Chapter 5

A terrible storm was raging in the Rector's breast as he strode, regardless of the cold, along the verdant lanes of Wendover. "Fool that I was!" he muttered, pressing both hands convulsively to his sides. "Why did I not pay more attention to arithmetic at school? I could have crushed him, but I was ignorant. Was that result right?" He reflected awhile mournfully, but he could bring it out in no other way. "I must go through with it to the bitter end," he concluded, "and CATHERINE must be told." But the thought of CATHERINE knitting quietly at home, while she read Fox's _Book of Martyrs_, with a tender smile on her thin lips, unmanned him. He sobbed bitterly. The front-door of the Rectory was open. He walked in.--The rest is soon told. He resigned the Rectory, and made a brand-new religion. CATHERINE frowned, but it was useless. Thereupon she gave him cold bacon for lunch during a whole fortnight, and the brave young soul which had endured so much withered under this blight. And thus, acknowledging the novelist's artistic necessity, ROBERT died.--[THE END.]

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WINTER SEASON AT COVENT GARDEN.--Opening of Italian Opera last Saturday, with _Aida_. Very well done. "Wait" between Second and Third Act too long: "Waiters" in Gallery whistling. Wind whistling, too, in Stalls. Operatic and rheumatic. Rugs and fur capes might be kept on hire by Stall-keepers. Airs in _Aida_ delightful: draughts in Stalls awful. Signor LAGO called before Curtain to receive First Night congratulations. Signor LAGO ought to do good business "in front," as there's evidently no difficulty in "raising the wind."

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THE FIRE KING AND HIS FRIENDS.

(_WITH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO MONK LEWIS AND THE AUTHORS OF "REJECTED ADDRESSES."_)

"No hardship would be inflicted upon manufacturers, if dangerous trades in general were subjected to such a supervision as would afford the largest attainable measure of security to all engaged in them. The case is one which urgently demands the consideration of Parliament, not only for the protection of work-people, but even for the protection of the Metropolis itself. It should never be forgotten that fire constitutes the gravest risk to which London is exposed."--_The Times_.

The Fire King one day rather furious felt, He mounted his steam-horse satanic; Its head and its tail were of steel, with a belt Of riveted boiler-plate proved not to melt With heat howsoever volcanic.

The sight of the King with that flame-face of his Was something exceedingly horrid; The rain, as it fell on his flight, gave a fizz Like unbottled champagne, and went off with a whizz As it sprinkled his rubicund forehead.

The sound of his voice as he soared to the sky Was that of a ghoul with the grumbles. His teeth were so hot, and his tongue was so dry, That his shout seemed us raucous as though one should try To play on a big drum with dumb-bells.

From his nostrils a naphthaline odour outflows, In his trail a petroleum-whiff lingers. With crude nitro-glycerine glitter his hose, Suggestions of dynamite hang round his nose, And gunpowder grimeth his fingers.

His hair is of flame fizzing over his head, As likewise his heard and eye-lashes; His drink's "low-test naphtha," his nag, it is said, Eats flaming tow soaked in combustibles dread, Which hot from the manger he gnashes.

The Fire King set spurs to the steed he bestrode, Intent to mix pleasure with profit. He was off to Vine Street in the Farringdon Road, And soon with the flames of fired naphtha it flowed As though 'twere the entry to Tophet.

He sought HARROD's Stores whence soon issued a blast Of oil-flame that lighted the City Then he turned to Cloth Fair. Hold, my Muse! not too fast! On the Fire King's last victims in silence we'll cast A look of respectfullest pity.

But the Fire King flames on; Now he pulls up to snatch Some fodder. The stable's in danger. His whip is a torch, and each spur is a match, And over the horse's left eye is a patch, To keep it from scorching the manger.

But who is the Ostler, and who is his lad, In fodder-supplying alliance, Who feed the Fire King and his Steed? 'Tis too bad That TRADE should feed Fire, and his henchman seem glad To set wholesome Law at defiance.

See, Trade stocks the manger, and there is the pail Full set by the imp Illegality! That fierce fiery Pegasus thus to regale, When he's danger and death from hot head to flame-tail, Is cruelly callous brutality.

Ah, Justice looks stern, and, indeed, well she may, With such a vile vision before her. The ignipotent nag and its rider to stay In their dangerous course is her duty to-day, And to _do_ it the public implore her.

"By Jingo!" cries _Punch_, "you nefarious Two, Your alliance humanity jars on! If you feed the Fire Fiend, with disaster in view, And the chance of men's death, 'twere mere justice to do To have you indicted for arson!"

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VOCES POPULI.

AT THE FRENCH EXHIBITION.

_Chorus of Arab Stall-keepers._ Come and look! Alaha-ba-li-boo! Eet is verri cold to-day! I-ah-rish Brandi! 'Ere, _Miss_! you com' 'ere! No pay for lookin'. Alf a price! Verri pritti, verri nah-ice, verri cheap, verri moch! And so on.

_Chorus of British Saleswomen_. _Will_ you allow me to show you this little novelty, Sir? _'Ave_ you seen the noo perfume sprinkler? Do come and try this noo puzzle--no 'arm in _lookin'_, Sir. Very nice little novelties 'ere, Sir! 'Eard the noo French Worltz, Sir? every article is really very much reduced, &c, &c.

AT THE FOLIES-BERGÈRE.

SCENE--_A hall in the grounds. Several turnstiles leading to curtained entrances._

_Showmen_ (_shouting_). Amphitrite, the Marvellous Floatin' Goddess. Just about to commence! This way for the Mystic Gallery--three Illusions for threepence! Atalanta, the Silver Queen of the Moon; the Oriental Beauty in the Table of the Sphinx, and the Wonderful Galatea, or Pygmalion's Dream. Only threepence! This way for the Mystic Marvel o' She! Now commencing!

_A Female Sightseer_ (_with the air of a person making an original suggestion_). Shall we go in, just to see what it's like?

_Male Ditto_. May as well, now we _are_ 'ere. (_To preserve himself from any suspicion of credulity._) Sure to be a take-in o' some sort.

[_They enter a dim apartment, in which two or three people are leaning over a barrier in front of a small Stage; the Curtain is lowered, and a Pianist is industriously pounding away at a Waltz_.

_The F.S._ (_with an uncomfortable giggle_). Not much to see _so_ far, is there?

_Her Companion_. Well, they ain't begun yet.

[_The Waltz ends, and the Curtain rises, disclosing a Cavern Scene._ Amphitrite, _in blue tights, rises through the floor._

_Amphitrite_ (_in the Gallic tongue_). Mesdarms et Messures, j'ai 'honnoor de vous sooayter le bong jour! (_Floats, with no apparent support, in the air, and performs various graceful evolutions, concluding by reversing herself completely_). Bong swore, Mesdarms et messures, mes remercimongs!

[_She dives below, and the Curtain descends._

_The F.S._ Is that all? I don't see nothing in _that_!

_Her Comp._ (_who, having paid for admission, resents this want of appreciation_). Why, she was off the ground the 'ole of the time, wasn't she? I'd just like to see _you_ turnin' and twisting about in the air as easy as she did with nothing to 'old on by!

_The F.S._ I didn't notice she was off the ground--yes, that _was_ clever. I never thought o' that before. Let's go and see the other things now.

_Her Comp._ Well, if you don't see nothing surprising in 'em till they're all over, you might as well stop outside, _I_ should ha' thought.

_The F.S._ Oh, but I'll notice more next time--you've got to get _used_ to these things, you know.

[_They enter the Mystic Gallery, and find themselves in a dim passage, opposite a partitioned compartment, in which is a glass case, supported on four pedestals, with a silver crescent at the back. The Illusions--to judge from a sound of scurrying behind the scenes--have apparently been taken somewhat unawares._

_The Female Sightseer_ (_anxious to please_). They've done that 'alf-moon very well, haven't they?

_Voice of Showman_ (_addressing the Illusions_). Now then, 'urry up there--we're all waiting for you.

[_The face of "Atalanta, the Silver Queen of the Moon," appears, strongly illuminated, inside the glass-box, and regards the spectators with an impassive contempt--greatly to their confusion._

_The Male S._ (_in a propitiatory tone_). Not a bad-looking girl, is she? _Atalanta, the Queen of the Moon (to the Oriental Beauty in next compartment_). Polly, when these people are gone, I wish you'd fetch me my work!

[_The Sightseers move on, feeling crushed. In the second compartment the upper portion of a female is discovered, calmly knitting in the centre of a small table, the legs of which are distinctly visible._

_The Female S._ Why, wherever has the _rest_ of her got to?

_The Oriental Beauty_ (_with conscious superiority_). That's what you've got to find out.

[_They pass on to interview "Galatea, or Pygmalion's Dream," whose compartment is as yet enveloped in obscurity._

_A Youthful Showman_ (_apparently on familiar terms with all the Illusions_). Ladies and Gentlemen, I shell now 'ave the honour of persentin' to you the wonderful Galatear, or Livin' Statue; you will 'ave an oppertoonity of 'andling the bust for yourselves, which will warm before your eyes into living flesh, and the lovely creecher live and speak. 'Ere, look sharp, carn't yer'! [_To_ Galatea.

_Pygmalion's Dream_ (_from the mystic gloom_). Wait a bit, till I've done warming my 'ands. Now you can turn the lights up ... there, you've bin and turned 'em _out_ now, stoopid!

_The Y.S._ Don't you excite yourself. I know what I'm doin'.

(_Turns the lights up, and reveals a large terra-cotta Bust._) At my request, this young lydy will now perceed to assoom the yew and kimplexion of life itself. Galatear, will you oblige us by kindly coming to life?

[_The Bust vanishes, and is replaced by a decidedly earthly Young Woman in robust health._

_The Y.S._ Thenk you. That's all I wanted of yer. Now, will you kindly return to your former styte?

[_The Young Woman transforms herself into a hideous Skull._

_The Y.S._ (_in a tone of remonstrance_). No--no, not that ridiklous fice! We don't want to see what yer will be--it's very _loike_ yer, I know, but still--(_The Skull changes to the Bust._) Ah, that's more the stoyle! (_Takes the Bust by the neck and hands it round for inspection._) And now, thenking you for your kind attention, and on'y orskin' one little fyvour of you, that is, that you will not reveal 'ow it is done, I will now bid you a very good evenin', Lydies and Gentlemen!

_The F.S._ (_outside_). It's wonderful how they can do it all for threepence, isn't it? We haven't seen _She_ yet!

_Her Comp._ What, 'aven't you seen wonders enough? Come on, then. But you _are_ going it, you know!

[_They enter a small room, at the further end of which are a barrier and proscenium with drawn hangings._

_The Exhibitor_ (_in a confidential tone, punctuated by bows_). I will not keep you waiting, Ladies and Gentlemen, but at once proceed with a few preliminary remarks. Most of you, no doubt, have read that celebrated story by Mr. RIDER HAGGARD, about a certain _She-who-must-be-obeyed_, and who dwelt in a place called Kôr, and you will also doubtless remember how she was in the 'abit of repairing, at certain intervals, to a cavern, and renooing her youth in a fiery piller. On one occasion, wishing to indooce her lover to foller her example, she stepped into the flame to encourage him--something went wrong with the works, and she was instantly redooced to a cinder. I fortunately 'appened to be near at the time (you will escuse a little wild fib from a showman, I'm sure!) I 'appened to be porsin by, and was thus enabled to secure the ashes of the Wonderful She, which--(_draws hangings and reveals a shallow metal Urn suspended in the centre of scene_), are now before you enclosed in that little urn. She--where are you?

_She_ (_in a full sweet voice, from below_). I am 'ere!

_Showman_. Then appear!

[_The upper portion of an exceedingly comely Young Person emerges from the mouth of the Urn._

_The F.S._ (_startled_). Lor, she give me quite a turn!

_Showman_. Some people think this is all done by mirrors, but it is not so; it is managed by a simple arrangement of light and shade. She will now turn slowly round, to convince you that she is really inside the urn and not merely beyind it. (She _turns round condescendingly._) She will next pass her 'ands completely round her, thereby demonstrating the utter impossibility of there being any wires to support her. Now she will rap on the walls on each side of her, proving to you that she is no reflection, but a solid reality, after which she will tap the bottom of the urn beneath her, so that you may see it really is what it purports to be. (She _performs all these actions in the most obliging manner_.) She will now disappear for a moment. (She _sinks into the Urn._) Are you still there, She?

_She_ (_from the recess of the Urn_). Yes.

_Showman_. Then will you give us some sign of your presence! (_A hand and arm are protruded, and waved gracefully._) Thank you. Now you can come up again. (She _re-appears._) She will now answer any questions any lady or gentleman may like to put to her, always provided you won't ask her how it is done--for I'm sure she wouldn't give me away, _would_ you, She?

_She_ (_with a slow bow and gracious smile_). Certingly not.

_The F.S._ (_to her Companion_). Ask her something--do.

_Her Comp._ Go on! _I_ ain't got anything to ask her--ask her yourself!

_A Bolder Spirit_ (_with interest_). Are your _feet_ warm?

_She_. Quite--thanks.

_The Showman_. How old are you, She?

_She_ (_impressively_). Two theousand years.

_'Arry._ And quite a young thing, too!

_A Spectator_ (_who has read the Novel_). 'Ave you 'eard from LEO VINCEY lately?

_She_ (_coldly_). I don't know the gentleman.

_Showman_. If you have no more questions to ask her, She will now retire into her urn, thanking you all for your kind attendance this morning, which will conclude the entertainment.

[_Final disappearance of_ She. _The Audience pass out, feeling--with perfect justice--that they have "had their money's worth."_

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HOW IT'S DONE.

_A HAND-BOOK OF HONESTY._

NO. III.--GRANDMOTHERLY GOVERNMENT.