(_A Symposium à la Mode._)
[Sidenote: The Author of "A Saddis Aster" confesses.]
I am much flattered by your kind invitation to discuss the Advanced
Woman, but an initial difficulty suggests itself to me. Can one discuss
the Advanced Woman if this Advanced Woman herself is non-existent? I am
aware, of course, that she has stridden large of late in the pages of
feminine fiction, but is she not as extinct (before she has ever
existed) as her DODO title? Let me make my own confession. I have used,
if I did not invent, the A. W. I have secured a remunerative public.
Once on a time I wrote of life as I found it. I used my eyes and ears,
and endeavoured to let the world have the result in the old-fashioned,
wholesome story. It was a dreary failure. The critics commended my
style, and the public let me severely alone. _Nous avons changé tout
cela._ A theatrical manager who finds his musical piece begin to drag,
saves the situation by a New Edition--in other words, by two new songs
and some fresh dances. In a similar way I secured a reputation by
dragging in (at times by her very heel) the Advanced Woman. True that
she resembles no one in actual existence, true, indeed, that she is
outrageously and offensively improbable, but the public were not happy
till they got her. They're happy now. So am I.
[Illustration]
[Sidenote: Mrs. Shriek Shriekon speaks out.]
I should have thought that _my_ views on the Advanced Woman were
sufficiently well known; but, since you ask my opinion, I may say
at once that I lose no opportunity of inveighing against this
_fin-de-siècle_ abomination. Once on a time it was not thought
unbecoming for a woman to be modest and retiring. She knew her sphere,
and, queen in her own selected world, she did not aspire to a
sovereignty which naturally belonged to others. If they were alive
to-day (and, after all, some of them are), our grandmothers would hardly
know their GRAND children--the Heavenly Twins. I am glad that I am
permitted to keep burning the sacred lamp of the Old Womanhood. Indeed,
it looks as if the jeers which a thoughtless world has hitherto reserved
for the Old Maid were being transferred to the Old Woman. Yet to those
who have never yielded to the spell of the latter-day notions, there is
only dismay in the spectacle of the Advanced Woman sweeping triumphantly
on, with her mind full of sex-problems she has not brains enough to
understand, and her breath stained with the trace of cigarettes she does
not care to conceal. Wholesomeness dies at being dubbed old-fashioned;
Modesty does not survive the disgrace of not being up to date. It's a
bad world, my masters, and I'm never tired of saying so.
[Sidenote: Ann U. Woman dreams of the Future.]
The fact that you have invited my opinion with full knowledge of what I
shall say, emboldens me to speak out. Man's day (which, like every dog,
he has had) draws to an end. For centuries he has had Woman at his
mercy. What she is to-day, that he has made her. And what is she? His
Doll, his Slave, his "Old Woman." But Man made one fatal mistake. In a
weak moment he consented to allow Woman to earn her own living. From
that moment our ultimate triumph was assured. Now we know our strength.
Told of old that we were brainless, we now become Senior Wranglers.
Condemned aforetime to inactivity, we now realise that in life's
struggle there are no prizes we are not competent to secure, though, of
course, we are not always permitted. We have precipitated ourselves out
of a yellow miasma of stagnant sloth into an emancipated, and advanced
day. The Advanced Woman has come to stay--but not with any husband. She
will be as free as the air, as strong as the eagle. I must stop, as to
do any more fine writing would be to anticipate my next novel. Be sure
to get it. It will be called----[No; I can stand a good deal, but not
that.--ED.]
* * * * *
"TRIPPING MERRILY."
That holiday cruise on board the good steamship _Cannie Donia_! Did I
dream it? or was it a reality? "Are there wisions about?" It seems like
yesterday or like years ago, and I know it was neither. "Old
KASPAR'S,"--or let us say middle-aged KASPAR'S,--"work was done" _pro
tem._, and he could not neglect so great an opportunity, nor refuse so
inviting an invitation as that sent him by Sir CHARLES CHEERIE, the
Chairman, to come aboard for the trial trip of the G.S.S. _Cannie
Donia_. So I, middle-aged KASPAR, work done as aforesaid, did then and
thereby become TOMMY the Tripper, and, as such, went aboard the gallant
SS. abovementioned, all-to-the-contrary, nevertheless, and
notwithstanding.
And what a goodly company!
Sir CHARLES and Lady CHEERIE, perfect host and hostess in themselves.
Here too was our TOBY, M.P., waggish as ever. "I am not down on the
official list of guests as 'TOBIAS,'" quoth he. "And why?" I gave it up.
"Because," says he, answering his own conundrum, "I am a free and
independent scribe, and there is nothing _to bias_ me. Aha!" The sea air
agrees with TOBY, M.P. "And where _would_ the Member for Barkshire be,"
he asks, propounding as it were another and a better puzzle, "but aboard
a bonnie barque? My bark," he continues gaily, "may be worse than my
bite, but----" Here the bugle-call to breakfast sounds, and from ocular
evidence I can roundly assert that whatever his bark may be, I will back
his bite--and this without backbiting, of which, as I trust, neither of
us is capable--against that of any two of his own size and weight. Yet
TOBY _en mangeant_ is not the dog in a manger, no, not by any means!
With one eye to the main chance, and another to the corresponding
comfort of his co-breakfasters, so pursueth he his steadfast course, as
indeed do we all, to the astonishment of most of us, through the shoals
of toast and butter; over the shallows of eggs; safely through the
Straits of Kipper and Kurrie; with a pleasant time in Hot Tea Bay; then
through a Choppy sea, between the dangerous rocks of Brawn and Bacon;
into the calm Marmaladean Sea, where we ride at anchor and all is well.
After breakfast, the cigar, or pipe, with conversational accompaniment,
what time we pace the quarter-deck. Prognostications as to probable
weather are "taken and offered" by nautically-attired guests, who, in a
general way, may be supposed from their seagoing costume "to know the
ropes." Here is the ever amiable and truly gallant Sir PETER PLURAL,
looking every inch the ideal yachtsman, as honorary member of the Upper
House of Cowes and Ryde Piers. Wonderful man Sir PETER! knows everybody,
is liked by everybody; has been yachting and sailing and voyaging for
any number of years; knows even the smallest waves by sight, and, if
asked, could probably tell you their names! One day he will publish his
reminiscences!
We anchor off Queenstown. The estimable, jovial VALENTINE VULCAN, M.P.,
from the North, must ashore to purchase some trifling knickknacks by way
of mementoes of the visit. Instead of "knickknacks" he lays in a stock
of "knock-knocks," yclept "shillelaghs," which are served out to him by
a delicately pale beauty of Erin, dark-haired, slim waisted, and as
elegant as might be any natty girl from County Trim. She shows us some
dozen shillelaghs with hard, murderous-looking, bulbous knobs.
"Phew!" whistles VALENTINE VULCAN, M.P., weighing one of these dainty
sticks in his hand. "You might get rather a nasty crack from this." I
agree with him, and the sad daughter of Erin regards us sadly and
sympathetically.
"Maybe," I think to myself, "she has lost a friend or a lover in one
of these confounded O'CAPULET and O'MONTAGUE rows. Poor girl!"
And I eye her with a look wherein admiration is tempered with pity.
It occurs to me that I will say something appropriate, just to show
her how I, a stranger and a Saxon, feel for her. It may lead her to
express her hearty detestation of these faction-fights, and of these
deadly fracas with the armed constabulary. So I say, with a touch
of deep indignation in my tone, "It's a shame," say I, "that such
things as these"--and I nod frowningly at the shillelaghs, which
VULCAN, M.P., is twirling meditatively, one in each hand, as if right
and left were about to fight it out--"it's a shame that such things
as these should be permitted!" The pale, sad, beautiful daughter of
Erin, regards me mournfully, and then, in a tone expressive of
astonishment blended with firm remonstrance, she asks,--
"An' what _would_ the poor Boys use, an' they not allowed fire-arms?"
That was all. No smile is on the lips of Erin's pale daughter. She is
apparently in earnest, though both VULCAN and myself, talking it over
subsequently, unite in opinion that, perhaps, she had been availing
herself of this rare and unique opportunity of "getting at" the Saxon.
So she went on recommending sticks and photographs, and did a good bit
of business with our generous VULCAN, M.P., who returned, laden with
gifts for various fellow-guests aboard the good SS. _Cannie Donia_.
What amusing nights and delightful days! The ladies--bless 'em!--all
charming, and very Barkisses in their perpetual "willingness" to do
anything and everything that might give pleasure and afford amusement.
Two fairy-gifted maidens entertain us mightily with a capital dramatic
sketch of their own composition; others follow suit, playing the piano;
and a _sestette_ perform, without previous rehearsal, glees, madrigals,
part-songs, and choruses to popular plantation melodies, under the
leadership of that masterly musician TOM TOLDEROL, whose only
regret is that he has not been able to bring on board with him his
sixteen-horse-power-fifty-stopped-sixteen-pedal organ (designed and made
by the eminent firm of BELLOWS, BLOWER & CO., at a cost of some few
thousand pounds), though, as he explains to us, he would have done so,
had this musical mammoth been only compressible within the limits of an
ordinary carpet bag.
However, _à propos_ of organs, we have with us a representative of one
of the greatest organs--of the Press--full of wise saws and modern
instances; as jolly as a sandboy, or rather as a schoolboy out for a
holiday. A sailor every inch of him, and this is saying a great deal, as
he must be over six feet, and broad in proportion.
Appropriate, too, as aboard "the craft," is the presence of the Great
Grand Secretary, Mr. BENJAMIN BOAZ, A.M., P.G.M., &c., &c., and the
still Greater, Grander Something Else, P.P.M., &c., Sir JONATHAN JACHIN,
mysterious officers, _Arcades ambo_, of the Secret Rites of Masonry,
fall of nods, winks, becks, wreathed smiles, signs, secrets, fun,
frolic, and tales galore.
Ah! the happy days! And the happy evenings! What excellent "toasts" and
"returnings of thanks" by my Lord AFFIDAVIT, by Sir POSEIDON À VINKLO
(President of the Anchorite Court), by ANDREW MCJASON (senior of the
Argonautic Firm that built the good ship _Cannie Donia_), and the
sprightliest speech of all by Sir CHARLES CHEERIE!
Round to Falmouth, up the Fal, "with our Fal, lal, la," as singeth
our brilliant _sestette_ to piano, or, to quote Sir JONATHAN, "our P.
an' O." accompaniment.