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VOL. 101.

July 11, 1891.



SCENE - _The Park, near Cumberland Gate, on almost any fine
afternoon. Behind the rails separating the turf from the
paths, Orators, Preachers, and Reciters are holding forth,
for the delectation of small groups, who are mostly engaged in
discussing some totally different subject. A set debate, with
a time-limit, and a purely ornamental Chairman, is in progress
between a Parnellite and an Anti-Parnellite. The reader will
kindly imagine himself to be passing slowly along the line._

_A Youthful Socialist_ (_haranguing the usual crowd of well-to-do
loungers, and working himself up to the requisite white-heat of
factitious fury_). And what are these Capitalists? I'll tell yer. Jest
a lot o' greedy gobblers and profit-mongering sharks, as eat up the
smaller fry. And what are _you_? Why, you're the small fish as
eat mud - and let yourselves _be_ gobbled! (_The crowd accept this
definition of themselves with perfect gaiety and good-humour._) Some
will tell yer that these lazy, idle loafers, work as hard as what we
do ourselves. (_Derisive laughter at this ridiculous idea._) Mind yer,
I'm not saying they don't. _Honly_, the 'arder they work, the worse
it is for us; because the more they work the more they _rob_! That's
what they send their sons to Oxford and to Cambridge - as was built and
endowed for the benefit of us, the labourin' classes - for. They send
'em there to learn _'ow to rob_!

[_Here a discussion breaks out between a Sceptic and a
Spiritualist, who, with half-a-dozen interested auditors,
have been putting their heads together in a corner._

_The Sceptic_. No, - but keep to the point, - you're shufflin' the
question. I want to argue this out on logical grounds. I know as
well as _you_ do that, if only I 'ave 'armony and a round table in my
family, I can make that table dance the poker - but what I'm puttin'
to _you_ is (_triumphantly_), 'ow does that prove to me as I'm in
communication with the Bogie Man? That's what _you've_ got to answer.

[Illustration: "Yer may sometimes hentertain a angel unawares!"]

_The Y.S._. We Soshalists 'ate the Tories as we 'ate sin. Why, young
polertician as I ham, &c., &c.

_The Spiritualist_ (_an elderly and earnest person_). All I can
reply to you is, we Spiritualists do not think - we _know_ that these
phenomena appear - yes, as surely as I know I am 'olding this stick in
my 'and.

_The Sceptic_ (_pityingly_). There you go again, yer see - that
stick ain't the point. _I_ can see the stick. A stick ain't a
phenomena - you're confusin' two different things. Now I'm goin' to
offer you a fair challenge. You perdooce me a Spirit - not in a back
room, with the lights out, but _'ere_, in broad daylight, in this
Park - you get that Spirit to naturalise itself, or whatever you call
it, and I'll _believe_ in 'im. Come, now!

_A Bystander_. Ah, that's the way to corner _'is_ sort. 'E knows 'e
carn't _do_ it!

_The Spiritualist_ (_with a smile of sad superiority_). Ridicule ain't
argyment. [_The discussion continues._

_The Young Socialist_. Don't tork to me of Patriotism! What have the
likes of you and me got to be patriotic about? I'm a Universalist, I
am, and so long as a man rallies round our glorious Red Flag (_here he
waves a dingy scarlet rag on a stick_), it's all one to me whether his
own colour is black, yeller, green, brown, _or_ white!


_Reciter Number One_ (_in the midst of a thrilling prose narrative
about a certain_ "'ARRY," _who has apparently got into legal
difficulties for having thrown a cocoa-nut stick at a retired
Colonel_). Well, I went into the Court 'ouse, and there, sure enough,
was my pore mate 'ARRY in the dock, and there was hold Ginger-whiskers
(_laughter_) a setting on the bench along with the hother beaks,
lookin' biliouser, and pepperier, and more happerplecticker nor ever!
"Prison-ar," he sez, addressin' 'ARRY (_imitation of the voice and
manner of a retired Colonel_), "Prison-ar, 'ave you - har - hanythink
to say in your beyarf - har?" And then, hall of a sudden, I sor a
flash come into my dear 'ole comride 'ARRY's heyes, as he strightened
'imself in the dock, and gave the milingtery sloot, and then, in a
voice as sounded as true and sweet and clear as a bell, he sez -

_A Dingy and Unprepossessing Preacher_ (_unctuously_). Well beloved
friends, as I was telling yer, I went 'ome to the 'ouse of that pious
Methodist lady, and she told me as 'ow she 'ad two dear unconverted
sons, an' I knelt down (_&c., &c._), an' after that we 'ad our tea,
and then I preached a sermon - ah, I well remember I took my tex from
(_&c. &c._) - an' then she gave me supper (_more unctuously still_), as
nice a bit o' cold beef and 'ome-brewed ale as ever I wish to taste,
and I slep' that blessed night in a warm comfortable bed - and this
(_drawing the inevitable moral_) this brings me round to what I
started on, inasmuch as it proves (_with a forbidding smile_) as 'ow
yer may sometimes hentertain a angel unawares!

_Reciter Number Two_ (_giving his own private version of "The Ticket
of Leave Man."_) Fourpence 'ap'ny, Gentlemen, is _not_ a very 'arty
nor corjial recognition of my talent; _'owever_, I will now perceed
with the Drarmer. The Curtain rises upon the Second Hact. Hover three
years 'ave elapsed since _Robert Brierley_ - (&c.) We are in _May
Hedwardses_ lodgings. She is torkin to 'er goldfinch. If you boys
don't give over larkin' and stand back, you'll get a cuff on some
of your 'eds. "Goldie," she sez, "I've 'ad a letter from _'Im_ this
morning!" And the bird puts his little 'ed a one side, and a'most
seems as if he compre'ended 'er meanin'! _Mrs. Willoughby_ is 'eard
outside sayin', "May I come in?" I will now hendeavour to give you a
imitation of _Mrs. Willoughby_.

[_He cocks his hat rather more on one side, to indicate
feminine garrulity, and continues._

_Anti-Parnellite Irishman_ (_warmly_). Is it kape to the point? Oi
till that white-feeced an' black-hearrted loiar, TIM MURPHY, that if
he interrups me wance more whoile o'im in possession o' the chair,
oi'll step down an' call 'm to orrder by landin' 'um a clump on the

_Reciter Number Three_ (_who is working his way through a
bloodcurdling poem, with a hat on the ground before him_): -

And on came them maddened 'orses, with their foiery, smokin' breath;
As were bearin' the woman I lurved to a crule and 'orrible death!
'Ow could I save my darlin' from layin' a mangled 'eap
On the grorss below where the buttercups blow, along of the innercent sheep!
(_Wildly._) I felt my brine was reeling - I'adn't a minnit to lose!
[_He strains forward, in agony._
With a stifled prayer, and a gasp for air, I -

[_Here he suddenly becomes aware of an overlooked penny
on the grass, and replaces it carefully in the hat before

_First Bystander_ (_discussing Physical Courage with a friend_). No,
I never 'ad no pluck. I don't see the use of it myself - on'y gits you
into rows'. (_Candidly._) I'm a blanky coward, I am.

_His Friend_ (_admiringly_). Give us yer 'and. Yer can't be a blankier
coward than _me_!

_The A.P._ (_with just pride_). Oi've been wan o' the biggest
libertines in this or anny other city in me toime - there's no
blagardhism oi'd have put beyant me - but oi till ye this. If PARNELL
was to come up to me here, now, and ask me to sheek um by the hand,
oi'd say, "Shtand back, ye d - - d scoundthrel!" Ah, oi would _that_!

_Belated Orator_ (_perorating to an embarrassed stranger on a seat
before him, under a muddled impression that he is addressing a
spell-bound multitude_). I tell yer - yes, hevery man, and hevery woman
among yer - (_Here he bends forward, and touches his hearer's right and
left elbow impressively_) don't you go away under the impression I'm
talking of what I don't understan'! (_The Stranger shifts his leg and
looks another way_.) I speak sense, don't I? _You_ never 'eard nothin'
like this afore, _any_ of yer, _'ave_ yer? That's because I read
between the lines! (_Waving his arm wildly._) An' I want heach man
and boy of you to 'member my words, and _hact_ upon them when the time

[_Here he staggers off with a proud and exalted air, to the
immense relief of his hearer._

_A Professional Pietist_ (_with a modest working capital of one hymn
and a nasal drone_). "My richest gynes" ... (_To Charitable Passer_. A
copper, Sir? bless your kind 'art!) "I cayount" ... (_Examining it._
A bloomin' French 'ap'ny!) ... "but loss; And pour contemp'" ... (Call
yerself a Christian gen'lman, yer - &c.) ... "on a - a - ll my proide!"

(_Here the Reader will probably have had enough of it._)

* * * * *

A REAL TREAT. - _Advice to Covent-gardeners_. - If _Carmen_ is to be
done again this season with the same cast as it had on Saturday last,
no one who cares for an exceptionally first-rate performance should
miss this opera-tunity. There is no better representative of _Carmen_
than Mlle. ZELIE DE LUSSAN, - how can there be, since the Spanish
Gipsy heroine of the plot is herself a _Loose 'un_? Madame MELBA
was charming as _Mickie Ella_, the Irish girl in Spain. M. LASSALLE
appeared as _Escamillo_. the bull-fighter, in a novel, and doubtless
a correct, costume, and his great _Toréador_ song was vociferously
encored. Then, finally, JEAN DE RESKÉ, who made of the usually idiotic
_Don José_ a fine acting as well as a fine singing part. It drew a
big house, and would have been a pretty dish to set before an Emperor
on Wednesday, if, on that occasion, the Opera itself were the only

* * * * *



"My palate is parched with Pierian thirst,
Away to Parnassus I'm beckoned."
I sing of the glories of Fire King the First!
(Who's fit to be Fire King the Second?)

Captain EYRE MASSEY SHAW is a "Sovereign" indeed,
Abdicating? Alas! that too true is;
For he's a Fire King of a different breed
From the Monarch described by MONK LEWIS.

No mere King of Flames, fiery-faced _à la_ SKELT,
Inhabiting regions most torrid,
With a breath that is warranted copper to melt,
And eyes indescribably horrid.

He hath not a blazing Bardolphian nose,
He is not _flamboyant_ or furious;
His Crown's a brass helmet, his Sceptre a hose;
True Fire King, - all others are spurious.

For he rules the flames; he has done so for long;
And now that he talks of retiring,
Men mourn for the fire-queller cautious and strong,
Whose reign they've so long been admiring.

Clear-headed, cool Captain, great chief M.F.B.,
All London is sorry to lose you;
As kindly as kingly, from prejudice free;
No danger could daunt or confuse you.

As doffing your helmet, and dropping your hose,
You bid us farewell, we all own you
As one of Fiend Fire's most redoubtable foes;
As that thirty years we have known you.

Our Big Boards might job, and our Big Wigs might jaw,
But, spite of their tricks and their cackle,
One Chief we could trust; we were sure that our SHAW
His duty would manfully tackle.

So farewell, great Fire King! Your crown you lay by;
E'en you cannot lay by your credit.
Ignipotent Knight? Well, you ought to stand high
In the next Honour-List! _Punch_ has said it!

* * * * *






_À propos_ of this heading, what a treasure a _Magnum Opal_ would be.
This remark is only "by the way." My motto is Business First, Play (on
words) afterwards. So to work.

I really think I shall take to Guide-book writing. _Grandolph's
Guides_ would be immensely popular. I'm sure I can do it - for upon
my word I can do a'most anything if I only buckle to. By the way,
'_Buckle_' suggests history. Can go in for "making history" when I've
done this work. WILLIAMS - not MONTAGU the Magistrate - (good title this
for something) - but my friend the Companionable Captain - - is at
work; when he has done, he reads out a few descriptive paragraphs for
my approbation, or the contrary. When I nod it means that I like it;
when I don't nod, he has to wait till I do. I generally begin nodding
about the middle of the first paragraph.

"Well," says he, the other day, quite suddenly, "I'm glad you like it
all so much."

"Like all what?" I exclaimed, blowing the cigar-ash off my pyjamas,
and wondering to myself how I could have been so absorbed in his
reading aloud as to have let my half-smoked havannah tumble on to the

"Why, all I've been reading to you for the last hour and a half,"
returned the Captain, apparently somewhat annoyed; peppery chap, the
Captain, - 'Curried' Captain when on board Sir DONALD's boat, - but to
resume. Says the Curried Captain, still a bit annoyed, "You passed all
the paragraphs, one after the other, and whenever I stopped to ask you
how you liked it, you nodded."

I didn't like to hurt the gallant scribe's feelings, but the fact is
that he, as a reader, has a very soothing-syrupy tone and, I fancy,
that in less than a quarter of an hour, judging by the moiety of my
cigar. I must have fallen fast asleep.

"That's posted, is it?" I ask, evading further explanation. "It is,"
he answers. "But I've got another lot - "

"Good!" I interrupt him, rather abruptly I own, but, from experience
I say it, if I don't take myself when in the humour - 'on the hop,' so
to speak, as they said of the _scarabæus_ in Kent - (trust _me_ for
natural history and plenty of it) - I'm no use at all. Now at this
moment I am wide awake, a giant refreshed; so I light another fragrant
weed, and call for another cool drink, as I haven't the smallest idea
what became of the one I ordered when the Gallant Graphist commenced
reading; I rather suspect he 'put it to his lips when so dispoged,'
and that, in this instance also, he mistook my nod for silent but
emphatic encouragement.

"Now," I say to the Amiable Amanuensis and Adaptable Author, "you
read your stuff aloud with emphasis and discretion, and I'll chuck in
the ornamental part. Excuse me, that's _my_ drink," I say, with an
emphasis on the possessive pronoun, for the Soldierly Scribe, in a
moment of absorption, was about to apply that process to my liquor. He
apologises handsomely, and commences his recital. In the absence of a
gong, - one ought never to travel without a gong, - I whack the tea-tray
with a paper-knife. "All in to begin!"

"_The mail train_," &c., &c. I make my notes, and remark that MURRAY
and BRADSHAW lost a great chance in not having long ago secured the
services of the Corresponding Captain. "_The railroad passes through
mountain scenery of exceptional_," &c., &c. BRADSHAW and MURRAY, not
to mention BAEDEKER and BLACK, absolutely not in it with the Wandering
Warrior. "_About thirty miles from Cape Town_" -


I stop him at this point. "Couldn't we have a song here?"

"Why?" asks the Simple Soldier, glaring at me, and pulling his

"Just to lighten it up a bit," I explain. "You see 'About thirty
miles' and so forth, suggests the old song of _Within a Mile of
Edinboro' Town_."

"Don't see it," says the Virtuous Veteran, stolidly.

"Well, I'll make a note of it," and I add pleasantly, as is my way,
"if it's a song, I'll make _several notes_ of it."

"Um!" growls the Severe Soldier, and once again I defeat him in an
attempt at surprising my outpost, i.e., my tumbler of cool drink. He
apologises gruffly but politely, and then continues his reading.


He continues to read about "_distances," "so many feet above
sea-levels," "engineering skill_," &c., &c., which I observe to him
will all make capital padding for a guide-book, when I am suddenly
struck by the sound of the word I had just used, _viz._, 'padding.'


"By Jove!" I exclaim.

"What is it?" asks the Confused Captain, looking up from his MS.

"'Padding,'" I reply - "Only add a 'ton' to it, and that will give it
just the weight I require. Don't you see?" I ask him, impetuously.
But he merely shakes his head, and lugs at his moustache. I explain
the idea, as if it were a charade. I say, "The whole notion is
'padding - ton.' See?"

The Ruminating Reader thinks it won't do. "Yes it will," I urge - "it
will lighten it up. Who wants statistics without anecdote? Now
for an anecdote; and I knock one off, _sur le champ_, about the
engine-driver, the stoker, and several other persons, all on the
look-out for promotion, informing me of their being _Paddington men
of considerable political influence at home_. The Cautious Captain
accepts the anecdote, interpolates it, and after I have called for and
imbibed another tumbler of 'my own partik,' and lighted another cigar,
the Conscientious Captain resumes his entertainment."


He reads on. Another drink, just to rivet my attention. Will he take
something? No? Then _I_ will. His health, and song - I mean 'treatise,'
or whatever he calls it - say 'lecture.' Wish we'd had a piano. Never
will travel without one again. _Mem._ - Gong and piano. I don't pretend
to be a thorough musician, but as a one-fingered player I'd give Sir
CHARLES HALLÉ odds and beat him. Now then - let's see where were we.
Another tumbler iced. Good. _Allez!_ Captain, go ahead!


Somehow or another, after this - that is, I can only time it by the
fact of my having called for a fourth or fifth glass of iced drink, or
it may have been my half-dozenth, for time does fly so, - the Captain
having, I suspect, drank the greater part of the previous one whenever
I didn't happen to be looking that way - I begin to think I must have
once more given my assent by nodding to a lot of stuff of which I
could not nave heard more than three pages, as, when I arouse myself
from my reverie, the tumbler is empty, the Captain has gone out, and
so has my cigar.


"Action is the word!" said I, suddenly jumping up; and, having seized
a spade, and provided myself with a large sack, which I carried across
my shoulders, I set off for the diamond-fields. Unrecognised by a
soul, I went to work on my own account; and the brilliant things I
saw - far more brilliant than even the witticisms of WOLFFY, or the
sarcasms of ARTHUR B! Into my sack go thousands of diamonds! The sack
is full! _Aladdin_ and the Lamp not in it with me! "Hallo!" shouts
a voice, gruffly. I could see no one. "_Vox et præterea nil_," as we
used to say at Eton. Suddenly I felt myself collared. I made a gallant
attempt at resistance. A spade is a spade I know, but what is a
spade and one against twenty with pistols and daggers, headed by the
redoubtable Filliblusterer THOMAS TIDDLER himself? "Strip him!" said
T.T., shortly.


Will you believe that the only way in which in this country they
arrive at implicitly believing every word you utter, is by denuding
you of all your clothes, so as to get at the naked truth, holding you
up by the heels for the purpose of shaking the diamonds out of you, in
case any are concealed in your hair, mouth, ears, eyes and so forth.

"He has diamonds on the brain!" I hear some ruffian exclaim, and in
another second -

* * * * *

Well - what happened I cannot tell you: I must have fainted. When I
came to myself I was lying by the chair in which I had been previously
sitting when listening to the Captain's reading, and bending over me
with a glass of water in his hand, was the faithful and clever Doctor
whose companionship on this voyage of discovery I am daily and hourly
learning to appreciate at its proper value. I fancy the ship's crew
were round about me, with the Engineer and the Chaplain. I feel
inclined to say, "HARDY, HARDY, kiss me, HARDY!" and then something
about "Tell them at home" - but the words stick in my throat, as they
did in _Macbeth's_ throat (only they were other words) when he was on
his throat-sticking expedition. (Little Shakspearian reference thrown
in here, and no extra charge.)

"How many of these has he had?" I hear the Doctor say, and I perceived
that he was holding up an empty tumbler. I should like to explain
that, as we were engaged in composition, there had been 'composing
draughts.' I fancy I caught the tone of the Clever Captain's voice in
reply, but the next minute I felt myself being lifted up and carried
off. I wished to tell them of my strange adventure, and how I had
barely escaped with my life, but somehow drowsiness overcame me, and
I must have fallen asleep.


To-day I sit down to write out this strange story. Once I asked the
Cautious Captain and the Doubting Doctor "if they had seen anything
of my pickaxe and the sack of diamonds." But they only smiled at one
another, elevated their eyebrows, then winked, and laughed.

What is their little game?

No matter. I will lie low. My motto is "Diamonds are trumps." I'm not
here as _Aladdin_ for nothing. "Aha!" as the old melodramatic villain
used to say, "a time will come! No mattar!"


I don't know whether it is owing to my voyage in a DONALD CURRIE
steamer - 'twas the first opportunity that ever I had of tasting a
DONALD CURRIE, and excellent it is, as of course, was all our "board"
on board - (send this joke to WOLFFY - he'll work it up and make a real
_impromptu_ sparkler of it - and I don't grudge him the _kudos_ of it,
not one little bit) - or to the change of air, but I am bound to say
openly that I do think the G.O.M. has been right about most things,
especially about Majuba (who was _Pa_ JUBA? Send this to DRUMMY
WOLFFY), and - well, I shall have more to say on this subject. If this
meets the eye of any friendly person, will he kindly remember me to my
Uncle? Thanks. That's the ticket. More anon.

[Illustration: (Signature) Grandolph the Explorer.]

* * * * *


The pore owerworked Committee has gone and got thereselves into a
nice mess, and all by their kindness in wanting to let as many people
as possibel see the grate show on Friday. They has acshally bin and
ordered a grate bilding with rows of seats, out in Gildhall Yard,
enuff to hold about a thousand Ladies and Gentlemen, all in their best
close, with capital views of ewerybody and ewerythink, and now they
are told that it won't be posserbel not to give em nothing to heat
or to drink, tho' they must set there quite quiet for at least three
hours! I wunder what they will all think of Copperashun Horspitality
after that!

I'm told as one werry respectable but ancient Deputy acshally
surgested, that after the Hemperer and Hempress and their sweet had
all gone home, all the whole thousand starving wisitors should be
turned into Gildhall and allowed to eat and drink all the fragments
as was left. Yes, Mr. Deputy, all wery kind and thortful of you as
regards the harf-starved wisitors, but how about us Waiters? You, with
all your experience, ewidentally don't know the wally of what such
eminent Swells as Hemperers and Hempresses leaves on their plates, and
the skrambel for 'em drectly as they leaves. Why, I have acshally seen
with my own estonished eyes, a lady, after enquiring of me which chair
a sutten elustreous person had set in, stoop down and kiss its harm,
wich was nex to kissin _his_ hand, and then give harf-a-crown for
harf a happel as was left on the plate! Ah, that's what I calls true
loyalty, and werry much it is admired by all of us.

I hunderstands as the Government, wanting to estonish the Hemperer,
has lent the City a reglar army of troops to stand on both sides of
the Streets from Buckinham Pallis all the way to Gildhall. And in
case the estonishing site shood make him feel just a leetle dazed, the
jolly old Copperashun has bin and gone and hired no less than three
Millingterry Bands of Music to play to him, and cheer him up.

There was a talk of engaging all the many German Bands, as makes our
streets so musical, to give the Hemperer a serrynade at Lunch; but Mr.
WEST HILL, of the Gildhall Skool of Music, thort it might be too much
for His Madjesty's feelinx, so the highdear was given up. I werily
bleeves that of all the many anxious buzzoms as is a beating with

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