Chapter 2

"As a thorough-going democrat I always travel steerage; I'd sooner eat my Sunday hat Than take a nasty Peerage; Such sops the snobbish crowd may soothe, But not yours truly, Handel Booth."

"As a simple Knight I'm quite all right, But to make me a peer Would be rather queer; It might also disturb Sir George," says Sir Herb.

"This time you've backed the winning horse, I'm bound to be a Duke, of course; But wait and see--the slightest hitch Might altogether queer my pitch; So mum's the word," says Little Tich.

"The rumours of Our elevation Are totally without foundation. On peerages We turn Our backs, Signed with Our seal, _Revue_-King Max."

"He that on frippery sets his heart May purchase titles such as Bart.; These garish gauds my spirit spurns, I'm greater as I am," says Burns.

"Yon tale aboot ma Coronet Is comin' off, but not juist yet; Aw'm haudin' oot for somethin' smarter, For choice the Thistle or the Garter; Whichever ribbon is the broader A'll tak wi' joy," says Harry Lauder.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE COMPLETE DRAMATIST.

II.--Exits and Entrances.

To the young playwright, the difficulty of getting his characters on to the stage would seem much less than the difficulty of finding them something to say when they are there. He writes gaily and without hesitation "_Enter_ Lord Arthur Fluffinose," and only then begins to bite the end of his penholder and gaze round his library for inspiration. Yet it is on that one word "Enter" that his reputation for dramatic technique will hang. Why did _Lord Arthur Fluffinose_ enter? The obvious answer, that the firm which is mentioned in the programme as supplying his trousers would be annoyed if he didn't, is not enough; nor is it enough to say that the whole plot of the piece hinges on him, and that without him the drama would languish. What the critic wants to know is why _Lord Arthur_ chose that very moment to come in--the very moment when _Lady Larkspur_ was left alone in the oak-beamed hall of Larkspur Towers. Was it only a coincidence? And if the young dramatist answers callously, "Yes," it simply shows that he has no feeling for the stage whatever. In that case I needn't go on with these articles.

However, it will be more convenient to assume, dear reader, that in your play _Lord Arthur_ had a good reason for coming in. If that be so, he must explain it. It won't do to write like this:--

_Enter_ Lord Arthur. Lady Larkspur _starts suddenly and turns towards him._

_Lady Larkspur._ Arthur! _You_ here? (_He gives a nod of confirmation. She pauses a moment, and then with a sudden passionate movement flings herself into his arms._) Take me away, Arthur. I can't bear this life any longer. Larkspur bit me again this morning for the _third_ time. I want to get away from it all. [_Swoons._

The subsequent scene may be so pathetic that on the hundredth night it is still bringing tears to the eyes of the fireman, but you must not expect to be treated as a serious dramatist. You will see this for yourself if you consider the passage as it should properly have been written:--

_Enter_ Lord Arthur Fluffinose. Lady Larkspur _looks at him with amazement._

_Lady Larkspur._ Arthur, what are _you_ doing here?

_Lord Arthur._ I caught the 2.3 from town. It gets in at 3.37, and I walked over from the station. It's only a mile. (_At this-point he looks at the grandfather clock in the corner, and the audience, following his eyes, sees that it is seven minutes to four, which appears delightfully natural._) I came to tell Larkspur to sell Bungoes. They are going down.

_Lady Larkspur (folding her hands over her chest and gazing broodingly at the footlights)._ Larkspur!

_Lord Arthur (anxiously)._ What is it? (_Suddenly_) Has he been ill-treating you again?

_Lady Larkspur (flinging herself into his arms)._ Oh, Arthur, Arthur, he bit me this morning----

And so on.

But it may well be that _Lord Larkspur_ has an intrigue of his own with his secretary, _Miss Devereux_, and, if their big scene is to take place on the stage too, the hall has got to be cleared for them in some way. Your natural instinct will be to say, "_Exeunt_ Fluffinose _and_ Lady Larkspur, _R. Enter_ Lord Larkspur _and_ Miss Devereux, _L._" This is very immature, even if you are quite clear as to which side of the stage is L. and which is R. You _must_ make the evolutions seem natural. Thus:--_Enter from the left_ Miss Devereux.

_She stops in surprise at seeing_ Lord Arthur _and holds out her hand._

_Miss D._ Why, Lord Arthur! Whatever----

_Lord A._ How d'you do? I've just run down to tell Lord Larkspur to----

_Miss D._ He's in the library. At least he----

_Lord A. (taking out his watch)._ Ah, then perhaps I'd better----

[_Exit by door on left._

_Miss D. (to Lady L.)._ Have you seen _The Times_ about here? There is a set of verses in the Financial Supplement which Lord Larkspur wanted to----(_She wanders vaguely round the room. Enter _Lord Larkspur_ by door at back_). Why, here you are! I've just sent Lord Arthur into the library to----

_Lord L._ I went out to speak to the gardener about----

_Lady L._ Ah, then I'll go and tell Lord----

[_Exit to library, leaving_ Miss Devereux _and_ Lord Larkspur _alone._

And there you are. You will, of course, appreciate that the unfinished sentences not only save time, but also make the manoeuvring very much more natural.

So far I have been writing as if you were already in the thick of your play; but it may well be that the enormous difficulty of getting the first character on has been too much for you. How, you may be wondering, are you to begin your masterpiece?

The answer to this will depend upon the length of the play, for upon the length depends the hour at which the curtain rises. If yours is an 8.15 play you may be sure that the stalls will not fill up till 8.30, and you should therefore let loose the lesser-paid members of the cast on the opening scene, keeping your fifty-pounders in reserve. In a 9 o'clock play the audience may be plunged into the drama at once. But this is much the more difficult thing to do, and for the beginner I should certainly recommend the 8.15 play, for which the recipe is simple.

As soon as the lights go down, and while the bald stout gentleman is kicking our top-hat out of his way, treading heavily on our toes and wheezing, "Sorry, sorry," as he struggles to his seat, a buzz begins behind the curtain. What the players are saying is not distinguishable, but a merry girlish laugh rings out now and then, followed by the short sardonic chuckle of an obvious man of the world. Then the curtain rises, and it is apparent that we are assisting at an At Home of considerable splendour. Most of the characters seem to be on the stage, and for once we do not ask how they got there. We presume they have all been invited. Thus you have had no difficulty with your entrances.

_As the chatter dies down a chord is struck on the piano._

_The Bishop of Sploshington (£2 10s. a week)._ Charming. Quite one of my favourites. Do play it again. [_Relapses into silence for the rest of the evening._

_The Duchess of Southbridge (35s. per week, to_ Lord Reggie). Oh, Reggie, what _did_ you say?

_Lord Reggie (putting up his eyeglass--they get five shillings a week extra if they can manage an eyeglass properly)._ Said I'd bally well--top-hole--what?--don'cherknow.

_Lady Evangeline (to_ Lady Violet, _as they walk across the stage)._ Oh, I _must_ tell you what that funny Mr. Danby said. [_Doesn't._ Lady Violet, _none the less, trills with happy laughter._

_Prince von Ichdien, the well-known Ambassador (loudly, to an unnamed gentleman)._ What your country ought to do----[_He finishes his remarks in the lip-language, which the unnamed gentleman seems to understand. At any rate he nods several times._

_There is more girlish laughter, more buzz and more deaf-and-dumb language. Then_

_Lord Tuppeny._ Well, what about auction?

_Amid murmurs of_ "You'll play, Field-Marshal?" _and_ "Auction, Archbishop?" _the crowd drifts off, leaving the hero and heroine alone in the middle of the stage._

And then you can begin.

A. A. M.

* * * * *

A THEATRICAL REVIVAL.

* * * * *

THE NAKED TRUTH.

[_A correspondent, having failed to let his property through the ordinary channels of advertisement, falls back upon "Mr. Punch's" help, having noticed in his pages several examples of the charm of Commercial Candour._]

House to be Sold, with Garage--or can be let alone; detached (owing to subsidence of soil); standing on its own ground (except for a small portion which is lying in neighbour's yard). There are three stories: (1) that it is haunted, (2) that it is unfit for human habitation, (3) that it is mortgaged up to the hilt. The title is undisputed.

The house faces N. and S.--or _did_ when last inspected. It commands a magnificent view of the back gardens of the next street, where a weekly regatta is held every Monday. For lovers of music there is a piano next door and five gramophones within audible distance; an organ plays every Saturday at the house opposite.

The sky-light affords an unobstructed view of the firmament--not surpassed in the wilds of Scotland.

The garden is small, but cannot possibly be overlooked even by the most short-sighted and unobservant. The soil is very fertile, grass growing readily under the feet. The presence of the early bird indicates an abundance of ground game. There is some fine ancient timber in a corner, possibly the remains of a bicycle shed.

On the ground floor are three sitting-rooms, each with standing room also; every one of them is a study. There is no actual smoking-room, but one can be improvised in a moment by lighting any of the fires. There is a large attic suitable for a billiard-room for short men. The wine-cellar contains fifty cubic feet of water, thus ensuring a uniform temperature; there is a large collection of empty bottles, which could be left. The water supply is constant, so also are the applications for rates. The drains on the property are immense. There is gas all over the house. Summonses are served at the door, and the tradesmen call many times daily and wait if you are out.

The owner is obliged to go abroad for private reasons and must dispose of the property at once. The house, being concrete, can be seen at any time, or an abstract can be had on application to the Caretaker who is within--or should be. If not within will be found at the "King's Arms" next door. For particulars apply to Phibbs and Gammon, Jerry Buildings, Wapping.

* * * * *

"Dr. A. M. Low, of Shepherd's Bush, states that he has discovered a process by which photographs can be sent four miles."

_Daily Express._

To show him that the discovery is an old one we are sending him ours. By special messenger-boy process.

* * * * *

"On the concluding day Major Orman and the officers of the battalion were At Home to the station. The ladies of the latter assembled in their smallest frocks."--_Rangoon Gazette._

And in these days they can be very small indeed.

* * * * *

ART AT THE CALEDONIAN MARKET.

* * * * *

A SPORTING OFFER.

(_Written after a contemplation of one of our outer suburbs, and on hearing of the threatened lock-out in the building trade._)

Can this be true? that hodmen strike? The very thought my soul bewilders. Has Art, has beauty got no spike To perforate the breasts of builders?

Her bricky teeth flung far and wide, On virgin fields my London browses, The amaranthine plains are pied With nutty little bijou houses.

Here Daphne makes the junket set Or squeezes from the curd the pale whey, And drone of bees holies the Met- ropolitan and District Railway.

Here Amaryllis tends the hearth Till, home returning from the City, Her Damon comes to weed the garth (Which makes his hands most awful gritty).

Here in the golden sunset's haze Is love, I ween, no whit less hearty Than when it walked in soot-grimed ways, But, oh how chic and oh how arty!

The cots themselves are spick and span, Filling with awe the gross intruder; Their style is early Georgian, Which looks like measles mixed with Tudor.

Through little panes be-diamonded The scented dusk comes softly stealing; When you get up you strike your head Severely on the timbered ceiling.

And some break out in sudden wings And bloom with unsuspected gables; The cubic area of the things Prevents one getting round the tables.

To weave such nests, so fair, so coy, Should be the workman's _bonum summum_, To me it were all mirth, all joy To paint, to whitewash, or to plumb 'em.

Far other was the task of thralls Who had to rear these inner suburbs, Piling the sad Victorian walls Where each wan window laced its tub-herbs.

Small wonder had they cried, I wis, Shedding large tears amongst their mortar, "We cannot build such streets as this Without two extra pints of porter!"

But now--ah well! Here is a bard Long versed in wild extravaganza, Knowing the foot-rule, and to lard With purple bits the pounding stanza;

A little weary of the harp, Metres and rhymes that fail to dowel, Willing to turn from pains so sharp To some soft labour with the trowel.

Sooner than let our love-birds pine For post-impressionistic dwellings, With all the windows out of line And curious humps and antic swellings,

The motley Muse's maundering nous Cares nothing what the union rate is, If any young things want a house I'll build the kickshaw for them gratis.

Evoe.

* * * * *

Another Impending Apology.

"We are glad to hear that Canon N. S. Jeffrey has latterly made such good progress that he is now able to bet downstairs each day."--_Gazette-News for Blackpool._

* * * * *

"She was slightly troubled with sore chins, and went to the post in scratchy fashion."

_Sporting Chronicle._

No wonder.

* * * * *

"THE SINCEREST FLATTERY."

* * * * *

* * * * *

AN ADVANCE FINALE.

There is an idea already fermenting in the brains of many publishers that their present method of printing personal assurances as to the merits of their new productions is unsatisfactory. It is felt that these eulogies are open to the suspicion of prejudice and should be replaced, or supplemented, by the advance publication of the final chapter of the author's work. _Mr. Punch_, anxious to promote this excellent change by the publication of a specimen finale, has pleasure in anticipating the fifty-first, and concluding, chapter of Mrs. H-mphry W-rd's projected romance, _The Winning of Aurora_; and he is convinced that his readers will not rest till they have secured the remaining fifty chapters.

Aurora let fall the book she was reading, a celebrated pamphlet on the Oxford Tractarian movement, in a cover which was a miracle of Italo-Moroccan tooling, and gazed thoughtfully at the scene before her. Viewed thus in outline, her head in repose had something of the delicacy of a Tanagra figure, while to the eye of a connoisseur the magnificent yet girlish torso might have recalled a Bacchante by Skopas. To her right rose the rugged sides of Garthfell, purple and scarlet in the subdued light; to the left was Felsbeck, and from her feet the ground fell away abruptly till it met the immemorial woods of Supwell. Among them Aurora could distinguish the massive Boadicean keep of Supwell Castle, strangely yet harmoniously blended with the neo-Byzantine portico of white marble designed by Inigo Jones for the thirty-first Earl. She remembered vaguely that she was attending a reception there to-night; but her gaze soon left the noble pile--so typical of all that is best in English architecture--to rest upon the humbler neighbouring group of Lowmere cottages. In one she knew old Ralph, the shepherd, was dying of a painful form of spinal catarrh, directly attributable to the cesspool at his front door; in another the mother of fifteen children was nursing the only remaining one through an attack of mumps, and in a third the breadwinner was lying in the malignant grip of abdominal influenza. Aurora mentally reviewed the chief points of Socialism, Individualism, Syndicalism and Socinianism, as represented by the select group of thinkers to which Cecil belonged.

Following a noiseless footman in the gorgeous Supwell liveries, Mrs. Lovelord and Aurora took up their position under a rare palm at the head of the great ebony staircase, which a royal personage was said to have coveted, and watched the Earl and Countess receive their guests. Mrs. Lovelord's keen eye noted that the Earl was standing on the Countess's train, a priceless piece of Venetian point which had once belonged to the Empress Theodora. Aurora's attention was attracted by a tall grey-haired man wearing the Ribbon of the Garter half-hidden under a variety of lesser decorations; he was talking eagerly, vivaciously to the notorious Duchess of Almondsbury. Cecil, who had joined Aurora at once, whispered that the man was Professor Villeray.

"They say he knows every crowned head in Europe," he said. The great scientist was relating anecdote after anecdote of the people he had known--Charlemagne, Machiavelli, Newman, Dickens, the Shakspeares, father and son. There followed a racy story, inimitably told, of Miss Mitford in her less regenerate days. Aurora turned away.

"Would you care to take a turn through the rooms?" Cecil asked. "The Rembrandts are in tremendous form to-night--what?"

The house was one of historic interest and importance, with that blend of magnificence and domesticity so typical of all that is best in English life. Aurora's eyes wandered from the massive emerald chandeliers, the envy of every connoisseur in Europe, to Raphael's masterly "Madonna," which, with a daring harmony by Sargent, filled the niches on either side of the great mantelpiece, itself a triumph of the art of Niccola of Pisa.

"There's Sir John. I didn't think he'd be here with all this rumpus over the Bill," said Cecil. The Prime Minister was deep in conversation with the Marquis of Falutin, P.T.O., Q.T., R.S.V.P., the famous diplomat, whose recent intervention in the Nice imbroglio had saved the European situation. Aurora could see the flashes of his wit illuminating Sir John's saturnine countenance. Her further progress was barred by Lady Highflyer, who nodded to her, and said to Cecil, whose _petite intimité_ with all this great world struck Aurora anew:

"You heard Philip's got Jericho?" He nodded. "Such a relief. The Duke's delighted, of course, especially after poor Erskine's fiasco, or perhaps I should say _fiancée_. He's infatuated, I hear. Only £20,000 a year between them! Ah, there's Madeline Duchess. Well, _a rivederci_."

She passed on, her dress, which had taxed the resources of the first modistes of the day, Rue de la Paix, trailing heedlessly over the priceless Aubusson. Aurora turned to find the Home Secretary at her elbow. Instantly she was all eagerness and vivacity.

"Will there be a division?" she asked.

"Dear lady," he replied, "_qui vivra verra_. The Anabaptists are up in arms, but----" He screwed his glass into his eye. "Had anything to eat?" he asked, as three of the footmen passed with a jewelled tray of Pêches Melba. "A Benvenuto Cellini, if I am not mistaken," he continued, tapping the tray with his ring, a unique Pompeian intaglio of Venus Anadyomene with the iynx. "The plates are fourteenth-century Venetian. The only other set is in the Vatican, you remember." He removed a drop of the Earl's champagne from his moustache. "Ah, I see Cantoforte's going to sing. Marvellous man! I remember him in Paris in the 'forties--the roaring 'forties, as poor Dizzy called them."

"He only plays when Royalty's present," a woman behind Aurora whispered, as the great artist broke into Palestrina's _Andante Furioso_. "They say he charges a thousand a minute."

A memory of the Lowmere cottages assailed Aurora. At last she saw her way clearly. Never had she so realised the possibilities of life.

"I will marry Cecil," she said to herself. "With his brains, a million a year, and the breeding to which only the highest circles can attain, we will regenerate England."

* * * * *

* * * * *

Little-known Heroes.

"On Saturday last, an up-country woman attempted to commit suicide by laying herself across the rails. At that time the second up Passenger train was passing but slowly and the cow-catcher of the train almost touched the woman. The Driver stopped the train with great pluck."--_Times of Assam._

* * * * *

THE CAN-CAN.

I have four milk-boys as pets. They don't know it, but I cultivate an intimate knowledge of their habits and study them as, once, years ago, I was wont to study white mice and goldfish. I have watched their development, listened to their song, and have made several interesting discoveries about them.

When, after a hard evening's reading, perhaps, I jot down a few notes and tumble into bed at 1 A.M., I do so with the delightful certainty that at 6.30 the first of my pets will rouse me with his mellow warbling. He (Number One) looks always on the bright side of things and probably belongs to a club for incurable optimists, for he intersperses his roulades with cheery spells of whistling. Should Number Two, who is a pal of his, loom through the early morning mist with the lark and the first motor-bus at the other end of the Terrace, no false modesty deters him from making himself known; he gives a view-halloo that startles every drooping cat in the district. He informs Number Two, while that person is yet nebulous, a mere blur on the cosmos, that he went to the local Empire last night, and that it was a bit of all right. With an intermittent rumble he elicits the information that Geor-r-rge (that's Number Two's name) went to his local Palace and had a treat of a beano. And when they meet--exactly opposite my dwelling is the favoured spot--the Can-can is performed with variations. Jolly fellows are One and Two.