"HOW TO CONTROL AND RECTIFY PUBLIC OPINION."
Reading edition
["It is impossible to bribe a French paper."—Times, April 5, 1895.]
Scene—Sanctum of the Rédacteur en chef of "Le Gamin de Paris." Rédacteur discovered reading latest issue.
Rédacteur. Dear me, this note about the pacific intentions of the German Emperor is most interesting! I wonder how it got in. I did not notice it when I glanced through the pages. Still, I have the most unlimited confidence in my staff. (Quoting from his paper.) "There is no doubt that we can safely disarm, as Germany is our friend—the best of our friends." Dear me! Most interesting!
[Enter menial, ushering in mysterious stranger.
Stranger. I trust I am not intruding?
Rédacteur. Certainly not. It is the duty of an editor to be always at the service of those who seek his advice. No doubt you desire my opinion upon some matter of importance?
Stranger. You have guessed rightly. Which do you prefer, a mansion in town or a castle in the country?
Rédacteur (smiling). Well, I am scarcely qualified to judge, for I only possess a mansion in town. I have no castle in the country.
Stranger. Pardon me. You have one now.
[Gives Editor title-deeds.
Rédacteur (glancing at the documents). What, the Château de St. Querecs! One of the finest places in Brittany! You are really too amiable!
Stranger. Not at all. And now tell me, do you prefer Wagner to Verdi, or Mascagni to Mozart?
Rédacteur. Again I am at a disadvantage. You see I go so seldom to the Opera. The expense is——
Stranger. The expense is inconsiderable when you possess a loge on the grand tier. (Giving paper.) Allow me to present you with a perpetual box.
Rédacteur. Your courtesy is simply charming! But why do you overwhelm me with these obligations? We are unknown to one another.
Stranger (with a bow). Not at all. You are famous. As for me—why I am nothing. I am absolutely valueless.
Rédacteur (politely). You do not do yourself justice. I will be bound you are most valuable.
Stranger. Well, perhaps you are right. At any rate I can fill in a cheque—yes, and with four or five figures! I will show you. Permit me.
[Approaches writing materials, and rapidly completes draft.
Rédacteur. And for whom is that cheque?
Stranger. Read the name to whose order it is made payable.
Rédacteur (surprised but admiring). Mine! This is simply marvellous. And are you clever enough to write a leader?
Stranger. Assuredly. See I will compose one at once. (Sits at table, knocks off an article and hands it to Rédacteur). What do you think of it?
Rédacteur (smiling). I will give you my opinion when I see it in type. You will find it in the Gamin to-morrow. Good day!
[Scene closes in upon a tableau suggesting at once delicacy and the right understanding of commercial principles.
Her Latest.—"The silence was so great," said Mrs. R., "you could have picked up a pin!"
MINOR POETRY IN THE SERE AND YELLOW LEAF.
A candid M.P. showeth cause.
Fair Waitress at the A. B. C., To which I most resort, Bring me a roll and cup of tea— No longer bards drink port. No more the lusty, generous vine In bardic veins makes summer; That's why Apollo's lyre divine Knows but the sorry strummer. No rich libation at the "Cock," Degenerate race, we pour, And tea, not port, at five o'clock, Is what we all adore. In coffee, tea, and lemon squash The Muse ne'er dips her laurel, So what we write is either "wash," Or hopelessly immoral. When life, each quarter, is made out Of still more jaundiced hue, The needy bard must join the shout, His verse be jaundiced too: But tea's the spell, these latter times, As of some fell narcotic, That makes us weave our random rhymes All rotten, or neurotic. We modern bardlets, tea-inspired, Condemn th' "old-fashioned gang," And yet we miss the spark that fired The songs our fathers sang: Their tastes were healthier than their sons', Their rhymes were "none so dusty," When bards ate beef instead of buns, And loved their fine old "crusty." This sere and yellow poesy Faint draws its sickly breath, And—doctors say—Society Will soon acclaim its death: No stone upon its grave we'll place, But tea-pots at each corner— Fair Waitress, you the scene shall grace As chief, and only, mourner.
"M. Hanotaux, Minister of Foreign Affairs, will shortly have distributed in the Chamber and the Senate a Yellow Book relative to the conventions recently concluded between France and Great Britain for the delimitation of their respective possessions on the West Coast of Africa."
Our Artist could not be restrained from designing a Cover, which we respectfully offer to M. Hanotaux.
The Jabez is Coming.
The Jabez is coming! Oh dear! how queer! Is Jabez a-coming? What cheer? what cheer? There's nothing much left though to hear We fear. We'll believe he has come when he's here. Hear! Hear!
Note by a Highly Cultivated but Unsuccessful Dramatist.—About the most fatal opinion that can be given on any play is to say that "it reads well." A play that is "a treat to read" is, as a rule, utter boredom to see; for in proportion to the success in the study is, in the majority of cases, the failure on the stage.
Gamp Triumphant, and Justice to an Old Friend at last!!—In the Times' "Court Circular" lately appeared the information that "Mrs. Harris had the honour of dining with the Queen yesterday." Now, and henceforth, the immortal Mrs. Gamp, rising "morally and physically," can denounce any "bage creetur" who would dare to repeat Mrs. Prig's "memorable and tremendous words," spoken of Mrs. Harris, the dear friend of "Sairey," "I don't believe there's no sich a person."
ANACREONTICS FOR ALL.
SWIG UP THIS (COCOA) CUP!
Air—"Drink of this Cup."
Swig up this cup—you will find there's a spell in Its depths for the ills and the aches of mortality. Drink! Of dyspepsia's dire woes you'll be well in A Yankee split second! (No fudge, but reality). Would you forget wine, or whiskey, or gin? Only skim off the film that will gather a-top of it, ('Tis merely the milk in coagulate skin,) Then stir it up briskly and drain every drop of it! Swig up this cup, &c. Never was nectar-cup brewed with such power, Or philtre; while here nought to injure or hurt is meant. Of Cocoa this is the pure pick and fine flower. There's no starch or fat in it (vide Advertisement!). They who with this have their stomachs well filled, Are proof against hunger, fatigue, and bad weather. This wonderful draught is not brewed or distilled, But it licks all the liquors and cordials together. Swig up this cup, &c. And though, perhaps,—but oh! breathe it to no one!— 'Tis stodgy and runs to obesity awfully. If you've no coat to your tum-tum, you'll grow one! (The rival advertisements tell us so—jawfully.) What though it tasteth insipid and tame? When tea is taboo, and when coffee's forbidden, Try cocoa from—well, let each fill up the name, There are fifty at least, and their light is not hidden! Swig up this cup, &c. So swig up the cup of—each "'Tiser" is telling In every paper, with great actuality, The fame of his brand, with much swagger and swelling, Other ads. may be fiction, but his is reality. So swig up the cup when you breakfast, tea, sup, Of so-and-so's (string of superlatives) cocoa! (I'd "give it a name," but I daren't try that game, For fear of severe (editorial) Toko). Swig up this cup, &c.
Latest From Paris.—"Moore of Moore Hall, with nothing at at all," has not "slain," nor has he "foughten with," nor given any kind of "satisfaction" to, the Dragon of Wantley, represented (as the incident is to be "relegated to the realms of comic opera") on this occasion by the Wictorious "Whistler Coon." It is, however, reported that the impressionist artist, animated by the sportsmanlike desire of getting a shot at something or somebody, the McNeil, or Jacques le Siffleur, would like to engage a Moore for the shooting season. The most recent wire reports, "No Moore at present. J. McN. W." And, probably, here closes the incident.
Last Week's Business.—Everything very much up in the City—especially the pavement in Cannon Street.