Voces Populi

An Orator (bitterly). The weather is against us, Feller Republikins, there's no denyin' that. As we were tramping along 'ere, through the mud and in the rain, wet to the skin, I couldn't 'elp remarking to a friend o' mine, that if it had been a pidging-shootin' match at Urlingham, or a Race-meeting at Hascot, things 'ud ha' been diff'rent! Ther'd ha' bin blue sky and sunshine enough then. Well, I 'spose hany weather's considered good enough for the likes of hus! Hany weather'll do for pore downtrod slaves to assert their man'ood and their hindependence in! (Cries of "Shame!") Never you mind – hour turn'll come some day! We sha'n't halways be 'eld down, and muzzled, and silenced, and prevented uttering the hindignation we've a right to feel! (Bellowing.) We shall make our vices 'eard one day! But I'm reminded by my friend as I've got to keep to the pint. Well (he composes his features into a sneer) I'm told as 'ow 'Er Most Gracious Madjesty – ("Booing" from Earnest Radicals) – 'Er Most Gracious Madjesty – 'as she calls 'erself – 'as put by a little matter of a millum an' a 'arf – since she came to the Throne. Now, Feller Republikins, that millum an' a 'arf 'as come out of your pockets!

Several Persons (who do not look as if they paid a heavy income tax). 'Ear 'ear!

Orator. Yes, it belongs to the People – ah! and you've a legal right to demand it back – a legal right! And I arsk you – if that millum and a 'arf of money was to be divided among the Toilers of London ter-morrow – 'ow many Hunemployed should we see? (Crowd deeply impressed by this forcible argument.) Yet we're arst to put our 'ands in our pockets to support the Queen's children!

A Gentleman with very short hair. Shame – never! [Puts his hand in somebody else's pocket by way of emphasising his declaration.]

Orator. Feller Republikins, if a Queen don't do the work as she's paid for doin' of, what ought to be done with 'er? I put it to you!

A Very Earnest Radical. The Scaffild!

[Looks round nervously to see if a Policeman is within hearing

A Fat Lady (who has been ejaculating. "Oh, it is a shime, it is!" at every fresh instance of Royal expenditure). Well, I must say that's rather strong langwidge!

Another Orator. Gentlemen, I regret to say that, on this monstrous fraud and attempted imposition known as "The Royal Grants Bill," Mr. Gladstone voted with the Government. [Frantic applause.

Orator (puzzled). Yes, Gentlemen, I am here to state facts, and I am ashamed to say, that on this single occasion Mr. Gladstone – went wrong. [Shouts of "No! No!"

A Fervid Gladstonian (waving his umbrella). Three cheers for Mr. Gladstone, what-hever he does!

[The Crowd join in heartily; Orator decides to drop the point, particularly as it does not seem to affect the Meeting's condemnation of the principle of the Bill

An Irish Patriot. I've often harrd tell, Gintlemen, of a certain stra-ange animal they carl a "Conservative Warkin-Man" (Roars of laughter). A Warkin-Man a Conservative! Why, bliss me sowl, the thing's absurd! There niver was such a purrson in this Warld. A Conservative Warkin-Man! why – (takes refuge in profanity). If there was why don't we iver hear 'um in an assimbly of this sort? Why hasn't he the common manly courage to come forward and defind his opinions? We'd hear 'um, Gintlemen. It's the proud boast of Radicals and Republikins that they'd give free speech and a fair hearin' to ivery man, no matter hwhat his opinions are, but ye'll niver see 'um stip farward at ahl – and hwhy?

A Decent Mechanic. Well, look 'ere, mate, I'm a Conservative Working-Man, if ye'd like to know, and I ain't afraid to defend my opinions. Come now!

The Chairman (somewhat taken aback). Well, Friends, while I conduct this chair, I can promise this man a puffickly fair 'earin', and I'm sure you will listen to him patiently, whatever you may think of his arguments. (Cries of 'Ear – 'ear! "Fair play hall the world hover!" "We'll listen to him quiet enough!") First of all, I must be satisfied that our Friend is what he professes to be. We want no Sham Workin'-men 'ere. [Brandishes a foot-rule in evidence of the genuineness of his own claims.

The D. M. Am I a workin'-man? Well, I've made ladies' boots at sixpence an hour for three years – d'ye call that bein' a Workin' Man? I've soled and 'eeled while you wait in a stall near Southwark Bridge seven years an' a arf! Praps you'll call that a Workin'-Man? (Cries of "Keep to the Point!") Oh, I'll keep to the point right enough. There's this Irishman here been a tellin' of you 'ow wrong it is to turn his countrymen out of their 'ouses when they don't pay their rent. Ain't we turned out of our 'ouses, if we don't pay ourn? 'Oo snivels over hus?

The I. P. No personalities now! It's my belief ye're a Landlord yerself! [Uproar.

The D. M. I told yer ye wouldn't 'ear me now!

A Socialist (in a stentorian voice). Feller Demmercrats, as an ex-Fenian and an ex-Convict, I implore you – give this man a hearin'!

The D. M. Then about this Royal Grant. (Cries of "Shut up!" "Go 'ome!" "Don't tork nonsense!") If you're going to 'ave a King and Queen at all – (Cries of "We ain't! Down with 'em!") Ah, then I s'pose you're going to put up fellers like 'im (pointing to the Socialist), and 'im (pointing to Chairman), and 'im! [Uproar.

The Socialist. Fellow-Citizens, I appeal to you, give this man rope – he's doing our work splendidly!

The D. M. Well, all I've got to say is – (Shouts of "Get down!" Yells and booing). Oh, you won't tire me out that way. All I can say is, I'd a precious sight rather —

The Chairman (excitedly). Fellow citizens, we've listened to this man long enough – these sentiments are an insult to the meeting!

[Yells as before

The Socialist (extending a billycock hat with a passionate gesture). Feller Demmercrats, if you are earnest, if you are sincere in the indignation, the just hindignation, this man provokes – show it now, by putting money in this 'at for the Plan o' Campaign! [The storm lulls.

The D. M. (resuming). I arsk every honest man here whether —

Chairman (interposing). I think, as our friend here don't seem able to keep to his point, we won't call upon him for any further remarks.

[The D. M. is hustled down, amidst derisive cheers and groans; the Socialist ascends the Platform

The Socialist. I don't mind tellin' yer, friends and feller citizens, that in the late election in Heast Marylebone, I used all my influence – (cheers) – all my influence to deter men from voting for your Radical candidate. (Sensation, and a cry of "More shame for yer!") Ah, I did, though, and I'd do it agin, and I'll tell yer for why. I 'ate yer Tories, but if I'm to be 'it a blow in the face, I don't like it done behind my back. (Cheers). And your precious Liberals and Radicals, they're worse nor hany Tories, and for this reason – (with a penetrating glance) – they're more hinvidious! Ah, that's it, they're more hinvidious! Traitors, hevery man jack of 'em!

[And so on, concluding with denunciations of all "sending round the 'at," and appeals for contributions to the Plan of Campaign. Meeting dissolves with three cheers for the coming Republic from the victims of a Tyrannous System of Repression of Opinion

The Riding-Class

Scene —A Riding-school, on a raw chilly afternoon. The gas is lighted, but does not lend much cheerfulness to the interior, which is bare and bleak, and pervaded by a bluish haze. Members of the Class discovered standing about on the tan, waiting for their horses to be brought in. At the further end is an alcove, with a small balcony, in which Mrs. Bilbow-Kay, the Mother of one of the Equestrians, is seated with a young female Friend

Mrs. Bilbow-Kay. Oh, Robert used to ride very nicely indeed when he was a boy; but he has been out of practice lately, and so, as the Doctor ordered him horse-exercise, I thought it would be wiser for him to take a few lessons. Such an excellent change for any one with sedentary pursuits!

The Friend. But isn't riding a sedentary pursuit, too?

Mrs. B. – K. Robert says he doesn't find it so.

[Enter the Riding Master

Riding Master (saluting with cane). Evenin', Gentlemen – your 'orses will be in directly; 'ope we shall see some ridin' this time. (Clatter without; enter Stablemen with horses.) Let me see – Mr. Bilbow-Kay, Sir, you'd better ride the Shar; he ain't been out all day, so he'll want some 'andling. (Mr. B. – K., with a sickly smile, accepts a tall and lively horse.) No, Mr. Tongs, that ain't your 'orse to-day – you've got beyond 'im, Sir. We'll put you up on Lady Loo; she's a bit rough till you get on terms with her, but you'll be all right on her after a bit. Yes, Mr. Joggles, Sir, you take Kangaroo, please. Mr. Bumpas, I've 'ad the Artful Dodger out for you; and mind he don't get rid of you so easy as he did Mr. Gripper last time. Got a nice 'orse for you, Mr. 'Arry Sniggers, Sir —Frar Diavolo. You mustn't take no notice of his bucking a bit at starting – he'll soon leave it off.

Mr. Sniggers (who conceals his qualms under a forced facetiousness). Soon leave me off you mean!

R. M. (after distributing the remaining horses). Now then – bring your 'orses up into line, and stand by, ready to mount at the word of command, reins taken up in the left 'and with the second and little fingers, and a lock of the 'orse's mane twisted round the first. Mount! That 'orse ain't a bicycle, Mr. Sniggers. [Mr. S. (in an undertone). No – worse luck!] Number off! Walk! I shall give the word to trot directly, so now's the time to improve your seats – that back a bit straighter, Mr. 'Ooper. No. 4 just fall out, and we'll let them stirrup-leathers down another 'ole or two for yer. (No. 4, who has just been congratulating himself that his stirrups were conveniently high, has to see them let down to a distance where he can just touch them by stretching.) Now you're all comfortable. ["Oh, are we?" from Mr. S.] Trot! Mr. Tongs, Sir, 'old that 'orse in – he's gettin' away with you already. Very bad, Mr. Joggles, Sir – keep those 'eels down! Lost your stirrup, Mr. Jelly? Never mind that —feel for it, Sir. I want you to be independent of the irons. I'm going to make you ride without 'em presently. (Mr. Jelly shivers in his saddle.) Captin' Cropper, Sir; if that Volunteer ridgment as you're goin' to be the Major of sees you like you are now, on a field-day – they'll 'ave to fall out to larf, Sir! (Mr. Cropper devoutly wishes he had been less ingenuous as to his motive for practising his riding.) Now, Mr. Sniggers, make that 'orse learn 'oo's the master! [Mr. S. "He knows, the brute!"]

Mrs. B. – K. He's very rude to all the Class, except dear Robert – but then Robert has such a nice easy seat.

The R. M. Mr. Bilbow-Kay, Sir, try and set a bit closer. Why, you ain't no more 'old on that saddle than a stamp with the gum licked off! Can-ter! You're, all right, Mr. Joggles – it's on'y his play; set down on your saddle, Sir!.. I didn't say on the ground!

Mrs. B. – K. (anxiously to her Son, as he passes). Bob, are you quite sure you're safe? (To Friend.) His horse is snorting so dreadfully!

R. M. 'Alt! Every Gentleman take his feet out of the stirrups, and cross them on the saddle in front of him. Not your feet, Mr. Sniggers, we ain't Turks 'ere!

Mr. S. (sotto voce). "There's one bloomin' Turk 'ere, anyway!"

R. M. Now then – Walk!.. Trot! Set back, Gentlemen, set back all – 'old on by your knees, not the pommels. I see you, Mr. Jelly, kitchin' old o' the mane – I shall 'ave to give you a 'ogged 'orse next time you come. Quicken up a bit – this is a ride, not a funeral. Why, I could roll faster than you're trotting! Lor, you're like a row o' Guy Foxes on 'orseback, you are! Ah, I thought I'd see one o' you orf! Goa-ron, all o' you, you don't come 'ere to play at ridin' – I'll make you ride afore I've done with you! 'Ullo, Mr. Joggles, nearly gone that time, Sir! There, that'll do – or we'll 'ave all your saddles to let unfurnished. Wa – alk! Mr. Bilbow-Kay, when your 'orse changes his pace sudden, it don't look well for you to be found settin' 'arf way up his neck, and it gives him a bad opinion of yer, Sir. Uncross stirrups! Trot on! It ain't no mortal use your clucking to that mare, Mr. Tongs, Sir, because she don't understand the langwidge – touch her with your 'eel in the ribs. Mr. Sniggers, that 'orse is doin' jest what he likes with you. 'It 'im, Sir; he's no friends and few relations!

Mr. S. (with spirit). I ain't going to 'it 'im. If you want him 'it, get up and do it yourself!

R. M. When I say "Circle Right" – odd numbers'll wheel round and fall in be'ind even ones. Circle Right!.. Well, if ever I – I didn't tell yer to fall off be'ind. Ketch your 'orses and stick to 'em next time. Right In-cline! O' course, Mr. Joggles, if you prefer takin' that animal for a little ride all by himself we'll let you out in the streets – otherwise p'raps you'll kindly follow yer leader. Captain Cropper, Sir, if you let that curb out a bit more, Reindeer wouldn't be 'arf so narsty with yer… Ah, now you 'ave done it. You want your reins painted different colours and labelled, Sir, you do. 'Alt, the rest of you… Now, seein' you're shook down in your saddles a bit – ["Shook up's more like it!" from Mr. S.] – we'll 'ave the 'urdles in and show you a bit o' Donnybrook! (The Class endeavours to assume an air of delighted anticipation at this pleasing prospect.) To Assistant R. M., (who has entered and said something in an undertone.) Eh, Captin' 'Edstall here, and wants to try the grey cob over 'urdles? Ask him if he'll come in now – we're just going to do some jumping.

Assist. R. M. This lot don't look much like going over 'urdles – 'cept in front o' the 'orse, but I'll tell the Captain.

[The hurdles are brought in and propped up. Enter a well-turned-out Stranger, on a grey cob

Mr. Sniggers (to him). You ain't lost nothing by coming late, I can tell yer. We've bin having a gay old time in 'ere – made us ride without sterrups, he did!

Captain Headstall. Haw, really? Didn't get grassed, did you?

Mr. S. Well, me and my 'orse separated by mutual consent. I ain't what you call a fancy 'orseman. We've got to go at that 'urdle in a minute. How do you like the ideer, eh? It's no good funking it – it's got to be done!

R. M. Now, Captin – not you, Captin Cropper – Captin 'Edstall I mean, will you show them the way over, please?

[Captain H. rides at it; the cob jumps too short, and knocks the hurdle down – to his rider's intense disgust

Mr. S. I say, Guvnor, that was a near thing. I wonder you weren't off.

Capt. H. I – ah – don't often come off.

Mr. S. You won't say that when you've been 'ere a few times. You see, they've put you on a quiet animal this journey. I shall try to get him myself next time. He be'aves like a gentleman, he does.

Capt. H. You won't mount him, if you take my advice – he has rather a delicate mouth.

Mr. S. Oh, I don't mind that – I should ride him on the curb o' course.

[The Class ride at the hurdle one by one

R. M. Now, Mr. Sniggers, give 'im more of 'is 'ed than that, Sir – or he'll take it… Oh, Lor, well, it's soft falling luckily! Mr. Joggles, Sir, keep him back till you're in a line with it… Better, Sir; you come down true on your saddle afterwards anyway!.. Mr. Parabole!.. Ah, would you? Told you he was tricky, Sir! Try him at it again… Now – over!.. Yes, and it is over, and no mistake!

Mrs. B. – K. Now it's Robert's turn. I'm afraid he's been overtiring himself, he looks so pale. Bob, you won't let him jump too high, will you? – Oh, I daren't look. Tell me, my love, – is he safe?

Her Friend. Perfectly – they're just brushing him down.

AFTERWARDS

Mrs. B. – K. (to her Son). Oh, Bob, you must never think of jumping again – it is such a dangerous amusement!

Robert (who has been cursing the hour in which he informed his parent of the exact whereabouts of the school). It's all right with a horse that knows how to jump. Mine didn't.

The Friend. I thought you seemed to jump a good deal higher than the horse did. They ought to be trained to keep close under you, oughtn't they? [Robert wonders if she is as guileless as she looks.]

Capt. Cropper (to the R. M.) Oh, takes about eight months, with a lesson every day, to make a man efficient in the Cavalry, does it? But, look here – I suppose four more lessons will put me all right, eh? I've had eight, y' know.

R. M. Well, Sir, if you arsk me, I dunno as another arf dozen 'll do you any 'arm – but, o'course, that's just as you feel about it.

[Captain Cropper endeavours to extract encouragement from this Delphic response.]

The Impromptu Charade-Party

Scene —The Library of a Country-House; the tables and chairs are heaped with brocades, draperies, and properties of all kinds, which the Ladies of the company are trying on, while the men rack their brains for a suitable Word. In a secluded corner, Mr. Nightingale and Miss Rose are conversing in whispers

Mr. Whipster (Stage-Manager and Organizer – self-appointed). No – but I say, really, you know, we must try and decide on something – we've been out half-an-hour, and the people will be getting impatient! (To the Ladies.) Do come and help; it's really no use dressing up till we've settled what we're going to do. Can't anybody think of a good Word?

Miss Larkspur. We ought to make a continuous story of it, with the same plot and characters all through. We did that once at the Grange, and it was awfully good – just like a regular Comedy!

Mr. Whipster. Ah, but we've got to hit on a Word first. Come – nobody got an idea? Nightingale, you're not much use over there, you know. I hope you and Miss Rose have been putting your heads together?

Mr. Nightingale (confused). Eh? No, nothing of the sort! Oh, ah – yes, we've thought of a lot of Words.

Miss Rose. Only you've driven them all out of our heads again!

[They resume their conversation

Mr. Wh. Well, do make a suggestion, somebody! Professor, won't you give us a Word?

Chorus of Ladies. Oh, do, Professor – you're sure to think of something clever!

Professor Pollen (modestly). Well, really, I've so little experience in these matters that – A Word has just occurred to me, however; I don't know, of course, whether it will meet with approval – (he beams at them with modest pride through his spectacles) – it's "Monocotyledonous."

Chorus of Ladies. Charming! Monocottle – Oh, can't we do that?

Mr. Wh. (dubiously). We might – but – er – what's it mean?

Prof. Pollen. It's a simple botanical term, signifying a plant which has only one cup-shaped leaf, or seed-lobe. Plants with two are termed —

Mr. Wh. I don't see how we're going to act a plant with only one seed-lobe myself – and then the syllables – "mon" – "oh" – "cot" – "till" – we shouldn't get done before midnight, you know!

Prof. Pollen (with mild pique). Well, I merely threw it out as a suggestion. I thought it could have been made amusing. No doubt I was wrong; no doubt.

Mr. Settee (nervously). I've thought of a word. How would – er – "Familiar" do?

Mr. Wh. (severely). Now, really, Settee, do try not to footle like this!

[Mr. Settee subsides amidst general disapproval

Mr. Flinders (with a flash of genius). I've got it —Gamboge!

Mr. Wh. Gamboge, eh? Let's see how that would work: – "Gam" – "booge." How do you see it yourself?

[Mr. Flinders discovers on reflection, that he doesn't see it, and the suggestion is allowed to drop

Miss Pelagia Rhys. I've an idea. Familiar! "Fame" – "ill" – "liar," you know.

[Chorus of applause

Mr. Wh. Capital! The very thing – congratulate you, Miss Rhys!

Mr. Settee (sotto voce). But I say, look here, I suggested that, you know, and you said – !

Mr. Wh. (ditto). What on earth does it matter who suggests it, so long as it's right? Don't be an ass, Settee! (Aloud.) How are we going to do the first syllable "Fame," eh? [Mr. Settee sulks.

Mr. Pushington. Oh, that's easy. One of us must come on as a Poet, and all the ladies must crowd round flattering him, and making a lot of him, asking him for his autograph, and so on. I don't mind doing the Poet myself, if nobody else feels up to it.

[He begins to dress for the part by turning his dress-coat inside out, and putting on a turban and a Liberty sash, by way of indicating the eccentricity of genius; the Ladies adorn themselves with a similar regard to realism, and even more care for appearancesAFTER THE FIRST SYLLABLE

The Performers return from the drawing-room, followed by faint applause.

Mr. Pushington. Went capitally, that syllable, eh? (No response.) You might have played up to me a little more than you did – you others. You let me do everything!

Miss Larkspur. You never let any of us get a word in!

Mr. Pushington. Because you all talked at once, that was all. Now then – "ill." I'll be a celebrated Doctor, and you all come to me one by one, and say you're ill– see?

[Attires himself for the rôle of a Physician in a dressing-gown and an old yeomanry helmet

Mr. Whipster (huffily). Seems to me I may as well go and sit with the audience – I'm no use here!

Mr. Pushington. Oh, yes, Whipster, I want you to be my confidential butler, and show the patients in.

[Mr. W. accepts – with a view to showing Pushington that other people can act as well as heAFTER THE SECOND SYLLABLE

Mr. Pushington. Seemed to drag a little, somehow! There was no necessity for you to make all those long soliloquies, Whipster. A Doctor's confidential servant wouldn't chatter so much!

Mr. Whipster. You were so confoundedly solemn over it, I had to put some fun in somewhere!

Mr. P. Well, you might have put it where some one could see it. Nobody laughed.

Professor Pollen. I don't know, Mr. Pushington, why, when I was describing my symptoms – which I can vouch for as scientifically correct – you persisted in kicking my legs under the table – it was unprofessional, Sir, and extremely painful!

Mr. Pushington. I was only trying to hint to you that as there were a dozen other people to follow, it was time you cut the interview short, Professor – that one syllable alone has taken nearly an hour.

Miss Buckram. If I had known the kind of questions you were going to ask me, Mr. Pushington, I should certainly not have exposed myself to them. I say no more, but I must positively decline to appear with you again.

Mr. Pushington. Oh, but really, you know, in Charades one gets carried away at times. I assure you, I hadn't the remotest (&c., &c.—until Miss Buckram is partly mollified.) Now then – last syllable. Look here, I'll be a regular impostor, don't you know, and all of you come on and say what a liar I am. We ought to make that screamingly funny!

AFTER THE THIRD SYLLABLE

Mr. Pushington. Muddled? Of course it was muddled – you all called me a liar before I opened my mouth!