Chapter 2

It may be interesting at this time of the year to mention the fact that Lord SALISBURY always uses a poker in cracking walnuts. He says it saves the silver. The other day, whilst wielding the poker across the walnuts and the wine, Mr. GLADSTONE chanced to look in. The Premier, with his well-known hospitality, immediately furnished the Right Hon. Gentleman with another poker (brought in from the drawing-room), and ordered up a fresh supply of nuts.

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Mr. GLADSTONE, recurring in private conversation to a recent visit paid by him to Lord SALISBURY in Arlington Street, questioned the convenience of a poker as an instrument for shattering the shell of the walnut. For himself, he says, he has always found a pair of tongs more convenient.

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The Marquis of HARTINGTON, to whom this remark was reported, observed that as a dissentient Liberal he naturally differed from Mr. GLADSTONE, and was not to the fullest extent able to agree with his noble friend, the Marquis of SALISBURY. For his own part, he found the most convenient way of cracking a walnut was deftly to place the article in the interstice of the dining-room door, and gently close it. He found this plan combined with its original purpose a gentle exercise on the part of the guests highly conducive to digestion.

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Two hours later, the Leader of the Opposition was seen walking up Arlington Street, and on reaching Piccadilly, he hailed an omnibus, observing the precaution before entering of requiring the conductor to produce the scale of charges. "No pirate busses for _me_," the Right Hon. Member remarked, as (omitting the oath) he took his seat.

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It is no secret in official circles that before the vacancy in the office of Postmaster-General was filled, it was placed at the disposal of the BARON BE BOOK-WORMS. Upon Sir JAMES FERGUSSON stepping in, the PRIME MINISTER was urgently desirous to have the collaboration of the noble BARON at the Foreign Office. But, somehow, the post of Under-Secretary vacated by Sir JAMES was assigned to Mr. WILLIAM JAMES LOWTHER.

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We are authorised to state that His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of GERMANY, feeling the need of a little change, has resolved to stay at home for a fortnight.

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We are in a position to state that just prior to the General Election of 1880, Mr. CHAMBERLAIN was observed standing before a cheval glass, alternatively fixing his eyeglass in the right eye and in the left. Asked why he should thus quaintly occupy his leisure moments, he replied: "It is in view of the General Election. If on the platform any person in the crowd poses you with an awkward question, should you be able rapidly to transfer your eyeglass from your right eye to your left, and fix the obtruder with a stony stare, he is so much engaged in wondering whether you can keep the glass in position, that he forgets what he asked you, and you can pass on to less dangerous topics."

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When Mr. SCHOMBERG McDONNELL informed his chief that Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL had "come upon eight lions," Lord SALISBURY sighed and remained for a moment in deep thought. Then he said, "How different had the eight lions come upon him!"

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Mr. GLADSTONE has backed himself to walk a mile, talk a mile, write a mile, review a mile, disestablish a mile, chop a mile and hop a mile in one hour. Sporting circles are much interested in the veteran statesman's undertaking, and little else is talked about at the chief West End resorts. The general opinion of those who ought to know seems to be in favour of the scythe-bearer, but not a few have invested a pound or two on the Mid-Lothian Marvel.

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TRYING IT ON.

["The natural result of a _rapprochement_ between Russia and Italy, even if avowedly platonic in its character, would be to weaken the prestige and moral force of the Triple Alliance."--_The Times_.]

_Mr. Bruin loquitur_:--

_Pst!_ Hang it, quite _au mieux!_ Now what am I to do? I must draw her attention, if I'm going to have a chance. She seems so satisfied with those gallants at her side That just now in my direction she will hardly deign a glance. _Pst!_ Darling, just a word! No! Deaf as any post! It is perfectly absurd!

_Pst!_ Heeds me not the least, just as though I were the Beast, And she the sovereign Beauty that she deems she is, no doubt. Since she won those burly _beaux_, it appears to be no go, But Bruin's an old Masher, and he knows what he's about. _Pst!_ Darling, look this way! In your pretty little ear I've a word or two to say!

The coy Gallic girl I've won. It is really awful fun, For _her_ prejudice was strong as was that of Lady ANNE To the ugly crookback, DICK. But my wooing there was quick. Platonic? Oh! of course. That is always Bruin's plan. A flirtation means no harm, When you wish not to corrupt or betray, but simply charm.

Fancy Italian girl won by the swagger twirl Of an Austrian moustache! It is monstrous, nothing less. What _would_ GARIBALDI say? Well, he doesn't live to-day, Or he'd tear her from the arm of her ancient foe, I guess. And that stalwart Teuton too! Do you really think, my girl, he can really care for _you_?

Ah! you always were a flirt, Miss ITALIA. You have hurt France's feelings very much. Why, she stood your faithful friend When the hated Austrian yoke bowed your neck. Did you invoke The pompous Prussian then your captivity to end? _Pst!_ Just a moment, dear. I've a word or two to say it were worth your while to hear.

Ah! A hasty glance she throws o'er her shoulder. But for those Big, blonde, burly bullies twain, I could win her, I am sure; For my manners all girls praise, and I have such winning ways, And my lips, for kisses made, are for love a lasting lure. _Pst!_ How those two stride on, Without a glance at me! Do they think the game is won?

Hrumph! The Bear, although polite, is as pertinacious, quite, As the tactless Teuton pig. I'll yet spoil their little game. Triple Alliance? Fudge! If that girl is a good judge, She will make a third with Me and my latest Gallic "flame." _Pst!_ Come along with me, My dark Italian _belle_! We shall make a lovely Three!

[_Left making signs._

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ACCI-DENTAL QUERY.--Let me ask the _Patres Conscripti_ of our Academy Royal, why Dentists are not admitted A.R.A. _ex officio_. We have all for ever so long, since the memory of the oldest JOE MILLER, which runneth not to the contrary, known that Dentists drew teeth. But they nowadays add to their accomplishments by painting gums. The other day a friend of ours had a gum beautifully painted by a Dentist-artist in a certain Welbeck Street studio. It was a wonderful gathering; our friend in the chair.

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THE OLD JOE AND THE NEW.

To the humorous mind of a cynical cast, Party change many matters for mirth affords; But of all the big jokes, we've the biggest at last, In CHAMBERLAIN's backing the House of Lords! They toil not, nor spin? That's a very old jeer! _Won't_ the Lilies take back seats when JOE is a Peer?

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TO MY LORD ADDINGTON.

[Lord ADDINGTON, speaking recently at a Harvest Festival, said, "If he were a labourer, and saw a rabbit nibbling his cabbages, he would go for that rabbit with the first thing at hand." (_Enthusiastic cheers._)--_Daily News_.]

Lord ADDINGTON, most wonderful Of people-pleasing peers, You certainly contrived to raise "Enthusiastic cheers."

The villagers come flocking in From all the country through, To hear Your Lordship speak his mind And tell them what to do.

You did it well, you told them how You'd have them understand A lucky chance has made you own A quantity of land.

Though very fond of shooting, yet Your love of shooting stops At letting rabbits have their way At decimating crops.

And so, if you a labourer were, (The which of course you're not), And saw a rabbit in your ground A-nibbling--on the spot

You'd go for him with spade or fork, At which, so it appears, There rang throughout the crowded room "Enthusiastic cheers."

A Peer's advice is always good, So doubtless they will grab it,-- _But_ no one will be happier than The cabbage-nibbling rabbit!

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A LITTLE STRANGER.

["At the meeting of the Bermondsey Vestry, the Medical Officer reported that water drawn from the service-pipe of a house in the Jamaica Road, had been submitted to him. The water was clear, but it contained a live horse-leech."--_Daily Paper_.]

Oh, into our domestic pipes They crawl and creep by stealth, The gruesome creatures known unto An Officer of Health! Harken to him of Bermondsey, Think what his murmurings teach, "The water seemed quite limpid, _but_-- It did contain a Leech!"

The service-pipe was sound and good In the Jamaica Road; The cistern there had harboured ne'er Microbe, or newt, or toad; No clearer water softly laved A coral island beach; So thought the householder, until-- He found that awful Leech!

Perchance he was a temperance foe To alcoholic drink, And from all dalliance with Bung Did scrupulously shrink. Yet now to forms of fluid sin He'll cotton, all and each; He does not like such liquors, _but_-- Prefers them to a Leech!

Our pipes will not be pipes of peace If such things hap, I trow; And as for Water Trusts, 'tis hard To trust in water now. Oh, Co. of Southwark and Vauxhall, We ratepayers beseech, Double your filtering charges, _but_-- Remove the loathly Leech!

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

There is a judicial review of GEORGE MEREDITH's work in the _Quarterly_ for October--masterly, too, quoth the Baron, as striking a balance between effect and defect, and finding so much to be duly said in high praise of the diffuse and picturesquely-circumnavigating Novelist through whose labyrinthine pages the simple Baron finds it hard to thread his way, and yet keep the clue. When the unskippingly conscientious peruser of GEORGE M.'s novels is most desirous that the author shall go ahead, GEORGE, like an Irish cardriver, will stop to "discoorse us," and at such length, and so diffusely, and with such a wealth of eccentric word-coming and grammar-dodging, that at last the Baron gasps, choked by the rolling billows of sonorously booming or boomingly sonorous words, battles with the waves, ducks, and comes up again breathlessly, wondering where he may be, and what it was all about. "Story! God bless you, I haven't much to tell, Sir!" says the luxuriantly fanciful novel-grinder. And he hasn't much, it must be owned, for essenced it would go into half a volume, or less, and all over and above is pot-fuls of rich colour, spilt about almost at haphazard, permutations and combinations, giving the effect of genius. Which--genius it is; but a little of it goes a great way, in fact, a very great way, wandering and straying until at length the Baron calls for his _Richard Feverel_, and says, "This is the best that GEORGE MEREDITH has written, as sure as my name is

"THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS."

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BARD V. BARD.

There was a poor Poet named CLOUGH, Poet SWINBURNE declares he wrote stuff. Ah, well, _he_ is dead! 'Tis the living are fed, By log-rollers, on butter and puff.

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A SUGGESTION.--In a new poetical play at the Opera Comique there is a good deal of hide-and-seek. It might have had a second title, and been appropriately called _The Queen's Room; or, Secret Passages in the Life of Mary Stuart_.

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BLENDIMUS!

"Water, water everywhere" in the _Times_ recently, except when Messrs. GILBEY wrote their annual, and this time hopeful, account of the Claret vintage, and when subsequently Messrs. "P. and G."--(who on earth are "P. and G."?)--with a few modest lines at the foot of a page, last Wednesday, enlivened our drooping spirits with a brief but satisfactory account of Champagne Prospects. If the vintages of '86 and '87 are good, and those of '90 and '91 poor, why not make a blend? and why not sell it as such? Let "P. and G."--[confound it! who on earth can P. and G. be? "P. and J." would be "Punch and Judy"--and, by the way, in the choice _Lingua Tuscana_, "P. and G." would stand for "_Poncio è Giulia_." But, on the other hand, who, unauthorised, would dare to use this signature? No matter--where were we?--ah!--to resume.] Let "P. and G.," whoe'er they be--which is rhyme, though not so intended--(but why this masquerade in initials?)--let them exploit a "Blend of '90-cum-'86 and '91-cum-'87," sell it as such--viz., The "P. and G. Blend," or "The Punchius and Giulia Blend"--at a reasonable figure, and thus the Not-quite-up-to-the-mark vintages will be saved. Have we not seen in City partnerships how a strong house saves a failing one, and then the Blends go on successfully? Let "P. and G." give us a first-rate Champagne, call it, say, The "G.B.," or "Golden Blend," at a reasonable price, and, to drop once again into poetry, No matter what their name may be, We'll ever bless our P. and G.![2]

[Footnote 2: "P. and G." might stand for "Pay-for-it and Get-it," or "Pour-it and Guzzle-it." A Correspondent has suggested that solution of the initial problem might possibly be found in the names of Pommery and Gre'--No! So common-place a suggestion is evidently, and on the face of it, absurd. Not in this spirit did the Pickwick Club treat the celebrated inscription on the stone that so puzzled the antiquarians.]

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CAUGHT BY THE CLASSICS.

(_THE RECORD OF A RUINED LIFE._)

AUGUSTUS SPARKLER was an exceptionally brilliant man. At school he had done marvellously well, and if he did not distinguish himself at either of the Universities, it was less his fault than his misfortune. When he entered the world, after casting off parental control, he took up Medicine. He was a great success. He rose by leaps and bounds, until at length it was thought highly probable that he would be elected President of the Royal College of Physicians. He was sounded upon the subject, and a question was put to him.

"No," he replied, sorrowfully, and then the courteous Secretary informed him, with tears in his voice, that he feared he was disqualified.

"Well, I will enter the Navy."

He did. He passed through the _Britannia_, and rose by leaps and bounds, until it was considered desirable to revive the post of Lord High Admiral for his acceptance. But before this was done, he was sounded upon the subject, and asked a question.

"No," he again answered, regretfully.

"I am afraid then, that the scheme must be abandoned," returned the First Civil Lord (he had been chosen as more polite than his sea colleagues), and he was almost moved to tears in his sadness.

"I will enter the Army," cried AUGUSTUS, with determination.

And he did. He rose from the ranks in less than no time to become a Field Marshal. It was then that a certain Illustrious Personage asked him if he would like to become Commander-in-Chief.

"It is not impossible I might resign in your favour," said the I.P. And then he asked him the necessary question.

"No, Sir," returned AUGUSTUS, bowing down his head in shame. Again he found that his career was interrupted.

"I will try the Bar," he shouted.

And he did. He entered at Gray's Inn, and in a very short time became a Q.C., a Judge, and a Lord Justice. Then the entire Ministry begged him, as a personal favour, to accept the post of Lord Chancellor.

"With pleasure," was his modest rejoinder. Then he remembered that he had been asked a certain question on previous occasions, and explained matters.

"I am afraid you won't do," cried the entire Ministry, mournfully.

"Well, then, I will try the Church."

And he tried the Church. He became an eminent divine. Every one spoke well of him; and when, in due course, the Primacy of all England was vacant, he was asked to accept it. Again he explained matters.

"No!" shouted all the Deans and Chapters.

"You can't mean it!" cried the entire body of Archdeacons.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed every other ecclesiastical authority. But it could not be, and the disappointment was too much for poor AUGUSTUS, and he died of grief.

And so they put on the tombstone, that he would have been President of the Royal College of Physicians, Lord High Admiral, Commander-in-Chief, Lord Chancellor, and Archbishop of Canterbury, if--_he had only learned Greek!_

* * * * *

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

NO. V.--TO GUSH.

MY DEAREST DARLING PERSON,

How sweet and amiable of you to allow a humble being like myself to write to you. Dropping your own special style (which, to be perfectly frank with you, I could no more continue through the whole of this letter than I could dine off treacle and butter-scotch), I beg to say that I am heartily glad to have this opportunity of telling you a few things which have been on my mind for a long time. In what corner of the great realm of abstractions do you make your home? I imagine you whiling away the hours on some soft couch of imitation down, with a little army of sweet but irrelevant smiles ready at all times to do your bidding. You are refined, I am sure. You cultivate sympathy as some men cultivate orchids, until it blooms and luxuriates in the strangest and gaudiest shapes. Your real face is known of no other abstraction; indeed, you never see it yourself, so well-fitted and so constant is the mask through which you waft the endearments which have caused you to be avoided everywhere. This, I admit, is imagination; but is it very far from the truth? Perhaps I ask in vain, for truth is the very last thing that may be expected of you and of those who do your bidding upon earth. I will not, therefore, press the question, but proceed at once to business.

About a month ago I met your friend, ALGERNON JESSAMY. What is there about ALGERNON that inspires such distrust? He is very presentable; some people have gone so far as to call him absolutely good-looking. He is tall, his figure is good, his clothes fit him admirably, and are always speckless; his features are regular, his complexion fresh, and his fair hair, carefully parted in the middle, lies like a smooth and shining lid upon his head. I pass over all his remaining advantages, whether of dress or of nature. It is enough to say that, thus equipped, and with the additional merits of wealth and a good position, ALGERNON ought to have found no difficulty in being one of the most popular men in town. Perhaps he would have been if he had not tried with such a persistent energy to make himself "so deuced agreeable." The phrase is not mine, but that of SAMMY MIGGS, who has a contempt for ALGERNON and his methods, which he never attempts to conceal.

"ALGY, my boy," I have heard him say, while the unfortunate JESSAMY smiled uneasily, and shifted on his seat, "ALGY, my boy, I've known you too long to give in to any of your nonsense. All that butter of yours is wasted here, so you'd better keep it for someone who likes it. Try it on QUISBY," he continued, indicating the celebrated actor, who was at that moment frowning furiously over a notice of his latest performance; "he loves it in firkins, and I'll undertake to say you'll never get to the bottom of his swallowing capacity. You'll have to exhaust even your stock, ALGY, my boy; and that's saying a lot."

So thoroughly uncomfortable did the suave and gentle ALGERNON look, that I afterwards ventured to remonstrate mildly with the gadfly MIGGS.

"What?" he said, "made him uncomfortable, did I? And a jolly good job too. Bless you, I know the beggar through and through. I wasn't at Oxford with him for nothing. Wish I had been. He's the sort of chap who loses no end of I.O.U.'s at cards one night, and when he wins piles of ready the next never offers to redeem them. You let me alone about ALGY. I tell you I know him. There's no bigger humbug in Christendom with all his soft sawder and gas about everybody being the dearest and cleverest fellow he's ever met. Bah!"

And therewith SAMMY left me, evidently smarting under some ancient sore inflicted by the apparently angelic ALGERNON.

However, this little incident was not the one I intended to narrate. I met ALGY, as I said, about a month ago. It was in Piccadilly. At first, as I approached, I thought he did not see me, but suddenly he seemed to become aware of my presence. An electric thrill of joy ran through him, a smile of heavenly welcome irradiated his face, he darted towards me with both hands stretched out and almost fell round my neck before all the astonished cabmen.

"My dear, dear fellow," he gasped, apparently struggling hard with an overpowering emotion, "this is almost too much. To think that I should meet the one man of all others whom I have been literally longing to see. Now you simply must walk with me for a bit. I can't afford to let you go without having a good talk with you. It always refreshes me so to hear your opinions of men and things."