Chapter 2

Rather hungry. Enter a restaurant. Crowded with gentlemen wearing hats--who seem to be on intimate terms with the waiters. Get a bill of fare which is thrust into my hands by an attendant loaded with dishes. Let me see--what shall I have? "Lamb's head and peas." Have never tried this dish. Might be good. Waiter (who seems to be revolving, like the planetary system, in an orbit) reaches me, and I shout what I want. He replies, "Sorry, Sir, just off," and vanishes. Look up something else. "Liver and bacon." Not had it for years! Used to like it. On reappearance of the planetary waiter, give my order. He nods and vanishes. Wait patiently. Rather annoyed that my nearest neighbour has used my part of the table for a dish containing broad beans. Glare at him. No result. Planetary waiter has passed me twice--stop him angrily the third time. He is less busy now--he pauses. He thrusts bill of fare before me, and asks me "what I would please to want." Explode and shout in tones of thunder, "Liver and bacon!" He disappears, and comes back a few minutes later, saying, "Very sorry, but when I first ordered it, liver and bacon _was_ on--now it's off. Will I have a chop?" Reply angrily, "No." Same answer to "Steak," "Duck and green peas," "A cut off the beef joint," and "Irish stew." Waiter asks (with forced civility), "What _will_ I have!" I return, as I leave the restaurant, "Nothing!" On regaining the street (although hungry) I am pleased to think that I am still obeying Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE's directions!

No use trying cab or omnibus. Both failures. Why not walk? Good way of wasting time, so begin to go northward, and in due course get to Bloomsbury. Enter Museum. Umbrella seized. Approach Reading Room. Civil attendant informs me that the Library is closed--taking stock, or something! Then I have come all this way for nothing! Angry, but inwardly contented. Doing nothing "very thoroughly!"

Turn back. Why not go to a theatre? Certainly. Go to four in succession, and find them all closed! Well, good way of wasting time, Shall I visit one of the Exhibitions? Chelsea or Earl's Court? After consideration, come to the conclusion that this would be worse than doing nothing. Must draw the line somewhere!

After all, there is no place like home. Or shall I go to my Club? Yes. Get there. Find it is being repaired, and that the members are taken in somewhere else. Hate new scenes and new faces. Return to my first idea, and make for my private address; but feel that it may be rather dull, as my wife and the children are at the seaside. Still, somebody can get me a little supper. At least, I hope so. Find my latch-key is of no use, on account of the chain being up. Ring angrily, when a charwoman in a bonnet appears, and explains that the servants, not expecting me home so early, have gone to the play, having locked up the larder. Charwoman agrees with me that it is disgraceful--especially the locking up of the larder.

However, it can't be helped. Make up my mind to go to bed, and get fast asleep, thoroughly tired out with the labours of a day spent in doing absolutely nothing! Hope (in my dreams) that Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE will be satisfied!

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"OUR CHILDREN'S EARS."

Whether they'll be as long as those of Midas, Or stand out salient from either side as A close-cropped ARRY's, at right angles set To his flat jowl, we cannot settle, yet; But in one thing, at least, a score they'll chalk-- They will not hear the stuff their fathers talk!

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DEFINITION.--"_La haute Cuisine_"--the kitchen on the top flat of a ten-storey'd mansion.

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"HAVE WE FORGOTTEN GORDON?"

[Lord TENNYSON, under this heading, writes appealing to Englishmen for subscriptions to the funds of the "Gordon Boys' Home" at Woking, which is in want of £40,000. Contributions should be sent to the Treasurer, General Sir DIGHTON PROBYN, V.C., Marlborough House, Pall Mall.]

Are we sleeping? "_Have_ we forgotten?" Like the thrust of an Arab spear Comes that conscience-piercing-question from the Singer of Haslemere. Have we indeed forgotten the hero we so be-sang, When across the far south sand-wastes the news of his murder rang?

Forgotten? So it had seemed to him, as alone afar he lay, With the Nile to watch for laggard friends, fierce foes to hold at bay; Though the tired red lines toiled onward up the Cataracts, and we Dreamed of the shout of the rescuing host _his_ eyes should never see.

When chivalrous BURNABY lay slain, with a smile in the face of death, And for happy news from the hungry wastes men yearned with bated breath; When WILSON pushed his eager way past torrent-swirl and crag, Till they saw o'er GORDON's citadel wave high--the MAHDI's flag.

That shame was surely enough, enough, that sorrow had a sting Our England should not court again. The Laureate's accents ring With scorn suppressed, a scorn deserved indeed, if still our part Is to forget a purpose high that was dear to GORDON's heart.

"This earth has borne no simpler, nobler man." So then sang he Who sounds a keen reveille now. "Can you help us?" What say we? Oh, out on words, that come like WOLSELEY's host too late--too late! Do--_do_, in the simple silent way that made lost GORDON great.

Surely these Boys that GORDON loved in the Home with GORDON's name Should speak to every English heart that cares for our England's fame; And what be forty thousand pounds as an offering made to him Who held so high that same bright fame some do their worst to dim!

Fit task for patriot poet, this! TYRTÆUS never stood More worthily for heroic hearts or his home-land's highest good. Give! give! and with free hands! His spirit's poor, his soul is hard, Who heeds not our noblest Hero's appeal through the lips of our noblest Bard!

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A REMINISCENCE AND A QUOTATION.--It is reported that two Gaiety burlesque-writers are about to re-do _Black-Eye'd Susan_ "up to date," of course, as is now the fashion. As the typical melodramatic tragedian observes, "'Tis now some twenty-five years ago" that FRED DEWAR strutted the first of his five hundred nights or so on the stage as _Captain Crosstree_, that PATTY OLIVER sang with trilling effect her "_Pretty Seeusan_," and that DANVERS, as _Dame Hatly_, danced like a rag-doll in a fantoccini-show. To quote the Poet CRABBE, and to go some way back in doing so,--

"I see no more within our borough's bound The name of DANVERS!"

Which lines will be found in No. XVII. of the Poet's "Posthumous Tales."

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THE MODERN TRAVELLER.

In a restaurant-Pullman he books His seat, a luxurious craze. Most travellers now take their Cooks, And everyone's going to Gaze.

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IBERIAN-HIBERNIAN.--Sir,--In Ireland since the time when the Armada came to grief on its coasts, there have always existed Spanish names, either pure, as in the instance of Valencia, or slightly mixed. In Spain the Celtic names are found in the same way, and an instance occurs on the border-land of Spain and Southern France, in the name of the place to which the Spanish Premier has gone for his holiday, viz., Bagnères-de-Bigorre. If "Bigorre" isn't "Begorra," what is it? DON PATRICK DE CORQUEZ.

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A LOVER'S COMPLAINT.

(_THOROUGHLY NEW STYLE._)

Belinda dear, once on a time I doted on your every feature, I wrote you _billets doux_ in rhyme In which I called you "charming creature." No lover half so keen as I, Than mine no ardent passion stronger, So I should like to tell you why I cannot love you any longer.

When I was yours and you were mine, Your hair, I thought, was most delightful, But now, through Fashion's last design, It looks, to my taste, simply frightful! Though why this should be I don't know, For I can think of nothing madder Than hair decked out in coils that go To make what seems to be a ladder.

Unhappy day, when first you dressed Your tresses thus--how you must rue it! For you yourself, you know, confessed It took you several hours to do it. Oh, tell me, is it but a snare Designed to captivate another, Or do you merely bind your hair Because you're bidden by your mother?

Again--you will not take it ill-- You are, my dear, distinctly dumpy: A flowing cape it's certain will Well--_not_ become one short and stumpy. Yet since, although you are not tall, You wear a cape, you may take my word That in the mouths of one and all You have become a very byword.

So this is why my love has fled-- If ever there should come a season When you shall show some sense instead Of such an utter lack of reason, If I should still be fancy free, Why then it's only right to mention That, if you care to write to me, I'll give your claims my best attention.

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A NOTE.--In _Black and White_ for August 8 there is a large picture representing a group of English Dramatists, amongst whom please specially notice a figure intended for Mr. W.S. GILBERT (it was thoughtful and kind of the artist to put the names below), who is apparently explaining to a select few why he has been compelled to come out in this strange old coat and these queer collars. All the Dramatists look as cheerful as mutes at a funeral, their troubled expression of countenance probably arising from the knowledge that somewhere hidden away is a certain eminently unbiassed Ibsenitish critic who has been engaged to do the lot in a lump. From this exhibition of collective wisdom turn to p. 203, and observe the single figure of a cabman, drawn by an artist who certainly has a Keene appreciation of the style of _Mr. Punch's_ inimitable "C.K."

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A LESSON FROM THE R.N.E.

(_FOR THE USE OF SAILORS PROPOSING TO JOIN THE ROYAL NAVY._)

_Question_. I think you have been to the Royal Naval Exhibition at Chelsea.

_Answer_. I have. I was induced to make the journey by an advertising placard posted on two official boards outside the Admiralty.

_Q._ What was your first impression on reaching the grounds usually open to the public, but now reserved for commercial purposes?

_A._ That the Public were extremely benevolent to permit so long an infringement of their right of way and other privileges.

_Q._ After you had entered the Exhibition, what was your initial impression?

_A._ That a great number of the exhibits were not very appropriate advertisements.

_Q._ Did you see Seamen of the Royal Navy making an exhibition of themselves in the Arena?

_A._ I did; and could not help contrasting with the feebly-histrionic display the recent order in Paris forbidding the French soldiers to take part in theatrical representations.

_Q._ Was the display of these seamen of the Royal Navy particularly impressive?

_A._ No, and I fancy that some of the audience who had paid an extra sixpence to see it from the Grand Stand, were slightly disappointed.

_Q._ Besides the cutlass and gun drill, did you see these seamen (wearing Her Majesty's uniform), take part in any other performance?

_A._ I did, and for this, too, an extra sixpence was charged for the use of the Grand Stand. They waded about in a sort of tank or large bath with models of ironclads on their heads.

_Q._ So far as you could see was this last display conducive to the maintenance of strict discipline?

_A._ I should say not, the more especially as I noticed towards the close of the display that the men seemed inclined to indulge in larking.

_Q._ Has this raree show caused you to wish to enlist in the Royal Navy?

_A._ Certainly not. The gun and cutlass drill before a paying audience reminded me of _The Battle of Waterloo_ at Astley's.

_Q._ But would you not like to join the Royal Navy, so that you might be qualified to perform in a tank?

_A._ No; for on consideration I think if I wished to do anything in the "comic water-tournament line," I could make better terms with Mr. SANGER than the Lords of the Admiralty.

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QUEER QUERIES.--POPULAR PRICES.--Would any reader inform me what is the lowest price at which _wholesome_ aërated waters are sold? I have been drinking some "Shadwell Seltzer, special _cuvée_," at a penny-halfpenny the syphon, and I fancy this may have something to do with my present symptoms, which include partial paralysis of the left side, violent spasms, an almost irresistible tendency to homicide, together with excruciating pain in every part of the body. My doctor says the lead in the syphons has "permeated my system." When I am better, I intend to prosecute the manufacturer. My doctor discourages the notion. He says he does not know if an action would "lie," but he is sure the manufacturer would!--TEETOTALLER.

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HELVETIAN SIXTH-CENTURY MOTTO.--"_'Tell' est La Vie!_"--_en Suisse_.

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OFF TO MASHERLAND.

(_BY OUR OWN GRANDOLPH._)

A FEW REMINISCENCES.

Begin to regret dinners on board the _Grantully Castle_. The other day was regretting the Amphitryon. Don't go so far back as the Albemarle-Street Amphitryon, quite satisfied with a simple Donald Currie. [_Mem._--The proverb hath much truth in it that saith, "Go farther and fare worse."] Sick of chicken. With poetic epigrammacy might say, "Quite sick Of chick." Stringy chickens, too! One has to tug at them; sort of game of "poulet-hauly"--as DRUMMY would say. Though were he here, I doubt if he would say anything. He certainly would eat nothing: probably would only open his mouth to observe, "I'm off!" and then we should see him no more. Quite right. So would I--but for "my oath, my Lord, my oath!" (N.B.--This is a quotation. Sure of it. Where from? Don't know. Tragedy probably; sounds tragic. No matter. Can give it with effect in a speech, and Members turn to one another and ask, "What's that from?" When they ask me confidentially afterwards, I reply with an air of intense surprise, "What! don't _you_ know! Well!!" and I turn on my heel, leaving CHUCKLEHEAD, M.P., annoyed with himself,--"_planté là_" as DRUMMY would say,--for being so ignorant, and for having displayed his ignorance so palpably. Off he goes to British Museum and searches for quotation. This gives him opportunity of acquiring much useful knowledge, which, but for me, he would not have had. Rather a long parenthesis this. So--on we goes again.)

TO THE MINES.

_À propos_ of exploring, the other day, a digger's assistant came up to me and inquired "If I had," as I understood him, "my gin pack'd." I returned that I never took spirits. Found out subsequently that word was spelt "_mijinpacht_," which is African-Dutch for "lease." Well, why didn't he say so before? Of course I have, and plenty of 'em; else why am I here?

To-day went to see the ore in the Robinson Crusoe Mines. As D.W. would say, "The site strikes me with ore!"

Much interested, of course, in inspecting the Salisbury Mine. Naturally, I put in my claim for the Salisbury. What's in a name and a family, if one can't get some good out of 'em? Intend to start the "Uncle Mine." Fine chance. Any place where there's a large and fluctuating Pop-ulation (with emphasis on the "Pop"), the Uncle Mine is a certainty." But Oh, for the "pop,"--I mean the dear old fizz,--and the older it is, the dearer it is,--at the Amphitryon.

"IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?"

The Transvaal's the place for living in. Here life is life, be it never so lively. The only nuisance is the Boer; and the Boer's a hass, or rather a mule. That's my opinion of Boers individually and collectively; I make no concessions to them; hang 'em, they've already got enough. If this country had been in the hands of Englishmen, or Americans, or both jointly (talking of jointly, we'd have had better dinners than we get now but of this anon--) with a certain person whom I can mention, and who is not a hundred miles distant from the present writer at this moment, as Head of affairs, an Imperial ruler, with power to add to his number (which number would be One, and would remain so), then this country, in a very short time, would have ruled the world. What ports, what champagnes, what railroads, what shipping, what commerce, what an Imperial Parliament, with the Despot in the Chair in both Houses, all speeches, except the Despot's, limited to five minutes apiece, and no reduction on talking a quantity. Oh, for one hour of this power, and the Amphitryon be blowed! Aha! _Grandolphus Africanus Protector_ to begin with; _Grandolphus Africanus Rex_ to go on with; and _Grandolphus Africanissimmus Imperator_ to finish with!

REMORSE AND REGRET.

Now to dinner! On what? Yah! tough beef, woolly mutton and stringy chicken. And to think that but for the Boers, the beastly Boers, we should have had the finest teal, wild duck, venison, goslings, asparagus, French beans, best Welsh mutton, and real turtle soup every day _au choix_!! But what did the Boers do? Why, they ascertained that skins and feathers, and shells, were valuable, whereupon they went to work, shot everything everywhere, sold skins and feathers, and shells! So that deer and birds hadn't a chance. If they popped out, pop went the guns like the original weasel, which some years ago was always popping, and the poor dumb animals with the pleading eyes and the tender flesh were slaughtered wholesale. In this manner, too, the game soon came to an end, as it must do whenever the game is so one-sided as it was here. Then, as I have said, the shells were valuable! The shells! What chance had the tortoise and the turtle? "'Tis the voice of the turtle, I heard him complain." (What's that from? That's from WATTS--eh?) What chance had the peas, however wild? or a bean as broad as one of ----'s after-dinner stories? Ah! it makes me sad and angry, and once again I cry Oh, for an hour, and that the dinner-hour, aboard the _Grantully Castle_! Ay! even though the G.O.M. were on board; for he could appreciate the daily Currie which to me is now _perdu_. Well! so to dinner "with what appetite I may," and then on to Pretoria, of which place I think I shall change the name to Pre-radicallia or Pre-fourthpartia. You see Pre-toria implies one who was Toryer than a Tory. Aha! what is my scheme? Do you see the picture? GRANDOLPHUS IMPERATOR REX AURIFERORUM MEORUM (Latiné for "Mines") surrounded by his Pretorian Guards.

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SPORT TO US!

Went out shooting before dinner. Killed one wild turkey, after an awful struggle, in which I very nearly got the worst of it; but fortunately the turkey was unarmed, though for all that he used his drumsticks in such a manner as in a little more would have brought flocks of other furious wild turkeys on to the scene, had I not, with great presence of mind and one small bullet out of my spring-pea rifle managed to crack the parchment-like skin which covers his drum, and at the same time broken one of his sticks. Then, he fell. Carried him home on my back. What larks! Killed four-and-twenty blackbirds at one shot as they were all sitting in a row on a rail. They were so frightened of me, _it made 'em quail!!_ Wonderful transformation, wasn't it? But fact, all the same. Four-and-twenty quail All on a rail. Killed eighty "Koran," a Mahomedan bird, very scarce, and therefore bring in a considerable Mahomet, or, (ahem) profit? See? Shot a "Tittup"--so called on account of its peculiar action after drinking; also three early German Beerbirds, or, as the Dutchmen call them, "Spring-boks." There is another origin for this name, which is also likely, and that is that they don't appear when there's an early spring, but when the spring is rather backward then they come forward. Whichever you like, my little dear, you pays your money, &c., &c. After all these exciting adventures--"The game is cook'd, and now we'll go to dinner!"--quotation from early Dramatist, by Yours ever, [Illustration]

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WORTH NOTICING.

O poor Mr. ATKINSON, victim of fate, Who bowed when you ought to have lifted your hat, When the Session is over it's far--far too late, To give notice of this and give notice of that. Your attempts to be funny are amazing to see, It's a dangerous venture to pose as a wit. Though the voters of Boston _may_ love their M.P., It _may_ end in their giving _you_ notice--to quit!

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_Short Papers in Magazines_.--"A starry night Is the shepherd's delight," and as this sort of night is to the pastor, so are short stories in Monthly Magazines to the Baron. Moreover, his recommendation of them is, as he knows from numerous grateful Correspondents, "a boon and a blessing" to such as follow his lead. He owns to a partiality for the weird, and if he can come across a brief "curdler," he at once singles it out for the delectation of those whose taste is in the same direction. But no curdler has he come across for some considerable time; but for short essays and tales to be read by ladies in some quiet half-hour before toiletting or untoiletting, or by the weaker sex in the smoking-room, the Baron begs to commend "THACKERAY's Portraits of Himself," as interesting to Thackerayans, and "A Maiden Speech," in _Murray_, for August, the latter being rather too sketchy, though in its sketchiness artistic, as, like _Sam Weller's_ love-letter, it makes you "wish as there was more of it."

Commended also by the Baron are "The Story of a Violin," by ERNEST DOWSON, and "Heera Nund," by F.A. STEEL, in _Macmillan_. If "A First Family of Tasajara" is continued as well as it is commenced in the same above-mentioned Mac-azine, it will be about as good a tale as BRET HARTE has ever written, and that is saying a good deal, mind you.

Unfinished Stories--that is, Stories finished in style, yet, as another contradiction in terms, short stories without any end, are rather the vogue nowadays in Magazines. Let me recommend as specimens "Francesca's Revenge" in _Blackwood_, and "Disillusioned" in _London Society_.

Don't tell the Baron that these hints are unappreciated. He knows better. He can produce letters imploring him to read and notice, letters asking him what to read, and letters complaining that his advice is not more frequently given. Aware of this responsibility, he never recommends what he has not himself read, or what some trusted partner in the Firm of BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co. has not read for him. _Verb. sap._

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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MISS DECIMA-HELYETT-SMITHSON-JACKSON.