Chapter 2

_Tuesday_.--Have decided that exercise in a Bath-chair is quite superfluous. Resolved to take exercise, for the future, in a hammock, just outside the garden-door. Must practise speech-making to the gardener. Good idea--Orchids. Asked him what he thought about the new Orchid. Miserable fool answered, "Awkud, zur? Dunno waht thaht be." I said that was "awkud," and had to laugh at the highly original side-splitter myself, as he never saw it.

_Wednesday_.--Must really give up this long walk to the garden-door. Shall never become a great statesman unless I do. Resolved to take exercise in arm-chair in library. The children's governess came in to fetch a book. Addressed her at some length on Free Education. Afterwards, thought this subject was somewhat ill-chosen, as her salary is so small.

_Thursday_.--Really cannot stand this walking up and down stairs. Shall remain for the future in my bed-room and take exercise on sofa by fireside, as I feel chilly. Page came in with coals. Reminded me of Policy of Scuttle. Spoke of this at some length, and woke him up with difficulty when I had finished. Felt rather unwell.

_Friday_.--Dressing and undressing is certainly needless fatigue, and evidently causes this headache and general seediness. Shall take exercise in bed. Felt worse. Female relatives anxious, and insist on medical attendance. Assured them I was following the best system, and answered their persistent demands by a short address on Home Rule.

_Saturday_.--Felt so bad at five this morning, that Doctor was fetched. Tried feebly to address him on the Eight Hours' Question, when he said he never had any time to think how long he worked. Explained my new system to him. He said I should myself want a new system to stand such a course of treatment. Then he pulled me out of bed, and insisted on my walking ten miles as soon as I was dressed. Felt much better. Shall abandon politics and become a farmer, having just heard of an infallible system for growing wheat profitably.

* * * * *

THE "RESTORATION" PERIOD.--Will the Chairmen of the L.C. & D. and the S.E. Lines unite their forces? After the meeting on this subject last week, Sir EDWARD will have lots of reason to listen to. But apart from every consideration of _mal de mer_, and "From Calais to Dover," as the poet sings "'Tis soonest over," there is not anywhere a better, and we, who have suffered as greatly as the much-enduring Ulysses, venture to assert not anywhere as good a luncheon as at the "Restauration" (well it deserves the title!) of the Calais Station. Every patriotic travelling Englishman must be delighted to think that some few centuries ago we gave up Calais. Had it been nowadays in English hands, why it might even now be possessed of a "Refreshment Room" no better than--any on our side of the Channel, for there is no necessity to particularise. From Dover to Calais is the shortest and best restorative'd route for the traveller, whether ill or well, at sea.

* * * * *

MOTTOES for the new Lord MAYOR. "_Nil obstet_," "_Nil fortius_," and, from HORACE, "_Nil amplius oro_." This, in answer to thousands of correspondents, is our last word on the subject; so after this (except on the 9th of November), we say--_nil_.

* * * * *

SUCH A "LIGHT OPERA!"

Had Sir ARTHUR written the music for _The Mountebanks_, and Sir BRIAN DE BOIS GILBERT the book of _Haddon Hall_, both might have been big successes So, however, it was not to be, and Sir ARTHUR chose this book by Mr. GRUNDY, which labours under the disadvantages of being original, and of not owing almost everything to a French source. It isn't every day of the week that Mr. GRUNDY tumbles upon _A Pair of Spectacles_ in a volume of French plays. The period to which the very slight and uninteresting story of _Haddon Hall_ belongs is just before the Restoration, but the dialogue of "the book" is spiced with modern slang, both "up to date" (the date being this present year of Grace, not sixteen hundred and sixty) and out of date. The "out-of-date" slang, which is, "_I've got 'em on"_--alluding to the Scotchman's trousers--has by far the best of it, as it comes at the end of the piece, and enjoys the honour of having been set to music by the variously-gifted Composer: so that "_I've got 'em on_," with its enthusiastically treble-encored whiskey fling, capitally danced by Miss NITA COLE as _Nance_, with Mr. DENNY as _The McCrankie_, may be considered as the real hit of the evening, having in itself about as much to do with whatever there is of the plot as would have the entrance of Mr. JOEY GRIMALDI, in full Clown's costume, with "Here we are again!" Of the music, as there was very little to catch and take away, one had to leave it. Of course this seriously comic or comically serious Opera is drawing--["_Music_," observes Mr. WAGG, parenthetically, "cannot be _drawing_"]--and will continue to do so for some little time, long enough at all events to reimburse Mr. D'OYLY CARTE for his more than usually lavish outlay on the _mise-en-scène._

* * * * *

"CROSSING THE BAR."

IN MEMORIAM.

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

BORN, AUGUST 5, 1809. DIED, OCTOBER 6, 1892.

"TALIESSEN is our fullest throat of song."--_The Holy Grail_.

Our fullest throat of song is silent, hushed In Autumn, when the songless woods are still, And with October's boding hectic flushed Slowly the year disrobes. A passionate thrill Of strange proud sorrow pulses through the land, His land, his England, which he loved so well: And brows bend low, as slow from strand to strand The Poet's passing bell Sends forth its solemn note, and every heart Chills, and sad tears to many an eyelid start.

Sad tears in sooth! And yet not wholly so. Exquisite echoes of his own swan-song Forbid mere murmuring mournfulness; the glow Of its great hope illumes us. Sleep, thou strong Full tide, as over the unmeaning bar Fares this unfaltering darer of the deep, Beaconed by a Great Light, the pilot-star Of valiant souls, who keep Through the long strife of thought-life free from scathe The luminous guidance of the larger faith.

No sadness of farewell? Great Singer, crowned With lustrous laurel, facing that far light, In whose white radiance dark seems whelmed and drowned, And death a passing shade, of meaning slight; Sunset, and evening star, and that clear call, The twilight shadow, and the evening bell, Bring naught of gloom for thee. Whate'er befall Thou must indeed fare well. But we--we have but memories now, and love The plaint of fond regret will scarce reprove.

Great singer, he, and great among the great, Or greatness hath no sure abiding test. The poet's splendid pomp, the shining state Of royal singing robes, were his, confest, By slowly growing certitude of fame, Since first, a youth, he found fresh-opening portals To Beauty's Pleasure-House. Ranked with acclaim Amidst the true Immortals, The amaranth fields with native ease he trod, Authentic son of the lyre-bearing god.

Fresh portals, untrod pleasaunces, new ways In Art's great Palace, shrined in Nature's heart, Sought the young singer, and his limpid lays, O'er sweet, perchance, yet made the quick blood start To many a cheek mere glittering; rhymes left cold. But through the gates of Ivory or of Horn His vivid vision flocked, and who so bold As to repulse with scorn The shining troop because of shadowy birth. Of bodiless passion, or light tinkling mirth?

But the true god-gift grows. Sweet, sweet, still sweet As great Apollo's lyre, or Pan's plain reed, His music flowed, but slowly he out-beat His song to finer issues. Fingers fleet, That trifled with the pipe-stops, shook grand sound From the great organ's golden mouths anon. A mellow-measured might, a beauty bound (As Venus with her zone) By that which shaped from chaos Earth, Air, Sky, The unhampering restraint of Harmony.

Hysteric ecstasy, new fierce, now faint, But ever fever-sick, shook not his lyre With epileptic fervours. Sensual taint Of satyr heat, or bacchanal desire, Polluted not the passion of his song; No corybantic clangor clamoured through Its manly harmonies, as sane as strong; So that the captious few Found sickliness in pure Elysian balm, And coldness in such high Olympian calm.

Impassioned purity, high minister Of spirit's joys, was his, reserved, restrained. His song was like the sword Excalibur Of his symbolic knight; trenchant, unstained. It shook the world of wordly baseness, smote The Christless heathendom of huckstering days. There is no harshness in that mellow note, No blot upon those bays; For loyal love and knightly valour rang Through rich immortal music when he sang.

ARTHUR, his friend, the Modern Gentleman, ARTHUR, the hero, his ideal Knight, Inspired his strains. From fount to flood they ran A flawless course of melody and light. A Christian chivalry shone in his song From Locksley Hall to shadowy Lyonnesse, Whence there stand forth two figures, stately, strong, Symbols of spirit's stress; The blameless King, saintship with scarce a blot, And song's most noble sinner, LANCELOT.

Lover of England, lord of English hearts, Master of English speech, painter supreme Of English landscape! Patriot passion starts A-flame, pricked by the words that glow and gleam In those imperial pæans, which might arm Pale cowards for the fray. Touched by his hand The simple sweetness, and the homely charm Of our green garden-land Take on a witchery as of Arden's glade, Or verdant Vallombrosa's leafy shade.

The fragrant fruitfulness of wood and wold, Of flowery upland, and of orchard-lawn, Lit by the lingering evening's softened gold, Or flushed with rose-hued radiance of the dawn; Bird-music beautiful; the robin's trill, Or the rook's drowsy clangour; flats that run From sky to sky, dusk woods that drape the hill, Still lakes that draw the sun; All, all are mirror'd in his verse, and there Familiar beauties shine most strangely fair.

Poet, the pass-key magical was thine, To Beauty's Fairy World, in classic calm Or rich romantic colour. Bagdat's shrine By sheeny Tigris, Syrian pool and palm, Avilion's bowery hollows, Ida's peak, The lily-laden Lotos land, the fields Of amaranth! What may vagrant Fancy seek More than thy rich song yields, Of Orient odour, Faëry wizardry, Or soft Arcadian simplicity?

From all, far Faëry Land, Romance's realm, Green English homestead, cloud-crown'd Attic hill, The Poet passes--whither? Not the helm Of wounded ARTHUR, lit by light that fills Avilion's fair horizons, gleamed more bright Than does that leonine laurelled visage now, Fronting with steadfast look that mystic Light. Grave eye, and gracious brow Turn from the evening bell, the earthly shore, To face the Light that floods him evermore.

Farewell! How fitlier should a poet pass Than thou from that dim chamber and the gleam Of poor earth's purest radiance? Love, alas! Of that strange scene must long in sorrow dream. But we--we hear thy manful music still! A royal requiem for a kingly soul! No sadness of farewell! Away regret, When greatness nears its goal! We follow thee, in thought, through light, afar Divinely piloted beyond the bar!

* * * * *

TO MY SWEETHEART.

["Those roses you bought and gave to me are marvels. They are still alive."--_Her Letter_.]

A Hothouse where some roses blew, And, whilst the outer world was white, The gentle roses softly grew To fragrant visions of delight.

Some wretched florist owned them all, And plucked them from their native bowers, Then gaily showed them on his stall To swell the ranks of "Fresh-Cut Flowers."

_Some_ went beside a bed of pain Where influenza claimed its due; They drooped and never smiled again, The epidemic had them too.

A gay young gallant bought some buds, And jauntily went out to dine With other reckless sporting bloods, Who talked of women, drank of wine;

But whilst they talked, and smoked, and drank, And told tales not too sanctified. Abashed the timid blossoms shrank, Changed colour, faded, and then died.

Yet roses, too, I gave to you, I saw you place them near your heart, You wore them all the evening through, You wore them when we came to part.

But now you write to me, my dear, And marvel that they are not dead, Their beauty does not disappear, Their fragrant perfume has not fled.

The reason's plain. Somehow aright The flowers know if we ignore them. The roses live for sheer delight At knowing, Sweetheart, that _you_ wore them.

* * * * *

THOUGHTS--NOT WORTH A PENNY.

(_FRAGMENT FROM THE BURLESQUE-ROMANCE OF "NO CENTS; OR, THE NEW CRITICISM."_)

The Critic of the new cult visited a tailor's establishment, and was delighted with all he saw. There were coats, and vests, and other garments.

"I make some fifty per cent. profit," said the proprietor of the establishment, stroking his moustache with a hand adorned with many a diamond ring. "Of course it causes some labour, thought, and time--but I get my money for my trouble."

"And why not?" replied the Critic. "Are you not worth it? Do you not devote your energy to it? Must you not live?"

And, having said this, the Reviewer visited another place of business. This time he had entered the office of a Stockbroker.

"Of course it is rather anxious work sometimes," said the alternative representative of a bull and a bear. "But it pays in the long run. I manage to keep up a house in South Kensington, and a carriage and pair, out of my takings."

"Again, why not?" responded the Critic. "You have a wife and family. Must you not live?" Then the Critic visited Cheesemongers, and Bankers, Solicitors, and Upholsterers. At last, he reached the modest abode of an Author.

"Ah!" said he, in a tone of contempt; "you write books and plays! Why?

"Why, to sell them," answered the Poet, in a faltering voice.

"Sell them!" echoed the Critic, in tones of thunder. "What do you mean by that?"

"Why, one must live!"

"Nonsense! The universe can get on very well without anyone. You might be dispensed with; and, if it comes to that, so might I. Yes, I am not wanted."

"Quite true!" murmured the Author; "indeed, you are not!"

"And, after all, what _is_ your work? Mere brain action! Anyone who could wield a pen could do it for you! And you expect to be paid, as if you were a tradesman--a Tailor or an Upholsterer!"

"But am I not a man and a brother? Do I not get hungry, like anyone else? Have I not a wife and family?"

"That is entirely beside the question," persisted the Critic. "All you have to consider are the claims of Art. Now, Art is not to be served by paid votaries."

"Then I suppose am unworthy," replied the Author, mournfully shaking his head. Well, let us exchange places. You shall be the Author, and I will be the Critic."

"Very sorry, my dear friend, but that is an unjust division. By that means you would receive all the money."

"And why not? If I am to write, why am I not to be paid?"

"Because it is beneath the dignity of an Author to write with a view to obtaining cash."

"Indeed! Well, I am tired of work. You have nothing to do but criticise. Let us swap positions."

"Are you mad?" shouted the Critic. "Why, I am fond of my work. You don't imagine I am going to give up my salary to you? Why, it would demoralise you. I know the drawback of the system." And the Author applied himself to the study of the New Criticism, and it seemed as great a mystery to him as ever.

* * * * *

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square_.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Nothing but a keen sense of duty, coupled with the possession of _the_ smartest thing in waterproof overcoats ever seen, would have tempted me to go racing last week; but the claims of Hurst Park were not to be denied, and my reward was, assisting at perhaps the most successful meeting ever held there--(the backers "went down" to a man, and so did the excellent lunch--so what more _could_ you want?)--and, in addition, being told by at least twenty people, the name of the winner of the Cesarewitch!--they all named different horses, so that _one_ is almost certain to be able to say next week, in that annoying tone of voice people adopt after a successful prophecy--(this does _not_ apply to Just Prophets, who are notoriously modest in success)--"_There_! I _told_ you it was a certainty for _Whiteface_!--couldn't lose!--_of course_ you backed it, after what I told you!"--which of course was the very reason why you _hadn't_ backed it; however--as he may really be able to tell you something on a future occasion, you put on a ghastly smile, and say--"Oh, yes--I had a trifle on--but my _money_ was on _Blackfoot_ before you told me--but it got me out!"--and it does "get you out" too, for nothing is more annoying than to be told you "ought to have won a good stake!"

However, with regard to the great race next week, I am fortunately able to set aside all "information received," because I have had _a dream_!--not one of the ordinary lobster-salad kind of racing-dreams one reads about--(naturally _I_ should not have an inferior kind, having ordered in a stock of the "best selected," one to be taken every night at bed-time)--in which the dreamer only sees _one_ horse--but a most complicated affair, from which it will be an easy task for anyone skilled in dream-lore to extract the winner!

Well--I had been rather upset during the day, so to quiet my nerves, on reaching home, I took, before going to bed, just a little _Golden Drop_ of _Brandy_ as an _Insurance_ against restlessness--went to sleep, and dreamt that my friends _Lady Villikins_ and _Madame d'Albany_, with their maid _Helen Ware_, were attacked on their way from _Illsley_ to _Weymouth_, by some _Dare Devil_ of a _Circassian_, whose horse's hoofs rang in a _Metallic_ manner on the road! They were rescued in the pass of _Ben Avon_ by the gallant _Burnaby_, who after a long _Rigmarole_, squared their captor, _Roy Neil_, with a _Hanover Jack_, and acted as their _Pilot_ to safe quarters at _Versailles_! There!--that was my dream--and I think it points most conclusively to the winner; and, anyone unable to pick the right one, need only back them _all_, and there you are!--or at least you _may_ be. If they don't care to do this, they can avail themselves of my verse selection--which I did _not_ dream--and which, therefore, is _quite_ as reliable.

Yours, devotedly, LADY GAY.

CESAREWITCH SELECTION.

Oh, _Weymouth_ is a pleasant _place_, And bathing tents are handy; When coming out, if white your face, Why, take a nip of _Brandy_.

P.S.--This advice is not intended for confirmed Topers.

* * * * *

"SUR LE TAPIS."--If the new Carpet Knight, Sir BLONDEL MAPLE--which is our troubadourish way of spelling it--be exceptionally successful on the Turf, isn't he just the man to "make his 'pile' and cut it"?

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Not the least interesting figure in the circle of _The Racing Life of Lord George Bentinck_, which Messrs. BLACKWOOD produce in a handsome volume, is that of JOHN KENT, who, under the editorship of Mr. FRANK LAWLEY, tells the story. KENT was trainer to Lord GEORGE during the period when, to quote the characteristic Disraelian phrase, his Lordship became "Lord Paramount of the Turf." It is forty-four years since Lord GEORGE was found lying dead on his face in the water-meadows near Welbeck Abbey. Yet KENT remembers all about him--his six feet of height, his long black frock-coat, his velvet waistcoat, his gold chain, and his "costly cream-coloured satin scarf of great length, knotted under his chin, with a gold pin stuck in it." These scarves cost twenty shillings a-piece, and it was one of Lord GEORGE's fancies never to wear one a second time. When he died whole drawersful of them were found, and honest JOHN KENT purchased half-a-dozen from his Lordship's valet, who seems to have kept his eye on them. Did he ever wear them on Sundays? My Baronite who has been reading the book trows not. JOHN KENT knows his place better than that, and when he goes the way that masters and servants tread together, the scarves will doubtless be found tucked away in _his_ chest of drawers. My Baronite is not able to take the same lofty view of the defunct nobleman who played at politics and worked at racing as does his faithful old servitor. Lord GEORGE seems to have been, as the cabman observed of the late JOHN FORSTER, "a harbitery gent," kind to those who faithfully serve him (as one is kind to a useful hound), but relentless to any who offended him or crossed his path. Moreover, whilst, as his biographer devoutly says, he purified the turf, he was not, upon occasion, above fighting blacklegs with their own weapons. The book gives clear glimpses of men and times which, less than half a century dead, will never live again. It pleasantly testifies that, though no man may be a hero to his valet, Lord GEORGE BENTINCK remains one in the eyes of his trainer.

The Baron not having read a three-volume novel for some considerable time, may safely affirm, instead of taking his oath, that Mrs. OLIPHANT's _The Cuckoo in the Nest_ is one of the best he has come across for quite two months. It opens well, and if it drops a bit about the middle, there are all sorts of surprises yet in store for the reader, who, the Baron assures him or her, will be rewarded for his, or her, perseverance.