What right? A largish question, learned Sir,
Larger, perchance, than struck your legal mind.
Smitten with sudden anger against her
Whose face in such a scene 'twas strange to find;
Close the Church-doors to creatures of her kind?
Stay, Rhadamanthus! Pharisaic taste
Is no safe guide to Charity's true rule.
Beware, lest like King David, in his haste,
You trust the zeal experience should school
To thought more kindly and to care more cool.
What right? Suppose her sinner, even then
The sacred precinct hath far wider scope
Than any dwelling set apart of men.
This temple is the Lord's, from base to cope.
Here faltering Faith and half-extinguished Hope
Find entrance unrebuked of Charity.
What right? E'en so Simon the Pharisee
Might have demanded of the Magdalen,
And with a fairer reason. But restrain
The weariest waif from entrance to the fane
Where pure young girls come for a special grace,
Whither the smug-faced citizen may pace,
The modish lady trail her silken skirt?
Nay, Sir, it is too arbitrary-rash,
This caveat, and with Charity must clash,
Here sinful souls and spirits sorely hurt
Find their last refuge and sole hope. Wherefore
Against no soul that suffers close that door!
Let Magdalen look on, if so she please,
At these pure maidens. Can it injure these?
Whilst the scene's influence on her spirit dark
Not Rhadamanthus in his seat may mark.
Right Hon. E. St-nh-pe. "WELL, COLONEL,—YOU VOLUNTEERS HAVE DISTINGUISHED YOURSELVES,—AS USUAL!"
Colonel Punch. "AND I SUPPOSE, SIR, WE SHALL HAVE TO PAY FOR IT OUT OF OUR OWN POCKETS,—AS USUAL!!"
The Invalid Lady is, as often as not, the only daughter of parents whose social position is higher than the figure of their yearly income. Nevertheless, they contrive, by means of gallant struggles, to keep on the high level of the sacred appearances. They are seen wherever smart people ought to be seen, they do everything that smart people ought to do; their Victoria is well appointed, their little house in Mayfair is prettily furnished, and both they and their servants are always well dressed. Upon the birth of the frail and solitary pledge of affection, with which fate, after passing them by for many years, at length afflicted them, their situation became almost desperate; but, by a judicious curtailment here, and a discreet omission there, they managed once more to strike a balance slightly in their own favour. Having passed their child safely through the nursery into the school-room, they combined with other parents to secure the services of governesses and teachers, under whose instruction the square pegs of knowledge might be fitted to the round holes of girlish brains. The future Invalid resented this process by frequent head-aches, which were allowed to withdraw her from her studies to the comfortable ignorance of the drawing-room sofa. Eventually, however, she was considered to be finished, and, having been carefully packed and labelled by her mother, was delivered, after a journey through two seasons, to a rich and rising Member of Parliament, who paid the carriage, and married the parcel.
And now the comforts of life, and its laziness, begin for her. For whereas her parents were forced to pinch themselves in many places, in order to assume the flush of wealth, and were unable to relax for a moment the busy society vigilance in which their daughter had to bear her part, there is, in the paradise of her new existence, a moneyed repose, which permits her, on the pretence of weariness, to cease from troubling herself about anything. This does not, however, prevent her from becoming a cause of infinite trouble to others. Her maid is worn to a shadow by the perpetual search for handkerchiefs and eau de Cologne, with which to bathe the aching forehead of her mistress. Her friends are distracted by the recital of her tales of shattered nerves, and merciless migraines; her husband finds his existence embittered by a constant change of butlers, and a perpetual succession of cooks, over whom his feeble wife exercises about as much control as the President of the French Republic over his short-lived Ministries. But, as yet, she has not attained to the full and perfect glory of the Invalid's life.
During the next five years she is still to be seen occasionally at evening parties and afternoon teas in the houses of her friends. She also becomes the mother of two children, a boy and a girl. After her second confinement she is prostrated by a slight illness, and during her convalescence she makes up her mind that life is made tolerable only by illness and the delicate attentions that accompany it. She is confirmed in this opinion by the discovery that her figure is no longer adapted to the prevailing fashion of everyday dress, and that her complexion looks better in her own room and beneath her own arrangement of curtains than in the vulgar glare of unmitigated daylight. She therefore enters with a light heart and a practically unimpaired constitution, upon a prolonged period of tea-gowns, chaises longues, and half-lights, and is recognised everywhere as an Invalid.
Henceforward she takes no concern in the pleasant labours or the social amenities of life. The busy hum of the great world beats outside her chamber, men and women are born, and marry and die, society may be convulsed with scandals, kingdoms may totter to their fall in a crash of wars and tumults, but the Invalid lies through the tedious days propped on pillows, and recks only of her own comfort. Her husband is raised to high office in the Government of the day, her boy plays cricket at Lord's or rows in his University Eight, her daughter grows in years and beauty, but she herself reposes, strong in the blessed luxury of feeble health, and in the impenetrable selfishness with which she exacts a minute and unswerving devotion from those who surround her.
But her life is not altogether or even chiefly passed in England. Every year with the approach of autumn she flits to the Riviera. Three slaves, her husband, her daughter, and her maid, follow humbly the triumphal procession of her invalid carriage, and thus she arrives at the charming villa where for the next few months she will hold her court. For the confirmed invalid is a more highly exalted being in Nice than in London. Whereas beneath our own dull skies there is still some merit in being robust and healthy, in the South of France, precedence both in rank and social influence, often varies directly according to the nature and length of an illness. The Invalid Lady, therefore, is in an unassailable position, and may permit to herself slight indulgences, which in London, might wreck her career as an invalid. She establishes an afternoon for tea and ices and gossip, she attaches to herself a foreign prince, she even organises pic-nics, and enters upon a mild flirtation with a middle-aged Baronet, she reads French novels of the newest school and discusses their tendency with a long-haired lyricist who has lately published a volume of poems entitled, Love and Languor.
Once every winter the Invalid Lady gets up a bazaar for the benefit of the Petites S[oe]urs des Pauvres. Her husband lends his garden, her daughter writes all the letters, makes all the purchases, and, with her young friends, completes all the arrangements, whilst the Invalid Lady herself looks on in occasional disapproval of the work that others are doing. When the great day arrives, and all the company of intending purchasers is gathered together in the garden, the Invalid is drawn gently into their midst in a long, wheeled chair. She is robed in a tea-gown of exquisite taste and design, the prevailing colour of which may be the new "Eau de Carmes," mixed with ivory-coloured chiffons. As it is thoroughly understood that she cannot walk, her feet, which peep from under her laces, are arrayed in delicately open and striped silk stockings, and in tiny shoes, which are decorated each with a single diamond sparkling in the centre of a black bow. Thus apparelled, she is wheeled slowly about, to receive the congratulations of her intimates on her charitable spirit, and on the organising power which would do a strong man credit.
In course of time her daughter marries, and leaves her. She then establishes by her side a poor but devoted friend, with whom she eventually quarrels for not speaking with sufficient respect of one of the five mortal ailments with which she believes herself to be afflicted. Death, whom she apparently courts with a weary longing, will have none of her. The hale and hearty drop off, but the invalid, querulous, weak, and hysterical, survives into a remote future, and having become a great grandmother, fades out of existence in the possession of all her faculties.
"Real people with splendid mothers would seldom become novelists, because their mother's lore would prepare them for a safer career, or they themselves, I think, would seldom have that intense observant nature which a novelist must have. I suppose most of our greatest writers, who have not created good mothers, have been left much to themselves when they were young, either because their mothers had no sympathy with them, or because they were motherless."—"A Lincolnshire Girl," in the Daily News.
There's a girl away in Lincolnshire, where green is mostly worn,
Who knows all about a novelist, and all about his trade.
And, oh, ye English Novelists, repay her not with scorn,
When she says that by his mother every novelist is made.
If you fail she knows the reason, she can tell it at a glance—
You have had a splendid mother, so you never had a chance.
If your nature is observant, if your nature is intense,
If you track elusive motives through the mazes of the mind;
If you fly o'er plot and passion as a hunter flies a fence,
And leave panting mediocrity a hundred miles behind;
Why then you may be certain, though the thought may give you pain,
That your mother wasn't splendid, or your toil would be in vain.
An unsympathetic mother who neglects her baby boy,
Oh, she knows not what advantages she showers on his head.
Let her frown upon her infant and deprive him of his toy,
That's the training for a novelist who wishes to be read.
He had better have a sea-cook for his mother, or a gun,
Than one who, being splendid, blasts the future of her son.
So, ye publishers of novels, if your mills are short of grist,
Find a child whose mother loathes him, and adopt him as your own,
Give him pens and ink and paper, saying, "Write, Sir Novelist,
You are quite the biggest certainty that ever yet was known.
You may not write good grammar, or be careful how you spell,
But your mother wasn't splendid, so your books are sure to sell!"
Some amiable Statistician has recently been computing the amount of pills taken in England annually. He has omitted "Club-Pilling." The severe committee men are, pace Ibsen, the real Pillars of Society.
House of Commons, Monday, March 31.—Plunket had his annual innings, defending Royal Palaces from attack of mob led by Sage of Queen Anne's Gate. Vote under discussion on account of Royal Palaces. Sage been looking into matter; has come to conclusion that Kensington Palace might be turned into popular restaurant. At one time knew something about management and arrangement of Aquarium. Why not have sort of West-End Aquarium at Kensington Palace? Grounds admirably suited for merry-go-rounds and other popular devices for whiling a happy hour away. Then Kew Palace. Who lived there? George the Third was, he believed, the last tenant, and during his term of occupancy His Majesty was unfortunately cracked. There were other palaces and annexes, each lent to some lady or gentleman. As they lived rent-free, Sage thought the least they could do would be to pay the cost of repairs.
Chaplin, sitting on Treasury Bench, listened to this conversation with lowering brow. Her Majesty had but lately testified afresh to her wisdom and discernment by calling him to her councils; and yet there were men so lost to all sense of decency as to wrangle over the wages of a rat-catcher at Buckingham Palace or the turncock at Kensington. Plunket a little too mild with these gentry. Only let the Minister of Agriculture loose on them, and they would learn a salutary lesson. But Minister for Agriculture nothing to do in this galley. All he could do was to stand at the Bar, with hands on hips, regarding the little band of malcontents. Peradventure the sight of him might serve to bring them to a better way of thinking.
Standing there when Bell rang for Division. Beaten off at Kensington, the mob now marched down on Hampton; raiding on Hampton Court Park; clamouring for admittance for the public who paid the piper. Committee divided; Minister of Agriculture, with his breast aflame with righteous indignation strode into Lobby; doors shut and locked; Chaplin looking round, discovered he had been followed by remarkable contingent; There was the Sage, and Pickersgill, and Causton, and Cremer, and Picton looking more than ever like "his great predecessor in spoliation, Henry the Eighth." Was it possible that he had coerced them by the glance of his falcon eye? Had they been unable to resist the moral persuasion of his presence? They had surely meant to vote against money for Hampton Court. Yet, here they were in the Lobby with him. Chaplin's bosom began to swell with more inflation than usual. Such a triumph rare in Parliamentary history. Plunket been arguing, protesting, cajoling by the hour, and had done nothing. Chaplin had only looked, and had drawn them into the same Lobby as himself.
Pleased meditation broken in upon by a murmur growing into hilarious shout. Unruly mob pressed around him laughing and jeering; wild with delight. Truth suddenly dawned on Chaplin. Had in perturbation of moment, walked into wrong Lobby. Got in with Radical mob. No way out; no help for it; Vote must be recorded against estimates, against his colleagues in the Government, against keeping up Hampton Court, and in despite of the Gracious Sovereign of whom, a short hour ago, he had been the favoured Minister. Business done.—Supply. Chaplin votes against the Government, refusing them Supply.
Tuesday.—Old Morality did great stroke of business to-day; completed it in his usual innocent-looking fashion. When House met for morning sitting large batch of votes to be dealt with; passed only two last night; same proportion of advance would leave Departments in state of pickle; money urgently needed; how to get it?
"You leave it to me," said Old Morality, nodding mysteriously to Jackson.
Jackson left it accordingly. When House met to-day secret out. Members thought they were coming down for a morning sitting; might talk away about Votes till Seven o'clock, let one or two pass, then go off for Easter Holidays. Found Old Morality had put spoke in their wheel. In first place on Orders appeared Notice of Motion giving precedence to Government business at evening sitting, and again to-morrow.
"What's this?" says Sage of Queen Anne's Gate, starting as if viper had bit him.
"What's which?" says Old Morality, blandly.
"Why," says Sage, "this Notice of Motion. Thought all arranged that House at its rising at Seven o'clock adjourn for Easter Recess."
"Ah, yes," says Old Morality, his eyes fixed dreamily on the broadening parting of Sage's hair. "The feathered race, as we all know, with pinions skims the air; not so the mackerel, and still less the bear. Ah, who has seen the mailed lobster rise, clap her broad wings, and claim the equal skies? As the Hon. Member says, it was arranged that we should rise at seven, and adjourn for Easter Holidays; only we must get Votes first. I am most anxious, as far as is compatible with duty to Queen and Country, to meet views of Hon. Members in all parts of House. That view converges, as I may say, on the holidays. Well, the holidays need not be impinged upon. We can all be off at Seven o'Clock, or even before, if we pass the Votes; otherwise must sit to-night and to-morrow. Do not expect it will be necessary; merely put down Motion as matter of precaution." Precaution served. Members not liking prospect of coming back after dinner, still less of spending Wednesday at Westminster, voted money with both hands, and by Six o'Clock Class I. in Civil Estimates agreed to.
"A wonderful man, Old Morality," said R. N. Fowler, walking off. "Only you and me, Toby, thoroughly appreciate him. Yah, yah!" Business done.—Adjourned till Monday, April 14.
Captain of Volunteers and Sub. (both conscious of a Pocket Pistol, and both together). "Have a drop o' Something Short?!"
[They refresh horizontally, and feel better.]
6 P.M.—Return to town, to find that that very afternoon my house in Bayswater has been robbed by my servants, who have all decamped. They have taken my wife's jewel-case, containing diamonds to the value of £7,000, cash-box full of securities, fifteen gold repeaters, all the silver plate in the house, together with the dining-room sideboard, set of skittles, twelve-light gas chandelier, drawing-room grand piano, two original landscapes by Turner, a set of family portraits, dinner service, all my clothes, roasting-jack, and the umbrella-stand. Instantly summon Policeman from over the way. Shakes his head unconcernedly, and says it is "no business" of his, and he can't go off his beat to attend to it. Hurry off to Local Office, and make my complaint. They only smile. They regard me with the languid interest that, say, a horse might exhibit were a lady to present herself in leathers minus a riding-habit. Don't know why I think of a horse—later on their presence calls to mind an animal traditionally far less sagacious, and I don't mean a mule! Feel slightly irritable, and ask them to send a Constable round at once, to see the condition of the house. They decline. Ask them "Why?" They refuse to tell me. I express astonishment, and again state my case categorically. They ask me if I think they've nothing better to do than attend to "every cock-and-bull story" that is brought to them. I get angry, and threaten them that I'll complain to Scotland Yard. They tell me if I don't shut up they'll soon finish the matter for me by "running me in" myself. I am about to point out the disgraceful character of their conduct to them, when, noticing the Inspector whispering some orders to two of his subordinates, I think it best to take to my heels, which I do, pursued by a couple of Constables, whom I manage to escape, and, jumping into a Hansom, drive to Head Quarters.
8 P.M.—Have stated my case and written it all out, as requested, "fully," twice on paper. Official says, "that will do." Ask him whether he won't telegraph to Dover, Folkestone, Newhaven and Portsmouth, to enable the Police to stop suspicious people leaving by to-night's Mails. He says, "Certainly not." I ask him "Why?" He asks me what business is that of mine? I answer that it is "every business of mine." He retorts, "Oh! is it? Well, you had best be off. You won't get nothing more out of us." Grow very angry at this, but express myself with moderation; am about to remonstrate with him, when I notice that he is also whispering some secret orders to two subordinates, and I think it best once more to take to my heels, which I do, again hotly pursued by a couple of Constables. Turning a corner, however, I fortunately manage to escape them, and finding myself opposite the door of the Detective Department, step in.
10 P.M.—Have again stated the whole of my case "fully." They think if I am prepared to pay up pretty freely, they can help me, and recommend, as a preliminary step, the despatch of ten Detectives, two each respectively to Clapham Junction, Herne Bay, Margate, Gravesend and Tooting Common. Pull out my cheque-book and arrange for this at a handsome figure. Pass the night myself in company with an eleventh Detective, in going over second-hand furniture establishments in the Mile End Road, with a search-warrant, in the hopes of coming across my dining-room sideboard and umbrella-stand, but to no purpose.
10 A.M. (Next Morning).—None of my missing property recovered, and nothing more heard of any of it. The ten Detectives, however, return from Clapham Junction, Herne Bay, Margate, Gravesend and Tooting Common, each having arrested respectively, three people, answering vaguely the description given by me of some of my servants. The whole thirty are brought to my house at Bayswater, for "identification," but as they contain among their number a Rural Dean, two M.P.'s. a Dowager Duchess, a Major-General in the Army, a celebrated Medical Man, and a popular Author, and as all are furious at what they call "a gross infringement of their liberty," I am not likely, I fear, to hear the last of it. However, let me hope, they'll do, as I have done, and call in the Police to help them. As for me, my only chance of redress seems to be to write to the papers. So—here goes!
The voice of the horse-dealer's heard in the land,
The Season, it says, will be full, gay, and grand;
He is happy, and gives the most hopeful accounts.
Well, the horse-dealer rises by virtue of "mounts,"
The thing in mid-March to keep hope well alive
Was the prospect, in June, of a jolly full Drive,
The wiseacres Long-Acre stir with delight.
And oh! don't we hope the wiseacres are right!
There is not the slightest truth in the report that the following short story, said to have been written by MM. Erckmann and Chatrian since their quarrel, will be more fully developed before republication.
Note.—This title is believed to have been furnished by M. Erckmann, but will probably be changed to The Baby's Niece, by M. Chatrian.
Napoleon regarded the burning town with a feeling of dismay. He had counted upon the ancient Russian capital as a basis of support when the time should come to retire. As he looked at the fire, luridly reflected in the snow, Marie approached him and fell upon her knees.
"Sire!" she cried, "A boon! I ask you to save Kosmof! I beg of you my lover's life!"
The Man of Destiny gazed upon her with a cold smile, full of cruel meaning, and replied, "Life for life—you know my conditions!" Marie gave a piercing shriek and sank into unconsciousness.
To wake again and find the sun shining brightly on her own Alsatian home! Yes, all the nonsense about Napoleon and Moscow had been a dream, more—a nightmare! The good Curé was playing with the niece of her baby brother. Jules was hard at work cutting down apples in the orchard, which were soon to become cider in the press of the farmstead.
"My Father," said Marie, with a coquettish toss of her pretty head, "and so you think Jules too good for me?"
"Scarcely that, my daughter," replied the amiable old Priest, with a sweet, calm smile; "but I feel that you must do a great deal to be worthy of so brave a man."
"Brave?" echoed Marie. "Why, what do we want with bravery in these piping times of peace? Nowadays we have no Napoleon—all is tranquil."
"You are indeed right, my daughter," returned the old Priest, as he walked towards the chapel. "We do live in peaceful days—there is, indeed, no Napoleon!"
"Liar!" shouted Buonaparte, coming up at the moment, at the head of the remnant of his Army. "I will soon show you whether we live in tranquil times or no!"
And, ordering up a cannon, Marie, Jules, and the Priest were tied to the wheels.
"Mercy!" they implored.
There was a flash, an explosion, and Marie, Jules, and the Priest were blown to atoms.
No one remained save Napoleon!
Yes, Napoleon, and one other—the Niece of the Baby! She was a fine strapping wench of twenty. Shocked by the cruel outrage committed in her quiet Alsatian home, this brave maiden seized the family blunderbuss, and fired. It burst with such violence that both Napoleon and herself were killed on the spot. Nay, more—thousands within miles! Besides, at this moment there was an epidemic raging, that, in one single instant, killed the Army, and all the Russians, and, in fact, everybody! There!
Note by M. E.—My honoured confrère is a spiteful pig!
Note by M. C.—My esteemed colleague is a demented donkey!
| P.S. by M. E.—Pooh! | P.S. by M.C.—Yah! |
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