Volume 100 — "BEROOFEN !"
Reading edition
"Well," quoth the Baron DE BOOK-WORMS, as he sat down to dinner on a Friday, a week ago, "I must say I have never, never been better in my life! Why, dear me, it is quite a year since I was ill!"
"Beroofen!" exclaimed an Italian Countess of dazzling beauty, at the same time rapping the table with one of the bejewelled forks which form part of the Baron's second-best dinner-service.
"Why 'Beroofen'?" asked the Baron.
"It is a spell against the consequences of boasting," the lady explained. "My mother was a bit of a magician."
"And you, my dear Countess, are bewitching. Your health!" And, pledging her, the Baron drank off a bumper of Pommery '80 très sec, and laughed joyously at the notion of his rapping the table—all "table-rapping" being a past superstition, or supperstition when not at dinner,—and murmuring, "Beroofen!" And so he didn't do it. "Beroofen" never passed his lips: the champagne did; but not "Beroofen."
"Ugh I—I feel so shivery-and-livery. Ugh!—so chilly. Here! Send for Dr. ROBSON ROOSTEM PASHA!" cried the Baron, clapping his hands, and a thousand ebon slaves bounded off to execute his commands. Had they not done so, they themselves might have suffered the fate intended for the commands, and have themselves been rapidly executed.
"You've got 'em," quoth Dr. ROBSON ROOSTEM PASHA.
"Not 'again'!" cried the Baron, surprised, never having had 'em before.
"No: the phenomena," said the Eminent Medico.
"Have I?" murmured the Baron, and sank down into his uneasy chair. It was an awful thing to have the Phenomena. It might have been the measles in Greek. Anything but that! Anything but that! But Dr. ROOSTEM explained that "phenomena" is not Greek for measles, though perhaps Phenomenon might be Greek for "one measle;" but this would be singular, very singular.
"I must tap you," continued the friend-in-need. "No—no—don't be alarmed. When I say 'tap,' I mean sound you."
Then he began the woodpecking business. In the character of Dr. Woodpecker he tapped at the hollow oak chest, sounded the Baron's heart of oak, pronounced him true to the core, whacked him, smacked him, insisted upon his calling out "Ninety-nine," in various tones, so that it sounded like a duet to the old words, without much of the tune—
"I'm ninety-nine, I'm ninety-nine!"
the remainder of which the Baron had never heard, even in his earliest childhood.
So it was a quarter of an hour of inspiration, musical and poetic, and, at its expiration, Dr. MARK TAPLEY, as the Baron declared he must henceforth be called, announced that there was nothing for it but to make the Baron a close prisoner in his own castle, where he would have to live up to the mark, as if he were to be shown, a few months hence, at a prize cattle-show, among other Barons of Beef.
"Champagne Charley is your name, so is Turtle soup, so is succulent food, and plenty of it. Generally provision the fortress, and withstand the assaults of the enemy. If a bacillus creeps in through a loophole, knock him on the head with the best champagne at hand, and, if you're not worse in a day or two, you'll be better in a week! Au revoir!" Exit Dr. MARK TAPLEY.
And so the Baron remained within, and sent for his books, and above all One of Our Conquerors, by "The GEO. M.," who is the CARLYLE of Novelists. The first volume was missing. In a few days it had returned. The first chapters, however, seemed still wandering. But the Baron was better, and could follow them slowly, though not without effort, wondering whither he was being led. When he arrives at Chapter VII., unless the novelist ceases to meander, the Baron will exclaim with Hamlet, "Speak! I'll go no further!" Yet, 'tis marvellous clever and entertaining withal.
Perhaps there will be a vacation after this attack of Miss Influenza on the unfortunate Baron. Alas! for the present, it is La Donna Influenza who is "One of Our Conquerors!"
This morning, after a fortnight of it, the Baron was about to announce that he was better, but at the outset he paused, corrected himself, and, tapping the breakfast-table with his fork, he exclaimed, "Beroofen!"
Moral.—Be quite sure you're out of the wood, though maybe you were never in it, and even then don't congratulate yourself. "Mumm"'s the word (so's "Pommery" also by the way, not forgetting "Greno," all such being excellent Fizzic for the Epidemic), as to your state of health, and don't forget the charm—"Beroofen!"
SUMMER !
(Sketched, in metrical spasms, by a Sufferer therefrom.)
Damp days, Chill nights; Morning haze, Evening blights; Grey skies, Sodden earth; Cramped cricket, Arctic squall; Drenched wicket, Soaked ball; Park a puddle. Row a slough; Eaves dropping, Red noses; Pools, splashes, Spouts, spirts; Swollen sashes. Gutters, squirts;
Butterflies Weak at birth; Gloom over, Grime under; Soaked clover. Hail, thunder; Wind, wet, Squelch, squash; Gingham yet, Mackintosh; Lawns afloat, Paths dirt; Top-coat, Flannel shirt; Limp curls, Splashed hose; Pretty girls, Damp shows; Piled grates, Cold shivers; Aching pates, Sluggish livers; Morn cruel, Eve a biter; Hot gruel, Sweet nitre; Voice a creaky Cracked cadenza, Face "peaky," INFLUENZA!!! Gloom growing, Glum, glummer Noses (and nothing else) blowing,— That's Summer!
Lilacs drenched, Laburnums pallid; Spirits quenched, Souls squalid; Tennis "off," Icy breeze; Croak, cough, Wheeze, sneeze; Muck, muddle, Slush, snow; Hay-fever (No hay!) Spoilt beaver, Shoes asplay; Lilies flopping, Washed-out roses;
OPERATIC NOTES.
We're quite the gay Frenchmen now at the Italian Opera: Faust in French, Manon in French, Roméo et Juliette in French, Le Prophète in French; American singers, and Dutch singers—for if Mr. VAN DYCK isn't as much a Double Dutchman as VANDERDECKEN or any other Van, except PICKFORD & CO.'s, then am I myself a Dutch native—and, by the way, I'm always equal to a dozen of 'em any time during the right and proper season. Not for many a long day and night has there been a better show at Covent Garden. Miss EAMES, the Brothers DE RESZKÉ, VAN DYCK, MELBA; the two RAVOGLI girls, specially GIULIA, as tuneful contralto; MAUREL, the cultured artist; SIBYL SANDERSON, the simple child of Nature; AGNES JANSON, with more sauce Hollandaise; marvellous MRAVINA for the French Queen, "with a song;" and, above all, Madame ALBANI, in tip-top voice, acting and singing better than ever.
Tuesday.—June 2 was a Diamond Night in front. H.R.H.'s present: Diamond Queens and Princesses of Society all on view. DRURIOLANUS, in his glory, beams on everyone.
Wednesday.—State Ball counter-attraction to Opera. Won't do to go in rumpled silks and satins, and drooping feathers, like hens after the rain, to a Court Ball. So Opera suffers; those present trying to look as if they had been invited to State Ball, but didn't care about going, or couldn't go, on account of recent family affliction. However, as DRURIOLANUS is reported to have appeared in full fig at State Ball, he couldn't expect others less interested in the performance than himself to cut the Court and come to the Opera. To-night, M. PLANCON as Mephistopheles, a thinner demon than Brother NED DE RESZKÉ, but un bon diable tout de même.
Friday Night.—Notable for excellent performance of Rigoletto, or The Little Duke and The Big Duck respectively personified by Signor RAVELLI and GIULIA RAVOGLI. Three "R"s in such a combination. Quite "R's Poetica." Beg pardon.
"Tag" on the week,—if our friends in front are pleased as they appear to be, then DRURIOLANUS and Council—not the County, but the Covent Garden Council—are satisfied. Curtain.
HONEY-MOONING IN ITALY.
Fair American Bride. "OH, JOHN! TO THINK THAT PERHAPS VIRGINIUS STABBED HIS DAUGHTER ON THIS VERY SPOT, AND THAT JUST OVER THERE TELLIA DROVE OVER HER POOR FATHER'S DEAD BODY!"
John. "AH—VERY SAD—VERY SAD, INDEED! BUT, SAY, MATILDA, I GUESS WE'D BETTER LET BYGONES BE BYGONES. AND NOW LET'S GO AND HAVE A LOOK AT THE NEW POST-OFFICE."
THE ALARMED AUTOCRAT !
"The Czar declared that he was determined to continue resolutely to the end the policy upon which he had entered, with a view to the solution of the Jewish difficulty, adding that it was the Jews themselves who had forced that policy upon him by their conduct.... 'Down to the present time' (His Majesty remarked), 'there has never been a single Nihilistic plot, in which Jews have not been concerned.'"—The Times' Correspondent at Moscow.
The Great White CZAR he has put down his foot; On the neck of the Hebrew that foot he will plant. Can fear strike a CÆSAR—a Russian to boot? Can a ROMANOFF stoop to mere cowardly cant? Forbid it traditions of Muscovite pride! An Autocrat's place is the Conqueror's car, But he who that chariot in triumph would ride, Must not earn a name as the White-livered CZAR! No, no, scurril scribe, dip your pen in rose-pink, Or the Censor's black blurr shall your slander efface A CÆSAR turn sophist, an Autocrat shrink? Pusillanimous spite mark the ROMANOFF race? Too wholly absurd! What is this we have heard Which on courtier spirits must painfully jar? Who is he, this mal à propos "little bird" Who twitters such tales of the White-livered CZAR? The Wolf and the Lamb? We all know that old tale. But the Wolf, though a tyrant, was scarcely a cur. He bullied and lied, but he didn't turn pale, Or need poltroon terror as cruelty's spur. But a big, irresponsible, "fatherly" Prince Afeared—of a Jew? 'Tis too funny by far! The coldest of King-scorning cynics might wince At that comic conception, a White-livered CZAR! No; Russia is heaven, the CZAR is a saint, And the poor "Ebrew Jew" is a troublesome pest; But is he the thing to make CÆSAR go faint, Or disturb an Imperial Autocrat's rest? The Jew's all to blame—as a matter of course; The weak and the weary invariably are; But weakness on power harsh tyranny force? That's an argument worthy a White-livered CZAR. An Israelite meshed in a 'Nihilist plot Is a pitiful picture. Ungrateful indeed Is the poor Russian Jew, not content with his lot— As a slave to the Slav. But expel the whole breed? Apply that same rule to your subjects all round, And one fancies you'll find it too sweeping by far. The vast realm of Muscovy then might be found A wilderness—save for the White-livered CZAR. The pick of your people, the best of your blood, Your purest of women, your bravest of men, O CZAR, have they not, in despair's dusky mood, Turned Nihilist, plotted, been banished? What then? Best banish them all, as you'd banish the Jew; 'Twill sweep your dominions more clear than red war. Picture Russia a waste with one resident—you, Perched high—and alone—as the White-livered CZAR! Maybe they malign you. It cannot be sooth That you talk like an angry illogical girl. Yes, banish the Hebrews, as wholly as ruth. Be cold in your wrath as the Neva's chill swirl, Snub friendly remonstrance, blunt satire's keen blade. With a blot of black ink! Will it carry you far? A CÆSAR must not be a fool or afraid; There's no place in earth's round for a White-livered CZAR!
SAD FINISH.—We see advertised, "George Meredith, A Study. By HANNAH LYNCH." Poor GEORGE! "Taken from life," of course. There's an end of him! Lynch'd!
THE ALARMED AUTOCRAT !
CZAR OF ALL THE RUSSIAS. "TAKE HIM AWAY!—TAKE HIM AWAY! HE
FRIGHTENS ME!
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