Chapter 2

_Business done._--Small Holdings Bill practically through Committee.

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TRAMWAYS.

FROM THE NEWSPAPERS OF THE FUTURE.)

_April_ 2, 1894.--The County Council at yesterday's meeting discussed the proposed new Tramway from Westminster Bridge to the Round Pond, through the Abbey, St. James's Park and Rotten Row. Deputations from all the artistic and archæological Societies presented petitions against it, but the Council refused to read them. Deputations from the Institute of Architects and the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings also attended to give their views on the partial demolition of the Abbey, but they quarrelled so much amongst themselves that it was necessary to eject them, in order to prevent a free fight in the Council Chamber. Three Labour Candidates were then received, the Council standing respectfully, and stated that at least twenty-seven persons residing in Southwark would benefit by the direct route to Kensington Gardens. It was at once resolved that the Tramway should be made.

_May_ 2, 1901.--Yesterday an immense Demonstration of Working-Men was held in Hyde Park to protest against the extension of the Tramways. Mr. JOHN SCALDS presided, and observed in his speech, "What is the good of taking the Working-Man from his own door to a park, if there is no park at the other end, only asphalte and tramlines and some stumps of trees cut down? What is the good of taking him to Westminster Abbey, if Poets' Corner has been made into a tramcar-shed? Besides, now the Working-Man is so much richer, and pays no rates or taxes, he does not want trams. They are only fit for the miserable Middle Class, and who cares about them?" This was greeted with loud shouts of, "Down with the Council!" and the vast assemblage marched with threatening cries and gestures towards the recently completed County Council Offices. Our readers are aware that this sumptuous building, which cost over two millions, occupies the site where St. Paul's Cathedral formerly stood. It was found, however, that the Council had suddenly adjourned, and that all the officials had fled. The workmen accordingly entered, and, having voted Mr. SCALDS to the chair, unanimously resolved that all the Tramways should be removed and the Parks replanted and returfed. It was decided that nothing could be done to replace the Cathedral or the Abbey, but it was resolved that the following inscription should be placed on the ruins at Westminster:--"To the lasting disgrace of the English Nation, this Building, together with the other beautiful and interesting parts of London, was ruined, for the sake of some impossible and imbecile schemes, by an assemblage of the most Despicable Dolts that ever lived."

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MIXED.--Under the heading "A Tragic Affair," it was recently stated in a paragraph, how "a Lady had been shot by a discharged Servant." It would have been better if the Servant, on being discharged, had gone off and injured nobody.

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THE _OTHER_ "WESTMINSTER STABLE."

_Noble Owner_ (_watching the Favourite out for exercise_). Ah! don't look so bad, ARTHUR, after his spin! They are asking all round if he'll run, if he'll win. They would like much to know, I've no manner of doubt. Why, there isn't a Bookie, a Tipster, or Tout, Not to mention an Owner, or Trainer, or Vet, But desires the straight tip--which I wish they may get! If they knew he'd been "nobbled," they'd greatly rejoice; Then they'd back other cracks--_Dissolution_ for choice-- With a confident mind. "Nobbled!" Ah! were they able To get at his groom, or sneak into his stable, How gladly some of them would give him a dose! That's right, ARTHUR; watch him, my lad, and--keep close!

_Trainer._ Ay, ay, Sir! They will not get much out of _me_, Sir! A still tongue to Tipsters and Touts is a teaser. They're awfully curious about _t'other_ horse; _Dissolution_, you know. Try to pump me.

_Noble Owner._ Of course! Very natural, you know, _I_ should be, in their case. If they knew that this nag couldn't win the big race, Or was not meant to run, then their course would be clear.

[_Espies_ Stranger _approaching._

Hillo! Not too near, ARTHUR! (_Aside._) Whom have we _here_?

_Polite Stranger_ (_insinuatingly_). Beg pardon, my Lord! A bit out of my track. Missed my way. But--ahem!--is that really the "crack"? Why, he _looks_ cherry ripe--at a distance. I've heard All sorts of reports--gossips _are_ so absurd! But--_would_ you mind telling me--_has_ the Great Horse Been really--got at? _Entre nous_, mind!--

_Noble Owner_ (_drily_). Of course! _Dissolution's_ shy backers would much like to know. But--_tell them who sent you to ask--it's no go!_

[_Exit, leaving_ Polite Stranger _planté là._

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A LAY SERMON.

(SUGGESTED BY CERTAIN RECENT MANIFESTATIONS OF THE NONCONFORMIST CONSCIENCE.)

Thou shalt not steal! That's a command Which grips us with an iron hand; And "he who prigs what isn't his'n, When he is cotched shall go to prison!" So runs the Cockney doggerel, clear If ungrammatical, austere, With not a saving clause to qualify Its rigid Spartan rule, or mollify Theft's Nemesis. Thou shalt _not_ steal! At least,--ahem!--well, all must feel That property in thoughts and phrases, The verbal filagree that raises Flat fustian into "oratory," And makes the pulpit place of glory, Such property is not so easy To settle, and a conscience queasy O'er picking pockets, oft remains Quite unperturbed while--_picking brains!_ A Sermon is not minted coin; It you may borrow, buy, purloin, In part or wholly, and yet preach it As your own work. Who'll dare impeach it, This innocent transaction? Not Your "brethren," save, perchance, some hot And ultra-honest (which means "rancorous") Parsonic rival. "How cantankerous!" The reverend Assembly shouts. It mocks at scruples, flames at doubts, Hints at the stern objector's animus, In the prig's praises is unanimous. Oh, Happy Cleric Land, where unity Breeds such unquestioning community Of property--in Sermons! True it Strikes some as queer; but _they all do it_, If one may trust advertisement, And an Assembly's calm content At what to the Lay mind seems robbery. Steal? Nay! But do not raise a bobbery, If hard-up preachers glean their shelves And take the credit to themselves. How wise, how good, how kind, how just! And how the poor Lay mind must trust Those who so skilfully reveal The _meaning_ of "Thou shalt not Steal!"

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"REGRETS AND GREAVES."--But for a recent trial, who of the outside public would even have guessed that the unromantic and quite Bozzian name of "Mr. and Mrs. TILKINS" meant the clever musician, Mr. IVAN CARTEL and the charming and accomplished actress and soprano, Miss GERALDINE ULMAR? The TILKINSES are to be congratulated on their winning the recent action of _Tilkins_ v. _Greaves_ with the award of one thousand pounds damage, which is the price the transmitter of scandal to the _New York World_ has had to pay for his industry.

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OUR COOKERY-BOOKERY.

Most Cookery-Books are bosh. I have read them all--from the [Greek: Archimageiros] of FRANCATELLIDES (1904 B.C.) to the _Ayer Akberi_: or _Million Recipes of RUNG JUNG JELLYBAG_, compiled in Sanskrit, Pali, Singhali, Urdu, Hindustani, Bengali, and the Marowsky language, for the "Kitchens measureless to man" (see COALRIDGE), of the Golden Dome of Kubla Khan; from Mrs. GLASSE to Dr. KITCHENER; from UDE to ALEXANDRE DUMAS; from CARÊME to Mrs. MARKHAM (who is said to have adopted the pseudonym of "RUNDELL" for her culinary mistress-piece); and from Miss ACTON (who was also the distinguished authoress of _Austen Fryers, Pies and Prejudice, Sense and Saltcellars_, &c.) to SOYER. The only modern culinary manual which (_with one exception_) is worth anything is by Mrs. DE SALIS, whose name has a happy affinity to that of The Only Trustworthy Authority as a Cookery-Bookerist, and whose immortal contributions to mageiristic lore are appearing weekly in _Sal---- (Here the M.S. is firmly scored out by the Editorial blue pencil; but, faintly legible, is, "circulation, 2,599,862-3/8."_) From this "Golden Treasury" of gormandising I have been permitted to cull a few recipes. Here are two or three for scholastic bed-room suppers. The first will be invaluable in Seminaries for Young Ladies:--

_Saucissons en Petite Toilette._--Purchase your sausages on the sly, and keep them carefully in your glove-box, or your handkerchief case till wanted. Prick them all over with a hair-pin before cooking. Sprinkle them lightly with violet powder, and fry in cold cream (bear's grease will do as well) on the back of your handglass over the bed-room candle. If the glass gets broken, say it was the housemaid, or the cat did it. Turn with the curling-tongs. When done to a rich golden brown, put your sausages on a neatly folded copy of S---- (_Editorial blue pencil again_), and serve hot. Thin bread and butter, plum-cake or shortbread may accompany this appetising dish, and a partially ripe apple munched between each sausage will certainly give it a zest; but it would perhaps be as well not to eat too many chocolate creams afterwards.

_Soufflé de Fromage de Hollande._--This is a very favourite dish for the dormitory in Young Gentlemen's schools. Procure, on credit, a fine Dutch cheese, keep it carefully in your play-box or in your desk; but don't let your white mice get at it. Before cooking in the dormitory, you and your young friends can have a nice game of ball with the merry Dutchman, only refrain from trying his relative hardness or softness by hammering the head of MUGG, the stupidest boy in the school, with it. Now cut up your cheese into small dice and carefully toast them on a triangular piece of slate, which you will cause "GYP Minor" to hold over a spirit-lamp. When, as the slate grows hotter, "GYP Minor" will probably howl, box his ears smartly, and the cheese will thus become a "_soufflé_," or rather "_soufflet_." Serve _à la main chaude_, but I must indignantly protest against the practice of some youths of eating peppermint drops with this "_plat_." A bath bun is much better. Beverage, gingerbeer or a little ginger wine.

_Tournedos à la Busby._--It is a very astonishing thing that I never could persuade school-boys that this is a most succulent, scholastic supper-dish, exceptionally brisk and pungent in its flavour. Perhaps their aversion to it is based on the fact that the _tournedos_ is usually served very hot indeed towards the conclusion of the repast by the Rev. Principal. It is accompanied by a brown sauce made of a _bouquet de bouleau_ full of buds and marinaded in mild pickle.

_Curried Rabbit._--Proceed to Ostend and procure a rabbit; honestly if possible, but procure it. Pinch its scut or bite its ears, and when it exclaims, "Miauw!" it is not a genuine rabbit, but a grimalkin in disguise. Some cats are very deceitful at heart. Bring your rabbit home, and then send to the nearest livery stables and borrow a curry-comb, then proceed to curry your rabbit. If Bunny resists, hit him over the head with the comb. He will possibly run away to rejoin his brethren at Ostend, or in New South Wales; but at all events you will have the curry-comb. One can be good and happy without returning the things you borrow. See my "Essay on Books, Cartes-de-visite, and Umbrellas," in the next number of _Sala's J----_ (_Editorial blue-pencil again_.)

_Potage à la Jambe de Bois_ (Wooden-leg Soup).--Procure a fine fresh wooden-leg, one from Chelsea is the best. Wash it carefully in six waters, blanch it, and trim neatly. Lay it at the bottom of a large pot, into which place eight pounds of the undercut of prime beef, half a Bayonne ham, two young chickens, and a sweetbread. To these add leeks, chervil, carrots, turnips, fifty heads of asparagus, a few truffles, a large cow-cabbage, a pint of French beans, a peck of very young peas, a tomato cut in slices, some potatoes, and a couple of bananas. Pour in three gallons of water, and boil furiously till your soup is reduced to about a pint and a-half. As it boils, add, drop by drop, a bottle of JULES MUMM's Extra Dry, and a gill of Scotch whiskey; then take out your wooden leg, which wipe carefully and serve separately with a neat frill, which can be easily cut from the cover of _Sala's Jo----_ (_Editorial blue pencil again_), round the top. The soup itself is best served in a silver tureen, or in a Dresden china punch-bowl. The above obviously is intended neither for school-boys nor school-girls, nor is it meant for the tables of the wealthy and luxurious. It is emphatically a Poor Man's Dish, otherwise it would never have found a place in the cookery column of that essentially popular periodical, _Sala's Journal_. Hurrah! the Editor has gone out to "chop," and there was no blue pencil to mar the last touching allusions. N.B.--Circulation, eight millions, nine hundred and thirty-three thousand, two hundred and sixty-one and a-half. Guaranteed by five firms of Magna Chartered Accountants.

OLD ARTFUL.

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THE NEW LEARNING.

Mr. STUART RENDEL, having stated at Llanfair-Caerecinion that "a day with Mr. GLADSTONE was a whole liberal education," the London School Board has at last decided to alter the present system completely. After many days' deliberation, it has been arranged to hire the Albert Palace and Mr. GLADSTONE for a week. It is estimated that during six days, all the children now in the London schools can, in detachments, be squeezed into the building and spend a day there with the Right Honourable Gentleman. Seats will be provided on the platform for the Members of the Board, as this instruction would be a great benefit to many of them. At the end of the six days the present work of the Board will be finished, and it will adjourn for ten years, when another week in the society of the Grand Old Educator will again suffice for the needs of the rising generation. The numerous Board Schools will therefore become useless, but it is not proposed to demolish them, as experience has shown that they are sure to fall down of their own accord before long. The sumptuous offices of the Board will be converted into a Home for Destitute Schoolmasters.

We have reason to believe that Mr. GLADSTONE, after fulfilling his engagement at the Albert Palace, will make a tour in the provinces, and later on will have classes for journalists and other literary men, whose style, in many cases, would be vastly improved by two minutes, or even less, in the same room with him.

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THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

A DIRGE.

(_ADAPTED FROM THOMAS HOOD._)

"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old. But something ails it now: the place is curst."

"_Hart-Leap Well," by Wordsworth._

I.

A residence for Tory, Whig or Rad, Where yet none had abiding habitation; A House--but darkened by the influence sad Of slow disintegration. O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!

There speech grew wild and rankly as the weed, GRAHAM with TANNER waged competitive trials, And vulgar bores of Billingsgatish breed Voided spleen's venomed vials. But gay or gloomy, fluent or infirm, None heeded their dull drawls, of hours' duration. The House was clearly in for a long term Of desolate stagnation. The SPEAKER yawned upon his Chair, he found It tiring work, a placid brow to furrow, To sit out speeches arguing round and round, From County or from Borough. The Members, like wild rabbits, scudded through The lobbies, took their seats, lounged, yawned--and vanished. The Whips like spectres wandered; well they knew All discipline was banished. The blatant bore,--the faddist, and the fool, Were listened to with an indifferent tameness. The windbag of the new Hibernian school Railed on with shocking sameness. The moping M.P. motionless and stiff, Who, on his bench sat silently and stilly, Gawped with round eyes and pendulous lips, as if He had been stricken silly: No cheery sound, except when far away Came echoes of 'cute LABBY's cynic laughter, Which, sick of Dumbleborough's chattering jay, His listeners rambled after. But Echo's self tires of a GRAHAM's tongue, Rot blent with rudeness gentlest nymph can't pardon. Why e'en the G.O.M. his grey head hung, And wished he were at Hawarden. Like vine unpruned, SEXTON's exuberant speech Sprawled o'er the question with the which he'd grapple; PICTON prosed on,--the style in which men preach In a dissenting chapel. Prince ARTHUR twined one lank leg t'other round, Drooping a long chin like BURNE-JONES's ladies; And HARCOURT, sickening of the strident sound, Wished CONYBEARE in Hades. For over all there hung a cloud of fear, A sense of imminent doom the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The House is Haunted!

II.

Oh, very gloomy is this House of Woe, Where yawns are numerous while Big Ben is knelling. It is not on the Session dull and slow, These pale M.P.'s are dwelling. Oh, very, very dreary is the gloom, But M.P.'s heed not HEALY's elocution; Each one is wondering what may be his doom After the Dissolution!

That House of Woe must soon be closed to all Who linger now therein with tedium mortal, And of those lingerers a proportion small Again may pass its portal. There's many a one who o'er its threshold stole In Eighty-Six's curious Party tangle, Who for the votes which helped him head the poll In vain again may angle. The GRAHAMS and the CALDWELLS may look bold, So may the CONYBEARES, and COBBS and TANNERS; But the next House quite other men may hold, And (let's hope) other manners. They'd like to know when this will close its door Upon each moribund and mournful Member, And who will stand upon the House's floor After, say, next November. That's why the M.P.'s sit in silent doubt, Why spirits flag, and cheeks are pale and livid, And why the DISSOLUTION SPOOK stands out So ominously vivid. Some key to the result of the appeal They yearn for vainly, all their nerves a-quiver; The presence of the Shadow they all feel, And sit, and brood, and shiver. There is a sombre rumour in the air, The shadow of a Presence dim, atrocious; No human creature can be festive there, Even the most ferocious. An Omen in the place there seems to be, Both sides with spectral perturbation covering. The straining eyeballs are prepared to see The Apparition hovering. With doubt, with fear, their features are o'ercast; SALISBURY at Covent Garden might have spoken, But, save for Rumour's whispers on the blast, The silence is unbroken. And over all there hangs a cloud of fear, The Spook of Dissolution all has daunted, And says as plain as whisper in the ear, The House is Haunted!

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Upon what principle," one of my Baronites writes, "do people collecting a number of short stories for publication in one volume, select that which shall give the book its title?" Of course I know, but shan't say; am not here to answer conundrums. After interval of chilling silence, my Baronite continues, "Lady LINDSAY has brought together ten stories which A. & C. BLACK publish in a comely volume. She calls it _A Philosopher's Window_, that being the title of the first in the procession. I have looked through the _Philosopher's Window_, and don't see much, except perhaps a reminiscence of _A Christmas Carol_. There are others, far better, notably 'Miss Dairsie's Diary.' This is a gem of simple narrative, set in charming Scottish scenery, which Lady LINDSAY evidently knows and loves. There is much else that is good. 'The Story of a Railway Journey,' and 'Poor Miss Brackenthorpe,' for example. All are set in a minor key, but it is simple, natural music."

B. DE B.-W.

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THE YOUNG GIRL'S COMPANION.

(BY MRS. PAYLEY.)

NO. IV.--THE CHOICE OF A HUSBAND.

Any woman, my dear young girls, can marry any man she likes, provided that she is careful about two points. She must let him know that she would accept a proposal from him, but she must never let him know that she has let him know. The encouragement must be very strong but very delicate. To let him know that you would marry him is to appeal to his vanity, and this appeal never fails; but to let him know that you have given him the information is to appeal to his pity, and this appeal never succeeds. Besides, you awake his disgust. Half the art of the woman of the world consists in doing disgusting things delicately. Be delicate, be indirect, avoid simplicity, and there is hardly any limit to your choice of a husband.

I need say nothing about detrimental people. The conflict between a daughter and her parents on this point--so popular in fiction--very rarely takes place. It is well understood. You may fall in love with the detrimental person, and you may let him fall in love with you. But at present we are talking about marriage. Never marry a man with the artistic temperament. By the artistic temperament one means morbid tastes, uncertain temper and excessive vanity. It may be witty at dinner; it _must_ be snappish at breakfast. It never has any money. In its dress it is dirty and picturesque, unless under the pressure of an occasion. It flirts well, but marries badly. I have described, of course, rather a pronounced case of artistic temperament. But it is hardly safe to marry any man who appreciates things artistic, because, as a rule, he only does it in order that people may appreciate his appreciation; and after a time that becomes wearisome.

Do not marry an imperial man. The young girl of seventeen believes in strength; by this she means a large chin and a persistent neglect of herself. She adores that kind of thing, and she will marry it if she is not warned. It is not good to fall in love with Restrained Force, and afterwards find that you have married Apathy.