Chapter 2

Being unable to go to Leicester, I took advantage of a military escort, offered me by--(no--let the gallant officer's name remain a secret--he little thought he was escorting a Press-lady)--to pay a visit to the New Wimbledon--and being nothing if not loyal, I chose the day when the shooting for the "Queen's" commenced. My escort informed me with an inane smile, that the Camp had experienced "Bisley weather;" the feebleness of which joke so annoyed me, that I am half inclined to put his name in the pillory of public print--(what a glorious expression for our own Midlothian Mouther)--but I refrain, for reasons connected with Lord ARTHUR.

I must say that I think Bisley has a more business-like look than Wimbledon ever had, though perhaps this is scarcely to the taste of the average feminine visitor, who used to enjoy pic-nicing to the accompaniment of whizzing bullets, and does not appreciate the latter without the former. The shooting was very uncertain in the first stage of the Queen's, as the wind was in a variable mood--(is the wind _feminine_, I wonder?)--going sometimes at eighteen and sometimes at thirty miles an hour, which was disconcerting and inconsiderate behaviour (it _must_ be feminine!)--calculated to annoy any right-minded Volunteer! Indeed, one notoriously good shot, Private CHICKEN, although a good _plucked_ one--having made six misses in ten shots--declined to be _roasted_ by his friends, and retired into his _casserole_--which is French for tent, I believe--while several other marksmen (why marksmen?) found themselves carefully placing their bullets on other people's targets.

However, I was much struck with the equanimity with which reverses were accepted by the members of our gallant Amateur Army, and intend composing an ode in their honour, to be sung in camp to the accompaniment of bullets, bagpipes, and brass bands! (more alliteration for the Midlothian Maltese Marriage Merchant), the refrain of which will run thus:--

The Volunteer! The Volunteer!! No matter how the wind may veer! Will have no fear! and will not sweer! so do not jeer!!! the Volunteer!!!"

--appropriate _patriotic_ music to which will be written by Signor CLEMENTI SCHIOTTI!

There is no racing of any importance this week, there being only a small Meeting under Pic Nic Rules, at a place called Goodwood--(I write of it in this contemptuous way, as I am not going myself)--somewhere on the coast of the Solent--to which I need not allude at any length; I will, therefore, only mention one race having been so successful lately, that I can afford to rest on my oars--(rather an insecure position by the way, for anyone who can't swim!) and remain as usual

Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.

CHESTERFIELD CUP SELECTION.

To win such a race as the Chesterfield Cup, Is a task wanting speed and endurance; And the duty of all, ere the ghost giving up, Is to quickly effect an _Insurance_."

_P.S._--I don't see any _sense_ in this, but the _rhyme_ is good!

L.G.

* * * * *

* * * * *

WILLIAM THE WHEELMAN.

_Enthusiastic Cyclist loquitur_:--

I have noticed with unfeigned and real pleasure, The rapid growth of Cycling. (_How it jumps!_) To those who have the energy and leisure It affords--(_Confound this saddle! it so bumps!_) What otherwise would be quite unattainable, A healthy, and a pleasurable form Of exercise. (_Yes, health is hereby gainable;_ _But I am most uncomfortably warm!_)

It gives them the advantages of travel, (_By Jingo! I was nearly over then!_ _A tumble and the "gravel-rash" would gravel_ _The nimblest of extremely Grand Old Men_) Which, previous to the Cycle's happy advent, Were out of almost everybody's reach. (_And to the "spirits" of the cycling-cad vent._ _'Arry on Wheels the law must manners teach._)

It's really very much more profitable Than is the long luxurious rail way journey. (_If in the saddle I feel not more stable,_ _I'll be "unhorsed," like tilter in a tourney!_) Monotonous the journey from the City, Along a fixed unalterable route. (_This is an old "bone-shaker." 'Tis a pity!_ _For over the front wheel one's apt to shoot._)

The traveller's whirled from station unto station, (_I wish there were more stations on this road_,) With hardly half a chance for observation. (_If I know where I am, may I be blowed!_), Without an opportunity to examine The district. (_Wish that I could spot a pub!_ _For I am overdone with thirst and famine,_ _And see no chance of tipple or of grub!_)

(_I must travel many miles o'er clay or cobble,_ _I fear, before I'll have a real rest,_ _The big wheel and the little shift and wobble,_ _I think the low pneumatic Cycle's best._ _Eh? "Dangerous to Cyclists!" That's a notice,_ _I fancy, that suggests a spin down-hill._ _How stiff I feel! How very parched my throat is!_ _Hold up! By Jove, but that was near a spill!_)

I emphasise the fact that I consider That, physically--(_Pheugh! that little wheel_ _Is dangerous as poor old WELLER's "widder_,") Yes, morally, and socially, I feel The benefits of Cycling are unbounded, Almost--(_Almost I fear a nasty fall!_ _I wish, with big and little wheel confounded,_ _That I were on a Safety, after all!_)

* * * * *

WHISPER BY _AN ILL_ WIND.--If Alderman KNILL cannot conscientiously attend the Established Church service, whereat it is not essential for a Lord Mayor to be present, the Court of Aldermen ought to be proud of him, and elect him "Willy-Knilly" to be Lord Mayor all the same. Whatever may be the result, of Alderman KNILL nothing but good can be said. "_Nil nisi bonum._"

* * * * *

BLACK GAME.--"Bother Morocco!" says a Sportsman. "What's the news from the Moors?"

* * * * *

A PROSPECT OF THE TWELFTH.

(_BY AN IMPRESSIONIST._)

Certainly, I can foresee my adventures. I can tell of my march over the heather, of my delight as the breezy air sweeps over the moors, and helps to bronze my already sunburnt face!

I can fancy the chatter of the keeper as he holds my second gun, and pays me that attention which can only be wiped off by tips! I can hear the sound of the first shot, and decipher the meaning of the initial puff of smoke!

I can see the shadows disappearing as lunchtime comes to hand. I can recognise the cart with its goodly contents, and the girls who will sit beside us as we discuss our modest pies (hot and savoury,) and quaff our '84. And then I can hear the retreating footsteps as the darlings trip away, leaving us to resume our chase after the birds.

And then the shadows will grow longer, and the sun will set behind the hills in a mass of purple, red, and gold; and it will be time for us to turn our faces towards the shooting-box that will shelter us through the long watches of the summer's night.

And lastly I can see the final halt at the poulterer's, as we purchase the grouse to fill our bags before the journeying home.

* * * * *

A GEOGRAPHICAL THEORY.--"Where _is_ Liberia?" inquired one cultured person of another, _à propos_ of Mrs. RICKS's interview with the QUEEN. "I'm sure _I_ don't know," was the answer, "but--judging by the name--I should think it was _exactly opposite_ to Siberia."

* * * * *

* * * * *

MINOR MISERIES.

NO. I.--TO A LADY ON WHOSE TABLE-CLOTH HE HAD UPSET THE MUSTARD-POT.

Dear Lady, in your dining-room I sat, a melancholy slave. Your smiles could hardly chase my gloom; While others jested, I was grave. And still you saw me sit and sit-- "Enough of this," you said, "come, come, Be cheerful." While I merely bit A foolish, irresponsive thumb, And found no comfort in the act, And cursed myself, the clumsy Goth, As void of fingers as of tact, Who spilt the mustard on the cloth!

That was the cause of all my woe-- Good lack, I blame my thumbs in vain; Still on the cloth's expanded snow I seem to see that yellow stain. And still you sit and speak me fair, And still your Butler grimly smiles, The while I paint in mustard there A sketch-map of the British Isles. I think it had repaid my guilt Had you flashed fire like Ashtaroth, And scorched the clumsy wretch who spilt That flood of mustard on your cloth.

Beef, pudding, cherry-tart, and cream, What more could mortal man desire? I munched them idly in a dream, My head sang like a village choir. I fumbled with the silver pot From which that tawny torrent ran; I heard you say it mattered not, To cheer a miserable man. So here I thank you; may I be Extinct as is the Behemoth Rather than spill by Fate's decree Once more the mustard on your cloth.

* * * * *

THE NEXT AFRICAN MISSION.

(_TELEGRAPHIC PRÉCIS OF THE NEGOCIATIONS._)

_First Day._--Arrived safely at the Sultan's capital. Everything in proper order. Draft Treaty in my trunk with my diplomatic uniform. Escort in marching order. Ammunition in waggon. Quite ready to commence negociations. Only waiting for the conjuring paraphernalia of Herr VON KLEVERMANN to come up with us. Thought that that special morning performance before the King and Queen of the Cannibal Islands would delay matters.

_Second Day._--Herr VON KLEVERMANN and his traps have arrived in camp. Looked over the conjuring tricks. Sorry to find that one of the best (the Inexhaustible Bottle) has been stolen by the Queen of the Cannibal Islands. As time is an object, unable to send back to recover it. Might have to fight for it, too, which would possibly lessen the numbers of our escort. Experts declare that the Inexhaustible Bottle could only be secured at the point of the bayonet. Have arranged for a meeting with the Sultan to-morrow.

_Third Day._--Sultan's toothache better. His Majesty having sent word that he would be glad to see me, I, accompanied by the Interpreter, the Commander of the Escort, and last, but certainly not least, Herr VON KLEVERMANN, arrived at the Palace. Found that the Lord High Chamberlain had been removed yesterday. The Lord High Executioner was acting in his stead. In fact, this overworked official seemed to be the solitary survivor of the Imperial Household. The Lord High Executioner told us that His Majesty had been very irritable yesterday. The Sultan, he said, was now in a good temper, and was quite harmless. I found His Majesty most gracious. However, he said that he was not quite prepared to sign a Commercial Treaty. He offered, in lieu of signature, to give me twelve sacks of emeralds (uncut), and the wives of six of his Field-Marshals. Explained that no representative of England could entertain such a suggestion. The Sultan, upon this, terminated the interview.

_Fourth Day._--The Sultan having learned that Herr VON KLEVERMANN was a member of my _suite_, expressed a wish for a second meeting. I consequently attended at the Palace. Herr VON KLEVERMANN, having produced a number of artificial-flowers, a birdcage, and a rabbit, from an Opera-hat, His Majesty asked the price. I immediately replied, a Treaty of Commerce. I am to sail again to-morrow.

_Fifth Day._--Had another interview with His Majesty. The Sultan wanted to know the terms of the proposed Treaty. I replied, free access to the interior for British merchandise, and the abolition of slavery. His Majesty replied, he did not mind the abolition of slavery so much, on the understanding that the regulation did not apply to him. Herr VON KLEVERMANN then produced his Magic hat, and brought out from it a cup of coffee, half-a-dozen recently-washed handkerchiefs, and a white mouse. The last item caused us to be hurriedly expelled from the Palace. It appears that the Sultan greatly objects to mice. The Interpreter should have informed me of this peculiarity.

_Sixth Day._--Received a message from His Majesty to the effect that he would be glad to see me and Herr VON KLEVERMANN again, on the condition that nothing objectionable should be produced from the Magic hat. Herr VON KLEVERMANN once more gave a _séance_. The eminent entertainer extracted from the Gibus a portmanteau, a soup-tureen, and a lady's watch. His Majesty greatly delighted. He signed the Treaty, and possessed himself of the hat.

_Seventh Day._--Knowing that it was as well to leave the country as soon as possible, started early. Herr VON KLEVERMANN had expressed his doubts whether His Majesty would be satisfied. It appears that the Magic hat requires a good deal of preparation to be effective. The Herr's forebodings of evil were speedily verified. The Mission had not gone a mile before we were followed by the entire army. We made a demonstration with the machine-gun, which had the effect of destroying six or seven brigades of the enemy. The Sultan in person, declared that he considered the Treaty null. Nothing to do but retire as best we could.

_Eighth Day._--Deeply regret failure of the Mission. However, find that the King and Queen of the Cannibal Islands are anxious for annexation to England. They seem impressed with the notion that the British Government have power to cause a flow of spirits from the Inexhaustible Bottle which, since the departure of Herr VON KLEVERMANN, has ceased to yield alcoholic drinks. Of course, shall do nothing in this new matter until I receive further instructions.

_Ninth Day._--Embarked on my return home.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ADVICE TO THE G.O.M.

(_FROM A MATHEMATICAL TORY._)

Take forty-two, and carry eight (Eight hours, I mean), then mind your eye; Bring all your items up to date, And do your best to multiply Your sheep by next subtracting votes From over-suffraged Tory goats. By Registration Law perplexed, Take "qualifying periods" next, And at one swoop reduce with glee Twelve months, or more, to only three. Add labour to your motley crew, Subtract (from life) a church or two. Produce, with geometric skill, The lines of many a promised bill. But state--the Unionists to vex-- That Home Rule always equals _x_. Raise, in a rash, disastrous hour, Campaigning Ireland to a power. And thus, to prayers and protests deaf, Bisect the Empire. _Q.E.F._

* * * * *

PRETENCE VERSUS DEFENCE.

SCENE--_Whitehall. Time--The Present. Enter Universal Inspector-General, accompanied by Mr. Admiralty Official._

_Universal Inspector-General._ So you are going to have Naval Manoeuvres after all, Mr. Admiralty Official?

_Mr. Adm. Official._ Yes, General, we are.

_Un. Ins.-Gen._ And are you going to do anything new this time?

_Mr. Ad. Off._ Nothing more than the usual meaningless cruising.

_Un. Ins.-Gen._ I read something about the landing of the wounded?

_Mr. Ad. Off._ Ah--that _is_ new! We are going to "assume" a number of wounded. To quote from the _Regulations_--"Before the ships leave for the ports, officers in command of fleets and squadrons are to communicate to each Commander-in-Chief, by telegraph, the aggregate number of assumed wounded that may be expected to reach his port."

_Un. Ins.-Gen._ Tell me what do we want with these pointless Manoeuvres? Wouldn't it have answered everyone's purpose if there had been a lecture in lieu of them at the Royal United Service Institution?

_Mr. Ad. Off._ I should not be surprised.

_Un. Ins.-Gen._ Then why run into this unnecessary expense?

_Mr. Ad. Off._ You really must ask my successor!

[_Exeunt severally._

* * * * *

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CANVASS.

(_A PURELY IMAGINARY SKETCH._)

SCENE--_A Portico in Portman Square. Mr. BENJAMIN GULCHER (an ardent Radical Artisan, canvassing the district on behalf of a "pal" of his, who is putting up as a Labour Candidate), discovered on the doorstep._

_Mr. Gulcher_ (_to himself--after knocking_). Some might think it was on'y waste of time me callin' at a swell 'ouse o' this sort--but them as lives in the 'ighest style is orfen the biggest demmycrats. Yer _never_ know! Or p'raps this Sir NORMAN NASEBY ain't made his mind up yet, and I can tork him over to _our_ way o' thinking. (_The doors are suddenly flung open by two young men in a very plain and sombre livery._) Two o' the _young_ 'uns, I s'pose. (_Aloud._) 'Ow _are_ yer? Father in, d'yer know?

_First Footman_ (_loftily_). I don't know anything about your father, I'm sure. Better go down the airey-steps and inquire there.

_Mr. G._ (_annoyed with himself._) It's my mistake. I didn't see yer were on'y flunkeys at first. It's yer Guv'nor _I_ want--the ole man!

_First Footman_ (_with cold dignity_). If you are illewding to Sir NORMAN, he is not at home.

_Mr. G._ (_indignantly_). 'Ow can yer tell me sech a falsehood, when I can see him myself, a-dodgin' about down there in the passage! (_Forces his way past the astonished men into the hall, and addresses a stately Butler in plain clothes._) 'Ere, Sir NASEBY, I've come in to 'ave a little tork with you on the quiet like.

_The Butler_ (_not displeased_). I don't happen to be Sir NORMAN himself, my good man. Sir NORMAN is out.

_Mr. G._ Out, is he? _that's_ a pity! I wanted to see him on important business. But look 'ere--p'raps his Missus is in--_She'll_ do! (_To himself._) I gen'ally git along with the wimmin-folk--_some_ 'ow!

_The Butler._ I can't say if her Ladyship is at home. If you like to send up your name, I'll inquire.

_Mr. G._ You tell her Mr. BENJAMIN GULCHER is 'ere, if she'll step down a minnit. She needn't _'urry_, yer know, if she's 'aving her dinner or cleanin' herself. (_To himself, as the_ Butler _departs noiselessly._) Civil-spoken party that--one o' the lodgers, seemin'ly. Roomy sort o' crib this 'ere. Wonder what they pay a week for it!

_Butler_ (_returning_). Her Ladyship will see you, if you will step this way.

[_Mr. G. is taken up a staircase, and ushered into the presence of Lady NASEBY, who is seated at her writing-table._

_Lady N._ (_still writing_). One moment, please. My husband is out just now--but if you will kindly state the nature of your business with him, I daresay I could--(_She looks up._) Good Heavens! What could have possessed CLARKSON to show such a person as that in _here_! (_To herself._)

_Mr. G._ (_in his most ingratiating manner_). Well, Mum, in the absence of his Lordship, I am sure you'll prove a 'ighly agreerble substitoot!

_Lady N._ (_freezingly_). May I ask you to tell me--in two words--what it is you wish to see him about.

_Mr. G._ _Certingly_ you may, Mum! It's like this 'ere. I want your good Gentleman to promise me his vote and influence for Mr. JOE QUELCH, as we're runnin' for a Labour Candidate this Election.

_Lady N._ I really cannot answer for my husband's views on political matters, Mr.--a--SQUELCHER; I make it a rule _never_ to interfere.

_Mr. G._ Jest what _my_ old woman sez. I've learnt her not to argy with _me_ on politics. But, yer see, a deal depends on the way a thing is _done_, and--(_insinuatingly_)--a good-lookin' woman liks yourself--(Lady N. _gasps out a faint little "Oh!" here_)--oh, I'm on'y tellin' yer what yer know already--'ud find it easy enough to get her better 'alf to vote _her_ way, if she chooses. You take him some evenin'--say a Saturday, now--when he's jest 'ad enough to feel 'appy, and coax him into giving his vote to QUELCH. _You_ know 'ow to do it! And he's the _right_ man, mind yer, QUELCH is--the right _man_!

_Lady N._ (_almost inaudibly_). How--how _dare_ you come into my house, and offer me this impertinent advice! How--?

_Mr. G._ (_good-temperedly_). Easy there, Lady--no impertinence intended, I'm sure. I shouldn't come in 'ere, intrudin' on the sacred privacy of the British 'Ome, which I'm quite aware an Englishman's 'Ouse is his Castle--and rightly so--if I didn't feel privileged like. I'm _canvassing_, I am!

_Lady N._ You are taking a most unpardonable liberty, and, if you have the _slightest_ sense of decency--

_Mr. G._ (_imploringly_). Now look 'ere--don't let us 'ave a vulgar _row_ over this! I ain't goin' to lose _my_ temper. Strike--but 'ear me! If we don't think alike, there's no reason why you and me should fall out. I put that to _you_. It's likely enough you don't _know_ JOE QUELCH?

_Lady N._ (_with temper_). I never heard of the man in my life!

_Mr. G._ (_triumphantly_). See there, now. That's where canvassing comes in, d'yer see? It's our honly way of combating the hignirance and hapathy of the Upper Classes. Well, I'll tell yer somethink _about_ 'im. QUELCH worked as a lighterman on a barge fourteen years for eighteen bob a-week. Ain't _that_ a Man of the People for yer? And if he gits into Parliment, he'll insist on Labour bein' served fust; he's in favour of Shortened Hours of Labour, Taxation o' Ground Rents, One Man one Vote, Triannual Parliments and Payment o' Members, Compulsory Allotments, Providin' Work by Gov'ment for the Unemployed, Abolition o' the 'Ouse o' Lords, and a Free Breakfast Table. Ah, and he means _'aving_ it too. That's what JOE is. But look 'ere, why not come and 'ear what he's got to say for yerself? He's 'oldin' a small open-air meetin' in Kipper's Court this evenin', ar-past eight percisely. You come and bring yer 'usban', and I'll guarantee you git a good place close to the cheer. I'll interdooce yer to him arterwards, and he'll answer any questions yer like to arsk him--fair _and_ straight!

_Lady N._ (_feebly_). Thank you very much; but--but we are unfortunately dining out this evening, so I'm _afraid_--

_Mr. G._ (_more in sorrow than in anger_). There it _is_, yer see. Yer afraid. Afraid o' 'earing the truth. Carn't trust yerself to listen to both sides. But I don't despair of yer yet. See 'ere; is it 'Ome Rule that separates us? 'Cos, if so, it needn't. QUELCH don't care no more for 'Ome Rule than that 'ere penwiper do, between you and me! On'y, yer see, he carn't _say_ so at present, d'yer ketch my meanin'? (Lady N. _rings the bell in despair_.) Oh, thankee, Mum, if you _are_ so kind, I'll take whatever yer goin' to 'ave yerself, _I_ ain't partickler.

_Lady N._ (_as the Butler appears_). CLARKSON, show this--this gentleman the way out.

_Mr. G._ Don't you trouble, old pal, I can find it for myself. (_To_ Lady N.) I b'lieve, if the truth was known, you're comin' round already, Mum. I'll tell yer what I'll do. I'll leave some o' these 'ere little pamphlicks, as you might git your good man to run his eye over. "_Why_ I am a Radikil," "The Infamy of Tory Gov'ment," "'Ow we are Robbed!" &c. And 'ere's a picter-poster--"The 'Orrers of Coercion under the Brutal BALFOUR!" Yer might put it up in yer front winder--it don't _commit_ yer to nothing, yer know!--it'll amuse the kids, if you've any family.

_Clarkson_ (_in his ear_). Will you walk downstairs quietly, or shall I have to pitch you?