Chapter III: Part 3

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. COCKCR. (_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, yi-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. COCKCR. (_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. COCKCR. 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. FILLK. If it's to be confined to just us four, I certingly think we ought _all_ to be present at the presentation.

MR. COCKCR. 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. COCKCR. 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. COCKCR. 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._

THE MODEL DEMOCRACY.

"I think you left directions that you were to be thawed in 199-- precisely?" said the stranger politely. "Allow me to introduce myself--NUMBER SEVEN MILLION AND SIX. If you feel equal to the effort, and would care to see the vast improvements in our social condition since the close of the benighted Nineteenth Century, I shall be pleased to conduct you."

MR. PUNCH then began to realise that he had had himself frozen by a patent process just a hundred years ago, and that he had returned to animation in time for the close of the marvellous Twentieth Century; so he prepared, in much curiosity and excitement, to accompany his guide.

"By the way," observed the latter, "you must not be annoyed if your--hem--habiliments, which we are unaccustomed to nowadays, should attract some attention."

Singularly enough, MR. PUNCH had just begun to feel a certain embarrassment at the prospect of being seen in Piccadilly or Regent Street in the company of a person attired in grey cellular pyjamas, a drab blanket, and a glazed pot hat. However, on reaching the street, he found that every man he met was similarly clad, while his own costume--which, in his original century, would only have been remarkable for its unimpeachable taste--was, in this, the subject of universal and invidious comment.

"You'll have your regulation pot hat and pyjamas served out to you in time!" said MR. SEVEN MILLION AND SIX encouragingly. "Then no one will say anything to you. In these days we resent anything that tends to confer an artificial distinction on any man. Surnames, for example, which occasionally suggested superiority of birth, have long been abolished, and official numbers substituted. You seem to be looking for something you do not see?" he added, noting a certain blankness and disappointment in MR. PUNCH'S expressive countenance.

"I was only wondering why I saw no signs of any new and marvellous inventions at present," said MR. PUNCH. "I rather expected to see the air full of electric trains, manageable balloons, or coveys of citizens darting about on mechanical pinions. But I see none, and even more people go on foot than in my own time."

"Inventions, I take it," was the reply, "only served to enrich the Capitalist, and save time or labour. Now we have no Capitalists and no riches, and no reason for hurrying anywhere, while it would be absurd and useless to lessen the amount of manual labour when, even as it is, there is scarcely enough to keep everyone employed for six hours a day."

"Why are all the women I see dressed exactly alike in navy-blue woollen frocks and coal-scuttle bonnets?" MR. PUNCH inquired presently. "Surely they can't _all_ be members of the Sal----"

"A uniform costume was decreed by plebiscite some years ago," replied his mentor, promptly. "Any real equality amongst women was found hopeless so long as some were able to render themselves exceptionally attractive by a distinctive toilette."

"What!" exclaimed MR. PUNCH, "did all the pretty women consent to such a sacrifice?"

"They were in a very decided minority, even then," said MR. SEVEN MILLION AND SIX; "and it is not our way to think much of minorities. At present, owing no doubt to an enactment which penalised every pretty woman by compelling her to wear blue goggles and a respirator, feminine beauty is practically extinct."

MR. PUNCH could not restrain a sigh. They were now entering a somewhat gloomy thoroughfare, between massive blocks of buildings, with large doors and innumerable small windows, which towered into the sky on either hand.

"I seem to miss the shop-fronts," he said aloud, "with their plate-glass, and all their glitter and luxury. What has become of them all?"

"Such necessaries as the citizen requires," said his companion, "are procured at the Public Storehouses, which you see around you, by the simple method of presenting a ticket. The luxuries you refer to were only procurable by the rich, and nobody is rich now. If you will come with me, I will take you over one of the State Dwelling-houses, and show you one of the suites of rooms. Every citizen has a room; or, if married, a couple of rooms, exactly the same shape and size as those of his fellows.... Beautifully clean, you see!" he remarked, complacently, as he threw open one of the doors. "Neat whitewashed walls, plain deal furniture, nice holland blinds--what more can any reasonable citizen want in the way of comfort?"

"There used to be a celebrated poet in my time," said MR. PUNCH, with some hesitation, "Who designed and sold very beautiful upholster--tapestry, wall-papers, curtains, and so on. I fancy _he_ held socialistic views. But I see no trace of his work _here_."

"I think I know whom you refer to," was the reply. "The community would doubless have been glad of his company's services if they would only have contracted to supply every citizen with precisely the same pattern and quality of their manufactures at, say, a pork-pie a yard, but, for some reason, the firm could not see their way to it, and the industry declined; which is not to be regretted, for it certainly tended to foster individualism."

"It is curious," said MR. PUNCH, when they were outside again, "that I have not as yet seen a single policeman."

"Not at all curious. We _have_ none. Crime simply proceeded from the galling sense of social inequality. Consequently, as soon as that was removed, Justice, with all its machinery, became an anachronism."

"I think," said MR. PUNCH, presently, "I should like to take a stroll in Hyde Park."

"That," said his guide, "has not been possible for at least fifty years. All the parks are now cut up into three-acre allotments, where every able-bodied citizen does an hour's compulsory spade-work once a fortnight. A most admirable reform, as you will agree!"

"Capital!" gasped MR. PUNCH, with an anticipatory pain in his back. "Then I am curious to see what strides have been made by your modern painters. Could you take me to a picture-gallery?"

"There are _no_ modern painters. It is perhaps a pity--but quite unavoidable. It was an obvious injustice that, when all citizens had to perform their share of more or less distasteful manual labour, there should be any one class that earned a living by work in which they took a positive pleasure. So that every artist had to do his six hours' stone-breaking or brick-making; or what not, as an antecedent condition of being permitted to paint at all, and naturally the State declined to provide him with paints and brushes at the expense of the community. A few artists persisted for a while, from sheer love of the thing; but as no picture fetched more than a pound of sausages, and the average price was a bowl of porridge, they found it expedient to turn to some more useful occupation. And it is undeniable that they contribute more to the resources of the commonwealth by wielding a trowel or a broom than by messing about with brushes and paint. As a concession to hereditary instinct, however, their descendants are still set apart as State white-washers."

"And the drama?" MR. PUNCH inquired next. "How is _that_ getting on? Has the New Dramatist made his appearance at last?"

"On the contrary, I am glad to say he has disappeared--let us hope for ever. For, the essence of Drama, as I understand, was Emotion--Passion, Jealousy, Marital and Parental relations, and so on. Now that marriages are the subject of State regulation, and extend only for a limited period, Passion, of course is obsolete; Jealousy, too, is recognised as merely Selfishness in disguise, and we have grown too altruistic to desire the exclusive possession of anything. While as the offspring of every union are removed at birth to a communal _creche_, and brought up and educated by the State, there are no longer any opportunities for filial or parental affection."

"Then I presume Fiction is equally----?"

"Just so. Fiction depended on Contrast. When everybody is on precisely the same level, the novelist is, happily, unnecessary. What are you looking for _now_?"

"I was wondering if I could buy an evening paper anywhere," said MR. PUNCH, wistfully. "But perhaps Journalism is also----?"

"Of course. Everyone is so contentedly and peacefully absorbed in contributing his share of work to the State, that he has no desire to read about the doings of other persons, even if there was anything of interest to be told, which there isn't. We produce just sufficient for our own wants, so there is no commerce; we have no Army or Navy, since we don't desire to conquer, and are not worth conquering. No Politics, because we govern ourselves by our own consent and co-operation; no Science, as inventors only benefited capital at the expense of labour; and, this being so, what _is_ there to put into a newspaper, if we had one?"

"Haven't you even a--a _humorous_ paper?" said MR. PUNCH. "I used to do a little in that way once."

"You had better not do it _here_. Humour, I believe, consisted in representing Humanity under ridiculous aspects. _We_'re Humanity, and we don't see any fun in being laughed at. None of your humour here, mind!"

"But the citizens have a certain amount of leisure, I suppose," said MR. PUNCH. "How _do_ they amuse themselves? For I can discover no libraries, no circuses, nor concert-rooms, nor anything!"

"It was seen to be invidious to furnish any entertainment at the public expense which did not give equal amusement to all, and so the idea was gradually dropped. When our citizens have finished their daily task, they find their relaxation, in the intervals of eating and sleeping, in the harmless and soothing practice of chewing gum. They can all do _that_, and the State provides each with a weekly supply for the purpose. Now tell me--is there anything _more_ I can do for you?"

"Yes," murmured MR. PUNCH; "if you would be so very kind as to freeze me again for five hundred years or so, I should be exceedingly obliged. I don't feel quite at home in _this_ century!"

BY PARLIAMENTARY.

_On the Platform._

A LADY OF FAMILY. Oh, yes, I do travel third-class sometimes, my dear. I consider it a duty to try to know something of the lower orders.

[_Looks out for an empty third-class compartment._

_In the Carriage._--_The seats are now occupied: the LADY OF
FAMILY is in one corner, next to a CHATTY WOMAN with a basket,
and opposite to an ECCENTRIC-LOOKING MAN with a flighty
manner._

The ECCENTRIC MAN (_to the LADY OF FAMILY_). Sorry to disturb you, Mum, but you're a-setting on one o' my 'am sandwiches.

The _L. of F._???!!!

The E. M. (_considerately_). Don't trouble yourself, Mum, it's of no intrinsic value. I on'y put it there to keep my seat.

The CHATTY W. (_to the L. OF F._). I think I've seen you about Shinglebeach, 'ave I not?

The L. OF F. It is very possible. I have been staying with some friends in the neighbourhood.

The C. W. It's a nice cheerful place is Shinglebeach; but (_confidentially_) don't you think it's a very singler thing that in a place like that--a fash'nable place, too--there shouldn't be a single 'am an' beef shop?

The L. OF F. (_making a desperate effort to throw herself into the question_). What a very extraordinary thing to be sure. Dear, _dear_ me! No ham and beef shop!

The C. W. It's so indeed, Mum; and what's more, as I daresay you have noticed for yourself, if you 'appen to want a snack o' fried fish ever so, there isn't a place you could go to--leastways, at a moment's notice. Now, 'ow do you explain such a thing as that?

The L. OF F. (_faintly_). I'm afraid I can't suggest any explanation.

A SENTENTIOUS MAN. Fried fish is very sustaining.

[_Relapses into silence for remainder of journey._

The ECCENTRIC MAN. Talking of sustaining, I remember, when we was kids, my father ud bring us home two pennorth o' ches'nuts, and we 'ad 'em boiled, and they'd last us days. (_Sentimentally._) He was a kind man, my father (_to the L. OF F., who bows constrainedly_), though you wouldn't ha' thought it, to look at him. I don't know, mind yer, that he wasn't fond of his bit o' booze--(_the L. OF F. looks out of window_)--like the best of us. I'm goin' up to prove his will now, I am--if you don't believe me, 'ere's the probate. (_Hands that document round for inspection._) That's all reg'lar enough, I 'ope. (_To the L. OF F._) Don't give it back before you've done with it--I'm in no 'urry, and there's good reading in it. (_Points out certain favourite passages with a very dirty forefinger._) Begin there--_that's_ my name.

[_The L. OF F. peruses the will with as great a show of
interest as she can bring herself to assume._

The ECCENTRIC MAN. D'ye see that big 'andsome building over there? That's the County Lunatic Asylum--where my poor wife is shut up. I went to see her last week, I did. (_Relates his visit in detail to the L. OF F., who listens unwillingly._) It's wonderful how many of our family have been in that asylum from first to last. I 'ad a aunt who died cracky; and my old mother, she's very peculiar at times. There's days when I feel as if I was a little orf my own 'ed, so if I say anything at all out of the way, you'll know what it is.

[_L. OF F. changes carriages at the next station. In the second carriage are two Men of seafaring appearance, and a young Man who is parting from his FIANCEE as the L. OF F. takes her seat._

The FIANCE. Excuse me one moment, Ma'am.

(_Leans across the L. OF F. and out of the window._) Well, good-bye, my girl; take care of yourself.

The FIANCEE (_with a hysterical giggle._) Oh, I'll take care o' _my_ self.

[_Looks at the roof of the carriage._

HE (_with meaning_). No more pickled onions, eh?

SHE. What a one you are to remember things! (_After a pause._) Give my love to Joe.

HE. All right. Well, Jenny, just one, for the last. (_They embrace loudly, after which the F. resumes his seat with an expression of mingled sentiment and complacency._) Oh (_to L. OF F._), if you don't mind my stepping across you again, Mum. Jenny, if you see Dick between this and Friday, just tell him as----

[_Prolonged whispers; sounds of renewed kisses; final parting
as train starts with a jerk, which throws the FINACE upon the
L. OF F.'S lap. After the train is started a gleam of peculiar
significance is observable in the eyes of one of the Seafaring_
_Men, who is reclining in an easy attitude on the seat. His
companion responds with a grin of intelligence, and produces a
large black bottle from the rack. They drink, and hand the
bottle to the FIANCE._

The F. Thankee, I don't mind if I do. Here's wishing you----

[_Remainder of sentiment drowned in sound of glug-glug-glug; is
about to hand back bottle when the first SEAFARER intimates
that he is to pass it on. The L. OF F. recoils in horror._

BOTH SEAFARERS. It's _wine_, Mum!

[_Tableau. The LADY OF FAMILY realises that the study of
third-class humanity has its drawbacks._

THE FARMING OF THE FUTURE; OR, WHAT BRITISH AGRICULTURE IS COMING TO.

_A Car on the Electric Light Railway. TIME.--Twentieth Century._

FIRST FARMER (_recognising Second Farmer_). Why, 'tis Muster Fretwail, surelie! didn't see it was you afore. And how be things gettin' along with _you_, Sir, eh?

FARMER FRETWAIL (_lugubriously_). 'Mong the middlin's, Muster Lackaday; 'mong the middlin's! Nothen doin' just now--nothen 't all!

THIRD FARMER (_enviously_). Well, _you_ hevn't no call fur to cry out, neighbour. I see you've got a likely lot o' noo 'oardins comin' up all along your part o' the line. I wish mine wur arf as furrard, I know thet!

F. FRETWAIL. Ah, them "Keep yer 'air on"'s, _you_ mean, Ryemouth. I don't deny as they was lookin' tidy enough a week back. But just as I was makin' ready fur to paint up "Try it on a Billiard Ball," blamed if this yere frost didn't set in, and now theer's everything at a standstill, wi' the brushes froze 'ard in the pots!

F. RYEMOUTH. 'Tis the same down with me. Theer's a acre o' "Bunyan's Easy Boots" as must hev a noo coat, and I cann't get nothen done to 'en till the weather's a bit more hopen like. Don' keer _'ow_ soon we hev a change, myself, I don't!

F. LACKADAY. Nor yet me, so long as we don't 'ave no gales with it. Theer was my height acre pasture as I planted only las' Candlemas wi' "Roopy's Lung Tonics"--wunnerful fine and tall they was, too--and ivery one on 'en blowed down the next week!

F. FRETWAIL. Well I 'ope theer wun't be no rain, neither, come to that. I know I had all the P's of my "Piffler's Persuasive Pillules" fresh gold-leaved at Michaelmas, and it come on wet directly arter I done it, and reg'lar washed the gilt out o' sight an' knowledge, it did. Theer ain't no standin' up agen rain!

F. RYEMOUTH. I dunno as I wouldn't as lief hev rain as sun. My "Hanti-Freckle Salves" all blistered up and peeled afore the summer was 'ardly begun a'most.

F. LACKADAY. 'Tis a turr'ble hard climate to make 'ead against, is ourn. I've 'eard tell as some farmers are takin' to they enamelled hiron affairs, same as they used to hev when I wur a lad. I mind theer wur a crop o' "Read Comic Cagmag" as lingered on years arter the paper itself. Not as I hold with enamelling, myself--'tain't what I call 'igh farmin'--takes too much outer the land in _my_ 'pinion.

F. FRETWAIL. Aye, aye. "Rotation o' boards." Say, "Spooner's Sulphur Syrup" fur a spring crop, follered with some kind o' soap or candles, and p'raps cough lozengers, or hembrocation, or bakin' powder, if the soil will bear it, arterwards--that's the system _I_ wur reared on, and there ain't no better, 'pend upon it!

F. RYEMOUTH. I tell 'ee what 'tis; it's time we 'ad some protection agen these yere furrin advartisements. I was travellin' along the Great Northern t'other day, an' I see theer wos two or three o' them French boards nigh in ivery field, a downright shame and disgrace I call it, disfigurin' the look of the country and makin' it that ontidy--let alone drivin' honest British boards off the land. Government ought to put a stop to it; that's what _I_ say!

F. LACKADAY. They Parliment chaps don't keer _what_ becomes of us poor farmers, they don't. Look at last General Election time. They might ha' given our boards a turn; but not they. Most o' they candidates did all their 'tisin' with rubbishy flags and balloons--made in Japan, Sir, every blamed one o' them! And they wonder British Agriculture don't prosper more!

F. RYEMOUTH. Speaking o' queer ways o' hadvertisin', hev any of ye set eyes on that farm o' young Fullacrank's? Danged if ever _I_ see sech tomfool notions as he's took up with in all _my_ born days.

F. FRETWAIL. Why, what hev he been up to _now_, eh?

F. RYEMOUTH. Well, I thought I shud ha' bust myself larfin' when I see it fust. Theer ain't not a board nor a sky sign; no, nor yet a 'oarding, on the 'ole of his land!

F. LACKADAY. Then how do he expect to get a profit out of it?--that's what _I_ want to year.

F. RYEMOUTH. You'll 'ardly credit it, neighbours, but he's been buryin' some o' they furrin grains, hoats and barley, an' I dunno what not, in little holes about his fields, so as to make the words, "Use Faddler's Non-Farinaceous Food"--and the best of it is the darned young fool expecks as 'ow it'll all sprout come next Aperl--he do indeed, friends!

F. FRETWAIL. Flying in the face o' Providence, I calls it. He must ha' gone clean out of his senses!

F. LACKADAY. Stark starin' mad. I never heerd tell o' such extravagance. Why, as likely as not, 'twill all die off o' the land afore the year's out--and wheer wull he be _then_?

F. RYEMOUTH. Azactly what I said to 'en myself. "You tek my word for it," I sez, "'twun't never come to no good. The nateral crop for these yere British Hiles," I told 'en, "is good honest Henglish hoak an' canvas," I sez, "and 'tain't the action of no sensible man, nor yet no Christian," sez I, "to go a-drillin' 'oles and a-droppin' in houtlandish seeds from Canada an' Roosha, which the sile wasn't never intended to bear!"

FARMERS FRETWELL and LACKADAY. Rightly spoke, neighbour Ryemouth, 'twas a true word! But theer'll be a jedgment on sech new-fangled doin's, and, what's moor, you and I will live fur to see it afore we're very much older!

[_They all shake their heads solemnly as scene closes in._

A DIALOGUE ON ART.

(A STUDY IN SPIRITS AND WATERS.)

_The Smoke-room of a Provincial Hotel. TIME--Towards midnight. CHARACTERS--MR. LUCESLIPP-BLETHERON, a middle-aged Art Patron and Dilettante. He has arrived at his third tumbler of whiskey and water, and the stage at which a man alludes freely before strangers to his "poor dear father." MR. MILBOARD, a Painter, on a sketching tour. He is enduring MR. L.-B. with a patience which will last for just one more pipe. FIRST COMMERCIAL, who considers Mr. L.-B. a highly agreeable and well-informed gentleman, and is anxious to be included in his audience. SECOND COMMERCIAL, who doesn't intend to join in the conversation until he feels he can do so with crushing effect._

MR. LUCESLIPP-BLETHERON. Yes, I assure you, I never come acrosh a David Cox but I say to myself, "_There_'sh a Bit!" (_Here he fixes his eye-glass, sips whiskey and water, and looks at MR. MILBOARD as if he expected him to express admiration at this evidence of penetration. The only tribute he extorts, however, is a grunt._) Now, we've a Cornelius Janssen at home. Itsh only hishtory is--my dear father bought it. He was an artist himself, painted a bit, travelled man, an' all that short o' thing. Well, _he_ picked it up for ten pounds!

FIRST COMMERCIAL (_deferentially_). Did he reelly now? A Johnson for ten pounds! Did he get a warranty with it, Sir?

MR. L.-B. (_after bringing the eye-glass to bear on the intruder for a second_). Then I've a Mieris--at leasht, _shome_ clever f'ler painted it, and it'sh a pleashure to look at it, and you can't get over _that_, can you?

MR. MILBOARD. I don't intend to _try_ to get over it.

MR. L.-B. You're qui' right. Now I'm the lasht man in the world to shwagger; shtill, I'm goin' to ashk you to lemme have my lil' shwagger now. I happened to be at Rome shor' time ago, and I met Middleman there. We had our lil' chat together and what not--he'sh no pershonal friend o' mine. Well; I picked up a lil' drawing by a Roman chap; worth nothing more than what I got it for, or _anything_, as you may shay. Middleman had the whole run of this chap's studio. I saw this drawing--didn't care mush about it--but thought it wash a gem, and gave the modesh shum of a hundred an' fifty _lire_ for it. Put it in my portmanteau between a couple o' shirts----

FIRST COMM. (_still pining for notice_). When you say shirts, Sir, I presume you mean _clean_ ones?

MR. L.-B. No man with the shlightest feelin' or reverence for Art would _put_ sush a queshtion! (_The FIRST COMM. collapses._) Between a couple of--(_underlining the word_) Shirts, and brought it home. Now I'm comin' to my point. One afternoon after my return, I wash walking down Bond Street, when I saw a sketch exhibited in a window by the shame f'ler. I went in and shaid, "What are you asking for thish? Mind I don' wanter _buy_ it; ashk me any price yer like!" And they shaid forty guineash.

MR. MILB. Apparently they availed themselves of your permission, and _did_ ask you any price they liked.

MR. L.-B. No doubt; but wait till I've _done_. I saw another--a finished drawing not qui' so good as mine, there. Then I shaid to them quietly, "Now, look _here_, why don' you go an' buy 'em for yourshelves in the artist's own shtudio?" It shtruck me as sho odd, a man like Middleman, being there, and having the pick, shouldn' buy _more_ of 'em!

MR. MILB. Wasn't worth his while; he can't buy _everything_!

MR. L.-B. (_after considering this impartially with some more whiskey_). No; your ansher is a very _good_ one, and a very _fair_ one. He _can't_ buy everything. I _did_ pick, however, an' I gorrit. I said to him, "How mush?" an' he tol' me, and there wash an end of it, do you shee?

MR. MILB. It's the ordinary course of business, isn't it?

MR. L.-B. Egshackly. But how few _do_ it! Now, I'll tell you 'nother shtory 'bout my poo' dear father. He came 'pon a sculpture in a curioshity shop; it wash very dirty and used up, but my dear father saw it was worth shpotting, and a thing to _be_ shpotted, and sho he put hish _finger_ on it!

FIRST COMM. (_undaunted by past failure_). And was it antique, Sir?

MR. L.-B. That'sh more'n I can tell you; it wash very dirty, at any rate, and he only gave fifty guineash for it. Wasn't a _great_ shum----

FIRST COMM. (_encouraged by his affability_). No, indeed; a mere nothing, so to speak, Sir!

MR. L.-B. (_annoyed_). Will you have the goodnesh to lemme finish what I was telling thish gentleman? When my poo' father got that busht home, it was the mos' perfect likenesh o' Napoleon!

MR. MILB. Ha! puts me in mind of the old story of the man who picked up a dingy panel somewhere or other, took it home, cleaned it, and found a genuine Morland; went on cleaning and discovered an undoubted Rembrandt; cleaned _that_, and came to a Crivelli; couldn't stop, kept on cleaning, and was rewarded by a portrait of George the Fourth!

FIRST COMM. (_deeply impressed_). And all of them genuine? How _very_ extraordinary, to be sure!

MR. L.-B. (_wagging his head sapiently_). I could tell you shtranger things than _that_. But as I was shaying, here was this busht of Napoleon, by some French chap--which _you_ would tell me was _against_ it.

MR. MILB. Why? The French are the best sculptors in the world.

MR. L.-B. The Frensh! I can _not_ bring myshelf to believe that, if only for thish shimple reashon, they haven't the _patiensh_ for it.

FIRST COMM. So _I_ should have said. For my own part--not knowing much _about_ it, very likely--I should have put the _Italians_ first.

MR. MILB. If you are talking of all time----

FIRST COMM. (_feeling at last at his ease_). I should say, even _now_. Why, there was a piece of statuary in the Italian Exhibition at Earl's Court some years back that took _my_ fancy and took my _wife's_ fancy very much. It was a representation in marble of a 'en and chickens, all so natural, and with every individual feather on the birds done to such a nicety----!

MR. MILB. I was hardly referring to the skill with which the Italians carve--ah--_poultry_.

MR. L.-B. Ridic'lous! Great mishtake to talk without unnershtanding shubject. (_The FIRST COMMERCIAL retires from the room in disorder._) One thing I should like to ashk is thish. Why are sculptors at present day so inferior to the antique? Ishn't the human form divine ash noble and ash shymmetrical ash formerly? Why can't they _reproduce_ it then?

MR. MILB. You must first find your sculptor. Providence doesn't see fit to create a Michael Angelo or a Praxiteles every five minutes, any more than a Shakspeare.

MR. L.-B. (_wavering between piety and epigram_). Thank the Lord for _that_! Now there'sh Florensh. Shome of us who have had the _run_ there--well, there you see all the original thingsh--all the _originalsh_. And yet, if you'll believe me (_dreamily_), with all my love and charm for Art, gimme the Capitoline Venush living and breathing in _flesh and blood_, Sir, not in cold lifelesh marble!

MR. MILB. That of course is a matter of taste. But we are talking about Art, not women.

MR. L.-B. (_profoundly_). Unforsh'nately, women are the _shubjects_ of Art. You've got to find out your client's shtyle of Art firsht, and then carry it out in the besht possible manner.

MR. MILB. (_rising, and knocking his pipe out_). Have I? But I'm going to bed now, so you'll excuse me.

MR. L.-B. (_detaining him_). But look here again. Take the Louvre. (_As MR. MILBOARD disclaims any desire to take it._) Now, nobody talksh about the Gallery _there_, and yet, if you only egshemp the thingsh that are rude and vulgar, and go quietly roun'----

SECOND COMMERCIAL (_who sees a Socratic opening at last_). Might I ask you, Sir, to enumerate any pictures there, that, in your opinion, are "rude and vulgar"?

[_MR. MILBOARD avails himself of this diversion to escape._

MR. L.-B. In the Grand Gallery of the Louvre there'sh an enormous amount of shtuff, as everybody who'sh an artisht and a lover of Art knowsh. If I had a friend who wash thinking of going to the Louvre (_here he looks round vaguely for MR. MILBOARD_), I should shay to him, "Do you _care_ about pictursh at all? If you _don't_, don't borrer yourshelf 'bout it. If you _do_, drop in shome day with Me, and I'll give you a hint what to shee." (_As he cannot make out what has become of MR. MILBOARD, he has to content himself with the SECOND COMMERCIAL._) If you were _my_ boy, I should shay to you----

SECOND COMM. (_at the door_). Pardon me for remarking that, if I was your boy, I should probably prefer to take my own opinion. (_With dignified independence._) I never follow other persons' taste in Art!

[_He goes out as the Smoke-room Page enters._

MR. L.-B. (_hazily with half-closed eyes_). If you wash _my_ boy, I should shay to you, very quietly, very sherioushly, and without 'tempting to dictate----(_Perceives that he is addressing the Page._) Jus' bring me 'nother glash whiskey an' warrer.

[_He is left sitting._

THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW.

A CONTRAST.

_The Stables at Saddlesprings, the Wheelers' Country House near Bykersall. MISS DIANA'S Horse BAYARD discovered in his Stall._

BAYARD (_talking to himself, as is the habit of some horses when alone_). I can't make it out. She's here. All the family came down yesterday--I heard the omnibus start for the station to meet them. And yet she hasn't sent for me; hasn't even been near me! She always used to rush in here and kiss me on the nose the very first--She's ill--that's it of course--sprained her fetlock or something. If she was well, she'd have had me saddled as soon as she'd had her morning feed, and we'd have gone for a canter together somewhere.... I hope she'll get well soon. I'm sick of being taken out by the stable-man; he's so dull--no notion of conversation beyond whistling! Now, Miss Diana would talk to me the whole way.... Perhaps her hands and seat might have been----But what did _that_ matter? I liked to feel she was on my back, I liked the sound of her pretty voice, and the touch of her hand when she patted me after her ride.... (_He pricks his ears._) Why, that's her voice outside now! She's all right, after all. She's coming in to see me!... I _knew_ she couldn't have forgotten!

MISS DIANA'S VOICE (_outside_). Yes, you might put it in here for the present, Stubbs. I suppose it will be quite safe?

STUBBS' VOICE. Safe enough, Miss, there's plenty o' empty stalls this side. Nothing _in_ 'ere just now, except----

MISS D.'S VOICE. Very well, then. Just wipe some of the dust off the mud-guards, because I shall want it again after lunch. And mind you don't scratch the enamel taking it in.

STUBBS. Very good, Miss. I'll be keerful.

[_MISS DIANA'S steps die away upon the cobbles._

BAYARD (_to himself_). She's gone--without even asking after me! What has she been out in--a bath chair? I'm sure she _must_ be ill.

STUBBS (_to the Bicycle, as he wheels it in_). 'Ere, steady now, 'old up, can't ye? And keep that blarsted near pedal o' yourn off o' _my_ enamel. Blest if I wouldn't rather rub down arf a dozen 'unters nor one o' them yere bloomin' bi-cycles. I know where I _am_ with a 'orse; but these 'ere little, twisty, spidery wheels----Come _over_, will ye. I'll lean ye up agen 'ere till I've 'ad my dinner.

[_He places the machine against a partition next to BAYARD'S
stall, and goes out._

BAYARD (_to himself, as he inspects his neighbour with the corner of his eye_). It's _not_ a bath-chair; it's one of these bicycles. It must be a sort of animal, I suppose, or Stubbs wouldn't have spoken to it. I should like to ask it one or two questions. (_He gets his neck over the partition, and breathes gently through his nostrils upon the handle-bars._) Excuse me, but do you understand horse-language at all?

The BICYCLE (_answering by a succession of saddle-creaks_). Perfectly. I'm a kind of horse myself, I believe, only greatly _improved_, of course. _Would_ you mind not breathing on my handle-bars like that? It tarnishes the plating so. The saddle is the seat of _my_ intelligence, if you will kindly address your remarks here.

BAYARD. I beg your pardon. I will in future. I don't creak myself, but I've been closely connected with saddles ever since I was a two-year-old, so I can follow you fairly well. Didn't I hear my mistress's voice outside just now?

The BICYCLE. No; _my_ mistress's, Miss Diana's. I'd just taken her out for a short spin--not far, only fifteen miles or so.

BAYARD. Then, she--she's quite well?

The BICYCLE. Thanks, she's pedalling pretty strong just now. I'm going out with her again this afternoon.

BAYARD. Again! You will have had a hard day of it altogether, then. But I suppose you'll get a day or two's rest afterwards? I know _I_ should want it.

The BICYCLE. Bless you, _I_ never want rest. Why, I've been forty miles with her, and come home without clanking a link! _She_ was knocked up, if you like--couldn't go out for days!

BAYARD. Ah, she was never knocked up after riding _me_!

The BICYCLE. Because--it's no fault of yours, of course, but the way you've been constructed--you couldn't go far enough to knock _anybody_ up. And she doesn't get tired now, either. I'm not the kind of bicycle to boast; but I've often heard her say that she much prefers her "bike" (she always calls me her "bike"--very nice and friendly of her, isn't it?) to any mere _horse_.

BAYARD. To any mere horse! And does she--give any reasons?

The BICYCLE. Lots. For one thing, she says she feels so absolutely safe on me; she knows that, whatever she meets, I shall never start, or shy, or rear, or anything of that sort.

BAYARD. I don't remember playing any of those tricks with her, however hard she pulled the curb.

The BICYCLE. Then she says she never has to consider whether any distance will be too much for me.

BAYARD. As for _that_----But the longer I was out with her, the better I was pleased; she might have brought me home as lame as a tree all round, and _I_ shouldn't have cared!

The BICYCLE. Perhaps not. But _she_ would; so inconvenient, you see. Now _my_ strong point is, I _can't_ go lame--in good hands, of course, and she knows exactly how to manage me, I will say that for her!

BAYARD. Does she give you carrots or sugar after a ride? she did _me_.

THE BICYCLE (_with a creak of contempt_). Now what _do_ you suppose I could do with sugar or a carrot if I had it? No, a drop or two of oil now and then is all I take in the way of sustenance. That's _another_ point in my favour, I cost little or nothing to keep. Now, your oats and hay and stuff, I daresay, cost more in a year than I'm worth altogether!

BAYARD.. I must admit that you have the advantage of me in cheapness. If I thought she grudged me my oats----But I'm afraid I couldn't manage on a drop or two of oil.

The BICYCLE. You'd want buckets of it to oil _your_ bearings. No, she wouldn't save by that! (_STUBBS re-enters._) Ah, here comes my man. I must be going; got to take her over to Pineborough, rather a bore this dusty weather, but when a lady's in the case, eh?

BAYARD. There's a nasty hill going into Pineborough; do be careful how you take her down it!

The BICYCLE. You forget, my friend, I'm not a Boneshaker, I'm a Safety. Why, she'll just put her feet up on the rests, fold her arms, and leave the rest to me. She knows _I_ can be trusted.

BAYARD. Just tell me this before you go. Does--she doesn't pat you, or kiss you on your--er--handle-bar after a run, does she?

The BICYCLE (_turning its front wheel to reply, as STUBBS wheels it out_). You don't imagine I should stand any sentimental rot of that sort, do you? She knows better than to try it on!

BAYARD (_to himself_). I'm glad she doesn't kiss it. I don't think I _could_ have stood that!

_Same Scene. Some Hours Later._

STUBBS (_enters, carrying a dilapidated machine with crumpled handles, a twisted saddle, and a front wheel distorted into an irregular pentagon_). Well, I 'ope as 'ow this'll sarve as a lesson to 'er, I dew; a marcy she ain't broke her blessed little neck! (_To the Bicycle._) No need to be hover and above purtickler 'bout scratchin' your enamel _now_, any'ow! (_He pitches it into a corner, and goes._)

BAYARD (_after reconnoitring_). You don't mean to say it's _you_!

The BICYCLE. Me? of course it's me! A nice mess I'm in, too, entirely owing to her carelessness. Never put the brake on down that infernal hill, lost all control over me, and here I am, a wreck, Sir! Why, I had to be driven home, by a grinning groom, in a beastly dog-cart! Pleasant that!

BAYARD. But she--Miss Diana--was she hurt? Not--not _seriously_, eh?

The BICYCLE. Oh, of course you don't care what becomes of _me_ so long as----_She's_ all right enough--fell in a ditch, luckily for her, _I_ came down on a heap of stones. It'll be weeks before I'm out of the repairer's hands.

BAYARD (_to himself_). I _oughtn't_ to be glad; but I am--I _am_! She's safe, and--and she'll come back to me after this! (_To the Bicycle._) Wasn't she sorry for you?

The BICYCLE. Not she! These women have no feeling in them. Why, what do you suppose she said when they told me it would take weeks to tinker me up?

BAYARD (_to himself--with joy_). I think I can guess! (_To the Bicycle._) What _did_ she say?

The BICYCLE (_rattling with indignation_). Why, all _she_ said was: "How tiresome! I wonder if I can hire a decent bike here without having to send to town for one." There's gratitude for you! But _you_ can't enter into my feelings about it.

BAYARD. Pardon me--I fancy I can. And, after all, your day will come, when the Vet has set you up again. _Mine's_ over for ever. (_To himself._) Oh, why, _why_ wasn't I born a bicycle!

A DOLL'S DIARY.

_January 1._--Just had a brilliant idea--_quite_ original. I don't believe even any human person ever _thought_ of such a thing, but then,--besides being extremely beautiful and expensive, with refined wax features and golden hair--I am a very clever doll indeed. Frivolous, no doubt; heartless, so they tell me--but the very reverse of a _fool_. I flatter myself that if _anybody_ understands the nature of toys, especially _male_ toys--but I am forgetting my idea--which is this. I am going this year to write down--the little girl I belong to has no idea I can write, but I _can_--and better than _she_ does, too!--to write down every event of importance that happens, _with the dates_. There! I fancy _that_ is original enough. It will be a valuable dollian document when it is done, and _most_ interesting to look back upon. Now I must wait for something to happen.

_January 6._--Went to Small Dance given by the Only Other Wax Doll (a dreadful old frump!) on the Nursery Hearthrug. Room rather nicely illuminated by coloured fire from grate, and a pyramid nightlight, but floor poor. Didn't think much of the music--a fur monkey at the Digitorium, and a woolly lamb who brought his own bellows, make _rather_ a feeble orchestra. Still, on the whole, enjoyed myself. Much admired. Several young Ninepins, who are considered stuck-up, and keep a good deal to their own set, begged to be introduced. Sat out one dance with a Dice-box, who rattled away most amusingly. I understand he is quite an authority on games, and anything that falls from his mouth is received with respect. He is a great sporting character, too, and arranges all the meetings on the Nursery Race-course, besides being much interested in Backgammon. I _do_ like a Toy to have _manly_ tastes!

The Captain of a Wooden Marching Regiment quartered in the neighbourhood was there in full uniform, but not dancing. Told me they _didn't_ in his regiment. As his legs are made in one piece and glued on to a yellow stand, inclined to think this was not mere military swagger. He seemed considerably struck with me. Made an impression, too, on a rather elderly India-rubber Ball. Snubbed him, as one of the Ninepins told me he was considered "a bit of a bounder."

Some of the Composition Dolls, I could see, were perfectly _stiff_ with spite and envy. Spent a very pleasant evening, not getting back to my drawer till daylight. Too tired to write more.

_Mem._--Not to sit out behind the coal-scuttle another time!

_February 14._--Amount of attention I receive really quite embarrassing. The Ninepins are too _absurdly_ devoted. One of them (the nicest of all) told me to-day he had never been so completely bowled over in his whole existence! I manage to play them off against each other, however. The India-rubber Ball, too, is at my feet--and, naturally, I spurn him, but he is so short-winded that nothing will induce him to rise. Though naturally of an elastic temperament, he has been a good deal cast down of late. I smile on him occasionally--just to keep the Ball rolling; but it is becoming a frightful bore.

_March._--Have been presented with a charming pony-carriage, with two piebald ponies that go by clock work. I wish, though, I was not expected to share it with a _live kitten_! The kitten has no idea of repose, and spoils the effect of the turn-out. Try not to seem aware of it--even when it claws my frock. Rather interested in a young Skipjack, whom I see occasionally; he is quite good-looking, in a common sort of way. I talk to him now and then--it is something to do; and he is a new type, so different from the Ninepins!

_April 1._--Have just heard the Skipjack is engaged to a plaster Dairy-maid. A little annoyed, because he really seemed----Have been to see his _fiancee_, a common-place creature, with red cheeks, and a thick waist. Congratulate the Skipjack, with just a _hint_ that he might have looked higher. Afraid that he misunderstood me, for he absolutely jumped.

_April 7._--The Skipjack tells me he has _broken off his engagement_; he seems to think I shall guess the reason--but I don't, of _course_. Then he actually has the impertinence to (I can scarcely pen the words for indignation) to _propose_--to Me! I inform him, in the most _unmistakable_ terms, that he has presumed on my good-nature, and that there are social barriers between us, which no Skipjack can ever surmount. He leaves me abruptly, after declaring that I have broken the spring of his existence.

_April 8._--Much shocked and annoyed. The Skipjack found quite stiff and colourless this morning, in the water-jug! Must have jumped in last night. So _very_ rash and silly of him! Am sure I gave him no encouragement--or _next_ to none. Hear that the Dairy-maid has gone off her head. Of course it will be put down to _grief_; but we all know how easily plaster heads get cracked. Feel really distressed about it all, for the blame is sure to fall on _me_. Those Composition Dolls will make a fine scandal out of it!

_May._--The Ninepins are getting very difficult to manage; have to put them down as delicately as possible; but I am afraid, poor fellows, they are dreadfully upset. The Wooden Captain has challenged the Dice-box to a duel--I fear, on _my_ account. However, as the officer's sword will not unglue, I _hope_ nothing will come of it. All this _most_ worrying, though, and gives me little _real_ satisfaction. I find myself sighing for more _difficult_ conquests.

_June._--Went to afternoon tea with the biggest Dutch Doll. Rather a come-down, but now that there is this coolness between the Composition set and myself, I must go _somewhere_. I feel _so_ bored at times! Can see the ridiculous Dutch thing is trying to _out-dress_ me! She had a frock on that _must_ have cost at _least_ fifty beads, and I don't believe it will _ever_ be paid for! Only made her look the bigger _guy,_ though! Tea-party a stupid affair. Make-believe tea in pewter cups. Met the latest arrival, a really nice-looking Gentleman Doll, introduced as "Mr. Joseph." Very innocent face, without any moustache, and the sweetest blue eyes (except mine) I think I _ever_ saw! Seemed rather shy, but pleasant. Asked him to call.