Chapter 2

From _A Diary of the Salisbury Parliament_, by Mr. H. LUCY, anyone can quaff or sip, just as his thirst for Parliamentary knowledge may be feverish or moderate, but healthy. It is thoroughly interesting, most amusing, and really valuable for reference withal. 'Tis written, too, in so impartial a spirit, that it would be difficult to gather from these pages to which political Party the Diarist belongs, but for his exuberant eulogy of the wonderful Grand Old Man. Mr. LUCY is the Parliamentary PEPYS. The sketches are by an Old Parliamentary Hand, yclept HARRY FURNISS, and assist the reader unfamiliar with the House of Commons to form a pretty accurate idea of the men who are, and of the men who were, and what they wear, and how they wear.

The most interesting part of JAMES PAYN'S latest novel, _A Stumble on the Threshold_, to Cambridge men or Camford men (for in this story the names are synonymous), will be the small-beer chronicle of small College life in their University some thirty years ago. The slang phrases of that remote period are perhaps somewhat confused with those of a more modern time, just as an old Dutch Master will introduce his own native town and the costume of his fellow-countrymen into a picture representing some great Scriptural subject, thus bringing it, so to speak, up to date, and giving us an artistic realisation of what may be concisely termed "the historic present." In the second volume (this novel is complete in two volumes) the sketches of river-life, including a delightful one of the old lock-keeper, are refreshingly breezy. The story, slight in itself, is skilfully worked out; and the only disappointing part of it--that is, at least to the Baron's thinking--is, that the villain of the earlier part of the tale does not turn up again as the real culprit, though the Baron is certain that every reader must expect him to do so, and must feel quite sure that, in spite of the author's reticence on the subject, it was _he_ who really committed the murder, and escaped even the author's detection, unless, out of sheer soft-heartedness towards the puppets of his own creation, JAMES PAYN knowingly let him off at the last moment. The judicial portion of the novel, including the scene in the Coroner's court, is just what would have been expected from an impartial "J.P."

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A DEGREE BETTER.--The Degree of Doctor of Music is to be revived at Cambridge. The duties will be to attend ailing Musicians and Composers. When appointed, the Doctor will go out to Monte Carlo, or thereabouts, to see how Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN is getting on. Sir ARTHUR will, of course, regulate his conduct at the tables by the prescriptions of his Medical Adviser.

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MR. WAGGSTAFF AND HIS DOCTOR.--He was ordered by his Doctor to walk two miles a day. "Can't do it in London," was the patient's reply; "never walk more than one mile. But," he said, brightening up, "I'll go to Paris, as one mile there is equal to double the distance in England. How's that? I'll tell you. I do half a mile out, half a mile back: one mile; _et voilà two_!"

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"LITTLE TICH" AND "COLLINS."--The former, not the _Little Tich_ of Drury Lane Pantomime, but Sir HENRY TICHBORNE, Bart., has, for absence of mind and body, thus not fulfilling his duties as High Sheriff, been fined by Mr. Justice COLLINS five hundred pounds--_quids pro quo_--unless he can show some just cause or impediment. "He wants TICH-ing up a bit," thought Mr. Justice, but he didn't say so.

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REPORTS OF CRACKERS.--If among our old friend SPARAGNAPANE & Co.'s Crackers there are any that will "go off" better than others it will be those called _The True Lovers' Code Cosaques_. This is the latest addition to the School-Board Education Code for the Christmas Holidays.

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"THE MISSING WORD." (?)

THIS is "The Maiden All Forlorn," bowed down with burdens scarce to be borne, Waiting a blast on Hope's clarion horn, loud as the "Cock that crew in the morn." Bucolic, wheat-crowned, she--_Micawber_ seems she, waiting for something to turn up--somehow. Poor Agriculture! Care's merciless vulture has harried her vitals, and furrowed her brow.

All are her friends--so each talker pretends-- from CHAPLIN the cheery, to WINCHILSEA wise, And valorous MUNTZ, who the land-question shunts, and "goes the whole hog" for Protection and rise; With rollicking LOWTHER, who's no Malagrowther, but larkily hints that the look-out is mournful; And NETHERSOLE, rustic and most nubibustic, of law and of logic complacently scornful.

Poor latter-day Ceres! Quidnuncs and their queries will hardly restore her her loved long-lost daughter, (Fair Profits) whom Pluto ("the Foreigner") stole. Vainly landlords and farmers breathe forth fire and slaughter At Free Trade--that Circe on whom they've no mercy,--and howl down the speeches of those she's enchanted. The one "Missing Word" may sound wholly absurd to cool sense, but to them 'tis the one thing that's wanted.

HOARE's wrath fiercely waxes. Reduction of Taxes? Low Rents? More improvements in modes of production? Pooh! SAUNDERS and RILEY must be far more wily to get _him_ to yield to their Red Rad seduction. He stands midst his ruins (like MARIUS) making of faith in Protection an open confession. 'Tis Duties on Food will alone do us good, nought else can now cure "the prevailing depression."

The Missing Word! Maiden Forlorn, 'tis a poser you put to the country, the cliques, and the classes, The Landlord, The Farmer, the Labourer! Say they agree, what response may you hope from "the Masses." Those tiresome "Consumers"? Old myths and new rumours are like the East wind, Maiden, mighty unfilling; Bucolic ideas and crude panaceas won't help you, though with them all Fad-dom is thrilling.

Yes, Fads make strange bedfellows, WINCHILSEA tells us, in this far more wise than he's wholly aware of. But CHAPLIN-_cum_-WALSH cannot turn back time's tide. And _Punch_, who _all_ interests has to take care of, Must tell you in kindness, that only sheer blindness can say of Protection the true Missing Word it is, Though men, my poor Maiden, with worries o'erladen, will lend ear to Quackdom's most arrant absurdities!

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Suggestions for New Musical Publications.

A COMPANION to _The Stars of Normandy_, to be entitled, _The North Pole-Star_ (the words by COLD-WETHERBY), to be sung by CHARLES VERY CHILLEY. If sung at St. James's Hall, admission generally, one shilling. Freeze-seats, nothing.

"_The Carnival_" is announced, as "MOLLOY'S last hit." We hope not. We trust that it is only Misther JAMES MOLLOY's _latest_ hit. "Never say die!"

As a companion to "_Come Dance the Romaika_," will be published, "_Come Read the Romeike_," set up and composed by the Press Cutting Agency.

* * * * *

RATHER STARTLING.--A Correspondent sends us a cutting from a paper:--

"Mr. MOODY, the Evangelist, who was a passenger on the _Spree_, ... preached an able discourse."

She says, "I can read no more to-day. Mr. MOODY, as 'a passenger on the _Spree_,' is too much for my feelings." As _Joe_ said to _Pip_, "What larks!" Yours truly, SHOCKED!

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THE MAN WHO WOULD.

IV.--THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A CRITIC.

ST. BARBE, as a literary man and critic, always professed a desire to live in a quiet neighbourhood. Therefore, as I approached his house, on the almost inaccessible slopes of Campden Hill, I was amazed to see a large and increasing crowd assembled in the vicinity. Pushing my way through, I saw that St. BARBE'S windows were broken, glass was in a weak minority in the panes, and, what was more singular, the breakage seemed to be done _from within_! Objects were flying out into the garden, and those objects were books. I had the curiosity and agility to catch a few as they fell, and to pick others up. They were mostly volumes of Poetry, and, in every case, they bore ST. BARBE'S name on the fly-leaf, with a flattering manuscript inscription by the author. Some of the authors' names were unknown to me; in others I recognised ladies of title whom I had read about in the Society Journals. Urging my way through a hot fire of octavos, I rang the bell. The maid who opened the door said, "You're not an Interviewer, Sir?"

"Great Heavens, no!" I replied.

"It is lucky for you, Sir; he's got an air-gun, and winged two Interviewers to-day, and shot one in the hat."

"I am a friend of Mr. ST. BARBE'S." I explained, scarcely audible amidst the yells of that man of letters.

"He's awful bad to-day, Sir, assaulted a parcels-delivery man, who was too heavy for him."

So speaking, the maid led me to ST. BARBE'S study. He was now quiet, and only groaning softly as he reposed on the sofa; the fragments of furniture and the torn letters which covered the floor, proved, however, that the crisis had been severe, for a man who likes a quiet neighbourhood. I felt his pulse, injected morphine, and asked him how he did?

"Better," said ST. BARBE, feebly. "I've been clearing them out."

"Clearing what out?" I asked.

"Presentation copies of books, from the authors," he said; and added, "and the devils of publishers."

At this moment the postman knocked, and the maid brought in some letters with an air of anxiety.

ST. BARBE tore the envelopes open, "There, and there, and there!" he cried, thrusting them into my hands, while his features bore a satanic expression of hatred and contempt.

As he seemed to wish it, I read his correspondence, while he absently twirled the poker in his hands, and gnashed his teeth.

"What is the matter with you, old man?" I asked. "These notes seem to be very modestly and properly expressed:--

"DEAR SIR,--You will be astonished at receiving a letter from a total stranger; but the sympathy of our tastes, which I detect in all you write, induces me to send you my little work on _The Folk Lore of Tavern Signs_."

Here ST. BARBE sat down on the hearth, and scattered ashes on his head, in a manner unbecoming an Englishman.

"_I_ don't see what annoys you so," I remarked, "or in this:--

"DEAR MR. ST. BARBE,--You will not remember me, but I met you once at Lady CAERULEA SMITHFIELD'S, and therefore I take the liberty of sending you my little book of verses."

Here he rolled on the floor and gnawed the castor of a chair. I had heard of things like this in the time of the PLANTAGENETS, but I never expected to see nowadays such ferocity of demeanour.

"It is signed MARY MIDDLESEX," I said. "She's very pretty, and a Countess, or something of that sort. What's the matter with you?"

"Try the next," he said.

"MY DEAR SIR,--Being well aware of the interest you take in the fragments of DIONYSIUS SCYTOBRACHION, I have requested my publisher to send you my little work on his _Quelle_. BOUNDER, as you are aware"---- Here he pitched his clock into the mirror, and groaned audibly. I tried another:--

"DEAR MR. ST. BARBE,--I know how busy you are, but you can always spare an hour or two for the work of a friend. My _Love well Lost_, in three volumes, is on its way to you. I wish you to review it in all the periodicals with which you are connected. Last time I wrote a novel, my nephew reviewed it, very perfunctorily, in the _Pandrosium_; this time I want only to be reviewed by my _friends_." He was kicking on the sofa, and apparently trying to commit suicide with the pillows.

"Command yourself, ST. BARBE," I said; "this behaviour is unworthy either of a Christian or a philosopher. These letters, which irritate you so much, are conceived in a spirit of respectful admiration. The books which you have been heaving through the window are, no doubt, of interest and value."

"Waste paper, every one of them," he moaned. Then he added, as he rumpled his hair in a frantic manner, "I'd like to see _you_, old cock, if you had to live this life! It isn't living, it's answering humbugging letters, and opening brown-paper parcels, all day long, all the weary day. And my temper, which was angelic, and my manners, which were the mirror of courtesy, are irretrievably ruined. And my time is wasted, and my stationer's bill is mere perdition. It begins in the morning; I try to be calm; I sit down to write replies to all these pestilent idiots."

"Your admirers?" I said.

"They're _not_ admirers; they only cadge for reviews. Time was, they say, when critics were bribed. Ha! ha! _Now_ they all expect to be praised for nothing. And the parcels of books they send." Here I noticed a London Parcels Delivery van, laden with brown-paper packages of books. Quickly the maid rushed out, and induced the driver to remember that he was a family man, and he went on his way without calling.

"They come all day long," my poor friend went on, "and all of them are trash, rubbish that they shoot here; _shoot_, ha! ha'" and he took down a Winchester rifle, and crept stealthily to the window. Luckily none of his enemies were in view.

"No waste-paper basket is big enough to hold them all," he said, ruefully, "and once a week I make a clearance. The neighbours are beginning to murmur," he added, "There is no sympathy, in England, for a man of letters. Letters, indeed! I write them all day to these impostors, these amateurs;" and he bit a large piece out of a glass, which was standing handy.

"Is there no way of escaping from this persecution?" I asked, with sympathy.

"None--none! I have written to the _Times_; I have applied to the Magistrates; I have penned letters which might melt the heart of a stone; I have even been unmannerly, I fear, now and then, for I cannot _always_ dissemble! No!" he cried, "I am doomed,--

'Presentation copies sore Long time he bore'--

write that on my sepulchre."

Here he broke down, and wept like a child. Poor fellow! he is now under restraint, and I expect soon to hear that we have lost ST. BARBE, at heart a kind, benevolent man, but sorely treated by authors. Such are the dangers of a critical career, and so wearing are the facilities of the Parcels Post. Others may perish like him, men deserving of a better fate. But to appeal to authors for mercy is vain, I know; far from sympathising with taste and culture in distress, they actually complain that they are harshly treated by critics. They little know what they themselves inflict.

* * * * *

DIARY OF A STATESMAN.

("_Made in France._")

_Monday._--Immense enthusiasm. The Ministry never so strong. When asked my intentions, replied, "My intentions are the intentions of my country." They nearly shook my hand off in their delight. Grand official reception in the evening. Everyone there. All the Diplomatic body offered congratulations.

_Tuesday._--Ministry suddenly threatened by an unseen danger. Everything going smoothly, when someone in the back benches interrogated us about an open window in the corridors. Considering the question frivolous, declined to answer. Enormous excitement, all the Members shaking their fists, and gesticulating. "Urgency" asked for. We protested; and, after a heated debate, secured the passing to the Order of the Day _pur et simple_ by a majority of two! Too close to be pleasant.

_Wednesday._--We have been defeated! The window incident was renewed. The Minister of Justice explained that it was the accidental carelessness of a Commissionnaire of Police. Although the man was brave, and crippled by a wound, the Chamber demanded his immediate dismissal. We protested. "Urgency" was voted by a majority of 343, and we immediately resigned. Bore to have to pack up!

_Thursday._--Have refused to join no less than five combinations. Too dangerous. None of them seemed sufficiently stable. Six men have been tried, but at present without result. Well, if nothing is done by to-morrow morning, I shall go into the country for a little shooting. _Fido_ is quite ready--he has his coat out, his moustache curled, and can carry a bag in his mouth. He is very good at tricks too. Altogether a thorough sporting dogue.

_Friday._--Back again. Others being unable to form a Cabinet, have formed one myself. Think it will hold together, but one never knows. So far we have had an overwhelming vote of confidence. Put it to the Members whether we might do what we pleased with the windows. "Yes," and "Urgency" voted almost simultaneously. No doubt a veritable triumph!

_Saturday._--Everything went smoothly until the afternoon, when a Deputy wished to know the correct time. Minister of Education gave it as a quarter to six. It was proved that he was wrong. He should have said ten minutes to the hour. Serious Ministerial crisis in consequence. Fearful excitement. A Bill brought in and passed legalising everything that four men and a boy might decide. Ministry forced to protest; turned out in consequence. Base ingratitude; but a time will come! Generally hop in and out of office twice in a fortnight. Quite accustomed to it. Good exercise.

_Sunday._--Released from my Ministerial duties. Shall have a day's shooting with _Fido_ in consequence. But I must be back again to-night, because I am sure to be expected to form a New Ministry to-morrow!

* * * * *

_Query._--Why cannot Mr. GLADSTONE eat more than two-thirds of a rabbit, whether boiled or curried? _Answer._--It does not matter what Mr. GLADSTONE or anybody else can do, as nobody can eat _a rabbit (w)hole_.

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* * * * *

"SMALL BY DEGREES, AND BEAUTIFULLY LESS."

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I see that the authorities at Monte Carlo very properly have refused permission to Doctors, their wives and families, to visit the tables of the Casino. I have not yet ascertained the reason for the prohibition, but no doubt it is because the "powers that be" consider Physicians too valuable to the community to run the risk of endangering their lives in the excitement of play. If we may accept this as a basis, we can see how the idea can be developed. If it is right to exclude Doctors, why then, as a kindred class, Lawyers should also be refused admission. Of course Clergymen of all denominations are, even now, conspicuous by their absence. If they are not, the decree of banishment should refer also to the wearers of the cloth.

We have now got rid of Doctors, Lawyers, and Parsons--three of the Professions. To be consistent, we must take the fourth. This will prevent Musicians from gambling. But if Musicians are tabooed, why not Actors? And if Actors, why not Artists? And if we except Artists, we must join Literature and Science, or there might be jealousy. And now we have excluded Doctors, Lawyers, Parsons, Musicians, Actors, Artists, Authors, Men of Science, and everyone more or less connected with them.

Now we must remember what is bad for the master must be equally bad for the man. So if a Doctor is excluded, a Chemist, an Undertaker, and a Grave-digger would also be kept away. A Lawyer would carry with him Judges, Magistrates, Clerks, and Law Stationers. The Clergy would represent everyone connected with a church, from an Archbishop to a Bell-ringer. Then, if we are to take away the Professions, Commerce must follow--wholesale and retail. In one blow we keep out of the rooms nearly the entire community.

Still there are the Army, the Navy, and the Civil Service. But these are all more or less branches of the original class. They, like the Doctors, work for the public good. Without an Army and Navy and a Civil Service, how would the State exist? So they must go. And now we have very little left. We have lost the Doctors, the Clergy, the Lawyers, the Contributors to Fine Arts, the Merchants, the Traders, and the Servants of the Crown. Naturally the lower orders would follow the lead of the upper classes, and then there would be only the Croupiers left. And as the Croupiers may not play themselves, and would have the play of no one to superintend, they, too, might be excused, as their labour would be in vain.

And now having reduced the visitors of the tables to an unknown quantity, I may disappear myself. Yours retiringly,

_Spanish Castle, Isle of Skye._ AN EX-X.

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A RUSH OF ONE.--The _Times_, a few days ago, alluding to the unemployed loafer, said, "it is he who flocks" to Relief Committees, and so forth. How delightful to be able to flock all by yourself! It recalls the bould Irish soldier who "took six Frenchmen prisoners by surrounding them"?

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THE GRAMMAR OF ART.--"Art," spell it with a big or little "a," can never come first in any well-educated person's ideas. "I am" must have the place of honour; then "Thou Art!" so apostrophised, comes next.

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FROM PENCIL TO PEN.

(_A Story of the Merry Yule-Tide Season._)

_Publisher's Sanctum._ Publisher _and_ Author _discovered in conference_.

_Publisher._ And so I thought that, perhaps, with your kind assistance, we might work off some of the blocks that have been left on our hands under the unfortunate circumstances I have just related.

_Author._ Certainly. Quite easy. You want to get a Christmas Number out of them. All right--give me the subjects, and I will just jot down how they shall be worked in. We will commence--hero and heroine--say, for the moment, _Edwin_ and _Angelina_.

_Pub._ (_looking at pictures_). I fancy this is intended for somewhere in the neighbourhood of the North Pole. Sailors surrounded by white bears on an iceberg.

_Auth._ Very good. _Edwin's_ father was an Arctic explorer. Write under sketch, "The old man had many a startling adventure in the silent land of eternal snow." Go on.

_Pub._ Here is, seemingly, a quarrel to the death, in the time of CHARLES THE SECOND. Ball-room, with Cavaliers and their Ladies. Central group, a fight with swords. Can we do anything with it?