Chapter 2

In _The Poet's Audience_ and _Delilah_, CLARA SAVILE CLARKE (whether Miss or Mrs. the Baron is unaware, and must apologise for stating the name as it appears _tout court_) has written two interesting but tragic stories. The Baron does not like being left in doubt as to the fate of any hero or heroine in whom he may have been interested, and therefore calls for "part second" to the first story. _Delilah_, short and dramatic. The Baron shrinks from correcting a lady's grammar, but to say "_Mrs. Randal Morgan_ lay down the law" is not the best Sunday English as she is spoke. From _Fin-de-Siècle Stories_, by Messrs LAWRENCE AND CADETT, the Baron selects "A Wife's Secret" (nothing to do with the old play of that name), "Mexico," and "Honour is Satisfied." Try these, and you'll have had a fine specimen of an interesting _passe-temps_ collection says,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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In an article on the Salvationist disturbances at Eastbourne, the _Times_ said that after the scuffle, "the Army reformed its dishevelled battalions, and marched back to its 'citadel' without molestation." In another sense, the sooner a reformation of the entire Army is effected in the exercise of Christian charity, which means consideration for their neighbours' feelings, the better for themselves and for the non-combatants of every denomination.

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"A BAR MESS."--Recent difficulties about latitude of Counsel in Cross-examination.

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THE BRIDAL WREATH.

IN MEMORIAM

H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE.

BORN, JAN. 8, 1864. DIED, JAN. 14, 1892.

"I thought thy bridal to have deck'd ... And not have strew'd thy grave."--_Hamlet_.

But yesterday it seems, That, dreaming loyal dreams, _Punch_, with the People, genially rejoiced In that Betrothal Wreath;[1] And now relentless Death Silences all the joy our hopes had voiced.

The Shadow glides between; The garland's vernal green Shrivels to greyness in its spectral hand. Joy-bells are muffled, mute, Hushed is the bridal lute, And general grief darkens across the land.

Surely a hapless fate For young hearts so elate, So fired with promise of approaching bliss! Oh, flowers we hoped to fling! Oh, songs we thought to sing! Prophetic fancy had not pictured this.

Young, modest, scarce yet tried, Later he should have died, This gentle youth, loved by our widowed QUEEN! So we are apt to say, Who only mark the way, Not the great goal by all but Heaven unseen.

At least our tears may fall Upon the untimely pall Of so much frustrate promise, unreproved; At least our hearts may bear In her great grief a share, Who bows above the bier of him she loved.

Princess, whose brightening fate We gladly hymned of late, Whose nuptial happiness we hoped to hymn With the first bursts of spring, To you our hearts we bring Warm with a sympathy death cannot dim.

Death, cold and cruel Death, Removes the Bridal Wreath England for England's daughter had designed. Love cannot stay that hand, And Hymen's rosy band Is rent; so will the Fates austere and blind.

Blind and austere! Ah, no! The chill succeeds the glow, As winter hastes at summer's hurrying heel. Flowers, soft and virgin-white, Meant for the Bride's delight, May deck the pall where love in tears must kneel.

Flowers are they, blossoms still, Born of Benignant Will, Not of the Sphingian Fate, which hath no heed For human smiles or tears; The long-revolving years Have brought humanity a happier creed.

Prince-Sire of the young dead, Mother whose comely head Is bowed above him in so bitter grief; Betrothed one, and bereaved, Queen who so oft hath grieved,-- Ye all were nurtured in this blest belief.

Hence is there comfort still, In a whole land's good-will, In hope that pallid spectre shall not slay. The unwelcome hand of Death Closes on that white wreath; But there is that Death cannot take away!

[Footnote 1: See Cartoon, "_England, Home, and Beauty!_" p. 295, December 19, 1891.]

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AT MRS. RAM'S.--They were talking of Mr. JOHN MORLEY. "He's not a practical politician," said some one, "he's a doctrinaire." "Is he, indeed?" said our excellent old Lady, "then I daresay I met him when I was in Scotland." Observing their puzzled expression, she added, "Yet it's more than likely I didn't, as, when in the North, I was so uncommonly well that I never wanted a medical man." Subsequently it turned out that she had understood Mr. J.M. to be a "_Doctor in Ayr_."

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SONG FOR LORD ROSEBERY.

(_AFTER "TOM TUG," IN THE "WATERMAN."_)

Then farewell, my County Council, Cheek, and fads, and bosh farewell, Never more in Whitehall Gardens Shall your ROSEB'RY take a spell.

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CHANGE OF NAME SUGGESTED.--Why call the place _Monte Carlo_, why not _Mont "Blanc" Junior_? The Leviathan Winner who broke the record and the tables, Mr. HILL WELLS, might also alter his name according to his luck. A run of HILL-luck would settle him: but when "WELL's the word," he could forget the HILL-doing of the previous day.

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CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

II.--THE SOCIAL DUFFER.

If my Confessions are to be harrowing, it is in this paper that they will chiefly provoke the tear of sentiment. Other Confessors have never admitted that they are Social Duffers, except Mr. MARK PATTISON only, the Rector of Lincoln College; and he seems to have Flattered himself that he was only a Duffer as a beginner. My great prototypes, J.J. ROUSSEAU, and MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, never own to having been Social Duffers. But I cannot conceal the fact from my own introspective analysis. It is not only that I was always shy. Others have fled, and hidden themselves in the laurels, or the hedgerows, when they met a lady in the way--but they grew out of this cowardly practice. Often have I, in a frantic attempt to conceal myself behind a hedge, been betrayed by my fishing-rod, which stuck out over the top. The giggles of the young women who observed me were hard to bear, but I confess that they were not unnatural.

Shyness is a fine qualification in a Social Duffer, and it is greatly improved by shortness, and, as one may say, stupidity of sight. I never recognise anyone whom I know; on the other hand, I frequently recognise people whom I never saw before in my life, and salute them with a heartiness which they fail to appreciate. Once, at an evening party, where the Princess BERGSTOL was present, a lady, who had treated me with hospitable kindness, I three times mistook her; once for an eminent novelist, once for a distinguished philanthropist, and once for an admired female performer on the Banjo. I carried on conversations with her in each of these three imaginary characters,--and I ask you, is this the way to shine in Society? You may say, "Wear spectacles"--but they are unbecoming. As to an eye-glass, somehow it irritates people even more than mere blindness does. Besides, it is always dropping into one's soup.

People are always accosting me, people who seem vaguely familiar, and then I have to make believe very much that I remember them, and to wait for casual hints. The more I feel confident that I know them, the more it turns out that I don't. It is an awful thing to stop a hansom in the street, thinking that its occupant is your oldest College friend, and to discover that he is a perfect stranger, and in a great hurry. Private Views are my particular abomination. At one such show, seven ladies, all very handsome and peculiarly attired, addressed me in the most friendly manner, calling me by my name. They cannot have taken me for either of my Doubles,--one is a Cabinet Minister, one is a dentist,--for they knew my name, The MACDUFFER of Duff. Yet I had not then, nor have I now, the faintest idea who any one of the seven was. My belief is that it was done for a bet. The worst of it is when, after about five minutes, I think I have a line as to who my companion really is, then, my intelligent features lighting up, I make some remark which ruins everything, congratulate a stockbroker on getting his step, or an unmarried lady on the success of her son in the Indian Civil Service examination.

The thing goes so far that I have occasionally mistaken my wife's relations for old friends. Then, when I am hostile, it is just as bad. I never, indeed, horsewhipped the wrong man, but that is only because I never horsewhipped anybody at all, Heaven forefend! But _once_ I did mean to cut a man, I forget why. So I cut the wrong man, a harmless acquaintance whose feelings I would not have hurt for the world. Of course I accidentally cut all the world. Some set it down to an irritable temper, and ask, "What can we have done to The MACDUFFER?" Others think I am proud. Proud! I ask, what has a Duffer to be proud of? Nobody, or very few, admit that I am just a Duffer; a stupid, short-sighted, absent-minded child of misfortune.

All these things do not make my life so pleasant to me that I, the MACDUFFER, should greatly care to dine out. Ah, that _is_ a trial. First, I never know my host and hostess by sight. Next, in a summer dusk, I never know anybody. Then, as to conversation, I have none. My mind is always prowling about on some antiquarian hobby-horse, reflecting deeply on the Gowrie Conspiracy, or the Raid of Ruthven, or the chances in favour of PERKIN WARBECK's having been a true man. Now I do object to talking shop, I am not a lawyer, nor yet am I an actor; I do not like people who talk about their cases, or their parts. It would he unbecoming to start a conversation on the authenticity of "HENRY GORING's _Letter_." Then I never go to the play, I do not even know which of the Royal Family is which: modern pictures are the abominations of desolation to me; in fact, I have no "conversation-openings." A young lady, compelled to sit beside me, has been known to hum tunes, and telegraph messages of her forlorn condition to her sister, at the opposite end of the table. I pitied her, but was helpless. My impression is that she was musical, poor soul! When I do talk, things become actively intolerable. I have no tact. To have tact, is much like being good at Halma, or whist, or tennis, or chess. You must be able to calculate the remote consequences of every move, and all the angles and side-walls from which the conversational hall may bound. It is needless to say that, at whist, I never know in the least what will happen in consequence of the card I play; and life is very much too short for the interminable calculations of chess. It is the same in conversation. I never know, or, if my sub-consciousness knows, I never remember, who anybody is. I speak to people about scandals with which they are connected. I frankly give my mind about Mr. DULL's poems to Mr. DULL's sister-in-law. I give free play to my humour about the Royal Academy in talk with the wife of an Academician of whom I never heard. I am like _Jeanie Deans_, at her interview with Queen CAROLINE, when, as the MACALLUM MORE said, she first brought down the Queen, and then Lady SUFFOLK, right and left, with remarks about unkind mothers, and the Stool of Penitence.

Thus you may see me forlorn, with each of my neighbours turning towards me the shoulder of indignation. I do not blame them, but how can I help it? It is the Fairy's fault: the curse has come upon me. WILLIAM BUFFY, the Statesman, has a great clan of kinsfolk. Did I ever express my views about WILLIAM BUFFY, but one of Clan Buffy was there, to be annoyed? When I find out what has occurred, I become as red as any tomato, but that does nobody any good.

Oh, I am a Pariah, I am unfit to live! In a savage country, to which my thoughts often wander, I would stumble over every taboo, and soon find myself in the oven. As it is, I stumble over everything, stools and lady's trains, and upset porcelain, and break all the odds and ends with which I fidget, and spill the salt, and then pour claret over it, and call on the right people at the wrong houses, and put letters in the wrong envelopes: one of the most terrible blunders of the Social Duffer. Naturally, in place of improving, MACDUFFER gets worse and worse: every failure which he discovers makes him more nervous: besides he knows that, of all his errors, he only finds out a small per-centage. Where can he take refuge? If _Robinson Crusoe_ had been a social Duffer, he and _Friday_ would not have been on speaking terms in a week. People think the poor Duffer malignant, boorish, haughty, unkind; he is only a Duffer, an irreclaimable, sad, pitiful creature, quite beyond the reach of philanthropy. On my grave write, not MISERRIMUS (though that would be true enough), but FUTILISSIMUS.

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A GLADSTONIAN MENU.

The following _menu_ of a banquet, said to have been given at Biarritz not long ago, has been forwarded to us:--

POTAGES.

Faux Col. Marée Coulante. Bonne Femme.

POISSONS.

Harpe Irlandaise, Sauce Verte. Anguilles Glissantes.

ENTRÉES.

Petits Cultivateurs en Caisses. Tête de Joseph frite, Sauce Jessé. Conservateurs Foudroyés en brochette.

RÔTS.

Vieille Main Parlementaire à la Renard. Parti de Parnell à la Conscience Nonconformiste.

LÉGUMES.

Discours en Branches. Pommes Maître du Ministère. Choux d'Homère.

ENTREMETS.

Sucrerie d'Office. Conseils de Paroisse à la Cirque d'Été. Mots de Labouchère.

DESSERT.

Plans Varies. Elections Assorties.

The waiting was done by Candidates, and during the evening the band played a selection, containing such well-known pieces as "_Souvenir de Mitchelstown_," the opening chorus of "_Mosé in Egitto_," "_Où sont nos Ducs_," "_Partant pour le Sud_," and "_Irland, Irland über alles_."

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MR. BAYLY'S COAST-SPECTRE.

"It is scarcely credible that, at this moment, the elaborate telegraphic system of this country has little or no connection with our Lighthouses and Coastguard Stations." So said, quite recently, the _Illustrated London News_ in an excellent article, appropriately entitled, "A Flagrant Scandal." It _is_ scarcely credible, and creditable not at all. "Shiver my timbers!" cries _Mr. Punch_ (in a nautical rage), "if there _is_ a purpose for which JOHN BULL should eagerly utilise his 'telegraphic system,' it is for the saving of his sailors' lives." Mr. ROBERT BAYLY, of Plymouth, wrote a letter to the _Times_, "giving some instances in which lamentable loss of life was solely due to the inability of the Lighthouse-keeper or Coastguard to communicate in time with the nearest life-boat station." Think of _that_, ye British Gentlemen, who sit at home at ease.

Aren't you ashamed of yourselves at the very thought of it! Well may "T. LAWRENCE-HAMILTON, M.R.C.S., late Honorary President of the Fishermen's Federation," say, in an indignant letter to _Mr. Punch_:--"Perhaps ridicule may wake up some of our salary-sucking statesmen, and permanent, higher, over-paid Government officials, who are legally and morally responsible for the present state of chaotic confusion in which these national matters have been chronically messed and muddled." Perhaps so, my valiant M.R.C.S. And, if so, that "ridicule" shall not be wanting--on _Mr. Punch's_ part, at least. Here goes, for once:--

IMPORTUNATE MR. BAYLY.

A SONG OF A SHAMEFUL SEA-COAST SCANDAL.

AIR--"_Unfortunate Miss Bailey_."

A Captain bold, of British birth, might bless his stars and garters, That if he _must_ be wrecked at all, it should be near home quarters; But Britons' conscience smites them when we hear of lives lost daily For want of--some electric wires! So says stout ROBERT BAYLY. Ah, BOB BAYLY! Importunate BOB BAYLY!

At night, when he retires to rest, is BULL, the brave and clever, Troubled with thoughts of Jack Tars lost for want of care? No, never. But sure, JOHN's nightcap would wag wild, his ruddy cheek wax palely, If he only realised the tale as told by Mr. BAYLY. Ah, R. BAYLY! Importunate R. BAYLY!

Avaunt, BOB BAYLY! So will cry officials cold and steely, Who do not wish to be disturbed while pottering genteely, At their old business of Red Tape circumlocuting gaily, By tales of wrecks for want of wires, as truly told by BAYLY. Oh, R. BAYLY! Importunate R. BAYLY!

Importunate? And quite right too! This shame must once for all close, Or _Punch_ will plant some stirring kicks on--well, _somebody's_ small-clothes. The scandal's getting far too grave, alas! to sing of gaily, But _Punch_ in earnest will back up brave HAMILTON and BAYLY! Go it, BAYLY! Be importunate still, BOB BAYLY!

See to it, Mr. BULL! _Mr. Punch_, echoing Importunate Mr. BAYLY and Indignant LAWRENCE HAMILTON, lays it upon you as one of the most urgent of New Year duties!

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THE DAWN OF A NEW ERA.

THE ACTORS' OWN PRESS-NOTICES COMPANY LIMITED.

"Then came each actor with his Association." _Shakespeare, New Reading_.

CAPITAL--quite excellent. The usual thing in sharing terms.

DIRECTORS.

The Managers of London who live at home at ease.

The Actors of England who have a pretty taste for literature.

BANKERS.--The Wild Time Bank, late PUCK's Limited.

SOLICITORS.--Messrs. BOX AND COX, Bouncer Buildings.

AUDITORS.--Messrs. HEXTRA, SUPER, NUMERY & CO., Mum Street, E.C.

SECRETARY (_pro tem._).--A. PLYACK TORR.

OFFICES.--In the Adelphi.

ABRIDGED PROSPECTUS.

This Company has been formed for the purposes of establishing a thoroughly reliable newspaper in the interests of the Drama, and the shareholders belonging to the Theatrical Profession of the United Kingdom.

1. To uphold every Shareholder's claim to Acting as an Art.

2. To secure the best possible criticism by enabling every shareholder to write the notices of his own performances.

3. To take cognisance of the literature that grows up around the Stage, especially criticism in other quarters.

4. To notice the Drama all the world over, when space permits.

5. To support the work of the Profession in general, and the Shareholders in particular.

6. To afford a means of exercising hobbies.

7. To contain Articles by any of the recognised critics ("distinguished writers of the day").

8. To serve as a Directory, or _Vade Mecum_, or Press-notes container for the benefit of the Shareholders.

Many leading theatrical lessees, managers, and actors, have expressed themselves strongly in favour of the necessity of establishing a paper, written by themselves, for themselves, to read. Without such an organ it is impossible that they can be adequately represented.

The need of such a journal has long been felt by those whose theatrical notices have been the reverse of satisfactory.

A large number of prominent players have promised to take shares, and advertise, not only in the advertisement columns, but in other parts of the proposed paper.

The price of the paper will be hereafter settled by the Directors, who feel that this is a mere matter of detail. The charge for advertisements will be very moderate, to suit the requirements of the shareholders.

Pictures and all sorts of clever things will be introduced when the capital is subscribed, but it's no use making promises until the bankers have got the money.

If there is a rush for shares (as anticipated), those who come first will have the preference.

It may be stated that lots of people have promised to become shareholders which is satisfactory. But it is necessary to add that no one will be permitted to become a contributor to the paper even of the most interesting nature (i.e., Press notices, &c.), until he has contributed to its capital.

It is the intention of the Promoters that the majority of the shares that be allotted to persons in or connected with the profession, so that there shall be no nonsense from outsiders.

No promotion money will be paid to anyone. The only preliminary expenses will be those connected with law and stationery.

It is proposed to start the Journal at once, per contract. The Promoters are in communication with a gentleman who will make a first-rate Editor, and who will (they believe) be delighted to accept such an appointment if offered to him. Special arrangements will be made for the insertion of such advertisements as "Wigs on the Green" and "Curtain Razors."

As the paper will be sent about largely, it should have a good circulation, and the Promoters give as a standing toast, "Success to the Advertisement Department!"

Under such brilliant auspices, both the Company and the paper (as the legal advisers, Messrs. BOX & COX would say) "should be satisfied."

In the event of no money being received, the amount will be returned without deductions.

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CRIES WITHOUT WOOL.

NO. 1.--"HALL THE WINNERS!"

Of all the cries this world can boast-- A loud, unconscionable host-- There's one that I detest the most-- It haunts me o'er my morning toast, It scares my luncheon's calm and dinner's. It dogs my steps throughout the week, That cursed crescendo of a shriek; I cannot read, or write, or speak, Undeafened by its howl unique, That demon-yell of "Hall the Winners!"

I'm not, I own, a racing man; I never loved a horse that ran, And betting is a vice I ban; Still, to the sporting caravan-- Or good, or bad, or saints, or sinners-- I bear no malice; nor would take A leaf from any books they make; Why then, should _they_, for mercy's sake, Pursue me till my senses ache With that relentless "Hall the Winners?"

If it were only but a few, But "_Hall_ the Winners!"--why, the crew Must winning be the whole year through! Why can't a veteran or two Retire in favour of beginners? I'd rather welcome e'en the strain Of "Hall the Losers!" than remain A martyr frenzied and profane To that importunate refrain Of (There! they're at it!!) "Hall the Winners!"

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THE HONOUR OF THE BAR.

_TO THE EDITOR OF PUNCH._

SIR,--As the _London Charivari_ is recognised all the world over as the universally acknowledged organ of the legal profession in England, will you permit me to make an explanation nearly touching my professional reputation. A few days since, a Correspondent to one of your contemporaries complained that the leading Counsel of the epoch were in the habit of accepting fees they never intended to earn. He more than hinted that we Barristers were prone to receive cheques for briefs that we knew we would never attend to; that we were ready to be paid for being present in one Court, when we knew that we were sure to be engaged in another. And so and so on.