193
INFORMAL INTRODUCTION.
'Arry (shouting across the street to his "Pal"). "Hi! Bill! This is 'er!"
A short suburban dialogue, illustrating the deplorable downward spread of the New Colour-descriptiveness, as exemplified in such works as the "Arsenic Buttonhole."
Scene—Peckham. Characters—Bill, a Greengrocer. Jim, an Oil and Colour Man.
Jim. 'Ow are yer, Bill? Fine pink morning, yn't it?
Bill. Um, a shyde too migenta for me, mate—'ow's yerself?
Jim. Oh, I'm just gamboge, and the missus, she's bright vermilion. 'Ow's your old Dutch?
Bill. She's a bit off colour. Pussonally, I'm feelin' lemon yaller, hall through a readin' o' this yer Pioneer kid.
Jim. Buck up, mate; you've no call to be yaller, nor a perminent bloo, heither! 'Ow's tryde?
Bill. Nothin' doin'. Wy, I ain't sold an indigo cabbige or a chocolate tater to-day. It's enuff to myke a cove turn blackleg, s'elp me!
Jim. Well, I'm a tyking pupils—leastways, I've a young josser of a bankclurk come messin' around my pyntshop, wantin' to know wot sort o' noise raw humber mykes, an' wot's the feel o' rose madder. I gives 'im the tip—'arf a crown a go!
Bill. Well, that is a tyke-down! 'E must be a bloomin' green-horn!
Jim. Yus, a carnation green-horn, you tyke it from me! I've done 'im vandyke brown, I tell yer! I don't think 'e'll hever pynt the tarn red!
Bill. Blymy, you're a knockout! Look 'ere, mate, now you've got the ochre, you'll stand 'arf a quartern at the "Blue Pig," eh?
[Exeunt ambo.
My Dear Marjorie,—You remember Cecil Cashmore? Of course no theatricals could be a success unless he took the entire management. He is a celebrated private performer, and his name is frequently seen in "Amateur Dramatic Notes," where he is freely compared to Coquelin, Arthur Roberts, Irving, and Charles Kean, in his earlier manner—I mean Charles Keane's earlier manner, not Cecil's. He always greets me with, "Oh, I'm so afraid of you. I believe you're very cross with me"; and his parting words are invariably "Good-bye; I'm coming to see you so soon!" Cissy—everyone calls him Cissy—seems to be a little particular, not to say fidgetty.
Baby Beaumont heard him say to his valet, "Take away that eau-de-cologne—it's corked." He seems to think himself ill, though he looks blooming; and says he has neurasthenia. He's always going through some "course," or "treatment." One hears him cry to the footman who hands him a forbidden dish, "Good Heavens, my dear man, don't offer me that—I'm under Jowles!"
We wanted to act The School for Scandal, but Cissy has persuaded us to get up a burlesque of his own—Red Riding Hood. I am to be Red Riding Hood!!! I am delighted. I have never acted before; but they say I have only to trip on with a basket. Baby declared he would be a Proud Sister. In vain he was told there were no Proud Sisters in Red Riding Hood; he seemed to have set his heart on it so much that Cissy has written one in for him. Now Baby is happy, designing himself a gorgeous frock, and passing hours in front of a looking-glass, trying various patterns against his complexion. All the strength of the piece falls upon Cissy, who plays the Wolf, and has given himself any amount of songs and dances, lots of "serious interest," and all the "comic relief." He says it's not an ordinary burlesque, but a mixture of a problem play and a comic opera. Captain Mashington is to play the Mother, so I see a good deal of him. (The Lorne Hoppers are in Scotland). We had had sixteen rehearsals when Lady Taymer suddenly horrified us by saying it seemed so much trouble—why not give it up, and if we wanted a little fun, black our faces and pretend to be niggers!! Of course, we would not listen to her. I hear Captain Mashington rehearsing his part every morning, quietly, in the billiard-room. He never can remember the lines
He thinks the mother ought to kiss Red Riding Hood before she starts. I think not. We asked Cissy. He says it's optional.... Cissy rose with the owl to-day, and said he was not well. A little later he came and told us complacently that he had been looking it up in the Encyclopedia, and found he had "every symptom of acute lead-poisoning." He added that there was nothing to be done.
"I thought there was something wrong with you yesterday," said Baby. "You declined all nourishment between lunch and tea."
"By the way," said Cissy, pretending not to hear, "Mashington really is not quite light enough for the Mother. You should persuade him to go through a course, Miss Gladys."
"He's just been through a course," I said, "at Hythe."
"My dear lady, I don't mean musketry. He ought to consult Castle Jones, the specialist. No soup, no bread, no potatoes—saccharine. What are you allowed?" turning to Baby, who was sitting on a window seat eating marrons-glacés out of a paper-bag.
This sight seemed to infuriate our manager. He made a wild dart at Baby, saying, "Oh, look at this; it's fatal, positively fatal!" snatched violently at the bag, secured a chestnut, and calmly walked out of the room eating it and saying it was delicious.
I had just come home from a very nice drive with Jack—I mean Captain Mashington—when I found a letter from Oriel. He says he is engaged to Miss Toogood. The matter is to be kept a profound secret for the present.... He asks me, for the sake of the past, to try and get him a stamp of the Straits Settlements, in exchange for a Mauritian.... She collects stamps too—it must have been the bond of union.... How fickle men are! It's enough to disgust one with human nature. I know I broke it off, but still——
Ever your loving friend, .
I wonder if Miss Toogood will have a bangle. I should like to advise her not to have it rivetted on. It's such a bother getting them filed off. 194
195
"BUT OH, IT WAS SUCH AN 'ORRIBLE TAIL!"
MRS. PROWLINA PRY.—"I HOPE I DON'T INTRUDE!"
[The guardia municipale of Venice is now dressed like the London policeman.]
By a Birkenhead Man.—The Lever, though strong, could not quite lift the Liberal minority into power, but it brought the Conservative majority down to its Lees! 196
(A Story in Scenes.)
PART XVII.—A BOMB SHELL.
Scene XXVI.—A Gallery near the Verney Chamber. Time—About 10.30 P.M.
Spurrell (to himself). I must say it's rather rough luck on that poor devil. I get his dress suit, and all he gets is my booby-trap! (Phillipson, wearing a holland blouse over her evening toilette, approaches from the other end of the passage; he does not recognise her until the moment of collision.) Emma!! It's never you! How do you come to be here?
Phillipson (to herself). Then it was my Jem after all! (Aloud, distantly.) I'm here in attendance on Lady Maisie Mull, being her maid. If I was at all curious—which I'm not—I might ask you what you're doing in such a house as this; and in evening dress, if you please!
Spurr. I'm in evening dress, Emma, such as it is (not that I've any right to find fault with it); but I'm in evening dress (with dignity) because I've been included in the dinner party here.
Phill. You must have been getting on since I knew you. Then you were studying to be a horse-doctor.
Spurr. I have got on. I am now a qualified M.R.C.V.S.
Phill. And does that qualify you to dine with bishops and countesses and baronets and the gentry, like one of themselves?
Spurr. I don't say it does, in itself. It was my Andromeda that did the trick, Emma.
Phill. Andromeda? They were talking of that downstairs. What's made you take to scribbling, James?
Spurr. Scribbling? how do you mean? My handwriting's easy enough to read, as you ought to know very well.
Phill. You can't expect me to remember what your writing's like; it's so long since I've seen it!
Spurr. Come, I like that! When I wrote twice to say I was sorry we'd fallen out; and never got a word back!
Phill. If you'd written to the addresses I gave you abroad——
Spurr. Then you did write; but none of the letters reached me. I never even knew you'd gone abroad. I wrote to the old place. And so did you, I suppose, not knowing I'd moved my lodgings too, so naturally—— But what does it all matter so long as we've met and it's all right between us? Oh, my dear girl, if you only knew how I'd worried myself, thinking you were—— Well, all that's over now, isn't it?
[He attempts to embrace her.
Phill. (repulsing him). Not quite so fast, James. Before I say whether we're to be as we were or not, I want to know a little more about you. You wouldn't be here like this if you hadn't done something to distinguish yourself.
Spurr. Well, I don't say I mayn't have got a certain amount of what they call "kudos," owing to Andromeda. But what difference does that make?
Phill. Tell me, James, is it you that's been writing a pink book all over silver cutlets?
Spurr. Me? Write a book—about cutlets—or anything else! Emma, you don't suppose I've quite come to that! Andromeda's the name of my bull-dog. I took first prize with her; there were portraits of both of us in one of the papers. And the people here were very much taken with the dog, and—and so they asked me to dine with them. That's how it was.
Phill. I should have thought, if they asked one of you to dine, it ought to have been the bull-dog.
Spurr. Now what's the good of saying extravagant things of that sort? Not that old Drummy couldn't be trusted to behave anywhere!
Phill. Better than her master, I daresay. I heard of your goings on with some Lady Rhoda or other!
Spurr. Oh, the girl I sat next to at dinner? Nice chatty sort of girl; seems fond of quadrupeds——
Phill. Especially two-legged ones! You see I've been told all about it!
Spurr. I assure you I didn't go a step beyond the most ordinary civility. You're not going to be jealous because I promised I'd give her a liniment for one of her dogs, are you?
Phill. Liniment! You always were a flirt, James! But I'm not jealous. I've met a very nice-spoken young man while I've been here; he sat next to me at supper, and paid me the most beautiful compliments, and was most polite and attentive—though he hasn't got as far as liniment, at present.
Spurr. But, Emma, you're not going to take up with some other fellow just when we've come together again?
Phill. If you call it "coming together," when I'm down in the Housekeeper's Room, and you're up above, carrying on with ladies of title!
Spurr. Do you want to drive me frantic? As if I could help being where I am! How could I know you were here?
Phill. At all events you know now, James. And it's for you to choose between your smart lady-friends and me. If you're fit company for them, you're too grand for one of their maids.
Spurr. My dear girl, don't be unreasonable! I'm expected back in the Drawing Room, and I can't throw 'em over now all of a sudden without giving offence. There's the interests of the firm to consider, and it's not for me to take a lower place than I'm given. But it's only for a night or two, and you don't really suppose I wouldn't rather be where you are if I was free to choose—but I'm not, Emma, that's the worst of it!
Phill. Well, go back to the Drawing Room, then; don't keep Lady Rhoda waiting for her liniment on my account. I ought to be in my ladies' rooms by this time. Only don't be surprised if, whenever you are free to choose, you find you've come back just too late—that's all!
[She turns to leave him.
Spurr. (detaining her). Emma, I won't let you go like this! Not before you've told me where I can meet you again here.
Phill. There's no place that I know of—except the Housekeeper's Room; and of course you couldn't descend so low as that.... James, there's somebody coming! Let go my hand—do you want to lose me my character!
[Steps and voices are heard at the other end of the passage; she frees herself, and escapes.
Spurr. (attempting to follow). But, Emma, stop one—— She's gone!... Confound it, there's the butler and a page-boy coming! It's no use staying up here any longer. (To himself, as he goes downstairs.) It's downright torture—that's what it is! To be tied by the leg in the Drawing-Room, doing the civil to a lot of girls I don't care a blow about; and to know that all the time some blarneying beggar downstairs is doing his best to rob me of my Emma! Flesh and blood can't stand it; and yet I'm blest if I see any way out of it without offending 'em all round.
[He enters the Chinese-Drawing-Room.
Scene XXVII.—The Chinese Drawing Room.
Miss Spelwane. At last, Mr. Spurrell! We began to think you meant to keep away altogether. Has anybody told you why you've been waited for so impatiently?
Spurr. (looking round the circle of chairs apprehensively). No. Is it family prayers, or what? Er—are they over?
Miss Spelw. No, no; nothing of that . Can't you guess? Mr. Spurrell, I'm going to be very bold, and ask a great, great favour of you, I don't know why they chose me to represent them; I told Lady Lullington I was afraid my entreaties would have no weight; but if you only would——
Spurr. (to himself). They're at it again! How many more of 'em want a pup! (Aloud.) Sorry to be disobliging, but——
Miss Spelw. (joining her hands in supplication). Not if I implore 197 you? Oh, Mr. Spurrell, I've quite set my heart on hearing you read aloud to us. Are you really cruel enough to refuse?
Spurr. Read aloud! Is that what you want me to do? But I'm no particular hand at it. I don't know that I've ever read aloud—except a bit out of the paper now and then—since I was a boy at school!
Lady Cantire. What's that I hear? Mr. Spurrell professing incapacity to read aloud? Sheer affectation! Come, Mr. Spurrell, I am much mistaken if you are wanting in the power to thrill all hearts here. Think of us as instruments ready to respond to your touch. Play upon us as you will; but don't be so ungracious as to raise any further obstacles.
Spurr. (resignedly). Oh, very well, if I'm required to read, I'm agreeable.
[Murmurs of satisfaction.
Lady Cant. Hush, please, everybody! Mr. Spurrell is going to read. My dear Dr. Rodney, if you wouldn't mind just—— Lord Lullington, can you hear where you are? Where are you going to sit, Mr. Spurrell? In the centre will be best. Will somebody move that lamp a little, so as to give him more light?
Spurr. (to himself, as he sits down). I wonder what we're supposed to be playing at! (Aloud.) Well, what am I to read, eh?
Miss Spelw. (placing an open copy of "Andromeda" in his hands with a charming air of deferential dictation). You might begin with this—such a dear little piece! I'm dying to hear you read it!
Spurr. (as he takes the book). I'll do the best I can! (He looks at the page in dismay.) Why, look here, it's Poetry! I didn't bargain for that. Poetry's altogether out of my line! (Miss Spelwane opens her eyes to their fullest extent, and retires a few paces from him; he turns over the leaves backwards until he arrives at the title-page.) I say, this is rather curious! Who the dickins is Clarion Blair? (The company look at one another with raised eyebrows and dropped underlips.) Because I never heard of him; but he seems to have been writing poetry about my bull-dog.
Miss Spelw. (faintly). Writing poetry—about your bull-dog!
Spurr. Yes, the one you've all been praising up so. If it isn't meant for her, it's what you might call a most surprising coincidence, for here's the old dog's name as plain as it can be—Andromeda!
[Tableau.
"You might begin with this—such a dear little piece!"
"I'm coming to take you!"
The Downey ones, meaning thereby the photographers W. & D. "of that ilk," have produced some excellent photographic portraits in their fifth series recently published. The Czarevich and The Right Hon. Henry Chaplin, M.P., two sporting names well brought together, and both capital likenesses, though the Baron fancies that The Czarevich has the best of it, for secret and silent as Mr. Chaplin is as a politician, yet did he never manage to keep so dark as he is represented in this picture. Here, too, is Mr. Charles Santley—"Charles our friend"—looking like a mere boy with "a singing face," where "Nature, smiling, gave the winning grace." Mr. Sydney Grundy, endimanché, is too beautiful for words. But the picture of Mrs. Bancroft, wearing (in addition to a trimmed fur cloak) a wonderful kind of "Fellah! don't-know-yar-fellah!" expression, at once surprised, pained, and hurt, does not at all represent the "little Mrs. B." whom the public knows and loves. "How doth the little busy Mrs. B. delight to bark and bite" might have been under this portrait, and Downey must be more Downey another time, and give us a more characteristic presentment of this lively comédienne. The Right Hon. Arthur J. Balfour is the best of all. Capital. Just the man: "frosty but kindly." Then there is a first rate portrait of Miss Fanny Brough, and after her comes the King of Saxony!! O Albert of Saxony! after Miss Fanny Brough!! What'll Queenie Caroline say? Perhaps Messrs. Downey, by kind permission of Cassell & Co., will explain.
Battle With Bacilli.—Dr. Roux has been successful against the Diphtheria Bacillus. He can afford to look on at any number of Bacilli and exclaim, "Bah! silly!" Unless he pronounces Latin more Italiano, and then he would say "Bah! chilly!" Which would signify that they were lifeless and harmless. "Bravo Roux!"
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BY OUR COVER SYSTEM we have never yet drawn blank. Surprise profits are made by all Investors who trust us with their balances, so that a swinging amount always stands to their credit. We have never yet received a check. Our Customers come to Order, but they never go to Law. In June, 1893, we received information about Grand Post Defs. and Tympanum Prefs., and a Bull-dozing Operation was decided on. As a consequence we were able to present all Subscribers with a £50 dumb-bell apiece, which has made them strong enough to move a Market.
THE ALL-ROUND COMPANY'S PEBBLE-BEECHED POPLAR HOAX DEAL. Everyone should therefore PLANK DOWN HIS MONEY and
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198
AWKWARDLY EXPRESSED.
(A Cosy Corner in a Country House.)
Hostess. "This is good of you, Major Grey! When I wrote I never expected for a moment that you would come!"
"WINDING 'EM UP."
["If he believed that the majority of the Liberal-Unionist party, or indeed any considerable section of them, held the opinion which was expressed by this writer in the Times, he, for one, would at once resign the responsible position which he held, and would claim to take up a more independent position, because he was certain that their efforts would be fruitless, and that they would not succeed in defeating the policy of Home Rule if they were to accept the negative position which had been suggested to them."—Mr. Chamberlain at Durham.]
Showman Joe soliloquiseth:—
Waxworks indeed! Hah! I've took over the management of 'em, and I suppose, as Misther Thleary said, I must "make the betht of 'em, not the wurtht." But I'm a bit tired of the job—sometimes.
Wish I could feel Mrs. Jarley's pride in the whole bag o' tricks! 'Ave to purtend to, of course. Can't cry creaky waxworks any more than you can stinking fish. But a more rusty, sluggish, wheezy, wobbly, jerky, uncertain, stick-fast, stodgy, unwillin' lot o' wax figgers I never did——Well, there, it tries a conscience of injy-rubber to crack 'em up and patter of 'em into poppylarity, blowed if it don't!
Kim up, Dook! Dashed if 'e don't look as if 'e fancied hisself the Sleepin' Beauty, and wanted to forty-wink it for another centry. Look at the flabby flop of 'im! Jest as though 'e wouldn't move if 'is nose wos a meltin'. Large as life, and twice as nateral? Wy, a kid's Guy Fox on the fifth o' November 'ud give 'im hodds, and lick 'is 'ead orf—heasy! Bin a-ileing 'is works this ever so long, and still 'e moves as if 'is wittles wos sand-paper, and 'is drink witrol. Kim up!
As to the Markis, well, 'e's a bit older, but dashed if 'e don't move livelier—when 'e is on the shift. At the present moment 'owever, utter confloption is a cycle-sprinter to 'im. As if a pair o' niddity-noddities in "negative" positions was likely to fetch 'em in front in these days! Yah!
Should like to keep the Old Show a-runnin', too,—leastways, until I can start a bran-new one of my very own. Won't run to it yet, I'm afraid. Oh, to boss a big booth-full all to myself! I'd show 'em! This Combination Show—old stock-in-trade of one company, and cast-offs from another—ain't the best o' bisness arter all. But I must keep 'em together as a going concern till I can run a star company of my own choosing. 'Ere, 'and us that ile-can again! Talk about rust and rickets!
Curting about to be rung up? Then I must get 'em in working horder somehow! 'Ang this Dook! Can't git anythink nateral out of 'im—'cept a yawn. That 'e does as like as life. Kim up old nose-o'-wax and don't nod yerself into nothingness! 'Ow much more ile do yer rusty old innards want to stop their clogging and creaking?
Proprietors beginning to pull long faces at my pace? 'Int that I'll shake the machinery to smithereens by too much haction? Well, I am blowed! Wy, they'd slow down a sick snail, and 'andicap a old tortus, they would! Tell yer wot it is, if they don't give me a free 'and at the crank I shall turn the whole thing up, so there! Some nameless, nidnoddy, negative old crocks 'ave bin a-earwigging 'em, that's wot's the matter. But I give 'em the straight tip, if they lend a ear to them slow-going stick-in-the-muds, I shall jest resign my responserble persition, and take up a hindependent one—jine the Opposition Show, or p'r'aps start one o' my own, and then where will they be, I wonder?
Cling-cling! Curting rising? Well, 'ere goes once more then! (Winding hard and addressing audience). "Ladies and gen'l'men! The Himperial and Royal Grand Unionist Combination Waxworks Show is about to start for the season! Largest and most life-like set o' wax figgers ever exhibited to a hadmiring public!! As I wind you will perceive hunmistakeable signs of hanimation in 'is Grace the Nobble Dook; arter wich, with your kyind permission, I shall take a turn at the Illustrous Markis!!!"
"WINDING 'EM UP."
Showman Joe. "LADIES AND GEN'L'MEN, 'IS GRACE THE DOOK WILL SHORTLY BEGIN TO SHOW SIGNS OF HANIMATION—HAFTER WHICH, WITH YOUR KIND PERMISSION, I WILL PERCEED TO TAKE A TURN AT THE MARKIS!"
(New Song to an Old Tune, for the New Woman.)
[The Quarterly Review says that man will not marry the New Woman, which must be the final blow to her ambition.]
Title for New London Japanese Journal (Weekly).—"The Happy Dispatch, edited by Hari Kari." 199
200
201
STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE.
The Chick-a-leary Cochin.
Query in the Country.—New agricultural version of an ancient cockney slang phrase—"Has your farmer sold his mangel?"
Advice to any Dramatic Author who has written a Lengthy Piece.—"Cut, and run."
The Zuyder Zee.—"Wha' be the Zider Zee?" repeated a Devonian farmer. "Why, I always thought as the Zee of Exeter were the Zider Zee. Ain't it pratty well in the middle o' Zider Country?" 202
IMPROVEMENTS IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. I.—PROPOSED HAIR-DRESSING ROOM.
"A series of alterations has, during the recess, been in active progress within the Houses of Parliament," &c.... "Space will be set apart to provide dressing-room accommodation and a hair-dressing saloon."—Times, Wednesday, October 17. 203
(Vide last Number of "Punch.")
'Tother Way About.—Mr. Le Gallienne says, epigrammatically, that "Beauty is the smile on the face of Power." Humph! Gallant Mr. Punch prefers to put it the other way, and say "Power is the smile on the face of Beauty!" Surely that is equally true. But it's a poor rule (or paradox) that won't work both ways.
Motto most Practical for all who are compelled to Travel constantly in our Metropolitan Public Conveyances.—"In Omnibus Caritas."
OUR DECADENTS.
Algy. "What's the matter, Archie? You're not looking well!"
Archie. "You wouldn't look well, if you'd been suffering from Insomnia every Afternoon for a Week!"
[Of a recently protracted discussion in the Times on "Anglican Orders," set to the air of what was once upon a time a popular song, entitled Billy Barlow.]
The one, Sir Bob Reid, Q.C., M.P., "to be Attorney-General"; the other, Frank Lockwood, Q.C., M.P., "to be Solicitor-General." Reid and Right. Commercial value, one "Bob" and a "Frank," i.e. One-and-tenpence the pair.
Future Fame.—Mr. T. E. Ellis, M.P., "speaking at Colwyn Bay" (unkind of him, this, for what has Colwyn Bay done to him? Why not address Colwyn Bay personally instead of "speaking at" C. B.), spoke at the same time "at" the House of Lords. "Were the wishes of the people to be continually thwarted by an hereditary and irresponsible Chamber?" That's the style! Twopence coloured. Henceforth Mr. T. E. Ellis, from being Nobody in particular, will now be known as "Somebody Ellis."
"He saw the greatest quail before him."
"Now that," quoth the Baron emphatically, as he deposed My Lady Rotha in favour of the next novelty, what ever it might be, "that is a romance after my own heart. Mr. Stanley Weyman, author of A Gentleman of France and Under the Red Robe, has not as yet, excellent as were both those works, written anything so powerful, so artistic, so exciting, and so all-engrossing (no further participles or adjectives wanted at present) as My Lady Rotha." This romancer has the rare talent of interesting his reader as much in the action of his crowds as he does in the fortunes of his individuals. He is the Sir John Gilbert of the pen; and the Baron cautiously expresses his opinion that My Lady Rotha is not so very far off Ivanhoe. To compare with the works of other modern romancers, it may be safely said that, from Chapter XXVI. to Chapter XXIX. inclusive, the situations are as exciting as any ever invented by Rider Haggard, Louis B. Stephenson, or Jules Verne; "which" the Baron freely admits, "is saying a good deal,—Treasure Island always excepted."
The Baron anticipates "Next please," with pleasure, but at the same time he would draw the attention of the prolific author to the ancient proverb "festina lente," which is not at variance with his exclaiming "On! Stanley (Weyman) on!" and these are "the last words" (for the present on this subject) of the
.
[On hearing that an Archdeacon had withdrawn from the School-Board Controversy because he found himself opposed to his Bishop.]
The Archdeacon is "sorry he spoke." Not that he has changed his opinion—oh dear no! far from that. But the Bishop thinks otherwise, so the Archdeacon retires as gracefully as may be from the controversy. He is, he explains, as it were, the Bishop's "oculus"—the man to whom the Bishop can proudly point, and say "All my eye!" This theory of subordination of thought to one's superior is highly suggestive. For instance, who will be surprised to read the following highly authentic document, now made public for the first time.
To the Editor of the Once a-Month Review.
Dear Sir,—With reference to my article "Is Horse-racing Justifiable?" I desire to make known that while I still strongly adhere to my views therein expressed as to the wickedness of the turf, I shall, for the reason I am about to mention, take no further active part in the controversy. I find that the Prime Minister is the owner of some racehorses (a fact previously unknown to me), and as I am his "dextera," if it is not presumptive to say so, it would clearly be unbecoming on my part to take up any antagonistic position. However much I may regret having to take this course, I am sure you will agree with me that it is the only one which is open to me.
Yours faithfully, .
Dear Mr. Punch,—Last Sunday evening I fully intended going to church. I put on my most attractive bonnet, and an absolutely bewitching jacket, when I discovered that Jim (he's my husband, you know) did not intend to go out. As I had read a little while before the new archidiaconal theory of obedience, that of course prevented my going out. Clearly as I am Jim's "better-half" I couldn't go anywhere that he didn't go. Please, Mr. Punch, was I right? Or can it be that the archdeacon was wrong?
Yours very perplexed, .
204
(A Brown Study in a Yellow Book.)
By Mortarthurio Whiskersley.
Nay, but it is useless to protest. Much bosh and bauble-tit and pop-limbo has been talked about George THE Phorth. Thackeray denunciated him in his charming style (we never find Thackeray searching for the mot juste as for a wisp of hay in a packet of needles), but inverideed he was not sufficiently merciful to the last gentleman in Europe. We must not judge a prince too harshly. How many temptations he had with all the wits and flutterpates and malaperts gyring and gimbling round him! George was a sportsman. He would spend the morning with his valet (who was a hero to him), assuming gorgeous apparel, and tricking himself, with brush and pigment, into more charm. He was implected with a passion for the pleasures of the wardrobe, and had a Royal memory for old coats. Then he would saunter into White's for ale and tittle-tattle, and drive a friend into the country, stopping on the way for cursory visits at the taverns; I mean, swearing if the ale was not good. He had his troubles. Queen Caroline was a mimsy, out-moded woman, a sly serio, who gadded hither and thither shrieking for the unbecoming. Mrs. Phox ensorcelled George with her beautiful, silly phace, shadowed with vermeil tinct and trimly pencilled. There was no secernment between her soul and surface; she was mere, insouciant, with a rare dulcedo.
George collected locks of hair and what not, and what not. He gave in his bright flamboyance a passing renascence to Society. But the Victorian era came soon, and angels rushed in where fools had not feared to tread, and hung the land with reps, and drove Artifice phorth, and set Martin Tupper on a throne of mahogany to rule over them.
In the tangled accrescency of George's degringolade—in fact when he was dyeing—he thought he had led the charge of Waterloo! Tristfully he would describe the scene, referring to the Duke of Wellington for corroboration. An unfortunate slip, for it is well known the old soldier was never there himself.
It is brillig, and from my window at the Métropole, Brighton, I see the trite lawns and cheeky minarets of the Pavilion. I can see the rooms crusted with ormolu, the fauns foisted on the ceiling, the ripping rident goddesses on the walls. Once I phancied I saw a swaying phigure, and a wine-red phace....
P.S.—I like to phancy the watchful evil phaces of my Criticks as they read this article. Phair men, but infelix, they will lavish their anger in epigramme. Not that I care a little tittle about adverse remarks kicked from a gutter into a garret! But! But let them not outgribe too soon, but rather dance and be glad, and trip the cockawhoop. For! For, slithy toves as they are, they will read it with tears and desiderium, unless I do as did Artemus of shameful memory, and in jolliness and glad indulgence whisper to them—
Wonderful Feat OF Strength.—The strong man supporting four men on a chair is nothing in comparison with an entire train "held up" by four men! This was reported in the Pall Mall Gazette last Saturday as having occurred to a "Texas Pacific train." The armed robbers went off with 20,000 dollars. Nice "Pacific" train to travel by!
Heirlooms.—Mr. Punch congratulates Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree, and their Olive Branch little Miss Tree, on the valuable souvenirs of their Balmoral performance presented them by Her Majesty, which, from all others, will distinguish this particular "Family Tree."
At Lugano.—Geographically this seems to be Italy. But people remind one always of the artificial frontier which makes it Switzerland. What's that matter? Get up early. Ha! there it is. Cloudless sky! And such a blue! Ultramarine at a guinea the thimbleful. Hurry down to enjoy its beauty as long as possible. Fortunate I did so, for by ten o'clock it has all vanished. Go up a hill. View from top would be fairly clear for Helvellyn. But for Italy! Amiable and chatty Italian reminds me that I am not in Italy. Ah, of course not. Will get there as soon as I can. Meanwhile mope in hotel, for it is now raining steadily. Not a magnificent mountain downpour, with thunder and lightning, howling of wind, crashing of elements, alarums and excursions, and that sort of thing; only a quiet, steady rain, which would be disliked even in Ambleside. But in Ambleside there would be a fire. Here I sit in a draughty, chilly corridor, with some melancholy Germans, all of us wearing overcoats indoors. They remind me that I am not in Italy. Anyone could see that.
At Pallanza.—Here on Lago Maggiore there must really be the Rowbotham effects. My room looks over the lake. "La vista è bellissima," says the waiter in the evening. Hooray! Now to forget the gloom of Switzerland and England. Wake early. Misty morning. Good sign of fine weather probably. Into bed again. Wake again. Only half-past seven. Still misty. Into bed again. Wake once more. Still misty. Evidently quite early. Hullo! still half-past seven. Watch stopped. Ring. "Si, Signore," says the chambermaid, in the mixed dialect which she has invented for foreigners, "il est dieci heures." Ten! By Jove! With that fog? She assures me it will clear away, "se non oggi, domani." Bellissima vista looks exactly like Derwentwater in rain. Grey water, grey sky, grey mountains, wreathed in grey mist. It does not clear to-day, so it may to-morrow.
Next day even worse. Fog greyer, and rain with it. Mud everywhere. Notice a practical German tourist with three umbrellas strapped on his knapsack. Wise man! He knows this climate, and also the advantage of a change of clothes, or of umbrellas. So useful to have a morning umbrella, an afternoon umbrella, and a sort of evening-dress umbrella to bring down to the table d'hôte. When tired of gazing at the mist, I read a three days old Times, preserved in the reading-room. Hullo! what is that sound? A piano-organ! Heavens! To think that I should have travelled hundreds of miles from London to hear the grinding of an organ while I read the Times in a fog! Why, in Kensington Gardens I could have done as much.
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.