Chapter 2

(_IMAGINARY REPORT OF AN UTTERLY IMPOSSIBLE INTERVIEW._)

So you got through your labours at Oxford, my dear friend, without feeling any ill effects?—Certainly, never enjoyed myself more. Everyone paid the deepest attention. One Don actually used an ear-trumpet.

Well, and what do you intend doing next?—Oh, lots of things. You see my Parliamentary work is next to nothing—not a moment more than ten hours a-day. So I must do something with my spare time.

Certainly, I have no objection. But I should like to hear your programme.—I have only got it into form for a week or so. Before the end of the year I shall have it ship-shape. But say for November. Shall we say November?

Certainly. What do you propose doing in November?—Well, I think I shall retranslate the works of HOMER, and write an exhaustive article in the _Encylopædia Britannica_ (new edition) on the “Life of WELLINGTON.”

And that is all? Well, and a fair amount, too!—All! What nonsense! Why, that will take me less than no time. Then I think I shall ascend Mont Blanc, so as to be able to see how the summit looks in winter. Then I shall translate the _Waverley Novels_ into Swedish.

Well, you might be worse employed, but you must not overdo it.—Overdo it! Certainly not! Why, I am strong as a horse. And that reminds me, I think I shall attempt a long-distance ride on my own account. I feel sure that I can do better than those German and Austrian fellows.

Where do you propose to ride?—From John o’ Groat’s to the Land’s End, I fancy, will be the course. I ought to do it in three days.

Of course you will use more than one horse?—Oh, certainly. No cruelty. And I think I shall try the walk myself on foot, just to see if a horse will be able to keep up with me.

And is there any other exploit that you contemplate?—I thought I might perhaps dine with the new Lord Mayor.

What! dine with the new Lord Mayor! Why, you would never be able to bear the strain; the great exertion!—I was half afraid you might say this, so I have written and respectfully declined the invitation!

* * * * *

“HOW KIND OF YOU TO CALL—I’M SO SORRY TO HAVE KEPT YOU WAITING!”

“OH, DON’T MENTION IT—I’VE NOT BEEN AT ALL BORED! I’VE BEEN TRYING TO IMAGINE WHAT I SHOULD DO TO MAKE THIS ROOM LOOK COMFORTABLE IF IT WERE MINE!”

* * * * *

“ICHABOD!”

GOG, _loquitur_:—

Here’s a pretty fine business, my MAGOG!!! Where are we a-drifting to now? These here tears in my eyes you must twig; I detect the glum gloom on your brow. Most natural, MAGOG, _most_ natural! Loyal old giants, like us, Must be cut to the heart by these times, which they get every year wus and wus! It’s Ikybod, MAGOG; I see it a-written all over the shop. Our glory’s departed, old partner. And where is it going for to stop? That Feast of BELSHAZZER weren’t in it for worritting warnings of woe; Which our beautiful Annual Banquet will soon not be worth half a blow. It’s not half a blow-out as it is, not compared with old glorious gorges. I wish, oh I wish, MAGOG mine, we was back in the times of the GEORGES, Or even DICK WHITTINGTON’s days, which for Giants was quite good enough; But they’ve spoilt all the good things of life with their Science, and Progress, and stuff. I see how it’s drifting, dear MAGOG. The Munching House and the Gildhall. Did use to be London’s fust pride. Is it so in these days? Not at all! Whippersnappers cock snooks at us, MAGOG; A ignerent pert L.C.C., To whom Calipash is a mistry, whose soul never loved Calipee, A feller elected by groundlings, who can’t tell Madeira from Port, Some sour-faced suburban Dissenter—_he_, MAGOG, may make us his sport, Without being popped in the pillory! Proper old punishment that! As all the _old_ punishments _was_. We’re a-getting too flabby, that’s flat. The gallows, the stocks, and the pillory kept rebel rascals in hor, But now every jumped-up JACK CADE, or WAT TYLER can give us his jor Hot-and-hot, without fear of brave WALWORTH’s sharp dagger, or even a shower Of stones, rotten heggs, and dead cats. Yah! The People has far too much power With their wotes, and free speech, and such fudge. Ah! if GLADSTONE, and ASQUITH, and BURNS, And a tidy few more of their sort, in the pillory just took their turns, Like that rapscallion, DANIEL DEFOE, what a clearance he’d have of the cads Who worrit us out of our lives with Reform, and such humbugging fads!

MAGOG, _loquitur_:—

Ah, GOG, I am quite of your mind! Which I don’t mind admitting that KNILL To a Protestant Giant like me was the least little bit of a pill. Stillsomever, he’s Lord Mayor now, and did ought to be backed up as such, For what City Fathers determine it ain’t for outsiders to touch. But where are the Big Pots? The Banquet seems shorn of its splendour to-day. No Premier, nor no Foreign Sec., nor no Chancellor!!! Really, I say This is rascally Radical imperence! How can they _dare_ stop away, From the greatest event of the year, when the words of ripe wisdom, well wined, Should fall from grave turtle-fed lips to make heasy the poor Public mind, As when PALMERSTON, _DIZZY_, and SALISBURY, spoke from that time-honoured Chair! And that GLADSTONE—_he_ ain’t no great loss!—but to think the Woodchopper should _dare_ To neglect his fust duty like this!!! Oh! it’s Ikybod, just as you say, My GOG. Civic glory’s burst up, and the splendour of Lord Mayor’s Day Is eclipsed by that L.C.C. lot and their backers. I’m full, GOG, of fears; The look-out’s enough to depress us, and move the poor Turtle to tears. It’s Ikybod, Ikybod, Ikybod! Oh, for the days that were gayer, No GLADSTONE, no ROSEBERY, no HARCOURT!!! Wy, _next we shall have no Lord Mayor!_

[_Left lamenting._

* * * * *

VERY CRUEL.—Mrs. R. was very much annoyed at something she said having been misreported by a friend. “I can’t trust him,” said the excellent Lady; “he twists and gargles everything I say.”

* * * * *

OFTEN TALKED ABOUT BUT NEVER SEEN.—“A Clean Sweep.”

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE MAN WHO WOULD.

I.—THE MAN WHO WOULD BE LAUREATE.

His name was LEGION. He had kept his eye on the Laureateship from his early boyhood, when he sent verses to the Poets’ Corner of the _Bungay Weekly Mail_, which sometimes published them; then he cut them out, and pasted them neatly in a book, which he still possesses. He always wrote on an occasion. “Lines on the Recovery of My Sister EMILY from the Mumps”; “Dirge on the Decease of a Favourite Squirrel,” beginning, “No more!” but there was always plenty more where that came from, and is still. At College he was one of the three men who wrote in _College Rhymes_, and secured for that periodical a circulation by taking a hundred copies each. LEGION sent dozens of his, marked, to every poet he heard of, generally addressing them “Dear ALURED” (if that was the Minstrel’s Christian name), or, in verse, “Brother, my Brother, my sweet, swift Brother!” This annoyed some poets, who did not answer; others were good-natured, and would reply,—

“DEAR SIR,—I have to acknowledge, with many thanks, your _Cebren and Paris_, and anticipate much pleasure from its perusal.”

LEGION kept all these letters in a book, and published some of them as advertisements of his _Cebren and Paris_ (an unsuccessful Newdigate), when it appeared in a volume, with an astonishingly decorative cover. It was a classical piece, in blank verse. Cebren, the father of Œnone, is represented asking Paris what his intentions are as regards that lady. It was piece of classical _genre_, the author said: such interviews must have occurred when a young Trojan prince, with no particular expectations, paid marked attentions to the daughter of a River-god, like Cebren. Here is a specimen piece,—

“Now mark me, Paris,” said the River-god, Seated among the damp lush water-weeds, His tresses crowned with crow’s-foot,—“Mark my words, Thou dalliest with my daughter; what thine aim, I ask, and crave an answer—great thy line, The lineage of renowned Laomedon. Thy sires have wedded goddesses ere now. But wealthy though the House of Troy may be. Thy father has a monstrous family, Daughters and sons as countless as the rills That Ida sends to be my tributaries. What he can give thee, what thy prospects are, What settlements thou art prepared to make, If thou wouldst lead Œnone to the altar, This would I know; excuse an anxious sire!”

Then Paris murmured:— “Honourable but vague, Remote, but honourable, my purpose is:” And that great River-god arose in flood, Monstrous, and murmuring, and to the main. He swept the works of men and oxen down, And had not Paris climbed into a tree, He ne’er had crossed the ocean; never seen The fairest face that launched a thousand ships, And burned the topless towers of Ilium.

Some accused LEGION of plagiarising the last line and a half, which reminded them, they said, of MARLOWE. But he replied that great wits jump, that it was an accidental coincidence. The public, which rarely cares much for poetry, was struck by _Cebren and Paris_. “There is in it,” said the _Parthenon_, “an original music, and a chord is struck, reverberating from the prehistoric years, which will find an answer in the heart of every father of a family.” The Clergy at large quoted _Cebren and Paris_ in their charges and sermons, and the work was a favourite prize at seminaries for young ladies. Consequently all the other poets, whom nobody buys, arose, and blasphemed _Cebren and Paris_ in all the innumerable reviews. This greatly, and justly, added to the popularity of LEGION’s book. He followed it up by _Idylls of the Nursery_, a volume of exquisite pieces on infants as yet incapable of speaking or walking. This had an enormous success among young newly-married people, an enthusiastic class of the community. At recitations you might hear—

Tootsy, wootsy, pooty sing, Mammie’s darling, icky thing! Coral lips that fret the coral, Innocence completely moral. Sweet Babe, They say, Naught rhymes to Babe, In any lay Save “astrolabe,”— And Tippoo Saib! Oh, tiny face, And tiny feet, Oh, infant grace, So incomplete, Kiss me, my Sweet!

In sequence to these effusions, LEGION poured forth Ballades, and Rondeaux, and wrote a Chant Royal on a General Election which occupied a whole column of a newspaper, and needed three men to read, with a boy for the “envoy.” But this ditty was not thought to have seriously affected the voting classes in any direction. LEGION was now usually spoken of as “the versatile Mr. LEGION,” a compliment which never failed to annoy him hugely. Sated with popular applause, he turned into a vein of new poetry, and produced _The Song of the Spud_, which, his admirers averred was “racy of the soil.” A grand English Opera, on the Pilgrimage of Grace, was performed, at immense expense, LEGION being the Librettist. It was patriotic, but not exactly popular. Still, with all these claims on his country, LEGION lived in hopes which were wofully disappointed; for, when his chance came at last, a Prime Minister of modern ideas declared that, as a Laureate is not useful, he must be ornamental. Now, neither LEGION, nor any of his rivals, could be called decorative, whatever they might have been in their youth. They needed laurels, for the same reason as JULIUS CÆSAR. The wreath was therefore offered (by a Plébiscite conducted in a newspaper) to the young Lady-poet whose verses and photograph secured the greatest number of votes; the Laureate, in every case, to resign, on attaining her twenty-fifth birthday. The beautiful and accomplished Mrs. JINGLEY JONES triumphed in this truly modern competition, and her book was rushed into a sale of two hundred and fifty copies. After this check the writing of poetry ceased to attract male enterprise—to the extreme joy of Publishers and Reviewers; though the market for waste-paper received a shock from which it never rallied. The youthful male population of England determined never to become Poets, unless they were born Poets, a resolution on which, at all times, a minority of the race had acted, with the best results.

* * * * *

“NOTES AND PAPER.”—There is a lot of “paper” about from “Walker—London.” No, Mr. JOHNNIE TOOLE, Sir, not your “paper,” for _your_ House is crammed and your “paper” is at a premium. But this particular WALKER, of Warwick House, London, sends forth “Society Stationery”—“which,” as _Mrs. Gamp_ would have said, “spelling of it with an ‘a’ instead of an ‘e,’ Society never is.” Among the lot there’s an “Antique Society Paper,” which should be a Society Paper as old as the world itself, or it might be used by a Fossilised Fogey Club. WALKER & Co.’s new “Society Paper,” whether antique or modern, is pretty and quite harmless—till pen and ink are at work on it; and then—but that’s another story.

* * * * *

COSTS AS THEY ARE AND WILL BE.

(_TWO SCENES FROM A FARCICAL TRAGEDY SHOWING THAT SOME OF THE JUDGES’ RECOMMENDATIONS MIGHT BE ADOPTED IMMEDIATELY._)

THE PRESENT (_AS THEY ARE_). SCENE—SOLICITOR’S _PRIVATE ROOM._ SOLICITOR _AWAITING WEALTHY_ CLIENT. CLERK _IN ATTENDANCE._

_Solicitor._ The lady is to be shown in the moment she arrives; and mind, I am not to be disturbed as long as she is here.

_Clerk._ Yes, Sir. [_Exit._

_Sol._ Quite pleasant way of spending a morning. (_Enter_ Client.) Ah, my dear lady, and how are you?

_Client._ Very well, thank you; but BOBBY is not so well, and as for MARY—

[_Enters into long domestic details._

_Sol._ (_in a sympathetic tone_). Dear me! And what has given me the pleasure of seeing you here to-day?

_Client._ I only looked in to ask you how you thought our suit was going on?

_Sol._ Oh, capitally! You know, we have had several appointments before the Chief Clerk in Chambers, and—

[_Enters into long explanation, bristling with technicalities._

_Client_ (_quite at sea_). Dear me, what a complicated affair a Chancery suit is! I had no idea we should have to do all this. But won’t it be very expensive?

_Sol._ (_smiling_). Well, yes; but it will all be paid out of the estate. You, my dear lady, won’t have to pay anything for it—I mean out of your own pocket.

_Client._ Oh, that is delightful! Because you see with the carriages and the opera-box— And that reminds me, I think I shall give up the opera-box. Do you know last Season the music was magnificent, but quite too learned. I think— (_Gives her views at great length upon the Opera, past, present and future. At the end of her remarks_—) But how I do run on! I am afraid I am taking up your time.

_Sol._ Not at all. I have nothing particular to do, and our interview comes out of the estate. Now are you sure we can do nothing for you this morning? The last time you were here we got copies of all the orders for you. I hope you received them safely.

_Client_ (_laughing_). Why, I do not think I have opened the packet! I came across a bundle the other day, and could not make out what it was, and laid it aside, because I saw your name upon it and thought it must have something to do with that troublesome Chancery suit.

_Sol._ (_laughing_). Well, my dear Madam, that parcel represented several pounds. However, it doesn’t matter; you won’t have to pay for it, as it will come out of the estate. And now, what can we do for you? Have you looked into the accounts carefully?

_Client._ No, and I am rather fond of figures.

_Sol._ Then we will send you a copy for, say, the last five years.

_Client._ Shall I be able to make them out?

_Sol._ You ought to be able to do so, my dear Madam. They will be prepared by a leading firm of Accountants, and we will check them ourselves before we send them to you. Is there anything else?

_Client._ No thanks—I think not. And now I must say good-bye. I am ashamed to take up so much of your valuable time.

_Sol._ Not at all. I shall be amply remunerated out of the estate. (_Exit_ Client. Solicitor _gives his_ Clerk _the heads for six folios of a bill of costs, and then observes_—) Not a bad morning’s work!

THE FUTURE (_AS THEY WILL BE_). SCENE—_THE SAME._ SOLICITOR _AND_ CLERK _DISCOVERED._

_Sol._ Now mind, on no account is she to be admitted. She talks about all sorts of things and takes up my time dreadfully, and now the Court won’t pass “luxurious costs,” and objects to payment out of the estate, I can charge nothing. So mind, she is not to be admitted.

_Clerk._ Very good, Sir. [_Exit._

_Sol._ Yes. At my very busiest time, when every moment is valuable! (_Enter_ Client.) What you, my dear Madam! I really am too busy to attend to you this morning.

_Client_ (_astonished_). Why you said you were always pleased to see me!

_Sol._ But that was before the Judges’ recommendations were adopted. Nowadays we must not let you run up costs until we have explained to you in writing what you are about. And as all you say will come out of your own pocket, and not out of the estate, it is only fair to warn you.

_Client._ What, out of my own pocket! Then I shall be off.

_Sol._ Sorry to give up our pleasant conversations, but they run into money. (_Exit_ Client, _when the_ Solicitor _shakes his head to the_ Clerk _who has brought his rough draft of costs, and to which nothing now can be legally added, and observes_—) Not a good day’s work!

* * * * *

_High Church Lady._ “I SUPPOSE THAT WAS THE LADY CHAPEL BEHIND THE CHOIR?”

_Low Church Verger._ “I DON’T FANCY THERE’S HANY SUCH ’EREABOUTS, M’M. I THINK IT WAS ONLY THE PEW-OPENER!”

* * * * *

THE BOOM-DE-AY POET.

[“Mr. RICHARD MORTON, the author of “_Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay_,” has been called to prove what would be a reasonable figure for the whole proprietary rights of a song.”—_Times Law Reports, Nov. 3rd._]

He came before the public t’other day!— The Author of “_Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay!_” ’Twas in a case before Judge GRANTHAM brought (It should have been in Justice “COLLINS’” Court) When the Inspired Bard the Jury faced. As he within the witness-box was placed. He told us how his Pegasus would fly From plain (two guineas) up to (ten) the sky! But for the song he wrote for LOTTIE fair We hope he was a-Lottie’d a large share In all its earnings. May it not be long Ere he produce another catching song; But should he fail, then when the poet’s clay Be laid to rest, it will suffice to say, “_Vixit._ He wrote ‘_Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay!_’”

* * * * *

MRS. R., on hearing that a Cricket-team, though not first-rate, had _a leaven_ of good players, inquired how they could have more of them.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OPERA-GOERS’ DIARY.

_Covent Garden, Tuesday, Nov. 1st._—_Tristan und Isolde._ About the dullest thing that even a much-enduring Wagnerite ever heard. Glass down to zero.

_Wednesday._—Glass up again. _Orféo_ with the two RAVOGLI and the marvellous BAUERMEISTER as _Cupid_. Wonderful little lady BAUERMEISTER-singer! I’ve said it before, and I repeat it emphatically, BAUERMEISTER is “a little treasure” to an Operatic Manager. MASCAGNI’s _Cavalleria Rusticana_ was the second course to-night, in which this adaptable lady, the _Cupid_ of the first piece, appeared as old heart-broken grey-haired _Lucia_, the mother of the gay _Turiddu_. Were Sir AUGUSTUS inclined to introduce a little light English jocosity into this serious Opera, he might give a line to the implacable _Alfio_, saying, “I’ve come to rid you of _Turiddu_!” If MASCAGNI had heard this, he would have composed an additional _Intermezzo_ expressing the whole force of the idea.

_Thursday._—_Carmen_ expected, but tenor off colour, so change of air (or should say airs) recommended, and adopted. Audience sent to the country, or, rather, _Rusticana_ brought to them.

_Friday._—House crammed. Great excitement to hear MELBA as _Aïda_, the darky girl. Everybody delighted, except perhaps MELBA herself, who, on seeing the bouquets, must have murmured, “_Trop de fleurs_!” Everybody good. Quite the best night of the Season. To-night BAUERMEISTER appears as _Sacerdotessa_. So this week she has been Cupid, an old Peasant woman, _Frascita_, a Brigand’s Young Woman; and then, being repentant, she finishes as a Priestess! It’s a whole life-time in a few days.

* * * * *

LADY GAY’S DETECTION.

_Berkeley Square, W._

MR. PUNCH, Sir,

I am surprised to find a Journal of your standing lowering itself to follow the example of the so-called “Society Journals” by inserting contributions from women!—I have discovered, no matter how, that My Wife, who always declares she hates letter-writing, has for months past contributed a long weekly letter to _Punch_, dealing with racing from a humorous (save the mark!) point of view! Now I never make jokes myself—at least intentionally—nor do I think it becomes a man of position to do so—and I quite agree with SWIFT or SHERIDAN (I know it was _one_ of these infernal clever literary chaps) who said, “A humorous woman is a delusion and a snare!”—so you may imagine my disgust at finding My Wife writing for a Journal!—why couldn’t she have asked Me to help her?—and signing her articles anonymously too!—for I need hardly tell you she is no more “GAY” than I am!—at all events when in _my_ society!

Like most busy idlers (that is _not_ intended for a joke)—I go racing a bit, and of course “have a bit on” like other people, and having tried all the turf-prophets in turn, with unsatisfactory results, I was delighted to hear from a friend that “a new DANIEL had come to judgment” in the person of a tipster on _Punch_, who was “wonderful good”—(it was just the time when she _did_ blunder on to a winner)—and I made up my mind to follow the new Prophet DANIEL; but, by Jove! it resulted in a loss, and DANIEL landed me among the lions in no time! These are _not_ jokes, but sober facts—I plunged heavily on all the “Selections,” and am now in the pleasant position of owing the Ring a substantial sum in addition to “the old,” through following My Wife’s advice—whilst _her_ banking-account is considerably augmented through having _laid against_ her own tips! This _may_ be humorous, but as i said, I don’t approve of humour when exercised on myself!