Chapter 2

From composers the conversation travels to executants, and we name the favourite singers. After we have pretty well exhausted the list, and objected to this one as having a head voice, or to that as using the _vibrato_, or to the other as dwelling on an upper note ("queer sort of existence," says PULLER, gradually coming up, as it were to the surface to open his mouth for breath,--whereat Cousin JANE smiles, and Miss CASANOVA lazily nods approbation of the joke--while the rest of us ignore PULLER, putting him aside as not wanted just now,--when down he goes again), we generally agree that GAYARRÉ is about the best tenor we have had in London for some time; that SANTLEY is still unequalled as a baritone; that there is no one now to play and sing _Mephistopheles_ like FAURE; that M. MAUREL is about the finest representative of _Don Giovanni_; that Miss ARNOLDSON shows great promise; that ALBANY is unrivalled; that MARIE ROZE is difficult to beat as _Carmen_; and that it is a pity that PATTI'S demands are so exorbitant; and having exhausted the list of operatic artists,--Madame and her daughters holding that certain Germans, with whose names we, unfortunately for us, are not even acquainted, are far superior to any French or Italian singers that can be named--there ensues a pause in the conversation, of which the Countess CASANOVA takes advantage, and extending her right hand, which movement sharply jingles her bracelets, and so, as it were, sounds a bell to call us to attention, cuts in quickly with an emphatic, "Well, I don't profess to understand music as _you_ do. I know what I like"--("Hear! hear!" _sotto voce_ from PULLER, coming up again to the surface, which draws a languidly approving inclination of the head from Miss CASANOVA, and a smile, deprecating the interruption, from Cousin JANE),--"and I must say," continues the Countess, emphatically, "I would rather have one hour of SALVINI in _Othello_, than a whole month of the best Operas by the best composers,--WAGNER included," and down comes her hand on the table, all the bracelets ringing down the curtain on the first act.

We, the non-combatants, feel that the mailed gauntlet has been thrown down by the Countess as a challenge to the METTERBRUNS.

"O Mother!" faintly remonstrates Miss CASANOVA, who loves a stall at the Opera. She fears that her mother's energetic declaration means war, and fans herself helplessly.

I am preparing to reconcile music and the drama, and am getting ready a supply of oil for what I foresee will be troubled waters, as the METTERBRUNS are beginning to rustle their feathers and flap their wings,--when PULLER, leaning well forward, and stretching out an explanatory hand, with his elbow planted firmly on the table, ("Very bad manners," says Cousin JANE afterwards to me) says genially, "Well, _voyez vous_, look here, you may talk of your WAGNERS and SHAKSPEARES, and GAYARRÉS, and PATTIS, but, for singing and acting, give me ARTHUR ROBERTS. Yes," he repeats pleasantly but defiantly, and taking up, as it were, the Countess's gauntlet, "SALVINI'S not in it with ARTHUR ROBERTS."

The Countess's fan spreads out and works furiously. The steam is getting up. The METTERBRUNS open their eyes, and regard one another in consternation. They don't know who ARTHUR ROBERTS is.

"Not know!" exclaims PULLER, quite in his element. "Well, when you come to London, you send to me, and I'll take you to hear him."

"He's a Music-Hall singer," says the Countess, fanning herself with an air of contemptuous indifference.

"Music-Hall Ar-_tiste_!" returns PULLER, emphasising the second syllable, which to his mind expresses a great deal, and makes all the difference. "Now, Miladi," he goes on, imitating the manner of one of his own favourite counsel, engaged by PULLER & CO., conducting a cross-examination, "Have you ever seen him?"

"Yes," she replies, shrugging her shoulders, "once. And," she adds, making the bracelets jingle again, as with a tragedy queen's action of the right arm she sweeps away into space whole realms of Music Halls and comic singers, "that was quite enough."

"Didn't he make you laugh?" continues PULLER, still in the character of a stern cross-examiner.

"Laugh!" almost shrieks the Countess, extending her hands so suddenly that I have only time to throw myself back to avoid a sharp tap on the head from her fan. "Heavens! not a bit! not the least bit in the world! He made me sad! I saw the people in the stalls laughing, and I said,"--here she appeals with both hands to the majority of sensible people at large--still at large--"'Am I stupid? am I dull? Do I not understand?'"

"O Mother!" expostulates her daughter, in her most languid manner, "he _was_ funny!"

"Funny!" ejaculates the Countess, tossing her head.

"I'd rather see ARTHUR ROBERTS than SALVINI," says PULLER, waggishly, but with conviction.

"I think I would, for choice," says Miss CASANOVA, meditatively, but seeing the Countess's horrified expression of countenance, she takes care to add more languidly than ever, as if taking the smallest part in an argument were really too exhausting, "but then, you know, I really don't understand tragedy, and I love a laugh."

"Prefers ARTHUR ROBERTS to SALVINI!" exclaims the Countess, and throws up her hands and eyes to the ceiling as if imploring Heaven not to visit on her the awful heresy of her child.

Here I interpose. SALVINI, I say, is a great _Artiste_, no doubt of it, a marvellous Tragedian; and ARTHUR ROBERTS is not, in the true dramatic sense of the word, a genuine Comedian; but he is, in another sense a true Comedian, though of the Music-Hall school.

"What a school!" murmurs the Countess, and with a pained expression of countenance as though she were suffering agonies.

The METTERBRUNS see the difference. Madame remembers a fat comic man in Berlin, at some garden, who used to wear a big hat and carry a large pipe, and make her laugh very much when she was a girl. Certainly, in his way, he was an artist. Is this ARTHUR ROBERTS anything like MAX SPLÜTTERWESSEL? At this point, as we have finished coffee, and the Countess finds the room hot, I propose adjourning the debate to the Restaurant in the garden, as we are too late for the band at the Casino Samie.

The party is broken up in order to walk down to our rendezvous.

PULLER, whose idea of making things pleasant, and, as he expresses it, "sweetening everyone all round," is to order "drinks" for everybody, insists upon the party taking "_consommations_"--he loves saying this word--at his expense. The Countess at first objects, as also does Madame METTERBRUN; but, on PULLER'S explaining that he belongs to "The Two-with-you Society," they accept this explanation as utterly unintelligible but perfectly satisfactory; and so, accepting PULLER'S _al fresco_ hospitality, we form a cheerful group round two tables put together for our accommodation. PULLER'S hospitality has taken the form of grenadines, chartreuses, and "sherry-gobblers,"--he loves this word too,--for us all round, and he has ordered for himself a strange mixture, which perfumes the night air as if some nauseous draught had been brought out of a chemist's shop, and which looks like green stagnant water in a big glass. It is called by PULLER, with great glee, an "Absinthe gummy."

Anything nastier to look at or to smell I am not acquainted with in the way of drinks. However, he is our host, and I have a grenadine before me of his ordering, and between my lips an excellent cigar which is his gift. I can only say mildly, "It looks nasty;" and Cousin JANE expresses herself to the same effect, remarking also as she looks significantly towards me, that it is late, and that I am not keeping Royat hours. I promise to come away in ten minutes. PULLER is in the highest possible spirits: surrounded by this company, all drinking his drinks, he as it were takes the chair and presides. He knocks on the table, which brings the waiter, to whom he says, holding up a couple of fingers "Two with you,"--whereat the waiter only smiles upon the eccentric Englishman, shakes his head, and wisely retires.

"Ah, Miladi," says PULLER, "you must take a course of ROBERTS. He's a rum 'un." Then he sings, "He's all right when you know him, but you've got to hear him _fust_."

His guests politely smile, all except the Countess. I preserve a discreet silence. Taking this on the whole for encouragement, PULLER commences the song from which he has already quoted the chorus. What the words are I do not catch, but as PULLER reproduces to the life the style and manner of a London Music-Hall singer, and cocks his hat on one side, it is no wonder that the French people at the other table turn towards us in amazement.

"For goodness sake, MR. PULLER!" cries the Countess, rising from her chair in consternation. JANE also rises, Miss CASANOVA is laughing nervously. The METTERBRUNS look utterly astonished. I feel I must stop this at once.

"My dear fellow," I say, magisterially, "you really mustn't do this sort of thing"--he is breaking out again with "_O what a surprise!_"--but I get up from my seat to reprove him gravely. "You would not do this if you were in a London Restaurant."

"No," he replies, not in the least offended--"that's the lark of it. I belong to 'The Out-for-a-lark-and-Two-with-you Society.' Don't you mind me," he adds; then turning with a pleasant wink to the ladies, who have been putting on their wraps and mantles, and are preparing to leave, he sings again,--

"I'm all right when you know me-- But----"

We leave him to finish the song by himself.

And to think that my friend PULLER, with his hat cocked on one side, a big cigar in his mouth, a tumbler of "absinthe gummy" before him, a rakish expression in his eye, is the same PULLER to whom, as partner in the firm of HORLER, PULLER, PULLER (J), BAKER AND DAYVILLE, Solicitors, I would trust my dearest interests in any matter of property, of character, even of life itself! The strange story of _Hyde_ and _Jekyll_ is no fiction, after all.

* * * * *

WHITMAN IN LONDON.

(_Adapted from the American._)

Oh, site of Coldbath Fields Prison! Oh, eight and three-quarter acres of potential Park for the plebs! I gaze at you; I, WALT, gaze at you through cracks in the black hoarding, Though the helmeted blue-coated Bobby dilates to me on the advantages of moving on. I marvel at the stupidity of Authorities everywhere. I stand and inhale a playground which in a week or two will be turned into a Post Office by Government orders! Instead of plants growing here, bricks will be planted. Instead of girlhood, boyhood playing here, cash will be counted, stamps will be affixed (savagely) by the public, and letters weighed when the young women have time, and also inclination, to do so. I, from the wild Western Continent, wilder myself, weep for this Park soon to be devoured. I am like a buck-jumper: I buck at it. I am like the Giant Cowboy: only I am not gigantic, and I am cowed by it. Oh, Northerly end of Farringdon Street! Oh, Coldbath Fields Square! Oh, dwellers in all the adjacent slums and rookeries, redolent of old clothes' shops, swarthy Italian organ-grinders, and the superannuated herring, Are you going to see another House of Correction--a Postal one--built where the old one stood? If so, it is _I_ who correct you: I, who am so correct myself!

And you, too, Clerkenwell Gaol! What are the dodrotted Authorities going to do with _you_? Eh? Clear you away, and build a Board School there? But why build anything? Clerkenwell is mine: I am _à propos_ of Clerkenwell: Clerkenwell is _à propos_ of me. Morally, if not legally, it is mine; morally it is yours as well, you wizened, pallid, blue-nosed, dunderheaded Metropolitan Citizen! In this jungle of houses, what is wanted is fresh air. Everyone of you toilers should be given the real "Freedom of the City," by having free spaces bestowed on you. It is better to learn how to expand the limbs, and play rounders, and leap over the frog, and fly kites, Than to acquire in a school-room elementary education, consisting of algebra and Assyrian hieroglyphics, spelling, Greek, Italian, and advanced trigonometry. _Allons_, then! _Esperanza!_ Also _cui bono!_ Go to your Home Secretary, your Postmaster in General, and tell them that no Post Office or School shall be built on this spot, Because I, WALT, hailing hoarsely from Manhattan, have spotted it, And _Punch_, the lustrous _camerado_, the ineffable dispensator, will spot it too!

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* * * * *

JUPITER TONANS!

"Shall I fetch your thunderbolt, Jove?" inquired Ganymede.--_Ixion in Heaven._

_Modern Jupiter loquitur:--_

A bolt, a potent one, and brought at need! That B-LF-R is a ready Ganymede. And yet--and yet--ah, well, upon my soul, A troublous function is the Thunderer's _rôle_. 'Tis vastly fine, of course; if fate would smile, I fancy that the Cloud-Compeller's style Would suit me sweetly; just the line I love; Resolute rule's the appanage of a Jove. But SHELLEY's dismal Demogorgon's self, That solemn, shadowy, stern, oracular elf, Plus obstinate Prometheus, did not play Such mischief as the parties do to-day, With Law and Order. Who would be a god When force forsakes his bolt, and fear his nod?

Yes, here's the bolt forged ready to my hand, But,--will it fly obedient to command, And hit the mark I mean? Would I were sure; Then should I hold my new-found seat secure, Without a thought of Saturn, or that Hour Which sets a term e'en to Olympian pow'r. But what if like a boomerang, it fly Back to my hand, or, worse, into mine eye? Ah, Ganymede, Jupiter Tonans seems A splendid part, in young ambition's dreams, But, Ganymede, who would aspire, I wonder, To be a Jove who's half afraid to thunder? With doubts about the handling of my bolt, And half Olympus in half-veiled revolt; With hostile Titans mustering on the plain, And old Prometheus "popping up again"; With Demogorgon lurking down below, Disguised as Demos, with its muffled, low, But multitudinous slowly-swelling voice, How should I in Olympian power rejoice? I grasp the bolt; I cannot well refuse it; But--I half hope I may not have to use it!

* * * * *

"HOMES IN THE HILLS."

[The absence of skilled nursing in the British Military Hospitals in India having long been felt to be a serious evil, leading to the needless sacrifice of brave and valuable lives, the SECRETARY of STATE has sanctioned the employment of Lady Nurses in these hospitals. The Government of India have undertaken the whole cost in connection with this scheme, except the provision of "Homes in the Hills," as restorative resorts for the Nursing Sisters, when their own health feels the strain of their arduous duties in such a climate as that of the plains of India. The money required for this most essential purpose the Government consider might be "appropriately left to the active benevolence of private individuals interested in the welfare of the British Soldier in India."

For aid towards the establishment of these "Homes in the Hills," Lady ROBERTS, wife of the gallant Indian hero, Sir FREDERICK ROBERTS, makes an appeal which _Mr. Punch_ desires most earnestly to second.

Subscriptions will be received by the Alliance Bank, Simla; Messrs. Cox & Co., Craig's Court, London; and by Lady ROBERTS herself.]

To nurse our stricken Soldiers! Nobler task, Or more ennobling, can our Sisters ask? Whilst stout hearts suffer, soft ones shall not fail In selfless readiness to soothe and save, Sharing the tribute rendered by the brave To FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

Her sex's strong and sweet exemplar, she Must surely send across the orient sea To "NORA ROBERTS," as a kindred heart, Message of warm good-will. And we at home For whom our soldiers fight, and watch, and roam, Shall we not do our part?

'Tis sad to think that in that burning land, For lack of ministry from woman's hand, Strong men and gallant boys have sunk and died. Gladdening to hear that Nursing Sisters now, To cool hot lips and ease pain-fevered brow, Will seek our Soldiers' side.

But who shall nurse the Nurses? When the strain Of ministry on India's torrid plain Brings the fatigue that, long-neglected, kills, They'll need, as health-resorts whereto to send, For rest restorative, the soldiers' friend, Homes in the cooler hills.

For these the Lady of our gallant Chief, Whose brilliant march brought Candahar relief, Pleads to a public whom that honoured name Alone should stir to sympathy and aid. Help for the Helpers! _Punch_ is not afraid _That_ plea will miss its aim!

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* * * * *

HOLIDAY HINTS.

(_From Crowded-out Correspondents._)

SIR,--The plan of your Correspondent, "A DOUBTFUL SAILOR," who alleges that he avoids sea-sickness by drinking two bottles of Champagne before starting, and then goes on board accompanied by his Family Doctor, who administers alternately nitrous oxide gas and ginger beer to him every ten minutes till the passage is over, though no doubt an efficacious preventive, strikes me as less simple than the means I invariably employ to secure a comfortable crossing. They are easily available, and are as follows. Before I start I provide myself with a six-foot mattrass, several yards of rope, and four screw-hooks, which, the moment I enter the cabin, I proceed with a large gimlet to fasten to the ceiling, and, before the Steward or passengers have had time to protest, I have rigged myself up a capital swinging bed in the very centre of the vessel. To jump in, occupy it, and keep officials at bay with an umbrella, only needs a little nerve and practice, and when once fairly out of port, specially if it be rough, one is not very easily dislodged. In the course of thirteen passages, I have only been overturned eleven times, in nine of which I was cut down by order of the Captain; and though on several occasions, through clinging to the swinging-lamp, I brought it down in the struggle, and had to pay for the damage, I can confidently recommend any one who has a horror of the Channel crossing, and does not mind a brisk physical encounter with three Stewards, the First Mate, and half the crew of one of the Folkestone and Boulogne boats, to follow my example.

I am, Sir, your obedient servant, ABAFT THE FUNNEL.

SIR,--"ONE WHO HASN'T YET DONE IT," wants to know how, travelling with only one ticket, he can secure an entire third-class compartment for the whole journey to himself. I will tell him. Let him install himself in his quarters taking with him five full life-sized lay-figures dressed in old great-coats with hats pulled down over their ears and eyes, and let him arrange these picturesquely about the carriage in attitudes indicative of the suffering of much internal torture. Then let him stand at the window with a genial and good-humoured expression on his face, and pointing over his shoulder to the scene behind him, explain briefly to any passengers who are thinking of entering, that he is travelling with "five aged uncles in the last stage of delirium from a contagious and infectious fever," and he will find they will instantly desist from their efforts and hurry to another portion of the train. To carry out this little _ruse_ successfully it may be sometimes necessary to wink at the ticket-collector and give him threepence, but this does not follow as a matter of course. The plan will be found to work excellently on comparatively short excursions to the sea-side, during which people sent in search of health are necessarily anxious to avoid anything approaching to the risk of contagion. For longer distances, such as a journey to the North for instance, there is nothing like travelling with an Indian Chief, and if possible, with a hyæna. The appearance of the former in gleaming paint and feathers brandishing a tomahawk and uttering wild war-whoops at every station, will be sure to prevent the intrusion of women with babies, while even a country farmer, on seeing the hyæna emerge from under the seat, and on your remarking smilingly, "He isn't muzzled, but I don't think he'll bite," will be likely to select some other compartment. I have travelled from King's Cross to Inverness several times under the above conditions, and except on one occasion at Perth, where the hyæna got loose and eat thirteen half-crown breakfasts, for which I had to pay, and on one other at Edinburgh, when the Indian Chief scalped a ticket-collector by mistake, I have never met with any sort of _contretemps_, but enjoyed the journey in comfort, and kept the carriage the whole way entirely to myself. At this season of the year when so many who are off "for the grouse," think twice before putting their hands into their pockets for the exorbitant fare of a journey first-class, my method of securing all its comfort at half the cost, may possibly find some votaries willing to profit by my experience. Such as it is, it is thus freely placed at their disposal.

By yours inventively, THERE AND BACK.

SIR,--Your Correspondent, a "STIFLED INVALID," wants to know how, in these days of ill-drained and ill-ventilated lodgings, he can secure a breath of fresh sea-air without the risk of being prostrated by a local fever, or poisoned by sewer gas. His course is simple enough. He has only to do as I have done. Let him get a furniture-van (if he is a married man with a family, he will want more--I have five), and hire a traction-engine to drag him to some well-known watering-place, and deposit him on the Pier. I have tried the experiment, as yet, with every prospect of success. Here am I, with my five vans, well installed at the end of the Pier of a well-known fashionable health resort, the band playing twice a day, with the fresh air blowing all about me, and the sea surrounding me on every side. We managed to get on when the man who takes the tickets was away having his dinner. The situation is quite delightful, and but for the fact that all the local Authorities have commenced proceedings against me, and that there was a slight riot last night during an ineffectual attempt made by six-and-thirty cart-horses to move me on to the Marine Parade, I have every reason to be satisfied with the result of my experiment. I am living rent free, and, beyond the cost of a family ticket for the Pier, which, though it is disputed by the Committee, I insist gives me a right to have my vans on as well, have, as yet, been put to no expense whatever. There was a report that the Local Fire Brigade had resolved, in the event of my not moving off, to force me to do so by "pumping" me out, but I am loth to believe this. Meantime we are having some excellent fishing with a lawn-tennis net. The traction-engine is to call for me in a month. Strongly recommending my "Plan of Campaign" to a "STIFLED INVALID," I beg to subscribe myself, your obedient servant,

NO LAND LUBBER.

* * * * *

THE NOVEL-READER'S VADE MECUM.