Part 2

"By Jove!" said +Flopper+, "I don't know that I won't."

"Not if I know it," cried an authoritative voice, breaking in upon the scene. It was +Snagsby+, the "Sharper" who spoke. There was a general look in his direction, and a disposition to make way for him as he approached. He had been mixed up disadvantageously in a recent "corner" in marbles, and had from time to time floated several concerns that had never paid any dividends, and was generally regarded as a "queer" customer in consequence. It was for this reason that he had been nicknamed the "Sharper."

"And what do you want him to do with his money?" asked +Tom+, stepping forward in a defiant attitude.

"He'll put every blessed halfpenny of it into my 'General Pen-knife Supply,'" was the laconic reply. "He signed for the allotment last night."

"But I've changed my mind," pleaded +Flopper+, helplessly, and he handed the half-sovereign to +Tom+.

"You give that up!" cried the Sharper, menacingly.

"You try to take it!" replied +Tom+, grimly.

In another instant the Sharper had flown at +Tom+. There was a brief struggle. +Tom+ hit out at him, and caught him in the face.

"Oh, that's your game, is it!" shouted the Sharper. "You'll fight me for that."

"Fight you? When and where you like," replied +Tom+.

There was a general cheering and throwing up of hats.

"Hooray! There's going to be a fight between the Sharper and +Tom Brown & Co.+," shouted the Fourth Form. They hadn't had such good news for a long time.

* * * * *

The whole School was there, and the third round had been fought. Betting had been fast and furious, and there had been several attempts made by the supporters of both champions to break the ring and put an end to the contest when the fortunes of the day seemed to be going against their own special favourite. But now a curious thing happened. After a little preliminary sparring in the fourth round, +Tom Brown & Co.+, suddenly dropping on one knee, went to the ground.

In a few seconds the surprising news was known that he had given in. The sponge was thrown up, and the Sharper declared the victor. +Tom+ was quickly surrounded by his friends, and led off the field. +Flopper+ ran up to him. "I'm so sorry, +Tom+," he said, "that you should have fought in my quarrel, and have got licked."

There was a twinkle in +Tom's+ eye. "My dear fellow," he replied. "Don't imagine I wouldn't have thrashed him; but business is business, and I got a good price for not doing so. Didn't you twig that _I sold the fight_?"

* * * * *

That night +Tom Brown & Co.+ wrote home an enthusiastic account of his day's doings to his parents. The next morning, +Tom Brown+, Senior, referring to the letter with a glow of pride on his commercial face, remarked to his better-half that the boy's training seemed perfect, and that he was destined to turn out remarkably well. "I can't tell you," he added, "how I long to see that boy loose upon the Stock Exchange. He will be a credit to the family."

* * * * *

A book has been recently published entitled _The Amateur's Guide to Architecture_, by +Sophie Beale+. Sophie shows us how a house should be Beale't. But just imagine an Amateur Architect!!

* * *

The complaint of the Charity Organisation Society, slightly varied from +Shakspeare+, is that "The quality of Mercy is not _trained_."

* * * * *

SHOWS VIEWS.

_By Victor Who-goes-Everywhere_.

What can be more dismal than the fourth day of a Fancy Bazaar for a "Sale of Work," in aid of a parochial charity? Honestly, I do not know. I fancy that even the proverbial "Mute at a funeral," must be livelier. That is my present opinion, and it was the same last Thursday, when lured by a programme quaintly printed in "old-faced" type, and having "ye" in lieu of "the," and "Maister" instead of Mister, I made my way to the Portman Rooms in Baker Street, (formerly Madame +Tussaud's+) and sought admission to "Old Marybone Gardens, A.D. 1670." Outside the ex _depôt_ of Waxworks, were two persons in the costume of the last Century distributing circulars, and later on I met another couple similarly apparelled heading a procession of Sandwich-men walking down Waterloo Place. In the Hall of the Bazaar lads in the same sort of dresses, were selling programmes (marked sixpence) for twopence. I entered by a small canvass-cottage "y'clept" (as the Sale of Workers would call it) "the Rose of Normandy," and found myself in the once famous "Hall of Kings" without the figures. I discovered two or three dwarf trees, some lattice-work and a lot of canvass-covering. I must confess it did not cause me much surprise to find only a few spectators. The moment I appeared, a lady advanced and asked me in a tone of authority to take a button-hole. I refused with courtesy suggestive at once of the gallant and the miser, and the Sale of Work-woman retired rather crest-fallen. Then two girls, costumed as two females of a past but vague period, dashed at me as I turned away, and breathlessly explained that if I bought a half-crown ticket I should be entitled to a chance in a raffle for a five-guinea sofa-cushion. I slightly frowned as I expeditiously refused the invitation, and the ladies disappeared into a corner--I trust more in sorrow than in anger--to read the evening paper. In the centre of the room was a "fish pond" full of presents, where a mild-looking curate was feebly attempting to secure a prize. On the whole the entertainment was scarcely exhilarating. The programme promised "from V to VI of ye clocke" (how silly!) "a _séance_ of Mesmerism," in two "partes," (how really stupid!) and "Maister +Charles Bertram+" (Why "Maister?") was to appear later on. Then at eight "of ye clocke" (dear, dear! _how_ idiotic!) "the Welbeck Dramatic Club" (what a name!) was "to performe ye Comic Drama by +L. S. Buckingham+, y'clept" (of course!) "_Take that Girl away_." Later still "Mistresse +Jarley+" was to give her waxworks with the assistance of "Maister +Sidney Ward+," (tut, tut!) the Festival finally closing with "Music" at "X of ye clocke" (stuff and nonsense!). It will be seen that I cannot even now look at the programme (priced at sixpence and sold for twopence) without some signs of impatience. The afternoon was too young to allow of my assisting at any of these toothsome merry-makings, so after mooning about for a quarter of an hour I came away. As I left, a newly-arrived dame of mature years was putting on a nurse's cap hurriedly, evidently with the view to starting in hot pursuit of me to secure my custom for some toys. The ladies with the cushion looked at me languidly as I passed them, and then returned to a perusal of their paper. When last I had had the advantage of paying a visit to "the Portman Rooms, formerly Mme. +Tussaud's+," I had seen nothing but waxwork figures in eccentric attitudes. On the whole, I think the former denizens of the place looked more at home in their quaint costumes than the Sale of Workers "from Tuesday, November 22 to Saturday, November 26, inclusive!"

Finding myself in its neighbourhood, I could not help taking a turn in the present palace of the eminent "Portrait Modellist." I paid the necessary shilling and the optional sixpence, and renewed my acquaintance with "The Kings and Queens," "The Coronation Group," and "The Chamber of Horrors." A group representing a reception at the Vatican was quite new, if I except two or three funeral attendants, who, I fancy I remember, made their last (but one) appearance at the Lying in State of +Pio Nono+. After examining a rather cheerful presentment of the latest assassin in "The Chamber of Comparative Physiognomy" (as the Chamber of Horrors was once, for a short period, "y'clept"), I passed through a turnstile, and entered the Refreshment Department. Here I noticed that an "overflow meeting," consisting, amongst other more-or-less-interesting exhibits of Mr. +Lewis Wingfield's+ historical costume-wearers (from the Healtheries), and that now rather-imperfectly-remembered worthy, the late Sir +Bartle Frere+ (from the rooms above), had been humorously arranged, no doubt with a view to provoking healthy and hearty laughter. Having refreshed my mind with a hurried inspection of this delightful, albeit, somewhat miscellaneous gathering, and my body with a twopenny Bath bun, I gracefully retired, greatly pleased with the afternoon's entertainment.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Reviewing the Pages.

What a set these Emperors, Empresses, Kings, Queens, Princes and Princesses, Dukes and Duchesses, &c., &c., and all such great people everywhere seem to have been, according to the _Memoirs of Count Horace de Viel Castel_ (published by Messrs. +Remington & Co.+), who was a kind of small French +Pepys+, a great snob, and a Parisian _Sir Benjamin Backbite_. Yet there is in this +Horace+ something of the Horatian satirist, only without the poetry.

"But +Horace+, Sir, was delicate, was nice,"

which is not exactly the characteristic of the writings of +M. de Viel+ Castel, who tells us

"Of birth-nights, balls, and shows, More than ten +Hollinsheds+, or +Halls+, or +Stowes+. When the +Queen+ frowned, or smiled, he knows; and what A subtle Minister may make of that: Who sins with whom:"----

And such like tittle-tattle _ad nauseam_, not sparing his own father and brother. Imagine the sort of man who, night after night, could sit down and chuckle over the composition of this precious diary! "With the exception of the President and the Princess" (+Mathilde+, at whose house he was perpetually dining), he says, "all the (+Buonaparte+) family are good for nothing."

Of the _bourgeois_ class he writes, "They are always the same stupid, craven-hearted, vain race." He was shocked at the production of _La Dame aux Camelias_, and considered it as a degradation of the French stage and a disgrace to the Public that patronised the performance. To have shocked M. +de Viel Castel+ was a feat indeed. +Fould+ "the foxy Jew" got ten millions out of the Crédit Foncier; so the public was fool'd also. +D'Orsay+ was "a ridiculous old doll," and the Duke of +Brunswick+ "an old fool." He sneered at England, but considered at the moment that an alliance with us was the best policy. The Empress at one time went in for spirit-rapping, and consulted a table which told her a variety of lies about the result and duration of the Crimean War. Such a table must have been very black and supported by blacklegs, though it had sufficient french polish about it to be silent in the presence of a bishop. It is not until the last page of the _Memoirs_, 1864, that the name of M. +de Bismarck+ appears. I suppose that "Society," high, low, or middle-class, has always gone on in much the same way, more or less openly, according to the spirit of the Court, since what is called "Society" came into existence; and invariably with a +Viel Castel+, or a +Greville+, or some one even less particular and more observant "among them takin' notes" for future publication. Mr. Bousfield, the translator, seems to have done his work with a judicious regard for a certain section of English readers. It strikes me that he has had the good taste to omit a few anecdotes about some of our own exalted personages which would not have been received with unmixed satisfaction in every quarter. This is only a surmise on my part, as I am unacquainted with the original work.

Let me recommend everyone who values a powerful study of character more than a merely cleverly-constructed story, to read _Marzio's Crucifix_, by +Marion Crawford+. I do not know what special opportunities the author had for the work, but the characters are individually, masterpieces. The scene between _Marzio_ and _Don Paolo_, when the latter is wrapt in devout contemplation of the artist's _chef d'[oe]uvre_, is most striking, and would have been more so had _Marzio_ carried out his intention of knocking his brother down, and disposing of him out of hand.

With Mr. +Saunders's+ _The Story of some Famous Books_ (+Elliot Stock+) I was rather disappointed, in consequence of there not being enough "famous books," and not much more story than the needy knife-grinder had to tell. Still, I thank him for introducing me to a delightful name--"+Theopompus+ of Chios"--whom, for this present, I will take as my godfather, and sign myself,

Yours, +Theopompus, Baron de Book Worms+.

* * * * *

+Staff Appointments.+--The Specials.

* * * * *

* * * * *

LIGHTING THE DUBLIN BEACON.

(_A Ballad of the Brave Old Sort_.)

"It was all for the Union We left fair Albion's land. It was all for the Union We first saw Irish land, My Boy! We first saw Irish land!

"All must be done that man can do. Shall it be done in vain? My +G-sch-n+, to prove that untrue We two have crossed the main, My Boy! We two have crossed the main!"

He turned him round and right-about All on the Irish shore. Said he, "We'll give +P-rn-ll+ a shake, And make the Rads to roar, My Boy! And make the Rads to roar!"

He was a stout and trusty carle. Said he, "A flare we'll raise, And, spite the Leaguers' angry snarl, We'll make the Beacon blaze, My Boy! We'll make the Beacon blaze!

"Who says our friends a handful are, Our foes a serried host? Our Beacon, blazing like a star, Shall check the blatant boast, My Boy! Shall cheek the blatant boast.

"Not all are to sedition sworn, Or shackled by the League. Cheer up! We'll laugh, their hate to scorn, And baffle their intrigue, My Boy! And baffle their intrigue.

"Puff, +G-sch-n+, puff! Like Boreas blow! And I the logs will pile. The Beacon, now a slender glow, Shall blaze across the Isle, My Boy! Shall blaze across the Isle.

"Eh? What? The wood is damp, you say? There comes more smoke than flame? Nay; pile, and poke, and puff away! We'll not give up the game, My Boy! We'll not give up the game.

"If we should let this fire die out All on the Irish shore, To Unionism stern and stout Adieu for evermore, My Boy! Adieu for evermore!"

* * * * *

+The Two Canons and Bean-baggers.+--The Bean-baggers are likely to come badly off with two such big guns against them as Canons +Liddon+ and +McColl+. Let the matter be settled amicably by agreeing that whatever it was they did see was a "What-you-+McColl+-it."

* * * * *

HOW TO ESCAPE THE FOG.

Fogs? Nonsense! Fogs are always mist. And the way to miss them is to go to the Institute of Painters in Oil. That will oil the wheels of life in this atrociously hibernal weather, and make existence in a fog enjoyable. There, in the well-warmed, pleasantly-lighted rooms, will you find countless pleasant pictures--delightful sea-subjects, charming landscapes, and amusing scenes, by accomplished painters, which will infuse a little Summer into the dull, depressing, brumous, filthy atmosphere of a weary London Winter. If you cannot get away to Monte Carlo, Mentone, Nice, or Rome, hasten at once and take one of Sir +John Linton's+ excursion _coupons_, and personally conduct yourself--if you don't conduct yourself as you ought, you'll probably be turned out--round the well-filled galleries in Piccadilly.

* * * * *

Sir +Drummond+ is ordered off to Teheran. "Well, we're successful in keeping one +Wolff+ from our door," as Sir +Gorst+, Q.C., observed to +Grandolph+. "Poor +Wolffy+!" sighed +Grandolph+. "I shall write a fable on 'The +Wolff+ and the Shah!'"

* * *

+Sardou and Sara.+--+Sara B.+ has made a hit in what is reported to be a poor play called _La Tosca_, by +Sardou+. But in consequence of +Sara's+ acting, it is in for a run. _Che Sara sara_, _i.e_. (free translation), "Who has seen +Sara+ once will see +Sara+ again."

* * * * *

* * * * *

A DOWN-Y PHILOSOPHER;

_Or, Memoirs of a Missing Link_.

I've no particular reason to think an account of my life will interest anybody. That being so, I don't know why I write it. But I do. I suppose it's Chance. +H-xl-y+ (who _is_ such fun!) calls my Memoir, because I'm a F.R.S., a case of "_Fellow-De-Se_."

Talking of Chance, everything that has ever happened to me _has_ been Chance!

For instance, what could have been more a matter of luck than my choosing a house at Down? +H-xl-y+ says something about being "Down on my luck." (What a master of style old +H-xl-y+ is, to be sure!)

Then there was that voyage on the _Sea-Mew_. If it hadn't been that my Uncle kicked me six times round his garden at Shrewsbury, because I said "I'd be jiggered if I went," I don't believe I should ever have had courage to accept the appointment of Naturalist to the expedition. That voyage gave me an object in life. My nose had _made_ me an object in life before that (_vide Portrait_), but Natural Selection triumphed over my nose, and so I became in due time famous, and an Ag-nose-tic!

+My Schooldays.+

At school I was an exceptionally naughty boy. I cannot conceive what induced me to tell another little boy that I had often produced crab-apples by taking a dead crab and burying it in an orchard, but I did. My little friend, I recollect, didn't believe me, and indeed pulled my nose (always a sore point with me, but he made its point much sorer) for telling what he called "beastly crams." We had a fight, I also remember. Perhaps I ought to call it a "struggle for existence." He was much the "fittest," and he survived. _I_ got licked.

+Choice of Calling.+

My extreme naughtiness continued unabated when I became a young man. Nobody expected I should ever "do" anything--except six months' hard labour! At Cambridge I was so shockingly "rowdy," that my father declared, there was no alternative but to send me into the Church. But as I was hunting with the College drag at the hour when I ought to have been in for my Ordination Examination, the Bishop failed to see matters in the same light. I then decided to be a Doctor. If I had stuck to this profession I fancy that my turn for trying experiments would have landed me in some exalted position--possibly at Newgate. As it was, after attending a lecture on Surgery, I was discovered in the local Hospital trying to cut off a patient's leg on an entirely new principle, with a pair of scissors and an old meat-saw, and I was nearly "run in" for manslaughter. I decided to give up Medicine, and a slight shindy over a supposed error of mine in calculating a score having prevented my becoming a success as a Public-house Billiard-marker, I thought I would make my mark in another way, as a breeder of race-horses. Being, however, forcibly chucked out of Newmarket Heath one day for an alleged irregularity which I never could understand, I began really to wonder what profession I _was_ fitted to adorn.

+I become a Naturalist.+

It was at this time that the Captain of the _Sea-Mew_ offered me that post of which I have before spoken. I accepted it, and began at once to lower the record in sea-sickness, being never once well on board ship _for three whole years_! It was a new experience, and altered me a good deal. From being rowdy and idle I became quiet and abnormally diligent. If you don't believe this, ask +H-xl-y+ (who is such fun!). On returning to England I at once settled Down, and began to write books.

+The "Origin of Species."+

This work is my title to fame. It only took me thirty-three years and six months to write. I felt quite glad when it was finished. People who have read it tell me they feel the same, The row it caused was frightful! If you want to see "+Soapy Sam's+" slashing _Quarterly Review_ article pulverised, read +H-xl-y's+ reply. (But, query--isn't this scientific log-rolling?) The remark which was made, after perusing the book, by that eminent Botanist, my friend Professor +Hookey+, was--"Walker!" But he was soon converted.

+My Way of Working.+

This, also, can't interest anybody, yet I give it. I get up at 4 A.M., and take a walk. From 7 to 10 I work. After dinner--with champagne--I take another stroll. I have made most astonishing scientific discoveries at this time. I could, point out the exact spot in the road where I became convinced that _the whole country had been elevated sixteen feet since the morning_! +H-xl-y+, who was with me, quite agreed, and said that we must all have been elevated at the same time, without knowing it.

+My Favourite Authors.+

These are, of course, +Lyell+ on _Lias_, and +Hookey+ on _Herbaceous Foraminifera_. They are far superior to +Shakspeare+, who bores me. I like novels, the trashier the better. Only let 'em end well, and I don't care how they begin, or whether they begin at all. In newspapers, the best part, I think, is the Parliamentary Debates. In reading them I have often got valuable hints as to the "Origin of Speeches," and they frequently afford conclusive evidence of the "Descent of Man." I thought of bringing Parliamentary manners in as a chapter in my book on "Earth-worms," but +H-xl-y+ advised me not to, and I didn't.

+My Nose.+

I think I've mentioned this feature before. It troubles me. It is undoubtedly of a low type, yet it has survived! Why have I not been fitted with a fitter one? It is another instance of the fact that everything--including my fame--has come to me by sheer luck. +H-xl-y+ says "there's a Dar-winning modesty about this last remark." Also says, "I've found the 'Philosopher's Tone.'" (What screaming fun +H-xl-y+ always is!)

+My Portraits.+

Perhaps I may be allowed to say one word as to the Photographs preceding these volumes. _They aren't the least little bit like me_! In Volume One I appear as the unmistakable "Country Butcher." In Volume Two I am "The Gorilla Asleep," or "Beetle-brow Napping" (after a beetle-hunt, probably). Volume Three represents me as the Typical Brigand of Transpontine Melodrama.

Why, too, has the Photographer insisted on bringing out that unfortunate feature of mine so prominently?

Why? indeed! Who nose?

* * * * *

THE LARKS AND THE ROSES.

(_Ballad, by Milton Featherly Jonsone_.)

The roses were blowing, like whales in the sea Where the apple-bloom icebergs plunged fearless and free, And the larks carolled madly their high jubilee In the ether. The daisies ran riot in sunshine and shade, And the call of the cuckoo was heard from the glade, Where Summer with mellow monotony play'd On her zither.

_Tempo di Valse_.

Ho, larks and roses! Hey, the bonny weather! Hey, we rose at morning prime; Ho, we lark'd together!

'Mid roses and larks in our shallop we glide By Inglesham poplars, on Teddington's tide, Where the water of Thame under Sinodun slide, And at Marlow, By Cliveden's green caverns, and Abingdon's walls, Where wirgles the Windrush, where Eynsham weir falls, By Sonning, or Sandford (whose lasher recalls _Mr. Barlow_).

_Con tenerezza_.