PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 99.
October 25, 1890.
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
No. IV.—BOB SILLIMERE.
(By Mrs. HUMPHRY JOHN WARD PREACHER, Author of "Master Sisterson.")
[On the paper in which the MS. of this novel was wrapped, the following note was written in a bold feminine hand:—"This is a highly religious story. GEORGE ELIOT was unable to write properly about religion. The novel is certain to be well reviewed. It is calculated to adorn the study-table of a Bishop. The £1000 prize must be handed over at once to the Institute which is to be founded to encourage new religions in the alleys of St. Pancras.—H.J.W.P.">[
CHAPTER I.
It was evening—evening in Oxford. There are evenings in other places occasionally. Cambridge sometimes puts forward weak imitations. But, on the whole, there are no evenings which have so much of the true, inward, mystic spirit as Oxford evenings. A solemn hush broods over the grey quadrangles, and this, too, in spite of the happy laughter of the undergraduates playing touch last on the grass-plots, and leaping, like a merry army of marsh-dwellers, each over the back of the other, on their way to the deeply impressive services of their respective college chapels. Inside, the organs were pealing majestically, in response to the deft fingers of many highly respectable musicians, and all the proud traditions, the legendary struggles, the well-loved examinations, the affectionate memories of generations of proctorial officers, the innocent rustications, the warning appeals of authoritative Deans—all these seemed gathered together into one last loud trumpet-call, as a tall, impressionable youth, carrying with him a spasm of feeling, a Celtic temperament, a moved, flashing look, and a surplice many sizes too large for him, dashed with a kind of quivering, breathless sigh, into the chapel of St. Boniface's just as the porter was about to close the door. This was ROBERT, or, as his friends lovingly called him, BOB SILLIMERE. His mother had been an Irish lady, full of the best Irish humour; after a short trial, she was, however, found to be a superfluous character, and as she began to develop differences with CATHERINE, she caught an acute inflammation of the lungs, and died after a few days, in the eleventh chapter.
BOB sat still awhile, his agitation soothed by the comforting sense of the oaken seat beneath him. At school he had been called by his school-fellows "the Knitting-needle," a remarkable example of the well-known fondness of boys for sharp, short nicknames; but this did not trouble him now. He and his eagerness, his boundless curiosity, and his lovable mistakes, were now part and parcel of the new life of Oxford—new to him, but old as the ages, that, with their rhythmic recurrent flow, like the pulse of—[Two pages of fancy writing are here omitted. ED.] BRIGHAM and BLACK were in chapel, too. They were Dons, older than BOB, but his intimate friends. They had but little belief, but BLACK often preached, and BRIGHAM held undecided views on life and matrimony, having been brought up in the cramped atmosphere of a middle-class parlour. At Oxford, the two took pupils, and helped to shape BOB's life. Once BRIGHAM had pretended, as an act or pure benevolence, to be a Pro-Proctor, but as he had a sardonic scorn, and a face which could become a marble mask, the Vice-Chancellor called upon him to resign his position, and he never afterwards repeated the experiment.
CHAPTER II.
One evening BOB was wandering dreamily on the banks of the Upper River. He sat down, and thought deeply. Opposite to him was a wide green expanse dotted with white patches of geese. There and then, by the gliding river, with a mass of reeds and a few poplars to fill in the landscape, he determined to become a clergyman. How strange that he should never have thought of this before; how sudden it was; how wonderful! But the die was cast; alea jacta est, as he had read yesterday in an early edition of St. Augustine; and, when BOB rose, there was a new brightness in his eye, and a fresh springiness in his steps. And at that moment the deep bell of St. Mary's—[Three pages omitted. ED.]
CHAPTER III.
And thus BOB was ordained, and, having married CATHERINE, he accepted the family living of Wendover, though not before he had taken occasion to point out to BLACK that family livings were corrupt and indefensible institutions. Still, the thing had to be done; and bitterly as BOB pined for the bracing air of the East End of London, he acknowledged, with one of his quick, bright flashes, that, unless he went to Wendover, he could never meet Squire MUREWELL, whose powerful arguments were to drive him from positions he had never qualified himself, except by an irrational enthusiasm, to defend. Of CATHERINE a word must be said. Cold, with the delicate but austere firmness of a Westmoreland daisy, gifted with fatally sharp lines about the chin and mouth, and habitually wearing loose grey gowns, with bodices to match, she was admirably calculated, with her narrow, meat-tea proclivities, to embitter the amiable SILLIMERE's existence, and to produce, in conjunction with him, that storm and stress, that perpetual clashing of two estimates without which no modern religious novel could be written, and which not even her pale virginal grace of look and form could subdue. That is a long sentence, but, ah! how short is a merely mortal sentence, with its tyrannous full stop, against the immeasurable background of the December stars, by whose light BOB was now walking, with heightened colour, along the vast avenue that led to Wendover Hall, the residence of the ogre Squire.
CHAPTER IV.
The Squire was at home. On the door-step BOB was greeted by Mrs. FARCEY, the Squire's sister. She looked at him in her bird-like way. At other times she was elf-like, and played tricks with a lace handkerchief.
"You know," she whispered to BOB, "we're all mad here. I'm mad, and he," she continued, bobbing diminutively towards the Squire's study-door, "he's mad too—as mad as a hatter."
Before BOB had time to answer this strange remark, the study-door flew open, and Squire MUREWELL stepped forth. He rapped out an oath or two, which BOB noticed with faint politeness, and ordered his visitor to enter. The Squire was rough—very rough; but he had studied hard in Germany.
"So you're the young fool," he observed, "who intends to tackle me. Ha, ha, that's a good joke. I'll have you round my little finger in two twos. Here," he went on gruffly, "take this book of mine in your right hand. Throw your eyes up to the ceiling." ROBERT, wishing to conciliate him, did as he desired. The eyes stuck there, and looked down with a quick lovable look on the two men below. "Now," said the Squire, "you can't see. Pronounce the word 'testimony' twice, slowly. Think of a number, multiply by four, subtract the Thirty-nine Articles, add a Sunday School and a packet of buns. Result, you're a freethinker." And with that he bowed BOB out of the room.
CHAPTER V.
A terrible storm was raging in the Rector's breast as he strode, regardless of the cold, along the verdant lanes of Wendover. "Fool that I was!" he muttered, pressing both hands convulsively to his sides. "Why did I not pay more attention to arithmetic at school? I could have crushed him, but I was ignorant. Was that result right?" He reflected awhile mournfully, but he could bring it out in no other way. "I must go through with it to the bitter end," he concluded, "and CATHERINE must be told." But the thought of CATHERINE knitting quietly at home, while she read Fox's Book of Martyrs, with a tender smile on her thin lips, unmanned him. He sobbed bitterly. The front-door of the Rectory was open. He walked in.—The rest is soon told. He resigned the Rectory, and made a brand-new religion. CATHERINE frowned, but it was useless. Thereupon she gave him cold bacon for lunch during a whole fortnight, and the brave young soul which had endured so much withered under this blight. And thus, acknowledging the novelist's artistic necessity, ROBERT died.—[THE END.]
WINTER SEASON AT COVENT GARDEN.—Opening of Italian Opera last Saturday, with Aida. Very well done. "Wait" between Second and Third Act too long: "Waiters" in Gallery whistling. Wind whistling, too, in Stalls. Operatic and rheumatic. Rugs and fur capes might be kept on hire by Stall-keepers. Airs in Aida delightful: draughts in Stalls awful. Signor LAGO called before Curtain to receive First Night congratulations. Signor LAGO ought to do good business "in front," as there's evidently no difficulty in "raising the wind."
"L'ONION FAIT LA FORCE."
THE FIRE KING AND HIS FRIENDS.
(With acknowledgments to Monk Lewis and the Authors of "Rejected Addresses.")
"No hardship would be inflicted upon manufacturers, if dangerous trades in general were subjected to such a supervision as would afford the largest attainable measure of security to all engaged in them. The case is one which urgently demands the consideration of Parliament, not only for the protection of work-people, but even for the protection of the Metropolis itself. It should never be forgotten that fire constitutes the gravest risk to which London is exposed."—The Times.
The Fire King one day rather furious felt,
He mounted his steam-horse satanic;
Its head and its tail were of steel, with a belt
Of riveted boiler-plate proved not to melt
With heat howsoever volcanic.
The sight of the King with that flame-face of his
Was something exceedingly horrid;
The rain, as it fell on his flight, gave a fizz
Like unbottled champagne, and went off with a whizz
As it sprinkled his rubicund forehead.
The sound of his voice as he soared to the sky
Was that of a ghoul with the grumbles.
His teeth were so hot, and his tongue was so dry,
That his shout seemed us raucous as though one should try
To play on a big drum with dumb-bells.
From his nostrils a naphthaline odour outflows,
In his trail a petroleum-whiff lingers.
With crude nitro-glycerine glitter his hose,
Suggestions of dynamite hang round his nose,
And gunpowder grimeth his fingers.
His hair is of flame fizzing over his head,
As likewise his heard and eye-lashes;
His drink's "low-test naphtha," his nag, it is said,
Eats flaming tow soaked in combustibles dread,
Which hot from the manger he gnashes.
The Fire King set spurs to the steed he bestrode,
Intent to mix pleasure with profit.
He was off to Vine Street in the Farringdon Road,
And soon with the flames of fired naphtha it flowed
As though 'twere the entry to Tophet.
He sought HARROD's Stores whence soon issued a blast
Of oil-flame that lighted the City
Then he turned to Cloth Fair. Hold, my Muse! not too fast!
On the Fire King's last victims in silence we'll cast
A look of respectfullest pity.
But the Fire King flames on; Now he pulls up to snatch
Some fodder. The stable's in danger.
His whip is a torch, and each spur is a match,
And over the horse's left eye is a patch,
To keep it from scorching the manger.
But who is the Ostler, and who is his lad,
In fodder-supplying alliance,
Who feed the Fire King and his Steed? 'Tis too bad
That TRADE should feed Fire, and his henchman seem glad
To set wholesome Law at defiance.
See, Trade stocks the manger, and there is the pail
Full set by the imp Illegality!
That fierce fiery Pegasus thus to regale,
When he's danger and death from hot head to flame-tail,
Is cruelly callous brutality.
Ah, Justice looks stern, and, indeed, well she may,
With such a vile vision before her.
The ignipotent nag and its rider to stay
In their dangerous course is her duty to-day,
And to do it the public implore her.
"By Jingo!" cries Punch, "you nefarious Two,
Your alliance humanity jars on!
If you feed the Fire Fiend, with disaster in view,
And the chance of men's death, 'twere mere justice to do
To have you indicted for arson!"
FELICITOUS QUOTATIONS.
"OH, ROBERT, THE GROUSE HAS BEEN KEPT TOO LONG! I WONDER YOU CAN EAT IT!"
"MY DEAR, 'WE NEEDS MUST LOVE THE HIGHEST WHEN WE SEE IT!'"
(Guinevere.)
VOCES POPULI.
AT THE FRENCH EXHIBITION.
Chorus of Arab Stall-keepers. Come and look! Alaha-ba-li-boo! Eet is verri cold to-day! I-ah-rish Brandi! 'Ere, Miss! you com' 'ere! No pay for lookin'. Alf a price! Verri pritti, verri nah-ice, verri cheap, verri moch! And so on.
Chorus of British Saleswomen. Will you allow me to show you this little novelty, Sir? 'Ave you seen the noo perfume sprinkler? Do come and try this noo puzzle—no 'arm in lookin', Sir. Very nice little novelties 'ere, Sir! 'Eard the noo French Worltz, Sir? every article is really very much reduced, &c, &c.
AT THE FOLIES-BERGÈRE.
SCENE—A hall in the grounds. Several turnstiles leading to curtained entrances.
Showmen (shouting). Amphitrite, the Marvellous Floatin' Goddess. Just about to commence! This way for the Mystic Gallery—three Illusions for threepence! Atalanta, the Silver Queen of the Moon; the Oriental Beauty in the Table of the Sphinx, and the Wonderful Galatea, or Pygmalion's Dream. Only threepence! This way for the Mystic Marvel o' She! Now commencing!
A Female Sightseer (with the air of a person making an original suggestion). Shall we go in, just to see what it's like?
Male Ditto. May as well, now we are 'ere. (To preserve himself from any suspicion of credulity.) Sure to be a take-in o' some sort.
[They enter a dim apartment, in which two or three people are leaning over a barrier in front of a small Stage; the Curtain is lowered, and a Pianist is industriously pounding away at a Waltz.
The F.S. (with an uncomfortable giggle). Not much to see so far, is there?
Her Companion. Well, they ain't begun yet.
[The Waltz ends, and the Curtain rises, disclosing a Cavern Scene. Amphitrite, in blue tights, rises through the floor.
Amphitrite (in the Gallic tongue). Mesdarms et Messures, j'ai 'honnoor de vous sooayter le bong jour! (Floats, with no apparent support, in the air, and performs various graceful evolutions, concluding by reversing herself completely). Bong swore, Mesdarms et messures, mes remercimongs!
[She dives below, and the Curtain descends.
The F.S. Is that all? I don't see nothing in that!
Her Comp. (who, having paid for admission, resents this want of appreciation). Why, she was off the ground the 'ole of the time, wasn't she? I'd just like to see you turnin' and twisting about in the air as easy as she did with nothing to 'old on by!
The F.S. I didn't notice she was off the ground—yes, that was clever. I never thought o' that before. Let's go and see the other things now.
Her Comp. Well, if you don't see nothing surprising in 'em till they're all over, you might as well stop outside, I should ha' thought.
The F.S. Oh, but I'll notice more next time—you've got to get used to these things, you know.
[They enter the Mystic Gallery, and find themselves in a dim passage, opposite a partitioned compartment, in which is a glass case, supported on four pedestals, with a silver crescent at the back. The Illusions—to judge from a sound of scurrying behind the scenes—have apparently been taken somewhat unawares.
The Female Sightseer (anxious to please). They've done that 'alf-moon very well, haven't they?
Voice of Showman (addressing the Illusions). Now then, 'urry up there—we're all waiting for you.
[The face of "Atalanta, the Silver Queen of the Moon," appears, strongly illuminated, inside the glass-box, and regards the spectators with an impassive contempt—greatly to their confusion.
The Male S. (in a propitiatory tone). Not a bad-looking girl, is she? Atalanta, the Queen of the Moon (to the Oriental Beauty in next compartment). Polly, when these people are gone, I wish you'd fetch me my work!
[The Sightseers move on, feeling crushed. In the second compartment the upper portion of a female is discovered, calmly knitting in the centre of a small table, the legs of which are distinctly visible.
The Female S. Why, wherever has the rest of her got to?
The Oriental Beauty (with conscious superiority). That's what you've got to find out.
[They pass on to interview "Galatea, or Pygmalion's Dream," whose compartment is as yet enveloped in obscurity.
A Youthful Showman (apparently on familiar terms with all the Illusions). Ladies and Gentlemen, I shell now 'ave the honour of persentin' to you the wonderful Galatear, or Livin' Statue; you will 'ave an oppertoonity of 'andling the bust for yourselves, which will warm before your eyes into living flesh, and the lovely creecher live and speak. 'Ere, look sharp, carn't yer'! [To Galatea.
Pygmalion's Dream (from the mystic gloom). Wait a bit, till I've done warming my 'ands. Now you can turn the lights up ... there, you've bin and turned 'em out now, stoopid!
The Y.S. Don't you excite yourself. I know what I'm doin'.
(Turns the lights up, and reveals a large terra-cotta Bust.) At my request, this young lydy will now perceed to assoom the yew and kimplexion of life itself. Galatear, will you oblige us by kindly coming to life?
[The Bust vanishes, and is replaced by a decidedly earthly Young Woman in robust health.
The Y.S. Thenk you. That's all I wanted of yer. Now, will you kindly return to your former styte?
[The Young Woman transforms herself into a hideous Skull.
The Y.S. (in a tone of remonstrance). No—no, not that ridiklous fice! We don't want to see what yer will be—it's very loike yer, I know, but still—(The Skull changes to the Bust.) Ah, that's more the stoyle! (Takes the Bust by the neck and hands it round for inspection.) And now, thenking you for your kind attention, and on'y orskin' one little fyvour of you, that is, that you will not reveal 'ow it is done, I will now bid you a very good evenin', Lydies and Gentlemen!
The F.S. (outside). It's wonderful how they can do it all for threepence, isn't it? We haven't seen She yet!
Her Comp. What, 'aven't you seen wonders enough? Come on, then. But you are going it, you know!
[They enter a small room, at the further end of which are a barrier and proscenium with drawn hangings.
The Exhibitor (in a confidential tone, punctuated by bows). I will not keep you waiting, Ladies and Gentlemen, but at once proceed with a few preliminary remarks. Most of you, no doubt, have read that celebrated story by Mr. RIDER HAGGARD, about a certain She-who-must-be-obeyed, and who dwelt in a place called Kôr, and you will also doubtless remember how she was in the 'abit of repairing, at certain intervals, to a cavern, and renooing her youth in a fiery piller. On one occasion, wishing to indooce her lover to foller her example, she stepped into the flame to encourage him—something went wrong with the works, and she was instantly redooced to a cinder. I fortunately 'appened to be near at the time (you will escuse a little wild fib from a showman, I'm sure!) I 'appened to be porsin by, and was thus enabled to secure the ashes of the Wonderful She, which—(draws hangings and reveals a shallow metal Urn suspended in the centre of scene), are now before you enclosed in that little urn. She—where are you?
She (in a full sweet voice, from below). I am 'ere!
Showman. Then appear!
[The upper portion of an exceedingly comely Young Person emerges from the mouth of the Urn.
The F.S. (startled). Lor, she give me quite a turn!
Showman. Some people think this is all done by mirrors, but it is not so; it is managed by a simple arrangement of light and shade. She will now turn slowly round, to convince you that she is really inside the urn and not merely beyind it. (She turns round condescendingly.) She will next pass her 'ands completely round her, thereby demonstrating the utter impossibility of there being any wires to support her. Now she will rap on the walls on each side of her, proving to you that she is no reflection, but a solid reality, after which she will tap the bottom of the urn beneath her, so that you may see it really is what it purports to be. (She performs all these actions in the most obliging manner.) She will now disappear for a moment. (She sinks into the Urn.) Are you still there, She?
She (from the recess of the Urn). Yes.
Showman. Then will you give us some sign of your presence! (A hand and arm are protruded, and waved gracefully.) Thank you. Now you can come up again. (She re-appears.) She will now answer any questions any lady or gentleman may like to put to her, always provided you won't ask her how it is done—for I'm sure she wouldn't give me away, would you, She?
She (with a slow bow and gracious smile). Certingly not.
The F.S. (to her Companion). Ask her something—do.
Her Comp. Go on! I ain't got anything to ask her—ask her yourself!
A Bolder Spirit (with interest). Are your feet warm?
She. Quite—thanks.
The Showman. How old are you, She?
She (impressively). Two theousand years.
'Arry. And quite a young thing, too!
A Spectator (who has read the Novel). 'Ave you 'eard from LEO VINCEY lately?
She (coldly). I don't know the gentleman.
Showman. If you have no more questions to ask her, She will now retire into her urn, thanking you all for your kind attendance this morning, which will conclude the entertainment.
[Final disappearance of She. The Audience pass out, feeling—with perfect justice—that they have "had their money's worth."
HOW IT'S DONE.
A Hand-book of Honesty.
No. III.—GRANDMOTHERLY GOVERNMENT.
SCENE I.—St. Stephen's. Sagacious Legislator on his legs advocating a new Anti-Adulteration Act. Few M.P.'s present, most of them drowsing.
Sagacious Legislator. As I was saying, Sir, the adulteration of Butter has been pushed to such abominable lengths that no British Workman knows whether what he is eating is the product of the Cow or of the Thames mud-banks. (A snigger.) Talk of a Free Breakfast Table! I would free the Briton's Breakfast Table from the unwholesome incubus of Adulteration. At any rate, if the customer chooses to purchase butter which is not butter, he shall do it knowingly, with his eyes open. (Feeble "Hear, hear!") Under this Act anything which is not absolutely unsophisticated milk-made Butter must be plainly marked, and openly vended as Adipocerene!
[Amidst considerable applause the Act is passed.
SCENE II.—Small Butterman's shop in a poor neighbourhood. Burly white-apron'd Proprietor behind counter. To him enter a pasty-faced Workman, with a greasy pat of something wrapped in a leaf from a ledger.
Workman. I say, Guv'nor, lookye here. This 'ere stuff as you sold my old woman, is simply beastly. I don't believe it's butter at all.
Butterman (sneeringly). And who said it was? What did your Missus buy it as?
Workman. Why, Adipo—whot's it, I believe. But that's only another name for butter of a cheaper sort, ain't it? Anyhow, it's no reason why it should be nasty.
Butterman (loftily). Now look here, my man, what do you expect? That's Adipocerene, that is, and sold as such. If you'll pay for Butter, you can have it; but if you ask for this here stuff, you must take yer chance.
Workman. But what's it made on?
Butterman. That's no business of mine. If you could anerlyse it—(mind, I don't say yer could)—into stale suet and sewer-scrapings, you couldn't prove as it warn't Adipocerene, same as it's sold for, could yer?
Workman (hotly). But hang it, I don't want stale suet and sewer-scrapings, whatsomever you may call it.
Butterman (decisively). Then buy Butter, and pay for it like a man, and don't come a-bothering me about things as I've nothink to do with. If Guv'ment will have it called Adipocerene, and your Missus will buy it becos it's cheap; don't you blame me if you find it nasty, that's all. Good morning!
[Retires up, "swelling visibly."
Workman. Humph! Betwixt Grandmotherly Government and Manufacturers of Mysteriousness, where am I? That's wot I want to know! [Left wanting to know.
TO ENGELBERG AND BACK.
Being a few Notes taken en route in search of a Perfect Cure.
The Engineers who constructed the gradually ascending road which, slowly mounting the valley, finally takes you over the ridge, as it were, and deposits you at a height of 3800 feet, dusty but grateful, on the plain of Engelberg, must have been practical jokers of the first water. They lead you up in the right direction several thousand feet, then suddenly turn you round, and apparently take you clean back again. And this not once, but a dozen times. They seem to say, "You think you must reach the top this time, my fine fellow? Not a bit of it. Back you go again."
Still we kept turning and turning whither the Practical-joking Engineers led us, but seemed as far off from our journey's end as ever. A roadside inn for a moment deluded us with its light, but we only drew up in front of this while our gloomy charioteer sat down to a good square meal, the third he had had since three o'clock, over which he consumed exactly five-and-twenty minutes, keeping us waiting while he disposed of it at his leisure, in a fit of depressing but greedy sulks.
At length we moved on again, and in about another half-an-hour apparently reached the limit of the Practical-joking Engineers' work, for our surly charioteer suddenly jumped on the box, and cracking his whip furiously, got all the pace that was left in them out of our three sagacious horses, and in a few more minutes we were tearing along a level road past scattered châlets, little wooden toy-shops, and isolated pensions, towards a colossal-looking white palace that stood out a grateful sight in the distance before us, basking in the calm white-blue blaze shed upon it from a couple of lofty electric lights, that told us that up here in the mountains we were not coming to rough it, but to be welcomed by the latest luxuries and refinements of first-rate modern hotel accommodation. And this proved to be the case. Immediately he arrived in the large entrance-hall, the Dilapidated One was greeted by the Landlord of the Hotel et Kurhaus, Titlis, politely assisted to the lift, and finally deposited in the comfortable and electrically-lighted room which had been assigned to him.
"We are extremely full," announced the polite Herr to Dr. MELCHISIDEC; "and we just come from finishing the second dinner,"—which seemed to account for his being "extremely full,"—"but as soon as you will descend from your rooms, there will be supper ready at your disposition."
"You'll just come and look at the Bath-chair before you turn in?" inquired Dr. MELCHISIDEC, of the Dilapidated One, "It's arrived all right from Zurich. Come by post, apparently."
"Oh, that's nothing," continued young JERRYMAN, "why, there's nothing you can't send by post in Switzerland, from a house full of furniture, down to a grand piano or cage of canaries. You've only got to clap a postage-stamp on it, and there you are!" And the arrival of the Bath-chair certainly seemed to indicate that he was telling something very like the truth.
"I don't quite see how this guiding-wheel is to act," remarked Dr. MELCHISIDEC, examining the chair, which was of rather pantomimic proportions, critically; "but suppose you just get in and try it! 'Pon my word it almost looks like a 'trick-chair'!" which indeed it proved itself to be, jerking up in a most unaccountable fashion the moment the Dilapidated One put his foot into it, and unceremoniously sending him flying out on to his head forthwith. "A little awkward at first," he remarked, assisting the Dilapidated One on to his feet. "One has to get accustomed to these things, you see; but, bless you, in a day or two you won't want it at all. You'll find the air here like a continual draught of champagne. 'Pon my word, I believe you feel better already," and with this inspiriting assurance the Dilapidated One, who had not only covered himself with dust, but severely bruised his shins, saying that "he thought, perhaps, he did—just a little," was again assisted to the lift, and safely consigned to his room, where he was comfortably packed away for the night.
"I say," says young JERRYMAN, next morning, "what a place for bells!"
And young JERRYMAN was right, for I was awoke in the small hours of the morning by a loud peal from the Monastery, as if the Prior had suddenly said to himself, "What's the use of the bells if you don't ring 'em? By Jove, I will!" and had then and there jumped from his couch, seized hold of the ropes, and set to work with a right good will. Then the hotels and pensions took it up, and so, what with seven o'clock, eight o'clock, and nine o'clock breakfasts, first and second déjeuners, first and second dinners, interspersed with "Office Hours" sounded by the Monastery, and the sound of the dinner-bells carried by the cattle, Dingle-berg, rather than Engelberg, would be a highly appropriate name for this somewhat noisy, but otherwise delightful health-resort.
"I call this 'fatal dull' after Paris," remarked a fair Americaine to young JERRYMAN; and, perhaps, from a certain point of view, she may have been right; but, fatal dull, or lively, there can be no two opinions about the life-giving properties of the air.
OLD JOE ENCORE.—Last Wednesday in the FARRAR v. Publisher discussion, a Correspondent, signing himself JOHN TAYLOR, of Dagnall Park, Selhurst, wrote to The Times to "quote an anecdote" about DOUGLAS JERROLD and "a Publisher." Rarely has a good old story been so spoilt in the telling as in this instance. The true story is of ALBERT SMITH and DOUGLAS JERROLD, and has been already told in the Times by a Correspondent signing himself "E.Y." It is of the same respectable age as that one of ALBERT SMITH signing his initials "A.S.," and JERROLD observing, "He only tells two-thirds of the truth." Perhaps Mr. JOHN TAYLOR, of Dagnall Park, Selhurst, is going to favour us with a little volume of "new sayings by old worthies" at Christmas time, and we shall hear how SHERIDAN once asked TOM B—— "why a miller wore a white hat?" And how ERSKINE, on hearing a witness's evidence about a door being open, explained to him that his evidence would be worthless, because a door could not be considered as a door "if it were a jar," and several other excellent stories, which, being told for the first time with the verve and local colouring of which the writer of the letter to The Times is evidently a past-master, will secure for the little work an enormous popularity.
A SCOTT AND A LOT.—"Thirty Years at the Play" is the title of Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT's Lecture to be delivered next Saturday at the Garrick Theatre, for the benefit of the Actors' Benevolent Fund. Thirty years of Play-time! All play, and lots of work. Mr. IRVING is to introduce the lecturer to his audience, who, up to that moment, will have been "Strangers Yet," and this CLEMENT will be SCOTT-free to say what he likes, and to tell 'em all about it generally. "SCOTT" will be on the stage, and the "Lot" in the auditorium. Lot's Wife also.
ETHER-DRINKING IN IRELAND.—Mr. ERNEST HART (bless his heart and earnestness!) lectured last week on "Ether-Drinking in Ireland." He lectured "The Society for the Study of Inebriety"—a Society which must be slightly "mixed"—on this bad habit, and no doubt implored them to give it up. The party sang, "How Happy could we be with Ether" and the discussion was continued until there was nothing more to be said.
CLERGY IN PARLIAMENT.—As Bishops "sit" in the Upper House, why should not "the inferior clergy" "stand" for the Lower House? If they get in, why shouldn't they be seated? Surely what's right in the Bishop isn't wrong in the Rector?
LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.—The forthcoming work by the Vulnerable Archdeacon F-RR-R, will be entitled, The Pharrarsee and the Publisher.
"TRAIN UP A CHILD," &c.
Enter Fair Daughter of the House with the Village Carpenter. "MAMMA, YOU ALWAYS TOLD ME THAT KIND HEARTS WERE MORE THAN CORONETS, AND SIMPLE FAITH THAN NORMAN BLOOD, AND ALL THAT?"
Lady Clara Robinson (née Vere de Vere). "CERTAINLY DEAR, MOST CERTAINLY!"
Fair Daughter. "WELL, I'VE ALWAYS BELIEVED YOU; AND JIM BRADAWL HAS ASKED ME TO BE HIS WIFE, AND I'VE ACCEPTED HIM. WE'VE ALWAYS LOVED EACH OTHER SINCE YOU LET US PLAY TOGETHER AS CHILDREN!"
[Her Ladyship forgets, for once, the repose that stamps her caste.
THE McGLADSTONE;
OR, BLOWING THE BUGLE.
(Fragments from the latest (Midlothian) version of "The Lord of the Isles.")
McGLADSTONE rose—his pallid cheek
Was little wont his joy to speak,
But then his colour rose.
"Now, Scotland! shortly shalt thou see
That age checks not McGLADSTONE's glee,
Nor stints his swashing blows!"
Again that light has fired his eye,
Again his form swells bold and high;
The broken voice of age is gone,
'Tis vigorous manhood's lofty tone.
The foe he menaces again,
Thrice vanquished on Midlothian's plain;
Then, scorning any longer stay,
Embarks, lifts sail, and bears away.
Merrily, merrily bounds the bark,
She bounds before the gale;
The "flowing tide" is with her. Hark!
How joyous in her sail
Flutters the breeze like laughter hoarse!
The cords and canvas strain,
The waves divided by her force
In rippling eddies, chase her course.
As if they laughed again.
'Tis then that warlike signals wake
Dalmeney's towers, and fair Beeslack.
And eke brave BALFOUR's walls (Q.C.
And Scottish Dean of Faculty)
Whose home shall house the great McG.
A summons these to each stout clan
That lives in far Midlothian,
And, ready at the sight,
Each warrior to his weapon sprung,
And targe upon his shoulder flung,
Impatient for the fight.
Merrily, merrily, bounds the bark
On a breeze to the northward free.
So shoots through the morning sky the lark,
Or the swan through the summer sea.
Merrily, merrily, goes the bark—
Before the gale she bounds;
So darts the dolphin from the shark,
Or the deer before the hounds.
McGLADSTONE stands upon the prow,
The mountain breeze salutes his brow,
He snuffs the breath of coming fight,
His dark eyes blaze with battle-light,
And memories of old,
When thus he rallied to the fray
Against the bold BUCCLEUCH's array,
His clansmen. In the same old way
He trusts to rally them to-day.
Shall he succeed? Who, who shall say?
But neither fear no doubt may stay
His spirit keen and bold!
He cries, the Chieftain Old and Grand,
"I fight once more for mine own hand;
Meanwhile our vessel nears the land,
Launch we the boat, and seek the land!"
To land McGLADSTONE lightly sprung,
And thrice aloud his bugle rung
With note prolonged, and varied strain,
Till Edin dun replied again.
When waked that horn the party bounds,
Scotia responded to its sounds;
Oft had she heard it fire the fight,
Cheer the pursuit, or stop the flight.
Dead were her heart, and deaf her ear,
If it should call, and she not hear.
The shout went up in loud Clan-Rad's tone,
"That blast was winded by McGLADSTONE!"
RUM FROM JAMAICA—VERY.—When "the bauble" was removed from the table of the House, by order of OLIVER CROMWELL, it was sent with somebody's compliments at a later date to Jamaica, and placed on the Parliament table. What became of it nobody knows. It is supposed that this ensign of ancient British Royalty was swallowed up by an earthquake of republican tendencies. Jamaica, of course, is a great place for spices; but, in spite of all the highly spiced stories, the origin of which is more or less aus-spice-ious, it is to be regretted that, up to the present moment, what gave them their peculiar flavour, i.e., the original Mace, cannot be found.
THE McGLADSTONE!
"TO LAND McGLADSTONE LIGHTLY SPRANG,
AND THRICE ALOUD HIS BUGLE RANG
WITH NOTE PROLONG'D AND VARIED STRAIN,
TILL BOLD BEN-GHOIL REPLIED AGAIN."
"Lord of the Isles." Canto IV.