"Poor fellow! he is now under restraint."
"Poor fellow! he is now under restraint."
"My Dear Sir,—Being well aware of the interest you take in the fragments ofDionysius Scytobrachion, I have requested my publisher to send you my little work on hisQuelle.Bounder, as you are aware"—— Here he pitched his clock into the mirror, and groaned audibly. I tried another:—
"Dear Mr. St. Barbe,—I know how busy you are, but you can always spare an hour or two for the work of a friend. MyLove well Lost, in three volumes, is on its way to you. I wish you to review it in all the periodicals with which you are connected. Last time I wrote a novel, my nephew reviewed it, very perfunctorily, in thePandrosium; this time I want only to be reviewed by myfriends." He was kicking on the sofa, and apparently trying to commit suicide with the pillows.
"Command yourself,St. Barbe," I said; "this behaviour is unworthy either of a Christian or a philosopher. These letters, which irritate you so much, are conceived in a spirit of respectful admiration. The books which you have been heaving through the window are, no doubt, of interest and value."
"Waste paper, every one of them," he moaned. Then he added, as he rumpled his hair in a frantic manner, "I'd like to seeyou, old cock, if you had to live this life! It isn't living, it's answering humbugging letters, and opening brown-paper parcels, all day long, all the weary day. And my temper, which was angelic, and my manners, which were the mirror of courtesy, are irretrievably ruined. And my time is wasted, and my stationer's bill is mere perdition. It begins in the morning; I try to be calm; I sit down to write replies to all these pestilent idiots."
"Your admirers?" I said.
"They'renotadmirers; they only cadge for reviews. Time was, they say, when critics were bribed. Ha! ha!Nowthey all expect to be praised for nothing. And the parcels of books they send." Here I noticed a London Parcels Delivery van, laden with brown-paper packages of books. Quickly the maid rushed out, and induced the driver to remember that he was a family man, and he went on his way without calling.
"They come all day long," my poor friend went on, "and all of them are trash, rubbish that they shoot here;shoot, ha! ha'" and he took down a Winchester rifle, and crept stealthily to the window. Luckily none of his enemies were in view.
"No waste-paper basket is big enough to hold them all," he said, ruefully, "and once a week I make a clearance. The neighbours are beginning to murmur," he added, "There is no sympathy, in England, for a man of letters." Letters, indeed! I write them all day to these impostors, these amateurs;" and he bit a large piece out of a glass, which was standing handy.
"Is there no way of escaping from this persecution?" I asked, with sympathy.
"None—none! I have written to theTimes; I have applied to the Magistrates; I have penned letters which might melt the heart of a stone; I have even been unmannerly, I fear, now and then, for I cannotalwaysdissemble! No!" he cried, "I am doomed,—
'Presentation copies sore Long time he bore'—
'Presentation copies sore Long time he bore'—
write that on my sepulchre."
Here he broke down, and wept like a child. Poor fellow! he is now under restraint, and I expect soon to hear that we have lostSt. Barbe, at heart a kind, benevolent man, but sorely treated by authors. Such are the dangers of a critical career, and so wearing are the facilities of the Parcels Post. Others may perish like him, men deserving of a better fate. But to appeal to authors for mercy is vain, I know; far from sympathising with taste and culture in distress, they actually complain that they are harshly treated by critics. They little know what they themselves inflict.
("Made in France.")
Monday.—Immense enthusiasm. The Ministry never so strong. When asked my intentions, replied, "My intentions are the intentions of my country." They nearly shook my hand off in their delight. Grand official reception in the evening. Everyone there. All the Diplomatic body offered congratulations.
Tuesday.—Ministry suddenly threatened by an unseen danger. Everything going smoothly, when someone in the back benches interrogated us about an open window in the corridors. Considering the question frivolous, declined to answer. Enormous excitement, all the Members shaking their fists, and gesticulating. "Urgency" asked for. We protested; and, after a heated debate, secured the passing to the Order of the Daypur et simpleby a majority of two! Too close to be pleasant.
Wednesday.—We have been defeated! The window incident was renewed. The Minister of Justice explained that it was the accidental carelessness of a Commissionnaire of Police. Although the man was brave, and crippled by a wound, the Chamber demanded his immediate dismissal. We protested. "Urgency" was voted by a majority of 343, and we immediately resigned. Bore to have to pack up!
Thursday.—Have refused to join no less than five combinations. Too dangerous. None of them seemed sufficiently stable. Six men have been tried, but at present without result. Well, if nothing is done by to-morrow morning, I shall go into the country for a little shooting.Fidois quite ready—he has his coat out, his moustache curled, and can carry a bag in his mouth. He is very good at tricks too. Altogether a thorough sporting dogue.
Friday.—Back again. Others being unable to form a Cabinet, have formed one myself. Think it will hold together, but one never knows. So far we have had an overwhelming vote of confidence. Put it to the Members whether we might do what we pleased with the windows. "Yes," and "Urgency" voted almost simultaneously. No doubt a veritable triumph!
Saturday.—Everything went smoothly until the afternoon, when a Deputy wished to know the correct time. Minister of Education gave it as a quarter to six. It was proved that he was wrong. He should have said ten minutes to the hour. Serious Ministerial crisis in consequence. Fearful excitement. A Bill brought in and passed legalising everything that four men and a boy might decide. Ministry forced to protest; turned out in consequence. Base ingratitude; but a time will come! Generally hop in and out of office twice in a fortnight. Quite accustomed to it. Good exercise.
Sunday.—Released from my Ministerial duties. Shall have a day's shooting withFidoin consequence. But I must be back again to-night, because I am sure to be expected to form a New Ministry to-morrow!
Query.—Why cannot Mr.Gladstoneeat more than two-thirds of a rabbit, whether boiled or curried?Answer.—It does not matter what Mr.Gladstoneor anybody else can do, as nobody can eata rabbit (w)hole.
KINDLY MEANT."Where are you staying? I'll call and see you.""Don't! You'll only think the Worse of me when you see my Surroundings!""Oh, my dear Fellow, that'simpossible, you know!"
"Where are you staying? I'll call and see you."
"Don't! You'll only think the Worse of me when you see my Surroundings!"
"Oh, my dear Fellow, that'simpossible, you know!"
"SMALL BY DEGREES, AND BEAUTIFULLY LESS."
Dear Mr. Punch,—I see that the authorities at Monte Carlo very properly have refused permission to Doctors, their wives and families, to visit the tables of the Casino. I have not yet ascertained the reason for the prohibition, but no doubt it is because the "powers that be" consider Physicians too valuable to the community to run the risk of endangering their lives in the excitement of play. If we may accept this as a basis, we can see how the idea can be developed. If it is right to exclude Doctors, why then, as a kindred class, Lawyers should also be refused admission. Of course Clergymen of all denominations are, even now, conspicuous by their absence. If they are not, the decree of banishment should refer also to the wearers of the cloth.
We have now got rid of Doctors, Lawyers, and Parsons—three of the Professions. To be consistent, we must take the fourth. This will prevent Musicians from gambling. But if Musicians are tabooed, why not Actors? And if Actors, why not Artists? And if we except Artists, we must join Literature and Science, or there might be jealousy. And now we have excluded Doctors, Lawyers, Parsons, Musicians, Actors, Artists, Authors, Men of Science, and everyone more or less connected with them.
Now we must remember what is bad for the master must be equally bad for the man. So if a Doctor is excluded, a Chemist, an Undertaker, and a Grave-digger would also be kept away. A Lawyer would carry with him Judges, Magistrates, Clerks, and Law Stationers. The Clergy would represent everyone connected with a church, from an Archbishop to a Bell-ringer. Then, if we are to take away the Professions, Commerce must follow—wholesale and retail. In one blow we keep out of the rooms nearly the entire community.
Still there are the Army, the Navy, and the Civil Service. But these are all more or less branches of the original class. They, like the Doctors, work for the public good. Without an Army and Navy and a Civil Service, how would the State exist? So they must go. And now we have very little left. We have lost the Doctors, the Clergy, the Lawyers, the Contributors to Fine Arts, the Merchants, the Traders, and the Servants of the Crown. Naturally the lower orders would follow the lead of the upper classes, and then there would be only the Croupiers left. And as the Croupiers may not play themselves, and would have the play of no one to superintend, they, too, might be excused, as their labour would be in vain.
And now having reduced the visitors of the tables to an unknown quantity, I may disappear myself. Yours retiringly,
Spanish Castle, Isle of Skye.An ex-X.
Spanish Castle, Isle of Skye.An ex-X.
A Rush of One.—TheTimes, a few days ago, alluding to the unemployed loafer, said, "it is he who flocks" to Relief Committees, and so forth. How delightful to be able to flock all by yourself! It recalls the bould Irish soldier who "took six Frenchmen prisoners by surrounding them"?
The Grammar Of Art.—"Art," spell it with a big or little "a," can never come first in any well-educated person's ideas. "I am" must have the place of honour; then "Thou Art!" so apostrophised, comes next.
ROYAL ACADEMICIANS AT MILLBANK.("We understand that Millbank Prison, the site offered by SirWilliam Harcourtfor the National Gallery of British Art, has been accepted by Mr.Tate."—Morning Papers.)
("We understand that Millbank Prison, the site offered by SirWilliam Harcourtfor the National Gallery of British Art, has been accepted by Mr.Tate."—Morning Papers.)
("We understand that Millbank Prison, the site offered by SirWilliam Harcourtfor the National Gallery of British Art, has been accepted by Mr.Tate."—Morning Papers.)
(A Story of the Merry Yule-Tide Season.)
Publisher's Sanctum.PublisherandAuthordiscovered in conference.
Publisher.And so I thought that, perhaps, with your kind assistance, we might work off some of the blocks that have been left on our hands under the unfortunate circumstances I have just related.
Author.Certainly. Quite easy. You want to get a Christmas Number out of them. All right—give me the subjects, and I will just jot down how they shall be worked in. We will commence—hero and heroine—say, for the moment,EdwinandAngelina.
Pub.(looking at pictures). I fancy this is intended for somewhere in the neighbourhood of the North Pole. Sailors surrounded by white bears on an iceberg.
For Sail or Return.
Auth.Very good.Edwin'sfather was an Arctic explorer. Write under sketch, "The old man had many a startling adventure in the silent land of eternal snow." Go on.
Pub.Here is, seemingly, a quarrel to the death, in the time ofCharles the Second. Ball-room, with Cavaliers and their Ladies. Central group, a fight with swords. Can we do anything with it?
Auth.Why, certainly.Edwinexcites the jealousy ofAngelina'scousinReginald. The latter calls out the former at a fancy-dress dance. Label it—"Captain de Courcywas too impatient to wait until the ball was over, but challenged his rival as the company were on the eve of going down to supper." Drive on!
Pub.This seems rather a puzzle,—a ship sinking in mid-ocean.
Auth.The very thing.Edwinhaving lost all his money on the Stock Exchange, goes to Australia for more gold. Label—"The storm was terrific, and theBelgraviahad much difficulty in weathering this gale of almost unprecedented violence". Next, please!
Pub.Why here are some sketches of Venice, St. Petersburg, China, and North Wales.
Auth.I can take themen bloc.EdwinandAngelina, before they return home, go upon a honeymoon. Work them all in. Anything else?
Pub.A man being shot by a company of French soldiers. Is that of any use?
Auth.First-rate fate for the wickedReginald. Goes to France during the Franco-German War as a Special Correspondent, and is shot as a Prussian spy. Couldn't be better. Anything else?
Pub.A village crowd looking at a representation of "Punch and Judy."
Auth.Obviously a recollection ofEdwin'sschooldays. Label it—"Sometimes he would join the crowd, watching an exhibition of perambulating puppets." Anything else?
Pub.A man being thrown from his horse into a brook.
Auth.All right!Angelinafirst falls in love withEdwinwhen nursing him after an accident in the hunting-field. Label it—"His horse swerved, andEdwinwas thrown with great violence into the water." Anything else?
Pub.A man with a dark lantern looking, I think, at a mile-stone.
Auth.Reginald, before his death in France, tries to enter burglariously the dwelling-house of his hated rival. Label—"The misguided wretch paused for a moment while he examined one of the mile-stones." Anything further?
Pub.Only two. Which shall we have, a happy or a wretched ending?
Auth.Either you please. One's as easy as the other. What are they?
Pub.First a man dying in the prairie is threatened by a vulture.
Auth.EvidentlyEdwin. You see, we have already disposed of the wicked cousin. What is the other?
Pub.Oh, the conventional thing—bridal party in a village church. I wish we could use both.
Auth.So we can. Cut down bridal block, and punch out enough of sky in prairie to make room for it. Then give the legend, "AndEdwindied happily, for in his vision he saw his love once more as he had hoped to see her. With his last breath he blessed her as she stood beside him at the altar." That will do, and then I can finish off with, "Who knows they may not meet again?The End."
Pub.And now I want to ask your opinion about some trade advertisements. I want to know if we can work them in?
[Scene closes in upon arrangements of a business-like character.
[Scene closes in upon arrangements of a business-like character.
THE KISS.
(By a Jubilant Juryman.)
[Kissing the Book is now to be dispensed with as part of a Juryman's duties.]
[Kissing the Book is now to be dispensed with as part of a Juryman's duties.]
Lipto lip is pleasant altogether,But there is no charm in lip to leatherAll the bards who've sung of osculation,Down fromOvidto song's last sensation,Could not lend romance, or even sense,To the Court's poor labial pretence,Always meaningless, and most unpleasant.Here the pastisbettered by the present.Kissing is the due of Love and Beauty,Dull and dismal when 'tis made mere duty.Mere lip-loyalty to Love means little—But to Truth? 'Tis not worth jot or tittle!When from lip to lip in cold formalityPassed the grubby cover, in realityBinding kissing made no oath more bindingNor more easy Justice's clear finding.Therefore, thanks to common sense,—long missing—That makes obsoleteoneform of kissing!
Lipto lip is pleasant altogether,But there is no charm in lip to leatherAll the bards who've sung of osculation,Down fromOvidto song's last sensation,Could not lend romance, or even sense,To the Court's poor labial pretence,Always meaningless, and most unpleasant.Here the pastisbettered by the present.Kissing is the due of Love and Beauty,Dull and dismal when 'tis made mere duty.Mere lip-loyalty to Love means little—But to Truth? 'Tis not worth jot or tittle!When from lip to lip in cold formalityPassed the grubby cover, in realityBinding kissing made no oath more bindingNor more easy Justice's clear finding.Therefore, thanks to common sense,—long missing—That makes obsoleteoneform of kissing!
"THERE AND BACK."
Firstnight at Covent Garden of new Opera,Irmengarda, by Chevalier, not Chevalier Coster, but ChevalierEmil Bach. In this plot the women of a besieged city are allowed to leave it, carrying whatever is most precious on their backs—but this oneBachcan't carryIrmengarda, which is, however, not too, too precious, but is supportable. SirDruriolanus Operaticus"gives a Back," and it's "Over!" First Act, while performing, is promising; second very much after, or behind the first. House full. Everybody good, speciallyValdaandAbramoff. Mr.Armbrusterconducted theMascagni-cum-Wagner-&-Co.music. Everybody happy, speciallyBachhimself, who was not backwards in coming forwards, and bowing his acknowledgments.
By the way, as in Act III. the King enters "a-riding a-riding," this Opera may be distinguished from any ofBach'sfuture works by being called The Horse-BachOpera. Not to exhaust the punning possibilities in the name of the composer, it may be incidentally noted that, original and fresh as every air in this Opera may be, yet this present work consists entirely of "BachNumbers." No more on this subject at present.
Last week of Opera by night at Covent Garden, as the Garden is turned into a Race-course forThe Prodigal Daughter'ssteeplechase, and Drury Lane is wanted for the Pantomime. SirDruriolanushas his hands full—likewise his pockets. "So mote it be!"
TO MY PARTNER.
"Miss Red Sash"—my programme can't even relateYour name, and I know nothing moreOf your tastes. Do you talk of high Art—or the stateOf the floor?Has Girton or Newnham endeavoured to clogWith stiffest of science your brain;Or are you prepared to discourse of the fogAnd the rain?Do politics please you? Uganda, perhaps,Or the Cabinet crisis in France?Or would you remark that a great many chapsNever dance?IsIbsenyour idol, with plays that are noise,Some say nauseous; is he a sage?Or are you contented to see a live horseOn the stage?You lovePaderewski, and would not be falseTo your faith inBrahms,Grieg,WagnerandCo.; or you are awfully pleased with this valse,And this Band?I'll fan you, and hear if you then will repeatFacts on currents of air, or simoom;Or simper, and smilingly speak of the heatOf the room.
"Miss Red Sash"—my programme can't even relateYour name, and I know nothing moreOf your tastes. Do you talk of high Art—or the stateOf the floor?
Has Girton or Newnham endeavoured to clogWith stiffest of science your brain;Or are you prepared to discourse of the fogAnd the rain?
Do politics please you? Uganda, perhaps,Or the Cabinet crisis in France?Or would you remark that a great many chapsNever dance?
IsIbsenyour idol, with plays that are noise,Some say nauseous; is he a sage?Or are you contented to see a live horseOn the stage?
You lovePaderewski, and would not be falseTo your faith inBrahms,Grieg,WagnerandCo.; or you are awfully pleased with this valse,And this Band?
I'll fan you, and hear if you then will repeatFacts on currents of air, or simoom;Or simper, and smilingly speak of the heatOf the room.
A Good "Second".—A Dutch Oyster.
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