A TESTIMONIAL MANQUÉ.
(A Sketch from the Suburbs.)
The Argument—Mr. Hotspur Porpentine, a distinguished resident in the rising suburb of Jerrymere, has recently been awarded fourteen days' imprisonment, without the option of a fine, for assaulting a ticket-collector, who had offered him the indignity of requiring him to show his season-ticket at the barrier. The scene is a Second-Class Compartment, in which four of Mr. Porpentine's neighbours are discussing the affair during their return from the City.
Mr. Cockcroft (warmly). I say, Sir—and I'm sure all here will bear me out—that such a sentence was a scandalous abuse of justice. As a near neighbour, and an intimate friend of Porpentine's, I don't 'esitate to assert that he has done nothing whatever to forfeit our esteem. He's a quick-tempered man, as we're all aware, and to be asked by some meddlesome official to show his season, after travelling on the line constantly for years, and leaving it at home that morning—why—I don't blame him if he did use his umbrella!
Mr. Balch. (sympathetically). Nor I. Porpentine's a man I've always had a very 'igh respect for ever since I came into this neighbourhood. I've always found him a good feller, and a good neighbour.
Mr. Filkins (deferentially). I can't claim to be as intimate with him as some here; but, if it isn't putting myself too far forward to say so, I very cordially beg to say ditto to those sentiments.
Well, he's had a sharp lesson,—there's no denying that."
Mr. Sibbering (who has never "taken to" Porpentine). Well, he's had a sharp lesson,—there's no denying that.
Mr. Cocker. Precisely, and it occurs to me that when he—ah—returns to public life, it would be a kind thing, and a graceful thing, and a thing he would—ah—appreciate in the spirit it was intended, if we were to present him with some little token of our sympathy and unabated esteem—what do you fellers think?
Mr. Filk. A most excellent suggestion, if my friend here will allow me to say so. I, for one, shall be proud to contribute to so worthy an object.
Mr. Balch. I don't see why we shouldn't present him with an address—'ave it illuminated, and framed and glazed; sort of thing he could 'ang up and 'and down to his children after him as an heirloom, y' know.
Mr. Sibb. I don't like to throw cold water on any proposition, but if you want my opinion, I must say I see no necessity for making a public thing of it in that way.
Mr. Cocker. I'm with Sibbering there. The less fuss there is about it, the better Porpentine'll be pleased. My idea is to give him something of daily use—a useful thing, y' know.
Mr. Balch. Useful or ornamental. Why not his own portrait? There's many an artist who would do him in oils, and guarantee a likeness, frame included, for a five-pound note.
Mr. Sibb. If it's to be like Porpentine, it certainly won't be ornamental, whatever else it is.
Mr. Filk. It can't be denied that he is remarkably plain in the face. We'd better, as our friend Mr. Cockcroft here proposes, make it something of daily use—a good serviceable silk umberella now—that's always appropriate.
Mr. Sibb. To make up for the one he broke over the collector's head, eh? that's appropriate enough!
Mr. Cocker. No, no; you mean well, Filkins, but you must see yourself, on reflection, that there would be a certain want of—ah—good taste in giving him a thing like that under the circumstances. I should suggest something like a hatstand—a handsome one, of course. I happen to know that he has nothing in the passage at present but a row of pegs.
Mr. Sibb. I should have thought he'd been taken down enough pegs already.
Mr. Filk. (who resents the imputation upon his taste). I can't say what the width of Mr. Porpentine's passage may be, never having been privileged with an invitation to pass the threshold, but unless it's wider than ours is, he couldn't get a hatstand in if he tried, and if my friend Cockcroft will excuse the remark, I see no sense—to say nothing of good taste, about which perhaps I mayn't be qualified to pass an opinion—in giving him an article he's got no room for.
Mr. Cocker. (with warmth). There's room enough in Porpentine's passage for a whole host of hatstands, if that's all, and I know what I'm speaking about. I've been in and out there often enough. I'm—ah—a regular tame cat in that house. But if you're against the 'atstand, I say no more—we'll waive it. How would it do if we gave him a nice comfortable easy-chair—something he could sit in of an evening, y' know?
Mr. Sibb. A touchy chap like Porpentine would be sure to fancy we thought he wanted something soft after a hard bench and a plank bed—you can't go and give him furniture!
Mr. Cocker. (with dignity). There's a way of doing all things. I wasn't proposing to go and chuck the chair at him—he's a sensitive feller in many respects, and he'd feel that, I grant you. He can't object to a little present of that sort just from four friends like ourselves.
Mr. Balch. (with a falling countenance). Oh! I thought it was to be a general affair, limited to a small sum, so that all who liked could join in. I'd no notion you meant to keep it such a private matter as all that.
Mr. Filk. Nor I. And, knowing Mr. Porpentine so slightly as I do, he might consider it presumption in me, making myself so prominent in the matter—or else I'm sure——
Mr. Cocker. There's no occasion for anyone to be prominent, except myself. You leave it entirely in my 'ands. I'll have the chair taken up some evening to Porpentine's house on a 'andcart, and drop in, and just lead up to it carelessly, if you understand me, then go out and wheel the chair in, make him try it—and there you are.
Mr. Balch. There you are, right enough; but I don't see where we come in, exactly.
Mr. Filk. If it's to be confined to just us four, I certingly think we ought all to be present at the presentation.
Mr. Cocker. That would be just the very thing to put a man like Porpentine out—a crowd dropping in on him like that! I know his ways, and, seeing I'm providing the chair——
Mr. Balch. (relieved). You are? That's different, of course; but I thought you said that we four——
Mr. Cocker. I'm coming to that. As the prime mover, and a particular friend of Porpentine's, it's only right and fair I should bear the chief burden. There's an easy-chair I have at home that only wants re-covering to be as good as new, and all you fellers need do is to pay for 'aving it nicely done up in velvet, or what not, and we'll call it quits.
Mr. Balch. I daresay; but I like to know what I'm letting myself in for; and there's upholsterers who'll charge as much for doing up a chair as would furnish a room.
Mr. Filk. I—I shouldn't feel justified, with my family, and, as, comparatively speaking, a recent resident, in going beyond a certain limit, and unless the estimate could be kep' down to a moderate sum, I really——
Mr. Sibb. (unmasking). After all, you know, I don't see why we should go to any expense over a stuck-up, cross-grained chap like Porpentine. It's well-known he hasn't a good word to say for us Jerrymere folks, and considers himself above the lot of us!
Mr. Balch and Mr. Filk. I'm bound to say there's a good deal in what Sibbering says. Porpentine's never shown himself what I should call sociable.
Mr. Cocker. I've never found him anything but pleasant myself, whatever he may be to others. I'm not denying he's an exclusive man, and a fastidious man, but he's been 'arshly treated, and I should have thought this was an occasion—if ever there was one—for putting any private feelings aside, and rallying round him to show our respect and sympathy. But of course if you're going to let petty jealousies of this sort get the better of you, and leave me to do the 'ole thing myself, I've no objection. I daresay he'll value it all the more coming from me.
Mr. Sibb. Well, he ought to, after the shameful way he's spoken of you to a friend of mine in the City, who shall be nameless. You mayn't know, and if not, it's only right I should mention it, that he complained bitterly of having to change his regular train on your account, and said (I'm only repeating his words, mind you) that Jerrymere was entirely populated by bores, but you were the worst of the lot, and your jabber twice a day was more than he could stand. He mayn't have meant anything by it, but it was decidedly uncalled for.
Mr. Cockcr. (reddening). I 'ope I'm above being affected by the opinion any man may express of my conversation—especially a cantankerous feller, who can't keep his temper under decent control. A feller who goes and breaks his umbrella over an unoffending official's 'ead like that, and gets, very properly, locked up for it! Jerrymere society isn't good enough for him, it seems. He won't be troubled with much of it in future—I can assure him! Upon my word, now I come to think of it, I'm not sure he shouldn't be called upon for an explanation of how he came to be travelling without a ticket; it looks very much to me as if he'd been systematically defrauding the Company!
Mr. Filk. Well, I didn't like to say so before; but that's been my view all along!
Mr. Balch. And mine.
Mr. Sibb. Now perhaps you understand why we'd rather leave it to you to give him the arm-chair.
Mr. Cockcr. I give a man an arm-chair for bringing disgrace on the 'ole of Jerrymere! I'd sooner break it up for firewood! Whoever it was that first started all this tomfoolery about a testimonial, I'm not going to 'ave my name associated with it, and if you'll take my advice, you'll drop it once and for all, for it's only making yourselves ridiculous! [His companions, observing that he is in a somewhat excited condition, consider it advisable to change the subject.
OPERATIC NOTES.
"O my prophetic sole, my ankle!"
Tuesday, June 27.—Faust, in French. Jean de Reszke was to have been Faust, but the "vaulting ambition" of the eminent Polish tenor led him to attempt a high jump with another Pole—the leaping-pole—and whether he had not his compatriot well in hand, or whether, "with love's light wings," Roméo did not manage to "o'ertop" the highest note above the line, deponent sayeth not, but this much is known, that he fell at the high jump, and, feeling the pain first in the under part of his foot, and then in the leg, he exclaimed, with Hamlet, "O my prophetic sole, my ankle!" the result being that he appeareth not to-night as Faust. If Frère Jean de Reszke is going on by "leaps and bounds" in this manner, he will be known as "Brother John the Risky." Madame Nordica happy as Marguerite—at least she looked it, for even in the most tragic scenes there is always a sweet smile on her dimpled cheeks. Mlle. Bauermeister makes a Marta of herself as the merry old dame; Mlle. Guercia, as Siebel, is a Siebeline mystery; Lassalle, as Valentine, pleases la salle; but Brother Edward "prends le gâteau" as Mephistopheles.
Wednesday.—Tristan und Isolde, which may be rendered Triste 'un und I solde-not-so-many-tickets-as-usual, or Triste 'un und I'm Sold. "The fourth of the Wagner Cycle." If there are eight of them then this is the Bi-Cycle, but there's more woe than weal in it, and though extracts may be relished by the learned amateur, yet, as a whole, Wagner's Tristan does not attract our opera-going public.
Mem.—No Nursery of Music can possibly be complete without "Leading-Strings."
ON TICK.
Seedy Swell. "I Say, old Chap, tell us the Time. I'm sure your Watch goes well."
Second S. S. "It goes beautifully. It went Six Months ago to my Uncle's!"
TO THE FRENCH OARSMEN.
(From Mr. Punch, at Henley.)
Here's a hand, my fine fellows; in friendship you come,
And Punch, who likes courage, would scorn to be dumb.
He greets you with cheers; may your shades ne'er diminish,
Though you row forty-four from the start to the finish.
You will bear yourselves bravely, and merit your fame,
For brave man and Frenchman mean mostly the same.
We shall do what we can—it's our duty—to beat you,
But we know it will take a tough crew to defeat you.
And whatever the upshot, howe'er the race ends,
You and we, having struggled, shall always be friends.
So accept, while we cheer you again and again,
This welcome from Thames to his sister, the Seine.
Skinners and Skinned.—One portion of the ancient award of Sir Robert Billesdon, Lord Mayor of London, in settling a dispute between the Skinners and Merchant Taylors, was, that these two Companies should dine together once a year. Mr. Justice Bruce, alluding to this at the banquet on Skinners Day, when, as was natural, many lawyers were present, suggested that it would be a good thing if power were given to judges to "condemn litigants to dine together, and to order that the costs of the dinner should come out of the Consolidated Fund"—a very good notion. The idea might be extended to entertaining Wards in Chancery, of whom two unhappy infants the other day were had up at the Police Court for picking and stealing, in order to feed themselves and keep themselves alive until they should reach the age when they would come into their Chancery-bound property of something like £20,000. The magistrate ordered an inquiry, but of "subsequent proceedings" we have not as yet seen any record.
THE RISING GENERATION.
Host. "What a Smart Set of People we've got to-night, Deary!"
Hostess. "Yes. How I wish one of our Dear Girls would come and sit by us, and tell us who Everybody is!"
"HYMEN HYMENÆE!!!"
July 6, 1893.
["Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake!"
Spenser's Epithalamion.
"A contract of true love to celebrate;
And some donation freely to estate
On the bless'd lovers."—The Tempest.]
Hymen, the rose-crowned, is in sooth awake,
And all the world with him!
Shall drowsy opiate dim
The eyes of Love to-day? No, let all slake
A loyal thirst in bumpers, for Love's sake,
Full beaded to the brim!
Like the Venusian's "mountain stream that roars
From bank to bank along,
When autumn rains are strong,"[*]
A deep-mouthed People lifts its voice, and pours
Its welcome forth, that like a Pæan soars
In strains more sweet than song.
More sweet than song, in that it straightway comes,
Unfeignéd, from frank hearts;
From loyal lips it starts,
Unprompted, undragooned. The highway hums
With the full sound of it. Fifes, trumpets, drums
Bravely may play their parts.
In the Imperial pageant, but the swell
Of the free English shout
Strikes sweeter—who dares doubt?—
On Royal ears. Music of marriage bell
Clang on, and let the gold-mouth'd organ tell
Of love and praise devout!
But the crowd's vigorous clamour has a voice
Finer and fuller still;
A passion of goodwill
Rings, to our ears, through all the exuberant noise,
Which the recipient's heart should more rejoice
Than all Cecilia's skill.
So rivals for Apollo's laurel wreath
May loudly strike the lyre,
"To love, and young desire;"[†]
But "bold and lawless numbers grow beneath"[†]
The people's praise, and give the crowd's free breath
A "mastering touch of fire."[†]
"Hymen, O Hymen!" beauteous ladies cry,
"Hymen, O Hymen!" loud
Shout forth the echoing crowd
The city through; patricians perched on high,
And the plebeian patient plodding by,
Raise incense like a cloud.
And Hymen's here, kind eye on all to keep,
Hymen, with roses crowned,
Leads on the Lion, bound
In floral bonds and blossom-bridled, deep
In scattered flowers. Your lyres ye laureates sweep,
And marriage measures sound!
Not Una's guardian more gladly bare
Burden more pleasant—pure!
With footing gently sure
Leo on-paces. Hymen's torch in air
Flames fragrantly. Was ever Happy Pair
So served, or so secure?
Take the rose-reins, young bridegroom; bridled so
Leo's not hard to ride.
Sweet May, the new-made bride,
Will find her lion palfrey-paced. And lo!
The genial god's unfailing torch aglow
Burns bravely at her side!
Epithalamia seem out of date;
Hymen cares not to-day
To trill a fulsome lay,
Or hymn High Bridals with Spenserian state.
Goodwill to goodness simply dedicate,—
Such homage Punch would pay.
"Hymen, O Hymen!" Like this torch's flame,
Bright be your wedded days!
May a proud people's praise,
Well earned, be your award of honest fame;
And on each gracious head,
Light may it lie, the crown you yet may claim,
As rest these roses red!
[*]: Horace, "Ad Iulum Antonium," Ode 2, Book IV.]
[†]: Horace—ut supra.]
