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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Puppets at Large, by F. Anstey
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Puppets at Large
Scenes and Subjects from Mr Punch's Show
Author: F. Anstey
Illustrator: J. Bernard Partridge
Release Date: September 17, 2011 [EBook #37449]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUPPETS AT LARGE ***
Produced by David Clarke, Katie Hernandez and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
</pre>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[ iii]</a></span></p>
<h1>Puppets at Large</h1>
<h2>Scenes and Subjects<br /></h2>
<h2>From Mr. Punch's Show.<br /><br /></h2>
<h3>By F. Anstey<br /></h3>
<div class='center'>Author of "Vice Versa," "Voces Populi," &c., &c.<br /><br /></div>
<div class='center'>With Illustrations by<br /></div>
<div class='center'>J. Bernard Partridge<br /><br /></div>
<div class='center'>London<br /></div>
<div class='center'>Bradbury, Agnew, & Co. Ld., Bouverie St., E.C.<br /></div>
<div class='center'>1897<br /></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[ iv]</a></span></p>
<p class="center">BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS,<br />
LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.<br /></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[ v]</a></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>
<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td> </td><td align="right">PAGE</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Doing a Cathedral</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Instantaneous Process</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">In the Cause of Charity</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Classical Scholar in Reduced Circumstances</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Rus in Urbe</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Catching the Early Boat</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Society's Next Craze</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">An Ideal Interviewer</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Saturday Night in the Edgware Road</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The "Model Husband" Contest</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Courier of the Hague</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Feeling their Way</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[ vi]</a></span>A Testimonial Manque</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Model Democracy</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">By Parliamentary</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Farming of the Future</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">A Dialogue on Art</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Old Love and the New</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">A Doll's Diary</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Elevating the Masses</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Bookmakers on the Beach</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">'Igher Up!</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_243">243</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">At a Highland Cattle Auction</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_257">257</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">The Country of Cockaigne</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_265">265</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[ vii]</a></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2>
<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td> </td><td align="left">PAGE</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"What did 'e want to go and git the fair 'ump about?"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"What's she got hold of now?"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"You have lofty ambitions and the artistic temperament"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"They ain't on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was reciters,
or somethink o' that"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"Mokestrians"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"Dear, dear! <i>not</i> a county family!"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_125">125</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"Well, he's had a sharp lesson,—there's no denying that".</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"None of your humour here, mind!"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"I cann't get nothen done to 'en till the weather's a bit
more hopen like"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"They haven't the <i>patiensh</i> for it"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"It must be a sort of animal, I suppose"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"I see <i>him</i> standing on the very brink of the precipice"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_209">209</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"To-night is ours!"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"Why the blazes don't ye take it?"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_239">239</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"Thash where 'tis, yer come on me too late!"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_251">251</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"'Ere, Florrie, you ain't <i>croying</i>, are yer?"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_271">271</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[ 1]</a></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" /></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[ 3]</a></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>DOING A CATHEDRAL.</h2>
<h3>(<span class="smcap">A Sketch From the Provinces</span>.)</h3>
<p><i>The interior of Dulchester Cathedral.</i> <span class="smcap">Time</span>—<i>About 12.30.
The March sunshine slants in pale shafts through the clerestory
windows, leaving the aisles in shadow. From without, the
cawing of rooks and shouts of children at play are faintly
audible. By the West Door, a party of Intending Sightseers
have collected, and the several groups, feeling that it would be
a waste of time to observe anything in the building until officially
instructed to do so, are engaged in eyeing one another with all
the genial antipathy and suspicion of true-born Britons.</i></p>
<p>A Stodgy Sightseer (<i>to his friend</i>). Disgraceful,
keeping us standing about like this!
If I'd only known, I'd have told the head-waiter
at the "Mitre" to keep back those chops
till——</p>
<p class="right">
<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">[<i>He breaks off abruptly, finding that the chops are</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>reverberating from column to column with</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>disproportionate solemnity; a white-haired and</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>apple-faced verger rustles down from the choir</i></span><br /><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[ 4]</a></span>
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>and beckons the party forward benignantly,</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>whereupon they advance with a secret satisfaction</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>at the prospect of "getting the cathedral</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>'done' and having the rest of the day to themselves;"</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>they are conducted to a desk and</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>requested, as a preliminary, to put sixpence</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>apiece in the Restoration Fund box and inscribe</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>their names in a book.</i></span></p>
<p><i>Confused Murmurs.</i> Would you put "Portico
Lodge, Camden Road, or only London?"...
Here, I'd better sign for the lot of you, eh?...
They <i>might</i> provide a better pen—in a <i>cathedral</i>, I <i>do</i>
think!... He might have given all our names
in full instead of just "And party!"... Oh, I've
been and made a blot—will it <i>matter</i>, should you
think?... I never <i>can</i> write my name with people
looking on, can <i>you</i>?... I'm sure you've done
it beautifully, dear!... Just hold my umbrella
while I take off my glove, Maria.... Oh, why
<i>don't</i> they make haste? &c., &c.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Stodgy Sightseer</span> <i>fumes, feeling that,
while they are fiddling, his chops are burning.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span>. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you
will please to follow me, the portion of the building
where we now are is part of the original hedifice
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[ 5]</a></span>
founded by Ealfrytha, wife of Earl Baldric, in the
year height 'undred heighty-height, though we 'ave
reason to believe that an even hearlier church was in
existence 'ere so far back as the Roman occupation,
as is proved by a hancient stone receptacle recently
discovered under the crypt and hevidently used for
baptismal purposes.</p>
<p>A <span class="smcap">Spectacled S.</span> (<i>who feels it due to herself to put
an intelligent question at intervals.</i>) What <i>was</i> the
method of baptism among the Early Christians?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span>. We believe it to 'ave been by total
immersion, Ma'am.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Spect. S.</span> Oh? <i>Baptists!</i></p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>She sets down the Early Christians as Dissenters,
and takes no further interest in them.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span>. At the back of the choir, and immediately
in front of you, is the shrine, formerly
containing the bones of St. Chasuble, with relics of
St. Alb. (<i>An</i> <span class="smcap">Evangelical Sightseer</span> <i>snorts in disapproval.</i>)
The 'ollow depressions in the steps leading
up to the shrine, which are still visible, were worn
away, as you see, by the pilgrims ascending on their
knees. (<i>The party verify the depressions conscientiously,
and click their tongues to express indulgent contempt.</i>)
The spaces between the harches of the shrine were
originally enriched by valuable gems and mosaics,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[ 6]</a></span>
all of which 'ave now long since disappeared, 'aving
been removed by the more devout parties who came
'ere on pilgrimages. In the chapel to your left
a monument with recumbent heffigies of Bishop
Buttress and Dean Gurgoyle, represented laying side
by side with clasped 'ands, in token of the lifelong
affection between them. The late Bishop used to
make a rather facetious remark about this tomb.
He was in the 'abit of observing that it was the honly
instance in <i>his</i> experience of a Bishop being on
friendly terms with his Dean. (<i>He glances round for
appreciation of this instance of episcopal humour, but is
pained to find that it has produced a general gloom; the</i>
<span class="smcap">Evangelical Sightseer</span>, <i>indeed, conveys by another
and a louder snort, his sense that a Bishop ought to set a
better example.</i>) In the harched recess to your right,
a monument in painted halibarster to Sir Ralph
Ringdove and his lady, erected immediately after her
decease by the disconsolate widower, with a touching
inscription in Latin, stating that their ashes would
shortly be commingled in the tomb. (<i>He pauses,
to allow the ladies of the party to express a becoming
sympathy—which they do, by clicks.</i>) Sir Ralph himself,
however, is interred in Ficklebury Parish
Church, forty mile from this spot, along with his
third wife, who survived him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[ 7]</a></span></p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>The ladies regard the image of Sir Ralph with
indignation, and pass on; the</i> <span class="smcap">Verger</span> <i>chuckles
faintly at having produced his effect.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Evangelical</span> S. (<i>snuffing the air suspiciously</i>).
I'm sorry to perceive that you are in the habit of
burning <i>incense</i> here!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>He looks sternly at the</i> <span class="smcap">Verger</span>, <i>as though to imply
that it is useless to impose upon him.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span>. No, Sir, what you smell ain't
incense—on'y the vaults after the damp weather
we've bin 'aving.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Evangelical Sightseer</span> <i>drops behind,
divided between relief and disappointment.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>A <span class="smcap">Plastic</span> S. (<i>to the</i> <span class="smcap">Verger</span>). What a perfectly
<i>exquisite</i> rose-window that is! For all the world like
a kaleidoscope. I suppose it dates from the Norman
period, at <i>least</i>?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span> (<i>coldly</i>). No, Ma'am, it was only put
up about thirty year ago. <i>We</i> consider it the poorest
glass we 'ave.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Plast.</span> S. Oh, the glass, yes; <i>that's</i> hideous,
certainly. I meant the—the other part.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span>. The tracery, Ma'am? That was
restored at the same time by a local man—and a
shocking job he made of it, too!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Plast.</span> S. Yes, it <i>quite</i> spoils the Cathedral,
<i>doesn't</i> it? Couldn't it be taken down?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[ 8]</a></span></p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span> (<i>in answer to another Inquirer</i>). Crowborough
Cathedral finer than this, Sir? Oh, <i>dear</i>
me, no. I went over a-purpose to 'ave a look at it
the last 'oliday I took, and I was quite surprised
to find 'ow very inferior it was. The spire? I don't
say that mayn't be 'igher as a mere matter of feet,
but our lantern-tower is so 'appily proportioned as
to give the effect of being by far the 'ighest in
existence.</p>
<p>A <span class="smcap">Travelled S.</span> Ah, you should see the <i>continental</i>
cathedrals. Why, <i>our</i> towers would hardly come up
to the top of the naves of some of them!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span> (<i>loftily</i>). I don't take no notice of
foreign cathedrals, Ma'am. If foreigners like to build
so ostentatious, all I can say is, I'm sorry <i>for</i> them.</p>
<p>A <span class="smcap">Lady</span> (<i>who has provided herself with a "Manual
of Architecture" and an unsympathetic</i> <span class="smcap">Companion</span>).
<i>Do</i> notice the excessive use of the ball-flower as a
decoration, dear. Parker says it is especially characteristic
of this cathedral.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Unsympathetic Companion</span>. I don't see <i>any</i>
flowers myself. And if they like to decorate for
festivals and that, where's the harm?</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Lady with the Manual</span> <i>perceives that it
is hopeless to explain</i>.</p></blockquote>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span>. The dog-tooth mouldings round the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[ 9]</a></span>
triforium harches is considered to belong to the best
period of Norman work——</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Lady with the Manual</span>. Surely not <i>Norman</i>?
Dog-tooth is Saxon, <i>I</i> always understood.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span> (<i>indulgently</i>). You'll excuse <i>me</i>,
Ma'am, but I fancy it's 'erringbone as is running in
<i>your</i> 'ed.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Lady with the M.</span> (<i>after consulting "Parker"
for corroboration, in vain</i>). Well, I'm sure dog-tooth
is quite <i>Early English</i>, anyway. (<i>To her</i> <span class="smcap">Companion</span>.)
Did you know it was the interlacing of the round
arches that gave the first idea of the pointed arch,
dear?</p>
<p>Her <span class="smcap">Comp.</span> No. But I shouldn't have thought
there was so very much in the <i>idea</i>.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Lady with the M.</span> I do <i>wish</i> you took more
<i>interest</i>, dear. Look at those two young men who
have just come in. They don't <i>look</i> as if they'd care
for carving; but they've been studying every one of
the Miserere seats in the choir-stalls. That's what
<i>I</i> like to see!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span>. That concludes my dooties, ladies
and gentlemen. You can go out by the South
Transept door, and that'll take you through the
Cloisters. (<i>The Party go out, with the exception of
the two</i> <span class="smcap">'Arries</span>, <i>who linger, expectantly, and cough in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[ 10]</a></span>
embarrassment.</i>) Was there anything you wished
to know?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First 'Arry</span>. Well, Mister, it's on'y—er—'aven't
you got some old carving or other 'ere of a rather—well,
<i>funny</i> kind—sorter thing you on'y show to
<i>gentlemen</i>, if you know what I mean?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Verger</span> (<i>austerely</i>). There's nothing in <i>this</i>
Cathedral for gentlemen o' <i>your</i> sort, and I'm surprised
at your expecting of it.</p>
<p class="right">[<i>He turns on his heel.</i></p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">First 'Arry</span> (<i>to Second</i>). I spoke civil enough to
<i>'im</i>, didn't I? What did 'e want to go and git the
fair 'ump about?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second 'Arry</span>. Oh, <i>I</i> dunno. But you don't
ketch <i>me</i> comin' over to no more cathedrils, and
wastin' time and money all for nuthink—that's all.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>They tramp out, feeling that their confidence has
been imposed upon.</i></p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[ 11]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 437px;">
<img src="images/p11.png" width="437" height="600" alt=""What did 'e want to go and git the fair 'ump about?"" title="" />
<span class="caption">"What did 'e want to go and git the fair 'ump about?"</span></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[ 13]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" /></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[ 15]</a></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE INSTANTANEOUS PROCESS;</h2>
<h3><span class="smcap">Or, Fluff Sits for his Photograph.</span></h3>
<p><i>A Photographer's Studio on the Seventh Floor. It is a warm
afternoon.</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. Stippler</span>, <i>Photographic Artist, is discovered
alone.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stippler</span> (<i>to himself</i>). No appointments
while this weather lasts, thank goodness!
I shall be able to get ahead with those
negatives now. (<i>Sharp whistle from speaking-tube, to
which he goes.</i>) Well?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Voice of Lady Assistant</span> (<i>in shop below</i>). Lady
just brought her dog in; wants to know if she can
have it taken now.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> (<i>to himself</i>). Oh, dash the dog and the
lady too!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">The Voice.</span> No, only the <i>dog</i>, the lady says.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> (<i>confused</i>). Eh? Oh, exactly. Ask
the lady to have the goodness to—ah—step up. (<i>He
opens the studio door, and awaits the arrival of his client;
interval, at the end of which sounds as of a female in</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[ 16]</a></span>
<i>distress about halfway down are distinctly audible.</i>)
She's <i>stepping</i> up. (<i>Another interval. The head of a
breathless</i> <span class="smcap">Elderly Lady</span> <i>emerges from the gloom.</i>)
This way, Madam.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Elderly Lady</span> (<i>entering and sinking into the first
plush chair</i>). Oh, <i>dear</i> me, I thought I should <i>never</i>
get to the top! Now <i>why</i> can't you photographers
have your studios on the ground floor? So <i>much</i>
more convenient!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> No doubt, Madam, no doubt. But
there is—ah—a prejudice in the profession in favah
of the roof; possibly the light is considered somewhat
superiah. I thought I understood there was—ah—a
dog?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> Oh, he'll be here presently. I
think he saw something in one of the rooms on
the way up that took his fancy, or very likely
he's resting on one of the landing mats,—such
an <i>intelligent</i> dog! I'll call him. Fluffy, Fluffy,
come along, my pet, nearly up now! Mustn't
keep his missis waiting for him. (<i>A very long
pause: presently a small rough-haired terrier lounges
into the studio with an air of proprietorship</i>.) That's
the dog; he's so small, he can't take <i>very</i> long
to do, <i>can</i> he?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> The—ah—precise size of the animal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[ 17]</a></span>
does not signify, Madam; we do it by an instantaneous
process. The only question is the precise
pose you would prefer. I presume the dog is a
good—ah—rattah?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> Really, I've no idea. But he's <i>very</i>
clever at killing bluebottles; he <i>will</i> smash them on
the window-panes.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> (<i>without interest</i>). I see, Madam. We
have a speciality for our combination backgrounds,
and you might like to have him represented on a
country common, in the act of watching a hole in
a bank.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> (<i>impressed</i>). For bluebottles?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> For—ah—rats. (<i>By way of concession.</i>)
<i>Or</i> bluebottles, of course, if you prefer it.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> I think I would rather have something
more characteristic. He has such a pretty way
of lying on his back with all his paws sticking straight
up in the air. I never saw any <i>other</i> dog do it.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> Precisely. But I doubt whether that
particulah pose would be effective—in a photograph.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> You think not? Where <i>has</i> he got
to, now? Oh, <i>do</i> just look at him going round,
examining everything! He <i>quite</i> understands what
he's wanted to do; you've no idea what a clever
dog he is!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[ 18]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> Ray-ally? How would it do to have
him on a rock in the middle of a salmon stream?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> It would make me so uncomfortable
to see it; he has a perfect <i>horror</i> of wetting his
little feet!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> In <i>that</i> case, no doubt—— Then what
do you say to posing him on an ornamental pedestal?
We could introduce a Yorkshire moor, or a view
of Canterbury Cathedral, as a background.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> A pedestal seems <i>so</i> suggestive of
a cemetery, doesn't it?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> Then we must try some other position.
(<i>He resigns himself to the commonplace.</i>) Can
the dog—ah—sit up?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> Bee-yutifully! Fluffy, come and show
how nicely you can sit up!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fluff</span> (<i>to himself</i>). Show off for this fellow?
Who pretends he's got rats—and hasn't! Not if
<i>I</i> know it!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>He rolls over on his back with a well-assumed air of
idiotcy</i>.</p></blockquote>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> (<i>delighted</i>). There, <i>that's</i> the attitude
I told you of. But perhaps it <i>would</i> come out rather
too leggy?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> It is—ah—open to that objection,
certainly, Madam. Perhaps we had better take him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[ 19]</a></span>
on a chair sitting up. (<span class="smcap">Fluff</span> is, <i>with infinite trouble,
prevailed upon to mount an arm-chair, from which he
growls savagely whenever</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. Stippler</span> <i>approaches</i>.)
You will probably be more successful with him
than I, Madam.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> I could make him sit up in a <i>moment</i>,
if I had any of his biscuits with me. But I forgot
to bring them.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> There is a confectionah next door.
We could send out a lad for some biscuits. About
how much would you requiah—a quartah of a
pound? <i>He goes to the speaking tube.</i></p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> He won't eat <i>all</i> those; he's a <i>most</i>
abstemious dog. But they must be <i>sweet</i>, tell them.
(<i>Delay. Arrival of the biscuits. The</i> <span class="smcap">Elderly
Lady</span> <i>holds one up, and</i> <span class="smcap">Fluff</span> <i>leaps, barking frantically,
until he succeeds in snatching it; a man[oe]uvre which he
repeats with each successive biscuit</i>.) Do you know,
I'm afraid he really <i>mustn't</i> have any more—biscuits
always <i>excite</i> him so. Suppose you take him lying
on the chair, much as he is now? (<span class="smcap">Mr. Stippler</span>
<i>attempts to place the dog's paws, and is snapped at</i>.)
Oh, <i>do</i> be careful!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> (<i>heroically</i>). Oh, it's of no consequence,
Madam. I am—ah—<i>accustomed</i> to it.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> Oh, yes; but <i>he</i> isn't, you know;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[ 20]</a></span>
so please be <i>very</i> gentle with him! And could
you get him a little water first? I'm sure he's
thirsty. (<span class="smcap">Mr. Stippler</span> <i>brings water in a developing
dish, which</i> <span class="smcap">Fluff</span> <i>empties promptly</i>.) Now he'll be
as <i>good</i>——!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> (<i>after wiping</i> <span class="smcap">Fluff's</span> <i>chin and arranging
his legs</i>). If we can only keep him like that for one
second.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> But he ought to have his ears pricked.
(<span class="smcap">Mr. Stippler</span> <i>makes weird noises behind the camera,
resembling demon cats in torture</i>; <span class="smcap">Fluff</span> <i>regards him
with calm contempt</i>.) Oh, and his hair is all in his
eyes, and they're his best feature!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<span class="smcap">Mr. Stippler</span> <i>attempts to part</i> <span class="smcap">Fluff's</span> <i>fringe;
snarls</i>.</p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> I have not discovered his eyes at
present, Madam; but he appears to have excellent—ah—<i>teeth</i>.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> <i>Has</i>n't he! Now, couldn't you catch
him like <i>that</i>?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> <i>(to himself</i>). He's more likely to catch
<i>me</i> like that! (<i>Aloud; as he retreats under a hanging
canopy.</i>) I think we shall get a good one of him
as he is. (<i>Focussing</i>.) Yes, that will do very nicely.
(<i>He puts in the plate, and prepares to release the shutter,
whereupon</i> <span class="smcap">Fluff</span> <i>deliberately rises and presents his tail<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[ 21]</a></span>
to the camera</i>.) I presume you do not desiah a <i>back</i>
view of the dog, Madam!</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 503px;">
<img src="images/p21.png" width="503" height="600" alt=""What's she got hold of now."" title="" />
<span class="caption">"What's she got hold of now."</span>
</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[ 22]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[ 23]</a></span></p><p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> Certainly not! Oh, Fluffy, naughty—naughty!
Now lie down again, like a good dog.
Oh, I'm afraid he's going to sleep!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> If you would kindly take this—ah—toy
in your hand, Madam, it might rouse him a little.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> (<i>exhibiting a gutta-percha rat</i>). Here,
Fluffy, Fluffy, <i>here</i>'s a pitty sing! What <i>is</i> it, eh!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fluff</span> (<i>after opening one eye</i>). The old fool fancies
she's got a rat! Well, she may <i>keep</i> it!</p>
<p class="right">[<i>He curls himself up again</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> We must try to obtain more—ah—animation
than that.</p>
<p class="right">[<i>He hands the</i> <span class="smcap">Elderly Lady</span> <i>a jingling toy</i>.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> (<i>shaking it vigorously</i>). Fluffy, see
what Missis has got!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fluff</span> <i>(by a yawn of much eloquence</i>). At <i>her</i> age,
too! Wonderful how she can <i>do</i> it!</p>
<p class="right">[<i>He closes his eyes wearily.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> Perhaps you may produce a better
effect with this. [<i>He hands her a stuffed stoat.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fluff</span> (<i>to himself</i>). What's she got hold of <i>now</i>?
Hul-lo! (<i>He rises, and inspects the stoat with interest.</i>)
I'd no idea the old girl was so "varmint"!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> Capital! Now, if he'll stay like that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[ 24]</a></span>
another——(<span class="smcap">Fluff</span> <i>jumps down, and wags his tail
with conscious merit.</i>) Oh, <i>dear</i> me. I never saw
such a dog!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> He's tired out, poor doggie, and no
wonder. But he'll be all the <i>quieter</i> for it, <i>won't</i> he?
(<i>After restoring</i> <span class="smcap">Fluff</span> <i>to the chair.</i>) Now, couldn't
you take him panting, like that?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> I must wait till he's got a little less
tongue out, Madam.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> Must you? Why? <i>I</i> should have
thought it was a capital opportunity.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> For a physician, Madam, <i>not</i> a photographer.
If I were to take him now the result
would be an—ah—enormous tongue, with a dog in
the remote distance.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> And he's putting out more and more
of it! Perhaps he's thirsty again. Here, Fluffy,
water—water! [<i>She produces the developing dish.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fluff</span> (<i>in barks of unmistakable significance</i>). Look
here, I've had about enough of this tomfoolery.
Let's go. <i>Come</i> on!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> (<i>seconding the motion with relief</i>). I'm
<i>afraid</i> we're not likely to do better with him
to-day. Perhaps if you could look in some othah
afternoon?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> Why, we've only been an hour and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[ 25]</a></span>
twenty minutes as yet! But what would be the best
time to bring him?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Stip.</span> I should say the light and the temperatuah
would probably be more favourable by the week
aftah next—(<i>to himself</i>) when I shall be taking my
holiday!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> Very well, I'll come then. Oh, Fluffy,
Fluffy, what a silly little dog you are to give all this
trouble!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fluff</span> (<i>to himself, as he makes a triumphant exit</i>).
Not half so silly as some people think! I <i>must</i> tell
the cat about this; she'll go into fits! I will say
she has a considerable sense of humour—for a cat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[ 26]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[ 27]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" /></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[ 29]</a></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>IN THE CAUSE OF CHARITY.</h2>
<p><i>Mona House, the Town Mansion of the Marquis of Manx, which
has been lent for a Sale of Work in aid of the "Fund for Super-annuated
Skirt-dancers," under the patronage of Royalty and other
distinguished personages</i>.</p>
<p><i>In the Entrance Hall.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Wylie Dedhead</span> (<i>attempting to
insinuate herself between the barriers</i>). Excuse
me; I only wanted to pop in for a moment,
just to see if a lady friend of mine is in there,
that's <i>all</i>!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Lady Money-taker</span> (<i>blandly</i>). If you will let
me know your friend's name—?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. W. D.</span> (<i>splendide mendax</i>). She's assisting the
dear Duchess. <i>Now</i>, perhaps, you will allow me to
pass!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">L. M.</span> Afraid I can't, really. But if you mean
Lady Honor Hyndlegges—<i>she</i> is the only lady at the
Duchess's stall—I could send <i>in</i> for her. Or of
course, if you like to pay half-a-crown—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[ 30]</a></span>—</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. W. D.</span> (<i>hastily</i>). Thank you, I—I won't disturb
her ladyship. I had no <i>idea</i> there was any
charge for admission, and—(<i>bristling</i>)—allow me to
say I consider such regulations <i>most</i> absurd.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">L. M.</span> (<i>sweetly, with a half glance at the bowl of
coins on the table</i>). Quite <i>too</i> ridiculous, ain't they?
<i>Good</i> afternoon!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. W. D.</span> (<i>audibly, as she flounces out</i>). If they
suppose <i>I</i>'m going to pay half-a-crown for the
privilege of being <i>fleeced</i>——!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Footman</span> (<i>on steps, sotto voce, to confrère</i>).
"Fleeced"! that's a good 'un, eh? <i>She</i> ain't
brought much wool in with <i>her</i>!</p>
<p>His <span class="smcap">Confrère</span>. On'y what's stuffed inside of her
ear. [<i>They resume their former impassive dignity.</i></p>
<p><i>In the Venetian Gallery—where the Bazaar is being held.</i></p>
<p>A <span class="smcap">Loyal Old Lady</span> (<i>at the top of her voice—to</i>
<span class="smcap">Stall-keeper</span>). Which of 'em's the Princess, my
dear, eh? It's her I paid <i>my</i> money to see.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Stall-keeper</span> (<i>in a dismayed whisper</i>). Ssh!
Not <i>quite</i> so loud! There—just opposite—petunia
bow in her bonnet—selling kittens.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">L. O. L.</span> (<i>planting herself on a chair</i>). So <i>that's</i>
her! Well, she <i>is</i> dressed plain—for a Royalty—but
looks <i>pleasant</i> enough. I wouldn't mind taking one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[ 31]</a></span>
o' them kittens off her Royal 'Ighness myself, if they
was going at all reasonable. But there, I expect, the
cats <i>'ere</i> is meat for my masters, so to speak; and
you see, my dear, 'aving the promise of a tortoise-shell
Tom from the lady as keeps the Dairy next door,
whenever——</p>
<p class="right">[<i>She finds, with surprise, that her confidences are not
encouraged</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss St. Leger de Mayne</span> (<i>persuasively to</i>
<span class="smcap">Mrs. Nibbler</span>). Do let me show you some of this
exquisite work, all embroidered entirely by hand, you
see!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Nibbler</span> (<i>edging away</i>). Lovely—<i>quite</i> lovely;
but I think—a—I'll just take a look round before
I——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> If there is any <i>particular</i> thing you
were looking for, perhaps <i>I</i> could——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. N.</span> (<i>becoming confidential</i>). Well, I <i>did</i> think if
I could come across a nice <i>sideboard-cloth</i>——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> (<i>to herself</i>). What on earth's a sideboard-cloth?
(<i>Aloud.</i>) Why, I've the very <i>thing</i>!
See—all worked in Russian stitch!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. N.</span> (<i>dubiously</i>). I thought they were always
quite plain. And what's that queer sort of flap-thing
for?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> Oh, <i>that</i>? That's—a—to cover up the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[ 32]</a></span>
spoons, and forks, and things; quite the latest
fashion, <i>now</i>, you know.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. N.</span> (<i>with self-assertion</i>). I <i>have</i> noticed it at
several dinner parties I've been to in society lately,
certainly. Still I am not sure that——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> I always have them on my <i>own</i> sideboard
now—my husband won't <i>hear</i> of any others....
Then, I <i>may</i> put this one in paper for you?
fifteen-and-sixpence—thanks <i>so</i> much! (<i>To her
colleague, as</i> Mrs. N. <i>departs</i>). Connie, I've got rid
of that awful nightgown case at <i>last</i>!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Maycup.</span> A—you <i>don't</i> happen to have a
small bag to hold a powder-puff, and so on, you
know?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> I <i>had</i> some very pretty ones; but I'm
afraid they're all—oh, no, there's just <i>one</i> left—crimson
velvet and real <i>passementerie</i>. (<i>She produces a
bag</i>). Too trotty for words, isn't it?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Maycup</span> (<i>tacitly admitting its trottiness</i>). But
then—that sort of purse shape——Could I get a
small pair of folding curling-irons into it, should you
think, at a pinch?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> You could get <i>anything</i> into it—at a
pinch. I've one myself which will hold—well, I can't
tell you what it <i>won't</i> hold! Half-a-guinea—so <i>many</i>
thanks! (<i>To herself, as</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Maycup</span> <i>carries off her</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[ 33]</a></span>
<i>bag</i>.) What <i>would</i> the vicar's wife say if she knew I'd
sold her church collection bag for <i>that</i>! But it's all
in a good cause! (<i>An</i> <span class="smcap">Elderly Lady</span> <i>comes up</i>.) May
I show you some of these——?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Elderly Lady</span>. Well, I was wondering if
you had such a thing as a good warm pair of sleeping
socks; because, these bitter nights, I do find I suffer
so from cold in my feet.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> (<i>with effusion</i>). Ah, then I can <i>feel</i> for
you—so do <i>I</i>! At least, I <i>used</i> to before I tried—(<i>To
herself.</i>) Where <i>is</i> that pair of thick woollen
driving-gloves? Ah, <i>I</i> know. (<i>Aloud.</i>)—these. I've
found them <i>such</i> a comfort!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> (<i>suspiciously</i>). They have rather a
queer——And then they are divided at the ends, too.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> Oh, haven't you seen <i>those</i> before?
Doctors consider them so much healthier, don't you
know.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> I daresay they are, my dear. But
aren't the—(<i>with delicate embarrassment</i>)—the separated
parts rather long?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> Do you <i>think</i> so? They allow so much
more freedom, you see; and then, of course, they'll
shrink.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> That's true, my dear. Well, I'll take
a pair, as you recommend them so strongly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[ 34]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> I'm quite <i>sure</i> you'll never regret
it! (<i>To herself, as the</i> <span class="smcap">E. L.</span> <i>retires, charmed</i>.) I'd give
<i>anything</i> to see the poor old thing trying to put
them on!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss Mimosa Tendrill</span> (<i>to herself</i>). I do so <i>hate</i>
hawking this horrid old thing about! (<i>Forlornly, to</i>
<span class="smcap">Mrs. Allbutt-Innett</span>.) I—I beg your pardon;
but <i>will</i> you give me ten-and-sixpence for this
lovely work-basket?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Allbutt-Innett</span>. My good girl, let me tell
you I've been pestered to buy that identical basket
at every bazaar I've set foot in for the last twelve-month,
and how you can have the face to ask ten-and-six
for it—you must think I've more money
than wit!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss Tendr.</span> (<i>abashed</i>). Well—<i>eighteenpence</i> then?
(<i>To herself, as</i> Mrs. <span class="smcap">A. I.</span> <i>closes promptly</i>.) There, I've
sold <i>something</i>, anyhow!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Hon. Diana D'Autenbas</span> (<i>to herself</i>). It's
rather fun selling at a Bazaar; one can let oneself <i>go</i>
so much more! (<i>To the first man she meets.</i>) I'm sure
you'll buy one of my buttonholes—now <i>won't</i> you?
If I fasten it in for you myself?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cadney Rowser</span>. A button'ole, eh? Think
I'm not classy enough as I am?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss D'Aut.</span> I don't think <i>anyone</i> could accuse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[ 35]</a></span>
you of not being "<i>classy</i>;" still a flower would just
give the finishing-touch.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. C. R.</span> (<i>modestly</i>). Rats!—if you'll pass the
reedom. But you've such a way with you that—there—'ow
much.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss D'Aut.</span> Only five shillings. Nothing to <i>you</i>!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. C. R.</span> Five bob? You're a artful girl, <i>you</i> are!
"<i>Fang de Seakale</i>," and no error! But I'm <i>on</i> it;
it's worth the money to 'ave a flower fastened in by
such fair 'ands. I won't 'owl—not even if you <i>do</i> run
a pin into me.... What? You ain't done a'ready!
No <i>'urry</i>, yer know.... 'Ere, won't you come along
to the refreshment-stall, and 'ave a little something
at my expense. Do!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss D'Aut.</span> I think you must imagine you are
talking to a barmaid!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. C. R.</span> (<i>with gallantry</i>). I on'y wish barmaids
was 'alf as pleasant and sociable as <i>you</i>, Miss. But
they're a precious stuck-up lot, <i>I</i> can assure you!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss D'Aut.</span> (<i>to herself as she escapes</i>). I suppose
one ought to put up with this sort of thing—for a
charity!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Babbicombe</span> (<i>at the Toy Stall, to the Belle of
the Bazaar, aged three-and-a-half</i>). You <i>perfect</i> duck!
You're simply too <i>sweet</i>! I <i>must</i> find you something.
(<i>She tempers generosity with discretion by presenting</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[ 36]</a></span>
<i>her with a small pair of knitted doll's socks</i>.) There,
darling!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Belle's Mother</span>. What do you say to the
kind lady <i>now</i>, Marjory?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Marjory</span> (<i>a practical young person, to the donor</i>).
Now div me a dolly to put ve socks on.</p>
<p class="right">[<span class="smcap">Mrs. B.</span> <i>finds herself obliged to repair this omission</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">A Young Lady Raffler</span> (<i>to a</i> <span class="smcap">Young Man</span>). Do
take a ticket for this charmin' <i>sachet</i>. Only half-a-crown!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Young Man</span>. Delighted! If you'll put in for
this <i>splendid</i> cigar cabinet. Two shillin's!</p>
<p class="right">[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Young Lady</span> <i>realises that she has encountered
an Augur, and passes on</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de. M.</span> (<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. Isthmian Gatwick</span>). Can't
I tempt you with this tea-cosy? It's so absurdly
cheap!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Isthmian Gatwick</span> (<i>with dignity</i>). A-thanks;
I think not. Never <i>take</i> tea, don't you know.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss de M.</span> (<i>with her characteristic adaptability).</i>
Really? No more do <i>I</i>. But you <i>could</i> use it as a
<i>smoking-cap</i>, you know. <i>I</i> always——</p>
<p class="right">[<i>Recollects herself, and breaks off in confusion</i>.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[ 37]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 478px;">
<img src="images/p37.png" width="478" height="600" alt=""You have lofty ambitions and the artistic temperament."" title="" />
<span class="caption">"You have lofty ambitions and the artistic temperament."</span>
</div><p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[ 38]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[ 39]</a></span></p><p><span class="smcap">Miss Ophelia Palmer</span> (<i>in the "Wizard's Cave"—to</i>
<span class="smcap">Mr. Cadney Rowser</span>). Yes, your hand indicates
an intensely refined and spiritual nature; you are
perhaps a <i>little</i> too indifferent to your personal comfort
where that of others is concerned; sensitive—too
much so for your own happiness, perhaps—you
feel things keenly when you <i>do</i> feel them. You have
lofty ambitions and the artistic temperament—seven-and-sixpence,
please.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. C. R.</span> (<i>impressed</i>). Well, Miss, if you can read
all that for seven-and-six on the palm of my 'and,
I wonder what you <i>wouldn't</i> see for 'alf a quid on
the sole o' my boot!</p>
<p class="right">[<span class="smcap">Miss P.'s</span> <i>belief in Chiromancy sustains a severe
shock</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bobbie Patterson</span> (<i>outside tent, as Showman</i>).
This way to the Marvellous Jumping Bean from
Mexico! Threepence!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Voice from Tent</span>. Bobbie! Stop! The Bean's
<i>lost</i>! Lady Honor's horrid Thought-reading Poodle
has just stepped in and swallowed it.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bobbie</span>. Ladies and Gentlemen, owing to sudden
domestic calamity, the Bean has been unavoidably
compelled to retire, and will be unable to appear
till further notice.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss Smylie</span> (<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. Otis Barleywater</span>, <i>who—in
his own set—is considered "almost equal to Corney
Grain"</i>). I thought you were giving your entertainment
in the library? Why <i>aren't</i> you?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[ 40]</a></span>
<span class="smcap">Mr. Otis Barleywater</span> (<i>in a tone of injury</i>). Why?
Because I can't give my imitations of Arthur Roberts
and Yvette Guilbert with anything <i>like</i> the requisite
"go," unless I get a better audience than three
programme-sellers, all under ten, and the cloak-room
maid—<i>that's</i> why!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Allbutt-Innett</span> (<i>as she leaves, for the
benefit of bystanders</i>). I must say, the house is <i>most</i>
disappointing—not at <i>all</i> what I should expect a
<i>Marquis</i> to live in. Why, my <i>own</i> reception-rooms
are very nearly as large, and decorated in a much
more modern style!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bobbie Patterson</span> (<i>to a</i> "<span class="smcap">Doosid Good-natured
Fellow</span>, <i>who doesn't care</i> what <i>he does," and whom he
has just discovered inside a case got up to represent an
automatic sweetmeat machine</i>). Why, my dear old
<i>chap</i>! No idea it was <i>you</i> inside that thing! Enjoying
yourself in there, eh?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Doosid Good-natured Fellow</span> (<i>fluffily, from
the interior</i>). Enjoying myself! With the beastly
pennies droppin' down into my boots, and the kids
howlin' because all the confounded chocolates have
worked up between my shoulder-blades, and I can't
shake 'em out of the slit in my arm? I'd like to
see <i>you</i> tryin' it!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">L. O. L.</span> (<i>to a stranger, who is approaching the</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[ 41]</a></span>
<i>Princess's stall</i>). 'Ere, Mister, where are your manners?
'Ats off in the presence o' Royalty!</p>
<p class="right">[<i>She pokes him in the back with her umbrella; the
stranger turns, smiles slightly, and passes on.</i></p>
<p>A <span class="smcap">Well-informed Bystander</span>. You are evidently
unaware, Madam, that the gentleman you have just
addressed is His Serene Highness the Prince of
Potsdam!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">L. O. L.</span> (<i>aghast</i>). Her '<i>usban</i>'! And me a
jobbin' of 'im with my umbrella! 'Ere, let me get
out!</p>
<p class="right">[<i>She staggers out, in deadly terror of being sent to
the Tower on the spot.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[ 42]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[ 43]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[ 45]</a></span>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE CLASSICAL SCHOLAR</h2>
<h2>IN REDUCED CIRCUMSTANCES.</h2>
You are, let us say, a young professional man in
chambers or offices, incompetently guarded by
an idiot boy whom you dare not trust with the
responsibility of denying you to strangers. You hear
a knock at your outer door, followed by conversation
in the clerk's room, after which your salaried
idiot announces "A Gentleman to see you." Enter a
dingy and dismal little man in threadbare black, who
advances with an air of mysterious importance. "I
think," he begins, "I 'ave the pleasure of speaking to
Mr. ——" (<i>whatever your name is</i>.) "I take the
liberty of calling, Mr. ——, to consult you on a matter
of the utmost importance, and I shall feel personally
obliged if you will take precautions for our conversation
not being over'eard."
He looks grubby for a client—but appearances are
deceptive, and you offer him a seat, assuring him that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[ 46]</a></span>
he may speak with perfect security—whereupon he
proceeds in a lowered voice.
"The story I am about to reveal," he says, smoothing
a slimy tall hat, "is of a nature so revolting, so
'orrible in its details, that I can 'ardly bring myself to
speak it to any 'uming ear!" (<i>Here you will probably
prepare to take notes.</i>) "You see before you one who
is of 'igh birth but low circumstances!" (<i>At this you
give him up as a possible client, but a mixture of
diffidence and curiosity compels you to listen.</i>) "Yes,
Sir, I was '<i> fruges consumeary nati</i>.' I 'ave received
a neducation more befitting a dook than my present
condition. Nursed in the lap of haffluence, I was
trained to fill the lofty position which was to have
been my lot. But, '<i>necessitas</i>,' Sir, as you are aware,
'<i>necessitas non abat lejim</i>,' and such I found it. While
still receiving a classical education at Cambridge
College—(praps you are yourself an alumbus of
<i>Halma Mater</i>? No? I apologise, Sir, I'm sure)—but
while preparing to take my honorary degree, my
father suddenly enounced the horful news that he
was a bankrup'. Stript of all we possessed, we were
turned out of our sumchuous 'ome upon the cold
world, my father's grey 'airs were brought down
sorrowing to sangwidge boards, though he is still
sangwin of paying off his creditors in time out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[ 47]</a></span>
what he can put by from his scanty hearnings. My
poor dear Mother—a lady born and bred—sank by
slow degrees to a cawfy-stall, which is now morgidged
to the 'ilt, and my eldest Sister, a lovely and accomplished
gairl, was 'artlessly thrown over by a nobleman,
to 'oom she was engaged to be married, before
our reverses overtook us. His name the delikit
hinstinks of a gentleman will forbid you to inquire,
as likewise me to mention—enough to 'int that he
occupies a prominent position amongst the hupper
circles of Society, and is frequently to be met with
in the papers. His faithlessness preyed on my
Sister's mind to that degree, that she is now in
the Asylum, a nopeless maniac! My honely Brother
was withdrawn from 'Arrow, and now 'as the
'yumiliation of selling penny toys on the kerbstone
to his former playfellers. '<i>Tantee nannymice salestibus
hirĉ</i>,' indeed, Sir!
"But you ask what befell myself." (<i>You have not—for
the simple reason that, even if you desired information,
he has given you no chance, as yet, of putting in
a word.</i>) "Ah, Sir, there you 'ave me on a tender
point. '<i>Hakew tetigisti</i>,' if I may venture once
more upon a scholarly illusion. But I 'ave resolved
to conceal nothing—and you shall 'ear. For a time I
obtained employment as Seckertary and Imanuensis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[ 48]</a></span>
to a young baranit, 'oo had been the bosom friend
of my College days. He would, I know, have used
his influence with Goverment to obtain me a lucritive
post; but, alas, ere he could do so, unaired sheets,
coupled with deliket 'elth, took him off premature,
and I was once more thrown on my own resources.
"In conclusion, Sir, you 'ave doubtless done me
the hinjustice to expect, from all I 'ave said, that
my hobjick in obtaining this interview was to ask
you for pecuniary assistance?" (<i>Here you reflect
with remorse that a suspicion to this effect has certainly
crossed your mind.</i>) "Nothing of the sort or kind,
I do assure you. A little 'uming sympathy, the
relief of pouring out my sorrers upon a feeling 'art,
a few kind encouraging words, is all I arsk, and that,
Sir, the first sight of your kind friendly face told me
I should not lack. Pore as I am, I still 'ave my
pride, the pride of a English gentleman, and if you
was to orfer me a sovereign as you sit there, I should
fling it in the fire—ah, I <i>should</i>—'urt and indignant
at the hinsult!" (<i>Here you will probably assure him
that you have no intention of outraging his feelings in
any such manner.</i>) "No, and <i>why</i>, Sir? Because
you 'ave a gentlemanly 'art, and if you were to make
sech a orfer, you would do it in a kindly Christian
spirit which would rob it of all offence. There's not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[ 49]</a></span>
many as I would bring myself to accept a paltry
sovereign from, but I dunno—I might from one like
yourself—I <i>might</i>. <i>Ord hignara mali, miseris succur-reary
disco</i>, as the old philosopher says. You 'ave
that kind of <i>way</i> with you." (<i>You mildly intimate that
he is mistaken here, and take the opportunity of touching
the bell</i>.) "No, Sir, don't be untrue to your better
himpulses. '<i>Ave</i> a feelin 'art, Sir! Don't send me
away, after allowing me to waste my time 'ere—which
is of value <i>to me</i>, let me tell yer, whatever
<i>yours</i> is!—like this!.... Well, well, there's 'ard
people in this world? I'm <i>going</i>, Sir ... I 'ave
sufficient dignity to take a 'int.... You 'aven't got
even a trifle to spare an old University Scholar in
redooced circumstances then?... Ah, it's easy to
see you ain't been at a University yourself—you
ain't got the <i>hair</i> of it! Farewell, Sir, and may
your lot in life be 'appier than——All right, don't
<i>hexcite</i> yourself. I've bin mistook in yer, that's all.
I thought you was as soft-edded a young mug as you
look. Open that door, will yer; I want to get out
of this 'ole!"
Here he leaves you with every indication of disgust
and disappointment, and you will probably
hear him indulging in unclassical vituperation on
the landing.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[ 51]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" /></div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[ 53]</a></span>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>RUS IN URBE.</h2>
<h3>(<span class="smcap">A Sketch in Regent's Park.</span>)</h3>
<i>A railed-in corner of the Park. <span class="smcap">Time</span>—About 7 p.m. Inside
the enclosure three shepherds are engaged in shearing the park
sheep. The first shepherd has just thrown his patient on its
back, gripped its shoulders between his knees, and tucked its
head, as a tiresome and obstructive excrescence, neatly away
under one of his arms, while he reaches for the shears. The
second is straddled across his animal, which is lying with its
hind legs hobbled on a low stage under an elm, in a state of
stoical resignation, as its fleece is deftly nipped from under its
chin. The third operator has almost finished his sheep, which, as
its dark grey fleece slips away from its pink-and-white neck and
shoulders, suggests a rather décolletée dowager in the act of
removing her theatre-cloak in the stalls. Sheep, already shorn, lie
and pant in shame and shivering bewilderment, one or two nibble
the blades of grass, as if to assure themselves that that resource is
still open to them. Sheep whose turn is still to come are penned up
at the back, and look on, scandalised, but with an air which seems
to express that their own superior respectability is a sufficient
protection against similar outrage. The shearers appear to take a
humorous view of their task, and are watched by a crowd which
has collected round the railings, with an agreeable assurance that
they are not expected to contribute towards the entertainment.</i>
<span class="smcap">First Work-girl</span> (<i>edging up</i>). Whatever's
goin' on inside 'ere? (<i>After looking—disappointed.</i>)
Why they ain't on'y a lot o'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[ 54]</a></span>
sheep! I thought it was Reciters, or somethink o'
that.
<span class="smcap">Second Work-girl</span> (<i>with irony</i>). They <i>look</i>
like Reciters, don't they! It do seem a shime
cuttin' them poor things as close as convicks,
that it do!
<span class="smcap">First W.-g.</span> They don't mind it partickler;
you'd 'ear 'em 'oller fast enough if they did.
<span class="smcap">Second W.-g.</span> I expeck they feel so redic'lus,
they 'aven't the 'art to 'oller.
<span class="smcap">Lucilla</span> (<i>to <span class="smcap">George</span></i>). Do look at that one
going up and sniffing at the bundle of fleeces,
trying to find out which is his. <i>Isn't</i> it
pathetic?
<span class="smcap">George.</span> H'm—puts one in mind of a shy man
in a cloak-room after a party, saying feebly, "I
rather think that's <i>my</i> coat, and there's a crush hat
of mine <i>somewhere</i> about," eh?
<span class="smcap">Lucilla</span> (<i>who is always wishing that <span class="smcap">George</span> would
talk more sensibly</i>). Considering that sheep don't
<i>wear</i> crush hats, I hardly see how——
<p><span class="smcap">George.</span> My dear, I bow to your superior knowledge
of natural history. Now you mention it, I
believe it <i>is</i> unusual. But I merely meant to suggest
a general resemblance.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[ 55]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 416px;">
<img src="images/p55.png" width="416" height="600" alt=""They ain't on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was Reciters,
or somethink o' that."" title="" />
<span class="caption">"They ain't on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was Reciters,
or somethink o' that."</span>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[ 57]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lucilla</span> (<i>reprovingly</i>). I know. And you've got
into such a silly habit of seeing resemblances in
things that are perfectly different. I'm sure I'm
<i>always</i> telling you of it.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">George.</span> You are, my dear. But I'm not
nearly so bad as I <i>was</i>. Think of all the things
I used to compare <i>you</i> to before we were
married!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Sarah Jane</span> (<i>to her <span class="smcap">Trooper</span></i>). I could stand an'
look at 'em hours, I could. I was born and bred in
the country, and it do seem to bring back my old
'ome that plain.</p>
<p>Her <span class="smcap">Trooper</span>. I'm country bred too, though
yer mightn't think it. But there ain't much in
sheep shearin' to <i>my</i> mind. If it was <i>pig killin'</i>,
now!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Sarah Jane.</span> Ah, that's along o' your bein' in the
milingtary, I expect.</p>
<p>Her <span class="smcap">Trooper</span>. No, it ain't that. It's the
reckerlections it 'ud call up. I 'ad a 'ole uncle
a pork-butcher, d'ye see, and (<i>with sentiment</i>)
many and many a 'appy hour I've spent as a
boy—— [<i>He indulges in tender reminiscences.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">A Young Clerk</span> (<i>who belongs to a Literary Society,
to his <span class="smcap">Fiancée</span></i>). It has a wonderfully rural look—quite
like a scene in 'Ardy, isn't it?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[ 58]</a></span></p>
<p>His <span class="smcap">Fiancée</span> (<i>who has "no time for reading rubbish"</i>).
I daresay; though I've never been there
myself.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Clerk</span>. Never been? Oh, I see. <i>You</i>
thought I said <i>Arden</i>—the Forest of Arden, in
Shakspeare, didn't you?</p>
<p>His <span class="smcap">Fiancée</span>. Isn't that where Mr. Gladstone
lives, and goes cutting down the trees in?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Clerk</span>. No; At least it's spelt different.
But it was 'Ardy <i>I</i> meant. <i>Far from the Madding
Crowd</i>, you know.</p>
<p>His <span class="smcap">Fiancée</span> (<i>with a vague view to the next Bank
Holiday</i>). What do you <i>call</i> "far"—farther than
<i>Margate</i>?</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>Her companion has a sense of discouragement.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>An <span class="smcap">Artisan</span> (<i>to a neighbour in broadcloth and a white
choker</i>). It's wonderful 'ow they can go so close
without 'urtin' of 'em, ain't it?</p>
<p>His <span class="smcap">Neighbour</span> (<i>with unction</i>). Ah, my friend, it
on'y shows 'ow true it is that 'eving tempers the
shears for the shorn lambs!</p>
<p>A <span class="smcap">Governess</span> (<i>instructively, to her charge</i>). Don't
you think you ought to be very grateful to that poor
sheep, Ethel, for giving up her nice warm fleece on
purpose to make a frock for <i>you</i>?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[ 59]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Ethel</span> (<i>doubtfully</i>). Y—yes, Miss Mavor. But
(<i>with a fear that some reciprocity may be expected of
her</i>) she's too big for any of my <i>best</i> frocks, <i>isn't</i>
she?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Urchin</span> (<i>perched on the railings</i>). Ain't that
'un a-kicking? 'E don't like 'aving <i>'is</i> 'air cut, 'e
don't, no more shouldn't I if it was me.... 'E's
bin an' upset 'is bloke on the grorss, now! Look at
the bloke layin' there larfin'.... 'E's ketched 'im
agin now. See 'im landin' 'im a smack on the 'ed;
that'll learn 'im to stay quiet, eh? 'E's strong,
ain't 'e?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second Urchin.</span> Rams is the wust, though,
'cause they got 'orns, rams 'ave.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Urch.</span> What, same as goats?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second Urch.</span> (<i>emphatically</i>). Yuss! Big crooked
'uns. And runs at yer, they do.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Urch.</span> I wish they was rams in 'ere. See
all them sheep waitin' to be done. I wonder what
they're finkin' of.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second Urch.</span> Ga-arn! They <i>don't</i> fink, sheep
don't.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Urch.</span> Not o' anyfink?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second Urch.</span> Na-ow! They ain't got nuffink to
fink <i>about</i>, sheep ain't.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Urch.</span> I lay they <i>do</i> fink, 'orf and on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[ 60]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second Urch.</span> Well, I lay <i>you</i> never see 'em
doin' of it!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>And so on. The first Shepherd disrobes his sheep,
and dismisses it with a disrespectful spank.
After which he proceeds to refresh himself from
a brown jar, and hands it to his comrades.
The spectators look on with deeper interest, and
discuss the chances of the liquid being beer,
cider, or cold tea, as the scene closes.</i></p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[ 61]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CATCHING THE EARLY BOAT.</h2>
<p class="center"><i>In Bed; At the Highland Hotel, Oban.</i></p>
<p>What an extraordinary thing is the mechanism
of the human mind! Went to sleep last
night impressed with vital importance of
waking at six, to catch early steamer to Gairloch.
And here I am—broad awake—at exactly 5.55! Is it
automatic action, or what? Like setting clockwork
for explosive machine. When the time comes, I
blow up—I mean, <i>get</i> up. Think out this simile—rather
a good one.... Need not have been so particular
in telling Boots to call me, after all. Shall I
get up <i>before</i> he comes? He'll be rather surprised
when he knocks at the door, and hears me singing
inside like a lark. But, on reflection, isn't it rather
<i>petty</i> to wish to astonish an hotel Boots? And why
on earth should I get up myself, when I've tipped
another fellow to get me up? But suppose he forgets
to call me. I've no right, as yet, to <i>assume</i> that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[ 64]</a></span>
he will. To get up now would argue want of confidence
in him—might hurt his feelings. I will give
him another five minutes, poor fellow....</p>
<p><i>Getting up.</i>—No actual necessity to get up yet,
but, to make assurance doubly—something or other,
forget what—I will ... I do. Portmanteau rather
refractory; retreats under bed—quite ten minutes
before I can coax it out.... When I have, it won't
let me pack it. That's the worst of this breed of
brown portmanteaus—they're always nasty-tempered.
However, I am getting a few things into it
now, by degrees. Very annoying—as fast as I put
them in, this confounded portmanteau shoots them
out again! If I've put in that pair of red and white
striped pyjamas once, I've done it twenty times—and
they always come twisting and rolling out of
the back, somehow. Fortunate I left myself ample
time.</p>
<p>Man next door to me is running it rather fine.
<i>He</i> has to catch the boat, too, and he's not up yet!
Hear the Boots hammering away at his door. How
<i>can</i> a fellow, just for the sake of a few more minutes
in bed—which he won't even know he's <i>had</i>!—go
and risk losing his steamer in that way? I'll do him
a good turn—knock at the wall myself. "Hi! get
up, you lazy beggar. Look sharp—you'll be late!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[ 65]</a></span>
He thanks me, in a muffled tone, through the wall.
He is a remarkably quick dresser, he tells me—it
won't take him thirty-five seconds to pack, dress,
pay his bill, and get on board. If that's the case,
I don't see why <i>I</i> should hurry. I've got much
more than that <i>already</i>.</p>
<p><i>At the Quay.</i>—People in Oban stare a good deal.
Can't quite make out reason, unless they're surprised
to find me up so early. Explain that I got
up without having even been called. Oban populace
mildly surprised, and offer me neckties—<i>Why?</i></p>
<p>Fine steamer this; has a paddle-wheel at <i>both</i>
ends—"because," the Captain explains, "she has
not only to <i>go</i> to Gairloch—but come back as well."</p>
<p>First-rate navigator, the Captain; he has written
my weight, the date of my last birthday, and the
number of the house I live in, down in a sort of
ledger he keeps. He does this with all his passengers,
he tells me, reduces the figures to logarithms,
and works out the ship's course in decimals. No
idea there was so much science in modern seamanship.</p>
<p><i>On Board.</i>—Great advantage of being so early is
that you can breakfast quietly on deck before starting.
Have mine on bridge of steamer, under
awning; everything very good—ham-méringues<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[ 66]</a></span>
<i>excellent</i>. No coffee, but, instead, a capital brand
of dry, sparkling marmalade, served, sailor-fashion,
in small pomatum-pots.</p>
<p>What a small world we live in! Of all people in
the world, who should be sitting next to me but my
Aunt Maria! I was always under the impression
that she had died in my infancy. Don't like to
mention this, because if I am <i>wrong</i>, she might be
offended. But if she <i>did</i> die when I was a child,
she ought to be a much older woman than she looks.
I <i>do</i> tell her this—because it is really a compliment.</p>
<p>My Aunt, evidently an experienced traveller, never
travels, she informs me, without a pair of globes and
a lawn-mower. She offers, very kindly, to lend me
the Celestial globe, if the weather is at all windy.
This is behaving <i>like</i> an Aunt!</p>
<p>We are taking in live-stock; curious-looking
creatures, like spotted pug-dogs (only bigger and
woollier, of course) and without horns. Somebody
leaning over the rail next to me (I <i>think</i> he is the
Public Prosecutor, but am not quite sure), tells me
they are "Scotch Shortbreads." Agreeable man,
but rather given to staring.</p>
<p>Didn't observe it before, but my Aunt is really
amazingly like Mr. Gladstone. Ask her to explain
this. She is much distressed that I have noticed it;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[ 67]</a></span>
says she has felt it coming on for some time; it is
not, as she justly complains, as if she took any
interest in politics either. She has consulted every
doctor in London, and they all tell her it is simply
weakness, and she will outgrow it with care. Singular
case—must find out (delicately) whether it's
catching.</p>
<p>We ought to be starting soon; feel quite fresh and
lively, in spite of having got up so early. Mention
this to Captain. Wish he and the Public Prosecutor
wouldn't stare at me so. Just as if there was
something singular in my appearance!</p>
<p>They're embarking my portmanteau now. Knew
they would have a lively time of it! It takes at
least four sailors, in kilts, to manage it. Ought I to
step ashore and quiet it down? Stay where I am.
Don't know why, but feel a little afraid of it when
it's like this. Shall exchange it for a quiet hand-bag
when I get home.</p>
<p>Captain busy hammering at a hole in the funnel—dangerous
place to spring a leak in—hope he is
making it water-tight. The hammering reminds me
of that poor devil in the bedroom next to mine at
the hotel. <i>He</i> won't catch the boat now—he <i>can't</i>!
My Aunt (who has left off looking like Mr. Gladstone)
asks me why I am laughing. I tell her about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[ 68]</a></span>
that unfortunate man and his "thirty-five seconds."
She screams with laughter. Very humorous woman,
my Aunt.</p>
<p>Deck crowded with passengers now: all pointing
and staring ... at whom? Ask Aunt Maria. She
declines to tell me: says, severely, that "If I don't
know, I ought to."</p>
<p>Great Heavens! It's at <i>me</i> they're staring! And
no wonder—in the hurry I was in, I must have
packed <i>everything</i> up!... I've come away just as
I was! <i>Now</i> I understand why someone offered me
a necktie. Where shall I go and hide myself?
Shall I ever persuade that beast of a portmanteau
to give me out one or two things to put on—because
I really <i>can't</i> go about like this! Captain
still hammering at funnel—but he can't wake that
sleepy-headed idiot in the next room. "Louder—knock
<i>louder</i>, or the boat will go without him! Tell
him there isn't another for two days. He's said
good-bye to everybody he knows at Oban—he will
look such an ass if he doesn't go, after all!"...
Not the least use! Wonder what his name is. My
Aunt says <i>she</i> knows, only she won't tell me—she'll
whisper it, as a great secret. She is just about to
disclose the name, which, somehow, I am extremely
curious to know—when ...<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[ 69]</a></span></p>
<p>Where am I? Haven't they got that unhappy
fellow up <i>yet</i>? Why the dickens are they knocking
at <i>my</i> door? I've been on board the steamer for
hours, I tell you? Eh? <i>what?</i> Five minutes
to eight! And the Gairloch boat? "Sailed at
usual time—seven. Tried to make you hear—but
couldn't."... Confound it all! Good mind not
to get up all day—now!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[ 70]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[ 71]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>SOCIETY'S NEXT CRAZE.</h2>
<h3>(<span class="smcap">As Foreseen by Mr. Punch's Second-sighted
Clairvoyant.</span>)</h3>
<p><i>It is the summer of 189-. The scene is a road skirting
Victoria Park, Bethnal Green, which Society's leaders have
recently discovered and appointed as the rendez-vous for the
Season, and where it is now the correct thing for all really smart
people to indulge, between certain prescribed hours, in sports and
pastimes that have hitherto been more characteristic of the masses
than the classes. The only permissible mount now is the donkey,
which must be ridden close to the tail, and referred to as a "moke."
A crowd of well-turned-out spectators arrives from the West End
every morning about eleven to watch the brilliant parade of
"Mokestrians" (as the Society journalist will already have decided
to call them). Some drive slowly up and down on coster-barrows,
attended by cockaded and disgusted grooms. About twelve, they
break up into light luncheon parties; after which they play
democratic games for half an hour or so, and drive home on drags.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Woodby-Innett</span> (<i>to the <span class="smcap">Donkey
Proprietor</span></i>). Kept a moke for me? I
told you I should be wantin' one every
mornin' now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[ 74]</a></span></p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Donkey Proprietor</span> (<i>after consulting engagement
book</i>). I've not got it down on my list, Sir.
Very sorry, but the Countess of Cumberback has just
booked the last for the 'ole of this week. Might let
you 'ave one by-and-by, if Sir Hascot Goodwood
brings his in punctual, but I can't promise it.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Woodby-Inn.</span> That's no good; no point in
ridin' after the right time. (<i>To himself, as he turns
away.</i>) Nuisance! Not that I'm so keen about a
moke. Not a patch on a bike!—though it don't
do to say so. Only if I'd known this, I'd have turned
up in a tall hat and frock coat; and then I could
have taken a turn on the steam-circus. Wonder
if it would be any sort of form shyin' at cocoa-nuts in
tweeds and a straw hat. Must ask some chap who
knows. More puzzlin' what to put on this year than
ever!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Ranela Hurlingham</span> (<i>breathlessly to <span class="smcap">Donkey
Proprietor</span></i>). That's mine, isn't it? Will you please
put me up, and <i>promise</i> me you'll keep close behind
and make him run. (<i>Suppliantly.</i>) You will, <i>won't</i> you?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Donkey Proprietor</span> (<i>with a due sense of his
own value</i>). Well, I dessay I can come along
presently, Lady 'Urlingham, and fetch 'im a whack
or two; jest now I can't, having engaged to come
and 'old the Marshiness of 'Ammercloth on <i>'er</i> moke;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[ 75]</a></span>
but there, you orter be able to git along well enough
by yourself now—<i>you</i> ought!</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 474px">
<img src="images/p75.png" width="474" height="600" alt=""Mokestrians."" title="" />
<span class="caption">"Mokestrians."</span>
</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[ 76]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[ 77]</a></span></p><p><span class="smcap">Captain Sonbyrne</span> (<i>just home on leave from India—to
<span class="smcap">Mrs. Chesham-Lowndes</span></i>). Rather an odd sort
of idea this—I mean, coming all the way out here to
ride a lot of donkeys, eh?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Chesham-Lowndes.</span> It used to be rather
amusing a month ago, before they all got used
to riding so near the tail; but now they're all so good
at it, don't you know.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Capt. Sonb.</span> I went down to Battersea Park
yesterday to see the bicyclists. Not a soul there,
give you my word!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. C.-L.</span> No; there <i>wouldn't</i> be <i>this</i> season.
You see, all sorts and conditions of people began to
take it up, and it got too fearfully common. And
now moke-riding has quite cut it out.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Capt. Sonb.</span> But why ride donkeys when you
can get gees?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. C.-L.</span> Oh, well, they're democratic, and
cheap, and all that, don't you know. And one really
can't be <i>seen</i> on a horse this year—in town, at least.
In the country it don't matter so much.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Mokestrian</span> (<i>to second ditto</i>). Hullo, old
chap, so <i>you</i>'ve taken to a moke at last, eh? How
are you gettin' on?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[ 78]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second Mokestrian.</span> Pretty well. I can sit on
his tail all right now, but I can't get into the way
of keepin' my heels off the ground yet, it's so beastly
difficult.</p>
<p><i>Fragments from</i> <span class="smcap">Spectators</span>. That's rather a
smart barrow Lady Barinrayne's drivin' to-day....
Who's the fellow with her, with the paper feather in
his pot-hat? Bad style, <i>I</i> call it.... That's Lord
Freddy Fugleman—best dressed man in London.
You'll see everybody turnin' up in a paper feather
in a day or two.... Lot of men seem to be
using a short clay as a cigarette-holder now, don't
they?... Yes, Roddie Rippingill introduced
the idea last week, and it seems to have caught
on. [<i>&c.</i>, <i>&c.</i>]</p>
<p><i>After Luncheon; at the Steam-Circus and other Sports.</i></p>
<p><i>Scraps of Small-talk.</i> No end sorry, Lady
Gwendolen; been tryin' to get you a scent-squirt
everywhere; but they're all gone; such a run on 'em
for Ascot, don't you know.... Thanks; it doesn't
matter; only dear Lady Buckram has just thrown
some red ochre down the back of my neck, and Algy
Vere came and shot out a coloured paper thing right
in my face, and I shouldn't like to seem uncivil....
Suppose I shall see you at Lady Brabazon's "Kiss<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[ 79]</a></span>
in the Ring" at Bethnal Green to-morrow afternoon?...
I believe she <i>did</i> send us cards, but we promised
to look in at a friendly lead the Duchess of Dillwater
is giving at such a dear little public she's discovered
in Whitechapel, so we may be rather late....
You'll keep a handkerchief-throw for me if you <i>do</i>
come on, won't you?... It will have to be an
<i>extra</i>, then, I'm afraid.... Are you goin' to Lord
Balmisyde's eight o'clock breakfast to-morrow? <i>So</i>
glad; I hear he's engaged five coffee-stalls, and
we're all to stand up and eat saveloys and trotters
and thick bread and butter.... Oh, I wanted to
ask you, my girls have got an invitation to a hoky-poky
party the Vavasours are giving after the moke-ridin'
next Thursday, and I'm told it's quite wrong
to eat hoky-poky with a spoon—do you know how
that is?... The only <i>correct</i> way, Caroline, is to
lick it out of the glass, which requires practice before
it can be <i>attempted</i> in public. But I hear there's
quite a pleasant boy-professor somewhere in the Mile
End Road who teaches it in a single lesson; he's
<i>very</i> moderate; his terms are only half a guinea,
which includes the hoky-poky. I'll send you his
address if I can find it.... Thanks <i>so</i> much; the
dear girls <i>will</i> be so grateful to you.... I <i>do</i> think
it's <i>quite</i> too bad of Lady Geraldine Grabber, she goes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[ 80]</a></span>
and sticks her card on the only decent wooden horse
in the steam-circus and says she's engaged it for the
whole time, though she hardly ever takes a round!
And so many girls standing out who can ride without
getting in the <i>least</i> giddy!... Rathah a boundah,
that fellow, if you ask me; I've <i>seen</i> him pullin'
a swing boat in brown boots and ridin'-breeches!...
How wonderfully well your daughter throws
the rings, dear Lady Cornelia, I hear she's won three
walking-sticks and five clasp knives.... You're
very kind. She is quite clever at it; but then she's
had some private coaching from a gipsy, don't you
know.... What are you going to do with yourself
this afternoon?... Oh, I'm going to the People's
Palace to see the finals played off for the Skittles
Championship; bound to be a closish thing; rather
excitin', don't you know.... Ah, Duchess, you've
been in form to-day, I see, five cocoa-nuts! Can I
relieve you of some of them?... Thanks, they <i>are</i>
rather tiresome to carry; if you <i>could</i> find my carriage
and tell the footman to keep his eye on them.
[<i>&c.</i>, <i>&c.</i>]</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Rosehugh</span> (<i>to <span class="smcap">Mr. Luke Walmer</span>, on the
way home</i>). You know I <i>do</i> think it's <i>such</i> a cheering
sign of the times, Society getting simpler in its tastes,
and sharing the pleasures of the Dear People, and all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[ 81]</a></span>
that; it must tend to bring all classes more <i>together</i>,
don't you know!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Luke Walmer.</span> Perhaps. Only I was thinking,
I don't remember seeing any of the Dear People
<i>about</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Rosehugh.</span> No; somebody was telling me
they had taken to playing Polo on bicycles in Hyde
Park. So extraordinary of them—such a pity they
haven't some higher form of amusement, you know!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[ 82]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[ 83]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>AN IDEAL INTERVIEWER.</h2>
<p class="center"><i>Den of Latest Lion.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Latest Lion</span> (<i>perusing card with no visible
signs of gratification</i>). Confound it! don't
remember telling the Editor of <i>Park Lane</i> I'd
let myself be interviewed. Suppose I must have,
though. (<i>Aloud to <span class="smcap">Servant</span>, who is waiting.</i>) You
can show the Gentleman up.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Servant</span> (<i>returning</i>). Mr. Walsingham Jermyn!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>A youthful Gentleman is shown in; he wears a
pink-striped shirt-front, an enormous buttonhole,
and a woolly frock-coat, and is altogether
most expensively and fashionably attired, which,
however, does not prevent him from appearing
somewhat out of countenance after taking a seat.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>The L. L. (<i>encouragingly</i>). I presume, Mr. Jermyn,
you're here to ask me some questions about the future
of the British East African Company, and the duty
of the Government in the matter?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[ 86]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Jermyn</span> (<i>gratefully</i>). Er—yes, that's what I've
come about, don't you know—that sort of thing.
Fact is (<i>with a burst of confidence</i>), this isn't exactly
my line—I've been rather let in for this. You see,
I've not been by way of doin' this long—but what's a
fellow to do when he's stony-broke? Got to do
<i>somethin'</i>, don't you know. So I thought I'd go in
for journalism—I don't mean the drudgery of it,
leader-writin' and that—but the light part of it,
<i>Society</i>, you know. But the other day, man who
does the interviews for <i>Park Lane</i> (that's the paper
I'm on) jacked up all of a sudden, and my Editor said
I'd better take on his work for a bit, and see what
I made of it. I wasn't particular. You see, I've
always been rather a dead hand at drawin' fellows
out, leadin' them on, you know, and all that, so I
knew it would come easy enough to me, for all you've
got to do is to sit tight and let the other chap—I
mean to say, the man you're interviewin'—do all the
talking, while you—I mean to say, myself—keep,
keeps—hullo, I'm getting my grammar a bit mixed;
however, it don't signify—<i>I</i> keep quiet and use my
eyes and ears like blazes. Talking of grammar, I
thought when I first started that I should get in a
regular hat over the grammar, and the spellin',
and that—<i>you</i> write, don't you, when you're not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[ 87]</a></span>
travellin'? So you know what a grind it is to spell
right. But I soon found they kept a Johnny at the
office with nothing to do but put all your mistakes
right for you, so, soon as I knew that, I went ahead
gaily.</p>
<p>The L. L. Exactly, and now, perhaps, you will
let me know what particular information you
require?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. J.</span> Oh, <i>you</i> know the sort of thing the public
likes—they'll want to know what sort of diggings
you've got, how you dress when you're at home, and
all that, how you write your books, now—you do
write books, don't you? Thought so. Well, that's
what the public likes. You see, your name's a good
deal up just now—no humbug, it <i>is</i> though! Between
ourselves, you know, I think the whole business is the
balliest kind of rot, but they've got to have it, so
there you are, don't you see. I don't pretend to be
a well-read sort of fellow, never was particularly fond
of readin' and that; no time for it, and besides, I've
always said <i>Books</i> don't teach you knowledge of the
world. I know the world fairly well—but I didn't
learn it from books—ah, you agree with me there—<i>you</i>
know what skittles all that talk is about education
and that. Well, as I was sayin', I don't read much,
I see the <i>Field</i> every week, and a clinkin' good paper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[ 88]</a></span>
it is, tells you everythin' worth knowin', and I read
the <i>Pink Un</i>, too. Do you know any of the fellows
on it? Man I know is a great friend of one of them,
he's going to introduce me some day, I like knowin'
literary chaps, don't you? You've been about a
good deal, haven't you? I expect you must have
seen a lot, travellin' as you do. I've done a little
travellin' myself, been to Monte Carlo, you know,
and the Channel Islands—<i>you</i> ever been to the
Channel Islands? Oh, you ought to go, it's a very
cheery place. Talkin' of Monte Carlo, I had a
rattlin' good time at the tables there; took out a
hundred quid, determined I would have a downright
good flutter, and Jove! I made that hundred last me
over five days, and came away in nothing but my
lawn-tennis flannels. That's what I <i>call</i> a flutter,
don't you know! Er—beastly weather we're havin'!
You have pretty good weather where you've been?
A young brother of mine has been out for a year in
Texas—he said <i>he</i>'d very good weather—of course
that's some way off where <i>you</i>'ve come from—Central
Africa, isn't it? Talkin' of my brother, what do you
think the young ass did?—went out there with a
thousand pounds, and paid it all down to some
sportsmen who took him to see some stock they said
belonged to them—of course he found out after<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[ 89]</a></span>
they'd off'd it that they didn't own a white mouse
among 'em! But then, Dick's one of those chaps,
you know, that think themselves so uncommon
knowing, they <i>can't</i> be had. I always told him he'd
be taken in some day if he let his tongue wag so
much—too fond of hearing himself talk, don't you
know, great mistake for a young fellow; sure to say
somethin' you'd better have let alone. I suppose
you're getting rather sick of all these banquets,
receptions, and that? They do you very well, certainly.
I went to one of these Company dinners
some time ago, and they did me as well as I've ever
been done in my life, but when you've got to sit still
afterwards and listen to some chap who's been somewhere
and done somethin' jawin' about it by the hour
together without a check, why, it's not <i>good</i> enough,
I'm hanged if it is! Well, I'm afraid I can't stay any
longer—my time's valuable now, don't you know. I
daresay yours is, too. I'm awfully glad to have had
a chat with you, and all that. I expect you could tell
me a lot more interestin' things, only of course you've
got to keep the best of 'em to put in your book—you
<i>are</i> writin' a book or somethin', ain't you? Such
heaps of fellows are writin' books nowadays, the
wonder is how any of 'em get read. I shall try and
get a look at yours, though, if I come across it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[ 90]</a></span>
anywhere; hope you'll put some amusin' things in,—nigger
stories and that, don't make it too bally
scientific, you know. Directly I get back, I shall sit
down, slick off, and write off all you've told me. I
shan't want any notes, I can carry it all in my head,
and of course I shan't put in anything you'd rather I
didn't, don't you know.</p>
<p>The L. L. (<i>solemnly</i>). Mr. Jermyn, I place implicit
confidence in your discretion. I have no doubt
whatever that your head, Sir, is more than capable
of containing such remarks as I have found it
necessary to make in the course of our interview. I
like your system of extracting information, Sir, very
much. Good morning.</p>
<p>Mr. J. (<i>outside</i>). Nice pleasant-spoken fellow—trifle
long-winded, though! Gad, I was so busy
listenin' I forgot to notice what his rooms were like
or anythin'! How would it do to go back? No, too
much of a grind. Daresay I can manage to fox up
somethin'. I shall tell the Chief what he said about
my system. Chief don't quite know what I <i>can</i> do
yet—this will open his eyes a bit.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>And it does.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[ 91]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>SATURDAY NIGHT IN THE EDGWARE ROAD.</h2>
<blockquote><i>For over half-a-mile the pavement on the East side of the road is
thronged with promenaders, and the curbstone lined with stalls and
barrows, and hawkers of various wares. Marketing housewives
with covered baskets oscillate undecidedly from stalls to shops, and
put off purchasing to the last possible moment. Maids-of-all-work
perambulate arm-in-arm, exchanging airy badinage with youths
of their acquaintance, though the latter seem to prefer the society
of their own sex. A man with a switchback skittle-board plays
gloomy games by himself to an unspeculative group of small boys.
The tradesmen stand outside their shops and conduct their business
with a happy blend of the methods of a travelling showman and
a clown.</i></blockquote>
<span class="smcap">Burlesque Butcher.</span> Now then, all o'
<i>you</i> there! Buy, buy, buy! Just give yer
minds to spendin' yer money! (<i>In a tone
of artless wonder.</i>) Where <i>does</i> the Butcher git this
<i>luverly</i> meat? What can I do fur <i>you</i> now, Marm?
(<i>Triumphantly, after selling the scrag-end of a neck of
mutton.</i>) <i>Now</i> we're busy!
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[ 94]</a></span>
<span class="smcap">Farcical Fishmonger</span> (<i>with two Comic Assistants</i>).
Ahar! (<i>To crowd.</i>) Come 'ere, you silly young
snorkers! I've the quali<i>tee</i>! I've the quali<i>tay</i>!
<i>Keep</i> takin' money!
<span class="smcap">First Comic Assistant.</span> Ahye! Foppence a
pound nice plaice! Kippers two fur three 'apence.
<i>We'</i>re the Perfeshnul Curers! What are yer all
goin' to <i>do</i>? Sort 'em out cheap!
<span class="smcap">Second C. A.</span> I don't mind! What care I?
(<i>Bursting into song.</i>) "'Ow, she rowled me 'ed, and
rumbled in the 'ay!" On me word, she did, ladies!
<p class="right">[<i>He executes a double shuffle, and knocks over several boxes of bloaters in the gaiety of his heart.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">A Hawker of Penny Memorandum Books</span> (<i>to
an audience of small boys</i>). Those among you 'oo
are not mechanics, decidedly you 'ave mechanical
<i>hideers</i>!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>He enlarges upon the convenience of having a notebook
in which to jot down any inspirations of
this kind; but his hearers do not appear to
agree with him.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">A Lugubrious Vendor.</span> One penny for six
comic pypers. Hevery one different!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">A Rude Boy.</span> You ain't bin <i>readin'</i> o' any on
'em, 'ave yer, guv'nor?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[ 95]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">A Crockery Merchant</span> (<i>as he unpacks a variety of
vases of appalling hideousness</i>). <i>I</i> don't care—it's self-sacrifice
to give away! Understand, you ain't buyin'
<i>common</i> things, you're buyin' suthin' <i>good</i>! It 'appens
to be my buthday to-night, so I'm goin' to let you
people 'ave the benefit of the doubt. Come on 'ere.
I don't ask you to b'lieve <i>me</i>—on'y to jedge fur
yerselves. I'm not 'ere to tell you no fairy tales;
and the reason why I'm in a position to orfer up
these vawses—all richly gilt, and decorated in three
colours, the most expensive ever made—the reason
I'm able to sell them so cheap as I'm doin' is this—(<i>he
lowers his voice mysteriously</i>)—'arf the stuff I 'ave
'ere we git <i>in very funny ways</i>!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>This ingeniously suggestive hint enhances the
natural charm of his ware to such a degree
that the vases are bought up briskly, as calculated
to brighten the humblest home.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">A Sanctimonious Young Man</span> (<i>with a tongue too
large for his mouth, who has just succeeded in collecting a
circle round him</i>). I am only 'ere to-night, my friends,
as a paid servant—for the purpose of deciding a
wager. Some o' you may have noticed an advertisement
lately in the <i>Daily Telegrawf</i>, asking for men to
stand on Southwark Bridge and orfer arf-suverings
for a penny apiece. You are equally well aware that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[ 96]</a></span>
it is illegal to orfer the Queen's coinage for money:
and that is <i>not</i> my intention this evening. <i>But</i> I
'ave 'ere several pieces of gold, guaranteed to be of
the exact weight of arf a suvering, and 'all-marked,
which, in order to decide the wager I 'ave spoken of,
I shall now perceed to charge you the sum of one
penny for, and no more. I am not allowed to sell
<i>more</i> than one to each person——</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>Here a constable comes up, and the decision of the
wager is postponed until a more favourable
opportunity.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">First "General"</span> (<i>looking into a draper's window</i>).
Look at them coloured felt 'ats—all shades, and on'y
sixpence three-fardens!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second "G."</span> They <i>are</i> reasonable; but I've
'eard as felt 'ats is gone out of fashion now.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First "G."</span> Don't you believe it, Sarah. Why,
my married sister bought one on'y last week!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Coster</span> (<i>to an old lady who has repudiated a bunch
of onions after a prolonged scrutiny</i>). Frorsty? So
would <i>you</i> be if <i>your</i> onion 'ad bin layin' out in the
fields all night as long as these 'ave!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Itinerant Physician</span> (<i>as he screws up fragments
of candy in pieces of newspaper</i>). That is Frog
in your Froat what I'm doin' up now. I arsk you
to try it. It's given to me to give away, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[ 97]</a></span>
I'm goin' to <i>give</i> it away—you understand?—that's
all. And now I'm going to tork to you about
suthink else. You see this small bottle what I 'old
up. I tell you there's 'undreds layin' in bed at
this present moment as 'ud give a shillin' fur one
of these—and I offer it to you at one penny!
It corrects all nerve-pains connected with the 'ed,
cures earache, toothache, neuralgy, noomonia, 'art-complaint,
fits, an' syhatica. Each bottle is charged
with helectricity, forming a complete galvanic-battery.
Hall <i>you</i> 'ave to do is to place the bottle
to one o' your nawstrils, first closing the other with
your finger. You will find it compels you to sniff.
The moment you <i>tyke</i> that sniff, you'll find the
worter comin' into your heyes—and that's the helectricity.
You'll say, "<i>I</i> always 'eard helectricity was
a <i>fluid</i>." (<i>With withering scorn.</i>) Very <i>likely</i>! You
<i>'ave</i>? An' <i>why</i>? Be-cawse o' the hignirant notions
prevailin' about scientific affairs! Hevery one o'
these bottles contains a battery, and to each purchaser
I myke 'im a present—a <i>present</i>, mind yer—of
Frog in 'is Froat!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Susan Jane</span> (<i>to <span class="smcap">Lizerann</span>, before a stall where
"Novelettes, three a penny," are to be procured by the
literary</i>). Shall we 'ave a penn'orth, an' you go
'alves along o' me?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[ 98]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lizerann.</span> Not <i>me</i>. I ain't got no time to go
improvin' o' <i>my</i> mind, whatever <i>you</i> 'ave!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">A Vendor of "'Ore'ound Tablets"</span> (<i>he is a
voluble young man, with considerable lung-power, and
a tendency to regard his cough lozenges as not only
physical but moral specifics</i>). I'm on'y a young feller,
as you see, and yet 'ere I <i>am</i>, with my four burnin'
lamps, and a lassoo-soot as belonged to my Uncle
Bill, doin' <i>wunnerful</i> well. Why, I've took over two
pound in coppers a'ready! Mind you, I don't
deceive you; you may all on you do as well as
me; on'y you'll 'ave to get two good ref'rences fust,
<i>and</i> belong to a temp'rance society, like I do. This
is the badge as I've got on me at this minnit. I
ain't always bin like I am now. I started business
four year ago, and was doin' wunnerful well, too, till
I got among 'orse-copers an' dealers and went on the
booze, and lost the lot. Then I turned up the drink
and got a berth sellin' these 'ere Wangoo Tablets—and
now I've got a neat little missus, and a nice
'ome, goin' on wunnerful comfortable. Never a
week passes but what I buy myself something.
Last week it was a pair o' noo socks. Soon as
the sun peeps out and the doo dries up, I'm orf to
Yarmouth. And what's the reason? I've <i>enjoyed</i>
myself there. My Uncle Bill, as lives at Lowestoft,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[ 99]</a></span>
and keeps six fine 'orses and a light waggon, <i>he's</i>
doin' wunnerful well, and he'd take me into partnership
to-morrow, he would. But no—I'm 'appier as
I am. What's the reason I kin go on torkin' to you
like this night after night, without injury to my
voice? Shall I tell yer? Because, every night o'
my life, afore I go to bed, I take four o' these
Wangoo Tablets—compounded o' the purest 'erbs.
You take them to the nearest doctor's and arsk 'im
to analyse an' test them as he <i>will</i>, and you 'ear
what <i>he</i> says of them! Take one o' them tablets—after
your pipe; after your cigaw; after your
cigarette. You won't want no more drink, you'll
find them make you come 'ome reglar every evening,
and be able to buy a noo 'at every week. You've
ony to persevere for a bit with these 'ere lawzengers
to be like I am myself, doin' <i>wunnerful</i>
well! You see this young feller 'ere? (<i>Indicating
a sheepish head in a pot-hat, which is visible over the
back of his stall.</i>) Born and bred in Kenada, <i>'e</i>
was. And quite <i>right</i>! Bin over 'ere six year, so,
o' course he speaks the lengwidge. And <i>quite</i> right.
Now I'm no Amerikin myself, but they're a wunnerful
clever people, the Amerikins are, allays inventin'
or suthink o' that there. And you're at liberty to go
and arsk 'im for yourselves whether this is a real<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[ 100]</a></span>
Amerikin invention or not—as he'll tell yer it <i>is</i>—and
quite right, too! An' it stands to reason as
<i>he</i> orter know, seein' he introdooced it 'imself and
doin' wunnerful well with it ever since. I ain't
come 'ere to <i>rob</i> yer. Lady come and give me a
two-shillin' piece just now. I give it her back.
<i>She</i> didn't know—thort it was a penny, till I told
her. Well, that just shows you what these 'ere
Wangoo 'Ore'ound Tablets <i>are</i>!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>After this practical illustration of their efficacy,
he pauses for oratorical effect, and a hard-worked-looking
matron purchases three packets,
in the apparent hope that a similar halo of
the best horehound will shortly irradiate the
head of her household.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Lizerann</span> (<i>to <span class="smcap">Susan Jane</span>, as they walk homewards</i>).
On'y fancy—the other evenin', as I was
walkin' along this very pavement, a cab-'orse come
up beyind me, unbeknown like, and put 'is 'ed over
my shoulder and breathed right in my ear!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Susan Jane</span> (<i>awestruck</i>). You <i>must</i> ha' bin a bad
gell!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i><span class="smcap">Lizerann</span> is clearly disquieted by so mystical an
interpretation, even while she denies having
done anything deserving of a supernatural
rebuke.</i></p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[ 101]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE "MODEL HUSBAND"
CONTEST.</h2>
<p class="center"><i>Scene the First—At the <span class="smcap">Galahad-Green's</span>.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. G.-G.</span> Galahad!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. G.-G.</span> (<i>meekly</i>). My love?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. G.-G.</span> I see that the proprietors of
<i>All Sorts</i> are going to follow the American example,
and offer a prize of £20 to the wife who makes out
the best case for her husband as a Model. It's just
as well, perhaps, that you should know that I've
made up my mind to enter <i>you</i>!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. G.-G.</span> (<i>gratified</i>). My dear Cornelia! really,
I'd no idea you had such a——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. G.-G.</span> Nonsense! The drawing-room carpet
is a perfect disgrace, and, as you can't, or won't,
provide the money in any <i>other</i> way, why——Would
you like to hear what I've said about you?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. G.-G.</span> Well, if you're sure it wouldn't be
troubling you too much, I <i>should</i>, my dear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[ 104]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. G.-G.</span> Then sit where I can see you, and
listen. (<i>She reads.</i>) "Irreproachable in all that pertains
to morality"—(and it would be a bad day
indeed for you, Galahad, if I ever had cause to think
<i>otherwise</i>!)—"morality; scrupulously dainty and neat
in his person"—(ah, you may well blush, Galahad, but
fortunately, they won't want me to <i>produce</i> you!)—"he
imports into our happy home the delicate refinement
of a <i>preux chevalier</i> of the olden time." (Will
you kindly take your dirty boots off the steel fender!)
"We rule our little kingdom with a joint
and equal sway, to which jealousy and friction are
alike unknown; he, considerate and indulgent to
my womanly weakness"—(You need not stare at
me in that perfectly idiotic fashion!)—"I, looking
to him for the wise and tender support which has
never yet been denied. The close and daily scrutiny
of many years has discovered"—(What are you
shaking like <i>that</i> for?)—"discovered no single weakness;
no taint or flaw of character; no irritating
trick of speech or habit." (How often have I
told you that I will <i>not</i> have the handle of that
paper-knife sucked? Put it down; do!) "His
conversation—sparkling but ever spiritual—renders
our modest meals veritable feasts of fancy and flows
of soul.... <i>Well</i>, Galahad?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[ 105]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. G.-G.</span> Nothing, my dear; nothing. It struck
me as, well,—a trifle <i>flowery</i>, that last passage, that's
all!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. G.-G.</span> (<i>severely</i>). If I cannot expect to win
the prize without descending to floweriness, whose
fault is <i>that</i>, I should like to know? If you can't
make sensible observations, you had better not speak
at all. (<i>Continuing.</i>) "Over and over again, gathering
me in his strong, loving arms, and pressing
fervent kisses upon my forehead, he has cried,
'Why am I not a Monarch that so I could place
a diadem upon that brow? With such a Consort
am I not doubly crowned?'" Have you anything
to say to <i>that</i>, Galahad?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. G.-G.</span> Only, my love, that I—I don't seem
to remember having made that particular remark.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. G.-G.</span> Then make it <i>now</i>. I'm sure I wish
to be as accurate as I <i>can</i>.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i><span class="smcap">Mr. G.-G.</span> makes the remark—but without fervour.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><i>Scene the Second—At the <span class="smcap">Monarch-Jones'</span>.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. M.-J.</span> Twenty quid would come in precious
handy just now, after all I've dropped lately, and I
mean to pouch that prize if I can—so just you sit
down, Grizzle, and write out what I tell you; do
you hear?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[ 106]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. M.-J.</span> (<i>timidly</i>). But, Monarch, dear, would
that be quite <i>fair</i>? No, don't be angry, I didn't
mean that—I'll write whatever you please!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. M.-J.</span> You'd <i>better</i>, that's all! Are you
ready? I must screw myself up another peg
before I begin. (<i>He screws.</i>) Now, then. (<i>Stands
over her and dictates.</i>) "To the polished urbanity
of a perfect gentleman he unites the kindly charity
of a true Christian." (Why the devil don't you
learn to write decently, eh?) "Liberal, and even
lavish, in all his dealings, he is yet a stern foe to
every kind of excess"—(Hold on a bit, I must have
another nip after that)—"every kind of excess. Our
married life is one long dream of blissful contentment,
in which each contends with the other in
loving self-sacrifice." (Haven't you corked all that
down <i>yet</i>!) "Such cares and anxieties as he has
he conceals from me with scrupulous consideration
as long as possible"—(Gad, I should be a fool if
I <i>didn't</i>!)—"while I am ever sure of finding in him
a patient and sympathetic listener to all my trifling
worries and difficulties."—(<i>Two</i> f's in difficulties,
you little fool—can't you even <i>spell</i>?) "Many a
time, falling on his knees at my feet, he has rapturously
exclaimed, his accents broken by manly
emotion, 'Oh, that I were more worthy of such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[ 107]</a></span>
pearl among women! With such a helpmate, I
am indeed to be envied!'" That <i>ought</i> to do the
trick. If I don't romp in after that!—--(<i>Observing
that <span class="smcap">Mrs. M.-J.'s</span> shoulders are convulsed.</i>) What the
dooce are you giggling at <i>now</i>?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. M.-J.</span> I—I wasn't giggling, Monarch dear,
only——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. M.-J.</span> Only <i>what</i>?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. M.-J.</span> Only crying!</p>
<p><i>The Sequel.</i></p>
<p>"The judges appointed by the spirited proprietors
of <i>All Sorts</i> to decide the 'Model Husband
Contest'—which was established on lines similar to
one recently inaugurated by one of our New York
contemporaries—have now issued their award.
Two competitors have sent in certificates which
have been found equally deserving of the prize;
viz., Mrs. Cornelia Galahad-Green, Graemair Villa,
Peckham, and Mrs. Griselda Monarch-Jones, Aspen
Lodge, Lordship Lane. The sum of twenty pounds
will consequently be divided between these two
ladies, to whom, with their respective spouses, we
beg to tender our cordial felicitations."—(<i>Extract
from Daily Paper, some six months hence.</i>)<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[ 108]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[ 109]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" /></div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[ 111]</a></span>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE COURIER OF THE HAGUE.</h2>
<p>He is an elderly amiable little Dutchman in a
soft felt hat; his name is <span class="smcap">Bosch</span>, and he
is taking me about. <i>Why</i> I engaged him
I don't quite know—unless from a general sense of
helplessness in Holland, and a craving for any kind
of companionship. Now I have got him, I feel rather
more helpless than ever—a sort of composite of
<span class="smcap">Sandford</span> and <span class="smcap">Merton</span>, with a didactic, but frequently
incomprehensible Dutch <span class="smcap">Barlow</span>. My
<span class="smcap">Sandford</span> half would like to exhibit an intelligent
curiosity, but is generally suppressed by <span class="smcap">Merton</span>,
who has a morbid horror of useful information.
Not that <span class="smcap">Bosch</span> is remarkably erudite, but nevertheless
he contrives to reduce me to a state of
imbecility, which I catch myself noting with a
pained surprise. There is a statue in the Plein,
and the <span class="smcap">Sandford</span> element in me finds a satisfaction
in recognising it aloud as William the Silent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[ 112]</a></span>
It is—but, as my <span class="smcap">Merton</span> part thinks, a fellow
<i>would</i> be a fool if he didn't recognise William
after a few hours in Holland—his images, in one
form or another, are tolerably numerous. Still
<span class="smcap">Bosch</span> is gratified. "Yass, dot is ole Volliam,"
he says, approvingly, as to a precocious infant just
beginning to take notice. "Lokeer," he says, "you
see dot Apoteek?" He indicates a chemist's shop
opposite, with nothing remarkable about it externally,
except a Turk's head with his tongue out over the
door.</p>
<p>"Yes, I (speaking for <span class="smcap">Sandford</span> and <span class="smcap">Merton</span>) see
it—has it some historical interest—did Volliam get
medicine there, or what?"</p>
<p>"Woll, dis mornin dare vas two sairvans dere, and
de von cot two blaces out of de odder's haid, and
afderwarts he go opstairs and vas hang himself mit
a pedbost."</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bosch</span> evidently rather proud of this as illustrating
the liveliness of The Hague.</p>
<p>"Was he mad?"</p>
<p>"Yass, he vas mard, mit a vife and seeks childrens."</p>
<p>"No, but was he out of his senses?"</p>
<p>"I tink it was oud of Omsterdam he vas com,"
says <span class="smcap">Bosch</span>.</p>
<p>"But how did it happen?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[ 113]</a></span>
"Wol-sare, de broprietor vas die, and leaf de
successor de pusiness, and he dells him in von mons
he will go, begause he nod egsamin to be a Chimigal—so
he do it, and dey dake him to de hosbital, and
I tink <i>he</i> vas die too by now!" adds BOSCH, cheerfully.</p>
<p>Very sad affair evidently—but a little complicated.
<span class="smcap">Sandford</span> would like to get to the bottom of it, but
<span class="smcap">Merton</span> convinced there is <i>no</i> bottom. So, between
us, subject allowed to drop.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Sandford</span> (now in the ascendant again) notices,
as the clever boy, inscription on house-front, "Hier
woonden Groen Van Prinsterer, 1838-76."</p>
<p>"I suppose that means Van Prinsterer lived here,
Bosch?"</p>
<p>"Yass, dot vas it."</p>
<p>"And who was he?"</p>
<p>"He vas—wol, he vos a Member of de Barliaments."</p>
<p>"Was he celebrated?"</p>
<p>"Celebrated? oh, yaas!"</p>
<p>"What did he <i>do</i>?" (I think <span class="smcap">Merton</span> gets
this in.)</p>
<p>"Do?" says <span class="smcap">Bosch</span>, quite indignantly, "he nefer
do <i>nodings</i>!"</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bosch</span> takes me into the Fishmarket, when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[ 114]</a></span>
directs my attention to a couple of very sooty live
storks, who are pecking about at the refuse.</p>
<p>"Dose pirts are shtorks; hier dey vas oblige to keep
alvays two shtorks for de arms of de Haag. Vhen
de yong shtorks porn, de old vons vas kill."</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Sandford</span> shocked—<span class="smcap">Merton</span> sceptical.</p>
<p>"Keel dem? Oh, yaas, do anytings mit dem
ven dey vas old," says <span class="smcap">Bosch</span>, and adds:—"Ve haf
de breference mit de shtorks, eh?"</p>
<p>What <i>is</i> he driving at?</p>
<p>"Yaas—ven <i>ve</i> vas old ve vas nod kill."</p>
<p>This reminds <span class="smcap">Bosch</span>—<span class="smcap">Barlow</span>-like—of an anecdote.</p>
<p>"Dere vas a vrent to me," he begins, "he com
and say to me, 'Bosch, I am god so shtout and my
bark is so dick, I can go no more on my lacks—vat
vas I do?' To him I say, 'Wol, I dell you vat I
do mit you—I dake you at de booshair to be cot op;
I tink you vas make vary goot shdeak-meat!"</p>
<p>Wonder whether this is a typical sample of <span class="smcap">Bosch's</span>
<i>badinage</i>.</p>
<p>"What did he say to that, Bosch?"</p>
<p>"Oh, he vas vair moch loff, a-course!" says
<span class="smcap">Bosch</span>, with the natural complacency of a successful
humorist.</p>
<p>We go into the Old Prison, and see some horrible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[ 115]</a></span>
implements of torture, which seem to exhilarate
<span class="smcap">Bosch</span>.</p>
<p>"Lokeer!" he says, "Dis vas a pinition" (<span class="smcap">Bosch</span>
for "punishment") "mit a can. Dey lie de man
down and vasten his foots, and efery dime he vas
shdrook mit de can, he jomp op and hit his vorehaid....
Hier dey lie down de beoples on de
back, and pull dis shdring queeck, and all dese tings
go roundt, and preak deir bones. Ven de pinition
was feenish you vas det." He shows where the
Water-torture was practised. "Nottice 'ow de vater
vas vork a 'ole in de tile," he chuckles, "I tink de
tile vas vary hardt det, eh?" Then he points out a
pole with a spiked prong. "Tief-catcher—put 'em
in de tief's nack—and get 'im!" Before a grim-looking
cauldron he halts appreciatively. "You
know vat dat vas for?" he says. "Dat vas for de
blode-foots; put 'em in dere, yaas, and light de vire
onderneat."</p>
<p>No idea what "<i>blode-foots</i>" may be, but from the
relish in <span class="smcap">Bosch's</span> tone, evidently something very
unpleasant, so don't press him for explanations.
We go upstairs, and see some dark and very
mouldy dungeons, which <span class="smcap">Bosch</span> is very anxious
that I should enter. Make him go in <i>first</i>, for the
surroundings seem to have excited his sense of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[ 116]</a></span>
the humorous to such a degree, that he might be
unable to resist locking me in, and leaving me, if I
gave him a chance.</p>
<p>Outside at last, thank goodness! The Groote
Kerk, according to <span class="smcap">Bosch</span>, "is not vort de see," so
we don't see it. <span class="smcap">Sandford</span> has a sneaking impression
that I ought to go in, but <span class="smcap">Merton</span> glad to be let off.
We go to see the pictures at the Mauritshuis instead.
<span class="smcap">Bosch</span> exchanges greetings with the attendants in
Dutch. "Got <i>another</i> of 'em in tow, you see—and
collar-work, <i>I</i> can tell you!" would be a free translation,
I suspect, of his remarks. Must say that, in a
Picture-gallery, <span class="smcap">Bosch</span> is a superfluous luxury. He
<i>does</i> take my ignorance just a trifle too much for
granted. He <i>might</i> give me credit for knowing the
story of Adam and Eve, at all events! "De Sairpan
gif Eva de opple, an' Eva gif him to Adam," <span class="smcap">Bosch</span>
carefully informs me, before a "<i>Paradise</i>," by Rubens
and Brueghel.</p>
<p>This rouses my <span class="smcap">Merton</span> half to inquire what
Adam did with it.</p>
<p>"Oh, <i>he</i> ead him too!" says <span class="smcap">Bosch</span> in perfect
good faith.</p>
<p>I do wish, too, he wouldn't lead me up to Paul
Potter's "<i>Bull</i>," and ask me enthusiastically if it
isn't "real meat." I shouldn't mind it so much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[ 117]</a></span>
if there were not several English people about,
without couriers—but there <i>are</i>. My only revenge
is (as <span class="smcap">Merton</span>) to carefully pick out the unsigned
canvases and ask <span class="smcap">Bosch</span> who painted them; whereupon
<span class="smcap">Bosch</span> endeavours furtively to make out the
label on the frames, and then informs me in
desperation, "it vas '<i>School</i>,'—yass, <i>he</i> baint him!"
<span class="smcap">Bosch</span> kindly explains the subject of every picture
in detail. He tells me a Droochsloot represents a
"balsham pedder." I suppose I look bewildered,
for he adds—"oppen air tance mit a village."
"Hier dey vas haf a tispute; dis man say de ham
vas more value as de cheese—dere is de cheese,
and dere is de ham." "Hier is an old man dot
marry a yong vife, and two tevils com in, and de
old man he ron avay." "Hier he dress him in
voman, and de vife is vrighten." "Hier is Jan
Steen himself as a medicine, and he veel de yong
voman's polse, and say dere is nodings de madder,
and the modder ask him to trink a glass of vine."
"Hier is de beach at Skavening—now dey puild
houses on de dunes—bot de beach is schdill dere."</p>
<p>Such are <span class="smcap">Bosch's</span> valuable and instructive comments,
to which, as representing <span class="smcap">Sandford</span> and
<span class="smcap">Merton</span>, I listen with depressed docility. All the
same, can't help coming to the conclusion that Art is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[ 118]</a></span>
<i>not</i> <span class="smcap">Bosch's</span> strong point. Shall come here again—alone.
We go on to the Municipal Museum, where
he shows me what <i>he</i> considers the treasures of the
collection—a glass goblet, engraved "mit dails of
tobaggo bipes," and the pipes themselves; a painting
of a rose, "mit ade beople's faces in de leafs;"
and a drawing of "two pirts mit only von foots."</p>
<p>Outside again. <span class="smcap">Bosch</span> shows me a house.</p>
<p>"Lokeer. In dot house leef an oldt lady all mit
herself and ade sairvans. She com from Friesland,
yassir."</p>
<p>Really, I think <span class="smcap">Bosch</span> is going to be interesting—at
last. There is a sly twinkle in his eye, denoting
some story of a scandalous but infinitely humorous
nature.</p>
<p>"Well, Bosch, go on—what about the old lady?"
I ask eagerly, as <span class="smcap">Merton</span>.</p>
<p>"Wol, Sir," says <span class="smcap">Bosch</span>, "she nefer go
noveres."...</p>
<p>That's <i>all</i>! "A devilish interesting story, <i>Sumph</i>,
indeed!" to quote Mr. Wagg.</p>
<p>But, as <span class="smcap">Bosch</span> frequently reminds me, "It vas
pedder, you see, as a schendlemans like you go apout
mit me; I dell you tings dot vas not in de guide-books."
Which I am not in a position to deny.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[ 119]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" /></div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[ 121]</a></span>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>FEELING THEIR WAY.</h2>
<h3>(<span class="smcap">A Study in the Art of Genteel Conversation.</span>)</h3>
<p><i>The Drawing-room of a Margate Hotel. <span class="smcap">Time</span>—Evening.
<span class="smcap">Mrs. Ardleigh</span> (of Balham), and <span class="smcap">Mrs. Allbutt</span> (of Brondesbury),
are discovered in the midst of a conversation, in which
each is anxious both to impress the other, and ascertain how far
she is a person to be cultivated. At present, they have not got
beyond the discovery of a common bond in Cookery.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Allbutt.</span> You have the yolks of two
eggs, I must tell you; squeeze the juice of
half a lemon into it, and, when you boil the
butter in the pan, make a paste of it with <i>dry</i> flour.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ardleigh.</span> It sounds delicious—but you
never can trust a Cook to carry out instructions
exactly.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> I never <i>do</i>. Whenever I want to
have anything specially nice for my husband, I make
a point of seeing to it myself. He appreciates it.
Now <i>some</i> men, if you cook for them, never notice
whether it's you or the Cook. My husband <i>does</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[ 122]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> I wonder how you find time to do it.
I'm sure <i>I</i> should never——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> Oh, it takes time, of course—but
what does that matter when you've nothing to
do? Did I mention just a small pinch of Cayenne
pepper?—because that's a <i>great</i> improvement!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> I tell you what I like Cayenne pepper
with, better than anything—and that's eggs.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> (<i>with elegant languor</i>). I hardly ever
eat an egg. Oysters, now, I'm <i>very</i> fond of—<i>fried</i>,
that is.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> They're very nice done in the real
shells. Or on scollops. We have silver—or rather—(<i>with
a magnanimous impulse to tone down her splendour</i>),
silver-plated ones.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> How funny—so have we! (<i>Both
women feel an increase of liking for one another.</i>) I like
them cooked in milk, too.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>The first barrier being satisfactorily passed, they
proceed, as usual, to the subject of ailments.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> My doctor <i>does</i> do me good, I must
say—he never lets me get ill. He just sees your
liver's all right, and then he feeds you up.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> That's like <i>my</i> doctor; he always tells
me, if he didn't keep on constantly building me up, I
should go all to pieces in no time. That's how I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[ 123]</a></span>
come to be here. I always run down at the end of
every Season.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> (<i>feeling that <span class="smcap">Mrs. Allbutt</span> can't be
"anybody very particular" after all</i>). What—to
Margate? Fancy! Don't you find you get tired
of it? <i>I</i> should.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> (<i>with dignity</i>). I didn't say I always
went to Margate. On the contrary, I have never
been here before, and shouldn't be here now, if my
doctor hadn't told me it was my only chance.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> (<i>reassured</i>). I only came down here on
my little girl's account. One of those nasty croupy
coughs, you know, and hoops with it. But she's
almost well already. I will say it's a wonderful air.
Still, the worst of Margate is, one isn't likely to meet
a soul one knows!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> Well, that's the charm of it—to me.
One has enough of that during the Season.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> (<i>recognising the superiority of this view</i>).
Indeed one has. What a whirl it has been to
be sure!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> The Season? Why, I never remember
one with so little doing. Most of the best houses
closed—hardly a single really smart party—one or
two weddings—and that's positively all!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> (<i>slightly crushed, in spite of a conviction</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[ 124]</a></span>
<i>that—socially speaking—Balham has been rather more
brilliant than usual this year</i>). Yes, that's very true.
I suppose the Elections have put a stop to most
things?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> There never was much going on. <i>I</i>
should rather have said it was Marlborough House
being shut up that made everything so dull from the
first.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> Ah, that <i>does</i> make such a difference,
doesn't it? (<i>She feels she must make an effort to recover
lost ground.</i>) I fully expected to be at Homburg this
year.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> Then you would have met Lady
Neuraline Menthol. She <i>was</i> ordered there, I happen
to know.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> Really, you don't say so? Lady
Neuraline! Well, that's the first <i>I've</i> heard of it.
(<i>It is also the first time she has heard of her, but she
trusts to be spared so humiliating an admission.</i>)</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> It's a fact, I can assure you. You
know her, perhaps?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> (<i>who would dearly like to say she does, if
she only dared</i>). Well, I can hardly say I exactly
<i>know</i> her. I know <i>of</i> her. I've met her about, and
so on. (<i>She tells herself this is quite as likely to be true
as not.</i>)<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[ 125]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/p125.png" width="500" height="600" alt=""Dear, dear! not a county family!"" title="" />
<span class="caption">"Dear, dear! not a county family!"</span>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[ 127]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> (<i>who of course does not know Lady
Neuraline either</i>). Ah, she is a most delightful
person—requires <i>knowing</i>, don't you know.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> So many in her position do, don't
they? (<i>So far as she is concerned—they all do.</i>)
You'd think it was haughtiness—but it's really only
<i>manner</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> (<i>feeling that she can go ahead with safety
now</i>). I have never found anything of <i>that</i> sort in
Lady Neuraline myself (<i>which is perfectly true.</i>) She's
rather odd and flighty, but <i>quite</i> a dear. By the
way, <i>how</i> sad it is about those poor dear Chutneys—the
Countess, don't you know!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> Ah (<i>as if she knew all the rest of the
family</i>), I don't know <i>her</i> at all.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> Such a sweet woman—but the trouble
she's had with her eldest boy, Lord Mango! He
married quite beneath him, you know, some girl
from the provinces—not a county-family girl even.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> (<i>shocked</i>). Dear, dear! <i>not</i> a county
family!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> No; somebody quite common—I
forget the name, but it was either Gherkin or Onion,
or something of that sort. I was told they had been
in Chili a good while. Poor Mango never had much
taste, or he would never have got mixed up with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[ 128]</a></span>
such a set. Anyway, he's got himself into a terrible
pickle. I hear Capsicums is actually to be sold to
pay his debts.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> You don't say so! Capsicums!
Gracious!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> Yes, <i>isn't</i> it a pity! Such a lovely
old place as it was, too—<i>the</i> most comfortable house
to stay at in all England; so beautifully <i>warm</i>!
But it's dreadful to think of how the aristocracy
are taking to marry out of their own set. Look at
the Duke of Dragnet—married a Miss Duckweed—goodness
only knows where he picked her up! but
he got entangled somehow, and now his people are
trying to get rid of her. I see so many of these
cases. Well, I'm afraid I must wish you good
evening—it's my time for retiring. (<i>Patronisingly.</i>)
I've quite enjoyed the conversation—such a pleasure
in a place like this to come across a genial companion!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> (<i>fluttered and flattered</i>). I'm sure you're
exceedingly kind to say so, and I can say the same
for myself. I hope we may become better acquainted.
(<i>To herself, after <span class="smcap">Mrs. Allbutt</span> has departed.</i>) I've
quite taken to that woman—she's so thoroughly the
lady, and moves in very high society, too. You can
tell that from the way she talks. What's that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[ 129]</a></span>
paper on the table? (<i>She picks up a journal in a
coloured wrapper.</i>) "<i>Society Snippets, the Organ of the
Upper Ten. One Penny.</i>" The very thing I wanted.
It's such a comfort to know who's who. (<i>She opens
it and reads sundry paragraphs headed "Through the
Keyhole."</i>) Now how funny this is! Here's the
very same thing about the dulness of the Season that
she said. That shows she must be really in it. And
a note about Lady Neuraline being about to recruit
at Homburg. And another about her reputation or
eccentricity, and her "sweetness to the select few
privileged to be her intimates." And here's all
about Lord Mango, and what a pleasant house
Capsicums is, and his marriage, and the Duke of
Dragnet's, too. Her information was very correct,
I must say! (<i>A light begins to break in upon her.</i>) I
wonder whether——but there—people of her sort
wouldn't require to read the papers for such things.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>Here the door opens, and <span class="smcap">Mrs. Allbutt</span> appears,
in some embarrassment.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> (<i>scrutinising the tables</i>). Oh, it's nothing.
I thought I'd left something of mine here; it was
only a paper—I see I was mistaken, don't trouble.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> (<i>producing Society Snippets</i>). I expect
it will be this. (<i><span class="smcap">Mrs. Allbutt's</span> face reveals her
ownership.</i>) I took it up, not knowing it was yours.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[ 130]</a></span>
(<i>Meaningly</i>.) It has some highly interesting information,
I see.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. All.</span> (<i>slightly demoralised</i>). Oh, has it? I—I've
not had time to glance at it yet. Pray don't
let me deprive you of it. I dare say there's very
little in it I don't know already.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Ard.</span> So I should have thought. (<i>To herself,
after <span class="smcap">Mrs. Allbutt</span> has retired in disorder.</i>)
Fancy that woman trying to take me in like that,
and no more in Society than I am—if so much!
However, I've found her out before going too far—luckily.
And I've a good mind to take in this <i>Society
Snippets</i> myself—it certainly does improve one's
conversation. She won't have it <i>all</i> her own way
<i>next</i> time!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[ 131]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>A TESTIMONIAL MANQUÉ.</h2>
<h3>(<span class="smcap">A Sketch from the Suburbs.</span>)</h3>
<p><i><span class="smcap">The Argument.</span>—Mr. Hotspur Porpentine, a distinguished
resident in the rising suburb of Jerrymere, has recently been
awarded fourteen days' imprisonment, without the option of a
fine, for assaulting a ticket-collector, who had offered him the
indignity of requiring him to show his season-ticket at the barrier.
The scene is a Second-Class Compartment, in which four of
Mr. Porpentine's neighbours are discussing the affair during their
return from the City.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcroft</span> (<i>warmly</i>). I say, Sir—and
I'm sure all here will bear me out—that such
a sentence was a scandalous abuse of justice.
As a near neighbour, and an intimate friend of
Porpentine's, I don't 'esitate to assert that he has
done nothing whatever to forfeit our esteem. He's
a quick-tempered man, as we're all aware, and to
be asked by some meddlesome official to show his
season, after travelling on the line constantly for
years, and leaving it at home that morning—why—<i>I</i>
don't blame him if he <i>did</i> use his umbrella!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[ 134]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Balch</span> (<i>sympathetically</i>). Nor I. Porpentine's
a man I've always had a very 'igh respect for ever
since I came into this neighbourhood. I've always
found him a good feller, and a good neighbour.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Filkins</span> (<i>deferentially</i>). I can't claim to be
as intimate with him as some here; but, if it isn't
putting myself too far forward to say so, I very
cordially beg to say ditto to those sentiments.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sibbering</span> (<i>who has never "taken to" Porpentine</i>).
Well, he's had a sharp lesson,—there's no
denying that.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> Precisely, and it occurs to me that
when he—ah—returns to public life, it would be a
kind thing, and a graceful thing, and a thing he
would—ah—appreciate in the spirit it was intended,
if we were to present him with some little token of
our sympathy and unabated esteem—what do you
fellers think?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Filk.</span> A most excellent suggestion, if my
friend here will allow me to say so. I, for one, shall
be proud to contribute to so worthy an object.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Balch.</span> I don't see why we shouldn't present
him with an address—'ave it illuminated, and framed
and glazed; sort of thing he could 'ang up and 'and
down to his children after him as an <i>heirloom</i>,
yi-know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[ 135]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 546px;">
<img src="images/p135.png" width="546" height="600" alt=""Well, he's had a sharp lesson,—there's no denying that."" title="" />
<span class="caption">"Well, he's had a sharp lesson,—there's no denying that."</span>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[ 137]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sibb.</span> I don't like to throw cold water on
any proposition, but if you want <i>my</i> opinion, I must
say I see no necessity for making a public thing out
of it in that way.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> I'm with Sibbering there. The
less fuss there is about it, the better Porpentine'll be
pleased. My idea is to give him something of daily
use—a <i>useful</i> thing, yi-know.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Balch.</span> Useful <i>or</i> ornamental. Why not his
own portrait? There's many an artist who would
do him in oils, and guarantee a likeness, frame
included, for a five-pound note.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sibb.</span> If it's to be like Porpentine, it certainly
won't be <i>ornamental</i>, whatever else it is.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Filk.</span> It can't be denied that he is remarkably
plain in the face. We'd better, as our friend
Mr. Cockcroft here proposes, make it something of
daily use—a good serviceable silk umbrella now—that's
<i>always</i> appropriate.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sibb.</span> To make up for the one he broke over
the collector's head, eh?—that's <i>appropriate</i> enough!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> No, no; you mean well, Filkins,
but you must see yourself, on reflection, that there
would be a certain want of—ah—good taste in
giving him a thing like that under the circumstances.
I should suggest something like a hatstand—a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[ 138]</a></span>
handsome one, of course. I happen to know that
he has nothing in the passage at present but a row
of pegs.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sibb.</span> I should have thought he'd been taken
down enough pegs already.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Filk.</span> (<i>who resents the imputation upon his taste</i>).
I can't say what the width of Mr. Porpentine's
passage may be, never having been privileged with
an invitation to pass the threshold, but unless it's
wider than ours is, he couldn't get a hatstand in if
he tried, and if my friend Cockcroft will excuse the
remark, I see no sense—to say nothing of good taste,
about which perhaps I mayn't be qualified to pass
an opinion—in giving him an article he's got no
room for.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> (<i>with warmth</i>). There's room enough
in Porpentine's passage for a whole host of hatstands,
if that's all, and I know what I'm speaking about.
I've been in and out there often enough. I'm—ah—a
regular tame cat in that house. But if you're
against the 'atstand, I say no more—we'll waive it.
How would it do if we gave him a nice comfortable
easy-chair—something he could sit in of an evening,
yi-know?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sibb.</span> A touchy chap like Porpentine would
be sure to fancy we thought he wanted something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[ 139]</a></span>
soft after a hard bench and a plank bed—you can't
go and give him <i>furniture</i>!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> (<i>with dignity</i>). There's a way of
doing all things. I wasn't proposing to go and chuck
the chair <i>at</i> him—he's a sensitive feller in many
respects, and he'd feel <i>that</i>, I grant you. He can't
object to a little present of that sort just from four
friends like ourselves.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Balch</span> (<i>with a falling countenance</i>). Oh! I
thought it was to be a general affair, limited to a
small sum, so that all who liked could join in. I'd
no notion you meant to keep it such a private matter
as all that.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Filk.</span> Nor I. And, knowing Mr. Porpentine
so slightly as I do, he might consider it presumption
in me, making myself so prominent in the matter—or
else I'm sure——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> There's no occasion for anyone to
be prominent, except myself. You leave it entirely
in my 'ands. I'll have the chair taken up some
evening to Porpentine's house on a 'andcart, and
drop in, and just lead up to it carelessly, if you
understand me, then go out and wheel the chair in,
make him try it—and there you <i>are</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Balch.</span> There <i>you</i> are, right enough; but I
don't see where <i>we</i> come in, exactly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[ 140]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Fillk.</span> If it's to be confined to just us four,
I certingly think we ought <i>all</i> to be present at the
presentation.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> That would be just the very thing
to put a man like Porpentine out—a crowd dropping
in on him like that! I know his ways, and, seeing
I'm providing the chair——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Balch</span> (<i>relieved</i>). <i>You</i> are? That's different,
of course; but I thought you said that we four——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> I'm coming to that. As the prime
mover, and a particular friend of Porpentine's, it's
only right and fair I should bear the chief burden.
There's an easy-chair I have at home that only
wants re-covering to be as good as new, and all you
fellers need do is to pay for 'aving it nicely done up
in velvet, or what not, and we'll call it quits.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Balch.</span> I daresay; but I like to know what
I'm letting myself in for; and there's upholsterers
who'll charge as much for doing up a chair as would
furnish a room.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Filk.</span> I—I shouldn't feel justified, with my
family, and, as, comparatively speaking, a recent
resident, in going beyond a certain limit, and unless
the estimate could be kep' down to a moderate sum,
I really——-</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sibb.</span> (<i>unmasking</i>). After all, you know, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[ 141]</a></span>
don't see why we should go to any expense over a
stuck-up, cross-grained chap like Porpentine. It's
well-known he hasn't a good word to say for us
Jerrymere folks, and considers himself above the lot
of us!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Balch</span> and <span class="smcap">Mr. Filk</span>. I'm bound to say
there's a good deal in what Sibbering says. Porpentine's
never shown himself what <i>I</i> should call sociable.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> I've never found him anything but
pleasant myself, whatever he may be to others. I'm
not denying he's an <i>exclusive</i> man, and a <i>fastidious</i>
man, but he's been 'arshly treated, and <i>I</i> should have
thought this was an occasion—if ever there was
one—for putting any private feelings aside, and
rallying round him to show our respect and
sympathy. But of course if you're going to let
petty jealousies of this sort get the better of you,
and leave me to do the 'ole thing myself, <i>I've</i> no
objection. I daresay he'll value it all the more
coming from me.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sibb.</span> Well, he <i>ought</i> to, after the shameful
way he's spoken of you to a friend of mine in the
City, who shall be nameless. You mayn't know,
and if not, it's only right I should mention it, that
he complained bitterly of having to change his
regular train on your account, and said (I'm only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[ 142]</a></span>
repeating his words, mind you), that Jerrymere was
entirely populated by bores, but you were the worst
of the lot, and your jabber twice a day was more
than he <i>could</i> stand. He mayn't have <i>meant</i> anything
by it, but it was decidedly uncalled for.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> (<i>reddening</i>). I 'ope I'm above being
affected by the opinion any man may express of my
conversation—especially a cantankerous feller, who
can't keep his temper under decent control. A feller
who goes and breaks his umbrella over an unoffending
official's 'ead like that, and gets, very properly, locked
up for it! Jerrymere society isn't good enough for
him, it seems. He won't be troubled with much of
it in future—<i>I</i> can assure him! Upon my word,
now I come to think of it, I'm not sure he shouldn't
be called upon for an explanation of how he came
to be travelling without a ticket; it looks very much
to me as if he'd been systematically defrauding the
Company!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Filk.</span> Well, I didn't like to say so before;
but that's been <i>my</i> view all along!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Balch.</span> And mine.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sibb.</span> Now perhaps you understand why
we'd rather leave it to you to give him the
arm-chair.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cockcr.</span> I give a man an arm-chair for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[ 143]</a></span>
bringing disgrace on the 'ole of Jerrymere! I'd
sooner break it up for firewood! Whoever it was
that first started all this tomfoolery about a testimonial,
I'm not going to 'ave <i>my</i> name associated
with it, and if you'll take <i>my</i> advice, you'll drop
it once and for all, for it's only making yourselves
ridiculous!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>His companions, observing that he is in a somewhat
excited condition, consider it advisable to
change the subject.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE MODEL DEMOCRACY.</h2>
<p>"I think you left directions that you were to
be thawed in 199— precisely?" said the
stranger politely. "Allow me to introduce
myself—<span class="smcap">Number Seven Million and Six</span>. If you
feel equal to the effort, and would care to see the
vast improvements in our social condition since the
close of the benighted Nineteenth Century, I shall
be pleased to conduct you."</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span> then began to realise that he had had
himself frozen by a patent process just a hundred
years ago, and that he had returned to animation
in time for the close of the marvellous Twentieth
Century; so he prepared, in much curiosity and
excitement, to accompany his guide.</p>
<p>"By the way," observed the latter, "you must
not be annoyed if your—hem—habiliments, which we
are unaccustomed to nowadays, should attract some
attention."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[ 148]</a></span></p>
<p>Singularly enough, <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span> had just begun to
feel a certain embarrassment at the prospect of being
seen in Piccadilly or Regent Street in the company
of a person attired in grey cellular pyjamas, a drab
blanket, and a glazed pot hat. However, on reaching
the street, he found that every man he met was
similarly clad, while his own costume—which, in his
original century, would only have been remarkable
for its unimpeachable taste—was, in this, the subject
of universal and invidious comment.</p>
<p>"You'll have your regulation pot hat and pyjamas
served out to you in time!" said <span class="smcap">Mr. Seven Million
and Six</span> encouragingly. "Then no one will say
anything to you. In these days we resent anything
that tends to confer an artificial distinction on any
man. Surnames, for example, which occasionally
suggested superiority of birth, have long been
abolished, and official numbers substituted. You
seem to be looking for something you do not see?"
he added, noting a certain blankness and disappointment
in <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch's</span> expressive countenance.</p>
<p>"I was only wondering why I saw no signs of any
new and marvellous inventions at present," said
<span class="smcap">Mr. Punch.</span> "I rather expected to see the air full
of electric trains, manageable balloons, or coveys
of citizens darting about on mechanical pinions.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[ 149]</a></span>
But I see none, and even more people go on foot
than in my own time."</p>
<p>"Inventions, I take it," was the reply, "only
served to enrich the Capitalist, and save time or
labour. Now we have no Capitalists and no riches,
and no reason for hurrying anywhere, while it would
be absurd and useless to lessen the amount of
manual labour when, even as it is, there is scarcely
enough to keep everyone employed for six hours a
day."</p>
<p>"Why are all the women I see dressed exactly
alike in navy-blue woollen frocks and coal-scuttle
bonnets?" <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span> inquired presently. "Surely
they can't <i>all</i> be members of the Sal——"</p>
<p>"A uniform costume was decreed by plebiscite
some years ago," replied his mentor, promptly.
"Any real equality amongst women was found hopeless
so long as some were able to render themselves
exceptionally attractive by a distinctive toilette."</p>
<p>"What!" exclaimed <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span>, "did all the
pretty women consent to such a sacrifice?"</p>
<p>"They were in a very decided minority, even then,"
said <span class="smcap">Mr. Seven Million and Six</span>; "and it is not
our way to think much of minorities. At present,
owing no doubt to an enactment which penalised
every pretty woman by compelling her to wear blue<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[ 150]</a></span>
goggles and a respirator, feminine beauty is practically
extinct."</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span> could not restrain a sigh. They were
now entering a somewhat gloomy thoroughfare, between
massive blocks of buildings, with large doors
and innumerable small windows, which towered into
the sky on either hand.</p>
<p>"I seem to miss the shop-fronts," he said aloud,
"with their plate-glass, and all their glitter and
luxury. What has become of them all?"</p>
<p>"Such necessaries as the citizen requires," said
his companion, "are procured at the Public Storehouses,
which you see around you, by the simple
method of presenting a ticket. The luxuries you
refer to were only procurable by the rich, and
nobody is rich now. If you will come with me, I
will take you over one of the State Dwelling-houses,
and show you one of the suites of rooms. Every
citizen has a room; or, if married, a couple of rooms,
exactly the same shape and size as those of his
fellows.... Beautifully clean, you see!" he remarked,
complacently, as he threw open one of the
doors. "Neat whitewashed walls, plain deal furniture,
nice holland blinds—what more can any
reasonable citizen want in the way of comfort?"</p>
<p>"There used to be a celebrated poet in my time,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[ 151]</a></span>
said <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span>, with some hesitation, "who designed
and sold very beautiful upholstery—tapestry,
wall-papers, curtains, and so on. I fancy <i>he</i> held
Socialistic views. But I see no trace of his work
<i>here</i>."</p>
<p>"I think I know whom you refer to," was the
reply. "The community would doubtless have been
glad of his Company's services if they would only have
contracted to supply every citizen with precisely the
same pattern and quality of their manufactures at,
say, a pork-pie a yard. But, for some reason, the
firm could not see their way to it, and the industry
declined; which is not to be regretted, for it certainly
tended to foster individualism."</p>
<p>"It is curious," said <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span>, when they were
outside again, "that I have not as yet seen a single
policeman."</p>
<p>"Not at all curious. We <i>have</i> none. Crime
simply proceeded from the galling sense of social
inequality. Consequently, as soon as that was
removed, Justice, with all its machinery, became
an anachronism."</p>
<p>"I think," said <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span>, presently, "I should
like to take a stroll in Hyde Park."</p>
<p>"That," said his guide, "has not been possible
for at least fifty years. All the parks are now cut<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[ 152]</a></span>
up into three-acre allotments, where every able-bodied
citizen does an hour's compulsory spade-work
once a fortnight. A most admirable reform, as you
will agree!"</p>
<p>"Capital!" gasped <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span>, with an anticipatory
pain in his back. "Then I am curious to
see what strides have been made by your modern
painters. Could you take me to a picture-gallery?"</p>
<p>"There are <i>no</i> modern painters. It is perhaps a
pity—but quite unavoidable. It was an obvious
injustice that, when all citizens had to perform their
share of more or less distasteful manual labour,
there should be any one class that earned a living by
work in which they took a positive pleasure. So that
every artist had to do his six hours' stone-breaking
or brick-making; or what not, as an antecedent
condition of being permitted to paint at all, and
naturally the State declined to provide him with
paints and brushes at the expense of the community.
A few artists persisted for a while, from sheer love of
the thing; but as no picture fetched more than
a pound of sausages, and the average price was a bowl
of porridge, they found it expedient to turn to some
more useful occupation. And it is undeniable that
they contribute more to the resources of the commonwealth
by wielding a trowel or a broom than by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[ 153]</a></span>
messing about with brushes and paint. As a
concession to hereditary instinct, however, their
descendants are still set apart as State white-washers."</p>
<p>"And the drama?" <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span> inquired next.
"How is <i>that</i> getting on? Has the New Dramatist
made his appearance at last?"</p>
<p>"On the contrary, I am glad to say he has disappeared—let
us hope for ever. For, the essence
of Drama, as I understand, was Emotion—Passion,
Jealousy, Marital and Parental relations, and so on.
Now that marriages are the subject of State
regulation, and extend only for a limited period,
Passion, of course is obsolete; Jealousy, too, is
recognised as merely Selfishness in disguise, and
we have grown too altruistic to desire the exclusive
possession of anything. While as the offspring of
every union are removed at birth to a communal
<i>crèche</i>, and brought up and educated by the State,
there are no longer any opportunities for filial or
parental affection."</p>
<p>"Then I presume Fiction is equally——?"</p>
<p>"Just so. Fiction depended on Contrast. When
everybody is on precisely the same level, the novelist
is, happily, unnecessary. What are you looking
for <i>now</i>?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[ 154]</a></span></p>
<p>"I was wondering if I could buy an evening paper
anywhere," said <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span>, wistfully. "But
perhaps Journalism is also——?"</p>
<p>"Of course. Everyone is so contentedly and
peacefully absorbed in contributing his share of work
to the State, that he has no desire to read about the
doings of other persons, even if there was anything
of interest to be told, which there isn't. We produce
just sufficient for our own wants, so there is no
commerce; we have no Army or Navy, since
we don't desire to conquer, and are not worth conquering.
No Politics, because we govern ourselves
by our own consent and co-operation; no Science,
as inventors only benefited capital at the expense of
labour; and, this being so, what <i>is</i> there to put into
a newspaper, if we had one?"</p>
<p>"Haven't you even a—a <i>humorous</i> paper?" said
<span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span>. "I used to do a little in that way
once."</p>
<p>"You had better not do it <i>here</i>. Humour, I
believe, consisted in representing Humanity under
ridiculous aspects. <i>We</i>'re Humanity, and we don't
see any fun in being laughed at. None of your
humour here, mind!"</p>
<p>"But the citizens have a certain amount of leisure,
I suppose," said <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span>. "How <i>do</i> they amuse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[ 155]</a></span>
themselves? For I can discover no libraries, no
circuses, nor concert-rooms, nor anything!"</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 417px;">
<img src="images/p155.png" width="417" height="600" alt=""None of your humour here, mind!"" title="" />
<span class="caption">"None of your humour here, mind!"</span>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[ 157]</a></span></p>
<p>"It was seen to be invidious to furnish any
entertainment at the public expense which did not
give equal amusement to all, and so the idea was
gradually dropped. When our citizens have finished
their daily task, they find their relaxation, in the
intervals of eating and sleeping, in the harmless and
soothing practice of chewing gum. They can all
do <i>that</i>, and the State provides each with a weekly
supply for the purpose. Now tell me—is there
anything <i>more</i> I can do for you?"</p>
<p>"Yes," murmured <span class="smcap">Mr. Punch</span>; "if you would be
so very kind as to freeze me again for five hundred
years or so, I should be exceedingly obliged. I don't
feel quite at home in <i>this</i> century!"</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>BY PARLIAMENTARY.</h2>
<p class="center"><i>On the Platform.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">A Lady of Family.</span> Oh, yes, I do travel
third-class sometimes, my dear. I consider
it a duty to try to know something of the
lower orders.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>Looks out for an empty third-class compartment.</i></p></blockquote>
<blockquote><p><i>In the Carriage.</i>—<i>The seats are now occupied: the <span class="smcap">Lady of
Family</span> is in one corner, next to a <span class="smcap">Chatty Woman</span> with a basket,
and opposite to an <span class="smcap">Eccentric-Looking Man</span> with a flighty
manner.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Eccentric Man</span> (<i>to the <span class="smcap">Lady of Family</span></i>).
Sorry to disturb you, Mum, but you're a-setting on
one o' my 'am sandwiches.</p>
<p>The <i>L. of F.</i>???!!!</p>
<p>The E. M. (<i>considerately</i>). Don't trouble yourself,
Mum, it's of no intrinsic value. I on'y put it there
to keep my seat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[ 162]</a></span></p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Chatty W.</span> (<i>to the <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span></i>). I think I've seen
you about Shinglebeach, 'ave I not?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span> It is very possible. I have been
staying with some friends in the neighbourhood.</p>
<p>The C. W. It's a nice cheerful place is Shinglebeach;
but (<i>confidentially</i>) don't you think it's a very
singler thing that in a place like that—a fash'nable
place, too—there shouldn't be a single 'am an' beef
shop?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span> (<i>making a desperate effort to throw
herself into the question</i>). What a very extraordinary
thing to be sure. Dear, <i>dear</i> me! No ham and
beef shop!</p>
<p>The C. W. It's so indeed, Mum; and what's more,
as I daresay you have noticed for yourself, if you
'appen to want a snack o' fried fish ever so, there isn't
a place you could go to—leastways, at a moment's
notice. Now, 'ow do you explain such a thing as
that?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span> (<i>faintly</i>). I'm afraid I can't suggest
any explanation.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">A Sententious Man.</span> Fried fish is very sustaining.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>Relapses into silence for remainder of journey.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Eccentric Man</span>. Talking of sustaining, I
remember, when we was kids, my father ud bring us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[ 163]</a></span>
home two pennorth o' ches'nuts, and we 'ad 'em
boiled, and they'd last us days. (<i>Sentimentally.</i>) He
was a kind man, my father (<i>to the <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span>, who bows
constrainedly</i>), though you wouldn't ha' thought it, to
look at him. I don't know, mind yer, that he wasn't
fond of his bit o' booze—(<i>the <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span> looks out of
window</i>)—like the best of us. I'm goin' up to prove
his will now, I am—if you don't believe me, 'ere's the
probate. (<i>Hands that document round for inspection.</i>)
That's all reg'lar enough, I 'ope. (<i>To the <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span></i>)
Don't give it back before you've done with it—I'm in
no 'urry, and there's good reading in it. (<i>Points out
certain favourite passages with a very dirty forefinger.</i>)
Begin there—<i>that's</i> my name.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>The <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span> peruses the will with as great
a show of interest as she can bring herself to
assume.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Eccentric Man</span>. D'ye see that big 'andsome
building over there? That's the County Lunatic
Asylum—where my poor wife is shut up. I went to
see her last week, I did. (<i>Relates his visit in detail to
the <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span>, who listens unwillingly.</i>) It's wonderful
how many of our family have been in that asylum
from first to last. I 'ad a aunt who died cracky; and
my old mother, she's very peculiar at times. There's
days when I feel as if I was a little orf my own 'ed, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[ 164]</a></span>
if I say anything at all out of the way, you'll know
what it is.</p>
<p class="right">[<i><span class="smcap">L. of F.</span> changes carriages at the next station. In
the second carriage are two Men of seafaring
appearance, and a young Man who is parting
from his <span class="smcap">Fiancée</span> as the <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span> takes her seat.</i></p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Fiancé</span>. Excuse me one moment, Ma'am.</p>
<p>(<i>Leans across the <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span> and out of the window.</i>) Well,
good-bye, my girl; take care of yourself.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Fiancée</span> (<i>with a hysterical giggle.</i>) Oh, I'll
take care o' <i>my</i> self.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>Looks at the roof of the carriage.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">He</span> (<i>with meaning</i>). No more pickled onions, eh?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">She.</span> What a one you are to remember things!
(<i>After a pause.</i>) Give my love to Joe.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">He.</span> All right. Well, Jenny, just one, for the last.
(<i>They embrace loudly, after which the <span class="smcap">F.</span> resumes his seat
with an expression of mingled sentiment and complacency.</i>)
Oh (<i>to <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span></i>), if you don't mind my stepping across
you again, Mum. Jenny, if you see Dick between
this and Friday, just tell him as——</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>Prolonged whispers; sounds of renewed kisses; final
parting as train starts with a jerk, which throws
the <span class="smcap">Finacé</span> upon the <span class="smcap">L. of F.'s</span> lap. After the
train is started a gleam of peculiar significance
is observable in the eyes of one of the Seafaring</i></p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[ 165]</a></span></p>
<blockquote><p><i>Men, who is reclining in an easy attitude on the
seat. His companion responds with a grin of
intelligence, and produces a large black bottle
from the rack. They drink, and hand the bottle
to the <span class="smcap">Fiancé</span>.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>The F. Thankee, I don't mind if I do. Here's
wishing you——</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>Remainder of sentiment drowned in sound of glug-glug-glug;
is about to hand back bottle when
the first <span class="smcap">Seafarer</span> intimates that he is to pass
it on. The <span class="smcap">L. of F.</span> recoils in horror.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Both Seafarers.</span> It's <i>wine</i>, Mum!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>Tableau. The <span class="smcap">Lady of Family</span> realises that the
study of third-class humanity has its drawbacks.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE FARMING OF THE FUTURE;</h2>
<h3><span class="smcap">Or, What British Agriculture is Coming to.</span></h3>
<p class="center"><i>A Car on the Electric Light Railway. <span class="smcap">Time.</span>—Twentieth
Century.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Farmer</span> (<i>recognising Second Farmer</i>).
Why, 'tis Muster Fretwail, surelie! didn't see
it was you afore. And how be things gettin'
along with <i>you</i>, Sir, eh?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Farmer Fretwail</span> (<i>lugubriously</i>). 'Mong the
middlin's, Muster Lackaday; 'mong the middlin's!
Nothen doin' just now—nothen 't all!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Third Farmer</span> (<i>enviously</i>). Well, <i>you</i> hevn't no
call fur to cry out, neighbour. I see you've got
a likely lot o' noo 'oardins comin' up all along your
part o' the line. I wish mine wur arf as furrard, I
know thet!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Fretwail.</span> Ah, them "Keep yer 'air on"'s,
<i>you</i> mean, Ryemouth. I don't deny as they was
lookin' tidy enough a week back. But just as I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[ 170]</a></span>
makin' ready fur to paint up "Try it on a Billiard
Ball," blamed if this yere frost didn't set in, and
now theer's everything at a standstill, wi' the brushes
froze 'ard in the pots!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Ryemouth.</span> 'Tis the same down with me.
Theer's a acre o' "Bunyan's Easy Boots" as must
hev a noo coat, and I cann't get nothen done to 'en
till the weather's a bit more hopen like. Don' keer
<i>'ow</i> soon we hev a change, myself, I don't!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Lackaday.</span> Nor yet me, so long as we don't
'ave no gales with it. Theer was my height acre
pasture as I planted only las' Candlemas wi' "Roopy's
Lung Tonics"—wunnerful fine and tall they was,
too—and ivery one on 'en blowed down the next
week!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Fretwail.</span> Well I 'ope theer wun't be no rain,
neither, come to that. I know I had all the P's of my
"Piffler's Persuasive Pillules" fresh gold-leaved at
Michaelmas, and it come on wet directly arter I
done it, and reg'lar washed the gilt out o' sight an'
knowledge, it did. Theer ain't no standin' up agen
rain!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Ryemouth.</span> I dunno as I wouldn't as lief hev
rain as sun. My "Hanti-Freckle Salves" all blistered
up and peeled afore the summer was 'ardly begun
a'most.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[ 171]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 414px;">
<img src="images/p171.png" width="414" height="600" alt=""I cann't get nothen done to 'en till the weather's a bit
more hopen like."" title="" />
<span class="caption">"I cann't get nothen done to 'en till the weather's a bit
more hopen like."</span>
</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[ 172]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[ 173]</a></span></p><p><span class="smcap">F. Lackaday.</span> 'Tis a turr'ble hard climate to
make 'ead against, is ourn. I've 'eard tell as some
farmers are takin' to they enamelled hiron affairs,
same as they used to hev when I wur a lad. I mind
theer wur a crop o' "Read Comic Cagmag" as
lingered on years arter the paper itself. Not as I
hold with enamelling, myself—'tain't what I call
'igh farmin'—takes too much outer the land in
<i>my</i> 'pinion.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Fretwail.</span> Aye, aye. "Rotation o' boards."
Say, "Spooner's Sulphur Syrup" fur a spring crop,
follered with some kind o' soap or candles, and p'raps
cough lozengers, or hembrocation, or bakin' powder,
if the soil will bear it, arterwards—that's the system
<i>I</i> wur reared on, and there ain't no better, 'pend
upon it!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Ryemouth.</span> I tell 'ee what 'tis; it's time we
'ad some protection agen these yere furrin advartisements.
I was travellin' along the Great Northern
t'other day, an' I see theer wos two or three o' them
French boards nigh in ivery field, a downright shame
and disgrace I call it, disfigurin' the look of the
country and makin' it that ontidy—let alone drivin'
honest British boards off the land. Government
ought to put a stop to it; that's what <i>I</i> say!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Lackaday.</span> They Parliment chaps don't keer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[ 174]</a></span>
<i>what</i> becomes of us poor farmers, they don't. Look
at last General Election time. They might ha' given
our boards a turn; but not they. Most o' they
candidates did all their 'tisin' with rubbishy flags and
balloons—made in Japan, Sir, every blamed one o'
them! And they wonder British Agriculture don't
prosper more!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Ryemouth.</span> Speaking o' queer ways o' hadvertisin',
hev any of ye set eyes on that farm o' young
Fullacrank's? Danged if ever <i>I</i> see sech tomfool
notions as he's took up with in all <i>my</i> born days.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Fretwail.</span> Why, what hev he been up to
<i>now</i>, eh?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Ryemouth.</span> Well, I thought I shud ha' bust
myself larfin' when I see it fust. Theer ain't not a
board nor a sky sign; no, nor yet a 'oarding, on the
'ole of his land!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Lackaday.</span> Then how do he expect to get a
profit out of it?—that's what <i>I</i> want to year.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Ryemouth.</span> You'll 'ardly credit it, neighbours,
but he's been buryin' some o' they furrin grains,
hoats and barley, an' I dunno what not, in little holes
about his fields, so as to make the words, "Use
Faddler's Non-Farinaceous Food"—and the best of
it is the darned young fool expecks as 'ow it'll all
sprout come next Aperl—he do indeed, friends!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[ 175]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Fretwail.</span> Flying in the face o' Providence,
I calls it. He must ha' gone clean out of his
senses!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Lackaday.</span> Stark starin' mad. I never heerd
tell o' such extravagance. Why, as likely as not,
'twill all die off o' the land afore the year's out—and
wheer wull he be <i>then</i>?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">F. Ryemouth.</span> Azactly what I said to 'en myself.
"You tek my word for it," I sez, "'twun't never come
to no good. The nateral crop for these yere British
Hiles," I told 'en, "is good honest Henglish hoak an'
canvas," I sez, "and 'tain't the action of no sensible
man, nor yet no Christian," sez I, "to go a-drillin'
'oles and a-droppin' in houtlandish seeds from Canada
an' Roosha, which the sile wasn't never intended to
bear!"</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Farmers Fretwell</span> and <span class="smcap">Lackaday</span>. Rightly
spoke, neighbour Ryemouth, 'twas a true word! But
theer'll be a jedgment on sech new-fangled doin's,
and, what's moor, you and I will live fur to see it
afore we're very much older!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>They all shake their heads solemnly as scene closes in.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>A DIALOGUE ON ART.</h2>
<h3>(<span class="smcap">A Study in Spirits and Waters.</span>)</h3>
<p><i>The Smoke-room of a Provincial Hotel. <span class="smcap">Time</span>—Towards
midnight. <span class="smcap">Characters</span>—<span class="smcap">Mr. Luceslipp-Bletheron</span>, a
middle-aged Art Patron and Dilettante. He has arrived at his
third tumbler of whiskey and water, and the stage at which a
man alludes freely before strangers to his "poor dear father."
<span class="smcap">Mr. Milboard</span>, a Painter, on a sketching tour. He is enduring
<span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> with a patience which will last for just one more
pipe. <span class="smcap">First Commercial</span>, who considers Mr. <span class="smcap">L.-B.</span> a highly
agreeable and well-informed gentleman, and is anxious to be included
in his audience. <span class="smcap">Second Commercial</span>, who doesn't intend to join
in the conversation until he feels he can do so with crushing effect.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Luceslipp-bletheron.</span> Yes, I
assure you, I never come acrosh a David Cox
but I say to myself, "<i>There</i>'sh a Bit!" (<i>Here
he fixes his eye-glass, sips whiskey and water, and looks
at <span class="smcap">Mr. Milboard</span> as if he expected him to express
admiration at this evidence of penetration. The only
tribute he extorts, however, is a grunt.</i>) Now, we've a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[ 180]</a></span>
Cornelius Janssen at home. Itsh only hishtory is—my
dear father bought it. He was an artist himself,
painted a bit, travelled man, an' all that short o'
thing. Well, <i>he</i> picked it up for ten pounds!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Commercial</span> (<i>deferentially</i>). Did he reelly
now? A Johnson for ten pounds! Did he get a
warranty with it, Sir?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> (<i>after bringing the eye-glass to bear on the
intruder for a second</i>). Then I've a Mieris—at leasht,
<i>shome</i> clever f'ler painted it, and it'sh a pleashure to
look at it, and you can't get over <i>that</i>, can you?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milboard.</span> I don't intend to <i>try</i> to get over it.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> You're qui' right. Now I'm the lasht
man in the world to shwagger; shtill, I'm goin' to
ashk you to lemme have my lil' shwagger now. I
happened to be at Rome shor' time ago, and I met
Middleman there. We had our lil' chat together and
what not—he'sh no pershonal friend o' mine. Well;
I picked up a lil' drawing by a Roman chap; worth
nothing more than what I got it for, or <i>anything</i>, as
you may shay. Middleman had the whole run of this
chap's studio. I saw this drawing—didn't care mush
about it—but thought it wash a gem, and gave the
modesh shum of a hundred an' fifty <i>lire</i> for it.
Put it in my portmanteau between a couple o'
shirts—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[ 181]</a></span>—</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Comm.</span> (<i>still pining for notice</i>). When you
say shirts, Sir, I presume you mean <i>clean</i> ones?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> No man with the shlightest feelin' or
reverence for Art would <i>put</i> sush a queshtion! (<i>The
<span class="smcap">First Comm.</span> collapses.</i>) Between a couple of—(<i>underlining
the word</i>) Shirts, and brought it home. Now
I'm comin' to my point. One afternoon after my
return, I wash walking down Bond Street, when I
saw a sketch exhibited in a window by the shame
f'ler. I went in and shaid, "What are you asking
for thish? Mind I don' wanter <i>buy</i> it; ashk me any
price yer like!" And they shaid forty guineash.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milb.</span> Apparently they availed themselves
of your permission, and <i>did</i> ask you any price they
liked.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> No doubt; but wait till I've <i>done</i>. I
saw another—a finished drawing not qui' so good
as mine, there. Then I shaid to them quietly,
"Now, look <i>here</i>, why don' you go an' buy 'em for
yourshelves in the artist's own shtudio?" It shtruck
me as sho odd, a man like Middleman, being there,
and having the pick, shouldn' buy <i>more</i> of 'em!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milb.</span> Wasn't worth his while; he can't
buy <i>everything</i>!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> (<i>after considering this impartially with
some more whiskey</i>). No; your ansher is a very <i>good</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[ 182]</a></span>
one, and a very <i>fair</i> one. He <i>can't</i> buy everything.
I <i>did</i> pick, however, an' I gorrit. I said to him,
"How mush?" an' he tol' me, and there wash an
end of it, do you shee?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milb.</span> It's the ordinary course of business,
isn't it?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> Egshackly. But how few <i>do</i> it!
Now, I'll tell you 'nother shtory 'bout my poo' dear
father. He came 'pon a sculpture in a curioshity
shop; it wash very dirty and used up, but my dear
father saw it was worth shpotting, and a thing to
<i>be</i> shpotted, and sho he put hish <i>finger</i> on it!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Comm.</span> (<i>undaunted by past failure</i>). And
was it antique, Sir?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> That'sh more'n I can tell you; it
wash very dirty, at any rate, and he only gave fifty
guineash for it. Wasn't a <i>great</i> shum——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Comm.</span> (<i>encouraged by his affability</i>). No,
indeed; a mere nothing, so to speak, Sir!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> (<i>annoyed</i>). Will you have the goodnesh
to lemme finish what I was telling thish gentleman?
When my poo' father got that busht home, it was
the mos' perfect likenesh o' Napoleon!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[ 183]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 596px;">
<img src="images/p183.png" width="596" height="600" alt=""They haven't the patiensh for it."" title="" />
<span class="caption">"They haven't the <i>patiensh</i> for it."</span>
</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[ 184]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[ 185]</a></span></p><p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milb.</span> Ha! puts me in mind of the old story
of the man who picked up a dingy panel somewhere
or other, took it home, cleaned it, and found a
genuine Morland; went on cleaning and discovered
an undoubted Rembrandt; cleaned <i>that</i>, and came
to a Crivelli; couldn't stop, kept on cleaning,
and was rewarded by a portrait of George the
Fourth!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Comm.</span> (<i>deeply impressed</i>). And all of them
genuine? How <i>very</i> extraordinary, to be sure!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> (<i>wagging his head sapiently</i>). I could
tell you shtranger things than <i>that</i>. But as I was
shaying, here was this busht of Napoleon, by some
French chap—which <i>you</i> would tell me was <i>against</i> it.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milb.</span> Why? The French are the best
sculptors in the world.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> The Frensh! I can <i>not</i> bring myshelf
to believe that, if only for thish shimple reashon,
they haven't the <i>patiensh</i> for it.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Comm.</span> So <i>I</i> should have said. For my
own part—not knowing much <i>about</i> it, very likely—I
should have put the <i>Italians</i> first.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milb.</span> If you are talking of all time——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Comm.</span> (<i>feeling at last at his ease</i>). I should
say, even <i>now</i>. Why, there was a piece of statuary
in the Italian Exhibition at Earl's Court some years
back that took <i>my</i> fancy and took my <i>wife's</i> fancy
very much. It was a representation in marble of a
'en and chickens, all so natural, and with every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[ 186]</a></span>
individual feather on the birds done to such a
nicety——!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milb.</span> I was hardly referring to the skill
with which the Italians carve—ah—<i>poultry</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> Ridic'lous! Great mishtake to talk
without unnershtanding shubject. (<i>The <span class="smcap">First Commercial</span>
retires from the room in disorder.</i>) One thing
I should like to ashk is thish. Why are sculptors
at present day so inferior to the antique? Ishn't the
human form divine ash noble and ash shymmetrical
ash formerly? Why can't they <i>reproduce</i> it then?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milb.</span> You must first find your sculptor.
Providence doesn't see fit to create a Michael Angelo
or a Praxiteles every five minutes, any more than a
Shakspeare.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> (<i>wavering between piety and epigram</i>).
Thank the Lord for <i>that</i>! Now there'sh Florensh.
Shome of us who have had the <i>run</i> there—well, there
you see all the original thingsh—all the <i>originalsh</i>.
And yet, if you'll believe me (<i>dreamily</i>), with all my
love and charm for Art, gimme the Capitoline
Venush living and breathing in <i>flesh and blood</i>, Sir,
not in cold lifelesh marble!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milb.</span> That of course is a matter of taste.
But we are talking about Art, not women.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> (<i>profoundly</i>). Unforsh'nately, women<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[ 187]</a></span>
are the <i>shubjects</i> of Art. You've got to find out your
client's shtyle of Art firsht, and then carry it out in
the besht possible manner.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Milb.</span> (<i>rising, and knocking his pipe out</i>).
Have I? But I'm going to bed now, so you'll
excuse me.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> (<i>detaining him</i>). But look here again.
Take the Louvre. (<i>As <span class="smcap">Mr. Milboard</span> disclaims any
desire to take it.</i>) Now, nobody talksh about the
Gallery <i>there</i>, and yet, if you only egshemp the
thingsh that are rude and vulgar, and go quietly
roun'——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second Commercial</span> (<i>who sees a Socratic opening
at last</i>). Might I ask you, Sir, to enumerate any
pictures there, that, in your opinion, are "rude and
vulgar"?</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i><span class="smcap">Mr. Milboard</span> avails himself of this diversion
to escape.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> In the Grand Gallery of the Louvre
there'sh an enormous amount of shtuff, as everybody
who'sh an artisht and a lover of Art knowsh. If I
had a friend who wash thinking of going to the
Louvre (<i>here he looks round vaguely for <span class="smcap">Mr. Milboard</span></i>),
I should shay to him, "Do you <i>care</i> about pictursh
at all? If you <i>don't</i>, don't borrer yourshelf 'bout it.
If you <i>do</i>, drop in shome day with Me, and I'll give<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[ 188]</a></span>
you a hint what to shee." (<i>As he cannot make out
what has become of <span class="smcap">Mr. Milboard</span>, he has to content
himself with the <span class="smcap">Second Commercial</span>.</i>) If you were
<i>my</i> boy, I should shay to you——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second Comm.</span> (<i>at the door</i>). Pardon me for
remarking that, if I was your boy, I should probably
prefer to take my own opinion. (<i>With dignified independence.</i>)
I never follow other persons' taste in Art!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>He goes out as the Smoke-room Page enters.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. L.-B.</span> (<i>hazily with half-closed eyes</i>). If you
wash <i>my</i> boy, I should shay to you, very quietly, very
sherioushly, and without 'tempting to dictate——(<i>Perceives
that he is addressing the Page.</i>) Jus' bring
me 'nother glash whiskey an' warrer.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>He is left sitting.</i></p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[ 189]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW.</h2>
<h3><span class="smcap">A Contrast.</span></h3>
<p><i>The Stables at Saddlesprings, the Wheelers' Country House
near Bykersall. <span class="smcap">Miss Diana's</span> Horse <span class="smcap">Bayard</span> discovered in his
Stall.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard</span> (<i>talking to himself, as is the habit of some
horses when alone</i>). I can't make it out. She's
here. All the family came down yesterday—I
heard the omnibus start for the station to
meet them. And yet she hasn't sent for me; hasn't
even been near me! She always used to rush in here
and kiss me on the nose the very first—She's ill—that's
it of course—sprained her fetlock or something.
If she was well, she'd have had me saddled as soon
as she'd had her morning feed, and we'd have gone for
a canter together somewhere.... I hope she'll get
well soon. I'm sick of being taken out by the stable-man;
he's so dull—no notion of conversation beyond
whistling! Now, Miss Diana would talk to me the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[ 192]</a></span>
whole way.... Perhaps her hands and seat might
have been——But what did <i>that</i> matter? I liked
to feel she was on my back, I liked the sound of her
pretty voice, and the touch of her hand when she
patted me after her ride.... (<i>He pricks his ears.</i>)
Why, that's her voice outside now! She's all right,
after all. She's coming in to see me!... I <i>knew</i>
she couldn't have forgotten!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss Diana's Voice</span> (<i>outside</i>). Yes, you might put
it in here for the present, Stubbs. I suppose it will
be quite safe?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Stubbs' Voice.</span> Safe enough, Miss, there's plenty
o' empty stalls this side. Nothing <i>in</i> 'ere just now,
except——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss D.'s Voice.</span> Very well, then. Just wipe
some of the dust off the mud-guards, because I shall
want it again after lunch. And mind you don't
scratch the enamel taking it in.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Stubbs.</span> Very good, Miss. I'll be keerful.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i><span class="smcap">Miss Diana's</span> steps die away upon the cobbles.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard</span> (<i>to himself</i>). She's gone—without even
asking after me! What has she been out in—a bath
chair? I'm sure she <i>must</i> be ill.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Stubbs</span> (<i>to the Bicycle, as he wheels it in</i>). 'Ere,
steady now, 'old up, can't ye? And keep that
blarsted near pedal o' yourn off o' <i>my</i> enamel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[ 193]</a></span>
Blest if I wouldn't rather rub down arf a dozen
'unters nor one o' them yere bloomin' bi-cycles.
I know where I <i>am</i> with a 'orse; but these
'ere little, twisty, spidery wheels——Come <i>over</i>,
will ye. I'll lean ye up agen 'ere till I've 'ad my
dinner.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 457px;">
<img src="images/p193.png" width="457" height="600" alt=""It must be a sort of animal, I suppose."" title="" />
<span class="caption">"It must be a sort of animal, I suppose."</span>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[ 195]</a></span></p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>He places the machine against a partition next to
<span class="smcap">Bayard's</span> stall, and goes out.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard</span> (<i>to himself, as he inspects his neighbour with
the corner of his eye</i>). It's <i>not</i> a bath-chair; it's one
of these bicycles. It must be a sort of animal,
I suppose, or Stubbs wouldn't have spoken to it.
I should like to ask it one or two questions. (<i>He
gets his neck over the partition, and breathes gently through
his nostrils upon the handle-bars.</i>) Excuse me, but do
you understand horse-language at all?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span> (<i>answering by a succession of saddle-creaks</i>).
Perfectly. I'm a kind of horse myself,
I believe, only greatly <i>improved</i>, of course. <i>Would</i>
you mind not breathing on my handle-bars like that?
It tarnishes the plating so. The saddle is the seat of
<i>my</i> intelligence, if you will kindly address your
remarks here.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> I beg your pardon. I will in future.
I don't creak myself, but I've been closely connected
with saddles ever since I was a two-year-old, so I can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[ 196]</a></span>
follow you fairly well. Didn't I hear my mistress's
voice outside just now?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. No; <i>my</i> mistress's, Miss Diana's.
I'd just taken her out for a short spin—not far, only
fifteen miles or so.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> Then, she—she's quite well?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. Thanks, she's pedalling pretty
strong just now. I'm going out with her again this
afternoon.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> Again! You will have had a hard day
of it altogether, then. But I suppose you'll get a day
or two's rest afterwards? I know <i>I</i> should want it.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. Bless you, <i>I</i> never want rest.
Why, I've been forty miles with her, and come home
without clanking a link! <i>She</i> was knocked up, if you
like—couldn't go out for days!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> Ah, she was never knocked up after
riding <i>me</i>!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. Because—it's no fault of yours, of
course, but the way you've been constructed—you
couldn't go far enough to knock <i>anybody</i> up. And
she doesn't get tired now, either. I'm not the kind
of bicycle to boast; but I've often heard her say that
she much prefers her "bike" (she always calls me
her "bike"—very nice and friendly of her, isn't it?)
to any mere <i>horse</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[ 197]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> To any mere horse! And does she—give
any reasons?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. Lots. For one thing, she says
she feels so absolutely safe on me; she knows that,
whatever she meets, I shall never start, or shy,
or rear, or anything of that sort.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> I don't remember playing any of those
tricks with her, however hard she pulled the curb.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. Then she says she never has to
consider whether any distance will be too much for
me.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> As for <i>that</i>——But the longer I was
out with her, the better I was pleased; she might
have brought me home as lame as a tree all round,
and <i>I</i> shouldn't have cared!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. Perhaps not. But <i>she</i> would;
so inconvenient, you see. Now <i>my</i> strong point is,
I <i>can't</i> go lame—in good hands, of course, and she
knows exactly how to manage me, I will say that for
her!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> Does she give you carrots or sugar after
a ride? she did <i>me</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">The Bicycle</span> (<i>with a creak of contempt</i>). Now what
<i>do</i> you suppose I could do with sugar or a carrot
if I had it? No, a drop or two of oil now and then
is all I take in the way of sustenance. That's <i>another</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[ 198]</a></span>
point in my favour, I cost little or nothing to keep.
Now, your oats and hay and stuff, I daresay, cost
more in a year than I'm worth altogether!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span>. I must admit that you have the advantage
of me in cheapness. If I thought she grudged
me my oats——But I'm afraid I couldn't manage
on a drop or two of oil.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. You'd want buckets of it to oil
<i>your</i> bearings. No, she wouldn't save by that!
(<i><span class="smcap">Stubbs</span> re-enters.</i>) Ah, here comes my man. I must
be going; got to take her over to Pineborough, rather
a bore this dusty weather, but when a lady's in the
case, eh?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> There's a nasty hill going into Pineborough;
do be careful how you take her down it!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. You forget, my friend, I'm not
a Boneshaker, I'm a Safety. Why, she'll just put
her feet up on the rests, fold her arms, and leave the
rest to me. She knows <i>I</i> can be trusted.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> Just tell me this before you go. Does—she
doesn't pat you, or kiss you on your—er—handle-bar
after a run, does she?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span> (<i>turning its front wheel to reply, as
<span class="smcap">Stubbs</span> wheels it out</i>). You don't imagine I should
stand any sentimental rot of that sort, do you? She
knows better than to try it on!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[ 199]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard</span> (<i>to himself</i>). I'm glad she doesn't kiss it.
I don't think I <i>could</i> have stood that!</p>
<p><i>Same Scene. Some Hours Later.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Stubbs</span> (<i>enters, carrying a dilapidated machine with
crumpled handles, a twisted saddle, and a front wheel
distorted into an irregular pentagon</i>). Well, I 'ope as
'ow this'll sarve as a lesson to 'er, I dew; a marcy
she ain't broke her blessed little neck! (<i>To the
Bicycle.</i>) No need to be hover and above purtickler
'bout scratchin' your enamel <i>now</i>, any'ow! (<i>He
pitches it into a corner, and goes.</i>)</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard</span> (<i>after reconnoitring</i>). You don't mean to
say it's <i>you</i>!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. Me? of course it's me! A nice
mess I'm in, too, entirely owing to her carelessness.
Never put the brake on down that infernal hill, lost
all control over me, and here I am, a wreck, Sir!
Why, I had to be driven home, by a grinning groom,
in a beastly dog-cart! Pleasant that!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> But she—Miss Diana—was she hurt?
Not—not <i>seriously</i>, eh?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. Oh, of course you don't care what
becomes of <i>me</i> so long as——<i>She's</i> all right enough—fell
in a ditch, luckily for her, <i>I</i> came down on
a heap of stones. It'll be weeks before I'm out
of the repairer's hands.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[ 200]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard</span> (<i>to himself</i>). I <i>oughtn't</i> to be glad; but I
am—I <i>am</i>! She's safe, and—and she'll come back
to me after this! (<i>To the Bicycle.</i>) Wasn't she
sorry for you?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span>. Not she! These women have no
feeling in them. Why, what do you suppose she
said when they told me it would take weeks to tinker
me up?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard</span> (<i>to himself—with joy</i>). I think I can guess!
(<i>To the Bicycle.</i>) What <i>did</i> she say?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Bicycle</span> (<i>rattling with indignation</i>). Why, all
<i>she</i> said was: "How tiresome! I wonder if I can
hire a decent bike here without having to send
to town for one." There's gratitude for you! But
<i>you</i> can't enter into my feelings about it.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bayard.</span> Pardon me—I fancy I can. And, after
all, your day will come, when the Vet has set you up
again. <i>Mine's</i> over for ever. (<i>To himself.</i>) Oh, why,
<i>why</i> wasn't I born a bicycle!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[ 201]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[ 203]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>A DOLL'S DIARY.</h2>
<p><i>January 1.</i>—Just had a brilliant idea—<i>quite</i>
original. I don't believe even any human
person ever <i>thought</i> of such a thing, but then,—besides
being extremely beautiful and expensive, with
refined wax features and golden hair—I am a very
clever doll indeed. Frivolous, no doubt; heartless,
so they tell me—but the very reverse of a <i>fool</i>. I
flatter myself that if <i>anybody</i> understands the nature
of toys, especially <i>male</i> toys—but I am forgetting my
idea—which is this. I am going this year to write
down—the little girl I belong to has no idea I can
write, but I <i>can</i>—and better than <i>she</i> does, too!—to
write down every event of importance that happens,
<i>with the dates</i>. There! I fancy <i>that</i> is original enough.
It will be a valuable dollian document when it is
done, and <i>most</i> interesting to look back upon. Now
I must wait for something to happen.</p>
<p><i>January 6.</i>—Went to Small Dance given by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[ 204]</a></span>
Only Other Wax Doll (a dreadful old frump!) on the
Nursery Hearthrug. Room rather nicely illuminated
by coloured fire from grate, and a pyramid nightlight,
but floor poor. Didn't think much of the music—a
fur monkey at the Digitorium, and a woolly lamb
who brought his own bellows, make <i>rather</i> a feeble
orchestra. Still, on the whole, enjoyed myself.
Much admired. Several young Ninepins, who are
considered stuck-up, and keep a good deal to their
own set, begged to be introduced. Sat out one
dance with a Dice-box, who rattled away most
amusingly. I understand he is quite an authority
on games, and anything that falls from his mouth
is received with respect. He is a great sporting
character, too, and arranges all the meetings on the
Nursery Race-course, besides being much interested
in Backgammon. I <i>do</i> like a Toy to have <i>manly</i>
tastes!</p>
<p>The Captain of a Wooden Marching Regiment
quartered in the neighbourhood was there in full
uniform, but not dancing. Told me they <i>didn't</i> in
his regiment. As his legs are made in one piece and
glued on to a yellow stand, inclined to think this was
not mere military swagger. He seemed considerably
struck with me. Made an impression, too, on a
rather elderly India-rubber Ball. Snubbed him, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[ 205]</a></span>
one of the Ninepins told me he was considered "a
bit of a bounder."</p>
<p>Some of the Composition Dolls, I could see, were
perfectly <i>stiff</i> with spite and envy. Spent a very
pleasant evening, not getting back to my drawer till
daylight. Too tired to write more.</p>
<p><i>Mem.</i>—Not to sit out behind the coal-scuttle
another time!</p>
<p><i>February 14.</i>—Amount of attention I receive really
quite embarrassing. The Ninepins are too <i>absurdly</i>
devoted. One of them (the nicest of all) told me to-day
he had never been so completely bowled over in
his whole existence! I manage to play them off
against each other, however. The India-rubber Ball,
too, is at my feet—and, naturally, I spurn him, but
he is so short-winded that nothing will induce him to
rise. Though naturally of an elastic temperament,
he has been a good deal cast down of late. I smile
on him occasionally—just to keep the Ball rolling;
but it is becoming a frightful bore.</p>
<p><i>March.</i>—Have been presented with a charming
pony-carriage, with two piebald ponies that go by
clock work. I wish, though, I was not expected to
share it with a <i>live kitten</i>! The kitten has no idea
of repose, and spoils the effect of the turn-out. Try
not to seem aware of it—even when it claws my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[ 206]</a></span>
frock. Rather interested in a young Skipjack, whom
I see occasionally; he is quite good-looking, in a
common sort of way. I talk to him now and then—it
is something to do; and he is a new type, so
different from the Ninepins!</p>
<p><i>April 1.</i>—Have just heard the Skipjack is engaged
to a plaster Dairy-maid. A little annoyed, because
he really seemed——Have been to see his <i>fiancée</i>,
a common-place creature, with red cheeks, and a
thick waist. Congratulate the Skipjack, with just a
<i>hint</i> that he might have looked higher. Afraid that
he misunderstood me, for he absolutely jumped.</p>
<p><i>April 7.</i>—The Skipjack tells me he has <i>broken off
his engagement</i>; he seems to think I shall guess the
reason—but I don't, of <i>course</i>. Then he actually has
the impertinence to (I can scarcely pen the words
for indignation) to <i>propose</i>—to Me! I inform him, in
the most <i>unmistakable</i> terms, that he has presumed
on my good-nature, and that there are social barriers
between us, which no Skipjack can ever surmount.
He leaves me abruptly, after declaring that I have
broken the spring of his existence.</p>
<p><i>April 8.</i>—Much shocked and annoyed. The Skipjack
found quite stiff and colourless this morning, in
the water-jug! Must have jumped in last night. So
<i>very</i> rash and silly of him! Am sure I gave him no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[ 207]</a></span>
encouragement—or <i>next</i> to none. Hear that the
Dairy-maid has gone off her head. Of course it will
be put down to <i>grief</i>; but we all know how easily
plaster heads get cracked. Feel really distressed
about it all, for the blame is sure to fall on <i>me</i>.
Those Composition Dolls will make a fine scandal
out of it!</p>
<p><i>May.</i>—The Ninepins are getting very difficult to
manage; have to put them down as delicately as
possible; but I am afraid, poor fellows, they are
dreadfully upset. The Wooden Captain has challenged
the Dice-box to a duel—I fear, on <i>my</i> account.
However, as the officer's sword will not unglue, I
<i>hope</i> nothing will come of it. All this <i>most</i> worrying,
though, and gives me little <i>real</i> satisfaction. I find
myself sighing for more <i>difficult</i> conquests.</p>
<p><i>June.</i>—Went to afternoon tea with the biggest
Dutch Doll. Rather a come-down, but now that
there is this coolness between the Composition set
and myself, I must go <i>somewhere</i>. I feel <i>so</i> bored at
times! Can see the ridiculous Dutch thing is trying
to <i>out-dress</i> me! She had a frock on that <i>must</i> have
cost at <i>least</i> fifty beads, and I don't believe it will <i>ever</i>
be paid for! Only made her look the bigger <i>guy,</i>
though! Tea-party a stupid affair. Make-believe
tea in pewter cups. Met the latest arrival, a really<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[ 208]</a></span>
nice-looking Gentleman Doll, introduced as "Mr.
Joseph." Very innocent face, without any moustache,
and the sweetest blue eyes (except mine) I think I
<i>ever</i> saw! Seemed rather shy, but pleasant. Asked
him to call.</p>
<p><i>June 18.</i>—Mr. Joseph has not called <i>yet</i>. Very
strange! Suspect those horrid Composition Dolls
have been setting him against me. Met him by the
back-board and scolded him. He seemed confused.
By a little management, I got it all out of him. I
was right. He <i>has</i> been told about the Skipjack.
He has strict principles, and gave me to understand
that he would prefer to decline my acquaintance—which
was <i>like his impudence</i>! This is exciting,
though. I intend to overcome these scruples; I
mean him to be madly in love with me—then I
shall scornfully reject him, which will serve him
just <i>right</i>!</p>
<p><i>July.</i>—My tactics have succeeded—<i>at last</i>! To-day
Joseph called, <i>ostensibly</i> to beg me to go and see the
unhappy Ball, who, it seems, is terribly collapsed,
reduced to a <i>mere bowl</i>, and so exhausted that he
cannot hold out much longer. However, in the
course of the interview, I soon made him oblivious
of the Ball. He fell at my feet. "Beautiful
Gloriana," he cried, "with all your many and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[ 209]</a></span>
glaring faults, I love you!" Then I carried out
the <i>rest</i> of my programme—it was a painful scene,
and I will only record that when he left me, he
was completely <i>un-dolled</i>! I feel almost sorry for
him—he had rather a nice face!</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/p209.png" width="600" height="407" alt=""I see him standing, on the very brink of the precipice."" title="" />
<span class="caption">"I see him standing, on the very brink of the precipice."</span>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[ 211]</a></span></p>
<p><i>July 4.</i>—I don't seem able to settle to anything.
After all, I think I will go and see the poor Ball.
It would comfort him, and I might see <i>him</i> there.
I will order the pony-carriage.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p><i>August.</i>—What has happened to me? Where
have I been all this time? Let me collect myself,
and see how much I remember. My last clear
recollection is of being in my carriage on my way
to receive the departing Ball's last sigh.... Something
has started the clockwork. My ponies are
bolting, and I haven't the <i>slightest</i> control over them!
We are rushing along the smooth plain of the chest
of drawers, and rapidly nearing the edge. I try to
scream for help, but all I can utter is, "Papa!" and
"Mamma!" All at once I see <i>him</i> standing, calm
and collected, on the very brink of the precipice.
Is he strong enough to stop the ponies in their mad
clockwork career, and save me, <i>even yet</i>? <i>How</i> I
will love him if he does! An instant of sickening
suspense ... we are <i>over</i>!—falling down, down,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[ 212]</a></span>
down.... A crash, a whirr of clockwork, a rush of
bran to my head—and I know no more. What
follows is a dream—a horrible, confused nightmare—of
lying among a heap of limp bodies—some armless,
some legless, others (ah! the horror of it) <i>headless</i>!
I grope blindly for my own limbs—they are intact;
then I feel the place where I naturally expect to find
my head—it is <i>gone</i>!... The shock is too much—I
faint once more. And that is all.</p>
<p>Thank goodness, it was only a dream—for here I
am, in the same old nursery again! Not <i>all</i> a
dream, either—or my pony-carriage would scarcely
present such a damaged appearance. The <i>accident</i>
was real. Then what—<i>what</i> has become of Joseph?
I <i>must</i> find him—I must make him understand that
I repent—that, for the future, I intend to be a
changed doll!</p>
<p><i>September.</i>—Still searching for Joseph. No trace
of him. I seem to be a changed doll in more ways
than one. My former set knows me not. The Ninepins
do not stagger when I smile at them now; the
Dice-box gapes open-mouthed at my greeting. I
call upon the Composition Dolls—they are very
polite; but it is quite clear that they don't remember
me in the least! Alas! how soon one is forgotten
in the world of Toys! Have no heart to recall<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[ 213]</a></span>
myself to them. I go, for the first time since my
accident, to a convenient brass knob, in which I
would once gaze at my reflected features by the hour.
How indescribable are my sensations at the discovery
that I have a <i>totally new head</i>—a china one! I, who
used to look down on china dolls! It is a very
decent head, in its way; quite neat and inoffensive,
with smooth, shiny hair, which won't come down
like the golden locks I <i>once</i> had. I am glad—yes,
<i>glad</i> now—that Joseph has gone, and the home he
used to occupy is deserted, and shut up. If he were
here, <i>he</i> would not know me either. Now I can live
single all my remaining days, in memory of him, and
devote myself to doing good!</p>
<p><i>October.</i>—Have entered on my new career. Am
organising a Mission for Lost Toys, and a Clothing
Club for Rag Dolls. To-day, while "slumming" in
the lumber-closet, found my old acquaintance, the
Dutch Doll in a <i>shocking</i> state of destitution—nothing
on her but a piece of <i>tattered tissue-paper</i>! To think
that my evil example and her own <i>senseless extravagance</i>
have brought her to <i>this</i>! Gave her one of my old
tea-gowns and a Sunday domino, but did not reveal
myself. Feeling very sad and lonely: think I shall
have to keep a mouse—I must have <i>something</i> to love
me!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[ 214]</a></span></p>
<p><i>October 15.</i>—Someone has taken poor dear Joseph's
old house. I see a new doll, with a small but
worldly black moustache and a very bad countenance,
watching me as I pass the windows. Shall call and
leave a scripture brick. It may do him good.</p>
<p><i>October 16.</i>—Have called.... <i>Never</i> heard worse
language from the lips of <i>any</i> doll! Came across
my old admirer, the Ball, who is better, though still
what I have heard the nursery governess describe as
an "<i>oblate spheroid</i>." Of course, he did not recognise
me.</p>
<p><i>December.</i>—Have seen a good deal of the Doll
with the worldly moustache lately. From certain
symptoms, do not despair of reforming him—ultimately.
He seems softening. Yesterday he told
me he did not think he should live long. Yet he
has a splendid constitution—the best porcelain. He
is dreadfully cynical—seems so reckless about everything.
If I could only reclaim him—for Joseph's
sake!</p>
<p>This afternoon I saw the yellow stand which the
Wooden Captain used to occupy. What memories
it recalled, ah me! Can he have disgraced himself
and been "broke"? And am <i>I</i> responsible?</p>
<p><i>Christmas Eve.</i>—Am sitting in my corner, my
mouse curled comfortably at my feet, when the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[ 215]</a></span>
Walking Postman comes up with a letter—for <i>me</i>!
It is from the Wicked Doll! He is very ill—<i>dying</i>,
he thinks—and wishes to see me. How well I
remember that <i>other</i> message which Joseph—but
Joseph is taken, and the Ball still bounds! Well,
I will go. It will be something to tell my Diary.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p><i>Christmas Day.</i>—Something <i>indeed</i>! How shall I
begin my wondrous <i>incredible</i> tale? I reached the
Doll's House, which looked gloomier and more
deserted than ever, with the sullen glow of the
dying fire reflected redly in its windows. The green
door stood open—I went in. "Ha, ha! <i>trapped</i>!"
cried a sneering voice behind me. It was the Wicked
Doll! His letter was a <i>ruse</i>—he was as well as I
was—and I—I was shut up there in that lonely
house, entirely at his mercy!... It was a frightful
position for any doll to be placed in; and yet,
looking back on it now, I don't think I minded it
so <i>very</i> much.</p>
<p>"Listen!" he said, in response to my agonized
entreaties. "Long, long ago, when I was young and
innocent, a beautiful but heartless being bewitched
me, kid and bran! I told my love—she mocked
at me. Since then I have sworn, though she has
escaped me, to avenge myself by sacrificing the life<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[ 216]</a></span>
of the first doll I could entice into my power. <i>You</i>
are that doll. You must die!"... "I am quite
prepared," I told him—"do your worst!" which
seemed to confuse him very much. "I will," he
said, "presently—presently; there is no hurry. You
see," he explained, in a tone almost of apology,
"in endeavouring to save her life (it was my last
good action) I got my head smashed, and received
the substitute I now wear, which, as you will observe,
is that of an unmitigated villain. And it's no use
having a head like that if you don't live <i>up</i> to it—<i>is</i>
it, now? So—as I think I observed before—prepare
for the worst!" "Don't talk about it any
more—<i>do</i> it!" I said, and I breathed Joseph's name
softly. But the Wicked Doll did nothing at all.
I began to feel safer—it was so obvious that he
hadn't the faintest notion <i>what</i> to do. "She treated
me abominably," he said feebly; "<i>any</i> doll would
have been annoyed at the heartless way in which
Gloriana——"</p>
<p>I could contain my feelings no longer.</p>
<p>"Joseph!" I gasped (I had lost all fear of him),
"you ridiculous old goose, don't you <i>know</i> me? <i>I</i>
am Gloriana, and I have found you at last!" And
with that I flung myself into his arms, and told
him everything. I think he was more relieved than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[ 217]</a></span>
anything. "So <i>you</i> are Gloriana!" he said. "It's
dreadfully bewildering; but, to tell you the honest
truth, I can't keep up this villainy business any
longer. I haven't been brought up to it, and I
don't understand how it's done. So I tell you what
we'll do. If you'll leave off living up to <i>your</i> new
head, I won't try to live up to <i>mine</i>!" And so we
settled it.</p>
<p><i>Postscript. December 31.</i>—We are to be married
to-morrow. The Dutch Doll is to be my bridesmaid,
and the Wooden Captain (who was only away on
sick leave, after all) is coming up to be best man.
I have seen the poor old Ball, and told him there
will always be a corner for him in our new home.
I am very, <i>very</i> happy. To think that Joseph should
still care for his poor Gloriana, altered and homely
as her once lovely features have now become! But
Joseph (who is leaning over my shoulder and reading
every word I write) stops me here to assure me that
I am lovelier than ever in <i>his</i> eyes. And really—I
don't know—perhaps I <i>am</i>. And in <i>other</i> persons'
eyes, too, if it comes to that. I certainly don't
intend to give up society just because I happen to
be <i>married</i>!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[ 219]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[ 221]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>ELEVATING THE MASSES.</h2>
<h3>(<span class="smcap">A Purely Imaginary Sketch.</span>)</h3>
<p><i><span class="smcap">Argument</span>—<span class="smcap">Mrs. Flittermouse</span>, having got up a party to
assist her in giving an Entertainment at the East End, has called
a meeting for the purpose of settling the items in the programme.</i></p>
<p><i><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flittermouse's</span> Drawing-room in Park Lane. Everybody
discovered drinking tea, and chatting on matters totally
unconnected with Philanthropy.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flittermouse</span> (<i>imploringly</i>). Now,
<i>please</i>, everybody, <i>do</i> attend! It's quite impossible
to settle anything while you're all
talking about something else. (<i>Apologies, protests,
constrained silence.</i>) Selina, dear, what do you think
it would be best to begin with?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Dowager Lady Dampier</span>. My dear Fritilla,
I have no suggestion to offer. You know my opinion
about the whole thing. The people don't want to be
elevated, and—if they did—entertaining them is not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[ 222]</a></span>
the proper means to set about it. But I don't wish
to discourage you.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flitt.</span> Oh, but I think we could do so <i>much</i>
to give them a taste for more rational and refined
amusements, poor things, to wean them from the
coarse pleasures which are all they have at present.
Only we must really decide what each of us is going
to do.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Perse-Weaver.</span> A violin solo is always
popular. And my daughter Cecilia will be delighted
to play for you. She has been taught by the
best——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Cecelia.</span> Oh, Mother, I couldn't, really! I've never
played in public. I <i>know</i> I should break down!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Damp.</span> In that case, my dear, it would be
certainly unwise on your part to attempt it.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. P.-W.</span> Nonsense, Cecilia, nonsense. You
<i>won't</i> break down, and it wouldn't matter in the least
if you did. <i>They</i> wouldn't notice anything. And
it will be such excellent practice for you to get
accustomed to a platform, too. Of <i>course</i> she will
play for you, dear Mrs. Flittermouse!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flitt.</span> It will be <i>so</i> good of you, Miss
Weaver. And it won't be like playing to a <i>real</i>
audience, you know—poor people are so easily pleased,
poor dears. Then I will put that down to begin with.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[ 223]</a></span>
(<i>She makes a note.</i>) Now we must have something
quite different for the next—a reading or something.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Honor Hyndleggs.</span> A—nothin' <i>humorous</i>,
I hope. I do think we ought to avoid anythin' like
descendin' to their level, don't you know.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Lovegroove.</span> Might try something out of
<i>Pickwick</i>. "<i>Bob Sawyer's Party</i>," you know. Can't
go far wrong with anything out of Dickens.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss Diova Rose.</span> Can't endure him myself. All
his characters are so fearfully common; still—(<i>tolerantly</i>)
I daresay it might amuse—a—that class of
persons.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs Flitt.</span> I must say I agree with Lady Honor.
We should try and aim as high as possible—and well,
I think <i>not</i> Dickens, dear Mr. Lovegroove. <i>Tennyson</i>
might do perhaps; he's written some charmin'
pieces.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Lovegr.</span> Well, fact is, I don't go in for
poetry much myself. But I'll read anythin' of his
you think I'm equal to.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flitt.</span> Why—a—really, it's so long since I—and
I'm afraid I haven't one of his poems in the
house. I suppose they are down at Barn-end. But
I could send to Cutt and Hawthorn's. I daresay <i>they</i>
would have a copy somewhere.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss Sibson-Gabler.</span> Surely Tennyson is rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[ 224]</a></span>
—a—retrograde? Why not read them something to
set them <i>thinking</i>? It would be an interesting experiment
to try the effect of that marvellous Last Scene
in the <i>Doll's House</i>. I'd love to read it. It would be
like a breath of fresh air to them!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. P.-W.</span> Oh, I've seen that at the Langham
Hall. You remember, Cecilia, my taking you there?
And Corney Grain played <i>Noah</i>. To be sure—we
were <i>quite</i> amused by it all.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss S.-G.</span> (<i>coldly</i>). This is <i>not</i> amusing—it's a play
of Ibsen's.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flitt.</span> Is that the man who wrote the piece
at the Criterion—what is it, <i>The Toy Shop</i>? Wyndham
acted in it.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Damp.</span> No, no; Ibsen is the person there's
been all this fuss about in the papers—he goes in for
unconventionality and all that. I may be wrong, but
I think it is <i>such</i> a mistake to have anything unconventional
in an Entertainment for the People.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flitt.</span> But if he's being <i>talked</i> about, dear
Lady Dampier, people might like to know something
about him. But perhaps we'd better leave Ibsen
open, then. Now, what shall we have next?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss Skipworth.</span> I tell you what would fetch them—a
skirt-dance. I'll dance for you—like a shot. It
would be no end of fun doin' it on a regular platform,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[ 225]</a></span>
and I've been studyin' Flossie Frillington, at the
Inanity, till I've caught her style exactly.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 398px;">
<img src="images/p225.png" width="398" height="600" alt=""To-night is ours!"" title="" />
<span class="caption">"To-night is ours!"</span>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[ 227]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Kempton.</span> Oh, I say, you can give her a stone
and a beatin' any day, give you my word you can.
She doesn't put anythin' like the go into it you do.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i><span class="smcap">Miss S.</span> accepts this tribute with complacency.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flitt.</span> A skirt-dance will be the very thing.
It's sure to please the people we shall bring over for
it—and of course they'll be in the front rows. Yes,
I must put <i>that</i> down. We ought to have a song
next. Mrs. Tuberose, you promised to come and sing
for us—you will, won't you?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Tuberose.</span> Delighted! I rather thought of
doing a dear little song Stephan Otis has just brought
out. It's called "<i>Forbidden Fruit</i>," and he wrote it
expressly for me. It goes like this.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>She sits down at the piano, and sings, with infinite
expression and tenderness.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>
"Only the moon espies our bliss,<br />
Through the conscious clusters of clematis,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shedding star-sweet showers.</span><br />
To-morrow the world will have gone amiss—<br />
Now I gaze in your eyes, love, I thrill to your kiss—<br />
So let us remember naught but this:<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That To-night is ours!</span><br />
Yes, this passionate, perilous, exquisite night—<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is Ours!"</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[ 228]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Several Voices.</span> Charmin'.... Otis puts so
much real feeling into all his songs ... quite a little
gem! &c., &c.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Damp.</span> I should have thought myself that it
was rather advanced—for an East-End audience—</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Tuberose</span> (<i>nettled</i>). Really, dear Lady
Dampier, if people see nothing to object in it <i>here</i>, I
don't see why they should be more particular at the
East-End!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flitt.</span> Oh, no,—and as if it matters what
the <i>words</i> are in the song. I daresay if one heard
<i>their</i> songs——Now we want another song—something
as different as possible.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Gardinier.</span> Heard a capital song at the
"Pav." the other night—something about a Cock-eyed
Kipper. Just suit my voice. I could easily get
the words and music, and do that for you—if you
like.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Several Voices.</span> A Cock-eyed Kipper! It sounds
too killing! Oh, we <i>must</i> have that!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Damp.</span> Might I ask what kind of creature
a—a "Cock-eyed Kipper" may be?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Gard.</span> Oh, well, I suppose it's a sort of a
dried herring—with a squint, don't you know.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Damp.</span> I see no humour in making light of
a personal deformity, I must say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[ 229]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Gard.</span> Oh, don't you? <i>They</i> will—it'll go
with a scream there!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss Diova Rose.</span> Yes, poor dears—and we
mustn't mind being just a little vulgar for once—to
cheer them up.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Honor.</span> I have been to the Pavilion and the
Tivoli myself, and I heard nothing to object to. I
know I was much more amused than I ever am at
theatres—<i>they</i> bore me to death.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Bagotrix.</span> We might finish up with <i>Mrs.
Jarley's Waxworks</i>, you know. Some of you can be
the figures, and I'll come on in a bonnet and shawl
as <i>Mrs. Jarley</i>, and wind you up and describe you.
I've done it at lots of places in the country; brought
in personal allusions and all that sort of thing, and
made everybody roar.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Damp.</span> But will the East-Enders understand
your personal allusions?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Bag.</span> Well, you see, the people in the front
rows will, which is all <i>I</i> want.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Honor</span> (<i>suspiciously</i>). Isn't <i>Mrs. Jarley</i> out
of <i>Pickwick</i>, though? That's Dickens, surely!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Bag.</span> (<i>reassuringly</i>). Nothing but the name,
Lady Honor. I make up all the patter myself, so
that'll be all right—just good-natured chaff, you
know; if anybody's offended—as I've known them
to be—it's no fault of mine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[ 230]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flitt.</span> Oh, I'm sure you will make it funny,—and
about getting someone to preside—I suppose
we ought to ask the Vicar of the nearest church?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lady Honor.</span> Wouldn't it be better to get somebody—a—more
in Society, don't you know?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Flitt.</span> And he might offer to pay for hiring
the Hall, and the other expenses. I never thought
of that. I'll see whom I can get. Really I think it
ought to be great fun, and we shall have the satisfaction
of feeling we are doing real good, which is
such a comfort!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[ 231]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[ 233]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>BOOKMAKERS ON THE BEACH.</h2>
<h3><span class="smcap">A Sketch at a Sea-side Race Meeting.</span></h3>
<p><i>The Sands at Baymouth, where some pony and horse races
are being run. By the Grand Stand, and under the wall of
the esplanade, about a dozen bookmakers, perched on old packing-cases,
are clamouring with their customary energy. The public,
however, for some reason seems unusually deaf to their blandishments
and disinclined for speculation, and the bookmakers, after
shouting themselves hoarse with little or no result, are beginning
to feel discouraged.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bookmakers</span> (<i>antiphonally</i>). Evens on the
field! Three to one bar one! Five to one
bar two! Six to one bar one! Even money
<i>Beeswing</i>! Six to one <i>Popgun</i>! Come on 'ere.
Two to one on the field! What do you want
to <i>do</i>?</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>The public apparently want to look another way.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">First Bookmaker</span> (<i>to <span class="smcap">Second Bookmaker</span></i>). Not
much 'ere to-day! Shawn't get no roast baked and
biled this journey, eh?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[ 234]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second B.</span> (<i>with deep disgust</i>). They ain't <i>got</i> no
money! Baymouth's going down. Why, this might
be a bloomin' Sunday-school treat! Blest if I
believe they know what we're 'ere <i>for</i>!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Third B.</span> (<i>after pausing to refresh himself, sardonically
to <span class="smcap">Fourth Bookmaker</span></i>). De-lightful weather,
William!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">William</span> (<i>in a similar tone of irony</i>). What a
glorious day, Percy! Sech a treat to see all the
people enjoyin' theirselves without any o' the silly
speculation yer <i>do</i> find sometimes on occasions like
this! (<i>He accepts the bottle his friend passes, and
drinks.</i>) 'Ere's better luck to all!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fifth B.</span> (<i>pathetically</i>). Don't leave your little
Freddy out! (<i>They don't leave their little <span class="smcap">Freddy</span> out.</i>)
Cheer up, William, there's 'appier days in store;
there'll be Jersey comin' soon. We'll be orf to the
sunny south! (<i>To a stranger who comes up to him.</i>)
Why, Uncle, you don't say it's you! How <i>well</i>
you're looking! Shake 'ands and 'ave a bit on,
jest for ole sake's sake! (<i>The stranger proceeds to
introduce himself as the Secretary, and to demand a fee.</i>)
What! pay you five shillins for standin' 'ere wastin'
my time and voice like this? Not me! Why, I
ain't took two blessed sorcepans since I bin 'ere!
(<i>The Secretary remains firm.</i>) I won't do it, my boy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[ 235]</a></span>
Not on <i>prinserple</i>, I won't. I wouldn't give you five
shillins not if your tongue was 'anging down on to
your boots—so there! (<i>The Secretary does not attempt
so violent an appeal to his better nature, but calls a police-inspector.</i>)
'Ere, I'd sooner git down and chuck the
show altogether; jest to mark my contempt for such
goings on! (<i>He descends from his box; takes down his
sign, unscrews his pole, folds up his professional triptych,
and departs in a state of virtuous indignation only to be
expressed by extreme profanity, while the Secretary proceeds
unmoved to collect payments from the others; who
eventually compromise the claims for half-a-crown.</i>)</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sam Satchell</span> (<i>"from Southampton"</i>). Now
then, you gentlemen and aristocratic tradesmen,
where <i>are</i> you all? Don't any o' you know <i>anything</i>?
Come on 'ere. (<i>He stops an elderly rustic.</i>)
You've got a fancy, I can see! (<i>The rustic denies the
impeachment, grinning.</i>) Git along with yer, yer
artful ole puss, then, and don't keep gentlemen away
as wants to bet! (<i>To a Yeomanry trooper.</i>) Come
along, my ole soldier-boy, give it a name! (<i>His
old soldier-boy declines to give it any name, and
passes on.</i>) Call yerself a warrior bold, and afraid
o' riskin' 'alf-a-crown! Why, yer Queen and
country orter be ashamed o' yer! (<i>As a young
farmer in riding-gaiters comes up, with the evident</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[ 236]</a></span>
<i>intention of business.</i>) Ah, <i>you</i> don't forget the old
firm, I see.... What, four to one not good enough
for you? You won't get no better odds, go where
you <i>like</i>! I suppose you expeck me to make you
a present o' the money? (<i>The farmer moves on.</i>)
I dunno what's <i>come</i> to 'em all. <i>I</i> never see nothing
like it in all <i>my</i> life!</p>
<p><i>In the Grand Stand.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">A Glib Person</span>, <i>in a tall hat</i> (<i>as he picks his way
up and down the benches, the occupants of which treat
him with intolerant indifference</i>). I'm not a bookmaker,
ladies and gentlemen; don't have that
impression of me for a moment! I'm simply an
amateur, and an independent gentleman o' means,
like any of yourselves. You all know more than <i>I</i>
do. I don't come 'ere with any intention o' winning
your money—far from it. I'm wishful to settle and
live among you. I may eventually put up as your
member; and, if so, when I take my place in Parliament
I shall be in a position to testify that the
Baymouth people are extremely cautious as to the
manner in which they invest their money on 'orse-racing'!
Yes, I'm 'ere on beyarf of the Sporting
League, just to prove how free a meeting like this
is from the evils o' gambling. I don't come 'ere to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[ 237]</a></span>
<i>rob</i> yer. I want yer all to win. I like to see yer
bright and shining faces around me; I like the
friverolity and reckereation and the conviverality of
the thing, that's all. I'll tell yer how it is. I've a
rich ole aunt, and she puts fifty pound into my 'ands,
and sez, "Jacky," she sez, "I love those dear Baymouth
people, and I want you to take this 'ere
money and lay it out among 'em in moieties, and
make 'em rich and 'appy." You can see for yourselves.
I've no tickets and no parryfernalia, excep'
this little pocket-book, where I enter any bets you
honour me with. Come, Miss win a pair o' those
three-and-sixpenny gloves at Chickerell's, the ex-Mayor's,
to oblige <i>me</i>! Did I tread on your corn,
Sir? I assure you it was the last thing I
intended.... "You knew I'd do it afore I'd
done?"... Well, Sir, if you've sech a gift o'
seeing into futoority as that, why not make something
out of it now? Three to one bar one.
<i>Kitty I'm</i> barring. Thank <i>you</i>, Sir; 'alf-a-crown
to seven and six on <i>Sportsman</i>. I tell you candidly—you've
got the winner. The favourite won't win.
Now, then, all you others, where's your Baymouth
pluck? I orfered you thirty to one <i>Beeswing</i> last
race; and you wouldn't take it. And <i>Beeswing</i> won,
and you lost the chance o' making yer fortunes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[ 238]</a></span>
Don't blame <i>me</i> if the same thing 'appens again.
I'm on'y bettin', as I told you, for my own amusement,
and to get rid o' the money! (<i>&c.</i>, <i>&c.</i>)</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sam Satchell</span> (<i>whom the apathy of the public
has apparently reduced to a state of defiant buffoonery</i>).
Even money <i>Daredevil</i>, you rascals! And why the
blazes don't ye take it? Come on. I'll take two
little bits o' twos that <i>Kitty</i> don't win! Four to
one against ole bread-and-butter <i>Tommy</i>, over there
in the corner! Eleven and a 'alf to three quarters
to two against <i>Kitty</i>. "What har the Wild Waves
say-hay-ing?" Two <i>Kitties</i> to three <i>Daredevils</i>
against a bloomin' goat-chaise? On the Baymouth
Durby I'm bettin'!</p>
<p><i>At the Close of the Last Race—Three horses have started;
the favourite has led to the turn and then bolted up the
shingle, but, as the tide has come in and almost covered the course,
and the other two horses by declining to face the water have let him
in again, he wins after an exciting finish, up to the girths in sea-water;
and such bookmakers as have succeeded in obtaining
patronage are paying up with as much cheerfulness as they can
command.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Bookmaker</span> (<i>to eager backer</i>). "Wait a bit,
my boy, wait <i>a bit</i>, the number hasn't gone up yet,
my son. Where's your ticket—forty-two? (<i>His
Clerk refers to book.</i>) That's <i>Squibbs</i>. I pay over
<i>winners</i>—not losers. (<i>To the public.</i>) Come along<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[ 239]</a></span>
and fetch your money, the bullion's 'ere! (<i>To
another backer.</i>) What was yours—threes? ("Fours
<i>I</i>'ve got," <i>from his Clerk.</i>) Why don't yer arst for
what you're entitled to, instead o' makin' me arst my
clurk what your bet was? There's your money—take
it and go."</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 435px;">
<img src="images/p239.png" width="435" height="600" alt=""Why the blazes don't ye take it?"" title="" />
<span class="caption">"Why the blazes don't ye take it?"</span>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[ 241]</a></span></p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>The backer departs wealthier but abashed.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Second B.</span> I'm payin' over that 'ard-run race,
gentlemen, men and 'orses exhorsted! I'm payin'
over <i>Susan</i>—dear ole Susey-hanner! who wants their
money? The Bank o' England's 'ere, gentlemen,
Mr. Frankie Fairprice and his ole friend, who's
always by his side and never looses 'im!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Third B.</span> (<i>who has had to borrow largely from his
brethren to meet his engagements</i>). Are you all done
now? (<i>To the crowd.</i>) Then I'll wish yer good
afternoon, thank ye all for yer comp'ny, but you've
bin bloomin' bad fun to-day, and you don't ketch me
playin' Patience on a monument at any more o' yer
blanky sand 'oppin' 'andicaps, that's all!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>However, the local newspapers report next day
that "A number of the sporting fraternity were
in attendance to do business and apparently
carried on a brisk and profitable trade"—which
only shows how difficult it is for the casual
observer to form an accurate opinion.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[ 243]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>'IGHER UP!</h2>
<h3>(<span class="smcap">A Sketch Outside an Omnibus.</span>)</h3>
<p><i>The Omnibus is on its progress from Piccadilly to the Bank;
the weather is raw and unpleasant, and the occupants of the
garden-seats on the roof of the vehicle are—for once in a way—mostly
men.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">First Passenger</span> (<i>to <span class="smcap">Second</span>, an acquaintance</i>).
I see young Bashaway the other day.
(<i>Significantly.</i>) Jest been to see his father,
so he told me.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second Passenger</span> (<i>with interest</i>). <i>'Ad</i> he though?
And 'ow did he <i>find</i> him?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First P.</span> Fustrate, young Jim said; didn't know
when he'd seen him lookin' better—(<i>with sentiment</i>)—quite
like his old self!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second P.</span> (<i>heartily</i>). That <i>is</i> good 'earin', that is!
(<i>Reflectively.</i>) Seems <i>rum</i>, though, come to think
of it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[ 246]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">First P.</span> 'Ow d'yer <i>mean</i>—rum? It's no more
than what yer'd expect, bein' where he is. Look at
the <i>air</i> o' the place—there ain't a 'elthier situation
all round London, to my mind!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second P.</span> No, that's right enough; and, from
all I 'ear, the food's well cooked and served reg'lar,
if it <i>is</i> plain.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First P.</span> Ah, and Bill <i>enjoys</i> his meals now, he
does—the work gives him a appetite, and it's years,
to my certain knowledge, since he done a stroke,
and o' course he ain't allowed no drink——</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second P.</span> And <i>that's</i> enough, of itself, to be the
savin' of 'im, the way he was!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First P.</span> Then, yer see, there's the reg'lar hours,
and the freedom from worry, and the like, and
nothink on his mind, and the place with every
sanitary improvement and that—why, he owns his
own self it's bin the makin' of 'im. And from
what young Jim was a tellin' me, it appears that
if Bill goes on gittin' good-conduck marks at the
rate he's doin', there'll be a nice little sum doo
to 'im when he's done his time at Wormwood
Scrubs.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second P.</span> (<i>sympathetically</i>). Well, and that makes
suthin' to look forward to, don't it, when he <i>does</i> git
let out. Talkin' o' that, you've known 'im longer 'n<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[ 247]</a></span>
what I 'ave. Do you 'appen to know what it was
as he got inter trouble <i>for</i>?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">First P.</span> (<i>with the consciousness of superior delicacy</i>).
Lor' bless yer, I never thought o' arskin' 'im the
question.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Second P.</span> (<i>with feeble self-assertion under this
implied rebuke</i>). Well, it all depends on 'ow yer <i>put</i>
a question o' that sort.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>He is silent for the remainder of the journey.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">A Chatty Passenger</span> (<i>to a <span class="smcap">Contradictious
Passenger</span>, as the 'bus passes Trafalgar Square</i>).
Pretty these 'ere fountains look, with the water
playin', don't they?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Contradicious Passenger</span>. The fountings
are well enough, if it wasn't fur the water—norsty
messy stuff, I call it.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Chatty P.</span> (<i>abandoning the fountains</i>). It's
wonderful what an amount o' traffic there is in the
Strand, ain't it?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Contrad. P.</span> Nothink to what it was forty years
ago!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>His neighbour, not feeling in a position to deny it,
subsides.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Driver</span> (<i>to a <span class="smcap">Passenger with a Badge</span>,
immediately behind him</i>). 'Ow is it you're orf yer
keb to-day, Bob? Taking a day orf, or what?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[ 248]</a></span></p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Passenger with a Badge</span>. Not much.
Goin' up to Bow Street to gimmy evidence in a
collision case—that's all.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Driver</span> (<i>dubiously</i>). Bow Street! Ain't that
rorther shovin' yer 'ed in the lion's mouth, eh?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">P. with a B.</span> (<i>with virtuous serenity</i>). Not
<i>it</i>! What ha' they got agen me all the time I bin
licensed? Only three drunks and a loiter!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Chatty P.</span> (<i>returning to the charge</i>). Orful
state the roads are in with all this mud! I s'pose
that's the London County Council, eh?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Contrad. P.</span> London Kayounty Kayouncil!
No, it ain't—nothink o' the sort! I'll <i>tell</i> yer 'oo
it is, if yer want to know; it's Gladstone!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Chatty P.</span> (<i>mildly surprised, but glad to have
discovered common ground</i>). I see you're a Conservative—like
myself.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Contrad. P.</span> That's jest where you're
<i>wrong</i>! I ain't no Conservative, nor yet I don't
want none o' Gladstone neither. I'm a Radikil,
<i>I</i> am. John Burns and Ben Tillett—that's <i>my</i>
lot!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Chatty P.</span> (<i>reluctantly relinquishing politics</i>).
Ah, well, every man's got a right to form his own
opinions, ain't he?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Contrad. P.</span> No, he <i>ain't</i>—not if he goes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[ 249]</a></span>
and forms <i>wrong</i> 'uns! (<i>A pause.</i>) 'Ave yer got
the time about yer?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Chatty P.</span> (<i>accepting this as a sign of
softening</i>). I'm sorry to say I come out without my
watch this morning, or else——But there's plenty
o' clocks about as'll tell yer.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Contrad. P.</span> (<i>with intense disdain</i>). Clocks!
You don't ketch <i>me</i> trusting no clocks—with no
two of 'em alike!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Chatty P.</span> (<i>as they pass a well-known watchmaker's</i>).
Well, 'ow about that clock with the
figgers? Won't <i>that</i> do yer? They set it to
Grinnidge time every hour, so it's bound to be
right!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Contrad. P.</span> (<i>as descends</i>). There yer <i>are</i>!
Think I'd put my faith in a clock as 'as to be set
right every hour? 'Tain't <i>likely</i>! Good-day to
yer!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Chatty P.</span> So long! (<i>To himself.</i>) A
pleasant feller enough, I dessay, if you leave the
subjec' to <i>'im</i>!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Driver</span> (<i>to smart <span class="smcap">Hansom Cabman</span></i>). Now then,
outer the way with that 'ere 'Ackney keb o' yours!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Hansom Cabman</span> (<i>with hauteur</i>). As it 'appens,
it <i>ain't</i> a 'Ackney cab—it's a private kerridge,
this is!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[ 250]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Driver.</span> Ah, I might ha' known <i>you</i> was a
hammytoor by yer silly hasslike method o' conducting
yer business! [<i>Drives on triumphant.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">A Political Passenger</span> (<i>with a panacea—to a
<span class="smcap">"Knowledgable" Passenger</span></i>). No, I don't want
no 'Ome Rule, nor yet no Parish Counsels, nor
nothink o' <i>that</i>. What <i>I</i> wanter see interdooced
'ere is Tereenial Porliments.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Knowledgable Passenger</span> (<i>with respect</i>).
Tereenial Parliments? I don't know as I've 'eard
o' <i>them</i>.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Pol. P.</span> Ain't yer? Well, they're what we
<i>want</i>. Why, they've 'ad 'em in America, they've
ad 'em in Ostralia, they've 'ad 'em in Orstria; and
everywhere, mind yer, <i>everywhere</i> they've been in
operation they've turned out a success!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Kn. P.</span> Then it's 'igh time <i>we</i> 'ad 'em.
<i>What</i> is it they're called, again?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Pol. P.</span> Tee-reen-ial Porliments. It stands
to <i>reason</i> they work well. There they <i>are</i>, a settin'
eight months in the year fur seven year on end—somethink's
<i>bound</i> to come of it! I'd like to see
any o' <i>our</i> lot settin' like that! It's a pity we
don't take more pattern by America in our law-makin'.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[ 251]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 457px;">
<img src="images/p251.png" width="457" height="600" alt=""Thash where 'tis, yer come on me too late!"" title="" />
<span class="caption">"Thash where 'tis, yer come on me too late!"</span>
</div><p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[ 252]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[ 253]</a></span></p><p>The <span class="smcap">Kn. P.</span> Except in our criminal law. Why,
I've 'eard there's States out there where a man
may go and commit a crime, d'ye see, and once he
gits across the boundary from one State into another—like
as it might be a line across this 'ere street
like, d'ye see—once he's over that, they can't do
nothink to 'im!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Pol. P.</span> (<i>thoughtfully</i>). Ah, that wouldn't
never do '<i>ere</i>, that wouldn't!</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>The <span class="smcap">Conductor</span> comes up to collect fares.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Conductor</span> (<i>to a <span class="smcap">Sleepy Passenger</span> in a corner</i>).
Now then, fare, please?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Sleepy Passenger</span> (<i>with manly regret</i>). I
ain't gorrit, ole pal. If yer'd asht me jes' two
minutes afore I gorrup, I could ha' done it for yer,
but I took jes' anorrer glash an' blued th' lot. No
man can say I don' part s'long's I gorrer <i>money</i>;
no freehandeder man anywheresh'n wharri am; but
yer come on me too late. (<i>Shaking his head reproachfully.</i>)
Thash where 'tis, yer come on me too late!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Cond.</span> 'Ere, I ain't goin' to stand no nonsense!
If yer 'aven't got the money, git down orf o' my
bus, and quick, too!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Sl. P.</span> Ged <i>down</i>? An' <i>quick</i>! You wouldn'
tor' li' that if you'd sheen wharrer bloomin' 'ard job
I 'ad to get <i>up</i>! [<i>He resumes his slumber.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Cond.</span> (<i>passing on, softened</i>). I can't go and break<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[ 254]</a></span>
the beggar's neck for tuppence, and he's got it
somewhere about him, as likely as not. (<i>To a
<span class="smcap">Litigious Passenger</span>.</i>) Tuppence is the fare, Sir,
if <i>you</i> please.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Litigious Passenger</span>. One penny is the
legal fare, and all I intend to pay. I know the law!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Cond.</span> And so do I. It's wrote up tuppence
inside the bus. If yer ain't going to pay more,
yer'd better git down; ye've 'ad over your penn'orth
a'ready!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Litig. P.</span> (<i>with spirit</i>). I decline to get down.
I insist on being taken to the Bank for my penny.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Cond.</span> Oh, <i>do</i> yer? We'll see about that.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>He stops the 'bus and calls a <span class="smcap">Constable</span>, to whom
he briefly explains the situation.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Constable</span> (<i>pacifically, from below, to the <span class="smcap">Litig. P.</span></i>).
Come, Sir, don't block the traffic, like this 'ere!
Either pay the man his fare or get down—one of
the two.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Litig. P.</span> (<i>from the roof</i>). I have a legal
right to remain here if I like!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Const.</span> That may be, Sir; but if you do, this
man can summons you that's all.</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Litig. P.</span> (<i>warming with the joy of battle</i>).
That's just what I <i>want</i> him to do! Can't I <i>make</i>
him summon me?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[ 255]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Cond.</span> (<i>disgusted</i>). 'Ere, 'ang it all! <i>do</i> yer think
I'm goin' to cart you 'arf over London fur a penny,
and throw yer in the luxury of a lawsoot? 'Ere's
yer penny back, and I give yer the ride free,
<i>there</i>!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Litig. P.</span> (<i>accepting the penny, and descending
with dignity</i>). Very well; and let me tell you this,
it was just as well you gave way when you did, for
I was quite prepared to carry the case to the House
of Lords!</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Cond.</span> Ah! and I s'pose yer think yer'd git <i>there</i>
for a penny?</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i>The Omnibus goes on before the <span class="smcap">Litigious Person</span>
has time to think over such an obvious repartee
as asking the <span class="smcap">Constable</span> to take the man's
number.</i></p></blockquote>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[ 257]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>AT A HIGHLAND CATTLE AUCTION.</h2>
<p class="center"><i>A Yard. In the open space between the rows of pens the
<span class="smcap">Auctioneer</span> is trying to dispose of some horses which are trotted
out one by one in the usual fashion.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">The Auctioneer</span> (<i>spectacled, red-bearded,
canny, slightly Arcadian touch imparted by straw
hat, and a sprig of heather in his button-hole</i>).
What'll I say for this, noo? (<i>A horse of a meditative
mien is just brought in.</i>) Here's a beast, and a very
good beast, from Lochaber! (<i>The bystanders remain
unmoved.</i>) He was bred by Meester MacFarlane, o'
Drumtappit, and ye'll all ha' haird on him as the
biggest breeder in these pairts. (<i>Heads are shaken,
so much as to intimate that this particular animal does
not do Mr. MacFarlane justice.</i>) Trot him up an'
doon a bit, boy, and show his action—stan' away
back there! <i>(With affected concern</i>.) Don't curb him
so tight—be careful now, or ye'll do meeschief to
yourself an' others! (<i>As the horse trots past them,</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[ 260]</a></span>
<i>several critics slap it disrespectfully on the hind-quarters—a
liberty which it bears with meekness.</i>) There's a
pace for ye—he's a guid woorker, a gran' beast—hoo
much shall we say for him? (<i>Nobody seems able
to express his appreciation of the grand beast in figures.</i>)
Just to stairt ye then—twenty poon! (<i>Even the
animal himself appears slightly staggered by this sum;
bystanders are quietly derisive; <span class="smcap">Auctioneer</span> climbs
rapidly down without interruption till he reaches six
pounds, when he receives his first bid.</i>) Sex poon' is
bed for 'm—is there ony advance on sex poon?
(<i>Someone in the background:—"Fefteen shellin'!"</i>)
Sex-fefteen—noo, Meester McRobbie, wull ye no
luik this way? (<i><span class="smcap">Mr. McR.</span> responds by a decided
negative.</i>) Ye won't? Ah, I never got ony guid
from ye—'cept when I didn't meet ye. (<i>This piece
of Scotch "wut" raises a laugh at <span class="smcap">Mr.McR.'s</span> expense,
but does not affect the bidding, which still languishes.</i>)
Then, he's going at sex-fefteen—for the last time.
Whaur's my bedder at sex-fefteen? (<i>Repentance or
modesty prevents the bidder from coming forward, and the
<span class="smcap">Auctioneer</span> continues, more in grief than anger.</i>) Eh,
this is too bad noo—I'll thank no man for making
me a bed, 'cept those that are meant in airnest.
No one bed onything for a beast like this! Then
I hae to tell ye ye've not bed near up to the resairve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[ 261]</a></span>
price on it. (<i>Suddenly becomes weary of the animal.</i>)
Tak' it awa'. (<i>The next horse is led in.</i>) Now, here's
a beast that's well-known, I'm thenkin'. (<i>The
general expression signifies that its reputation is not
altogether to its credit.</i>) There's a well-bred mare—open
up, and let her show hersel'. (<i>The mare is
shown, but fails to excite competition.</i>) Ah, ye'll ony
buy screws to-day, an' not the nice things at a'—tak'
her away. (<i>The mare is taken out ignominiously;
<span class="smcap">Auctioneer</span>, followed by crowd, leads the way to where a
pony and trap are standing harnessed.</i>) Noo, I'm gaun
to pit up the pony an' van—just show them hoo she
goes in hairness, boy. (<i>To intrusive collie.</i>) Out of
the way, dug, in case ye get your feet smashed.
(<i>Trap starts off, and is driven out of sight.</i>) Whaur's
the laddie gaun ta? Thenks he'll show himsel' at
Nairn, maybe! Ah, here she comes. (<i>Trap returns
at a modest pace.</i>) Stan' back, noo, all of ye; give
her room. I'll sell the mare first, and a beauty she
is—what shell we say? Ten poons—and she's a
nice one! Well, stairt her at five, she may get up.
(<i>Bidding gets up to ten pounds, where it stops.</i>) Then
she goes at ten, and I'm very glad she's gaun to a
gude auld friend o' mine—Meester McKenzie, o'
Glenbannock. Wull ye say five mair, and take the
hairness, Meester McKenzie? It's <i>richt</i> hairness!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[ 262]</a></span>
(<i><span class="smcap">Mr. McK.</span> declines to be tempted.</i>) Well, I'm sorry
ye wull na, I'd ha liked (<i>sentimentally, as if it had been
the dream of his life</i>) for the mare an' the hairness to
go togither and no to pairt them—but as 'tis, it
canna be helped. We'll pass on to the pegs, if you
please. (<i>Passes to a row of pens containing pigs, and
mounts some planks placed along the top.</i>) Now, these
are some proper pegs. (<i>A rush is made for the rails
enclosing the pigs, which instantly become self-conscious
and redouble their grunts.</i>) Noo, laddies, laddies, it's
no fair o' ye taking up a' the room i' that way. I'm
quite sure there's a lot o' ye in front that's no buying
pegs—ye hanna the luik o' pairsons that buy pegs.
Stan' by for shame, and don't keep them that comes
to buy, where they canna see sae much as a tail.
Hoo much apiece for these palefaced pegs? Ye've
an awfu' guid view o' them there, Mr. Ferguson,—-luik
this way once again for forrty and threepence.
(<i>Persuasively.</i>) It'll soun' better wi' the threepence.
Gaun' for forty an' three. (<i>The owner of the pigs calls
out "No!"</i>) I thocht I made a law here that people
having pegs should gie me the resairve at the time—see
what ye do now, Peter MacPhairson, make a
fule of the buyers and a fule o' mysel'!—but (<i>with
tolerant contempt</i>) Peter is not a strong man, we
must no be haird on Peter. (<i>Roar from crowd;</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[ 263]</a></span>
<i>disappearance of <span class="smcap">Mr. MacPh.</span></i>) I'll cancel no more
sales that way, however, as I eentimate to ye once
for a'.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">'Arry</span> (<i>on tour from Town—to his admiring friend</i>).
I say, Charley, what d'yer bet I don't talk to some
of these chaps in their own lingo?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Charley.</span> What a fellow you are! Mind what
you are about, that's all.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">'Arry</span> (<i>going up to an elderly person in the only Scotch
cap visible</i>). Hech, Sair, but yon's a braw bonnie
wee bit piggie fur a body to tak' a richt gude wullie
waucht wi' gin ye meet him comin' thro' the rye!</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Person in the Scotch Cap</span> (<i>who happens to
be a retired Colonel in a Highland Regiment, who is
somewhat careless in his attire</i>). I think you will find
that sort of thing better appreciated after you've
got home.</p>
<blockquote><p class="right">[<i><span class="smcap">'Arry</span> returns to <span class="smcap">Charley</span>, feeling much smaller
than he allows his friend to perceive.</i></p></blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[ 265]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/3star.png" width="450" height="143" alt="" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE COUNTRY OF COCKAIGNE.</h2>
<h3><span class="smcap">A Monologue—With a Moral.</span></h3>
<p class="center"><i>An airless Court in a London back Street. <span class="smcap">Time</span>—August.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Jimmy</span> (<i>aged eight, to Florrie, aged seven</i>). No, I
ain't comin' to the Reckereation Groun', not
jess yit, I carn't.... I'm goin' ter wyte about
'ere till the lidy comes.... Why, 'er as is comin'
to see my Muvver 'bout sendin' me fur a fortnight in
the kerntry.... Yus, where I was larst year....
It's settled as I'm ter go agine—leastways as <i>good</i> as
settled. My Farver 'e've sent in a happlication to
the K'mitty, and Teacher 'e sez 'e kin reckermend
me, an' Mr. and Mrs. Delves—them as 'ad the cottidge
where I went afore—they've arst fur to 'ave me
agin—so you see, Florrie, it's all <i>right</i>. On'y I carn't
settle to nuffink afore I know when I'm goin', an'
about the trine an' that. Yer 'ave to roide in a trine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[ 268]</a></span>
to git to the kerntry, yer know.... Wot, ain't yer
never bin there?... Yer'd wanter fawst enough
if yer knoo what it was loike.... There's grorss
there, an' trees an' that.... Na-ow, a <i>lot</i> better 'n
the Reckereation Groun'—that's all mide outer old
grivestones as the deaders 'as done wiv. There's 'ills
an' bushes an' 'edges where yer can pick flowers....
There ain't no perlice to <i>git</i> yer locked up....
An' everyfink smells so lovelly, kinder 'elthy like—it
mikes yer feel 'ungry.... Not like sassages an' inions
azackly—'tain't that sorter smell.... On'y 'ere and
there, an' yer'd 'ardly tell they <i>was</i> shops, they
kerry 'em on that quoiet.... Yer wouldn' call it poky
if yer was there. Mr. Delves 'e <i>was</i> a kind man, 'e
was; mide me a whistle out a sickermore brornch,
'e did; and Mrs. Delves, she lemme help her feed
the chickings.... They 'ad a garding beyind, an'
there'd bin rasberries an' gooseberries a growin' on
bushes—strite, there 'ad—I ain't tellin' yer no lies—on'y
they was all gone by then. An' they 'ad a dog—Rover
<i>'is</i> nime was—'e was a koind dog, lemme lay
insoide of 'is kennel orfen, 'e would.... I'd like ter
'ave a run over thet Common agen, too. I dessay
as I shell—p'reps the d'y arter to-morrer....
There's a pond on it, an' geese, an' they comes at
yer a stritching out their necks an' a-'issin' thet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[ 269]</a></span>
sevidge.... Na-ow, yer've on'y got ter walk up to
'em, an' they goes orf, purtendin' they took yer fur
somebody else, an' wasn't meanin' no offence. I
ain't afride o' no geese, I ain't—nor yet Lily wasn't
neither. We sor a pig 'aving a ring put froo 'is
nose one day. 'E 'ollered out like 'e was bein'
killed—but 'e wasn't. An' there was a blecksmiff's,
where they put the 'orse's shoes on red 'ot, 'an the
'orse 'e never took no notice. Me and Lily used ter
go fur long walks, all under trees. Once she showed
me a squill—"squerl" <i>she</i> kep' a-calling of it, till
I tole 'er 'ow—an' it run up a tree zigzag, and
jumped on to another ever so fur. That was when
we was pickin' nuts. We went a blackberryin', too,
one day.... Na-ow, there warn't nobody dead.
An' Lily ... Lily Delves 'er nime was, b'longed
to them I was stoppin' wiv.... I didn't notice
partickler.... Older nor you, an' bigger, and lots
redder 'bout the cheeks.... She wasn't a bad
sort—fur a gal.... I dunno; I liked <i>all</i> on 'em....
Well, there was Farmer Furrows, 'e was very
familiar, said as 'ow I might go inter 'is horchard
and pick the happles up as was layin' there jest fur
the askin'. An' Bob Rumble, 'im as druv Mr.
Kennister the grocer's cart, 'e used ter gimme a
roide along of 'im when 'e was tikin' round porcels<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[ 270]</a></span>
an' that. We'd go along lanes that 'igh yer couldn't
see nuffink fur leaves; and once 'e druv along a
Pork with tremenjus big trees in it, an' stagses
walkin' about underneath with grite big 'orns....
Suthink like 'im as is drawed outside the public
round the corner—on'y they warn't none o' them
gold. I 'speck them gold ones is furrin'.... An'
the grub—we 'ad beekstike pudd'n o' Sundays, an'
as much bread an' treacle every day as ever I could
eat, and I <i>was</i> 'ungry when I was in the kerntry....
An' when I come away Mrs. Delves, she gethered me
a big noseguy fur to tike 'ome to Muvver—kissantimums,
merrigoles, an' dyliers, all sorts there was—an'
Murver she put 'em in a jug, and soon as ever
I shet my eyes an' sniffed, I could see that garding
and Rover and Lily as <i>pline</i>—but they went bad,
an' 'ad to be froed aw'y at larst. I shall see 'em all
agine very soon now, though, won't thet be proime,
eh?... Whatsy? 'Ere, Florrie, you ain't <i>croying</i>,
are yer?... Why don't yer arsk yer Farver if 'e
won't let <i>you</i> go.... Oh, I thought as yer <i>wanted</i>
to go. Then what <i>are</i> yer——?... No, I ain't
gled to git aw'y from you.... A-course I shell be
gled to see 'er; but that ain't why, it's jest——You
ain't never bin in the kerntry, or you'd know
'ow I'm feelin'.... There's the lidy comin' now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[ 271]</a></span>
I must cut across an' 'ear what she sez to Muvver.
Don' tike on—'tain't o'ny fur a fortnight, anyway....
Look 'ere, I got suthink' for yer, Florrie, bought it
orf a man what 'ad a tray on 'em—it's a wornut,
d'ye see? Now open it—ain't them two little
choiner dolls noice, eh?... I'd rorther you 'ad
it nor 'er, strite, I would!... I'll be back in a
minnit.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 436px;">
<img src="images/p271.png" width="436" height="600" alt=""'Ere, Florrie, you ain't croying, are yer?"" title="" />
<span class="caption">"'Ere, Florrie, you ain't <i>croying</i>, are yer?"</span>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[ 273]</a></span></p><p><i>After an Interval of Twenty-four Hours.</i></p>
<p>No, <i>I</i> ain't bin nowhere particular.... Settled?
yus, it's all settled 'bout me goin' ter the kerntry....
To-morrer? no, I ain't goin' <i>to-morrer</i>....
Nex' week? not as I <i>knows</i> on.... You wanter
know sech a <i>lot</i>, you do!... If I <i>do</i> tell yer, you'll
on'y go an' larf.... Well, I ain't goin' at all—<i>now</i>
I 'ope you're pleased.... What's the good o' bein'
<i>sorry</i>?... Oh, I don't keer much, I don't....
Set down on this step alonger me, then, and don't
you go saying nuffink, or I'll stop tellin' of yer....
You remember me goin' in yes'day arternoon to 'ear
what the lidy said? Well, when I got in, I 'eard 'er
s'y, "Yus, it'll be a great disappintment for '<i>im</i>,
pore boy," she sez, "arter lookin' forward to it an'
all; but it can't be 'elped." And Muvver, she sez,
"'Is Farver'll be sorry, too; it done Jimmy ser
much good larst time. 'E can't pay not more nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[ 274]</a></span>
'arf-a-crownd a week towards it, but he can manage
that, bein' in work jess now." But the lidy sez,
"It's this w'y," she sez, "it costis us neelly arf a
suffering over what the parint pays fur each child,
and we ain't got the fun's fur to send more 'n a few,
cos the Public don' suscroibe ser much as they might,"
she sez. "An' so this year we're on'y sending children
as is delikit, an' reelly <i>wants</i> a chinge." So yer see,
I ain't a goin'. I dunno as I'm delikit; but I <i>do</i>
want the kerntry <i>orful</i> bad, I do. I wish I never
'adn't bin there at all 'cos then preps I shouldn'
mind. An' yit I'm gled I bin, too. I dreamt about
it larst night, Florrie, I did. I was a-settin' on this
'ere step, sime as I am now, an' it was 'ot an'
stoiflin', like it is; an' all of a suddink I see Mr.
Kennister's' cart wiv the grey 'orse turn into our
court an' pull up hoppersite, an' Bob Rumble 'e was
a-driving on it. An' 'e sez, "Jump up!" 'e sez, "an'
I'll tike yer back to Mr. Delves's cottidge." And I
sez, "May Florrie come too?" An' 'e sez, "Yus,
both on yer." So up we gits, and we was droivin'
along the lanes, and I was showin' yer the squills an'
the stagses, an' jes as we come to the turn where
yer kin see the cottidge—— Well, I don' remember
no more on it. But it was a noice dream so far as I
got wiv it, an' if I 'adn't never bin there, I couldn'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[ 275]</a></span>
ha' dreamt it, <i>could</i> I, eh? An', like as not, I'll
dream the rest on it anuvver night.... An' you
must try an' dream your share, too, Florrie. It'll be
a'most like bein' in the kerntry in a sort o' w'y fur
both on us, won't it?</p>
<p><span class="smcap">The Moral.</span></p>
<p>(<i>The Offices of the Children's Country Holidays Fund
are at 10, Buckingham Street, Strand, and contributions
should be made payable to the Hon. Treasurer.</i>)</p>
<p class="center">THE END.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[ 276]</a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[ 277]</a></span></p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
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<p>Of the Books which have attained to the position of being perennial favourites
with the audience to whom they appeal—living as if no rivalry could dislodge
them—a foremost place has long been held by the <span class="smcap">Handley Cross</span>
series of volumes, which are now just as much the favourite reading of those
who are interested in the exploits of the hunting-field, as they have been since
their first publication.</p>
<p>The fictitious heroes, whose doings and sayings inspire these favourite
volumes, provide a nomenclature which is as much imbedded in the
phraseology of sport as those of Thackeray or Dickens are in our national
literature. In what hunting circles may it not be said that the names of
<span class="smcap">Jorrocks</span> and <span class="smcap">Soapey Sponge</span> and <span class="smcap">Facey Romford</span> are "familiar in their
mouths as household words"?</p>
<p>The <span class="smcap">Handley Cross</span> Sporting Novels have hitherto, by the form of their
production, formed the enduring ornament of a Country Gentleman's Library,
and, by reason of their price, have been somewhat beyond the attainment of
that extensive and constantly enlarging section who have learned to take delight
in the out-of-door amusements which brighten rural life.</p>
<p>Everyone whose delight in a "finest run across country that ever was seen,"
and whose ambition is "to be in at the finish," may now have as his abiding
companions on his own book-case within reach of his easy-chair, the histories of
<span class="smcap">Jorrocks</span> and <span class="smcap">Sponge</span> and <span class="smcap">Romford</span>, and others of the famous creation, in a
handsome and handy form; having the pages brightened by a selection from
the original illustrations to give an added vividness to the exhilarating raciness
of the author's humour.</p>
<p class="center"><i>The volumes are sold separately as under:—</i></p>
<h4>HANDLEY CROSS;</h4>
<p class="center">or, Mr. Jorrock's<br />
Hunt. With 67 Text and 12 Page<br />
Illustrations and Coloured Frontispiece.<br />
Price 7<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p>
<h4>ASK MAMMA;</h4>
<p class="center">or, The Richest Commoner<br />
In England. With 51 Text<br />
and 8 Page Illustrations and Coloured<br />
Frontispiece. Price 6<i>s.</i></p>
<h4>SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR.</h4>
<p class="center">With<br />
60 Text and 8 Page Illustrations and<br />
Coloured Frontispiece. Price 6<i>s.</i></p>
<h4>PLAIN OR RINGLETS?</h4>
<p class="center">With 43<br />
Text and 8 Page Illustrations and<br />
Coloured Frontispiece. Price 6<i>s.</i></p>
<h4>MR. FACEY ROMFORD'S HOUNDS.</h4>
<p class="center">With 46 Text and 8 Page Illustrations<br />
and Coloured Frontispiece.<br />
Price 6<i>s.</i></p>
<h4>HAWBUCK GRANGE;</h4>
<p class="center">or, The Sporting<br />
Adventures of Thomas Scott,<br />
Esquire. With 28 Text and 8 Page<br />
Illustrations and Coloured Frontispiece.<br />
Price 4<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p>
<p class="center">BRADBURY, AGNEW, & <span class="smcap">Co.</span> <span class="smcap">Ld.</span> 8, 9, 10, <span class="smcap">Bouverie Street</span>, E.C.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[ 280]</a></span></p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<h3><span class="smcap">F. C. Burnand's
Works</span>.</h3>
<h5><span class="smcap">A Selected Collection from "PUNCH."</span></h5>
<p class="center">5 Volumes, Large Crown 8vo, gilt top, price 25s.</p>
<blockquote><p>"Mr. Burnand's Writings are well worth collecting. He has produced
a very large body of comic writing of a high order of merit, and
the amount of it that is first-rate is considerable. There is a perpetual
gaiety and airiness about his work which makes it always pleasant to
dip into, and few humorists have the power of making their readers laugh
so agreeably, so innocently, so often, and so much."—<i>Athenĉum.</i></p></blockquote>
<p class="center"><i>The Volumes are sold separately as under:</i></p>
<p class="center">Price 5s. each.</p>
<h4>1. VERY MUCH ABROAD.</h4>
<p class="center"><i>With 160 "Punch" Illustrations</i>.</p>
<h4>2. RATHER AT SEA.</h4>
<p class="center"><i>With 116 "Punch" Illustrations</i>.</p>
<h4>3. QUITE AT HOME.</h4>
<p class="center"><i>With 108 "Punch" Illustrations</i>.</p>
<h4>4. HAPPY THOUGHTS.</h4>
<p class="center"><i>With 110 Illustrations</i>.</p>
<h4>5. SOME OLD FRIENDS.</h4>
<p class="center"><i>With 115 "Punch" Illustrations</i>.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p class="center">BRADBURY, AGNEW, & <span class="smcap">Co.</span> <span class="smcap">Ld.</span>, 8, 9, 10, <span class="smcap">Bouverie Street</span>, E.C.</p>
<pre>
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