The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, October 6, 1894, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, October 6, 1894 Author: Various Release Date: May 14, 2014 [EBook #45646] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, CHARIVARI, OCT 6, 1894 *** Produced by Wayne Hammond, Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
157
1. It was the beginning of the Club season. "I shall be glad to see all the boys again after all these weeks!" murmured Clubber, as Mrs. C. packed him up.
2. "Ah! How are you, dear old boy?" shouted the Clubites, hysterical with affectionate yearning.
3. "Magnificent reciter Foodle is, to be sure!" they murmured, in an ecstatic dream of enthusiasm. "Brav O! Splendid, dear old boy!!"
4. And when they parted at the end of the evening, they breathed fervently, "Good night, old fellow—bless you!"* * * * *
5. It was the middle of the Club season. "Hum, Foodle's recitations are always so long-winded. Great mistake," they muttered to themselves. "And the other fellows are a bit slow, after all."
6. And when they parted at the end of the evening, they just nodded.* * *
7. It was the end of the Club season. "Well, if you want my opinion," said Clubber, "that Foodle's a beastly poor reciter." "I don't want your opinion; nobody does," said Rubber. "But you happen to be right for once."
8. "I'm not going to recite to you idiots," said Foodle. "It's a waste of breath." "Much relieved to hear it!" said Groodle.
9. "I'm precious glad to get away from that maddening set of chuckle-headed bores for a few weeks!" said Clubber, as Mrs. C. unpacked him.
158 159
The Prime Minister has been having a high old time of it lately in the North, and has become the "youngest burgess" of goodness knows how many ancient boroughs. But it has been left to a reporter to note with an eagle eye the really interesting performance which Lord Rosebery has put to his credit. "Immediately on leaving Dornoch," says this gentleman (the reporter, not the Premier), "Lord Rosebery and the Duke of Sutherland drove to the Meikle Ferry, a distance of four miles, crossed the ferry, and again drove to Tain, four miles farther on. Crossing the ferry they both took a turn at the oars, and generally discussed the sport of seal shooting!" This suggests quite a fresh phase of the New Journalism. We shall soon read such paragraphs as the following:—
"Sir William Harcourt left town for Malwood on Tuesday. Going down in the train the right hon. gentleman played marbles with a fellow-passenger, and discussed generally the virtues of resignation."
"Mr. H. H. Fowler transacted important business at the India Office yesterday. He and his private secretary played a game of trundling hoops, and had an animated talk on the subject of whist."
"Mr. A. J. Balfour played at golf with a gentleman, with whom he had a very interesting conversation on the sport of chute shooting."
The moral of which would seem to be that, since even conversation is now reported, silence is more golden than ever; though Mr. Punch notices that the Prime Minister showed rare diplomacy in his choice of a subject. Not even a reporter could extract any political meaning out of the sport of seal shooting!
SWEET SIMPLICITY.
Diffident Man (who does not know to how much of an Ingénue he is talking). "Have you been out long, Miss Grace?"
Miss Grace (consulting her wrist-strap). "Oh, about Three-quarters of an Hour. You see we were asked to come punctually."
Very Near.—The Record has been taking Mr. Hall Caine to task for the baptismal scene in The Manxman, and the novelist has been telling the Record to remember its Rubrics. "Mr. Caine," says the Record, "has been in a hurry." The Record lost a chance, as, evidently expecting a storm of fury, it should have deprecated the author's anger by saying, "Don't be in a hurry-Caine."
Mr. J-st-n McC-rthy (reading the speech of the German Emperor to the Mayor of Thorn). "For you know, I can be very disagreeable too!" Ah! and so can I—when I like!
(The Song of a Mouton Enragé.)
["I own that I am sorry that a louder, and a stronger, and a prompter note of reassurance has not been given to the Irish people with regard to this obstructive power of the House of Lords, and that I look to the Autumn Campaign with anxious hope for a clear and certain signal."—Mr. Justin McCarthy in the "New Review."]
Enraged (and enrhumé) Leader, with his feet in "hot water," sings:—
"TERRIBLE IN HIS ANGER!"
J-st-n McC-rthy (reading extract from German Emperor's Speech). "'I can be very disagreeable too, when I like.' Ah! so can I!"
160
(A Story in Scenes.)
PART XIV.—LE VETÉRINAIRE MALGRÉ LUI.
Scene XXIII.—Outside the Stables at Wyvern.
Time—About 10 P.M.
Undershell (to himself, as he follows Adams). Now is my time to arrange about getting away from here. (To Adams.) By the bye, I suppose you can let me have a conveyance of some sort—after I've seen the horse? I—I'm rather in a hurry.
Adams. You'd better speak to Mr. Checkley about that, Sir; it ain't in my department, you see. I'll fetch him round, if you'll wait here a minute; he'd like to hear what you think about the 'orse.
[He goes off to the coachman's quarters.
Und. (alone). A very civil fellow this; he seems quite anxious to show me this animal! There must be something very remarkable about it.
[Adams returns with Checkley.
Adams. Mr. Checkley, our 'ed coachman, Mr. Undershell. He's coming in along with us to 'ear what you say, if you've no objections.
Und. (to himself). I must make a friend of this coachman, or else —— (Aloud.) I shall be charmed, Mr. Checkley. I've only a very few minutes to spare; but I'm most curious to see this horse of yours.
Checkley. He ain't one o' my 'orses, Sir. If he 'ad been——But there, I'd better say nothing about it.
Adams (as he leads the way into the stables, and turns up the gas). There, Sir, that's Deerfoot over there in the loose box.
Und. (to himself). He seems to me much like any other horse! However, I can't be wrong in admiring. (Aloud, as he inspects him through the rails.) Ah, indeed? he is worth seeing! A magnificent creature!
Adams (stripping off Deerfoot's clothing). He's a good 'orse, Sir. Her ladyship won't trust herself on no other animal, not since she 'ad the influenzy so bad. She'd take on dreadful if I 'ad to tell her he wouldn't be fit for no more work, she would!
Und. (sympathetically). I can quite imagine so. Not that he seems in any danger of that!
Check. (triumphantly). There, you 'ear that, Adams? The minute he set eyes on the 'orse!
Adams. Wait till Mr. Undershell has seen him move a bit, and see what he says then.
Check. If it was what you think, he'd never be standing like he is now, depend upon it.
Adams. You can't depend upon it. He 'eard us coming, and he's quite artful enough to draw his foot back for fear o' getting a knock. (To Undershell.) I've noticed him very fidgety-like on his forelegs this last day or two.
Und. Have you, though? (To himself.) I hope he won't be fidgety with his hind-legs. I shall stay outside.
Adams. I cooled him down with a rubub and aloes ball, and kep 'im on low diet; but he don't seem no better.
Und. (to himself). I didn't gather the horse was unwell. (Aloud.) Dear me! no better? You don't say so!
Check. If you'd rubbed a little embrocation into the shoulder, you'd ha' done more good, in my opinion, and it's my belief as Mr. Undershell here will tell you I'm right.
Und. (to himself). Can't afford to offend the coachman! (Aloud.]) Well, I daresay—er—embrocation would have been better.
Adams. Ah, that's where me and Mr. Checkley differ. According to me, it ain't to do with the shoulder at all—it's a deal lower down.... I'll 'ave him out of the box and you'll soon see what I mean.
Und. (hastily). Pray don't trouble on my account. I—I can see him capitally from where I am, thanks.
Adams. You know best, Sir. Only I thought you'd be better able to form a judgment after you'd seen the way he stepped across. But if you was to come in and examine the frog?——I don't like the look of it myself.
Und. (to himself). I'm sure I don't. I've a horror of reptiles. (Aloud.) You're very good. I—I think I won't come in. The place must be rather damp, mustn't it—for that?
Adams. It's dry enough in 'ere, Sir, as you may see; nor yet he ain't been standing about in no wet. Still, there it is, you see!
Und. (to himself). What a fool he must be not to drive it out! Of course it must annoy the horse. (Aloud.) I don't see it; but I'm quite willing to take your word for it.
Adams. I don't know how you can expect to see it, Sir, without you look inside of the 'oof for it.
Und. (to himself). It's not alive—it's something inside the hoof. I suppose I ought to have known that. (Aloud.) Just so; but I see no necessity for looking inside the hoof.
Check. In course he don't, or he'd ha' looked the very fust thing, with all his experience. I 'ope you're satisfied now, Adams?
Adams. I can't say as I am. I say as no man can examine a 'orse thoroughly at that distance, be he who he may. And whether I'm right or wrong, it 'ud be more of a satisfaction to me if Mr. Undershell was to step in and see the 'oof for himself.
Check. Well, there's sense in that, and I dessay Mr. Undershell won't object to obliging you that far.
Und. (with reluctance). Oh, with pleasure, if you make a point of it.
[He enters the loose box delicately.
Adams (picking up one of the horse's feet). Now, tell me how this 'ere 'oof strikes you.
Und. (to himself). That hoof can't; but I'm not so sure about the others. (Aloud, as he inspects it.) Well—er—it seems to me a very nice hoof.
Adams (grimly). I was not arsking your opinion of it as a work of Art, Sir. Do you see any narrering coming on, or do you not? That's what I should like to get out of you!
Und. (to himself). Does this man suppose I collect hoofs! However, I'm not going to commit myself. (Aloud.) H'm—well, I—I rather agree with Mr. Checkley.
Check. I knew he would! Now you've got it, Adams! I can see Mr. Undershell knows what he's about.
Adams (persistently). But look at this 'ere pastern. You can't deny there's puffiness there. How do you get over that?
Und. If the horse is puffy, it's his business to get over it—not mine.
Adams (aggrieved). You may think proper to treat it light, Sir; but if you put your 'and down 'ere, above the coronet, you'll feel a throbbing as plain as—— 161
Und. Very likely. But I don't know, really, that it would afford me any particular gratification if I did!
Adams. Well, if you don't take my view, I should ha' thought as you'd want to feel the 'orse's pulse.
Und. You are quite mistaken. I don't. (To himself.) Particularly as I shouldn't know where to find it. What a bore this fellow is with his horse!
Check. In course, Sir, you see what's running in Mr. Adams' 'ed all this time, what he's a-driving at, eh?
Und. (to himself). I only wish I did! This will require tact. (Aloud.) I—I could hardly avoid seeing that—could I?
Check. I should think not. And it stands to reason as a vet like yourself'd spot a thing like navickler fust go off.
Und. (to himself). A vet! They've been taking me for a vet all this time! I can't have been so ignorant as I thought. I really don't like to undeceive them—they might feel annoyed. (Aloud, knowingly.) To be sure, I—I spotted it at once.
Adams. He does make it out navicular after all! What did I tell you, Checkley? Now p'r'aps you'll believe me!
Check. I'll be shot if that 'orse has navickler, whoever says so—there!
Adams (gloomily). It's the 'orse'll 'ave to be shot; worse luck! I'd ha' give something if Mr. Undershell could ha' shown I was wrong; but there was very little doubt in my mind what it was all along.
Und. (to himself, horrified). I've been pronouncing this unhappy animal's doom without knowing it! I must tone it down. (Aloud.) No—no, I never said he must be shot. There's no reason to despair. It—it's quite a mild form of er—clavicular—not at all infectious at present. And the horse has a splendid constitution. I—I really think he'll soon be himself again, if we only—er—leave Nature to do her work, you know.
Adams (after a prolonged whistle). Well, if Nature ain't better up in her work than you seem to be, it's 'igh time she chucked it, and took to something else. You've a lot to learn about navicular, you 'ave, if you can talk such rot as that!
Check. Ah, I've 'ad to do with a vet or two in my time, but I'm blest if I ever come across the likes o' you afore!
Und. (to himself). I knew they'd find me out! I must pacify them. (Aloud.) But, look here, I'm not a vet. I never said I was. It was your mistake entirely. The fact is, my—my good men, I came down here because—well, it's unnecessary to explain now why I came. But I'm most anxious to get away, and if you, my dear Mr. Checkley, could let me have a trap to take me to Shuntingbridge to-night, I should feel extremely obliged.
[Checkley stares, deprived of speech.
Adams (with a private wink to Checkley). Certainly he will, Sir. I'm sure Checkley'll feel proud to turn out, late as it is, to oblige a gentleman with your remarkable knowledge of 'orse-flesh. Drive you over hisself in the broom and pair, I shouldn't wonder!
Und. One horse will be quite sufficient. Very well, then. I'll just run up and get my portmanteau, and—and one or two things of mine, and if you will be round at the back entrance—don't trouble to drive up to the front door—as soon as possible, I won't keep you waiting longer than I can help. Good evening, Mr. Adams, and many thanks. (To himself, as he hurries back to the house.) I've got out of that rather well. Now, I've only to find my way to the Verney Chamber, see this fellow Spurrell, and get my clothes back, and then I can retreat with comfort, and even dignity! These Culverins shall learn that there is at least one poet who will not put up with their insolent patronage!
Check. (to Adams). He has got a cool cheek, and no mistake! But if he waits to be druv over to Shuntingbridge till I come round for him, he'll 'ave to set on that portmanteau of his a goodish time!
Adams. He did you pretty brown, I must say. To 'ear you crowing over me when he was on your side. I could 'ardly keep from larfing!
Check. I see he warn't no vet long afore you, but I let it go on for the joke of it. It was rich to see you a wanting him to feel the 'oof, and give it out navickler. Well, you got his opinion for what it was wuth, so you're all right!
Adams. You think nobody knows anything about 'orses but yourself, you do; but if you're meanin' to make a story out o' this against me, why, I shall tell it my way, that's all!
Check. It was you he made a fool of, not me—and I can prove it—there!
[They dispute the point, with rising warmth, for some time.
Adams (calming down). Well, see 'ere, Checkley, I dunno, come to think of it, as either on us'll show up partickler smart over this 'ere job; and it strikes me we'd better both agree to keep quiet about it, eh? (Checkley acquiesces, not unwillingly.) And I think I'll take a look in at the 'Ousekeeper's Room presently, and try if I can't drop a hint to old Tredwell about that smooth-tongued chap, for it's my belief he ain't down 'ere for no good!
"You've a lot to learn about navicular, you 'ave, if you can talk such rot as that!"
"Aha!" quoth the Baron. "This book of Master Stanley Weyman's, called Under the Red Robe, delighteth me much. A stirring story of swashbucklers, pistols, daggers, conspirators, gay gallants, and gentle dames! Exciting from first to last, and all in one volume, which, beshrew me, by my hilts!" quoth the Baron, "the reader, be he who he may, will find easy to take up, and most difficult to put down, until quite finished. 'Tis published by one Methuen, of London, whose house Cavalier Weyman hath favoured more than once ere he wrote this stirring romance." Towards the finish there is a spice of Bulwer Lytton's drama Richelieu,—indeed the last situation in this tale is almost one with the action of the scene in the play where Richelieu brings the lovers together. Yet is this but a mere detail, and those who follow the Baron's literary tips will do well and wisely to read Under the Red Robe. By the way, Mr. Caton Woodville's illustrations to the story are excellent, having the rare merit of assisting the action without revealing the plot. "Caton, thou pictureth well."
Within the limits of a hundred pages Lord Dufferin has given the world a picture it will not willingly let die. It is a portrait of his mother, "one of the sweetest, most beautiful, most accomplished, wittiest, most loving and lovable human beings that ever walked upon the earth." This, as my Baronite says, is the superlative of praise, and it might reasonably be suspected that filial feeling has warped critical acumen. But here in this volume of Songs, Poems, and Verses (John Murray) we have Lady Dufferin though dead yet speaking, and may judge for ourselves. It is characteristic of her son that, whilst on the first page the above title is boldly set forth in large ruddy-hued type, a smaller line lower down, in plain black ink, refers to the "Memoir." In its felicity of literary style, its clear touches of characterisation, and its flashes of quiet humour, this monograph is a masterpiece. It fittingly frames the extract from the journal commenced by Lady Dufferin when she felt the hand of death gripping her. This fragment is prose worthy of the author of The Irish Emigrant, whose simple pathos has stirred the heart on both sides of the Atlantic. Within the brief limits he has assigned to himself, Lord Dufferin manages to give a succinct account of the illustrious family of which Helen, Lady Dufferin, was a bright, particular star. It would be difficult to parallel the sustained brilliancy of the Sheridans, from Richard Brinsley down to his great-great-grandson, at present Her Majesty's Minister at Paris. To the possession of all the graces they have added display of all the talents. It is hard to live up to the literary standard of the Sheridans. In this delightful volume Lord Dufferin shows that the marvel was accomplished by his mother, and is possible for himself.
My Baronite has made an attempt to read Lourdes in the convenient shape in which Messrs. Chatto and Windus present it to the English-speaking public. He honestly admits that, finding on a rapid glance through its pages the first chapter was a fair sample of the bulk, he gave it up. M. Zola has avowedly set himself the task of minutely describing the pitiful experience of the halt, the lame, the blind, and much worse, who journey to Lourdes in the desperate hope of miraculous recovery. He may at least be congratulated on having achieved his object. Only, the report with all its horrible detail would more fittingly have appeared in the pages of the Lancet or the British Medical Journal. Since it has been published in book form realism should have been carried one step further. The volume ought to have been bound in a poultice instead of ordinary cloth. As it is, the leaves turned over fill the room with faint, sickening smell of the hospital ward. Lourdes is certainly not alluring. It is, in truth, lourd—et sale aussi.
Once again, for the benefit of all brother-scribes who, for a while, or frequently, may have to do their scribbling when journeying, or while compelled by illness to remain in Bedford-under-Clothes,—as was but recently the case with your own Baronius, pains and counterpanes all over him,—the use of "The Hairless Author's Paper-pad," i.e. "The Author's Hairless Paper-pad," issued by the Leadenhall Press, on which the author can write with pencil or with pen,—for the blotter is handily placed at the back of the pad,—is strongly recommended by the Ready Writer's and Ready Reader's best friend,
Mem. by an Old Maid.—If you "look over your age," you won't find anyone else willing to do the same. 162
DEEPER AND DEEPER STILL.
He. "Isn't that Mrs. Gayly sitting by Thompson? How Fat she's grown! What a misfortune for a Woman to look like that!" She. "Oh—you should not say that to Me!"
He. "Why not? Of course I only meant when the Woman is young!"
Or, an Ex-Radical's Reflections in a Peer-Glass.
["I say that I, at any rate, am ready to view with favour any reasonable proposal which would add an elective element to the composition of the House of Lords, which would bring them into closer touch with popular sentiment."—Mr. Chamberlain at Leeds (Times' Report).]
Written upon hearing that Mr. Gladstone's enforced rest is lightened by the reading aloud of relays of Devoted Friends.
163 164 165
"FOR EXAMPLE!"
Joe Ch-mb-rl-n. "I SHOULD RECONSTRUCT THE HOUSE OF LORDS ACCORDING TO SOME ELECTIVE AND NON-HEREDITARY PLAN——." (Leeds, September 25.)
IV.—To Julia in Shooting Togs (and a Herrickose vein).
A Safe Prediction.—That the New Woman of this decade will be the Old Maid of the next.
STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE.
The Ostrich as she ought to be.
[Mr. St. Loe Strachey has written an article in the Nineteenth Century, entitled, "The Seven Lord Roseberies."]
(With Apologies to the Author of "Another Woman's Eyes," in the "Illustrated News.")
(A Suggestion not necessarily Founded upon Facts.)
Scene—The Interior of a Police Court: a case is in course of disposal. The Magistrate has made up his mind to deal summarily in the matter.
Magistrate. And so you say that the prisoner has a bad record?
Policeman X. A very bad one, your Worship. We have strong reasons for believing that he has been in every prison in the kingdom for crimes of varying gravity.
Magistrate. By the new anthropometrical system, you can identify him?
Policeman X. Certainly. I have here certificates from no less than two hundred gaol governors declaring his hair to be the colour of pea-green.
Magistrate. And I notice the prisoner has hair of that peculiar hue.
Policeman X. Certainly, your worship; and on that account I claim that you impose upon this man the heaviest punishment within your jurisdiction.
Magistrate. And now prisoner what have you to say?
Prisoner. Merely this, that the man who last night broke into the jeweller's shop was not myself but another. I had nought to do with the crime. The constable has sworn that the caitiff had pea-green hair. Now I have not pea-green hair; my locks are black.
Magistrate. Assertion is not proof. By the anthropometrical system we can spot you. Look at yourself in the glass and you will see that your hair is pea-green.
Prisoner. You are wrong, Sir. You see my curls are of raven black. (Removes his wig.) Am I not right? Am I not entitled to release?
Magistrate. Certainly. Officers, do your duty. Release your prisoner!
[The accused is liberated, and, in the company of some trusted pals, leaves the Court without a stain upon his character, and with the intention of doing a little more burgling before he is many hours older. Curtain.
166
A SEPARATE IRISH CHAMBER!
(After a rough Sketch by the Right Hon. J. Ch-mb-rl-n!)
["Since the defeat of the Home Rule Bill they (the Irish Party) have all been engaged in blackening each other's characters, and painting each other's portraits; and I venture to say that the result of that is not a gallery of pictures, but a Chamber of Horrors."]
167
WE'VE NOT COME TO THAT YET.
She. "I was so glad to hear of your Marriage! Do come to us and bring your Wife. By the way, what is your Name now?"
He. "Oh, I haven't changed my Name. It's She, you know!"
(By a Well-Plucked One.)
(A Fragment from the Romance of the Near Future.)
He had waited up until two in the morning. He had watched the hands of the clock as they passed round the face from hour to hour. He had put a cloth over the supper, knowing, however, that the meat would be disregarded, and only the brandy and soda-water touched by the expected one. The poor man gazed sadly at the children's toys, the tradesmen's books that were beside him.
"Not home yet," he murmured. "Ah, those dinners at the club!"
Then he considered his past life. He remembered his wedding-day, when it seemed so bright and fair. He was a happy husband, with every prospect of a long life of wedded bliss. He loved and respected his wife, and felt that side by side they could travel along the road of existence without a rock to arrest their progress, without a discordant note to spoil the harmony of their song, until that song had ceased its music in the hush of silence. Tears, suppressed until now, flooded his eyes as he remembered the waning of the honeymoon. He recollected the anxiety of Alice to get back to town, to be off into the City. Of course he could not follow his wife into her business haunts; it would be immodest—nay, even improper. Still, he had been treated kindly, in a rough, condescending sort of way. He had had a Brougham, and had been allowed to visit his gentlemen friends. He had plenty of chats, and occasionally Alice had accompanied him round the park. Then he had seen a good deal of his children. His daughter, however, had now gone to school, and his sons were always with their nursery tutor. The clock struck once again. "Three, and not home yet!"
Early morning was breaking. The poor man, pale and careworn, re-arranged his necktie, and putting on an extra overcoat, prepared once more to resume the reading of a novel that had been attracting his attention earlier in the evening. It was called "Bobby," and related the adventures of a wild, thoughtless man, who was setting the laws of society at open defiance.
"How can men write of men like this?" he murmured. "I am not surprised that women think badly of us when we thus paint ourselves. Visiting a music-hall with his female cousin! Going to the Zoological Gardens unattended! Oh, Bobby, Bobby, what a creation!" Then he started. There was a noise at the street-door, and the sound of scraping on the outside as if a latch-key were vainly seeking the key-hole. Then the portal slowly opened and a cloaked figure lurched rather than walked in.
"Oh Alice!" cried the frightened husband, wringing his hands in dismay. "Is there anything the matter?"
"Nothing, absolutely nothing," was the indistinct reply. "Fact is I don't think the salmon——"
And then the new-comer entered the dining-room, and there was the sound of the effervescence of soda-water.
The poor husband sighed, mournfully turned off the gas, and went quietly to bed.
"Oh wife," murmured the aggrieved husband, as he mounted the stairs, "you cannot help bringing woe to man, for unless you did so you would not be a woe-man."
And bursting into tears at this sad pleasantry, the poor chap disappeared into the darkness.
Dear Sir,—May I draw your attention to a series of domestic occurrences which illustrate the distressing and increasing tendency of this fin-de-siècle age? I say fin-de-siècle because as it has got to come in somehow, it may as well be said at once. At breakfast yesterday the bacon was wretchedly cooked. My wife said, "It's the fault of the New Cook," which was all the satisfaction or explanation that I got. I found my study disguised in an apparent tidiness, achieved at the cost of a complete confusion of my papers, which had been tidied away in a manner that completely defied detection. My wife only answered, "Oh, it's that New Housemaid." That night we went to the theatre. The name of the play was The New Woman. Then I understood the true inwardness of all my previous experiences. The moral is so clear that I do not propose to draw any.
The Cedars, Sept. 29.
168
Dearest Marjorie,—It is really quite time you gave me some more of your valuable advice. Thanks to you, I was not such an utter failure in my first season as I expected. After a month at home (my people loathe the new way I do my hair, and it seemed, I am ashamed to say, a little dull there), I have come to stay again with the Lyon Taymers at their country house.
You remember I refused the man who did conjuring tricks? He has written to me since to say he sees now how right I was—rather crushing! I also fully intended to refuse Captain Mashington. But he went to Dinard without giving me the opportunity, and I hear he has been playing tennis there the whole day with Mrs. Lorne Hopper. I am sure I hope he enjoyed it. She is what you or I would consider rather old, but is said to be perfectly charming, and of course looks fifteen years younger than her youngest daughter.
It seems rather strange, doesn't it, Marjorie, that after being so wonderfully sensible all the season, I should suddenly do something quite idiotic in September? However, I have; and I want you to help me out of it. I'll tell you all, if you'll promise not to laugh. When I first came, I was "thrown," as people say, a good deal with the Taymer's nephew—Oriel Crampton who has just left Oxford. I was told he was very serious, rather shy, philanthropic, and has "views"; also that he had done a great deal of good in the West End. This interested me, and I tried to draw him out. They had omitted to mention that he was dreadfully susceptible. We talked for hours in the garden, nearly all the time—at first—about the housing of the rich and horrible cases of over-crowding—at London parties. He was very earnest and ascetic (he never drinks anything but hot water, and doesn't smoke); he lent me books—he is rather handsome—and—gradually—somehow I found I had drifted into an absurd sort of private half-engagement! Yes—I have actually a bangle rivetted on—with a date inside—the date I was insane enough to agree——Isn't it dreadful?
Oriel will be well off, but he intends to spend all his money on founding model slums, where the people are to be teetotallers and do bootmaking or something, and be a happy little colony. Oriel's views may necessitate his doing a little cobbling himself—just to set an example. I was enormously impressed by this at first; but I am afraid I have become frivolous again. Some other people have come here, including a nice boy they call Baby Beaumont. He is really almost nineteen, but wonderfully well preserved, very clever, and so cynical that he is quite an optimist. Almost directly, he asked me how long I had known Oriel Crampton. I said about a fortnight. "Ah! then you must be engaged to him. Poor old Oriel! He's really quite extraordinarily old-fashioned."
"How old is he?" I asked, in faltering tones.
"He has rather a way of pretending to be young, I fancy. But he must be four-and-twenty if he is a day. You need not say I told you."
It's evidently the fashion to be very young—for men, at least. Sometimes I wish it were the fashion to be old enough to know better. If Oriel really has been engaged before, and may be again, and if getting engaged to people is only a sort of habit of his, perhaps he would not mind so very much if I were to break it off.
Baby Beaumont is (he says himself) "frankly Pagan." He thinks Oriel too serious for me, and advises me to marry at leisure, as I am quite sure, anyhow, to repent in haste. He wanted to send a paragraph to the Post to say "A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly be broken off, between Mr. Oriel Crampton and Miss Gladys Mayfield, younger daughter," and so on.
Last night, when we were playing games, Oriel went out while we thought of a word, and he got quite angry with me because I had said the moon was "vegetable" and he said it was "mineral." He may be right, or he may not—I daresay he is—but still he need not be touchy, and refuse to play any more, and sulk all the evening.
I am afraid I should not be happy with him. He collects postage stamps, too, which depresses me dreadfully.
Please write and tell me what to do—or rather, how to do it. Can one get a bangle rivetted off?... I have just heard that the Lorne Hoppers and Captain Mashington are coming to play tennis on Sunday! Of course, I shall show absolute indifference. I wired at once to town for my new dress. Mrs. Hopper may as well see it.
Baby Beaumont is always changing his clothes, and has two button-holes sent down from London daily. He says he "intends to revive the gardenia."... Oriel has just gone out for a "brisk walk before dinner." Aren't we utterly unsuited to each other?
Your loving friend,.
P.S.—Is the moon mineral?
Capital £100,000,000, in 20,000,000 Shares of £5 each.
This Company has been formed to acquire, combine into one, and carry on the various old-established businesses of literary reviewing hitherto carried on separately by Messrs. Andrew Lang (who will join the Board after allotment), Grant Allen, W. E. Gladstone, H. D. Traill, T. P. O'Connor, Walter Besant, Elkin Mathews, John Lane, Q., A.T.Q.C., Quiller Couch, Richard Le Gallienne, and others. All these gentlemen have consented to act as Directors. The advantages of the scheme are obvious. Hitherto critical opinion, as printed in the daily, weekly, and monthly press, has been so diversified as to make it impossible for the public to form a settled judgment on books. For instance, a work may be described in one place as "possessing in the highest degree the master qualities of brilliant humour and profound pathos"; while, in another notice, published on the same day, it may be condemned as "an essay in stupid buffoonery, which mistakes inversion for paradox, and makes a parade of sentiment as laughable as its efforts at humour are melancholy." It is the intention of the Directors to change all this. Frequent Board-Meetings will be held, at which all books sent for review will be carefully considered, with a view to deciding how they shall be treated. The decisions thus come to will be carried out in a series of articles extending with absolute uniformity over the whole field of contemporary literature.
Profits.
The profits of the business to be thus carried on must be gigantic. After a careful inspection of the books of all British newspapers the well-known accountants Messrs. Leger and Ballance have informed the Directors that the gains of these papers from reviewing and literary gossip alone amount to £10,632,009 12s. 7d. annually. As these papers will henceforth, on their literary side, be worked by the Directors with all the latest improvements, even larger gains may be looked for in the immediate future.
Booming.
This department will be managed by a paragraphist of unrivalled experience, who will have under his orders a large staff of skilled assistants thoroughly instructed in the use of the new patent mitrailleuse Boomerangs, ten of which will be fixed in the chief office of the Company at No. 1, Log Rolls Yard. Literary shareholders to the amount of £500 and upwards will be entitled to a preferential boom by way of bonus.
Bludgeon Work.
For this style of reviewing a separate department has been established, under the joint management of three well-known literary failures, Messrs. Scribley, Fibley And Glibley. By a careful imitation of the worst models, and by assiduously cultivating their own natural coarseness, the managers anticipate very remarkable results. Style will be no object, but every worker in this department will be expected to provide his own rhinoceros hide and stock of allusions to Rabelais. All holders of less than three shares will come under the operation of this department. The Company intend shortly, however, to issue £10 debentures, the owners of which will be permitted once a year to ballot for the privilege of reviewing the book of one of their friends.
Insurance Scheme.
The Directors propose to organise a scheme of insurance against hostile reviews and obdurate editors. For an annual payment of £24 an insurer will be entitled to one favourable review during the year; for £30 he will be absolutely guaranteed against unfavourable criticism. A small yearly payment, varying according to age, will entitle his widow to claim £1000 at his death upon furnishing a certificate, signed by Mr. Besant and the family doctor, that he died after reading an unfavourable notice of one of his books. All literary men, however, are recommended to subscribe £30 a year, thus obtaining a life-long immunity from depreciation.
Female Branch.
This will be known as the "George Department," and will be controlled by four new women of advanced views. Cigarettes, latch-keys, and a summary of divorce court proceedings will be kept on the premises. Novels turned out while you wait. Mrs. Lynn Linton will not be admitted during office hours.
Something New in the Drama.—Mr. Henry Irving, it appears, has made a great hit in a one-part piece written by Dr. Conan Doyle, entitled A Story of Waterloo. Probably Mr. J. L. Toole will follow it up with A Story of Brandy-and-Waterloo, in which our cheerful comedian will appear as a regular Wetter'un.
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume
107, October 6, 1894, by Various
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