Part 3

From this it will be seen the Spirit of Art had, on the whole, a good head for business. "Now," continued the Representative of the Beautiful, "I distinctly recollect that the words to one of the songs of my friend ARTHUR contained a pointed reference to the Greenery Yallery Gallery. I fancy, from all I have heard, that the sort of thing I want will be found in the Greenery Yallery Gallery."

She was quite pleased at the notion. To tell the truth the Spirit of Art was rather weary of perambulating the streets of London--not even the advertisements of BUFFALO BILL on the hoardings gave her lasting satisfaction.

"Let me consider," she said, as she hovered on the threshold of the Grosvenor Gallery, "now I shall find myself amongst the grandest works of Mister JONES. I am never tired of that pale face with the pointed chin--no more is Mister JONES. This frequently-reproduced portrait of a lady is most interesting. No doubt it is a study of a chronic case of dyspepsia that must have lasted for twenty years. Then I shall see the choicest works of MORE and MILLAIS, and WATTS, and oh, joy! of Sir COUTTS-LINDSAY! This is indeed the very spot for a resting-place."

So the Spirit of Art glided up the staircase and into the Grosvenor Gallery. For a moment she was puzzled. There was no dyspeptic lady--"no greenery" and very little "yallery." Then she shivered, for on all sides she found immense pictures of battles and executions ghastly beyond description.

"Why, what are these?" she gasped. "What are these?"

"Catalogue, Miss?" replied a civil attendant. "Thank you, Miss,--sixpence."

And then the Spirit of Art read that such and such a picture represented a dreadful defeat, that a pestilent hospital, yonder one a scene of torture. She found representations of war treated in the most prosaic and unbeautiful form.

She was horrified and fainted!

Then the vision, before her became more and more terrible and the entire contents of the Catalogue was unfolded before her. Dying soldiers defying vultures, mutilated Russians lying in an open grave, old men being blown from the guns! Wounds, and fire, and blood!

***

When she came to herself she hurried away. She thought it out.

"I must gradually accustom myself to less horrible things," she whispered. "I will begin at once. If I were not to do this by degrees, I should go mad!" She called a hansom.

"Where to, Miss?"

"To the Marylebone Road," cried the Spirit of Art--in these days the Spirit is a very self-assertive young person, and not at all like an unprotected female--"Baker Street Station, Marylebone Road."

Then she threw away her Catalogue.

"I must see something less repulsive than this--I must gradually resume my normal condition. Something less repulsive! I have it! I will begin with the figures of Madame TUSSAUD'S--in the Chamber of Horrors!"

* * * * *

CHAIRS TO MEND.

Congregation at Oxford, having (in an empty House), for the sake of economy, turned the old Professorship of Anglo-Saxon into one of English Literature, and having, with a view to utilising its salary, entirely suppressed the chair of Poetry, it is rumoured that the Hebdomadal Council have already in contemplation a sweeping list of curtailments in the same direction.

The Professorships of Arabic, Archaeology, Astronomy, Botany, Celtic, Chemistry, and Chinese, will, it is said, also be rolled into one.

It is hoped that, by some spirited reforms in the direction indicated above, the University that, from the fashion in which it has dealt with the Chair of Poetry, appears indeed to be out at elbows, may survive the financial crisis in which it is evidently involved.

* * * * *

CHANNEL TALK.

_Arranged for the use of the returning British Passenger at Breakfast-time. By a very Dyspeptic Contributor._

It is a glorious thing to think that one is leaving France and all foreign kickshaws behind one, and is once more approaching dear honest old England on the deck of a British steamer.

But let us come into the cabin and have a bit of breakfast before we get in.

Surely that table covered with a dirty sheet instead of a tablecloth is not prepared for our repast?

Why, this stale loaf must have been on board quite a week.

It has evidently made several passages backwards and forwards in company with this extremely remarkable sample of butter.

Why does this coffee the Steward has just brought us look like ink and sawdust, and taste like something perplexing?

The Frenchman, who has been expecting _dejeuner a la fourchette_, is surveying with astonishment the dish of mutton-chops they have set down before him.

It is a great pity that they are all two inches thick, and are underdone when cut.

I wonder whether he is thinking, as I am, of the clean, fresh, and trim _restaurant_ table, the excellent _cafe au lait, petits-pains_, Normandy butter, and other "foreign kickshaws," that he has just left behind him in France.

Though he has had to pay three shillings for his hot breakfast, he has informed me that he will wait till he arrives, and take "_le lunch_" on shore.

I wonder whether he is aware that, if he makes this meal at the typical Refreshment-Room, he will have to content himself with stale sponge-cakes, the day-before-yesterday's buns, and small tins of lemon-drops.

But let us get out of the Cabin. I certainly prefer the deck of an excellent steamer to the arrangements made for providing one with breakfast down below.

* * * * *

A QUESTION OF POLICE.

"The rapid increase both of buildings and population which has taken place in the Metropolitan Police district of late years has outrun the increase which it has been possible to make to the Police Force."--_Sir Charles Warren, in his Official Reports, 1885, 1886._

"The average applications for admission to the Metropolitan Police Force now amount to one hundred per diem." _Statistics, October, 1887._

* * * * *

NE PLUS ULSTER.--Mr. CHAMBERLAIN seems to find the heart of the Irish Question in Ulster. Does he expect to find its solution there? He appears to set little store by the wishes of those not inconsiderable portions of Ireland which, as he says, "do not form a portion of the Ulster plantation." All other parts, even of the favoured province, "though geographically part of Ulster, are not parts of what we know as political Ulster." This certainly narrows the Irish Question. But does it simplify it? We have all heard of those who are "more Irish than the Irishmen themselves." Mr. CHAMBERLAIN seems to be more Ulsterish than the men of Ulster, though they, to be sure, on his own showing, are virtually English and Scotch. In declining to look beyond Ulster, it may be asked whether he looks into the Irish Question at all. Altogether Irish--very!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_The Danvers Jewels_, published by RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, and written by an anonymous author who dedicates the work to his sister "DI," (from whom he received some assistance in the story, otherwise he would "never have said 'DI,'") is a short and well-told sensational novelette in a shilling volume. There is a genuine vein of humour running through it, which is so artistically managed as at first to escape the reader's attention, who becoming more and more irritated with the stupidity of the supposed narrator, gradually discovers that the story which is being recounted by a middle-aged Indian Colonel, who prides himself on being remarkably astute, and on possessing a perfectly marvellous insight into character, is being recounted by a conceited, shallow-pated old ass. I think it a fault that at the very last, by some such accident as being in an assize town and being invited to sit on the bench, he does not see the villain thoroughly unmasked, placed in the dock, and condemned to death, or at least penal servitude for life. The story, excellent as it is, seems to me to want this finish. By the way, why, for no conceivable purpose, quote on the title-page a line from the Old Testament which, as every one remembering its context and after reading the book must see, has no apparent bearing on the subject? Mistake this.

_Deadman's Rock._ By "Q." Have Messrs. LOUIS STEVENSON and RIDER HAGGARD combined under the signature of "Q." to write at all events the first part of the weird and exciting Romance entitled _Deadman's Rock_? If not let those two authors look to their laurels. There is much in this book to remind the reader of _Treasure Island_, especially the fiendish Sailor's uncouth chaunt, "Sing hey for the deadman's eyes, my lads," which, however, is not a patch upon Mr. STEVENSON'S "Ho! Ho! Ho! and a bottle of rum," in _Treasure Island_. Then there is one line in "Q.'s" story, "And here a strange thing happened," which must call to mind Mr. RIDER HAGGARD'S patent of "and now a strange thing happened." "Q."--rious coincidence, isn't it? But a "coincidence" is not likely to annoy Mr. HAGGARD.

In the first part the most impatient reader will find that he cannot afford to skip a couple of lines without detriment to the narrative, but in the second part he may skip handfuls, as the lovemaking is common-place, and time is wasted over the tragedy which is written by one of the heroes, and over the description of their life in London. But on the other hand the scene in the gambling-house is exciting and artistically worked up,--and coming immediately after this, the lovemaking is uncommonly tame,--and the scene at the Theatre is also very good, but after this there is a lull in the excitement until the end approaches, when there is one very strong situation. But the actual finish is weak. So the summing up is that the first part is first-rate, and the second part is, on the whole, second-rate. But who is "Q."?

That is the Q. and what is the A.? _Deadman's Rock_ is not a good book for very nervous persons or children: for the latter _Almond Rock_ would be far preferable.

* * * * *

THE MUSE IN MANACLES.

(_By an Envious and Irritable Bard, after reading "Ballades and Rondeaus," just published, and wishing he could do anything like any of them._)

Bored by the Ballade, vexed by Villanelle, Of Rondeau tired, and Triolet as well!

THE BALLADE.

(_In Bad Weather._)

Oh! I'm in a terrible plight-- For how can I rhyme in the rain? 'Tis pouring from morn until night: So bad is the weather again, My language is almost profane! Though shod with the useful galosh, I'm racked with rheumatical pain-- I think that a Ballade is bosh!

I know I am looking a fright; That knowledge, I know, is in vain; My "brolly" is not water-tight, But hopelessly rended in twain And spoilt by the rude hurri_cane_! Though clad in a stout mackintosh, My temper I scarce can restrain-- I think that a Ballade is bosh!

Oh, I'm an unfortunate wight! The damp is affecting my brain; My woes I would gladly recite, In phrases emphatic and plain, Your sympathy could I obtain. I don't think my verses will wash, They're somewhat effete and inane-- I think that a Ballade is bosh!

ENVOY.

I fancy I'm getting insane, I'm over my ankles in slosh; But let me repeat the refrain-- I think that a Ballade is bosh!

THE VILLANELLE.

(_With Vexation._)

I do not like the Villanelle, I think it somewhat of a bore-- This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

The reason why I cannot tell; Each day I fancy, more and more, I do not like the Villanelle!

It makes me stamp and storm and yell, It makes me wildly rage and roar: This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

I look upon it as a sell, Its use I constantly deplore; I do not like the Villanelle!

Poetic thoughts it must dispel, It very often tries me sore: This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

For this I know, and know full well-- Let me repeat it o'er and o'er!-- I do not like the Villanelle, This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

THE TRIOLET.

(_In a Temper._)

A triolet's scarcely the thing-- Unless you would carol in fetters! If lark-like you freely would sing, A Triolet's scarcely the thing: I miss the poetical ring, I'm told that it has, by my betters! A Triolet's scarcely the thing-- Unless you would carol in fetters!

THE RONDEAU.

(_In a Rage._)

Pray tell me why we can't agree To bid the merry Muse run free? Pray tell me why we should incline To see her in a Rondeau pine, Or sigh in shackled minstrelsy? Why can't she sing with lark-like glee, And revel in bright _jeux d'esprit_? Where form can't fetter or confine-- Pray tell me why?

Pray tell me why that frisky gee, Called Pegasus, should harnessed be? Why bit and bridle should combine To all his liveliness consign,-- To deck the Rondeau's narrow line-- Pray tell me why?

* * * * *

BAD NEWS FOR TEA-DRINKERS.

We learn from a report of the proceedings of the City Commissioners of Sewers last week, that those vigilant protectors of the health of our ancient City had before them a case that fairly puzzled them, and in its strangeness and difficulty would probably have puzzled even a more judicial body than they probably pretend to be. It would seem that they had received a note of warning from the eminent firm of FRANCIS PEEK & CO., that a large parcel of tea was about to be submitted to public auction which was "simple filth," and utterly unfit for consumption.

A Commissioner stated that he was present at the Sale that morning, and that the whole quantity, consisting of 1000 Chests, had been sold, duty paid (it must have been cleared at the Custom House with or without protest), at one halfpenny per pound! The natural expectation was that the "simple filth" as it had been termed by experts, would be at once seized by the officials and destroyed, but this strange difficulty arose. The Medical Officer of Health stated that he had analyzed a sample of the tea in question, and could not swear before a Magistrate that it was unfit for use! He stated too, as a specimen of the wisdom of our legislators, that, by Act of Parliament, Tea was specially exempted from the operations of Public Analysts! So the willing Commissioners found themselves powerless to act, but referred the whole matter to their Sanitary Committee, who, we understand, will at their next meeting take tea, instead of luncheon, made from the remains of the sample, and report the result.

In the meantime _Mr. Punch_, ever ready to assist in a good cause, dispatched one of his City young men to make further inquiries, who reported that he had visited the Auction Mart on three successive days at lunch-time, and had asked one or two of the sharpest-looking of the crowd, as possible purchasers of the wondrous tea, to lunch with him, which they had willingly done; but, although he says he lunched them copiously, they one and all denied any knowledge of the tea sale in question.

* * * * *

"SHEPHERD _V._ KEEVIL."--_Mem_; Christian maxim for a Pastor or Shepherd, "Do not think eevil of your neighbour."

* * * * *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

On page 181, "influenced" was missing the letter "d", and on page 183, "enliten" was missing its first "e". These have been corrected.

On page 185, "Gringore" was changed to "Gringoire" for consistency.