Volume 107 — LYRE AND LANCET.
Reading edition
(A Story in Scenes.)
PART X.—BORROWED PLUMES.
Scene XVII.—Undershell's Bedroom in the East Wing at Wyvern. Time—About 9 P.M.
The Steward's Room Boy (knocking and entering). Brought you up some 'ot water, Sir, case you'd like to clean up afore supper.
Undershell. I presume evening dress is not indispensable in the Housekeeper's Room; but I can hardly make even the simplest toilet until you are good enough to bring up my portmanteau. Where is it?
Boy. I never 'eard nothink of no porkmanteau, Sir!
Und. You will hear a good deal about it, unless it is forthcoming at once. Just find out what's become of it—a new portmanteau, with a white star painted on it.
[The Boy retires, impressed; an interval.
Boy (re-appearing). I managed to get a few words with Thomas, our second footman, just as he was coming out o' the 'All, and he sez the only porkmanteau with a white star was took up to the Verney Chamber, which Thomas unpacked it hisself.
Und. Then tell Thomas, with my compliments, that he will trouble himself to pack it again immediately.
Boy. But Thomas has to wait at table, and besides, he says as he laid out the dress things, and the gen'lman as is in the Verney Chamber is a wearin' of 'em now, Sir.
Und. (indignant). But they're mine! Confound his impudence! Here, I'll write him a line at once. (He scribbles a note.) Here, see that the gentleman of the Verney Chamber gets this at once, and bring me his answer.
Boy. What! me go into the Dinin' 'All, with all the swells at table? I dursn't. I should get the sack from old Treddy.
Und. I don't care who takes it so long as it is taken. Tell Thomas it's his mistake, and he must do what he can to put it right. Say I shall certainly complain if I don't get back my clothes and portmanteau. Get that note delivered, and I'll give you half-a-crown. (To himself, as the Boy departs much against his will.) So, not content with denying me a place at her table, this Lady Culverin allows her minions to clothe a more favoured guest at my expense! I'm hanged if I stand it.
Scene XVIII.—The Dining Hall. The table is oval; Spurrell is placed between Lady Rhoda Cokayne and Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris.
Mrs. Chatteris (encouragingly, after they are seated). Now, I shall expect you to be very brilliant and entertaining. I'll do all the listening for once in a way—though, generally, I can talk about all manner of silly things with anybody!
Spurrell (extremely ill at ease). Oh—er—I should say you were equal to that. But I really can't think of anything to talk about.
Mrs. Chatt. That's a bad beginning. I always find the menu cards such a good subject when there's anything at all out of the common about them. If they're ornamented, you can talk about them—though not for very long at a time, don't you think?
Spurr. (miserably). I can't say how long I could go on about ornamented ones—but these are plain. (To himself.) I can hear this waistcoat going already; and we're only at the soup!
Mrs. Chatt. It is a pity. Never mind; tell me about literary and artistic people. Do you know I'm rather glad I'm not literary or artistic myself—it seems to make people so queer-looking, somehow. Oh, of course I didn't mean you looked queer—but generally, you know. You've made quite a success with your Andromeda, haven't you? I only go by what I'm told—I don't read much myself. We women have so many really serious matters to attend to—arranging about dinners, and visits, and trying on frocks, and then rushing about from party to party. I so seldom get a quiet moment. Ah, I knew I wanted to ask you something. Did you ever know anyone called Lady Grisoline?
Spurr. Lady—er—Grisoline? No; can't say I do. I know Lady Maisie, that's all.
Mrs. Chatt. Oh, and she was the original? Now, that is exciting! But I should hardly have recognised her—"lanky," you know, and "slanting green eyes." But I suppose you see everybody differently from other people? It's having so much imagination. I daresay I look green or something to you now—though really I'm not.
Spurr. (to himself). I don't understand more than about half she's saying. (Aloud.) Oh, I don't see anything particularly green about you.
Mrs. Chatt. (only partially pleased). I wonder if you meant that to be complimentary—no, you needn't explain. Now tell me, is there any news about the Laureateship? Who's going to get it? Will it be Swinburne or Lewis Morris?
Spurr. (to himself). Never heard of the stakes or the horses either. (Aloud.) Well, to tell you the truth, I haven't been following their form—too many of these small events nowadays.
Mrs. Chatt. (to herself). It's quite amusing how jealous these poets are of one another! (Aloud.) Is it true they get a butt of sherry given them for it?
Spurr. I've heard of winners getting a bottle or two of champagne in a bucket—not sherry. But a little stimulant won't hurt a crack when he comes in, provided it's not given him too soon; wait till he's got his wind and done blowing, you know.
Mrs. Chatt. I'm taking that in. I know it's very witty and satirical, and I daresay I shall understand it in time.
Spurr. Oh, it doesn't matter much if you don't. (To himself.) Pleasant kind of woman—but a perfect fool to talk to!
Mrs. Chatt. (to herself). I've always heard that clever writers are rather stupid when you meet them—it's quite true.
Captain Thicknesse (to himself). I should like her to see that I've got some imagination in me, though she does think me such an ass. (Aloud, to Lady Maisie.) Jolly old hall this is, with the banners, and the gallery, and that—makes you fancy some of those old mediæval Johnnies in armour—knights, you know—comin' clankin' in and turnin' us all out.
Lady Maisie (to herself). I do trust Mr. Spurrell isn't saying something too dreadful. I'm sure I heard my name just now. (Aloud, absently, to Capt. Thicknesse.) No, did you really? How amusing it must have been!
Capt. Thick. (aggrieved). If you'd done me the honour of payin' any attention to what I was sayin', you'd have found out it wasn't amusin'.
Lady M. (starting). Oh, wasn't it? I'm so sorry I missed it. I—I'm afraid I was thinking of something else. Do tell me again!
Capt. Thick. (still hurt). No, I won't inflict it on you—not worth repeatin'. And I should only be takin' off your attention from a fellow that does know how to talk.
Lady M. (with a guiltiness which she tries to carry off under dignity). I don't think I understand what you mean.
Capt. Thick. Well, I couldn't help hearin' what you said to your poet-friend before we went in about having to put up with partners; and it isn't what you may call flattering to a fellow's feelin's, being put up with.
Lady M. (hotly). It—it was not intended for you. You entirely misunderstood!
"It does seem to me such—well, such footle!"
Capt. Thick. Daresay I'm very dense; but, even to my comprehension, it's plain enough that the reason why you weren't listenin' to me just now was that the Poet had the luck to say somethin' that you found more interesting.
Lady M. You are quite wrong—it's too absurd; I never even met Mr. Spurrell in my life till this afternoon. If you really must know, I heard him mention my name, and—and I wondered, naturally, what he could possibly be saying.
Capt. Thick. Somethin' very charmin' and poetical, I'm sure, and I'm makin' you lose it all. Apologise—shan't happen again.
Lady M. Please be sensible, and let us talk of something else. Are you staying here long?
Capt. Thick. You will be gratified to hear I leave for Aldershot to-morrow. Meant to have gone to-day. Sorry I didn't now.
Lady M. I think it was a thousand pities you didn't, as you seem to have stayed on purpose to be as stupid and unkind as you possibly can.
[She turns to her other neighbour, Lord Lullington.
Mrs. Chatt. (to Capt. Thicknesse, who is on her other side). Oh, Captain Thicknesse, what do you think Mr. Spurrell has just told me? You remember those lines to Lady Grisoline that Mr. Pilliner made such fun of this morning? Well, they were meant for Lady Maisie! They're quite old friends, it seems. So romantic! Wouldn't you like to know how they came to meet?
Capt. Thick. Can't say I'm particularly curious—no affair of mine, don't you know. (To himself.) And she told me they'd never met before! Sooner I get back the better. Only in the way here.
Lady M. (turning to him). Well, are you as determined to be disagreeable as ever? Oh, yes, I see you are!
Capt. Thick. I'm hurt, that's what it is, and I'm not clever at hiding my feelin's. Fact is, I've just been told somethin' that—well, it's no business of mine, only you might have been a little more frank with an old friend, instead of leavin' it to come through somebody else. These things always come out, you know.
Lady M. (to herself). That wretch has been talking! I knew he would! (Aloud.) I—I know I've been very foolish. If I was to tell you some time——
Capt. Thick. (hastily). Oh, no reason why you should tell me anything. Assure you, I—I'm not curious.
Lady M. In that case I shall certainly not trouble you. (To herself.) He may think just what he pleases, I don't care. But, oh, if Mr. Spurrell dares to speak to me after this, I shall astonish him!
Lady Rhoda (to Spurrell). I say—I am in a funk. Only just heard who I'm next to. I always do feel such a perfect fool when I've got to talk to a famous person—and you're frightfully famous, aren't you?
Spurr. (modestly). Oh, I don't know—I suppose I am, in a sort of way, through Andromeda. Seem to think so here, anyhow.
Lady Rh. Well, I'd better tell you at once, I'm no good at Poetry—can't make head or tail of it, some'ow. It does seem to me such—well, such footle. Awf'ly rude of me sayin' things like that!
Spurr. Is it? I'm just the same—wouldn't give a penny a yard for Poetry, myself!
Lady Rh. You wouldn't? I am glad. Such a let-off for me! I was afraid you'd want to talk of nothin' else, and the only things I can really talk about are horses and dogs, and that kind of thing.
Spurr. That's all right, then. All I don't know about dogs and horses you could put in a homœopathic globule—and then it would rattle!
Lady Rh. Then you're just the man. Look here, I've an Airedale at home, and he's losin' all his coat and——
[They converse with animation.
Spurr. (later—to himself). I am getting on. I always knew I was made for Society. If only this coat was easier under the arms!
Thomas (behind him—in a discreet whisper). Beg your pardon, Sir, but I was requested to 'and you this note, and wait for an answer.
Spurr. (opening it, and reading). "Mr. Galfrid Undershell thinks that the gentleman who is occupying the Verney Chamber has, doubtless by inadvertence, put on Mr. Undershell's evening clothes. As he requires them immediately, he will be obliged by an early appointment being made, with a view to their return." (To himself.) Oh, Lor! Then it wasn't Sir Rupert, after all! Just when I was beginning to enjoy my evening, too. What on earth am I to say to this chap? I can't take 'em all off here!
[He sits staring at the paper in blank dismay.
The Wail of the Word-Spinner.
There is nothing new under the sun at all To your journalist penny-a-lining and shoppy. And how can a man be "original" When his days (and his nights) are devoted to "copy"? No, no, his tired head will ne'er "knock at the stars," Who is tied to the spinning of "leaders" and "pars."
THE VOYAGE OF ALFRED.
[See Mr. Alfred Austin's article, entitled "That Damnable Country," in Blackwood's Magazine.]
"Land, land!" cried Alfred Austin. "By my halidom, I spy land! Many weary leagues we've wandered since we left our native shores, Seeking still through calm and tempest a remote and barren island, While we smote the sounding furrows of the ocean with our oars. "Never wind availed to beat us; by the waters overweighted, Or becalmed, with idle canvas hanging loosely from the mast, Yet we steered her or we rowed her with our courage unabated, And, our labours past and over, we have come to land at last. "Though the land be bleak and barren, though barbarians its dwellers, Let us add this last achievement to the record of our deeds; When the savage tribes come shouting as attackers and repellers, We can win the men with clothing and the women-folk with beads. "There be savages in India as in Tierra del Fuego; There be savages in Zululand with shield and assegai; We have tamed them, whether cannibals or fed on rice and sago— Shall a Briton ever flinch from such? No, by the Lord, not I!" On the land he had discovered thus the Poet Austin landed; Marco Polo or Columbus might have envied him the scene; And in prose he has described it, in a language understanded Of the people, and has printed it in Blackwood's Magazine. The scenery was beautiful, so lovely that it dazed him; He thought their manners charming, and he rather liked their rain. He did not find them savages, which seems to have amazed him; And he tells us all to visit them again and yet again. We thank you for the hints you give describing what you've seen there, It really is amazing; but——(a whisper in your ear) You're not the first discoverer, for some of us have been there, And shaken hands with Irish folk before the present year. But in your precious article your wonder you exhaust in Describing how an Irishman can really be polite: "Behold," you say, "the Irishman as patronised by Austin; He is not black, though painted so—in fact he's rather white." Don't patronise so much, dear A. I do not say you write ill; But oh that awful title, with its most offensive D——! Devoutly do I hope, dear A., you'll find a better title, And write a wiser article when next you cross the sea.
Studies from the New-de.—The rage for "New"-ness, which commenced with the New Humour, is extending to the theatres. The New Boy now has for a competitor The New Woman. What matters, so long as neither is a Nui-S'ance?
"Finest English!"
"By their fruits ye shall know them," these vendors of peaches, Tomatoes, and cob-nuts, and currants and cherries; But what we yet lack is the wisdom that teaches Detection of fraudulent fruits, nuts, and berries, Which come from abroad, to the Britisher's table, All marked "Finest English!" that lying old label! A Trade Mark is wanted—to badge these false brutes, That Bull may not only know them but their fruits.
The Seven Ages of Man.—Cot-age (Infancy), Trot-age (Nursery Toddler), Hot-age (Youth), Shot-age (Sport), Knot-age (Matrimonial), "Pot"-age (Celebrity), and Dot-age (Senility).
The Real Fall of Man.—Falling in love!
HOLIDAY CHARACTER STUDIES.
Mrs. Stanley Bounderson (née Martha Fullalove, the Liverpool heiress). "What would Doady do, if his loving little Wifey didn't carry his great heavy Waterproof for him when it leaves off Raining, and he wants to Smoke?"
Mr. Stanley Bounderson (alias Doady). "He'd carry it himself, I suppose!"
Jones, Q.C. (aside to Mrs. Jones). "Yes; and be twice as fond of his little Wifey into the bargain, you bet!"
[Which is best, to love much, like Mrs. S. B, or be much loved, like Mrs. J.?
DON'T "COME UNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS"!
Mr. P. (sleepily). "GO AWAY—GO AWAY!—I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU!"