"ALL'S WELL!"Cockney Volunteer(on Sentry go). "Halt! Who goes there?"Rustic."It's all roight, Man. Oi cooms along 'ere ev'ry Maarnin'!"
"ALL'S WELL!"
Cockney Volunteer(on Sentry go). "Halt! Who goes there?"
Rustic."It's all roight, Man. Oi cooms along 'ere ev'ry Maarnin'!"
Flirts of a feather spoon together;Amorous pairs flock on the stairs.
Jap and Chin.—"What a curious metamorphosis!" writes to us our esteemed contributor-at-a-distance,Herr von Sagefried. "Herr John Chinaman is suing for peace! so that the Chinese party becomes the realChap-on-knees!"
Comment by a Laboucherian.—Resolutions cannot be made withRosebery.
The New Man.—Woman.
Minister."Oh dear, no, James. There'll be no necessity for Whisky in Heaven."Parishioner (dubiously)."Necessity or no necessity, I maun say I aye like to see it on the Table!"
Minister."Oh dear, no, James. There'll be no necessity for Whisky in Heaven."
Parishioner (dubiously)."Necessity or no necessity, I maun say I aye like to see it on the Table!"
I promised last week that the third chapter should be devoted to my meeting, and aWinkins'sword is as good as his bond, in point of fact, if anything a trifle better. But I think I ought first to mention that since the account of my interview with Mrs.Letham Havittand Mrs.Arble Marchappeared in print, I have been subjected to the annoyance of receiving an anonymous letter. I should be the last to suggest that either of these ladies, for whom my admiration is equalled only by my respectful awe, had anything to do with this missive, but here is what it contained. "It is easy to jeer at Woman, but be warned in time. Her day will come. Already, married or single, she may vote, already County Councils tremble at her word. Treat Woman with respect,or it will be the worse for you." These last words were written in red ink. I confess I'm not easily frightened, but I don't like this kind of thing. And all my wife says is that it serves me right for getting mixed up in these public affairs at my time of life, and that I ought to know better.
"You're not fitted for it,Timothy," she says, "and you'll only be made a fool for your pains." I am very fond of my wife, but I wished she wasn't a prophetess.
It is time to come to the meeting. It was held in the Voluntary Schoolroom, granted to me by the Vicar, on the express condition that I should be strictly non-political. The room was crammed with persons, men and women, married and single. The Vicar brought his daughters, two charming girls.Black Boband his mates were there, in solid rows, whilst Mrs.Havittand Mrs.Marchboth turned up, attended by body-guards—the one of Women Liberals, the other of Primrose Leaguers. When the Chairman rose at half-past seven it is no exaggeration to say that the scene was striking and impressive. Then, two minutes later, I rose, and commenced mymagnum opusof oratory. I had fifty-two pages of notes, I drank six glasses of water, and twenty-three people left before I had done, which was not until an hour and five minutes had elapsed. I don't for a moment complain that twenty-three left; my complaint is that the number was so few. My peroration, to which I had devoted days of care, somehow hardly had the effect I had hoped for.
"This is indeed a memorable year," I said; "a year of truly rural significance. It remains with you to show that you are prepared to rise to the height of the occasion. If you do this, if you grasp firmly the benefits which this Act offers you, then when next New Year's Day the gladsome bells ring out once again to tell a listening world that one year is dead and that another lives, they will sound all the clearer, all the more joyous, because they ring in a year in which Mudford will have a Parish Council."
Then I sat down, amidst subdued applause, which, I admit, disappointed me. The Vicar's daughters never even took the trouble to applaud at all, and both seemed to have something to confide to their handkerchiefs. BlackBobwhispered to his neighbour, "Laying it on thick to-night, isn't he?" I wonder what he meant.
After this commenced a torrent of questions, forty-six in all before they were done. May I never live to have such another experience! All the points I had evaded, because I had not understood them, came up with hardly a single exception. One man asked, "Can the Parish Council remove the parson?"—a most embarrassing question, which evoked roars of laughter from the audience, and a look of indignation from the Vicar. And the awful conundrums!—most of which I had to content myself with giving up. Here is one. "Supposing only eight people come to the Parish Meeting, and a Parish Council of seven has to be elected, and suppose seven of the eight are nominated for election, and the seven are elected chairmen of the Meeting in succession, and have all to retire because they are candidates for the Council, and suppose the eighth man cannot read or write, and when he's proposed as chairman, goes home, how will the Parish Council be elected?" I simply said I would consult my lawyer, and, if necessary, take counsel's opinion.
Of course there was a vote of thanks, and of course it was carried. When I got home, my wife, who had declined to go, asked me how it had all gone off. "My dearMaria," was all I said; "you are quite right. A man at my time of life ought never to start taking part in public affairs."
THE DOOM OF THE MINOR POETS.When Minor Poets grew so rife,They found a Minor Poet's lifeWas very little funThe Spirit of the Age they prayedThey might be melted down, and madeInto a Major one.Each had a very little sparkOf genius, that in the darkMight clearly be discerned.But in a universal glare!Who could perceive a rushlight, whereBy myriads they burned?The Spirit heard the prayer they urged,That all their merits might be mergedIn one enduring Fame:"Yet, ere you all are whelmed and gone,You," she declared, "must fix uponThe Major Poet's name."Up rose a mighty clamour then,ForSmithproposed the cognomenOfSmith, in ardent tones."More suitable for high renown,"CriedBrown, "appears the name ofBrown."JonesadvocatedJones.Expecting yet some verdict clear,The Spirit waited half a year,Then spread her wings and fled,But ere she fled, pronounced this curse:"You all shall read each other's verseTill all of you are dead!"Some, overburdened by the doom,Sank speedily into the tomb.In padded cells and loneThere wander others, who abuseAll day the volumes they peruse,But never ope their own!
When Minor Poets grew so rife,They found a Minor Poet's lifeWas very little funThe Spirit of the Age they prayedThey might be melted down, and madeInto a Major one.Each had a very little sparkOf genius, that in the darkMight clearly be discerned.But in a universal glare!Who could perceive a rushlight, whereBy myriads they burned?The Spirit heard the prayer they urged,That all their merits might be mergedIn one enduring Fame:"Yet, ere you all are whelmed and gone,You," she declared, "must fix uponThe Major Poet's name."Up rose a mighty clamour then,ForSmithproposed the cognomenOfSmith, in ardent tones."More suitable for high renown,"CriedBrown, "appears the name ofBrown."JonesadvocatedJones.Expecting yet some verdict clear,The Spirit waited half a year,Then spread her wings and fled,But ere she fled, pronounced this curse:"You all shall read each other's verseTill all of you are dead!"Some, overburdened by the doom,Sank speedily into the tomb.In padded cells and loneThere wander others, who abuseAll day the volumes they peruse,But never ope their own!
When Minor Poets grew so rife,They found a Minor Poet's lifeWas very little funThe Spirit of the Age they prayedThey might be melted down, and madeInto a Major one.
Each had a very little sparkOf genius, that in the darkMight clearly be discerned.But in a universal glare!Who could perceive a rushlight, whereBy myriads they burned?
The Spirit heard the prayer they urged,That all their merits might be mergedIn one enduring Fame:"Yet, ere you all are whelmed and gone,You," she declared, "must fix uponThe Major Poet's name."
Up rose a mighty clamour then,ForSmithproposed the cognomenOfSmith, in ardent tones."More suitable for high renown,"CriedBrown, "appears the name ofBrown."JonesadvocatedJones.
Expecting yet some verdict clear,The Spirit waited half a year,Then spread her wings and fled,But ere she fled, pronounced this curse:"You all shall read each other's verseTill all of you are dead!"
Some, overburdened by the doom,Sank speedily into the tomb.In padded cells and loneThere wander others, who abuseAll day the volumes they peruse,But never ope their own!
THINGS THAT ARE SAID."Now, Major do your very best to come to us on Tuesday. I shall expect you. But if youcan'tcome, of course I shall not be disappointed!"
THINGS THAT ARE SAID.
"Now, Major do your very best to come to us on Tuesday. I shall expect you. But if youcan'tcome, of course I shall not be disappointed!"
CROSSED!(To a Girl at a Distance.)Why must you go four thousand miles away?It throws our correspondence out of gear!I cannot cable to you ev'ry day—It's much too public, and it's rather dear!You write for sympathy—I sympathise;You get my answer ten days after date,And then, with spirits sky-high, you despiseMy poor attempts your sorrow to abate!Meanwhile, to my hilarious last-but-oneHere comes your late but similar reply;But nowmyturn at dumps has just begun—I can't enjoy your triumphs while I sigh!And so our moods go see-saw, up and down,Our letters cross, perversely cold or fond!There's only one redress—come back to town,And then we'llmeet, and cease to correspond!
CROSSED!(To a Girl at a Distance.)Why must you go four thousand miles away?It throws our correspondence out of gear!I cannot cable to you ev'ry day—It's much too public, and it's rather dear!You write for sympathy—I sympathise;You get my answer ten days after date,And then, with spirits sky-high, you despiseMy poor attempts your sorrow to abate!Meanwhile, to my hilarious last-but-oneHere comes your late but similar reply;But nowmyturn at dumps has just begun—I can't enjoy your triumphs while I sigh!And so our moods go see-saw, up and down,Our letters cross, perversely cold or fond!There's only one redress—come back to town,And then we'llmeet, and cease to correspond!
(To a Girl at a Distance.)
Why must you go four thousand miles away?It throws our correspondence out of gear!I cannot cable to you ev'ry day—It's much too public, and it's rather dear!
You write for sympathy—I sympathise;You get my answer ten days after date,And then, with spirits sky-high, you despiseMy poor attempts your sorrow to abate!
Meanwhile, to my hilarious last-but-oneHere comes your late but similar reply;But nowmyturn at dumps has just begun—I can't enjoy your triumphs while I sigh!
And so our moods go see-saw, up and down,Our letters cross, perversely cold or fond!There's only one redress—come back to town,And then we'llmeet, and cease to correspond!
(An Imaginary Sketch of How Things can not Possibly be Done.)
Scene—The Composing Room of anIllustrious Musician.TheIllustrious Musiciandiscovered deep in thought in front of a Piano.
Illustrious Musician(picking out the notes with one finger). "Dumty dumty, dumty dum dum." No, that isn't it! I am sure I had it just now. (Tries again.) "Dumty dumty, dumty dum dum." No, that's not it either! I must try it again—oh, of course, with HerrVon Bangemnöt. Now to summon him. (Blows trumpet). That ought to bring myaide-de-camp.
[Flourish of trumpets, drums; doors thrown open, and enter a Regiment of Infantry, with its full complement of officers.
Colonel(saluting). Your Majesty required assistance?
I. M.(considering). Yes, I knew I wanted something. Oh, to be sure. Will you please send HerrVon Bangemnötto me at once.
Colonel(saluting). Yes, your Majesty. (To troops.) Right about turn.
[Flourish of trumpets, drums. The Regiment retires.EnterHerrVon Bangemnöt.
Herr Von Bangemnöt(making obeisance). Your Majesty required my assistance?
I. M.Well, scarcely that, old Double Bass. The fact is, I've just composed a very pleasing trifle, but I can't write it down for the life of me. Would you like to hear it?
H. V. B.Certainly, your Majesty. I shall be overjoyed.
I. M.Well, it goes like this—"Dumty dumty, dumty dum dum." See. "Dumty dumty, dumty dum dum." Now,yourepeat it.
H. V. B.(who has been listening intently). "Dumty dumty—dum dum."
I. M.(interrupting). No, no; you've got it all wrong. See here, "Dumty dumty, dumty dum dum."
H. V. B.(in an ecstacy). "Dumpty dumpty, dumpty dum dum." Perfectly charming! It is really excellent!
I. M.(pleased, but suspicious). You really think it good?
H. V. B.Good! that isn't the word for it. Excellent! first rate! capital!
I. M.I am so glad you like it. I daresay you could write it out for me?
H. V. B.Oh, certainly. Beautiful! Only wants a little amplification to take the musical world by storm.
I. M.(much pleased). You really are exceedingly complimentary. You are indeed. I suppose it could be scored for an orchestra?
H. V. B.I should think so. I will turn it into a march for the Cavalry.
I. M.And for the Infantry, too? You see, there might be jealousy if you didn't.
H. V. B.Quite so. And there should be marches for the Artillery and Engineers. Then of course we should have a version to be played by the Navy, first in fine weather and then in a storm.
I. M.I think we ought to do as much. And of course the children should have a version suitable for their shrill voices. And it could be used as an opera, and played on the organ. All this, of course, you could manage?
H. V. B.Certainly, you may be sure it shall become universally popular. I will score it for every conceivable instrument, and every possible audience. It shall be played or sung in hospitals, railway stations, schools, and in fact everywhere!
I. M.It shall! But there must be one version teaching a man how to play the tune with a solitary finger.
H. V. B.May I venture to ask by whom that last version will be used?
I. M.Why, old Double Bass, can't you guess? Why, man alive, I shall play from it myself!
[Tableau and Curtain.
Talk about the Chinese eating dogs and cats, and the partiality of the South Sea Islanders for Missionary, what price this, from theDaily Telegraph?—
ROAST COOK (single) WANTED, for large hotel. State age, and last reference.
The cannibal advertiser evidently is agourmet, for he is particular as to age, and never eats them married. Or is it that he likes them single in preference to double, as,per contra, one might prefer double stout to single stout. After this, we shall expect such delicacies as Boiled Butler, Sauce Maître d'Hotel, Fried Footman, garnished with Calves-foot jelly, or Pickled Pageboy with Button mushrooms. Every fashion must have some inaugurator; and who knows but that we are on the eve of cannibalism, and that the Advertiser and theDaily Telegraphare its joint pioneers!
Writes a Baronitess, "How quaint and simple appear the affectations of MissJane Austen'sheroines inPride and Prejudice, especially now that one's mind is confused with the vagaries of the newspaper-created but impossible 'New Woman.'" Rather different days then, when girls addressed their mothers as "Ma'am," and were afraid of getting their feet wet, which was unromantic, and bread-and-butter romance was the fashion of those times. No matter, these romantic young women knew how to dress, according to the exquisite illustrations ofHugh Thomson. What could be expected but sentiment, when the young men also appeared so picturesquely attired. This new edition of an old work is charmingly got up and published byGeorge Allan. Turning from these very early nineteenth century attractions, I findA Battle and a Boystaring at me from a brilliant red binding. The colour suggests a gory fight, but there is nothing martial about it, only a Tyrolean peasant-boy in a pugilistic attitude with another boy. He is having it out before starting on his battle of life, which, taking place in the gay Tyrol, where things happen out-of-the-way,Blanche Willis Howardhas made it more interesting than an every-day fight.
Most Interesting.
Most Interesting.
Most young women nowadays like to be here, there, and everywhere, and so you will find them in theFifty-two Stories of Girl-life, by some of our best women writers, and edited byAlfred H. Miles. Messrs.Hutchinsonwho, publish this work, might head their advertisement with "Go for Miles—and you won't find anything better than this." Other jokes on "miles" they may discover or invent for themselves. These are mostly for our big girls, but the little ones will find a gorgeously gayRosebud Annualfor 1895, quite a prize-flower, exhibited byJames Clark & Co.; whilstRosy Mite; or, the Witch's Spell, byVera Petrowna Jelibrovsky,—this is a nice easy name to ask for!—is a most thrilling nursery tale of how a little girl, who ought to be an arithmetician after being reduced to the size of her little finger, is able to subtract much adventurous interest from among the insects and the insect-world, and is full of undivided wonders. The illustrations, byT. Pym, show how charmingly unconventional life can be in such circumstances.
Aunï and NephewBy Our Own Bird Fancier.
Aunï and Nephew
Aunï and Nephew
By Our Own Bird Fancier.
So charming, after long years of parting, to come again onMr. Micawber!Of all things, he has been writing an account ofThe Life and Adventures of Thomas Edison(Chatto and Windus). The book purports to be the joint work ofW. K. L. DicksonandAntonia Dickson. But that is only his modesty. The literary style is unmistakable. "Released from the swaddling clothes of error and superstition," no one butMr. M.could have written, "the inherent virility of man has reasserted itself, and to the untrammelled vision and ripened energies of the scientist the arcana of nature have been gradually disclosed." "Edison'sliterary proclivities," he adds, in a sentence that recalls struggles in the house in Windsor Terrace, City Road, whereDavid Copperfieldwas a lodger, "were seriously hampered by the collapse of the family fortunes, and the early necessity of gaining his own living. Despite his paucity of years, and the practical claims which life had already imposed,Edisondevoted every spare moment to the improvement of his mind, and profited to the utmost by the wise and gentle tuition of his mother." My Baronite can almost hearMr. Micawber'svoice choked by a sob as he declaimed this last sentence. Fortunately (or unfortunately)Mr. Micawberdoes not last long. After the first chapter his hand is rarely seen, he probably, the God of Day gone down upon him, having been carried to the King's Bench prison. For the rest, the book is an admirable account of one of the most marvellous lives the world has known. Much of it is told inEdison'sown words, conveying simple records of magic achievements. The book, luxuriously printed on thick glazed paper, is adorned by innumerable sketches and portraits, illustrating the life and work of the Wizard of the Nineteenth Century.
B. de B.-W.
Cook's Tour de Force.
Cook's Tour de Force.
Florence is undoubtedly one of the best places in the world for studying pictures. Resolve to visit the Pitti Palace. Now I shall see something like a palace—the home of theMedici, adorned with all the beauty of architecture and sculpture which they loved so well! No monotonous, painted barrack like Buckingham Palace, no shabby brick house like St. James's. And now I shall see a collection of pictures worthily housed in a magnificent building! No contemptible piece of architecture like our National Gallery, where you fall over the staircase directly you go in at the door, and where, when you have recovered yourself, you find three staircases, facing you like the heads of Cerberus at another entrance, and always go up the wrong one, and have to come down again and clamber up another before you find what you want. Even then, if you seek the watercolours of the greatest English landscape painter, you must go down yet another staircase into the cellar.
Ascertain the position of the Pitti Palace, and stroll gently towards it. There is plenty of time, for the daylight will last another three hours. Cross the Ponte Vecchio, and reach a large open space opposite a magnificent jail. Yes! Even the jails here are magnificent! Continue strolling on until I arrive at the open country. Ask the way to the Palace, and am told that it is about two kilomètres back along the way I have come. Curious that I should not have noticed it. Return, looking carefully right and left, but do not see it anywhere, and again arrive opposite the jail. Ask a man I meet how that prison calls itself. He informs me courteously that it is the Palazzo Pitti. That! That dismal, monotonous, gloomy, brown structure? Why, Buckingham Palace is a joy for ever compared to it, and even Wormwood Scrubbs Prison reveals unsuspected charms! Would like to sit down to recover from the shock, but as one is more likely to find a public seat in a London square than in an Italian piazza, this is impossible. Therefore, totter to the great central entrance. Perhaps the grand staircase leading to the galleries may be as attractive as the exterior is forbidding.
Dynamite with care
Dynamite with care
Discover that the entrance to the galleries is by a small side door, where I leave my walking-stick, and climb a narrow, steep staircase. Then climb a narrower and steeper staircase, and finally reach a staircase so steep and narrow that it might more accurately be called a ladder. Begin to think I have mistaken the way. Perhaps I shall find myself in the attics of the Palace, and be arrested as an anarchist. Have left my stick below, and have not even a passport with which to protect myself. Step cautiously up the first rounds of the ladder, when suddenly a large body completely fills the space above, and comes slowly down. It is impossible to go on; it is impossible to remain where I am. Must therefore go down to the least narrow staircase, and wait till the obstruction has passed. Do so. Awful pause....
[What the obstruction was, "A First Impressionist" will tell us in our next.—Ed.]
Transcriber's Note:Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.