SCENE--_The Park, near Cumberland Gate, on almost any fine
afternoon. Behind the rails separating the turf from the
paths, Orators, Preachers, and Reciters are holding forth,
for the delectation of small groups, who are mostly engaged in
discussing some totally different subject. A set debate, with
a time-limit, and a purely ornamental Chairman, is in progress
between a Parnellite and an Anti-Parnellite. The reader will
kindly imagine himself to be passing slowly along the line._
_A Youthful Socialist_ (_haranguing the usual crowd of well-to-do
loungers, and working himself up to the requisite white-heat of
factitious fury_). And what are these Capitalists? I'll tell yer. Jest
a lot o' greedy gobblers and profit-mongering sharks, as eat up the
smaller fry. And what are _you_? Why, you're the small fish as
eat mud--and let yourselves _be_ gobbled! (_The crowd accept this
definition of themselves with perfect gaiety and good-humour._) Some
will tell yer that these lazy, idle loafers, work as hard as what we
do ourselves. (_Derisive laughter at this ridiculous idea._) Mind yer,
I'm not saying they don't. _Honly_, the 'arder they work, the worse
it is for us; because the more they work the more they _rob_! That's
what they send their sons to Oxford and to Cambridge--as was built and
endowed for the benefit of us, the labourin' classes--for. They send
'em there to learn _'ow to rob_!
[_Here a discussion breaks out between a Sceptic and a
Spiritualist, who, with half-a-dozen interested auditors,
have been putting their heads together in a corner._
_The Sceptic_. No,--but keep to the point,--you're shufflin' the
question. I want to argue this out on logical grounds. I know as
well as _you_ do that, if only I 'ave 'armony and a round table in my
family, I can make that table dance the poker--but what I'm puttin'
to _you_ is (_triumphantly_), 'ow does that prove to me as I'm in
communication with the Bogie Man? That's what _you've_ got to answer.
[Illustration: "Yer may sometimes hentertain a angel unawares!"]
_The Y.S._. We Soshalists 'ate the Tories as we 'ate sin. Why, young
polertician as I ham, &c., &c.
_The Spiritualist_ (_an elderly and earnest person_). All I can
reply to you is, we Spiritualists do not think--we _know_ that these
phenomena appear--yes, as surely as I know I am 'olding this stick in
my 'and.
_The Sceptic_ (_pityingly_). There you go again, yer see--that
stick ain't the point. _I_ can see the stick. A stick ain't a
phenomena--you're confusin' two different things. Now I'm goin' to
offer you a fair challenge. You perdooce me a Spirit--not in a back
room, with the lights out, but _'ere_, in broad daylight, in this
Park--you get that Spirit to naturalise itself, or whatever you call
it, and I'll _believe_ in 'im. Come, now!
_A Bystander_. Ah, that's the way to corner _'is_ sort. 'E knows 'e
carn't _do_ it!
_The Spiritualist_ (_with a smile of sad superiority_). Ridicule ain't
argyment. [_The discussion continues._
_The Young Socialist_. Don't tork to me of Patriotism! What have the
likes of you and me got to be patriotic about? I'm a Universalist, I
am, and so long as a man rallies round our glorious Red Flag (_here he
waves a dingy scarlet rag on a stick_), it's all one to me whether his
own colour is black, yeller, green, brown, _or_ white!
[_Applause._
_Reciter Number One_ (_in the midst of a thrilling prose narrative
about a certain_ "'ARRY," _who has apparently got into legal
difficulties for having thrown a cocoa-nut stick at a retired
Colonel_). Well, I went into the Court 'ouse, and there, sure enough,
was my pore mate 'ARRY in the dock, and there was hold Ginger-whiskers
(_laughter_) a setting on the bench along with the hother beaks,
lookin' biliouser, and pepperier, and more happerplecticker nor ever!
"Prison-ar," he sez, addressin' 'ARRY (_imitation of the voice and
manner of a retired Colonel_), "Prison-ar, 'ave you--har--hanythink
to say in your beyarf--har?" And then, hall of a sudden, I sor a
flash come into my dear 'ole comride 'ARRY's heyes, as he strightened
'imself in the dock, and gave the milingtery sloot, and then, in a
voice as sounded as true and sweet and clear as a bell, he sez--
_A Dingy and Unprepossessing Preacher_ (_unctuously_). Well beloved
friends, as I was telling yer, I went 'ome to the 'ouse of that pious
Methodist lady, and she told me as 'ow she 'ad two dear unconverted
sons, an' I knelt down (_&c., &c._), an' after that we 'ad our tea,
and then I preached a sermon--ah, I well remember I took my tex from
(_&c. &c._)--an' then she gave me supper (_more unctuously still_), as
nice a bit o' cold beef and 'ome-brewed ale as ever I wish to taste,
and I slep' that blessed night in a warm comfortable bed--and this
(_drawing the inevitable moral_) this brings me round to what I
started on, inasmuch as it proves (_with a forbidding smile_) as 'ow
yer may sometimes hentertain a angel unawares!
_Reciter Number Two_ (_giving his own private version of "The Ticket
of Leave Man."_) Fourpence 'ap'ny, Gentlemen, is _not_ a very 'arty
nor corjial recognition of my talent; _'owever_, I will now perceed
with the Drarmer. The Curtain rises upon the Second Hact. Hover three
years 'ave elapsed since _Robert Brierley_--(&c.) We are in _May
Hedwardses_ lodgings. She is torkin to 'er goldfinch. If you boys
don't give over larkin' and stand back, you'll get a cuff on some
of your 'eds. "Goldie," she sez, "I've 'ad a letter from _'Im_ this
morning!" And the bird puts his little 'ed a one side, and a'most
seems as if he compre'ended 'er meanin'! _Mrs. Willoughby_ is 'eard
outside sayin', "May I come in?" I will now hendeavour to give you a
imitation of _Mrs. Willoughby_.
[_He cocks his hat rather more on one side, to indicate
feminine garrulity, and continues._
_Anti-Parnellite Irishman_ (_warmly_). Is it kape to the point? Oi
till that white-feeced an' black-hearrted loiar, TIM MURPHY, that if
he interrups me wance more whoile o'im in possession o' the chair,
oi'll step down an' call 'm to orrder by landin' 'um a clump on the
conk!
_Reciter Number Three_ (_who is working his way through a
bloodcurdling poem, with a hat on the ground before him_):--
And on came them maddened 'orses, with their foiery, smokin' breath;
As were bearin' the woman I lurved to a crule and 'orrible death!
[_Pathetically._
'Ow could I save my darlin' from layin' a mangled 'eap
On the grorss below where the buttercups blow, along of the innercent sheep!
(_Wildly._) I felt my brine was reeling--I'adn't a minnit to lose!
[_He strains forward, in agony._
With a stifled prayer, and a gasp for air, I--
[_Here he suddenly becomes aware of an overlooked penny
on the grass, and replaces it carefully in the hat before
proceeding._
_First Bystander_ (_discussing Physical Courage with a friend_). No,
I never 'ad no pluck. I don't see the use of it myself--on'y gits you
into rows'. (_Candidly._) I'm a blanky coward, I am.
_His Friend_ (_admiringly_). Give us yer 'and. Yer can't be a blankier
coward than _me_!
_The A.P._ (_with just pride_). Oi've been wan o' the biggest
libertines in this or anny other city in me toime--there's no
blagardhism oi'd have put beyant me--but oi till ye this. If PARNELL
was to come up to me here, now, and ask me to sheek um by the hand,
oi'd say, "Shtand back, ye d----d scoundthrel!" Ah, oi would _that_!
_Belated Orator_ (_perorating to an embarrassed stranger on a seat
before him, under a muddled impression that he is addressing a
spell-bound multitude_). I tell yer--yes, hevery man, and hevery woman
among yer--(_Here he bends forward, and touches his hearer's right and
left elbow impressively_) don't you go away under the impression I'm
talking of what I don't understan'! (_The Stranger shifts his leg and
looks another way_.) I speak sense, don't I? _You_ never 'eard nothin'
like this afore, _any_ of yer, _'ave_ yer? That's because I read
between the lines! (_Waving his arm wildly._) An' I want heach man
and boy of you to 'member my words, and _hact_ upon them when the time
comes!
[_Here he staggers off with a proud and exalted air, to the
immense relief of his hearer._
_A Professional Pietist_ (_with a modest working capital of one hymn
and a nasal drone_). "My richest gynes" ... (_To Charitable Passer_. A
copper, Sir? bless your kind 'art!) "I cayount" ... (_Examining it._
A bloomin' French 'ap'ny!) ... "but loss; And pour contemp'" ... (Call
yerself a Christian gen'lman, yer--&c.) ... "on a--a--ll my proide!"
(_Here the Reader will probably have had enough of it._)
* * * * *
A REAL TREAT.--_Advice to Covent-gardeners_.--If _Carmen_ is to be
done again this season with the same cast as it had on Saturday last,
no one who cares for an exceptionally first-rate performance should
miss this opera-tunity. There is no better representative of _Carmen_
than Mlle. ZELIE DE LUSSAN,--how can there be, since the Spanish
Gipsy heroine of the plot is herself a _Loose 'un_? Madame MELBA
was charming as _Mickie Ella_, the Irish girl in Spain. M. LASSALLE
appeared as _Escamillo_. the bull-fighter, in a novel, and doubtless
a correct, costume, and his great _Toréador_ song was vociferously
encored. Then, finally, JEAN DE RESKÉ, who made of the usually idiotic
_Don José_ a fine acting as well as a fine singing part. It drew a
big house, and would have been a pretty dish to set before an Emperor
on Wednesday, if, on that occasion, the Opera itself were the only
consideration.
* * * * *