Chapter 2

In the little sitting-room above his shop sat Mr. ASSID ROPES. It was the afternoon before Christmas Day. He had generously allowed all his assistants to leave. "If anybody wants their hair cut, or their hat ironed," he said, "I'll do it myself, and then they'll wish they hadn't."

Yet, when a customer rapped on the floor below, Mr. ROPES felt exceedingly angry.

"What do you want?" he called down the stairs.

"I want my hat ironed," said a clear, manly voice.

"Go away! Your hat doesn't want ironing. Go to bed!"

"I will not go away," said the clear, firm voice, "until you have attended to my hat--hat once, if you please."

Mr. ROPES came grumbling down the stairs. For one moment he gazed at the man in the shop, and then flung his arms round him and wept tears of joy.

"My dear old friend, CYRIL MUSH!" he exclaimed.

They had been boys together at Eton, and rowed in the Trinity boat together at Cambridge. Fate had separated them.

In less than a minute they were talking over old times together in the little sitting-room over the shop. CYRIL MUSH was delighted. "You can't charge an old friend anything for just ironing his hat," he said, with his peculiarly winning smile.

Before Mr. ROPES could correct this impression, another voice was heard in the shop below.

"Can you come down for a minute--to oblige a lady?"

Mr. ROPES descended once more. In a minute he returned.

"Awfully sorry, MUSH, but I must go. I've got to shave a dead poodle, and the men are coming to stuff it at nine o'clock to-night. It's for a lady--_noblesse oblige_, you know. I'll finish your hat when I come back."

In a second he was gone. CYRIL MUSH replaced the lining in his hat, and placed it on his head. He went out into the streets. He was wondering what poodle it was which Mr. ASSID ROPES had gone to shave. Could it be the same? No, most certainly not. So of course it was the same.

In the meanwhile Mr. ROPES had arrived at the house, and had been ushered into the chamber of death. The light was very bad, and he happened to cut the animal while engaged in shaving it.

"Very sorry, Sir," said Mr. ROPES, from force of habit, "but it's not my fault. You've got a pimple there, and you jerked your head just as I was going over it. A little powder will put that all right."

Suddenly it flashed across him that the poodle was not dead if the blood flowed. He rushed out of the room, and found himself confronted by a handsome, wicked-looking man, of about thirty.

"Excuse me, Sir, but that poodle's not dead. It's in a trance. Just run down to the kitchen and fetch me some brandy, some blankets, and some hot bricks, and I'll bring it round."

"The dog _is_ dead, and in a very few hours he'll be stuffed," was the cruel reply. "You needn't trouble to bring it round. If you've brought your tackle round, you can shave it."

"I've been shaving it--and that's how I know."

A door opened on the other side of the passage, and a fair young girl came out in tears and a black dress.

"What's the matter, ALGERNON?" she said.

"It's nothing, ALICE. This idiot says that _Tommy's_ not dead."

With one wild yell of joy, a yell that broke the gas-globes, and unlinked carriages at all the principal London railway stations, ALICE SMITH fell senseless on the floor.

"Out you get!" exclaimed her cousin ALGERNON to Mr. ROPES. "If the dog is not dead, come back in two hours, and _prove_ it--otherwise it will be dead, and stuffed too."

"Now then," said ALGERNON, when Mr. ROPES had gone, "if _Tommy Atkins_ is not dead, he soon will be." He grasped his walking-stick, and tried the door of the room. It was locked. Mr. ROPES had locked it, and taken the key!

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "Baffled! Baffled! Kindly turn the lime-light off the swooned maiden, and throw it on to me. Sympathetic music from the violins, if you please."

* * *

One hour had passed. Mr. ALKALOID, the photographer, had met Mr. MUSH. Mr. ALKALOID had come from Ryde to London to get his hair singed. The two accidentally met Mr. ROPES as he was dashing wildly down the street towards his own shop. In one minute all was explained. Mr. ALKALOID had fetched his photographic apparatus, and the three were careering back to the house where the poodle lay dead. But was he dead? You know he wasn't, as well as I do. What do you ask such senseless questions for? "It's the only sure test," said ALKALOID. "If that dog's alive, he'll wag his tail when I try to photograph him. I never knew it fail."

* * *

Outside the door of that gorgeously-furnished room stood an excited group. ALGERNON, the villain, was soliloquising. ALICE was explaining to CYRIL how he had dropped his note down the neck of the wrong girl--who was also named SMITH--and how she had been compelled to believe him unfaithful. Mr. ROPES was listening attentively at the key-hole, and CYRIL was kissing ALICE.

Within the room Mr. ALKALOID was photographing the dead poodle. (I call it dead, but of course that doesn't humbug _you_.)

"Now then, we're ready," they heard Mr. ALKALOID say. "Don't stare. Just a natural, easy--now then--thank you!"

There was dead silence within the room and without. Then the door opened, and Mr. ALKALOID came out cheerfully.

"The poodle's dead all right," he said. "What you took to be blood, ROPES, was blacking off your razor. You really ought not to strop them on your boot. I'll walk round to your shop with you. I want my hair singed."

ALICE went into hysterics; ALGERNON swooned with joy; and CYRIL MUSH had a fit.

At the moment of going to press, they are all three still in the above condition. The dog, in the meantime, has been accidentally stuffed with the stuffing intended for the stuffer's Christmas goose. The goose was found, on carving, to be stuffed with several shilling shockers, which had been intended to pad the poodle.

And to what better use could they have been put--especially if they were all like this?

* * * * *

(ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD.)

_Daughter of the House_ (_anxious to introduce Partners to each other_). "IS YOUR CARD QUITE FULL, MR. M'SAWNEY?" _Mr. M'Sawney._ "OH DEAR, NO! WHICH DANCE SHALL I GIVE YOU?"

* * * * *

(OPENING OF SESSION, FEB. 11, 1890.)

* * *

THE "SALUTE;" OR, TAKING DISTANCE.

"When the assault is given in the presence of spectators, it is not uncommon to precede it by the Salute, which shows the scheme and various figures, as it were, of the attack and defence in a precise, ceremonious manner, and with the same kind of courtly ritual as that which distinguishes the minuet."--_H. A. Colmore Dunn's "Fencing"._

There, standing face to face, foil in hand, Just out of lunging range they salute, Who anon, swordsman stark, old fencer grand, Must fight their duel out, foot to foot. Mere preliminary flourish, all of this; The punctilio of "form" without a fault; But soon the blades shall counter, clash, and twist, In assault.

The ritual of the rapier or the foil; Vastly pretty ceremonial parade. Merest preface to the hot and breathless toil Of the fencers fiercely battling blade to blade. In position! Featly, formally on guard, Engage the blades in quarte. But by-and-by Every subtle thrust and parry, feint and ward, Each will try.

Foible to foible! Measure distance! Lunge! Now the thrust ends in the merest harmless touch; But ere the beaten man throws up the sponge, As the boxers say, relaxing his hilt-clutch, There'll be lunges and ripostes of other sort. Firm foot and steady hand must be their friend; The encounter will be struggle, not mere sport, Ere the end.

First to left and then to right! Parry of quarte! In pronation by a turn of supple wrist! Parry in tierce! All elegant and smart; But the lethal thrust no parry can resist Comes not in this preliminary play. The defender, so complacent and erect, Will show another pose another day, We suspect.

And that grey Grand Old Assailant, who's expert At beat and re-beat, press, and graze, and bind, Will try his best at a disabling hurt; It is not mere parade that's in his mind. Meanwhile he's taking measure of his foe, Meanwhile his foe of him is taking stock; And anon they'll come together in a glow, With a shock!

* * * * *

THE PREMIER'S POWER.

_Brief Fragment of a current Historical Romance._

[It is whispered that the PRIME MINISTER has of late taken too much into his own hands the conduct of the foreign affairs of the Government.--_Smoking-room Gossip._]

The PRIME MINISTER stood upon the rug, with his back to the fire, and regarded his assembled colleagues with an imperious and angry scowl. There was a profound and significant silence for several minutes. At length it broke. He was addressing them once more.

"You understand the official relationship that exists between us. You are my creatures. I am your Master. What I originate, you accept. I act, you endorse. Do I," he continued, his voice rising to a shrill, piping treble, "do I make myself sufficiently clear?"

A sickly smile of abject acquiescence overspread the features of the now trembling Ministers. Their Chief noted it with a gloomy glare. Then with a furious gesture, he suddenly kicked a waste-paper basket into the air. "You may go!" he growled. They did not wait for a second permission. Swiftly, but obsequiously, they glided out of the room, and with traces of terror stamped on their blanched countenances, silently sought the little neighbouring Railway Station, and took the next train to London.

* * *

That night the Premier sat up late. But his work, when he began it, did not take him long. Yet it was not unimportant, for the departing mail-bag carried a set of sealed orders for the Admiral in Command of the British Squadron in East African Waters, another Ultimatum to the Government of Portugal, a threatening communication to the Porte, and disturbing despatches, threatening to the peace of Europe, to the Governments of Russia, France, and Germany respectively. He laughed long and loud when he thought of their contents. Then he went to bed.

* * *

Later on, his work bore fruit; and people then said that the Cabinet of the day must have been a strange one!

* * * * *

"A cargo of 180,000 mummified Cats has just been landed at Liverpool, to be used as Manure."--_Daily Paper._

* * * * *

ROBERT'S COMPANIONS.

I'm a beginning for to think as we're rayther a rum lot in this werry strawnery world of ours. I've jest bin a collectin from sum of my brother Waiters sum of their little historys, as far as they remembers 'em, and werry strange and werry warious sum on 'em is. There's one pore chap who's about as onest and as atentif a Waiter as I nos on anywheres, but you never, no never, ewer sees him smile, not ewen wen a ginerus old Deputy, or a new maid Alderman, gives him harf-a-crown! I've offen and offen tried to cheer him hup with a good old glass of ginerus port, wen sum reglar swells has bin a dining and has not emtied the bottels--as reel Gennelmen never does--but never quite suck-seeded, tho' he drank down his wine fast enuff and ewidently injoyed it quite as much as if he'd paid for it, praps jest a leetle bit more. So one day I wentured to arsk him how it was as he was allers as sollem as a Churchwarden at a Charity Sermon, or a Clown in summer time, and he told me as it was all causd by the suckemstances of his hurly life, which he had never been abel to shake off hisself, pore Fellar! tho' they was none of 'em his own fault, which they was as follers.

To begin with. He was born on a Fryday, on the 1st of April, and amost all his days for years after seems to have been either Frydays or Fust of Aprils, sumtimes one, sumtimes tother, sumtimes both. He was the youngest of eleven children, and so made the family party consist of 13, always as we all knos a unlucky number, and he seemed to have been treeted as if it had bin his own fault, which in course it wasn't, not by no means, no more than it was his fault the having the Skarlet Fever on one Crismus Day, which he did to heverybody's disgust.

He was afterwards told by his old Nuss BECKY that one speshal greevance of his pore mother was, that her youngest child being seven years old when BILLY was born, all the warious prepperashuns customary on such himportant occasions had been dun away with as useless, ewen to the customary gigantick Pincushon, so that in his case there was no "Welcum to the Little Stranger!" So long, too, as his oldest brother remained at tome, he was never allowed to set down to dinner with the rest of the famerly, because, in course, he made up the unlucky number, the werry nateral consequence being, that when his oldest brother suddenly took his departure from among 'em, poor little BILLY was werry severely flogged for setting down to dinner with a smiling countinghouse! Of course ewery time as his unfortnit Birthday came round he was made a April Fool of, all his six lovin Brothers jining in the sport, one arter the other, nearly all day long. When he went to school, ewerybody knowed of his afflickshun, and made a fool of him, hushers and all.

After he growed up, his Father got him a plaice at a Lunatic Asylum, as being the most properest for his sollem natur; and there he remained for no less than five years!

Then, on the other hand, there's old TOM, or rayther yung TOM, for he's one of them jolly chaps as never seems to get no older. Why he goes about a grinning away, and a chatting away, and a chaffing of old BILL, who's much younger than him, like anythink. So I naterally arsked him how he acounted for his good sperrits. And what was his arnser? Why, hurly training. His Father was a Comic Play Actor, and allers ready for a larf, and offen took yung TOM with him to the Theater till he becum quite a favrite with all the merry gals there, who used to pet him, and give him sweets, and teach him to say all sorts of funny things; and, when he was old enuff, he was promoted to the dignity of a full-blown Super, at 18 shillings a week, and all his close found. His grate differculty was in looking serious and keeping serious when serious bizziness was a going on; and on one occashun, when he was playing one of a band of sangwinerry ruffians, sumthink so took his fansy, that he not only bust into a loud larf hisself, but set all the rest of the sangwinerry ruffians a larfing too, and quite spiled all the effect of the scene. So he was bundled off neck and crop, and soon afterwards got a sitewashun as a Pleaceman, but, for the life of him, he never could keep hisself serious when he was before a Magistrate with a case; for if ennybody made a joke, or ennybody larfed, TOM set off a grinning with the best of 'em, and once axshally made a joke with his Worship; so of course off he was sent again, to find a rest for the soles of his feet, and a free play for his good sperrits, in the honnerabel capacity of a Waiter.

ROBERT.

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Small Rustic._ "YEOU CAN'T GO THAT WAY."

_Stalwart Young Lady_ (_out Sketching_). "WHY NOT?"

_Small Rustic._ "'CAUSE THERE'S--THERE'S HURDLES."

_Stalwart Young Lady._ "BUT I CAN GET OVER HURDLES."

_Small Rustic._ "AND THEN THERE'S THE BULL!"

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M P.

_House of Commons, Tuesday, February 11._--"How do you do, TOBY? A merry New Session and many of them."

It was OLD MORALITY who spoke; his kindly face beamed on me; his friendly hand grasped mine. Walked up the floor together through the old familiar scene. Benches crowded, though a vacant seat here and there: HARTINGTON'S for example. Everybody sorry to hear he's been ill, and glad to think of him enjoying the sunlight of Monte Carlo. Grand Old Man more Grand and less Old than ever; just up from Oxford; passed very well, it is said. Comes into Parliament with every prospect of distinguishing himself; his maiden speech looked for with much interest.

"I think I'll put it off for a month or two, TOBY," he said, blushing with the ingenuousness of youth. "You see I'm so fresh from college, that it would ill become me to plunge into public affairs. It's all very well for a young fellow like me to get up at the Union; but here it's different. You're very good to say that great things are expected of me; but, if you please, I'll keep in the background a bit. I'll feel my feet first, as they used to say in the nursery, in what seems only yesterweek."

Very nice this of him. Wish all young fellows fresh from the University, even when they have taken honours, were equally modest.

"Haven't seen you since we met at Greenlands' icy mountains in the Recess," OLD MORALITY said, continuing our conversation interrupted by the cheers that greeted our arrival. "You remember how bitterly cold the day was? Rather thought you hurried away. Wish you could have stayed to luncheon. We happened to have something succulent. However, you must come and dine in my room behind the SPEAKER'S Chair; AKERS-DOUGLAS will show you the way. We do it pretty snug there, I can tell you. What sort of a Session shall we have? Who can tell? Usual sort of thing, I suppose. We shall bring in a lot of Bills; Gentlemen opposite will talk some of them out; at Easter and Whitsuntide Recesses we shall squeeze a stage of some through, under pressure of the holidays; then three weeks in June and most of July will be wasted; and in August we'll suspend Standing Orders, and ram through everything we can. As for me, I shall endeavour to do my duty to the QUEEN, to the Country, and to the Members of this House, in whichever part they sit. Did you ever, dear TOBY, consider how a kettle boils? The water nearest to the fire is first heated, and (being heated) rises to the top. Its place is supplied by colder portions, which are heated in turn, and this interchange takes place till all the water is boiling hot. That is how we shall get through the Session. The Report of the Parnell Commission, being most heated, will rise to the top first. Then the Tithes Bill, Land Purchase, the Education question, and one or two other little matters will follow, till we're all in boiling water. Good-bye now; don't forget to come across AKERS-DOUGLAS about Eight o'Clock."

_Business done._--Session opened.

* * * * *

KILLING FOR A SHILLING.--Lord WOLSELEY (who seems to have read the regulations governing communications from soldiers to the Press in a very liberal spirit) has published an article on the British Army in the pages of an American Twelvepenny Magazine. The contribution is embellished with sketches of the costumes of TOMMY ATKINS and his predecessors. For the rest, some of the letterpress is sufficiently alarming to warrant "Our Only General" in assuming a title which he apparently appears to covet--that of a "Shilling Shocker!"

* * * * *

SOMETHING LIKE A DINNER.

Now that the Parliamentary Session has opened, and the Season threatens to set in with its usual severity, the dinner question comes prominently to the front. Even in the best-regulated households there is a sameness about dinner which, towards the end of the week, palls upon the appetite. Some ambitious young men have attempted to deal with the matter and surprise their guests by introducing cheese immediately after the soup (_soufflé au parmesan_), and after a cut of beef comes the fish (_turbot à la Russe_). That is well meant, but it is crude. _Mr. Punch_ has given his great mind to the subject, and presents to the consideration of the dining world the following hints for a meal:--

Half-om-half. Blauwe Landtongsche Oesters. Hoog-Sauterneswijn. Soepen. Dikke Rivierkreeften Soep. Volmaakte Soep in Van Dijk Stijl. Amontillado. Zuschotelles. Selderij. Olijven. Radijs. Haringen. Poukenvorm gebakken in Berg-op-Zoomsche Stijl. Liebfraumilch. Gekruide Gerechten. Gestreepte Baars, Piet Hein Stijl. Lambasteien met Zeeuwsche Saus. Chateau Danzac. Voorgerechten. Hoenden Vleugels, met Haagsche Saus. Heetkoudegemakten Ganzenlevers in Zwolsche Stijl. Ruinart, wrang wijn, Bijzonder Perrier Jouet, Louis Roederer, wrang, Giesler & Co., G. H. Mumm, buitengewoondroog. Groenten. Aardappelen in Sneeksche Stijl. Doperwten, Fransche Stijl. Gebakkene Kropsalade. Sorbet, Anneke Jans. Gebraad. Kanefasrug Eendvogels. Gekruide Seiderij-sla. Richebourg. Nagerecht. Curacaogelei. Italiaansche Ijs. Edamsche Kaas. Vruchten. Gemonteerde Stukken. Koffie. Likeuren. Sigaren. Pupen en Tabak.

It may be objected that half-and-half, even when badly spelt, is a cold preparation for dinner; and others may take exception to _Poukenvorm_, as likely to have an earthy taste. But did they ever try it _gebakken in Berg-op-Zoomsche Stijl_? It is no use mincing matters. Let anyone in search of a good dinner enter any well-appointed _restaurant_, and order this _menu_ right through down to _Pupen en Tabak_ (which is not a preparation of dog's meat), and if they are not satisfied, _Mr. Punch_ is a Dutchman.

* * * * *

"RICHARDSON'S SHOW" AND A "BILL OF THE PLAY."

The Vaudeville, when it was opened, was devoted to all that was light and cheerful. Comedy and Burlesque went hand-in-hand, and the audience, if ever asked to weep, were begged to cry with laughter. But Mr. ROBERT BUCHANAN (with the assistance of the late Mr. RICHARDSON) "has changed all that." _Clarissa_, the present attraction at the little theatre on the North-side of the Strand, is a piece of the most doleful character. The First Act is devoted to a very heartless abduction, and the last to a lingering death and a fatal _duello_. When it is announced that the successful fencer who "kills his man" is no less a person than that excellent Comedian, Mr. THOMAS THORNE, it will be readily understood that "the New Drama" is the reverse of lively. _Clarissa_ has scarcely a laugh in it from beginning to end. Certainly, in the last Scene but one, there is a revel, in which "pseudo-Ladies of Fashion" take part, but the merriment with which it is spiced is decidedly ghastly. Miss WINIFRED EMERY is exceedingly clever, but her death-scene is painfully protracted. Mr. THALBERG, as _Lovelace_, is a sad dog in every sense--a very sad dog, indeed. The only incident in the piece ever likely to provoke a smile, is the appearance of some comic bearers of grotesque sedan-chairs. When _Clarissa_ is carried out _à la_ GUY FAUX at the end of the Second Act, there is certainly a moment's hesitation whether the audience should cry or laugh. But the sighs have it, and pocket-handkerchiefs remain to the front. On the occasion of the initial performance, some slight amusement was caused by the introduction of Mr. BUCHANAN in unconventional nineteenth century morning dress amongst the old-fashioned costumes of the company; but, of course, the slight amusement was for once and away, and could not advantageously be frequently repeated. Thus, take one thing with another, the life of the Vaudeville audiences at this moment cannot be truthfully described as a merry one.

At the Avenue quite a different story may be told. People who visit this pretty little house desirous of being moved even unto tears by that finest of _Fausts_, Mr. ALEXANDER, will be disappointed--they had far better stay at home, or go to see _Clarissa_. Mr. HAMILTON AÏDÉ has adapted from the French of CARRÉ (a case of fetch and carry) a Farcical Comedy in Three Acts, which _he_ calls _Dr. Bill_, in preference to _Dr. Jojo_ the Gallic original. The prescription from which the Doctor concocts his mixture might have been supplied by the Criterion. Mr. FREDERICK TERRY plays a part that would have suited Mr. WYNDHAM down to the ground, and Mr. CHEVALIER is continually suggesting the peculiarities of Mr. MALTBY. Miss FANNY BROUGH is Miss FANNY BROUGH, which means that no one could play the part so well, much less better. For the rest, the company (although a new one) work together with a "go" that carries all before it. ALEXANDER has certainly conquered the world--of Comedy. He may do less wise things if he rests satisfied, and leaves Tragedy alone for an indefinitely lengthened period.

SERJEANT COX, ON BEHALF OF PRIVATE BOX.

P.S.--Mr. JEROME'S new piece (which he describes as "comparatively speaking, new and original"), just produced at Terry's Theatre, is rather disappointing. Its title of _New Lamps for Old_ strongly suggests a "Night's Entertainment." But when the poverty of the plot and the quality of the dialogue are taken into consideration, it would be almost too much to say that this pleasant idea is fully realised by the evening's performances. It must be confessed, however, that Mr. PENLEY, rising and descending in a dinner-lift, is (at first) funny; and Miss CISSY GRAHAME is ever welcome.

* * * * *

* * * * *

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