
one continues to feed as well as usual, and is at the same time
obliged to drop one’s horse exercise in the Row?”
EXTRACT III. (_From “Truth.”_)
“I have always maintained that you are far too impetuous, Edmund.
Perhaps you are correct about your not having lost flesh, though I
could have sworn that I counted one chin less than usual upon your
face. I may also have been in error regarding the ‘Recollections’ and
the chair, but I cannot for a moment admit that your Manilla was an
Intimidad. You are no judge of tobacco. I am, and the illustrated
advertisement of Somebody’s cigarettes is sufficient proof of the
fact.”
EXTRACT IV. (_From “The World.”_)
“Upon certain subjects, Henry, pig-headed ass is not the name for you.
Don’t visit me again, please.”
EXTRACT V. (_From “Truth.”_)
“Catch me at it, my dear Edmund.”
_Funny Folks_, January 31, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE REAL LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.
A short parody, having the above title appeared in _Punch_, May 19,
1888, with an illustration by Linley Sambourne, representing Lord
Randolph Churchill, and the Duke of Cambridge. At the time it appeared
Lord Randolph was posing as an advocate of Retrenchment and Reform.
That a member of the Marlborough family of national bloodsuckers
should appear as the advocate of economy was a joke that was far too
good to last, and Lord Randolph having remained in the cabinet long
enough to earn a pension, found it convenient to resign.
(_An imaginary conversation. With apologies to Mrs. F. H. Burnett._)
And then the Duke looked up.
What Little Grandolph saw was a portly old man, with scanty white hair
and bushy whiskers, and a nose like a florid bulb between his
prominent imperious eyes.
What the Duke saw was a smart, small figure in a jaunt, suit, with a
large collar, and with trim, accurately-parted locks curved carefully
about the curiously canine little face whose equally protuberant eyes
met his with a look of――well, perhaps the Duke would have found it
difficult exactly to define the character of that look, but it
combined in an emphatic way the interrogative and the ironical.
It was thought that Little Lord Fauntleroy was himself rather like a
small copy of a grander and older original, and he himself was
supposed to be well aware of the fact. But there was a sudden glow of
emotion in the irascible old Duke’s face as he saw what a sturdy,
self-confident little fellow Lord Fauntleroy was, and how
unhesitatingly he stood to his guns in all circumstances. It moved the
grim old nobleman that the youngster should show no shyness or fear,
either of the situation or of himself.
“Are you the Duke?” he said. “I’m a Duke’s son, you see, and know
something about such things. I’m Lord Grandolph Fauntleroy.”
He nodded affably, because he knew it to be the polite and proper
thing to do, even from young and clever Lords to old and (the
adjective he mentally used may be suppressed) Dukes. “I hope you――and
the Army――are all right,” he continued, with the utmost airiness. “I’m
very glad to see you here.”
“Glad to see me, are you?” said the Duke.
“Yes,” answered Lord Fauntleroy, “very.”
There was a chair at the head of the table, and he sat down on it; it
was a big chair, and, physically, he hardly filled it perhaps; but he
seemed quite at his ease as he sat there, and regarded a Monarch’s
august relative intently and confidently.
“I’ve often wondered what a Commander-in-Chief would look like when
being cross-examined,” he remarked. “I’ve wondered whether he’d be
anything like my great ancestor of the Queen Anne epoch.”
“Am I?” asked the Duke.
“Well,” Grandolph replied, “I’ve only seen pictures of him, of course,
and I can’t exactly say how he would have looked in a similar case,
but I don’t _think_ you are much like him.”
“You are disappointed, I suppose?” suggested his august interlocutor.
“Oh no!” replied Grandolph, politely. “Of course you would like any
great military contemporary to look like your own illustrious
ancestor; but of course you _might_ admire the way your great military
contemporary looked, even if he wasn’t like your illustrious ancestor.
You know how it is yourself, about admiring your contemporaries.”
The Duke stared. He could hardly be said to know how it was about
admiring his contemporaries, many of whom he didn’t admire at all, and
some of whom did not altogether admire him.
“Well, and how’s our bit of an Army getting on?” asked little Lord
Fauntleroy, airily.
“Our――bit――of――an――Army?” repeated the Duke, in a scattered sort of
way.
“Yes,” explained Grandolph, “the bit of an Army we pay such a pile of
money for?”
“Ha!” ejaculated his Lordship. “That’s it, is it? The money isn’t
spent as you like. You’d like to have the spending of it. What would
_you_ buy with it? I should like to hear something about that.”
“Doubtless,” replied Lord Fauntleroy, coolly. “Some day you may. At
present _I’m_ asking questions, and your business is to answer them.”
“The D――――!” began the Duke, hotly.
“Quite so――the D―――― etails,” interjected Little Lord Fauntleroy,
blandly. “As you were doubtless about to say, the details are the
things! All very well to say in a general sort of way that the Army is
going to――its usual destination, Duke; that Party Spirit and Financial
Cheese-paring are the cause of it, and that more men and money are
urgently required. That won’t do for me. I want to know――so does the
Country――much more than that. How? Why? What? When? How many? How
much? These, my dear Duke, are the pertinent questions to which
we――the Country and I――demand precise answers. When we get them,
instead of vague denunciation and big D’s, we shall know what to do.”
The sensations of his Royal Highness the Duke, could scarcely be
described. He was not an old nobleman who was very easily taken aback,
because he had seen a great deal of the official world; but here was
something he found so novel that it almost took his lordly breath
away, and caused him some singular emotions. A civilian had always
seemed to him a most objectionable creature――impertinent,
parsimonious, and with inadequate conceptions of discipline. But this
composed, precise, insolently interrogative little personage was a
portent. The Duke’s martinet manner was quite shaken by this startling
surprise.
* * * * *
_The Standard_ (London) in 1885 ventured to criticise the political
character and conduct of Lord Randolph Churchill, but three years
later it contained an article which read like a parody of its former
utterances about this Boulanger of the Fourth Party:――
(From the _Standard_, July 31, 1885.)
It is time to speak plainly. Lord Randolph Churchill has been puffed
by his friends in the daily and weekly press with admirable assiduity.
He has dined with them and they have dined with him, and the
well-organised _claque_ are ready to cry “Prodigious!” whenever he
opens his mouth. But it is all in vain. We no longer live in days when
the public can be gulled by such arts.… The truth is, that Lord
Randolph Churchill is a much over-rated man. He is now verging upon
middle-age and has reached a time of life when even flighty minds
ought to sober down. But this is what he cannot do. His almost
incredible ignorance of affairs, his boyish delight in offering the
crudest insults to men who have been fifty years in the service of the
State, his pranks, his blunders, are ceasing to amuse.… Instead of his
being broken in by his colleagues, his colleagues have been broken in
by him, and he has been able to make them adopt as the deliberate and
well-digested convictions of sagacious and practical Englishmen, the
crude conceits of a political neophyte, which his own little Senate
labour hard to represent as the language of a new Tory gospel.… We
will follow Lord Salisbury, but we will not be governed by a sort of
overgrown schoolboy, who thinks he is witty when he is only impudent,
and who really does not seem to possess sufficient knowledge even to
fathom the depths of his own ignorance of everything worthy of the
name of statesmanship.
(From the _Standard_, July 29, 1888.)
The interest excited by the other appointments sinks into nothing
compared with that which must be felt in the promotion of Lord R.
Churchill to the Chancellorship of the Exchequer and the leadership of
the House of Commons. There is, doubtless, much that may be said
against the appointment to so responsible a position of one who has
had so brief an experience of official life, and who has hitherto been
more remarkable for brilliancy than discretion. On the other hand,
Lord Randolph Churchill possesses the debating power and the dauntless
spirit which are indispensable to a successful leader. There are times
and seasons when self-confidence, readiness, and a command of that
pungent rhetoric which often tells better in the House of Commons than
the closest and most judicial argument, are of more service to a party
than any other qualities which a Parliamentary statesman can possess.
Lord Randolph Churchill moreover, is eminently popular with “the
masses,” and so far has a title to confront Mr. Gladstone which no
other man on the Conservative side of the House can show. In short, he
is an orator and a wit; and in a popular assembly these are titles to
pre-eminence which it is not very easy to dispute. It remains for Lord
Randolph Churchill to demonstrate that the great confidence that has
been reposed in him has not been misplaced.
Taken in connection with the above extracts, it is amusing to read the
leader which appeared in _The Standard_, July 31, 1889:――
Lord Randolph Churchill used his opportunities at Birmingham yesterday
to illustrate, on a more ambitious scale than he has yet attempted,
his constitutional incapacity for public life. A Statesman should be
discreet; and even the hack politician is expected to be loyal to his
associates. Lord Randolph has been at some pains to prove that no
colleagues can trust him, and that no school of opinion can rely upon
him for six weeks together. He made several speeches yesterday, and
discussed at considerable length, and with an air of dogmatic
assurance, a variety of topics. But the miscellaneous heads were all
firmly held together by one pervading principle. Lord Randolph
Churchill, his position and prospects, and the supreme importance of
improving both at any cost, constituted the informing element of the
whole medley. It does not, of course, follow that because Lord
Randolph played a selfish game, he played a wise one. His addresses,
we imagine, will strike him as poor reading by daylight. Even in the
atmosphere of the City Hall, the reception was not altogether
encouraging. It is not flattering to an orator to find that sayings
which he meant to be oracular provoked merriment; that his serious
things were taken as jokes and his jokes as serious things; and that
solemn declarations of policy, which were designed to draw ringing
cheers, were listened to in chilling silence, or, still worse, excited
immediate and emphatic protest.
――――:o:――――
H. RIDER HAGGARD.
_He_, by the author of “It,” “King Solomon’s Wives,” “Bess,” and other
Romances. London, Longmans, Green and Co., 1887. This, of course, is a
parody of “_She_; a History of Adventure,” by H. Rider Haggard, author
of “King Solomon’s mines,” etc. Also published by Longmans and Co.
London.
_She_ was also dramatised, and produced at the Gaiety Theatre, London,
in September, 1888.
_Punch_ had a humorous skit on this adaptation (September 15, 1888)
entitled “_She-that-ought-not-to-be-played!_ A Story of Gloomy
Gaiety.”
A burlesque of “She” had also previously appeared in _Punch_, February
26, 1887, entitled “_Hee! Hee!_” by Walker Weird, author of “Solomon’s
Ewers.”
American publishers not only pirated the popular works of Mr. Rider
Haggard, but one firm proceeded to father upon him a work of which he
knew nothing. This was entitled “_Me_, a companion to _She_.” By H.
Rider Haggard; published by Butler Brothers, of New York and Chicago.
In justice to that firm, however, it must be said that they withdrew
the work from circulation as soon as they discovered that Mr. Haggard
objected to having his name coupled with it. Copies of this are
consequently very difficult to procure.
_King Solomon’s Wives_; or, The Phantom Mines. By Hyder Ragged. With
numerous illustrations by Linley Sambourne. London, Vizetelly and Co.,
1887.
The jocular introduction to this is signed _A. Quaterman_.
――――:o:――――
SAMUEL RICHARDSON.
It is well known that Fielding’s _Joseph Andrews_ was written with the
intention of ridiculing Richardson’s tediously moral novel _Pamela_,
of which to a certain extent it is a parody, Joseph, the virtuous
footman, being the brother of Pamela, and subjected to similar
temptations. Fielding had a contempt for the priggish tone of
Richardson’s works, and his ridicule succeeded in almost killing
_Pamela_.
There was another curious attack on Richardson entitled “_Apology for
the Life of Mrs. Shamela Andrews_, in which the Falsehoods of Pamela
are Exposed, together with a full Account of all that passed between
her and Parson Williams,” by Mr. Conny Keyber. 1741.
_The History of Clorana_, the Beautiful Arcadian, or Virtue
Triumphant, 1737. (_Pamela_, with slight variations.)
――――:o:――――
MISS BRADDON.
DR. MARCHMONT’S MISERY.
This was a burlesque of “Lady Audley’s Secret” which appeared in
_Judy_, 1868. It was written by Mr. Walter Parke. The following is an
extract from this humorous work:――
CHAPTER XII.