Lost 
 
 
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 Chords 
 
 ifornia Hk 
 onal !*;* 
 
 ity TP 
 
 Some Emotions 
 without Morals 
 
 vfx^ 
 
 Arthur 
 
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 Rickett 
 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 ! _ "
 
 LOST CHORDS.
 
 Lost 
 Chords 
 
 Some Emotions 
 without Morals 
 
 Arthur Rickett 
 
 London : A. D. Innes & Co., 
 Bedford Street, 1895.
 
 p father* 
 
 487097 
 
 ENGLISH
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 HARMONIES IN YELLOW 
 
 Miss Maud's Three Notes 1 1 
 
 A Yellow Creeper 17 
 
 Golden Syrup 24 
 
 A Bass Fugue 27 
 
 Pose Fancies 34 
 
 FANTASIE 
 
 Cinquante Ans Apres 45 
 
 A Christmas Mixture 56 
 
 The New Cinderella 62 
 
 How to be a Dramatic Critic 68 
 
 The Game of Interviewing 75 
 
 Through the (Political) Looking-Glass ... 82 
 
 AIRS 
 
 The Modern Young Man to his Love 93 
 
 Seasonable Thoughts 95 
 
 Locksley Hall (during Spring Cleaning) ... 97 
 
 Pillow Philosophy 99 
 
 To Pickwick 102 
 
 The Poets at School 104 
 
 Reflections of a Poetaster . . . .no
 
 Some of t/te following sketches are now appear- 
 ing for the first time ; many, however, have 
 already appeared in The Granta, The Globe, 
 The Cambridge Review, Lika Joko, and a 
 school magazine. My thanks are due to the 
 present Editors of The Granta, Editors of The 
 Cambridge Review, Mr. R. C. Lehmann, the 
 Editor of The Globe, Mr. Harry Furniss, and 
 the Editors of The Cinque Port, for their 
 courtesy in permitting me to reprint the same. 
 
 ARTHUR R1CKETT. 
 100, Lancaster Gate, London, W.
 
 HARMONIES IN YELLOW.
 
 I 
 
 MISS MAUD'S THREE NOTES. 
 
 (Dedicated to the Author of "Keynotes," 
 " Discords.") 
 
 THE FIRST NOTE. 
 
 IT was a fat book with green covers. 
 " Huxley's Outlines of Physiology," shouted 
 Maud, joyously. " Hurrah ! " 
 
 She had been washing the family linen in a 
 back room, and the sight of this romantic work 
 affected her wonderfully. 
 
 " Happy at last," gurgled Maud again, push- 
 ing some straggling brown hairs off her marbly 
 brow. 
 
 The blue veins in the white neck swelled out 
 distinctly, like broad beans. 
 
 She rocked her slight, girlish figure to and fro, 
 and hugged the book to her palpitating breast.
 
 12 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 " I think Mister Halfred 'as lost a green book, 
 if you please, Miss Maud." It was the butler. 
 Butlers always speak like that. 
 
 " Man," hissed Maud, with all the scorn of 
 eighteen summers, " shall I be deprived of 
 reading a book that my brother is familiar 
 with ? Never ! " The roses came and went 
 in her cheeks. 
 
 She kicked a slipper off her pretty foot, and it 
 hit the butler on the head. 
 
 " Your slipper, I believe, Miss ! " said the 
 servant, imperturbably, handing it back. 
 
 " I spurn that toy of convention," shrieked 
 Maud. Then she put on a pair of Wellingtons, 
 and strode out into the back garden. 
 
 THE SECOND NOTE. 
 
 Greedily she drank in the sweet, warm air of 
 June. 
 
 The bees were humming ; the sun setting ; 
 the wind-distended garments of a neighbour 
 flapped over the wall. 
 
 The perfume of honeysuckle came borne on 
 the breeze, together with that of refuse from a 
 dust-heap.
 
 MISS MAUD'S THREE NOTES. 13 
 
 Maud stood on the lawn lecturing an old 
 tabby on the largeness of her family. " You 
 should read Malthus, Pussy," she whispered. 
 
 The cat viewed her with soft, brown, blinking 
 eyes ; then peered anxiously forward. 
 
 " Puss," said Maud, with nervous energy, 
 "what are you thinking of?" Pussy pounced 
 at a small bird. 
 
 " O o h ! " murmured Maud. She was 
 bitterly disappointed, but was too proud to 
 show it ; she had imagined that some vague 
 feline ideal . . . But it hadn't. The cat was but 
 an unimaginative creature with gross appetites. 
 
 Maud scooped up the damp earth with her 
 slender fingers. " I do want to shock some- 
 body " (with a petulant drawl), " and it's so 
 hard nowadays." 
 
 The sound of a voice came borne on the west 
 wind. 
 
 Surely it was the bestial, monotonous, and 
 rattling sound of a man snoring, or a pig 
 grunting. 
 
 THE THIRD NOTE. 
 
 The old gardener was sleeping in the cucum- 
 ber frame.
 
 14 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Maud had a wonderful eye for detail, and the 
 picture was impressed upon her mind. 
 
 A red, swollen, pimply face, with violet eye- 
 lids. A short, broad, vermilion nose. Thick 
 crimson lips tinged with blue. The beard was 
 stubby and unkempt, and the blotchy patches 
 of green skin shone through the coarse grey 
 hair. The grubby collar and worn brown shirt 
 were stained with tobacco juice. A tin bottle 
 lay by his side. 
 
 " What a brute man looks asleep," commented 
 Maud, and threw a flower-pot at him. It fell 
 considerably wide of the mark, but it aroused 
 the sleeping monster, who opened his eyes and 
 used bad words. 
 
 " Is that always what you men say when you 
 are vexed ? " and the girl's white nostrils dilated 
 with scorn. 
 
 " Noa, noa," growled the gardener, in a raspy 
 dialect. " I swears when I likes a thing just 
 the same as I swears when I don't likes a 
 thing." 
 
 " I feel," said Maud, " I don't know I can't 
 express I hate men ; I loathe men. I don't 
 know why, but I do. They are so brutal, have 
 such thick lips and bleary eyes. . . . Are so
 
 MISS MAUD'S THREE NOTES. 15 
 
 sensual, boorish, cruel ... so everything, in 
 fact " with fierce energy " whilst women are 
 so delicate, wonderful, emotional, ^Eolian Harpist 
 . . . and all that," with vague enthusiasm. 
 " Where do you live, O swinish man ? " said the 
 sensitive, nerve-racked girl, clasping and un- 
 clasping her long, slender fingers. 
 
 " Middlesex," between bluish - grey - brown 
 clouds of smoke. 
 
 " Sex ! " screamed Maud (she had got her cue). 
 " Sex ! Ah, that word ! What is it, I should 
 like to know ? Where is it ? " 
 
 " Where isn't it ? " grunted the brute. 
 
 These discussions with his young mistress 
 were the usual thing each afternoon. 
 
 " Sex is a mystery," said Maud. 
 
 " Shouldn't have thought it to have heard you 
 talk," snarled the brute. " But you'll excuse 
 me, miss I'm a respectable married man with 
 nine children, and I don't feel it decent to be 
 a-talkin' with a chit like you about these 'ere 
 things." 
 
 " An advanced girl of eighteen ... a chit 
 
 you, you " she almost choked with passion. 
 
 " Why it's in the air, it's " 
 
 "There's a strong smell o' drains in the
 
 16 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 air," said the brute, "and I adviso you to run 
 in." 
 
 How still she was ; the violence of her passion 
 had convulsed her, leaving her pale and breath- 
 less. "Shall I kill him?" She clenched her 
 fists, till the blood spurted from the palms. 
 " No," in a low, awful voice, " I will do worse. 
 I will write a book for a series " and she was 
 another woman who did.
 
 II. 
 
 A YELLOW CREEPER. 
 
 (Dedicated to the Author of "The Great God 
 Pan, and the Inmost Light.") 
 
 'TT^HE Doctor poured a green fluid into a 
 J. phial containing red fluid: then he poured, 
 very carefully, something black into the mixture, 
 and held up, as the result of the foregoing pro- 
 cess, a clear, limpid, crystal-like fluid. 
 
 " How do you manage that ? " said the friend, 
 " I don't quite know," replied the Doctor,, 
 thoughtfully. "You see, I proceed by an in- 
 tuitive process, shutting my eyes and taking 
 the first bottle that comes. Great experiments 
 defy the arbitrary rules of scientific formulae. 
 You, my friend, shall share this great discovery 
 with me."
 
 i8 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 " Shall I ? " said the friend, without enthu- 
 siasm. He was only an ordinary man, and 
 connected discoveries with Government duty. 
 
 " Certainly," asserted the Doctor. " Here, 
 smell this mixture ; it has an exquisite 
 aroma." 
 
 " Hum well rather peculiar, isn't it ? " said 
 the friend, sniffing doubtfully at the crystal 
 fluid. " Rather reminds me of the decayed 
 remains of Hawthorne and Edgar Allen Foe. 
 
 " Bah ! " snapped the Doctor, " I ought to 
 have remembered that the nostril of the un- 
 imaginative man is lacking in delicate appre- 
 ciation." 
 
 " I always had an unreasonable dislike of 
 anything mouldering," sighed the ordinary 
 friend, " but I may improve in course of 
 time." 
 
 The Doctor put down the phial and took up 
 a glass rod. " You'll excuse my putting out the 
 light." 
 
 " Where was Moses " commenced the 
 
 ordinary friend to cheer himself up, but a 
 scowl from the other quenched him. 
 
 A faint phosphorescent gleam came from the 
 crystal fluid.
 
 A YELLOW CREEPER. 19 
 
 " You doubtless know," observed the scientist, 
 with gusto, " that the chemical constituent 
 R 2 OT 3 reacts on its agent P 4 IFF 5 LE 6 so as 
 to re-combine and deposit a neutral acid- 
 alkaline " 
 
 " Excuse me," said the ordinary friend, 
 modestly, "but I only took a Poll degree," 
 
 " Dear me, how unfortunate ! " deprecated the 
 Doctor ; " the Natural Science Tripos made me 
 the man I am. The practical papers aroused in 
 me a passion for experiment which will make 
 me a nuisance to every one for the rest of my 
 life. However, I will omit the scientific ex- 
 planation. Watch me. I take this glass in 
 my right hand and the globules in my 
 left " 
 
 The mind of the ordinary friend began to 
 wander. His memory reverted to childhood's 
 days, and to the annual conjurer at Christmas 
 parties. Then he fell into a troubled sleep, 
 with his head resting on a large bottle of 
 ammonia. 
 
 " Wake up ! " cried the Doctor, " you will miss 
 the experiment." 
 
 " Oh, why did I take lork and pobster? I mean 
 pork and lobster," gasped the friend, awaking
 
 20 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 with a start ; " I will be a porktotaler after 
 this." 
 
 " It is not matter that is affecting you, but 
 spirit," commenced the Doctor. The friend 
 looked indignant, but the other went on. 
 "What I mean is, you are approaching the 
 gurgling mysteries, the ghastly, unspeakable, 
 shuddering mysteries, that dwell in cheap 
 books. Man alive ! However can you pass 
 Smith's bookstall without shrinking appalled 
 in large-nosed, white-eared, terror from the 
 hideosities that abound there ? How can you 
 do it?" 
 
 "Answers to be received by the first post 
 on Monday, written on a postcard," murmured 
 the very ordinary friend. His mind was 
 wandering. 
 
 The Doctor gave him up, and returning 
 to his phial, dropped a small quantity of the 
 fluid on a young bluebottle lost in medita- 
 tion on a plate. For one moment the blue- 
 bottle paused stupefied ; then it lubricated 
 its legs together with violence, gave a fearful 
 buzz of despair, and turned into an old blow- 
 fly. Only for a second. It rapidly became a 
 red-bottle (" Best Scotch "), then an alligator,
 
 A YELLOW CREEPER. 21 
 
 a scarecrow, a Beardsley poster, and finally 
 dissolved into nothing. All this was viewed 
 by the light of a lucifer. 
 
 " This is the dreadful secret of personality," 
 remarked the Doctor. " Thus does the spirit 
 triumph over matter, and disregarding the 
 
 petty limitations of sense Blast ! . . . ! ! ! " 
 
 for the lucifer had burnt down to his fingers. 
 
 The ordinary friend got off a 'bus ten years 
 later, and nearly knocked down a man who was 
 getting in. 
 
 " You, Jim ! How changed you are ! " 
 
 " Aye," said Jim, with a haggard look (he 
 always said " aye " when he felt unwell. It was 
 more impressive than " yes "). Then seizing 
 the other by the arm, he conveyed him into 
 a " Bodega," feverishly drank off some raw 
 spirit, and muttered, " Excuse my incoherence 
 married life failure collect curios just 
 purchased collection of flies amongst them 
 bluebottle." 
 
 " It's portrait it's portrait," said the ordinary 
 friend, excitedly. 
 
 " Here," said Jim, producing a carte de visite. 
 " It has come between me and my wife. Yester-
 
 22 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 day I saw an alligator in the drawing-room. 
 Last night my wife saw a bottle of Scotch 
 whiskey in my study." 
 
 " This is indeed a blue story," said the 
 ordinary friend, " but I know that bluebottle, 
 it comes from the Doctor's laboratory. Kill 
 it, Jim kill it ! " 
 
 " I am an anti-vivisectionist," exclaimed Jim, 
 and rushed out, leaving the ordinary friend to 
 pay for the drinks. 
 
 I, Doctor Bunkum, have been asked to re- 
 count what I saw. My knowledge of the 
 English language is but slight, owing to the 
 excessive attention given in early manhood to 
 the classical subjects in the Little-Go. But 
 I will do my best. When I was called in, the 
 temperature of the room was 212 Fahr., and a 
 green twilight suffused everything. I am a 
 stolid man, but my pulse beat 599 to the 
 minute ; yet I retained my self-control. 
 
 The thing was buzzing fiercely after a dissi- 
 pated course of fly-papers. I felt its pulse, and 
 gave it a bottle of influenza mixture. It rapidly 
 grew worse ; it resembled a saneless, painless, 
 brainless lump of blue jelly. Neither male nor
 
 A YELLOW CREEPER. 23 
 
 female, animal, vegetable or mineral. Then it 
 began to dissolve. I have been at the Dissolu- 
 tion of Parliament, but never have I ! ! yet 
 
 words fail ! ! I crept under a copy of the West- 
 minster Gazette, and waited for the finale. No, 
 excuse me, I did not wait, I hurried out, wrote 
 down my impressions for the Public, and then 
 made my will. When these pages are being 
 read, I shall probably be either dead or living ! !
 
 III. 
 
 GOLDEN SYRUP. 
 (Dedicated to the Authoress of " Theodora.") 
 
 THE next day Garbage rose at 2 p.m. 
 " There is no doubt about it," said he, as 
 he allowed his ivory fingers to twine themselves 
 amongst his brilliantined locks ; " the fragment 
 is a most effective and affected form of com- 
 position ; and when one wishes to out-Ouida 
 Ouida, and out-Egerton Egerton, then ..." 
 
 A few minutes afterwards he was admiring 
 the sensuous curve of the sardines on his break- 
 fast-plate. The thick, silky oil caressed them 
 with a thousand oleaginous embraces ; and this 
 filled him with a mad, delicious, ethereal plea- 
 sure. Some men would have been stirred in 
 their coarse animal appetites. Not so Garbage ;
 
 GOLDEN SYRUP. 25 
 
 he regarded sardines from a spiritual standpoint. 
 And yet he was no ascetic, no dyspeptic. He 
 could rejoice in the fierce, biting vinegar and 
 the wildly stinging pepper as well as in the 
 clinging oil. Yet was he a marvel of self- 
 restraint ; and his friends wondered greatly when 
 they saw him lazily dividing the silver-grey fish, 
 and languidly removing the backbone to a side 
 of the plate. 
 
 " Hello ! " said Newdle, who looked upon 
 Garbage with a veneration which was as need- 
 less as it was idiotic. " Breakfast at this 
 hour ? " 
 
 A queer, thin, constrained, unmeaning smile 
 flickered over the mouth of Garbage. All sorts 
 of smart things occurred to him. . . . Alas ! 
 when the mind has almost freed itself from the 
 shackles of sense, and enveloped itself in non- 
 sense, then are we reminded, as he was, as we 
 all are, or were, or will be. ... Garbage sneezed. 
 
 At this sign of weakness, Newdle sprang to 
 his feet. 
 
 " Garbage, you have been thinking of her. 
 You . . . you like her ! Tell me candidly, frankly 
 never mind the Philistine what do you think 
 of her?"
 
 26 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Garbage convulsively pressed his ringer to his 
 upper lip, possibly to avoid another sneeze, then 
 he replied 
 
 " Think ? Surely, Newdle, you have found 
 out by now that thought is alien to my nature, 
 and nature alien to my thought. I subject my 
 soul to a keen, analytical, subjective, introspec- 
 tive probing. But if you follow me closely, you 
 will know what transcends even thought . . . 
 provided you keep a dictionary by you." 
 
 " A fishy story ? " queried Newdle, looking at 
 the sardines. 
 
 Garbage cracked a boiled egg with fine scorn. 
 
 " It is impossible to shock a novel-reader now- 
 adays. You must either tell a story in dialect 
 or indecently. Only Scotchmen can afford to 
 write cleanly ..." 
 
 At this moment the window blew open, and 
 directly Garbage felt the fresh air he fainted. 
 
 Before he could recover a host of critics 
 rushed into the room, armed with pens of the 
 finest tempered steel. 
 
 Mr. H y Q r designed the tombstone.
 
 IV. 
 
 A ASS FUGUE (MAESTROSO, 
 LARGHISSIMO}. 
 
 (Dedicated to H. B. M r t W n.) 
 
 HE stood on the doorstep with one foot 
 poised on the scraper. A variety of sen- 
 sations emotionalised him and made him feel he 
 would not have been as he was if he could have 
 been as he might have been. Some men, after a 
 good dinner such as he had enjoyed, might have 
 sat on the doorstep ; not so Cyril. Like others 
 of his family, he had, if not an iron will, at 
 least, a wooden head. And yet as he gnawed 
 his toothpick and stared at the knocker, queer 
 thoughts caused his nose to tremble and his 
 ears to waver rhythmically. He tried to forget 
 what had happened : he tried to imagine himself
 
 28 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 in his easy-chair, in bed, on the Alps, at the 
 North Pole, in the Planet Mars, anywhere but 
 on the steps of his own house, 13, Gromser 
 Gardens, S.W. It was a failure. In shutting 
 his eyes he only managed to knock off his hat. 
 So by the chaste beams of a street lamp he 
 gazed idly into the faces of the passing atoms 
 of humanity. Beneath him lay the ground, 
 overhead was the sky, omnibuses rattled by on 
 wheels, a cat burst into song, and a snail with a 
 past moved uneasily on the doorpost. Yes, the 
 conclusion was forced upon him that the great 
 world was rolling round as usual. And yet, 
 within him a human man, a biped with two 
 legs lay a mighty change ; beside which the 
 small change in his trouser pocket was as 
 nothing. His mind (unlike his Suede gloves) 
 was soiled with the memory of a reminiscence. 
 For, was not his wife learning cooking ? had she 
 not insisted, with the fanatical fury of an amateur, 
 upon cooking all the meals ? " It will save a 
 cook, dear, and be so much cheaper, and you 
 will fancy things cooked by your little wifey, 
 won't you ? " " Yes," had been his reply a reply 
 spoken in the indolent ease of ignorance. Ah ! 
 that fatal assent ; it had been the beginning of
 
 A BASS FUGUE. 29 
 
 the commencement, the incipiency of all. He 
 had wildly promised, reckless of life, health, and 
 happiness, to save up his appetite during the 
 day, until he could repast off the wife-cooked 
 viands in the evening. 
 
 The first day he had kept his promise. 
 Throughout the long hours of the night he had 
 bitterly repented his fidelity. If the path of 
 virtue and truthfulness were strewn with raw 
 meat and leaden pastry, welcome then the path 
 of deceit, unfaithfulness, and gastronomic peace. 
 On this the second day, allured by the smell 
 outside Gatti's of steaming dainties, he had 
 yielded to his natural inclination for a well- 
 cooked dinner, and . . . 
 
 So he chewed the toothpick gloomily, whilst 
 the Roederer and coffee flowed merrily through 
 his veins. 
 
 But it could not last. He gave a postman's 
 knock, and almost broke the bell ; then his head 
 fell and his eyes were downcast as he heard a 
 light step the other side. The door opened ; he 
 was vaguely aware of the servant's presence. 
 
 " Mistress in ? " he muttered, with a brusque 
 and elaborate indifference. 
 
 " Yes, sir."
 
 30 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Even the servant's voice was altered. Could 
 she read his secret ? Ah, there had been onions 
 with the steak. He brushed past her, and put 
 down his hat on the hall table. 
 
 " Your name, sir ! " 
 
 " My name ! " What ! was he so altered as 
 tJiat ? He buried his face in his hands. Was it 
 that this new life of deceit and shame had 
 branded him with an alien expression ? Too 
 terrible ! He raised his head, looked at the 
 servant steadily with an effort, and opened his 
 mouth to speak ; then his jaw fell, and he re- 
 mained silent. It was a new servant. 
 
 "When did you come?" said the man. 
 
 " What concern is that of yours," said the 
 girl, with hauteur and a rising colour. "Your 
 name ? " 
 
 "Insolence!" he muttered. " I am your master, 
 girl ! " 
 
 " Git out, or state yer business. Else I go for 
 master. Imperence ! " 
 
 She tried to turn up her nose, but nature had 
 given it such a celestial penchant, that the feat 
 was impossible. A door opened and there was 
 the rustle of a woman's dress. Cyril rushed 
 forward.
 
 A BASS FUGUE. 31 
 
 " Winny, what does this mean ? Do you 
 hear ? . . . Let me ..." He stopped. A dull, 
 sickening horror seized him. His burning eyes 
 scanned the carpet, the walls, the floor, and the 
 ceiling. The horror became a ghastly reality. 
 The toothpick fell from his mouth. He had got 
 into the wrong house. Then he rushed madly 
 away, tripped over a fat, asthmatic pug dog, and 
 caused it to be laid up for weeks on a bed of 
 suffering. On and down the steps he sped, the 
 ribald laughter from the servant girl and the 
 opprobrious remarks from the mistress following 
 him, and surging in his singing ears. 
 
 " This is not a Truth story," he shrieked, " it 
 is a serious, dramatic piece of imaginative work ; 
 no more anti-climaxes. Ten to one on a good 
 old ' curtain.' " 
 
 With these words he sped up the steps of 
 No. 13, a glazed, jaundiced, desperate look in 
 his eyes, like poached eggs at bay. 
 
 When in the hall he blew his nose. It was a 
 trumpet-call of challenge to the fates that pre- 
 side over short stories. A woman, dressed in a 
 soft, clinging, summer-saleish something, glided 
 into the hall. 
 
 Hers was no mere ephemeral and common
 
 32 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 beauty. Her face was of a rich and bewitching 
 neutral tint, and her complexion suggested culi- 
 nary analogies with half-baked pastry. There 
 was a bold, arched, imperative significance about 
 her Roman nose ; and the seductive curves of 
 the glinting spectacles were indescribable. 
 
 Now for it. Grinding his teeth together and 
 dashing his hat into a coal-scuttle, he hissed 
 out, with brutal frankness : 
 
 " Winny, I will not deceive you. I have 
 dined ! " 
 
 There was a dreadful silence, broken only by 
 the sound of the piano-organ playing " She only 
 answered ' Ting-a-ling-a-ling,' " and a passing 
 street arab yelling the music-hall ditty, " That's 
 what I call plucky." Otherwise all was still- 
 Then the woman spoke. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad of it, Cyril, for the pipes have 
 gone wrong to-day, so I didn't use the kitchen 
 fire, and I had to get my food out, so I hoped 
 you would do so. But," with a gentle nasal 
 emphasis that added a piquancy to an otherwise 
 monotonous voice, " / had a glass of milk with 
 mine." 
 
 Cyril leant against the umbrella-stand, and the 
 poached eggs looked more desperate than ever.
 
 A BASS FUGUE. 33 
 
 " Is that all ? " he murmured, in a broken 
 voice. " Am I to understand you refuse to faint, 
 or at least to open your arms, to stagger with a 
 white, ghastly face, and with lines pitiably drawn 
 round your mouth, or to call out ' Cyril ' with 
 heart-choking sobs. . . . Oh Winny, I did not 
 expect this of you ! This second anti-climax 
 has ruined my life ! " 
 
 As he spoke, a large, thoughtful-looking smut 
 trembled in the air ; and gradually settled down 
 upon his nose.
 
 V. 
 
 POSE FANCIES. 
 
 (Dedicated to R. Le G 11 e, author of " Prose 
 Fancies.") 
 
 SPRING. 
 i. 
 
 SPRING, with that amiable knack she has 
 of pleasing me, has leapt from the bosom 
 of Mother Nature, and is smiling upon us. 
 See ! She approaches the young wife, and into 
 her ear breathes a suggestion or two. At the 
 sound a soft, rapt look comes into the eager 
 eyes, and the word " cleaning " floats upon the 
 agitated air. The bedrooms will soon be 
 spangled with innumerable antimacassars, and 
 the brooding beetle will turn a sabler hue at the 
 thought that his doom is nigh. Let us away 
 
 34
 
 POSE FANCIES. 35 
 
 into the garden, my friend, to seek the vernal 
 beauties of thy small back yard ! Turn thy 
 gaze, clouded with the dust of beaten carpets, 
 on to the sluglings that are galloping around 
 in the dewy freshness of youth, and with the 
 mystery of a painless joy writ on their fair 
 young faces. Their quaint naivete recalls the 
 fabled, flying-horse Pegasus, or at least would 
 do so, did they but fly and were they larger in 
 size and faster in speed. Mark the caressing 
 tenderness of the elder slug, the clinging coy- 
 ness (such as thy white-eyed love was wont to 
 greet thee with) of her embrace, and the grey 
 glory of her delicate moulding. 
 
 To my way of thinking there is a strange loss 
 of charm when a slug becomes a silkworm, but 
 in the fleeting hours of slughood she attracts 
 my wayward fancy more than any other bird 
 (excuse, kind reader, the slight inaccuracy, but 
 the word insect is less euphonious). Oh, my 
 friend, crush that dull, prosaic spirit of thine ; 
 quell that cynical and worldly contempt ! and 
 reverently remove the boots from thy head when 
 the slug, Nature's crawling child, passes upon her 
 pilgrimage. 
 
 Why do we not indulge in such delicious
 
 36 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 caprices of locomotion ? Why brood we not in 
 dusky meditation on the green and cool-veined 
 cabbage ? Is it not because we are for ever bent 
 on doing something, because we so foolishly 
 fret ourselves with the eternal monotony of 
 mental activity ? Is it not because we are too 
 gross and awkward to rest on the leaf of the 
 cabbage with any degree of comfort ? 
 
 But revenons d nos limaces ! 
 
 See, the sluglings are retiring to roost ! We 
 must not awake them. 
 
 Dry thine eyes, my friend. 
 
 Having thus wasted our time so far, let us 
 pass on. 
 
 II. 
 
 Down in the depths of the old armchair there 
 is an absence of spring, a harshness, that pains 
 the sensitive nerves. Yet, shortly, some up- 
 holstering angel will arrive; spring will return 
 once more; the shrunken leather will become 
 smooth and plump, and we shall experience a 
 sense of comfort to which we have long been 
 strangers. 
 
 Behold (what were we talking about ? Ah, of 
 course, spring) behold that ancient cabbage
 
 POSE FANCIES. 37 
 
 a study in green and gold ; of what is it dream- 
 ing? Perchance of the lettuce days of youth, 
 perchance not. In the dark, dank hours of the 
 night I have often wondered and thought, and 
 thought and wondered why a grey-eyed girl 
 asked me, " If a herring and a half cost three- 
 pence, how much many " But I have 
 
 forgotten it. 
 
 III. 
 
 Who threw that rotten apple at me? You 
 say it was that red-nosed town urchin. Fie on 
 thee, child of the city ! Yet why fie ? Does it 
 not arise from the exuberance of a young child 
 rejoicing in the poetry of rural life ? Does not 
 his sweet young cockney accent attract, Orpheus- 
 like, the animal creation ? And yet, methinks, 
 Orpheus had no catapault. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The spring onion has a wonderful way of 
 bringing tears to the eyes. I have seen hard- 
 nosed burly men chewing it with brimful orbits. 
 A spring-gun has a similar effect on the emo- 
 tions, as I well remember when in the days of
 
 38 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 long ago that denizen of the woods mistook my 
 nether limbs for a cat. 
 
 Apropos of cats, what an expressive thing is 
 sympathy ! Observe, for instance, how, at elec- 
 tion times, like sleep in Coleridge's golden lines, 
 
 it is 
 
 " Beloved from poll to poll." 
 
 Surely it is not given to every man to dis- 
 course so daintily on spring. 
 
 ON BOOKS AND ANYTHING ELSE THAT I CAN 
 THINK OF. 
 
 The ineffable poetry of existence is being 
 destroyed by the cheap edition. Most mortals 
 nowadays (with the happy exception of myself) 
 are the victims of common sense. 
 
 Common sense is the patchouli of life : it 
 destroys the aromatic fragrance of romance. 
 Alas ! that Boccaccio now is but a synonym for 
 " Booksellers' Row." 
 
 Surely there is a fragile beauty about a dainty 
 volume of verse : its form is so slender, its 
 circulation so small. Is it possible to define 
 beauty ? The sage says, " No." Therefore let 
 us attempt it.
 
 POSE FANCIES. 39 
 
 Beauty is the jam upon the bread of life. 
 
 Life is the jam upon the bread of beauty. 
 
 Jam is the beauty upon the life of bread. 
 
 Which way will you have it ? The epigram 
 is equally profound each way. Happy is the 
 man who has a quiver full of patent reversible 
 aphorisms ! 
 
 What a glorious death it would be to die of a 
 surfeit of books ! a far nobler ideal than that 
 of the Persian poet Lhywis Carolwan, who- 
 warbled for 
 
 " Buns and buns and buns." 
 
 Books those nebulous neighings of neurotic 
 ninnies, those yellow rhodomontades full of 
 sound and fury signifying revolutions, those 
 mellifluous rose-bubbles sung in the Lane of 
 Bodley and echoed by the murmuring Logs of 
 Rolen. 
 
 There is beauty in the extracts of all essences, 
 did we but look for it. There is Beauty in the 
 Bellow of the Blast, as my favourite Japanese 
 poetess, Katisha, has often observed. 
 
 Even Religion is beautiful but I have given 
 that a pretty booklet to itself.
 
 40 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 A book should be pleasing to the eye and 
 satisfying to the ear. Give us a dainty cover 
 and a cool, creamy margin ; but the print oh, 
 the pity o't ! it looks so straight, so formal, so 
 black. Why have any print? Why anything 
 to sully the pure, undulating depths of uncut 
 edges ? Let us, like Nature, be careless of the 
 type. Thrice happy day when, in opening some 
 dainty dream of binding, the eye shall fall 
 lovingly on the beauty of blank pages. 
 
 ON MYSELF. 
 
 Some brother poet has remarked that " we rise 
 on stepping-stones ... to higher things." The 
 middle portion of this observation I have omitted 
 owing to its irrelevance. 
 
 Irrelevance is, none the less, a charming thing, 
 for on these few graceful irrelevancies the 
 stepping-stones of Spring and Books have I 
 risen to higher things in the shape of myself. 
 
 But having attained to that egotistic peak in 
 Darien, there is no reason why I should be 
 silent, and rather would I leave to others " the 
 wild surmise." 
 
 May I confess to a weakness ? Let me
 
 POSE FANCIES. 41 
 
 whisper it gently for fear the soft, long-eared 
 quadruped should murmur it in his love trills to 
 the albine, slim-necked bird not echo of classic 
 fame, but rather anser. My heart is bound in 
 limited edition cords to the maiden Levia. 
 True, I have flirted occasionally with Nobilia, 
 but indeed it was but a passing amour com- 
 mitted in the hot haste of youth and purple 
 cloth. And it has always been my aim to bear 
 in mind the advice of the Latin poet Nemo, 
 which I have freely translated thus : 
 
 " Be trivial, Poet : let who will be serious 
 Pen dainty mots; be neat and never long, 
 Thus making problems wherewith sages weary us 
 A sweet meat song ! "
 
 FANTASIE.
 
 CINQUANTE ANS APR&S. 
 
 (Dedicated to the shade of Alexandre Dumas, 
 author of " Trois Mousquetaires." " Vin'gt Ans- 
 Apres," &c.) 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCING THE HERO. 
 
 THE town of Abbeville was in a state of 
 intense political excitement. 
 
 Uproarious were the party cries. 
 
 Along the high-road galloped a young man,, 
 mounted on a noble steed. This young man 
 wore a sage-green cloak the colour being sug- 
 gestive in more ways than one. It was green 
 that denoted his youth ; it was sage that 
 denoted his wisdom. Yes ; though but nineteen, 
 he possessed the sagacity of a man three times 
 
 -45
 
 46 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 his age, and he had an intuitive knowledge of 
 human affairs which would have put mighty 
 Richelieu in the background. Yet, alas ! he 
 lacked one thing, for which even genius will not 
 compensate. 
 
 That thing was money. Gaston Merivale de 
 Paraphine was a poor man. 
 
 He cogitated on his hard lot as he rode along, 
 and gave a deep sigh, which encouraged a lame 
 man to importune him for alms. 
 
 " Au Diable /" cried the well-bred and idio- 
 matic youth. 
 
 Two men whom he met laughed as they 
 passed him. The bare idea that he had, 
 perhaps, a smut on his nose incensed our hero 
 beyond measure. With an ominous contraction 
 of his finely-cut lips, he circled the glistening 
 steel, and the next moment one man rolled a 
 headless corpse on the ground ; then, with his 
 left hand, he dealt the comrade a reeling blow 
 which killed him instantaneously. 
 
 The young man smiled scornfully ; he was 
 naturally kind-hearted, but the proud blood of 
 the Paraphines flowed in his veins. He dug 
 the spurs into his steed and was soon lost to 
 sight.
 
 CINQUANTE ANS APRES. 47 
 
 The Commissaire of the Police had watched 
 the scene from his bedroom window. He was 
 narrow-minded, and could not understand the 
 exuberant spirits of youth ; and whilst you, 
 reader, no doubt sympathise with the bold spirit 
 of our hero, the cold-blooded Commissaire was 
 preparing a warrant. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CONTAINING ANOTHER ADVENTURE OF THE 
 HERO. 
 
 The inn at Perigord, known as "Le Cochon 
 t le Sifflet," was renowned for its good fare. 
 Travellers rarely passed it by. 
 
 At sunset, on a certain day subsequent to the 
 events recounted in the previous chapter, a horse- 
 man came galloping up, dismounted, and, after 
 brief directions about his steed, entered the inn. 
 
 The host advanced for orders. 
 
 " I wish for a dinner, and that right sharply," 
 said the stranger, with that delicate courtesy 
 which is inbred in some natures. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 " Wine good ? "
 
 48 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 " The best in France, monsieur." 
 
 The youth (who is our hero, as the reader 
 may have surmised from the refinement of his 
 speech) glanced round him distrustfully. 
 
 " Has a stranger in a large, sky-blue hat been 
 here ? " he murmured, in hoarse tones. 
 
 " Oh no, monsieur." 
 
 " Good. Bring up two dozen of your choicest 
 Bordeaux, and, stop ! a fat capon." 
 
 The host bowed profoundly and departed. 
 
 The evening crept on, and Gaston, with the 
 healthy flush of youth on his cheeks, was just 
 completing his fifteenth bottle. Suddenly a 
 sound of horse's hoofs was heard, and a 
 tall, powerfully-built man entered, wearing an 
 enormous, sky-blue, felt hat, which, being de- 
 cidedly too large for him, concealed the upper 
 part of his face. Gaston leapt to his feet, a 
 fierce wave of passion traversing the classic 
 serenity of his aristocratic countenance. " Vil- 
 lain ! " he cried. " Draw instantly, or, 
 morbleu / you are a dead man." 
 
 A scornful light burnt in one of the stranger's 
 eyes, his hat being pulled down over the other. 
 
 " Host," said he, in deep, rich tones, " we 
 depute you to be seconds, doctor, and witness."
 
 CINQUANTE ANS APR&S. 49 
 
 The host evinced great distress, and, catching 
 his feet at the same instant against some empty- 
 bottles, he fell down with a resounding smack 
 and evinced even more distress. The sound of 
 clashing steel was heard for a few minutes ; 
 then suddenly, Gaston transfixed the blue hat 
 of his opponent. 
 
 Both stepped back in utter astonishment. 
 
 " Parbleu ! The friend of my childhood/" 
 ejaculated the youth, " Vicomte Bombominet." 
 
 " Gaston ! The only son of my dearest friend,"' 
 murmured the other, in tones husky with emo- 
 tion. 
 
 " But where did you get that hat ? " said our 
 hero, with sudden suspicion. 
 
 " I will tell you. It formerly belonged to> 
 my neighbour. On meeting him one day I 
 asked him whether he was in the ' blues.' He 
 answered not a word. I resented the insult: 
 and challenged him. He took no heed. En- 
 raged beyond measure I slew him, and wear his 
 hat as a trophy." 
 
 " My noble friend ! " said the youth, with 
 fervour. " 'Twas the Due de Popocatapetl, the 
 enemy of our house and kindred, who is stone 
 deaf." 
 
 4
 
 50 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 The friends embraced affectionately ; even 
 the innkeeper found difficulty in preserving an 
 impassive countenance. 
 
 " Some wine," demanded Bombominet, " and 
 let it be the best you have ! " 
 
 " What was the mystery of my father's life, 
 and how was he indebted to you ? " inquired 
 Gaston, when the wine appeared. 
 
 Bombominet first drank off three bottles in 
 succession, then cleared his throat, and said, 
 " It is a long story, but one that you should hear. 
 Your father from an early age evinced a tender- 
 hearted disposition, allied with sound business 
 instinct. When but a child, a pedlar came one 
 day to the house with wares ; your father im- 
 mediately brought down his dinner ('twas a 
 chaud-froid de mouton}, and gave it to the poor 
 man ; then, while the latter was thanking him, 
 he secretly purloined two of the best pocket- 
 knives from the pedlar's goods. It was not 
 surprising, therefore, that at the age of sixteen 
 he fell in love with a charming actress of thirty- 
 two, who had amassed a considerable fortune. 
 On both sides the parents were obdurate. He 
 resolved to carry her off. One evening he re- 
 ceived a note intimating that his great uncle
 
 CINQUANTE ANS APRES. 51 
 
 had expired, and had left his fortune to him. 
 He immediately resolved to comply with his 
 parents' wishes, and to marry as they desired. 
 He was hastening to tell them so when an aged 
 man accosted him. ' Be not rash,' he said, 
 ' letters may lie ; but not so the third cousin 
 of your grandmother's youngest nephew, who 
 bids you ' " 
 
 A snore interrupted Bombominet ; he looked 
 for his companion, but beheld him not ; he 
 looked under the table ; there lay Gaston in 
 profound slumber, embracing an empty bottle. 
 
 A weird smile illumined the stranger's coun- 
 tenance ; he softly withdrew, after finishing what 
 was left of the wine. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 Our hero awoke the next morning with a 
 racking headache, to find himself recumbent 
 on the floor, and affectionately embracing a 
 bottle. He smiled feebly : " Bombominet 
 arly walk s'pose," he murmured, as he brushed 
 a wandering beetle off his face. 
 
 " Well," he thought, as he sat down on the
 
 52 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 nearest chair, " I wonder how the charming 
 Leonie is this morning, likewise the adorable 
 Therese and the saucy Filette." He opened 
 his pocket-book, and drew forth three billets 
 doux which he lovingly regarded ; " and these," 
 he thought, " are from Madame Le Bceuf, my 
 butcher's wife, Prefet Justin's mother-in-law, 
 Madame Vinegre, and the last from my ex- 
 cellent bootmaker's aunt, a sweet woman 
 though somewhat advanced in years." These 
 ruminations were suddenly disturbed by mine 
 host with a bill. 
 
 " One hundred and twenty-five francs ! " mut- 
 tered the young man, as he nervously felt in his 
 pockets, but only brought to light his pocket- 
 book, a sombre-looking handkerchief, twenty 
 large brass buttons, and a purse containing a 
 few sous. 
 
 A thought struck him. "Bring my horse 
 round ! " he said ; and he secretly filled the 
 purse with buttons. 
 
 He dropped the purse with a princely air into 
 the innkeeper's hands, as he mounted his horse 
 and rode off. 
 
 " One of the old nobility," muttered the man,, 
 his eyes glistening with greedy satisfaction.
 
 CINQUANTE ANS APRES. 53 
 
 "A thieving adventurer !" he exclaimed, when 
 he noted the contents. 
 
 At this moment the Commissaire of the Police 
 and some followers appeared. 
 
 "Quick! you will catch him he is on the 
 high-road to Marseilles," howled the enraged 
 host, anticipating their inquiries. 
 
 " Onward ! " called the Commissaire to his 
 men. 
 
 Meanwhile our hero, who had almost for- 
 gotten the recent incident, was riding leisurely, 
 when, on looking back, he noticed horseman 
 rapidly advancing. 
 
 They were covering him on every side, leaving 
 no room for escape ; so murmuring, " A Para- 
 phine never runs away," he checked his steed 
 and awaited them with drawn sword. 
 
 " Consider yourself under arrest," said the 
 Commissaire as he came up, with as much stern- 
 ness as was possible, considering he was out of 
 breath. 
 
 " ParUeu! and why?" 
 
 The Commissaire motioned to a dark, silent 
 figure beside him. " Will you explain ? " he 
 said. 
 
 " Young man," began the stranger, with a
 
 54 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 gloomy smile, " I represent the reading public 
 so allow me to inform you that you are no- 
 longer popular." 
 
 Gaston grew pale with horror. 
 
 " The modern reader," continued the stranger, 
 " cares not to have his imagination harassed 
 with impossible escapades and incredible feats. 
 His soul revolts from the monotonous success 
 of a dissipated hero. His common sense will 
 not perplex itself with the triumph of vice 
 through one hundred and ninety-nine pages, and 
 virtue's victory on the two hundredth." 
 
 " No ! the modern hero must be something 
 more than a braggart roue. To be acceptable 
 to the reading public he must now pass through 
 at least six phases of religious belief." 
 
 " Alas ! I never passed through one," mur- 
 mured Gaston. 
 
 " He must expound social theories," resumed 
 the other, "the more heterodox the better. 
 He must quote from Henry George, and should 
 be well up in the various doctrines of Lassalle 
 and Karl Marx. 
 
 "Dialectics, moreover, are preferable to duels \ 
 and the villain need not be a duke, but should 
 be an Evangelical Dissenter, in order that he
 
 CINQUANTE ANS APR^S. 55 
 
 may have long arguments with the hero when 
 in his agnostic phase. 
 
 " The conversations need not show profound 
 thought, but must be smart and plausible " 
 
 " Stop ! " cried Gaston, " I can bear no more ; 
 am I no longer liked and admired ? " 
 
 " No, you are out of date completely," said 
 the stranger, with cruel distinctness. 
 
 Gaston Merivale de Paraphine fell from his 
 horse and expired without a groan.
 
 A CHRISTMAS MIXTURE. 
 
 (One teaspoonful taken twice a day after meals will 
 ensure a sound and refreshing sleep.) 
 
 / "T" N HE annual dinner of the " Royal Society 
 A of Pot-Boilers " was drawing to a conclu- 
 sion. All the best anecdotes had been told. 
 The speeches were over, in which everybody 
 had proposed everybody else's health, and 
 eternal friendships had been sworn between men 
 not generally on speaking terms. Perhaps the 
 Max Sutaine and '5 1 port had something to do 
 with this. Then some one proposed story- 
 telling, and the idea caught on. 
 
 A comic journalist who had had a compli- 
 mentary ticket, suggested telling the truth for a 
 change, but this witticism was received coldly, 
 and he retired abashed behind his filberts. 
 
 The Chairman called on the Realistic writer 
 56
 
 A CHRISTMAS MIXTURE. 57 
 
 to start. The Realist was in fine form, being 
 unusually dyspeptic. 
 
 " Christmas Eve was close and humid. Out- 
 side, a thick, sulphurous, fog wrapt everything in 
 its foul embrace. Inside, the gas-vitiated atmo- 
 sphere reduced Silas Moody to a state of inertia 
 and violent headache. 
 
 " He was sitting in a springless armchair, 
 cogitating over the past. A cricket hopped 
 gloomily towards the fireless grate. ' Poor 
 insect,' hissed Silas, with bitter scorn, 'wouldst 
 live in a world like this? Nay, foolish one, 
 seek Nirvana, since there is no sentimental 
 Dickens now to accord thee undue importance ' 
 and he crushed it with his foot. 
 
 " The discordant sound of cracked church 
 bells broke on the suffering air. Silas looked 
 out of his garret window, and through a gap in 
 the fog saw a dust-cart passing. ' Such is life,' 
 said he, fixing his eyes on the cobwebs in the 
 corner of the room. ' Little more than a mound 
 of refuse. In it, a few lucky wights find jewels, 
 more find bits of glass ; most find only ashes 
 and filth and what thinks she who lives with 
 me?' 
 
 " Here the leg of the chair came off, and he
 
 58 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 continued his soliloquy on the floor. ' The 
 world is a sewer ' " 
 
 "Time, time," interposed the Chairman, 
 hastily. " Would Mr. Buttercups now oblige ? " 
 
 Mr. Buttercups not only would but did. He 
 was a regular contributor to the " Family Slops " 
 and the " Infant's Drivel." 
 
 " ' Yes,' repeated Silas, ' the world is as sure ' 
 (an inarticulate protest from the Realist) ' to 
 prove a mine of blessing, a fountain of joy, a 
 land of plenty, an ocean of bliss, as ' " 
 
 " ' As the twentieth volume of the " Family 
 Slops," ' said his unmarried sister, who entered 
 at that moment, and brought down some of the 
 plaster from the ceiling with her ponderous 
 tread. Silas smiled joyfully. ' Sweet little Sis/ 
 he said, ' it shall cheer me with its radiance,' 
 and putting it into the grate he applied a 
 match. 
 
 "'Listen, Silly,' said little Sis, 'listen to 
 the message of the bells.' And she opened 
 the window letting in (' the fog,' snarled the 
 Realist under ( his breath) 'the joyful sound/ 
 which seemed to speak of the delights of a 
 didactic sister, who would read to him in silvern 
 tones some of Longfellow's worst poems when
 
 A CHRISTMAS MIXTURE. 59 
 
 he was lying on a bed of pain, bringing back a 
 flood of recollections " 
 
 A loud snore from the Chairman interrupted 
 the eloquence of the Domestic writer. Then 
 the Chairman suddenly awoke. " Shaving- 
 water," he murmured "I mean, Mr. Cupid 
 kindly take up the bottle that is to say the 
 thread of the story." 
 
 The Sentimental writer began in dulcet 
 tones 
 
 " In short, the bells reminded him that 'twas, 
 indeed, Merry Yule Tide, and Silas, or, as his 
 comrades jestingly dubbed him, Adonais, ran 
 his slender fingers through his curly hair, pas- 
 sionately kissed a coloured miniature, and gazed 
 dreamily at Gentle Luna, whose refulgent beams 
 cast a subdued light on his classic profile a 
 profile which a cloistered monk " 
 
 At this point Mr. Cupid stopped for breath, 
 and Mr. Curdler took advantage of the fact to 
 continue with the story. 
 
 " Even such a monk as he, whose dusky 
 portrait glaring at him through the gloom, 
 might have envied. Suddenly the sister 
 shrieked, ' Hist, brother ! has not the clock 
 struck twenty-nine ? Something is wrong.'
 
 60 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Subsequent events justified her words. The 
 floor gave a mighty crack, and she disappeared 
 from view. The fire burnt blue. Silas felt his 
 hair rising ; he rose also. There was a clanking 
 of chains, and a phosphorescent gleam, which 
 played over the cupboard where the cheese was 
 kept. ' Silas,' said a weird and sinister-looking 
 being, ' cease to think of her you love I, a 
 ghost, love her, and mean to keep her for myself. 
 Nay, think not to flee, two escaped maniacs are 
 in the drawing-room, another rival is outside 
 the door with a revolver, and a couple of blood- 
 thirsty uncles are coming down the chimney 
 armed with bowie-knives.'" 
 
 "Thank you," said the Chairman, politely, 
 " but some of us have some way to walk before 
 we reach home to-night. Now, Mr. Morbid, just 
 a little from you." The psychologico-physio- 
 logico-pathological writer went on 
 
 " ' Pish,' said Silas, to the phantom, ' what are 
 you but a diseased condition of the sensory 
 nerve ganglia reacting on the visual organs, and 
 giving rise to distinct subjective sensations ? 
 But you will find it all in any elementary phy- 
 siology.' Then he put on his hat, went out, and 
 picked a person's pocket. A few minutes later
 
 A CHRISTMAS MIXTURE. 61 
 
 he was explaining with compassionate indul- 
 gence to a policeman that he was but an auto- 
 maton the victim of hereditary impulse. 
 
 " ' My great-grandfather,' he observed, ' had a 
 violent temper, which has reappeared in me ! * 
 Here he knocked the policeman down, stamped 
 on him, and quietly resumed his way. 
 
 " ' No,' said Neuronica to him, an hour later, 
 ' you are a poor creature, and I do not love you ; 
 but I cannot help it, being a consistent deter- 
 minist. Yet I admit you are an interesting 
 study, so I will marry you.' 
 
 "'Be it so,' replied Silas. 'After all, what is 
 love ? Analyse it consider it from the sick- 
 liest standpoint, and it is but the glorifica- 
 tion ' " 
 
 " Please don't encroach on the lady novelist's 
 domain," put in the Chairman, firmly. "And 
 now, gentlemen, perhaps we had better stop." 
 
 Then he gazed sternly at the comic journalist 
 who had taken advantage of the story to finish. 
 up the rest of the port.
 
 THE NEW CINDERELLA. 
 AN UP-TO-DATE FAIRY TALE. 
 
 /CINDERELLA sat disconsolately by her 
 V ' boudoir fire. She was very unhappy, and 
 felt a great desire to sob. But she sternly re- 
 pressed this feeling, conscious that tear-stained 
 cheeks were unbecoming, and mindful of the 
 fact that a violent expression of emotion in 
 private was so much wasteful expenditure of 
 nervous force. True, her external surroundings 
 suggested every possible comfort and luxury. 
 She had an indulgent father, who made her a 
 handsome allowance, and slept resignedly during 
 her mandoline performances, and a self-sacrific- 
 ing mother, who ruined her nerves chaperoning 
 her girls during the London season. But affec- 
 tionate parents are a drug in the market, and
 
 THE NEW CINDERELLA. 63 
 
 Cinderella felt that mere affection and indul- 
 gence from parents grows painfully monotonous 
 after a time. She yearned for something more ; 
 her mind was in a ferment of unrest and dis- 
 satisfaction, for had she not just thrown aside 
 her latest craze, and there was nothing to take 
 its place? Bitterly she mused over past and 
 defunct fads, as she sipped her morning 
 chocolate (an institution she had borrowed 
 from an old French novel), and since there was 
 still half an hour before her mandoline master 
 came, she had ample time for indulging in the 
 luxury of grief. 
 
 How well she remembered ('twas one long 
 year since), when on returning from a Parisian 
 finishing school she had taken up private thea- 
 tricals, with such enthusiasm as a "finished" 
 young lady deemed it decorous to show. She 
 had commenced, of course, with easy parts, such 
 as Juliet and Lady Macbeth ; and after studying 
 simple rdles like these, she had aspired to 
 " higher things," which meant in her case subtle 
 and complicated psychological studies, provided 
 by some friend suffering from Ibsomania. Her 
 absurdly conventional parents protested against 
 this transition from the "legitimate" to the
 
 64 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 illegitimate drama, and the poor girl had to 
 relinquish second-rate psychology for skirt- 
 dancing. 
 
 Soon, however, this craze expired, and another 
 reigned in its stead. She went in for philan- 
 thropic dabbling ; recited unsuitable poems at 
 East End teas ; talked about " elevating the 
 masses " (as if she had been a kind of steam 
 crane) ; took umbrage because she fancied Mr. 
 Du Maurier caricatured her, and gave up 
 Punch and Philanthropy in disgust. 
 
 And then the futility and barrenness of 
 her existence appealed to her. She read in 
 one of the monthlies an article on Pessimism, 
 which enabled her to talk authoritatively about 
 the utter worthlessness of life. She poured out 
 her soul nightly in a strictly private and con- 
 fidential diary, expressed her sentiments in 
 violet ink, and complained that she was con- 
 scious of a baulked personality. 
 
 After a time this grew monotonous, and now 
 for the first time she envied her elder sisters, 
 who had only experienced one craze apiece, but 
 had stuck to it. Better be Secretary to the 
 Emancipated Women's Social and Political 
 Reformation League, like Priscilla, or write-
 
 THE NEW CINDERELLA. 65 
 
 turgid prose full of asterisks and hysterics, like 
 Isabel, than be absolutely crazeless ! 
 
 " Anything I can do for you in the way of 
 crazes ? " said a voice. 
 
 Cinderella looked up, and saw her fairy god- 
 mother standing beside her, though she had 
 substituted for the conventional cone hat the 
 latest fashion in bonnets, and carried a parasol 
 for a wand, since even a fairy should not be 
 behind the times. 
 
 " La vie est vaine," sighed Cinderella. 
 
 "You've got it badly, I am afraid," said the 
 fairy, reflectively ; " but I know what you want : 
 you wish to rise above the petty trammels of 
 sex ; to have scope for developing your individu- 
 ality ; to escape from the paralysing monotony 
 of home-life : here is the grand secret you. 
 must write a novel ! " 
 
 " I never could," began Cinderella. 
 
 " I never said you could" interposed the other, 
 sharply ; " I said you must. If only people who 
 could write novels did so, what do you think 
 would become of the circulating libraries ? " 
 
 Cinderella felt unable to cope with this poser. 
 " Well," she said, " I can try. Father has one or 
 two translations of German Rationalistic The- 
 5
 
 66 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 ology. If I read those, I suppose I shall be 
 qualified ? " 
 
 "Certainly not," replied ', the fairy, contemp- 
 tuously. "The popularity of the theological 
 novel is on the wane. Mudie's patrons are 
 growing tired of weak-kneed clergymen and 
 agnostic moral giants. They have been fed so 
 long on religious doubts that they want a 
 change of mental diet, for they have positively 
 no room for one doubt more. No, the youthful 
 hero who once spoke so touchingly about pretty 
 religious myths, and who quoted Strauss, Baur 
 and Renan in tete-a-tete with his fiancee must 
 now garnish his small talk with extracts from 
 Griesinger, Ribot, and Maudsley." 
 
 The fairy tapped Cinderella's writing-table 
 with her parasol, and a small parcel of books lay 
 on the table. " Here are ' Diseases of the 
 Brain,' by Forbes Winslow, Quain's ' Medical 
 Dictionary,' and a treastise on ' Heredity.' 
 With these your literary outfit is complete. 
 Imbue your mind with every grade of mental 
 pathology, and the product will be a sickly 
 exotic of first-class morbidness. Appear to 
 sneer at all your characters which may not be 
 so difficult as you imagine. Style is immaterial,
 
 THE NEW CINDERELLA. 67 
 
 provided it glitters with inversions of the com- 
 monplace called by some, epigrams. And 
 now, my dear, good-bye." 
 
 " Stop a minute," said Cinderella ; " I have 
 some verses which nearly every editor and 
 publisher has refused. Can I make no use 
 of them ? " 
 
 " Oh yes," said the fairy, drily, " there is always 
 a last resource for rejected poets." She waved 
 her parasol, and in a twinkling fifty large-paper 
 copies, duly signed and numbered, appeared 
 instead of the soiled MSS. 
 
 Cinderella almost clapped her hands. Luckily, 
 she recalled herself in time, before committing 
 such a barbarity. " Now I shall become talked 
 about and paragraphed, and even my depres- 
 sions will be a pleasure when I can confide them 
 to interviewers." 
 
 " Yes, you will be quite the rage for a time." 
 " And become quite famous, shall I not ? " 
 "Well, that's another story," said the fairy, 
 with a smile. " But I must say good-bye, since 
 other Cinderellas await me."
 
 "HOW TO BE A DRAMATIC CRITIC." 
 AN IMAGINARY SCENE. 
 
 I WAS borne along, with the crowd of eager 
 young journalists, to the New Dramatic 
 Institute, which had been recently opened. 
 Large posters outside the building advertised 
 a series of short lectures for 3 p.m., on " How 
 to be a Dramatic Critic " ; but, owing to the 
 number of men bent on the same errand as 
 myself, I was able to make my way but 
 slowly. 
 
 We passed by numerous lecture-rooms, in 
 one of which a gentleman, whose name was 
 either Jones, Brown, or Robinson, was holding 
 forth on the " Inferiority of Religion to the 
 Drama as a moral educator for the people " ;
 
 "HOW TO BE A DRAMATIC CRITIC." 69 
 
 whilst on the doors of another room I noticed 
 a placard stating that a university professor was 
 lecturing on the " Advantages of a Classical 
 Education for writing opera-bouffe and bur- 
 lesques." 
 
 A programme was thrust into my hands as I 
 pressed into the lecture-hall, and on glancing at 
 it I found that two well-known critics were 
 going to expound their views on the subject of 
 dramatic criticism, and that various minor lights 
 would also speak on the subject. 
 
 The first was already about to speak as a 
 representative of the Impressionist School. 
 
 He told us that we were at all costs to be 
 artistic ; that violent abuse was a sign of 
 bourgeoisie, of an uncultured mind. The busi- 
 ness of the critic, he said, was to enjoy as much 
 as was possible ; when he could not enjoy, let 
 him delicately insinuate that he was bored, 
 {metaphorically], shrug his shoulders, and pass 
 on to a more agreeable topic. Let him taste 
 the various dramatic dishes, and report to the 
 public how they affected his palate. 
 
 This lecturer concluded his remarks by chalk- 
 ing up on a blackboard a specimen of " Im- 
 pressionistic " criticism, hypothetically assuming
 
 70 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 that Mr. Irving had produced a play of Shak- 
 speare's. 
 
 " What was it like ? How did it affect me ? 
 Well, let me think. I have a pleasant re- 
 membrance of green, swaying boughs and 
 charming rural scenery, grimly frowning battle- 
 ments and the hoarse cries of a rude soldiery. 
 The most delightful harmony of colours in 
 Act 3 proved most grateful to the eyes, and I 
 could almost have imagined that I was in some 
 sequestered glade in the South of England, had 
 I not been forcibly reminded that I was in the 
 Strand, by the extreme narrowness of my stall. 
 (Mr. Irving, by the by, ought really to give us 
 more commodious stalls say like those at the 
 Empire.) 
 
 "I confess frankly that I did not enjoy Act 4. 
 Yes, I know the acting was fine, but one of 
 the peasants had a spot on his nose, which 
 appeared to increase in size each time he said ? 
 ' A right good welcome, my liege ' ; this was 
 irritating. 
 
 "A great deal of admiration has been ex- 
 pended on the magnificent interior in Act i. 
 It may be bad taste, but I positively disliked 
 it. It reminded me of an old painting which
 
 "HOW TO BE A DRAMATIC CRITIC." 1\ 
 
 used to hang up in my grandmother's drawing- 
 room, just over the corner in which I (often, 
 alas !) stood for punishment. And the acting. 
 That on the whole was supremely satisfying. 
 Miss Terry, with her sweet, kittenish movements 
 and picturesque draperies, was a treat to watch 
 and listen to. As for Mr. Irving, there is 
 always a soupgon of diablerie about anything he 
 undertakes. Can I describe my feelings when 
 he first came on ? As a certain character in 
 one of Moliere's masterpieces says, ' C'est 
 impossible ! ' I have seen Mr. A. throw more 
 tragic intensity into the part ; I have seen 
 Monsieur B. display greater emotional power, 
 and Signer C. portray finer intellectual subtlety. 
 But Mr. Irving played it as only Mr. Irving 
 can, &c., &c." 
 
 The Impressionist advocate now gave place 
 to a representative of the Analytical and 
 Hypercritical School. 
 
 I was unable to catch all his earlier remarks, 
 but from what I did hear he appeared to be 
 deploring the fact that there was no modern 
 English play worthy of serious criticism, and 
 he warned would-be critics that they must 
 look abroad say to Scandinavia did they
 
 72 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 wish to find any drama worthy of the critic's 
 art. 
 
 As for style, he recommended a confident 
 and dogmatic tone, free from flippancy, and 
 chary in praise. 
 
 He concluded, like the previous lecturer, with 
 a sample on the blackboard, which he assured 
 us would, with very few alterations and addi- 
 tions, do for any Shakspearean revival at the 
 " Lyceum." 
 
 " I commend Mr. Irving for choosing this 
 play by the Elizabethan dramatist, because, 
 although one of the worst acting plays con- 
 ceivable, it is, nevertheless, a fine piece of 
 literature. I quite admit that Shakspeare was 
 much, if not altogether, indebted to a German 
 romance current about 1560, for the story of 
 the play, nevertheless . . . (here supply various 
 historical details interspersed with learned re- 
 marks about the ' quarto ' and ' folio') ... I regret 
 that I must dissent from my friend Mr. X., and, 
 in fact, from all other critics, as to the value of 
 Mr. Irving's interpretation of the principal role. 
 
 " To have succeeded, he ought, I take it, to 
 strike at first a subdued note, then rise to Act 4 
 in a gradual crescendo of passion. The famous
 
 "HOW TO BE A DRAMATIC CRITIC." 73 
 
 soliloquy (or soliloquies, as the case may be), 
 should be delivered free from rant, yet with 
 strong emotional force, flavoured with a sugges- 
 tion of intellectual reserve. 
 
 " His acting at the beginning of the Act 
 should be in the spirit of genuine melodrama ; 
 in the middle, that of pure comedy ; at the end, 
 emphatically that of pure and simple tragedy. 
 But Mr. Irving does not realise this conception 
 at all, &c." 
 
 This gentleman was followed by various 
 others, each advocating different principles and 
 formulating diverse rules. 
 
 The advocate of ordinary descriptive journa- 
 lese advised us to give as much attention to 
 the audience as to the piece ; to note the 
 various celebrities present, and watch when they 
 laughed and applauded. As for the acting, it 
 was always safe to say that " Miss Terry was 
 the personification of womanly grace," that Mr. 
 A. acted in his " usual vigorous style," and that 
 Miss B. " won golden opinions." 
 
 There was something at once familiar and 
 strange about these remarks and samples. As 
 I wended my way out of the Institute, I 
 racked my brain to discover where and when I
 
 74 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 had seen or heard something very like this, and 
 whilst I cogitated 
 
 I awoke, and behold, it was a dream !
 
 THE GAME OF INTERVIEWING. 
 (With rules and full directions.) 
 
 THIS amusing and instructive game may 
 be learned in a very short time, and 
 will prove a diverting pastime in long winter 
 evenings. 
 
 Only two people are required the interviewer 
 and the interviewee : of these the former is the 
 more important. Any child may learn this 
 game, provided his father can fight : for un- 
 limited cheek and a fertile imagination are the 
 only requisites. The latter especially will be 
 found useful, should the notes of the interview 
 get lost before publication. There are two 
 things to be kept in view when playing this 
 game: (i) Always question the interviewee on 
 matters with which he is not conversant ; (2) 
 
 75
 
 76 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Never neglect the conversational machine (given 
 gratis), which will expand the most barren 
 interview into one, two, or three columns, as 
 required. 
 
 Appended are various examples : 
 
 i. THE LITERARY INTERVIEW. 
 
 {A chat with Mr. Blank, the celebrated Novelist 
 and Poet.) 
 
 Directly I entered the portal of Gimcrack 
 Villa I felt that there was a distinct literary air 
 about the place a kind of cultured draughti- 
 ness as it were. 
 
 I awaited the arrival of Mr. B. in the charm- 
 ing little drawing-room. By the fire sat a 
 favourite cat with a Sterne-like smile upon its 
 countenance, and there was a parrot by the 
 window which, by his observations, I con- 
 jectured to be a student of Fielding. 
 
 " You look harassed, Mr. B.," I remarked, 
 after we had cordially shaken hands. " You 
 are suffering from mental strain, consequent 
 
 " No," he said, with a deprecating smile.
 
 THE GAME OF INTERVIEWING. 77 
 
 "True, my work is arduous, but well the 
 fact is my daughter is learning cookery ; we 
 had experiments for lunch to-day." 
 
 I nodded feelingly, and was seized with sym- 
 pathetic dyspepsia. 
 
 After a moment's painful silence I inquired, 
 " Now as to your last novel, concerning which 
 so many eulogistic reviews " 
 
 " I never read reviews of my own books," he 
 interposed, quickly, adding sotto voce, " I get 
 other people to read them to me. True," he 
 continued, slowly closing one eye (a peculiar 
 habit of his, and particularly characteristic of 
 talented men), " I hear casually that I am com- 
 pared to Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, Balzac, 
 Hugo. Pope, and, of course," with a gentle 
 smile, " I have been hailed as another Tennyson, 
 a new Browning. I do not think much of these 
 terms. I cannot tell you," he added, earnestly, 
 " how pained I am when I hear friends say that 
 I remind them of Shakspeare or Goethe." 
 
 I admitted that it must be very painful. 
 
 " Be original, is my motto," said Mr. B., with 
 enthusiasm, knocking down a cheap vase and 
 kicking the cat accidentally. " Educate the 
 public taste with your literary wares and you
 
 78 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 will provide food for them that will be fit for 
 
 " Cat's-meat," interjected the parrot, inappro- 
 priately, with an eye fixed on pussy's tail. 
 
 Mr. B. laughed, though not heartily. Fearing 
 he was growing tired, I changed the subject. 
 " Is it true you dislike gooseberry jam ?" 
 
 " Absolutely false," repudiated the litterateur, 
 with vehemence, " please contradict it. Now 
 had the rumour been about raspberry jam I 
 would have admitted the truth " he hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 " Powders when a boy ? " said I. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 The ornamental clock on the mantlepiece, 
 the hands of which pointed to one o'clock, here 
 struck seventeen, so I concluded it was time for 
 me to depart. And, as Artemus Ward would 
 say, " I wen ted." (If you desire to use the 
 serious stop, and not the comic, in the conver- 
 sational machine, you can conclude : " And thus 
 mentally braced up by my chat with this in- 
 vigorating thinker I departed, and leaving the 
 cosy room, the home of the Muses, plunged 
 into the atmosphere of the London streets.")
 
 THE GAME OF INTERVIEWING. 79 
 
 2. THE PARADOXICAL INTERVIEW. 
 
 (N.B. This variation is very rare and extremely 
 trying. It must be used with caution.) 
 
 " May I have a few minutes with you, Mr. 
 Glitter ? " 
 
 Mr. Glitter was emerging from a confec- 
 tioner's, and he flicked the crumbs off his mouth 
 with an old-fashioned grace. 
 
 " A bun," he remarked, opening a cigarette- 
 case inlaid with rubies, and producing a cigarette 
 veritably gold-tipped. " A bun is the uneatable 
 designed " 
 
 " Please tell me about yourself," I asked, 
 humbly (hoping to lead him away from the 
 epigrams so familiar to the public). 
 
 " Myself," said the great man, dreamily 
 watching the blue smoke curling from the 
 cigarette. (! I should talk on, on, for ever. 
 This personality " (with an artistic flourish 
 towards himself) " is an inexhaustible topic of 
 converse ; a theme rich in suggestiveness ; a 
 spring of undying originality but, shall I waste 
 it?" 
 
 I clutched my umbrella timidly. 
 
 " You, you a journalist ? " He regarded me
 
 8o LOST CHORDS. 
 
 with bitter scorn. Then shortly and distinctly, " I 
 loathe journalists and wasps, dramatic critics and 
 black beetles in fact, everything but myself." 
 
 I opened my umbrella for protection, but he 
 became abstracted, so I closed it again. 
 
 " The public admire you," I said, almost in 
 a whisper, fearing another outbreak. 
 
 " The toad likes the sun," said Mr. G. " Does 
 it follow that the sun likes the toad ? If the 
 toad likes the warmth of the sun, is it not 
 natural ? " 
 
 He threw the end of his cigarette away and 
 resumed (here I felt so unwell in my mental 
 efforts to elucidate his meaning that I became 
 oblivious to what followed). 
 
 A slight turn of the conversational machine 
 will make the interview up to the requisite 
 column. 
 
 3. THE THEATRICAL INTERVIEW -(FEMALE). 
 
 (N.B. If the interviewee is ugly, refer to her as 
 interesting ; if plain, speak of her as charming 
 and attractive ; if pretty consult the dictionary 
 for adjectives.) 
 
 " Tea ? " said Miss Frolic, with a charming 
 smile.
 
 THE GAME OF INTERVIEWING. 81 
 
 " Thank you one lump, please thanks, very 
 much." 
 
 " And do you like the stage, do you " 
 
 " Oh, please not so quick." She threw back 
 her head with a dainty movement. " Of course 
 one likes to feel one has magnetised one's 
 audience; one" (Miss Frolic modestly avoided 
 the obstructive ego) " likes to feel the audience 
 are, so to speak, in one's power ; yes, I sup- 
 pose my song ' Oops-a-diddle, dum-do ' is a 
 success." 
 
 " Overwhelming," was my enthusiastic reply. 
 
 " Not that I only care for the stage," she put 
 in, with pretty eagerness. " No, I am training 
 pet snails to turn somersaults. Then I dote on 
 books " 
 
 " Ah," I said, interested, " please tell me your 
 opinion on the disadvantages of a complex 
 civilisation ! " 
 
 But we will stop our samples here, since 
 enough have been given to show the fascinating 
 character of this ingenious game.
 
 THROUGH THE (POLITICAL} LOOK- 
 ING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE 
 SAW THERE. 
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE FRAGMENT. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 WHITE KING . . Lord Rosebery. 
 
 WHITE QUEEN . . Sir William Harcourt. 
 
 A WHITE PAWN . . Mr. Campbell Bannerman 
 TWEEDLEDUM ) 
 
 TWEEDLEDEE/ ' ' **"* &***** 
 
 " r I ""HEY don't keep this house so tidy as 
 J. the other," Alice thought to herself, as 
 she noticed several members with their hats 
 over their eyes, and their legs sprawling all 
 about the place. 
 
 Here something began squeaking on the 
 front fender, and made Alice turn her head in 
 
 time to see a White Pawn replying to some 
 
 82
 
 THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS. 83 
 
 questions that had been put to him. Alice 
 watched curiously to see what would happen 
 next. 
 
 "It is the voice of my child!" the White 
 Queen cried out, as she rushed into the lobby. 
 
 A bell rang somewhere, and after the tumult 
 had subsided Alice noticed that the White 
 King, who had just hurried up from Durdans, 
 was knocked over. 
 
 " My precious Bannerman ! my expert Secre- 
 tary ! " cried the White Queen, wringing her 
 hands. 
 
 The King was sulky. He had been hurt 
 not to say surprised by the fall, and felt 
 entitled to be a little annoyed. He murmured 
 a few lines from Longfellow's poem on " Resig- 
 nation " to himself. 
 
 When the Queen had recovered herself a 
 little she called out to the White King, " Mind 
 public opinion ! " 
 
 " What public opinion ? " said the King, look- 
 ing anxiously toward Epsom, as if he thought 
 that was the most likely place to find it. 
 
 " Look out for the General Election," panted 
 the Queen; "mind the Unionists do not get 
 in."
 
 84 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 They then consulted together in frightened 
 whispers. 
 
 " The horror of this crisis," remarked the 
 King, " I shall never forget ! " 
 
 " You will, though," the Queen said, " if you 
 happen to get into power again." 
 
 Alice looked on with interest as the King 
 took out a note-book and began writing. A 
 sudden thought struck her, and she took hold 
 of the end of the pencil and began writing for 
 him. 
 
 The poor King looked puzzled and unhappy, 
 and at last he panted out, " I can't manage this 
 pencil a bit ; it writes all manner of things I 
 don't intend." 
 
 " What manner of things ? " said the Queen, 
 looking over the book (in which Alice had put 
 " Sir Visto won the last Derby, Sir Veto will 
 lose the next one "). " I hope that's not a 
 memorandum of your feelings." 
 
 There was a book lying near by, and while 
 she sat watching the White King Alice turned 
 over the leaves to find some part that she could 
 read, " for it's all in some strange language I 
 don't know," she said to herself. Then a bright 
 thought struck her. "Why, it's a canvassing
 
 THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS. 85 
 
 book ! " she exclaimed ; " and here are some 
 verses called ' The Jabberrotter, a warning to 
 the borough voter at Election time.' " 
 This is what she read 
 
 " 'Twas Julig, and the canvas droves 
 
 Did gas and quibble in the street ; 
 All heckly were the borough coves, 
 The candidates discreet. 
 
 ' Beware the Jabberrot, my son ! 
 
 The words of rant, the phrases catch ! 
 Beware the pot-house bribe, and shun 
 
 The vagrant voter snatch ! ' 
 
 And as in muddled thought he stood, 
 The Jabberrot of canvas fame, 
 
 Came purely for the voters' good, 
 And piffled when he came ! 
 
 ' It is not true. What, vote for you ! 
 
 Who wants to see your party back ? ' 
 The voter said ; the monster fled 
 
 And tried another tack. 
 
 ' And hast thou snubbed the Jabberrot ? 
 
 Crow not so fast, my simple boy ! 
 See others come ! a few, a lot ! 
 
 And smile with fearful joy.' 
 
 'Twas Julig, and the canvas droves 
 Did gas and quibble in the street ; 
 
 All whimsy were the borough coves, 
 The candidates discreet."
 
 86 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 " It seems very exciting," said Alice, when 
 she had finished it, " but it is rather hard to 
 understand ! However, there's a contest some- 
 wliere about something that's clear, at any rate. )r 
 
 Suddenly Alice became aware of two huge 
 posters, one underneath the other. One was 
 marked " Vote for Tweedledum, and free tea 
 and treacle all the year round." The other was 
 marked, " Vote for Tweedledee, and twopenny 
 twists of tobacco every other Thursday." 
 
 " They both seem very generous," said Alice ; 
 " I'll just go and see what they are like." 
 
 They were standing on opposite sides of the 
 road, shaking their fists at one another. 
 
 "If you think we're not friendly you're mis- 
 taken," said Tweedledum. " Our animosity is 
 purely political, quibbler ! " 
 
 "Word Juggler!" responded the other, 
 warmly. " You're quite right apart from an 
 inherent political dishonesty and intellectual 
 meanness, I've the greatest respect for you." 
 
 (Then both together.) " We're going to pur- 
 sue this contest without any personalities what- 
 ever. The personal element (contrary to all
 
 THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS. 87 
 
 other similar contests) will be quite elimi- 
 nated." 
 
 Here they both shook hands watchfully, and 
 without enthusiasm. 
 
 " I don't know what you're thinking about," 
 said Tweedledum, "but I'm in favour of it, 
 decidedly." 
 
 "So am I," said Tweedledee, "so don't let 
 that prevent you from voting for me." 
 
 " I haven't got a vote," remarked Alice. 
 
 " More she has," said Dum and Dee, gazing 
 blankly at each other. " Then why are you 
 taking up our valuable time ? Do you suppose 
 any human being without a vote can interest a 
 candidate ? " 
 
 " Don't irritate her," whispered Dee, " she 
 may have a vote some day." (Then aloud) 
 " Let me repeat you a poem." 
 
 " Is it political ? " asked Alice, doubtfully. 
 
 " Well yes in a sort of way," said Dee, 
 with a smile. " But if you want to ask any 
 question, hand it up to the chairman, and 
 it shall be answered in due course after the 
 resolution in favour of my candidature has been 
 carried." 
 
 " It's poor stuff," remarked Dum, with a
 
 88 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 superior smile, " but you'd better listen to it ; it 
 will show to what depths of doggerel and abysses 
 of inanity political verse can descend." 
 
 Tweedledee murmured something about the 
 law of libel, and then consulted the " Corrupt 
 Practices Act" to see whether he might pull 
 the other's nose. Obtaining no information on 
 this point, he pulled it metaphorically, and 
 commenced 
 
 " The Premier and Radical 
 Were standing side by side. 
 
 ' We two,' remarked the Radical, 
 4 Can never be allied.' 
 
 And this was odd, because, you know, 
 They subsequently tried. 
 
 The Chancellor and Socialist 
 Were walking close at hand ; 
 
 The Fabian's Clarion voice denounced 
 The rich man holding land. 
 
 4 If this were only nationalised,' 
 He said, ' it would be grand.' 
 
 ' If Hardie (Keir) and Fabians 
 ' Ruled England for a year, 
 
 ' Do you suppose,' the Fabian said, 
 4 Utopia would be here ?.' 
 
 4 1 doubt it,' said the Chancellor 
 And taxed the bitter beer.
 
 THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS. 89 
 
 * The time has come,' the Premier said, 
 
 ' To talk about arrears, 
 Of Local Veto, Church in Wales, 
 
 ('Twill calm each section's fears), 
 And why Macgregor went away, 
 
 And whether Lords are peers ? ' 
 
 4 But wait a bit,' the Irish cried, 
 
 ' You're really rather cool, 
 Pray what about your promises 
 
 Relating to Home Rule ? ' 
 
 * No hurry,' said the Radical, 
 
 1 I'm not a perfect fool.' 
 
 ' To smash the Lords,' the Premier said, 
 
 ' Is what we chiefly need ; 
 Home Rule and Disestablishment 
 
 Are very good indeed. 
 Now, if you're clever, Irish, dear, 
 
 You'll understand my lead.' 
 
 * I fear we don't,' the Irish cried, 
 
 Turning a little blue ; 
 ' After our Gladstone, it is sad 
 
 To put our trust in you.' 
 1 I've knighted Irving,' said the peer ; 
 
 ' What more could Premier do ? ' 
 
 ' It seems a shame,' the Premier said, 
 
 ' To write me down a stick, 
 After my foreign policy, 
 
 Which is the Hatfield trick.' 
 The Radical said nothing but 
 
 ' The programme's spread too thick.'
 
 90 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 ' Electors,' cried the Premier, 
 ' You see the work we've done ; 
 
 Now put us into power again ! ' 
 But answer came there none 
 
 And this was scarcely odd, because 
 The other side had won." J 
 
 1 Most of the above verses appeared in the Globe for 
 May 25, 1895.
 
 AIRS.
 
 THE MODERN YOUNG MAN TO HIS 
 LOVE. 
 
 (Marlowe up to date.) 
 
 COME live with me and be my love, 
 And we will all the pleasures prove 
 That club and latchkey will provide, 
 Since such delight a modern bride. 
 
 Should I deny thee any boon, 
 Solicit then Sir Francis Jeune : 
 And if domestic duty palls, 
 O drown dull care in music-halls. 
 
 A risky novel shalt thou write, 
 Conventionality indict 
 With sentiments exceeding bold, 
 Where men are dross and women gold. 
 
 93
 
 -94 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 I grieve to ask thee, dearest Nan, 
 To wed " that odious creature man " 
 Nor would I press the slavish ring, 
 But 'tis, I think, the usual thing. 
 
 Still, after all I've said to-day, 
 
 I cannot ask thee to obey : 
 
 So if these pleasures may thee move, 
 
 Then live with me and be my love !
 
 SEASONABLE THOUGHTS. 
 
 (WRITTEN DURING THE HOT MAY TERM OF 1893.) 
 
 (With Apologies to the shade of R. B.) 
 
 OTO be in Cambridge, 
 Now that April's there ! 
 And whoever wakes in Cambridge, 
 Wakens in a sultry glare, 
 Which makes one sigh for the primitive leaf ; 
 Then, the flower-tout fills the lodger with grief, 
 For " any old bags, sir ? " 's a bore you'll allow 
 In Cambridge now. 
 
 And after April when May follows, 
 And the Tripos man in the thick tome wallows 
 Mark how the crafty coach will spread his snare 
 To catch some desperate youth, once a gay rover, 
 
 95
 
 96 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Who dreams of lists, his name, alas ! not there, 
 Then that fool Jones bawls all his songs twice 
 
 over, 
 
 As if the tune he never could quite capture, 
 With his too careless rapture. 
 Yet, though Exams now darken many lives, 
 All will be gay when the " May week " arrives, 
 When pretty girls assert their pristine power, 
 Much nicer than this tedious lecture hour.
 
 LOCKSLEY HALL. 
 (During Spring Cleaning.) 
 
 OISTERS, leave me here a little, till the 
 w_/ cleaning out is done ; 
 Leave me at my club, O mother, leave your 
 noise-distracted son. 
 
 In the Spring domestic earthquakes banish 
 
 every thought of rest ; 
 In the Spring the busy housewife makes herself 
 
 a daily pest. 
 
 In the Spring the annual cleaning cleaning ? 
 
 Ah, well, there's the rub 
 In the Spring the young man's fancy quickly 
 
 turns to thoughts of club. 
 
 Many a morning waked I early with the burly 
 
 workman's tread, 
 While I watched a scraggy hatstand looming 
 
 darkly near my bed. 
 
 7 97
 
 98 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Many an evening was I greeted by the sickly 
 smell of paint, 
 
 Found my father fuming frantic, and my sisters- 
 feeling faint. 
 
 O my mother's vernal madness ! O my bed- 
 room, mine no more ! 
 
 O the dusty, dusty box-room ! Better sleep- 
 upon the floor. 
 
 And I doubt that through the chaos any tidy 
 purpose runs, 
 
 And the mother's heart is hardened to the pro- 
 test of her sons. 
 
 Not in vain the lights of clubland. Forward,. 
 
 clubward let me range, 
 Let a hansom spin me thither, whilst I count 
 
 my silver change.
 
 PILLOW PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 (" While the busy part of mankind are fast hud- 
 dling on their clothes, are already up and about 
 their occupation, content to have swallowed their 
 sleep by wholesale, we choose to linger abed and 
 digest our dreams . . . why should we get up ? Jf 
 Essays of Elia.} 
 
 OWISE Charles Lamb, philosopher pro- 
 found ! 
 
 To your immortal fame this will redound, 
 Who never on the tardy riser frowned 
 
 Like other great Pots ! 
 
 When the dull morning creeps in chill and gray, 
 Unwelcome promise of a dismal day, 
 Then bed becomes a blessing, as you say, 
 Unlike sedate Watts. 
 
 Odi profanum proverb-quoting herd, 
 Who prate about the (foolish) early bird ; 
 
 99
 
 ioo LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Has it ne'er to these moralists occurred, 
 
 The worm we ought to notice ? 
 Contrariwise (as said great Tweedledee), 
 From its snug earthy bed, you will agree, 
 That it should rise, as late as late can be, 
 A fact we ought to vote is. 
 
 Rise with the lark ? why thus neglect my ease ? 
 For fifty larks, I do not choose to freeze, 
 Larks keep no prosy lectures wherefore, please, 
 
 Should I so court chills ? 
 Cease, maiden, thy tattooing on my door ! 
 Let me digest my dreams, I ask no more, 
 Thus I with just a soupgon of a snore 
 
 Would lie. The thought thrills. 
 
 'Twixt sleep and waking, happy drowsy state, 
 When fortune smiles, who frowned so much of 
 
 late, 
 When bills get paid, and duns no longer wait, 
 
 My deeds ensuring blessing. 
 When plots for novels surge about the brain, 
 Twould make my fortune did they but remain, 
 Alas ! they vanish, I confess with pain 
 
 Without enduring dressing.
 
 PILLOW PHILOSOPHY. 101 
 
 How cold the air! I'll snug beneath the 
 
 clothes, 
 
 Not in the least that I desire to doze, 
 But it would be if from this couch I rose 
 
 A much repented leap ! 
 Now, as for work to-day, I have a plan 
 Carefully schemed. First rise, well, if I can ! 
 
 (A pause, taken up by yawns.) 
 (True ! Sancho Panza, " Blessed is the man 
 
 That first invented Sleep.")
 
 TO PICKWICK. 
 (A Dyspeptic Lament.) 
 
 OH, really, Mr. Pickwick, you've a wonder- 
 ful digestion ! 
 That you e'er have dyspeptic pangs I seriously 
 
 question, 
 Not to mention Wardle's dinners take the 
 
 famous shooting lunch, 
 When you drank so very freely of delicious cold 
 
 milk punch ; 
 How could you sleep it off so well ! Pray make 
 
 a slight suggestion ? 
 
 Oh, Reverend Stiggins of the Ebenezer Chapel, 
 come, 
 
 Confide what secret virtue lies in hot, pine- 
 apple rum ? 
 
 I find it very bilious, you drink from morn till 
 night,
 
 TO PICKWICK. 103 
 
 And barring one slight episode appear to be 
 
 all right, 
 Such drinking with long living should strike 
 
 good abstainers dumb. 
 
 Then Smangles drinking deeply of cheap sherry 
 
 in the morning, 
 And that convivial " Swarry " kept up till the 
 
 day was dawning, 
 Old Weller's great capacity for (scarce diluted) 
 
 brandy, 
 And even Mrs. Bardell with a bottle nice and 
 
 handy ; 
 Yet no one seems a whit the worse, or needs a 
 
 doctor's warning. 
 
 I have no wish to criticise you in a vein 
 
 satirical, 
 To comment on your ethics I have not thus 
 
 become lyrical, 
 But the absolute impunity with which you 
 
 gorge and guzzle, 
 I will confess, has always been to me a serious 
 
 puzzle ; 
 In short, each individual is a gastronomic 
 
 miracle.
 
 THE POETS AT SCHOOL. 
 (Suggested by Mr. Barry Pain's " Poets at Tea.") 
 
 SWINBURNE, who liked " tuck " : 
 
 O Caramel, clinging and cloying, 
 
 Peppermint, subtle and strong, 
 Can I, fitting language employing, 
 Sufficiently sound thee in song ? 
 
 1 love the crisp crunch and the crumble 
 Of Toffee, burned, burnished and brown ; 
 And for the fierce joy of the Jumble, 
 
 I trudge down each day to the town. 
 
 CALVERLEY, who found smoking didn't agree 
 with him : 
 
 You ask me why I shun the pipe, 
 And scorn the fragrant cigarette ? 
 'Tis not because of age unripe 
 
 As yet. 
 
 104
 
 THE POETS AT SCHOOL. 105. 
 
 You scorn my callow youth and say 
 Smoke was not meant for one so green. 
 Please understand I am to-day 
 Fourteen ! 
 
 I could a tale unfold, 'tis true, 
 Though it is scarcely worth my while ; 
 And I feel very sure that you 
 
 Would smile. 
 
 Since then my love for weed has waned 
 (In crises hair turns white, 'tis said ; 
 I only know that mine remained 
 Quite red). 
 
 I care not for scholastic laws, 
 Await not the parental grant ; 
 I do not smoke (alack !) because 
 I can't. 
 
 LONGFELLOW, who was fond of story- 
 books : 
 
 Tell me oft in weekly numbers, 
 Life is but a Haggard dream, 
 
 Where the interest never slumbers, 
 And the white man reigns supreme.
 
 io6 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Life is grand beyond that portal 
 Where the crafty villain roams ; 
 
 That detectives are but mortal 
 
 Was not meant for Sherlock Holmes. 
 
 Lives of pirate kings remind us 
 Honesty's a dreadful bore ; 
 
 Therefore let the future find us 
 Revelling in seas of gore. 
 
 Of the hero's latest caper, 
 And the lovely heroine's fate, 
 
 I must until next week's paper 
 Learn to keep serene and wait. 
 
 BROWNING, who was fond of elliptical anec- 
 dotes : 
 
 Days ago I think some ten 'tis Eh ! what, 
 think it's longer : 
 
 Scusaterni Das ist unrecht phew, that " pre- 
 paration " ! 
 
 Well, verb sap sat: In the future make the 
 trousers stronger 
 
 (Thanks des bonbons confettura now for the 
 narration) :
 
 THE POETS AT SCHOOL. 107 
 
 Theory : solving Euclid Riders ; 
 
 Practice : drawing wasps and spiders 
 
 (Bob, I think, was feeding silkworms), 
 
 Ancient Whackem comes up gently, 
 
 I on drawing fixed intently 
 
 Looked up ; saw him cane descends 
 
 squirms ! ! ! 
 And then . . . you know . . . pish ! Howl ? 
 
 Why should I ? 
 Well Adieu Buon giorno Good-bye ! 
 
 KEATS, who received a hamper, celebrates the 
 event in a sonnet : 
 
 The hamper's gone, and all its sweets are gone, 
 Sweet apples, jam, and toothsome gingerbread ; 
 Soft jennetings so plentiful this morn 
 To nourish boyish frames have quickly sped. 
 Jack's pearly teeth caressed my dark rich cake 
 With plump, embedded currants made at 
 
 home, 
 
 Then drank my ginger-beer of best home make, 
 A bubbling font of aromatic foam. 
 Now all have vanished at approach of eve, 
 And the tired palate sated craves for rest ;
 
 io8 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Nor for another hamper shall I grieve, 
 While friends and foes assist with so much zest. 
 Let slumbrous-lidded sleep descend once more, 
 And curtain off my comrade's tiresome snore. 
 
 HOOD, who was a Cricket enthusiast : 
 
 Good Mr. Scorer, tell me pray, 
 
 The reason for my luck, 
 I'm sure 'tis very foul to-day, 
 
 That I have made a " duck." 
 
 The boy whose bowling made me quail, 
 
 He did a wicket deed ; 
 Since he deprived me of the bail 
 
 Of which I stood in need. 
 
 For " driving " I'd a subtle plan, 
 But walking came too soon ; 
 
 I never was a ladies' man, 
 And yet they say I " spoon." 
 
 One run I got, and that a bye ; 
 
 I felt extremely sold ; 
 While never very brave, yet I 
 
 Soon much too soon get bowled.
 
 THE POETS AT SCHOOL. 109 
 
 Though otherwise intensely frank, 
 
 My bowling's underhand ; 
 As Captain I should be a crank, 
 
 Though as a "boss " I'm grand. 
 
 Although of poor athletic fame, 
 
 Yet cricket gives me fun ; 
 For, oh ! it is a splendid game 
 
 On which to vilely pun !
 
 REFLECTIONS OF A POETASTER, 
 (After Calverley.) 
 
 SOME love to tune the poet's golden lyre, 
 To gaily warble or to sadly chant ; 
 And I to shine as melodist aspire, 
 
 But can't. 
 
 'Tis often said that inspiration comes 
 When it is least expected at chance times ; 
 I sit for hours gnawing at my thumbs, 
 
 For Rhymes. 
 
 O for a ready Muse ! a facile pen ! 
 
 Will thought and metre wed? I fear they 
 
 won't. 
 
 Some eyes in a " fine phrenzy " roll ; but then,. 
 
 Mine don't
 
 REFLECTIONS OF A POETASTER. nr 
 
 I wrote that is, the lamp of verse I lit, 
 
 Called the book " Gleanings " ; bade the scoffer 
 
 laugh ; 
 
 The scoffer did and rudely spoke of it 
 
 As chaff. 
 
 I penned my preface to the " cultured " mind, 
 Said I eschewed " mere fame " ('twas scarcely 
 
 true) ; 
 
 Alas ! my " gentle readers " though refined 
 
 Were few. 
 
 No " long-felt want " my poems could supply, 
 Though type and binding both were of the best,. 
 It never sold. Yet it was published " By 
 
 Request." 
 
 'Twas by request of fairest Amabel, 
 
 She thought the poems " sweet," their meaning 
 
 " deep " ; 
 
 Was it their depth when over them she fell 
 
 Asleep ? 
 
 The surest way to glory, you'll allow, 
 Is to create a cult, to found a " school," 
 They'll call me genius then who deem me now 
 
 A fool.
 
 H2 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 Till then I cherish up this thought sublime, 
 Though not much comfort yet it is a crumb ; 
 With the stage villain I predict, " A time 
 
 Will come ! " 
 
 "UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, CH1LWORTH AND LONDON.
 
 NOVELS PUB- 
 LISHED BY 
 A. D. INNES 
 & COMPANY 
 BEDFORD ST. 
 MDCCCXCV.
 
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 viii
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA T ' 
 
 University of California 
 SOUTHERN EG.ONAL UBRARY 
 
 405 H XlurSs e reHaTo1ne ..bn.ry 
 from which it wasborrowe
 
 PR 
 
 6005 Compton- 
 
 C739 1 Rickett - 
 
 Lost chords. 
 
 A 000 498 776 
 
 PR 
 
 6005 
 C739 1