Part 6

"On the contrary, I am glad to say he has disappeared--let us hope for ever. For, the essence of Drama, as I understand, was Emotion--Passion, Jealousy, Marital and Parental relations, and so on. Now that marriages are the subject of State regulation, and extend only for a limited period, Passion, of course is obsolete; Jealousy, too, is recognised as merely Selfishness in disguise, and we have grown too altruistic to desire the exclusive possession of anything. While as the offspring of every union are removed at birth to a communal _crèche_, and brought up and educated by the State, there are no longer any opportunities for filial or parental affection."

"Then I presume Fiction is equally----?"

"Just so. Fiction depended on Contrast. When everybody is on precisely the same level, the novelist is, happily, unnecessary. What are you looking for _now_?"

"I was wondering if I could buy an evening paper anywhere," said MR. PUNCH, wistfully. "But perhaps Journalism is also----?"

"Of course. Everyone is so contentedly and peacefully absorbed in contributing his share of work to the State, that he has no desire to read about the doings of other persons, even if there was anything of interest to be told, which there isn't. We produce just sufficient for our own wants, so there is no commerce; we have no Army or Navy, since we don't desire to conquer, and are not worth conquering. No Politics, because we govern ourselves by our own consent and co-operation; no Science, as inventors only benefited capital at the expense of labour; and, this being so, what _is_ there to put into a newspaper, if we had one?"

"Haven't you even a--a _humorous_ paper?" said MR. PUNCH. "I used to do a little in that way once."

"You had better not do it _here_. Humour, I believe, consisted in representing Humanity under ridiculous aspects. _We_'re Humanity, and we don't see any fun in being laughed at. None of your humour here, mind!"

"But the citizens have a certain amount of leisure, I suppose," said MR. PUNCH. "How _do_ they amuse themselves? For I can discover no libraries, no circuses, nor concert-rooms, nor anything!"

"It was seen to be invidious to furnish any entertainment at the public expense which did not give equal amusement to all, and so the idea was gradually dropped. When our citizens have finished their daily task, they find their relaxation, in the intervals of eating and sleeping, in the harmless and soothing practice of chewing gum. They can all do _that_, and the State provides each with a weekly supply for the purpose. Now tell me--is there anything _more_ I can do for you?"

"Yes," murmured MR. PUNCH; "if you would be so very kind as to freeze me again for five hundred years or so, I should be exceedingly obliged. I don't feel quite at home in _this_ century!"

BY PARLIAMENTARY.

_On the Platform._

A LADY OF FAMILY. Oh, yes, I do travel third-class sometimes, my dear. I consider it a duty to try to know something of the lower orders.

[_Looks out for an empty third-class compartment._

_In the Carriage._--_The seats are now occupied: the LADY OF FAMILY is in one corner, next to a CHATTY WOMAN with a basket, and opposite to an ECCENTRIC-LOOKING MAN with a flighty manner._

The ECCENTRIC MAN (_to the LADY OF FAMILY_). Sorry to disturb you, Mum, but you're a-setting on one o' my 'am sandwiches.

The _L. of F._???!!!

The E. M. (_considerately_). Don't trouble yourself, Mum, it's of no intrinsic value. I on'y put it there to keep my seat.

The CHATTY W. (_to the L. OF F._). I think I've seen you about Shinglebeach, 'ave I not?

The L. OF F. It is very possible. I have been staying with some friends in the neighbourhood.

The C. W. It's a nice cheerful place is Shinglebeach; but (_confidentially_) don't you think it's a very singler thing that in a place like that--a fash'nable place, too--there shouldn't be a single 'am an' beef shop?

The L. OF F. (_making a desperate effort to throw herself into the question_). What a very extraordinary thing to be sure. Dear, _dear_ me! No ham and beef shop!

The C. W. It's so indeed, Mum; and what's more, as I daresay you have noticed for yourself, if you 'appen to want a snack o' fried fish ever so, there isn't a place you could go to--leastways, at a moment's notice. Now, 'ow do you explain such a thing as that?

The L. OF F. (_faintly_). I'm afraid I can't suggest any explanation.

A SENTENTIOUS MAN. Fried fish is very sustaining.

[_Relapses into silence for remainder of journey._

The ECCENTRIC MAN. Talking of sustaining, I remember, when we was kids, my father ud bring us home two pennorth o' ches'nuts, and we 'ad 'em boiled, and they'd last us days. (_Sentimentally._) He was a kind man, my father (_to the L. OF F., who bows constrainedly_), though you wouldn't ha' thought it, to look at him. I don't know, mind yer, that he wasn't fond of his bit o' booze--(_the L. OF F. looks out of window_)--like the best of us. I'm goin' up to prove his will now, I am--if you don't believe me, 'ere's the probate. (_Hands that document round for inspection._) That's all reg'lar enough, I 'ope. (_To the L. OF F._) Don't give it back before you've done with it--I'm in no 'urry, and there's good reading in it. (_Points out certain favourite passages with a very dirty forefinger._) Begin there--_that's_ my name.

[_The L. OF F. peruses the will with as great a show of interest as she can bring herself to assume._

The ECCENTRIC MAN. D'ye see that big 'andsome building over there? That's the County Lunatic Asylum--where my poor wife is shut up. I went to see her last week, I did. (_Relates his visit in detail to the L. OF F., who listens unwillingly._) It's wonderful how many of our family have been in that asylum from first to last. I 'ad a aunt who died cracky; and my old mother, she's very peculiar at times. There's days when I feel as if I was a little orf my own 'ed, so if I say anything at all out of the way, you'll know what it is.

[_L. OF F. changes carriages at the next station. In the second carriage are two Men of seafaring appearance, and a young Man who is parting from his FIANCÉE as the L. OF F. takes her seat._

The FIANCÉ. Excuse me one moment, Ma'am.

(_Leans across the L. OF F. and out of the window._) Well, good-bye, my girl; take care of yourself.

The FIANCÉE (_with a hysterical giggle._) Oh, I'll take care o' _my_ self.

[_Looks at the roof of the carriage._

HE (_with meaning_). No more pickled onions, eh?

SHE. What a one you are to remember things! (_After a pause._) Give my love to Joe.

HE. All right. Well, Jenny, just one, for the last. (_They embrace loudly, after which the F. resumes his seat with an expression of mingled sentiment and complacency._) Oh (_to L. OF F._), if you don't mind my stepping across you again, Mum. Jenny, if you see Dick between this and Friday, just tell him as----

[_Prolonged whispers; sounds of renewed kisses; final parting as train starts with a jerk, which throws the FINACÉ upon the L. OF F.'S lap. After the train is started a gleam of peculiar significance is observable in the eyes of one of the Seafaring_ _Men, who is reclining in an easy attitude on the seat. His companion responds with a grin of intelligence, and produces a large black bottle from the rack. They drink, and hand the bottle to the FIANCÉ._

The F. Thankee, I don't mind if I do. Here's wishing you----

[_Remainder of sentiment drowned in sound of glug-glug-glug; is about to hand back bottle when the first SEAFARER intimates that he is to pass it on. The L. OF F. recoils in horror._

BOTH SEAFARERS. It's _wine_, Mum!

[_Tableau. The LADY OF FAMILY realises that the study of third-class humanity has its drawbacks._

THE FARMING OF THE FUTURE; OR, WHAT BRITISH AGRICULTURE IS COMING TO.

_A Car on the Electric Light Railway. TIME.--Twentieth Century._

FIRST FARMER (_recognising Second Farmer_). Why, 'tis Muster Fretwail, surelie! didn't see it was you afore. And how be things gettin' along with _you_, Sir, eh?

FARMER FRETWAIL (_lugubriously_). 'Mong the middlin's, Muster Lackaday; 'mong the middlin's! Nothen doin' just now--nothen 't all!

THIRD FARMER (_enviously_). Well, _you_ hevn't no call fur to cry out, neighbour. I see you've got a likely lot o' noo 'oardins comin' up all along your part o' the line. I wish mine wur arf as furrard, I know thet!

F. FRETWAIL. Ah, them "Keep yer 'air on"'s, _you_ mean, Ryemouth. I don't deny as they was lookin' tidy enough a week back. But just as I was makin' ready fur to paint up "Try it on a Billiard Ball," blamed if this yere frost didn't set in, and now theer's everything at a standstill, wi' the brushes froze 'ard in the pots!

F. RYEMOUTH. 'Tis the same down with me. Theer's a acre o' "Bunyan's Easy Boots" as must hev a noo coat, and I cann't get nothen done to 'en till the weather's a bit more hopen like. Don' keer _'ow_ soon we hev a change, myself, I don't!

F. LACKADAY. Nor yet me, so long as we don't 'ave no gales with it. Theer was my height acre pasture as I planted only las' Candlemas wi' "Roopy's Lung Tonics"--wunnerful fine and tall they was, too--and ivery one on 'en blowed down the next week!

F. FRETWAIL. Well I 'ope theer wun't be no rain, neither, come to that. I know I had all the P's of my "Piffler's Persuasive Pillules" fresh gold-leaved at Michaelmas, and it come on wet directly arter I done it, and reg'lar washed the gilt out o' sight an' knowledge, it did. Theer ain't no standin' up agen rain!

F. RYEMOUTH. I dunno as I wouldn't as lief hev rain as sun. My "Hanti-Freckle Salves" all blistered up and peeled afore the summer was 'ardly begun a'most.

F. LACKADAY. 'Tis a turr'ble hard climate to make 'ead against, is ourn. I've 'eard tell as some farmers are takin' to they enamelled hiron affairs, same as they used to hev when I wur a lad. I mind theer wur a crop o' "Read Comic Cagmag" as lingered on years arter the paper itself. Not as I hold with enamelling, myself--'tain't what I call 'igh farmin'--takes too much outer the land in _my_ 'pinion.

F. FRETWAIL. Aye, aye. "Rotation o' boards." Say, "Spooner's Sulphur Syrup" fur a spring crop, follered with some kind o' soap or candles, and p'raps cough lozengers, or hembrocation, or bakin' powder, if the soil will bear it, arterwards--that's the system _I_ wur reared on, and there ain't no better, 'pend upon it!

F. RYEMOUTH. I tell 'ee what 'tis; it's time we 'ad some protection agen these yere furrin advartisements. I was travellin' along the Great Northern t'other day, an' I see theer wos two or three o' them French boards nigh in ivery field, a downright shame and disgrace I call it, disfigurin' the look of the country and makin' it that ontidy--let alone drivin' honest British boards off the land. Government ought to put a stop to it; that's what _I_ say!

F. LACKADAY. They Parliment chaps don't keer _what_ becomes of us poor farmers, they don't. Look at last General Election time. They might ha' given our boards a turn; but not they. Most o' they candidates did all their 'tisin' with rubbishy flags and balloons--made in Japan, Sir, every blamed one o' them! And they wonder British Agriculture don't prosper more!

F. RYEMOUTH. Speaking o' queer ways o' hadvertisin', hev any of ye set eyes on that farm o' young Fullacrank's? Danged if ever _I_ see sech tomfool notions as he's took up with in all _my_ born days.

F. FRETWAIL. Why, what hev he been up to _now_, eh?

F. RYEMOUTH. Well, I thought I shud ha' bust myself larfin' when I see it fust. Theer ain't not a board nor a sky sign; no, nor yet a 'oarding, on the 'ole of his land!

F. LACKADAY. Then how do he expect to get a profit out of it?--that's what _I_ want to year.

F. RYEMOUTH. You'll 'ardly credit it, neighbours, but he's been buryin' some o' they furrin grains, hoats and barley, an' I dunno what not, in little holes about his fields, so as to make the words, "Use Faddler's Non-Farinaceous Food"--and the best of it is the darned young fool expecks as 'ow it'll all sprout come next Aperl--he do indeed, friends!

F. FRETWAIL. Flying in the face o' Providence, I calls it. He must ha' gone clean out of his senses!

F. LACKADAY. Stark starin' mad. I never heerd tell o' such extravagance. Why, as likely as not, 'twill all die off o' the land afore the year's out--and wheer wull he be _then_?

F. RYEMOUTH. Azactly what I said to 'en myself. "You tek my word for it," I sez, "'twun't never come to no good. The nateral crop for these yere British Hiles," I told 'en, "is good honest Henglish hoak an' canvas," I sez, "and 'tain't the action of no sensible man, nor yet no Christian," sez I, "to go a-drillin' 'oles and a-droppin' in houtlandish seeds from Canada an' Roosha, which the sile wasn't never intended to bear!"

FARMERS FRETWELL and LACKADAY. Rightly spoke, neighbour Ryemouth, 'twas a true word! But theer'll be a jedgment on sech new-fangled doin's, and, what's moor, you and I will live fur to see it afore we're very much older!

[_They all shake their heads solemnly as scene closes in._

A DIALOGUE ON ART.

(A STUDY IN SPIRITS AND WATERS.)

_The Smoke-room of a Provincial Hotel. TIME--Towards midnight. CHARACTERS--MR. LUCESLIPP-BLETHERON, a middle-aged Art Patron and Dilettante. He has arrived at his third tumbler of whiskey and water, and the stage at which a man alludes freely before strangers to his "poor dear father." MR. MILBOARD, a Painter, on a sketching tour. He is enduring MR. L.-B. with a patience which will last for just one more pipe. FIRST COMMERCIAL, who considers Mr. L.-B. a highly agreeable and well-informed gentleman, and is anxious to be included in his audience. SECOND COMMERCIAL, who doesn't intend to join in the conversation until he feels he can do so with crushing effect._

MR. LUCESLIPP-BLETHERON. Yes, I assure you, I never come acrosh a David Cox but I say to myself, "_There_'sh a Bit!" (_Here he fixes his eye-glass, sips whiskey and water, and looks at MR. MILBOARD as if he expected him to express admiration at this evidence of penetration. The only tribute he extorts, however, is a grunt._) Now, we've a Cornelius Janssen at home. Itsh only hishtory is--my dear father bought it. He was an artist himself, painted a bit, travelled man, an' all that short o' thing. Well, _he_ picked it up for ten pounds!

FIRST COMMERCIAL (_deferentially_). Did he reelly now? A Johnson for ten pounds! Did he get a warranty with it, Sir?

MR. L.-B. (_after bringing the eye-glass to bear on the intruder for a second_). Then I've a Mieris--at leasht, _shome_ clever f'ler painted it, and it'sh a pleashure to look at it, and you can't get over _that_, can you?

MR. MILBOARD. I don't intend to _try_ to get over it.

MR. L.-B. You're qui' right. Now I'm the lasht man in the world to shwagger; shtill, I'm goin' to ashk you to lemme have my lil' shwagger now. I happened to be at Rome shor' time ago, and I met Middleman there. We had our lil' chat together and what not--he'sh no pershonal friend o' mine. Well; I picked up a lil' drawing by a Roman chap; worth nothing more than what I got it for, or _anything_, as you may shay. Middleman had the whole run of this chap's studio. I saw this drawing--didn't care mush about it--but thought it wash a gem, and gave the modesh shum of a hundred an' fifty _lire_ for it. Put it in my portmanteau between a couple o' shirts----

FIRST COMM. (_still pining for notice_). When you say shirts, Sir, I presume you mean _clean_ ones?

MR. L.-B. No man with the shlightest feelin' or reverence for Art would _put_ sush a queshtion! (_The FIRST COMM. collapses._) Between a couple of--(_underlining the word_) Shirts, and brought it home. Now I'm comin' to my point. One afternoon after my return, I wash walking down Bond Street, when I saw a sketch exhibited in a window by the shame f'ler. I went in and shaid, "What are you asking for thish? Mind I don' wanter _buy_ it; ashk me any price yer like!" And they shaid forty guineash.

MR. MILB. Apparently they availed themselves of your permission, and _did_ ask you any price they liked.

MR. L.-B. No doubt; but wait till I've _done_. I saw another--a finished drawing not qui' so good as mine, there. Then I shaid to them quietly, "Now, look _here_, why don' you go an' buy 'em for yourshelves in the artist's own shtudio?" It shtruck me as sho odd, a man like Middleman, being there, and having the pick, shouldn' buy _more_ of 'em!

MR. MILB. Wasn't worth his while; he can't buy _everything_!

MR. L.-B. (_after considering this impartially with some more whiskey_). No; your ansher is a very _good_ one, and a very _fair_ one. He _can't_ buy everything. I _did_ pick, however, an' I gorrit. I said to him, "How mush?" an' he tol' me, and there wash an end of it, do you shee?

MR. MILB. It's the ordinary course of business, isn't it?

MR. L.-B. Egshackly. But how few _do_ it! Now, I'll tell you 'nother shtory 'bout my poo' dear father. He came 'pon a sculpture in a curioshity shop; it wash very dirty and used up, but my dear father saw it was worth shpotting, and a thing to _be_ shpotted, and sho he put hish _finger_ on it!

FIRST COMM. (_undaunted by past failure_). And was it antique, Sir?

MR. L.-B. That'sh more'n I can tell you; it wash very dirty, at any rate, and he only gave fifty guineash for it. Wasn't a _great_ shum----

FIRST COMM. (_encouraged by his affability_). No, indeed; a mere nothing, so to speak, Sir!

MR. L.-B. (_annoyed_). Will you have the goodnesh to lemme finish what I was telling thish gentleman? When my poo' father got that busht home, it was the mos' perfect likenesh o' Napoleon!

MR. MILB. Ha! puts me in mind of the old story of the man who picked up a dingy panel somewhere or other, took it home, cleaned it, and found a genuine Morland; went on cleaning and discovered an undoubted Rembrandt; cleaned _that_, and came to a Crivelli; couldn't stop, kept on cleaning, and was rewarded by a portrait of George the Fourth!

FIRST COMM. (_deeply impressed_). And all of them genuine? How _very_ extraordinary, to be sure!

MR. L.-B. (_wagging his head sapiently_). I could tell you shtranger things than _that_. But as I was shaying, here was this busht of Napoleon, by some French chap--which _you_ would tell me was _against_ it.

MR. MILB. Why? The French are the best sculptors in the world.

MR. L.-B. The Frensh! I can _not_ bring myshelf to believe that, if only for thish shimple reashon, they haven't the _patiensh_ for it.

FIRST COMM. So _I_ should have said. For my own part--not knowing much _about_ it, very likely--I should have put the _Italians_ first.

MR. MILB. If you are talking of all time----

FIRST COMM. (_feeling at last at his ease_). I should say, even _now_. Why, there was a piece of statuary in the Italian Exhibition at Earl's Court some years back that took _my_ fancy and took my _wife's_ fancy very much. It was a representation in marble of a 'en and chickens, all so natural, and with every individual feather on the birds done to such a nicety----!

MR. MILB. I was hardly referring to the skill with which the Italians carve--ah--_poultry_.

MR. L.-B. Ridic'lous! Great mishtake to talk without unnershtanding shubject. (_The FIRST COMMERCIAL retires from the room in disorder._) One thing I should like to ashk is thish. Why are sculptors at present day so inferior to the antique? Ishn't the human form divine ash noble and ash shymmetrical ash formerly? Why can't they _reproduce_ it then?

MR. MILB. You must first find your sculptor. Providence doesn't see fit to create a Michael Angelo or a Praxiteles every five minutes, any more than a Shakspeare.

MR. L.-B. (_wavering between piety and epigram_). Thank the Lord for _that_! Now there'sh Florensh. Shome of us who have had the _run_ there--well, there you see all the original thingsh--all the _originalsh_. And yet, if you'll believe me (_dreamily_), with all my love and charm for Art, gimme the Capitoline Venush living and breathing in _flesh and blood_, Sir, not in cold lifelesh marble!

MR. MILB. That of course is a matter of taste. But we are talking about Art, not women.

MR. L.-B. (_profoundly_). Unforsh'nately, women are the _shubjects_ of Art. You've got to find out your client's shtyle of Art firsht, and then carry it out in the besht possible manner.

MR. MILB. (_rising, and knocking his pipe out_). Have I? But I'm going to bed now, so you'll excuse me.

MR. L.-B. (_detaining him_). But look here again. Take the Louvre. (_As MR. MILBOARD disclaims any desire to take it._) Now, nobody talksh about the Gallery _there_, and yet, if you only egshemp the thingsh that are rude and vulgar, and go quietly roun'----

SECOND COMMERCIAL (_who sees a Socratic opening at last_). Might I ask you, Sir, to enumerate any pictures there, that, in your opinion, are "rude and vulgar"?

[_MR. MILBOARD avails himself of this diversion to escape._

MR. L.-B. In the Grand Gallery of the Louvre there'sh an enormous amount of shtuff, as everybody who'sh an artisht and a lover of Art knowsh. If I had a friend who wash thinking of going to the Louvre (_here he looks round vaguely for MR. MILBOARD_), I should shay to him, "Do you _care_ about pictursh at all? If you _don't_, don't borrer yourshelf 'bout it. If you _do_, drop in shome day with Me, and I'll give you a hint what to shee." (_As he cannot make out what has become of MR. MILBOARD, he has to content himself with the SECOND COMMERCIAL._) If you were _my_ boy, I should shay to you----

SECOND COMM. (_at the door_). Pardon me for remarking that, if I was your boy, I should probably prefer to take my own opinion. (_With dignified independence._) I never follow other persons' taste in Art!

[_He goes out as the Smoke-room Page enters._

MR. L.-B. (_hazily with half-closed eyes_). If you wash _my_ boy, I should shay to you, very quietly, very sherioushly, and without 'tempting to dictate----(_Perceives that he is addressing the Page._) Jus' bring me 'nother glash whiskey an' warrer.

[_He is left sitting._

THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW.

A CONTRAST.

_The Stables at Saddlesprings, the Wheelers' Country House near Bykersall. MISS DIANA'S Horse BAYARD discovered in his Stall._

BAYARD (_talking to himself, as is the habit of some horses when alone_). I can't make it out. She's here. All the family came down yesterday--I heard the omnibus start for the station to meet them. And yet she hasn't sent for me; hasn't even been near me! She always used to rush in here and kiss me on the nose the very first--She's ill--that's it of course--sprained her fetlock or something. If she was well, she'd have had me saddled as soon as she'd had her morning feed, and we'd have gone for a canter together somewhere.... I hope she'll get well soon. I'm sick of being taken out by the stable-man; he's so dull--no notion of conversation beyond whistling! Now, Miss Diana would talk to me the whole way.... Perhaps her hands and seat might have been----But what did _that_ matter? I liked to feel she was on my back, I liked the sound of her pretty voice, and the touch of her hand when she patted me after her ride.... (_He pricks his ears._) Why, that's her voice outside now! She's all right, after all. She's coming in to see me!... I _knew_ she couldn't have forgotten!

MISS DIANA'S VOICE (_outside_). Yes, you might put it in here for the present, Stubbs. I suppose it will be quite safe?

STUBBS' VOICE. Safe enough, Miss, there's plenty o' empty stalls this side. Nothing _in_ 'ere just now, except----