Chapter 2

Then, in the last Act of _The Guardsman_, if we have a French room with half-a-dozen doors, leading to half-a-dozen different places, with which arrangement not a few of us are familiar in pieces brought over fresh from the Palais Royal, and occurring in farces of which _Bébé_, _Anglicè Betsey_, at the Gymnase and Criterion is a type, shall we complain? Shall we not rather laugh heartily over the good old game of Hide-and-Seek, which on the stage is invariably the cause of much amusement to one person for whom, at all events, I can answer? What does it matter if to some it recalls a few farcical comedies all excellent material? Not a bit! I gather from the genuine laughter and applause of the crowded house at the Court, that this amuses and will continue to amuse some hundreds nightly, as long as it is all done so well, and at such high pressure, as it is now in _The Guardsman_. The First Act is good; the Second is the best; but the Third is like the last figure in an after-supper early-in-the-morning Lancers, ending in a whirligig _galop_, when everything is fast and furious, and just the tune and its measure taken _prestissimo_ and _fortissimo_ keep the couples going till everybody is breathless and exhausted.

WEEDON GROSSMITH is excellent. In brief, he plays the part of a thorough donkey, who wishes to appear "horsey." ARTHUR CECIL is admirable as the Ex-Judge of the Divorce Court--suggesting the idea of a gay old gentleman, who is still a bit of a dog--but a dog who has had his day. If this is not his character, how is it he is on such friendly terms with the _Modiste_, carefully played, and with great spirit too, by Miss AGNES THOMAS? Mr. ELLIOT is all go and bustle; if he were not so, pop would go the piece. The makeup of Mr. LITTLE for the old Captain is uncommonly good; it is a small part, but, with a LITTLE in it, it is big. Mr. NAMBY, as the Irishman, _Miles_, first-rate; quite _Miles gloriosus_. But I can't go on with praise, they're all so good, and ELLALINE TERRISS charming. Miss CAROLINE HILL, fresher than the proverbial paint, makes a rattling part of _Lady Jones_, and, as the motto of this Company is that of Racing Eights, "Swing, swing together!"--which might, in another sense, have been the refrain sung by a brazen band of Highwaymen in the good old times--it is likely that they'll keep the Court-Boat going the pace, with the tide of popular favour, for many months to come.

As a Postscript, I may add a letter on the subject addressed to _Mr. Punch_.

_Oct. 25th._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

In the admirable letter of "AN OLD SOLDIER" in your paper this week, there are a few unimportant errors due, no doubt, to your Correspondent's age, and the shortness of memory consequent upon it that mar, in a measure, the trenchant force of his criticism. I feel sure he will pardon my reminding him that the Coldstream Guards do _not_ wear varnished or patent-leather boots with a tunic, except in "_Levée_ dress;" that Mr. CHARLES WARNER did not play a private soldier in "the same distinguished regiment," but in the Grenadiers; that a Captain could never, by any possibility be "on guard" at the Tower; that the officer on duty at the Tower is called the "Picquet," and not the "Orderly" officer, and is never a Captain; that no Guardsman has ever, in the memory of man, worn a "scarf" in uniform; and that no soldier, worthy of the name, considers the mess of his own Battalion "an odd sort of place to dine at," even "in the height of the Season."

I may add that my mother tells me she has often had her Court-dress altered on the very morning of the "Drawing-Room." With these few trifling exceptions, "AN OLD SOLDIER's" letter is most accurate and just.

I am, Dear _Mr. Punch_, Your enthusiastic Admirer,

A PRESENT GUARDSMAN.

* * * * *

"HERE WE ARE AGAIN!"--Last Friday, a Correspondent of the P.M.G., onboard the _Angola_, interviewed "the Marine-mystery, the Sea-serpent," off the West Coast of Africa. It showed "two tremendous green eyes." The narrator counts upon there being a considerable amount of green in the eyes of those who don't happen to be Sea-serpents--unless after using very strong glasses (hot) and plenty of 'em.

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"WE ARE NOTHING IF NOT CORRECT."--In last week's number the title of Picture, p. 198, should have been "Studies in _Contrapuntal_ (not 'Continental') Perspective;" and at p. 201, in EFFIE's reply to the Governess, "AN" was a misprint for "no." This information will relieve a vast number of perplexed inquirers.

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THE ROAD TO RUIN;

_OR, THE REAL MILITARY LONG-DISTANCE RIDE._

["A quarter of a century hence, France will have more than four million trained soldiers, and Russia more than four millions and a half. We may deplore, as we will, this conversion of Europe into a vast camp, but the German Government, witnessing the development of such colossal armies on either hand, cannot be said to propose anything excessive or unnecessary when it asks, as it now does, for the means of raising the trained soldiers of the Empire to 4,400,000."--_The "Times" on the German Army Bills._]

Ride on! Ride on! "Tis a pace will kill! Like Smuggler BILL and Exciseman GILL, In the _Ingoldsby Legends_, you ride a race On a perilous path, at a breakneck pace, In a mingled spirit of hate and fear, Too hot to heed, and too deaf to hear; With a fierce red eye on each other cast, And a rate of going that _cannot_ last, On a road that leads, as such roads lead all, To a crumbling cliff, and a crashing fall.

"The Road to Ruin? Pooh! preacher trite! 'Tis a gallant race, and in glorious flight, With the clinkety-clank of scabbard and spur, O'er moor and meadow, by linden and fir, With the wind of speed blowing brisk in one's face, A Long-Distance Ride is a soul-stirring race!"

Verily yes,--for the riders gay, Saddled softly, in armed array, Hand on the bridle, heel at the flank, And that martial music, clinkety-clank! Charming the ear in galloping time With the hoofs' hard rattle in clattering chime. Clumpety-clump! Clankety-clink! Out on the caitiff who'd pause or shrink! Clinkety-clank! Clumpety-clump! The stout steed's heart at his ribs may thump, In spasms the breath through his nostrils pump, The strained neck droop, though 'tis held at stretch, The labouring lungs in sheer agony fetch Blood-mixed breathings, red-dappled foam,-- Let the lash descend, let the spur strike home! Are they not _racing_? Is not their pride Engaged in winning _this_ Long-Distance Ride?

_Excessive_? No! Who dares hint so? The going's hot, and the steeds must _go_! Chargers entered for such a race Must not complain of the pounding pace; Must not grumble at crushing weight. Yes; they appear in a piteous state, Almost foundered, and well nigh blown, With the burden big o'er their shoulders thrown. Ever swelling, like miser's sacks; But why have horses such broad strong backs, If not to _bear_--to the death at need, Though lungs may choke, and though flanks may bleed? Ride, ye _militaires_, ruthlessly ride! Shouting Emperors hail with pride, "Gallant" riders, who lash and goad Their staggering steeds on this desperate road; Their whips are wet, and their spur-points gory, But--beasts must bleed, in the name of Glory!

Beasts of burden, ye peoples, still Ridden hard by a ruthless will! Militarism is mounted firm. The saddled slaves may shudder and squirm, The bridled brutes may shy and shrink, The road is long, and the gulf's black brink Seems distant yet, and is scarcely seen By the rival riders, whose pride and spleen Blind them--save to each other's glare, To the pace they make, and the weight they bear, Those hot-urged horses! Lash and goad, Rash riders!--but, at the end of the road, When the growing burden's last possible pound Is piled; when the steed's last staggering bound Is made, when the last short, labouring breath Is breathed, when over, in shuddering death, The charger rolls, with a sickening crash, And responds no more to the spur or lash; And the gulf yawns close, sheer slope to air, Black, unavoidable, ruinous there-- Then, gallant rider, how will _you_ fare?

* * * * *

IN THE COUNTY COUNCIL.

CHARRINGTON forgot his manners, Pleading for the _Jolly Tanners_; He gave his tongue, at serious cost, The Licence which the _Tanners_ lost.

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* * * * *

AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON

AT NAZARETH HOUSE.

O wealthy and world-weary triflers, O idle and opulent folk, For whom time is a foe to be slain, and life's self but a bore or a joke, Take yourselves, and your hearts, and your purses to Nazareth House and behold The brave service of well-bestowed time, the brave uses of well-applied gold!

Where is Nazareth House, then, and what? 'Tis in Hammersmith, Madam, a place That you probably seldom illume with the light of your beautiful face. But _what_? That's a far larger question, full answer to which would take time. Far better go see for yourself. If there's aught of the moral sublime In these gold-grubbing days, 'tis in scenes where love-service unbought and unpaid-- A vastly unbusiness-like thing in the eyes of the vassals of Trade!-- Is devoted in silence unseen to the outcast, the old, and the poor. Five hundred such waifs are here housed, and _they yearn to find refuge for more!_ That's the pith of the matter, dear Madam! And as for the rest, I've returned From a visit, and fancy your heart, like my own, would have lightened and burned! Had you walked through the wards, as I walked, with a Sister as frank and unfeigned As sweet Charity's servant should be. There was nothing o'er piously strained In this unrigid Refuge for helplessness. Cheeriness, confidence, mirth Seemed to reign in these child-crowded rooms--in these wards where the aged, whose birth Dated well-nigh a century back, whether sewing, or smoking, or prone On the pallet of sickness, all _smiled_, and no soul seemed forlorn or alone. How they sang, those close clustering toddlers, their curly heads tier above tier, With never a trace of restraint, and unknowing the shadow of fear! Here timidity checks not the young, and here weariness haunts not the old. There is laughter on age-shrivelled lips, and the eyes of mere babies are bold With the confidence born but of love. Even imbeciles, helpless and blind, Shut out at each sense from full life, yet can feel unseen tendance is _kind_, And sit silently placid, or burst into song of a heart-searching sort-- Muffled speech from unplumbed spirit-depths, yet inspired by the impulse of sport. Have a chat, my dear Madam--shrink not, they are women!--with age-wrinkled dames, Who are busily bed-quilting here, while the Autumn sun ruddily flames On the walls from the liberal windows. Bestow but a smile and a jest, They'll respond with a jest and a smile, for there's life in each age-burdened breast, And confidence, comfort, and cheer. Here again clustered close round the fire Are a number of grizzle-look'd men, every one is a true "hoary sire," Bowed, time-beaten, grey, yet alert and responsive to kindness of speech; And see how old eyes can light up if you promise a pipe-charge a-piece. For the comforting weed KINGSLEY eulogised is not taboo in this place, Where the whiff aromatic brings not cold reproval to Charity's face. Ah! the tale is o'erlong for full telling; but never a bright afternoon In London's chill leaf-strewn October was better bestowed. 'Tis a boon To be able to speak on behalf of Samaritan kindness so schemed, In a way in which lovers of man, not of mummeries, ever have dreamed. On such wise, wide, benevolent lines, with no bondage of class or of creed. But the helpless Five Hundred still swell, and the Sisterhood feel sorest need Of enlarging their borders and branches. The children especially swarm, And for every poor, pale, helpless mite, who can here find a pallet and form, Home, food, clothing, schooling, life-settlement, _love_, there are hundreds for whom And their piteous appeal the response must unwillingly come, "No more room!", Room, not in their hearts but their wards is this unselfish Sisterhood's lack; There you, my dear Madam, can help, if your purse-strings a little you'll slack. The Home for Poor Age, Helpless Childhood, Incurable Sickness, depends Not on fees or on wealthy endowments, but alms and free service of friends. Gifts, not only of money, but garments and furniture, beds, tables, chairs, The Nazareth ladies will welcome--Come! Is there a Christian who cares For God's poor and the Christ-welcomed children, who will not respond in some way To the modest appeal of these ladies, who care for the Waif and the Stray?

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TO MANKIND IN GENERAL--

THEREFORE TO MR. GLADSTONE IN PARTICULAR.

(_See Speech by Miss Cozens at Meeting of Woman's Emancipation Union at Birmingham, Oct. 27._)

The time is come, beware of "us," There's thunder in the air; Your future's in the care of "us;" Beware of "us"--beware!

We'll cease to coax and "Cozen" you By fascinating smiles, And gaily now impose on you By dynamitic wiles.

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A JUDGE'S LAMENT.

[Q.B.D. = QUEEN'S BENCH DIVISION.]

After the labours of Vacation, Ten long weeks with nothing to do, I feel that I need some recreation, I'll sit in Court for a week or two: It's just as well, now and then, To show yourself to the public ken. Ah me! who would be Judge of the High Court, Q B.D.?

But it's tiring work to sit on the Bench, Hearing the Counsel, day by day, Canting and ranting, while they clench Their fists, and thump and hammer away: Be their arguments weak or strong, Whatever I say I'm in the wrong. Ah me! who would be, A badgered Judge of the Q.B.D.?

Whenever I crack a judicial jest, Witnesses, jurors, suitors smile, They quite understand I do my best, A wearisome action to beguile: "Silks" and "Juniors" seem to force, A jeering laugh as a matter of course. Ah me! who would be, A jocular Judge of the Q.B.D.?

The public, solicitors, counsel, frown And grumble and growl at the law's delay; I'm never allowed to stop in town, Off on Circuit I'm hurried away: Election Petitions I'm made to judge, On Irish Commissions I have to drudge. Ah me! who would be, A toiling Judge of the Q.B.D.?

To a _cause célèbre_ I don't object, Leaders of fashion around me sit, My robes and ermine command respect, I rather fancy I'm making a hit: I feel there's a chance of getting, who knows? Into _Vanity Fair_ or Madame Tussaud's. Ah me! who would not be, A popular Judge of the Q.B.D.?

When the Sittings are in full swing, I'm bound, From half past ten till the clock strikes four, In Court or in Chambers to be found, With half an hour for my lunch or more: Summons and motion and cause I hear, I'm only paid, five thousand a-year! Many a man would like to be, Judge of the High Court Q.B.D.

* * * * *

ANTI-TEETOTAL OPERA, "_Eugène Onegin_" at the Olympic. Will it be followed by _Ourjane Twobrandi_? and subsequently, by the celebrated Opera, _Lotowiski_?

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"For graphic touch and keen appreciation of humour, for easy conversational narration, give me," quoth the Baron, "the papers now being published in _Household Words_ (most appropriate place for them), written by MONTAGU WILLIAMS, Q.C. and Magistrate." His paper on Ramsgate, telling how he travelled down, who his companions were, is as thoroughly amusing and interesting as his tribute to the health-giving climate of Ramsgate is true. These papers under the comprehensive title of "Round London," are to be republished in book-form by, as I believe, Messrs. MACMILLAN, and assuredly they will be as popular as were the same author's "Leaves" and "Later Leaves." False sentiment, MONTAGU WILLIAMS, as man or magistrate, does not encourage. "Strongly do I recommend his 'Round London,'" says

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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"THE MORRIS DANCE."--NEW FIGURE.--The _Premier Danseur_, holding laurel-crown, dances up to WILLIAM MORRIS offering him the laurel-crown. Will MORRIS? MORRIS won't. Premier retires gracefully, and is seen approaching LEWIS MORRIS.

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TO SOME AUTHORS.

"How did I like that book?" I gained, From reading it, joy unrestrained; 'Twas perfect--had it but contained An Index!

Brilliant, yet also erudite, Profound, in facts, in diction light, Why failed its writer to indite An Index?

'Twas history, on its social side, With stories, good to quote, supplied, Yet how quote anything, denied An Index?

A book that "He who reads might run"-- MACAULAY, BOSWELL, GREEN, in one! Its Printer, too--what made _him_ shun An Index?

I missed a date, harked back. "A fad!" You'll say? Perhaps. It made _me_ mad. My hunt was vain, because, it had No Index.

O Authors of instructive chat, Supply this want when next you're at A book! "_Bis dat qui citò dat_," An Index.

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OUR NEW EXAM.

Answer any three of the following five questions:--

I. (_a._) What is a cassowary? (_b._) Does its internal construction render it capable of anthropophagy? (_c._) Describe its habits, nature and food, and draw an outline sketch of its skeleton.

II. (_a._) Give the latitude and longitude of Timbuctoo. (_b._) State the number and religious belief of its inhabitants. (_c._) Discuss its natural advantages; (i.), as a port, and (ii.) as a centre for missionary enterprise.

III. (_a._) Is a missionary best when served (i.) _au naturel_; (ii.) _à la maître d'hôtel_, or, (iii.) _aux petîtes livrettes de psaumes_? Discuss the advantages of each method of preparation; (_b._) Quote any advice given by (i.) LUCULLUS, or (ii.) EPICURUS on this subject.

IV. What version of the Prayer-book is in use amongst the natives of Central Africa?

V. Discuss the authorship of the poem entitled _Timbuctoo_, and adduce any reasons for believing JULIUS CÆSAR to have written it.

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THE OTHER PAPER.--MR. NEWNES is bringing out a rival to the _Pall Mall Gazette_, Is it to be published before the _P.M.G._, or later in the day? If the first, its title might be _The Noon's Paper_; if the latter, _The After-Newnes Paper_. Whichever you like, my little dear! Mr. N. pays his money and takes his choice. Anyhow, "NEWNES' Paper" is a marketable commodity.

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THE STEPNEY THAT COSTS.

["The circumstances will indeed have to be very remarkable to take two Judges into Stepney."--_Baron Pollock, re Stepney Election Petition, Oct. 26._]

I chanced to meet a man the other day, Whose store of legal knowledge was amazing, He stormed at me in quite the stormiest way, With, fiery indignation simply blazing. I wondered if he'd lost his (legal) hair (Forgive the phrase) against a demi-rep? Nay! They'd really ventured to presume to dare To ask a Judge or two to go to Stepney!

Now if it had been merely Peekham Rye, They would have gone at once, and gone right gladly. Then Brondesbury, Barnet--New or High,-- Or Shepherd's Bush would not have done so badly. Penge would have brought the Crystal Palace near, And Kensington's Olympia made their soul burn, They'd have enjoyed the jaunt to Greenwich Pier, And Heaven had been synonymous with Holborn.

Oh! had it been Soho or Maida Vale It would have been of course another story. A Delightful trip to Euston could not fail To please as much as Broad Street or Victoria. Belgravia would have suited very well, They could have done with Balham, Bow, or Brixton, With Flower-laden Battersea. But tell Me if you can--oh! why was Stepney fixt on?

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ROBERT'S VISIT TO IRELAND.

Well, it isn't for one like me to say as how as good luck means wirtue rewarded, cos I have, in my long xperiense, seen not a werry few cases where it wasn't so--no, not by no manner of means.

But this I can most trewly say, that my slice of luck during this larst munth is worthy of being called a reel staggerer! And this is how it cum about:--

The Amerrycain Gent, at the Grand Hotel, wanted a change for about a weak or two, and he naterally arsked me what he shood do. I made lots of wise suggeshons, in course, such as Margate, and Grinnidge, and Hern Bay, and other hily arristercratick places, but they none on 'em woodn't do. So presently he calls out, "Did you ever go to Ireland?" I was that staggered, that I coud ardly arnser him; but then I says, "Yes, Sir--but it were sum time ago." Then he staggers me much more wiolently, for he says, says he, "Why shoudn't you go with me then, and be my Wally!" When I recovered my breth, I says, "I don't know as our gentelmanly Manager here woud spare me." So he says, "I'll soon see about that." So he rings the bell wiolently, and arsks for him--and he cums--and, to my serprize, he doesn't make not no objecshun at all, which was, in course, werry complementary to me, and, strange to say, no more did Mrs. ROBERT, when I told her of it.

Well, I passes over all prelimmenerry derangements, till we finds ourselves on board a lovly steemer, bound for Old Ireland, as we allus calls her, tho' I don't spose as she's any older than the rest on us. It was that ruff that I perposed waitin till the sea got smooth; but my Master ony larft, and sed I shood be all rite if I follered his adwice, as he was used to the sea, and rayther liked it a little ruffish. So he got me a sheet of brown paper to put on my manly chest, and gave me some champane, and one glass of Perettic Sline, I think he called it, and, with their ade, I got over much better than I xpected.