Chapter II: (With some allowance made for taking a false quantity.--ED.)

American-Irish DON_EL_LY,
You're cunning as MICKY O'VELLY,
As you've undertaken
To prove SHAKSPEARE BACON.
Howld your whisht! "_Porker verba_,"
I tell 'ee.

* * * * *

SONG FOR MR. PRITCHARD-MORGAN, OF MAWDDACH VALLEY, NEAR DOLGELLY.--"_Darling MINE!_"

* * * * *

[Prize-Fighting having once again come into fashion, the above Pugilistic Encounters must be recorded as anticipations of "Boxing-Day."]]

* * * * *

THE PROFESSOR AT THE DINNER-TABLE.

Professor MAHAFFY'S book on _The Art of Conversation_, seems witty, and (in parts) wise. People who want to learn to talk well in society had better consult the genial Professor, who declares that the art can be acquired. In fact he hands to each of his readers, across the visionary "walnuts and the wine," the pinch of Attic Salt which seasons dinner-parties. The theory must, of course, be taken _cum grano_. A few hints (strangely omitted in MAHAFFY'S "Haffy Thoughts,") are here appended:--

Should you happen to be in company with a number of eminent Statesmen belonging to one Party (say, at a dinner, when they can't get away from you,) mind and point out in a loud voice what you conceive to have been the chief errors of policy which they committed in their last Ministry, and what would have been _your_ line in their place. If they are smarting under recent defeat, and have just been turned out of Office, they will be sure to thank you heartily for your kind advice.

Supposing politicians of every shade of opinion to be present, your best course will be to at once introduce some "burning" subject of the day--say, Home Rule, or the personal character of Mr. GLADSTONE or Lord SALISBURY. Your host will be delighted, and you will be surprised to find what a brisk conversation you have initiated.

Always talk "shop." It gives local colour to your style. For instance, if you are a lawyer, and you see another legal gentleman at table, engage him in a conversation as to "that curious Equity point in the case of _The Queen_ v. _the Executors of Muggins, deceased_, before the V.-C." Make your comments as technical as possible. If you don't soon "get the table in a roar," it will be astonishing. By the way, there are two kinds of "roar."

Avoid the least appearance of shyness. This is a pushing age. If you are really bashful by nature, assume a haughty and forbidding demeanour to cover it. This will make you universally liked.

Spice your talk with jokes. Invent at least six good puns for use at any dinner to which you may be invited, and bring them out,--naturally, if you can, but at any rate _bring them out! E.g._ If you are in Dublin, in a company consisting of fervid Nationalists, who bitterly resent the imprisonment of their Chief Magistrate, remark jocosely that "you hope his Lordship is not suffering much from _mal de Mayor_!" Conversely, when present at a dinner of Loyalists, refer to the eminent Liberal-Unionist Leader as "HALF-HARTINGTON." In either case your host is sure to ask you to come again.

_Monopolise_ the conversation. CARLYLE did this, and so did MACAULAY, so why shouldn't you? You may be a MACAULAY without knowing the fact.

Remember that people like _anecdotes_. This is how HAYWARD got his reputation. Don't hesitate because somebody has said that "all the good stories have been told." If so, tell them again without flinching.

Practise allusive and apparently unconscious swagger in private. When you are sure that you can refer to "my friend the Duke of St. DAVID'S," at a dinner-party without the slightest change of inflexion in your voice and in a perfectly natural manner, you are fitted to adorn any society--even the lowest.

Never humour women who try to talk learnedly. Bring the conversation down to feeding-bottles and keep it there. They will in reality appreciate your kindness and knowledge of female nature, even if they appear at the moment to resent it deeply.

* * * * *

VOCES POPULI.

SCENE--_An Italian Restaurant--anywhere in the Metropolis. Only a few of the small dining-tables are occupied as Scene opens. Near the buffet is a small lift communicating with the kitchen, and by the lift a speaking-tube._

_Enter an_ Adorer _with his_ Adored; _he leads the way down the centre of the room, flushed and jubilant--he has not been long engaged, and this is the very first time he has dined with Her like this_.

_Adorer (beaming)._ Where would you like to sit, PUSSY?

_Pussy (a fine young woman--but past the kitten stage)._ Oh, it's all the same to _me_!

_Adorer (catching an aggrieved note in her tone)._ Why, you don't really think I'd have kept you waiting if I could help it? There's always extra work on Foreign Post nights! (PUSSY _turns away and arranges hat before mirror_). Waiter! (_A Waiter who has been reading the "Globe" in the corner, presents himself with_ Menu.) What shall we have to begin with, eh, PUSSY?

[_The_ Waiter, _conceiving himself appealed to, disclaims the responsibility with a shrug, and privately reflects that these stiff Englishmen can be strangely familiar at times._

_Pussy._ Oh, I don't feel as if I cared much about anything--_now._

_Adorer._ Well, I've ordered Vermicelli Soup, and _Sole au gratin_. Now, you must try and think what you'd like to follow. (_Tentatively._) A Cutlet?

_Pussy (with infinite contempt for such want of originality)._ A Cutlet--the _idea_!

_Adorer (abashed)._ I thought perhaps--but look down the list. (PUSSY _glances down it with eyes which she tries to render uninterested._) "_Vol au vent à l' Herbaliste_,"--that looks as if it would be rather good. Shall we try that?

_Pussy._ You may if you like--I shan't touch it myself.

_Adorer._ Well, look here, then, "_Rognons sautés Venézienne_,"--Kidneys, you know--you _like_ kidneys.

_Pussy (icily)._ Do I? I was not aware of it.

_Adorer._ Come--it's for you to say. (_Reads from list._) "_Châteaubriand Bordelaise_," "Jugged Hare and Jelly," "Salmi of Partridge." (PUSSY, _who is still suffering from offended dignity, repudiates all these suggestions with scorn and contumely._) Don't like any of them? Well, (_helplessly_) can't you think of anything you _would_ like?

_Pussy._ Nothing--except--(_with decision_)--a Cutlet.

_Adorer (relieved by this condescension)._ The very thing! (_Tenderly._) We will _both_ have Cutlets.

_Waiter (who has been waiting in dignified submission)._ Two Porzion Cutlet, verri well--enni Pottidoes?

_Pussy (sharply)._ Potted what?

_Adorer (to Waiter)._ Yes. (_To_ PUSSY, _aside, in same breath._) Potatoes, darling. (_The_ Waiter _suspects he is being trifled with._) Do you prefer them _sautés_, fried, or in chips,--or what?

_Pussy (with the lofty indifference of an ethereal nature)._ I'm sure I don't care how they're done!

_Adorer._ Then--Potato-chips, Waiter.

_Pussy_ (_as_ Waiter _departs_). Not for me--I'll have mine _sautés_!

_Adorer (when they are alone, leaning across table)._ I've been looking forward to this all day!

_Pussy (unsympathetically)._ Didn't you have any lunch then?

_Adorer._ I don't mean to the dinner--but to having you to talk with, quite alone by our two selves.

_Pussy (who has her dignity to consider)._ Oh, I daresay. I wish you'd do something for me, JOSHUA.

_Adorer (fervently)._ Only tell me what it is, darling!

_Pussy._ It's only to get me that _Graphic_--I'm sure that gentleman over there has done with it.

[_The_ Adorer _fetches it with a lengthening face_: PUSSY _retires behind the "Graphic," leaving him outside in solitude. At length he asserts himself by fetching "Punch," (which he happens to have seen) from an adjoining table. A Bachelor dining lonely and unloved on the opposite side of the room, watches them with growing sense of consolation._

AT THE SPEAKING-TUBE.

_Waiter._ Una voce poco fa maccaroni! _(At least, it sounds something like this. A little cupboard arrives by the lift containing a dish which the_ Waiter _hastens to receive. The new arrival is apparently of a disappointing nature,--he returns it indignantly, and rushes back to tube._) La ci darem la mano curri rabbito Gorgonzola!

_A Voice (from bottom of lift--argumentatively)._ Batti, batti; la donna é mobile risotto Milanaise.

_Waiter (losing his temper)._ Altro! Sul campo della gloria vermicelli!

_The Voice (ironically)._ Parla tele d'amor o cari fior mulligatawni?

_Waiter (scathingly)._ Salve di mora casta e pura entrecote sauce piquante crême à l'orange cotelettes pommes sautés basta-presto!

[_Corks up tube with the air of a man who has had the best of it._

AT ANOTHER TABLE.

_Two Brothers are seated here, who may be distinguished for the purposes of dialogue as the_ Good Brother _and the_ Bad Brother _respectively. The_ Good B. _appears (somewhat against his will) to be acting as host, though he restricts his own refreshment to an orange, which he eats with an air of severe reproof._ The Bad B. _who has a shifty sullen look and a sodden appearance generally, is devouring cold meat with the intense solemnity of a person conscious of being more than three parts drunk. Both attempt to give their remarks an ordinary conversational tone._

_The Bad B. (suddenly, with his mouth full)._ Will you lend me five shillings?

_The Good B._ No, I won't. I see no reason why I should.

_The B. B. (in a low passionate voice)._ Will you lend me five shillings?

_The G. B. (endeavouring to maintain a virtuous calm)._ I don't _think_ I will.

_B. B._ You've been giving money away all the afternoon to people after _I_ asked you for some!

_G. B. (roused)._ I was _not_. It's dashed impertinence of you to say such a thing as that. I'm sick of this dashed nonsense--sick and tired of it! If I hadn't some principle left still, I should have gone to the East long ago!

_B. B._ I'm glad you didn't. I want five shillings.

_G. B._ Want five shillings! You keep on saying that, and never say what you want it _for_. You must have some object. Do you want it to go and get drunk on?

_B. B. (with a beery persistence)._ Lend me five shillings.

_G. B. (reflectively)._ I don't intend to.

_B. B. (in a tone of compromise)._ Then lend me a sovereign.

_G. B. (changing the subject with a chilling hospitality)._ Would you like anything after that beef?

_B. B. (doggedly)._ I should like five shillings.

_G. B. (irrelevantly)._ Look here! I at _once_ admit you've got more brain than I have.

_B. B. (handsomely)._ Not at all--it's you that have got more brain than me.

_G. B. (rejecting this overture suspiciously)._ I've more principle at any rate, and, to tell you the truth, I'm not going to put up with this dashed impertinent treatment any longer!

_B. B._ You're not, eh? Then lend me five shillings.

_G. B. (desperately)._ Here, Waiter--bill. I pay for this gentleman.

_Waiter (after adding up the items)._ One and four, if you please.

[_The G. B. pays._

_B. B._ And dashed cheap too!

[_A small Cook-boy in white comes up to_ Waiter _and whispers_.

_Waiter._ Ze boy say zat gentilman (_pointing to_ B. B.) tell him to give twopence for him to ze Cook.

_G. B. (austerely)._ I have nothing to do with that--he must settle it with him.

_B. B. (with fierce indignation)._ It's a lie! I gave the boy the money. It was a penny!

_Waiter (impassively)._ Ze boy say you did not give nosing.

_B. B. (to G. B.)._ Be d----d! Don't you pay it--it's a rascally imposition! See, Garcong, I'll tell you in French. _J'ai donné l'homme, le chef, doo soo (holding up two fingers) pour lui-même-à servir._

_G. B._ I'm sorry to have to say it--but I don't believe your story.

[_To the B. B._

_B. B. (rising)._ I'm going to have it out with Cook. (_Lurches up to door leading to kitchen and exit. Sounds of altercation below. Re-enter B. B. pursued by Voice. B. B. turning at door._) What did you say?

_Voice._ I say you are dronken Ingelis pig, _cochon, va_!

_B. B. Well,--_it's just as well you didn't say any more. (_Goes up to_ Waiter, _confidentially_). That man down there was mos' insultin'--_mos'_ insultin'. But, there, I'll give _you_ the penny--there it is. (_Presses that coin into_ Waiter's _hand and closes his fingers over it._) Put it in your pocket, quick--say no more 'bout it, Goo' ni'. Only--remember (_pausing on threshold à la Charles the First_) if anyone wantsh row--(_with recollection of Duke's motto_)--I'm here! That 'sh all. (_To G. B._) I shall say goo' ni' to _you_ outside.

[_Exit B. B. unsteadily._

_The G. B._ (_solemnly to_ Waiter). I tell you what it is--I'm ashamed of him. There, I _am_. I'm _ashamed_ of him!

[_He stalks after his Brother; sounds of renewed argument without, as Scene closes in._

* * * * *

BACON AGAIN.--An erudite student informs us that "the crest of SHAKSPEARE'S mother's family was a boar," so that there is something Baconian about the Immortal Bard.

* * * * *

_À PROPOS_ OF THE WELSH GOLD FIND.--Advice Gratis:--Beware of Welshers.

* * * * *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

[Transcriber's Note:

Italic text indicated by underscores (_) at the start and end.

Alternative spellings retained.]