VOCES POPULI.
MORE POT-POURRI FROM THE PARK.
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.
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!
[Applause.
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 conk!
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! [Pathetically.
'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 proceeding.
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 comes!
[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 consideration.
THE FIRE KING'S ABDICATION.
"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!