At the Horse Show
Time —About 3.30. Leaping Competition about to begin. The Competitors are ranged in a line at the upper end of the Hall while the attendants place the hedges in position. Amongst the Spectators in the Area are – a Saturnine Stableman from the country; a Cockney Groom; a Morbid Man; a Man who is apparently under the impression that he is the only person gifted with sight; a Critic who is extremely severe upon other people's seats; a Judge of Horseflesh; and Two Women who can't see as well as they could wish
The Descriptive Man. They've got both the fences up now, d'ye see? There's the judges going to start the jumping; each rider's got a ticket with his number on his back. See? The first man's horse don't seem to care about jumping this afternoon – see how he's dancing about. Now he's going at it – there, he's cleared it! Now he'll have to jump the next one!
[Keeps up a running fire of these instructive and valuable observations throughout the proceedings
The Judge of Horseflesh. Rare good shoulders that one has.
The Severe Critic (taking the remark to apply to the horse's rider). H'm, yes – rather – pity he sticks his elbows out quite so much, though.
[His Friend regards him in silent astonishment. Another Competitor clears a fence, but exhibits a considerable amount of daylight
The Saturnine Stableman (encouragingly). You'll 'ev to set back a bit next journey, Guv'nor!
The Cockney Groom. 'Orses 'ud jump better if the fences was a bit 'igher.
The S. S. They'll be plenty 'oigh enough fur some on 'em.
The Severe Critic. Ugly seat that fellow has – all anyhow when the horse jumps.
Judge of Horseflesh. Has he? I didn't notice – I was looking at the horse. [Severe Critic feels snubbed.
The S. S. (soothingly, as the Competitor with the loose seat comes round again). That's not good, Guv'nor!
The Cockney Groom. 'Ere's a little bit o' fashion coming down next – why, there's quite a boy on his back.
The S. S. 'E won't be on 'im long if he don't look out. Cup an ball I call it!
The Morbid Man. I suppose there's always a accident o' some sort before they've finished.
First Woman. Oh, don't, for goodness' sake, talk like that – I'm sure I don't want to see nothing 'appen.
Second Woman. Well, you may make your mind easy – for you won't see nothing here; you would have it this was the best place to come to!
First Woman. I only said there was no sense in paying extra for the balcony, when you can go in the area for nothing.
Second Woman (snorting). Area, indeed! It might be a good deal airier than what it is, I'm sure – I shall melt if I stay here much longer.
The Morbid Man, There's one thing about being so close to the jump as this – if the 'orse jumps sideways – as 'osses will do every now and then – he'll be right in among us before we know where we are, and then there'll be a pretty how-de-do!
Second Woman (to her Friend). Oh, come away, do – it's bad enough to see nothing, let alone having a great 'orse coming down atop of us, and me coming out in my best bonnet, too – come away! [They leave.
The Descriptive Man. Now, they're going to make 'em do some in-and-out jumping, see? they're putting the fences close together – that'll puzzle some of them – ah, he's over both of 'em; very clean that one jumps! Over again! He's got to do it all twice, you see.
The Judge of Horseflesh. Temperate horse, that chestnut.
The Severe Critic. Is he, though? – but I suppose they have to be here, eh? Not allowed champagne or whiskey or anything before they go in – like they are on a race-course?
The J. of H. No, they insist on every horse taking the pledge before they'll enter him.
The Descriptive Man. Each of 'em's had a turn at the in-and-out jump now. What's coming next? Oh, the five-barred gate – they're going over that now, and the stone wall – see them putting the bricks on top? That's to raise it.
The Morbid Man. None of 'em been off yet; but (hopefully) there'll be a nasty fall or two over this business – there's been many a neck broke over a lower gate than that.
[A Competitor clears the gate easily, holding the reins casually in his right hand
The J. of H. That man can ride.
The Severe Critic. Pretty well – not what I call business, though – going over a gate with one hand, like that.
The J. of H. Didn't know you were such an authority.
The S. C. (modestly). Oh, I can tell when a fellow has a good seat. I used to ride a good deal at one time. Don't get the chance much now – worse luck!
The J. of H. Well, I can give you a chance, as it happens. (Severe Critic accepts with enthusiasm, and the inward reflection that the chance is much less likely to come off than he is himself.) You wait till the show is over, and they let the horses in for exercise. I know a man who's got a cob here – regular little devil to go – bucks a bit at times – but you won't mind that. I'll take you round to the stall and get my friend to let you try him on the tan. How will that do you, eh?
The Severe Critic (almost speechless with gratitude). Oh – er – it will do me right enough – capital! That is – it would, if I hadn't an appointment, and had my riding things on, and wasn't feeling rather out of sorts, and hadn't promised to go home and take my wife in the Park, and it's her birthday, too, and, then, I've long made it a rule never to mount a strange horse, and – er – so you understand how it is don't you?
The J. of H. Quite, my dear fellow. (As, for that matter, he has done from the first.)
The Cockney Groom (alluding to a man who is riding at the gate). 'Ere's a rough 'un this bloke's on! (Horse rises at gate; his rider shouts "Hoo, over!" and the gate falls amidst general derision.) Over? Ah, I should just think it was over!
The Saturnine Stableman (as horseman passes). Yer needn't ha' "Hoo'd" for that much!
[The Small Boy, precariously perched on an immense animal, follows; his horse, becoming unmanageable, declines the gate, and leaps the hurdle at the side
The S. S. Ah, you're a artful lad, you are – thought you'd take it where it was easiest, eh? – you'll 'ev to goo back and try agen you will.
Chorus of Sympathetic Bystanders. Take him at it again, boy; you're all right!.. Hold him in tighter, my lad… Let out your reins a bit! Lor, they didn't ought to let a boy like that ride… He ain't no more 'old on that big 'orse than if he was a fly on him!.. Keep his 'ed straighter next time… Enough to try a boy's nerve! &c., &c.
[The Boy takes the horse back, and eventually clears the gate amidst immense and well-deserved applause
The Morbid Man (disappointed). Well, I fully expected to see 'im took off on a shutter.
The Descriptive Man. It's the water-jump next – see; that's it in the middle; there's the water, underneath the hedge; they'll have to clear the 'ole of that – or else fall in and get a wetting. They've taken all the horses round to the other entrance – they'll come in from that side directly.
[One of the Judges holds up his stick as a signal; wild shouts of "Hoy-hoy! Whorr-oosh!" from within, as a Competitor dashes out and clears hedge and ditch by a foot or two. Deafening applause. A second horseman rides at it, and lands – if the word is allowable – neatly in the water. Roars of laughter as he scrambles out
The Morbid Man. Call that a brook! It ain't a couple of inches deep – it's more mud than water! No fear (he means "no hope") of any on 'em getting a ducking over that!
[And so it turns out; the horses take the jump with more or less success, but without a single saddle being vacated. The proceedings terminate for the afternoon amidst demonstrations of hearty satisfaction from all but The Morbid Man, who had expected there would have been "more to see."
At a Dance
The Hostess is receiving her Guests at the head of the staircase; a Conscientiously Literal Man presents himself
Hostess (with a gracious smile, and her eyes directed to the people immediately behind him). So glad you were able to come – how do you do?
The Conscientiously Literal Man. Well, if you had asked me that question this afternoon, I should have said I was in for a severe attack of malarial fever – I had all the symptoms – but, about seven o'clock this evening, they suddenly passed off, and —
[Perceives, to his surprise, that his Hostess's attention is wandering, and decides to tell her the rest later in the evening
Mr. Clumpsole. How do you do, Miss Thistledown? Can you give me a dance?
Miss Thistledown (who has danced with him before– once). With pleasure – let me see, the third extra after supper? Don't forget.
Miss Bruskleigh (to Major Erser). Afraid I can't give you anything just now – but if you see me standing about later on, you can come and ask me again, you know.
Mr. Boldover (glancing eagerly round the room as he enters, and soliloquising mentally). She ought to be here by this time, if she's coming – can't see her though – she's certainly not dancing. There's her sister over there with the mother. She hasn't come, or she'd be with them. Poor-looking lot of girls here to-night – don't think much of this music – get away as soon as I can, no go about the thing!.. Hooray! There she is, after all! Jolly waltz this is they're playing! How pretty she's looking – how pretty all the girls are looking! If I can only get her to give me one dance, and sit out most of it somewhere! I feel as if I could talk to her to-night. By Jove, I'll try it!
[Watches his opportunity, and is cautiously making his way towards his divinity, when he is intercepted
Mrs. Grappleton. Mr. Boldover, I do believe you were going to cut me! (Mr. B. protests and apologises.) Well, I forgive you. I've been wanting to have another talk with you for ever so long. I've been thinking so much of what you said that evening about Browning's relation to Science and the Supernatural. Suppose you take me down stairs for an ice or something, and we can have it out comfortably together.
[Dismay of Mr. B., who has entirely forgotten any theories he may have advanced on the subject, but has no option but to comply; as he leaves the room with Mrs. Grappleton on his arm, he has a torturing glimpse of Miss Roundarm, apparently absorbed in her partner's conversation
Mr. Senior Roppe (as he waltzes). Oh, you needn't feel convicted of extraordinary ignorance, I assure you, Miss Featherhead. You would be surprised if you knew how many really clever persons have found that simple little problem of nought divided by one too much for them. Would you have supposed, by the way, that there is a reservoir in Pennsylvania containing a sufficient number of gallons to supply all London for eighteen months? You don't quite realize it, I see. "How many gallons is that?" Well, let me calculate roughly – taking the population of London at four millions, and the average daily consumption for each individual at – no, I can't work it out with sufficient accuracy while I am dancing; suppose we sit down, and I'll do it for you on my shirt-cuff – oh, very well; then I'll work it out when I get home, and send you the result to-morrow, if you will allow me.
Mr. Culdersack (who has provided himself beforehand with a set of topics for conversation – to his partner, as they halt for a moment). Er – (consults some hieroglyphics on his cuff stealthily) – have you read Stanley's book yet?
Miss Tabula Raiser. No, I haven't. Is it interesting?
Mr. Culdersack. I can't say. I've not seen it myself. Shall we – er – ?
[They take another turn
Mr. C. I suppose you have – er – been to the (hesitates between the Academy and the Military Exhibition – decides on latter topic as fresher) Military Exhibition?
Miss T. R. No – not yet. What do you think of it?
Mr. C. Oh —I haven't been either. Er – do you care to – ?
[They take another turn
Mr. C. (after third halt). Er – do you take any interest in politics?
Miss T. R. Not a bit.
Mr. C. (much relieved). No more do I. (Considers that he has satisfied all mental requirements.) Er – let me take you down stairs for an ice.
[They go
Mrs. Grappleton (re-entering with Mr. Boldover, after a discussion that has outlasted two ices and a plate of strawberries). Well, I thought you would have explained my difficulties better than that– oh, what a delicious waltz! Doesn't it set you longing to dance?
Mr. B. (who sees Miss Roundarm in the distance, disengaged). Yes, I really think I must – . [Preparing to escape.
Mrs. Grappleton. I'm getting such an old thing, that really I oughtn't to – but well, just this once, as my husband isn't here.
[Mr. Boldover resigns himself to necessity once more
First Chaperon (to second ditto). How sweet it is of your eldest girl to dance with that absurd Mr. Clumpsole! It's really too bad of him to make such an exhibition of her – one can't help smiling at them!
Second Ch. Oh, Ethel never can bear to hurt any one's feelings – so different from some girls! By the way, I've not seen your daughter dancing to-night – men who dance are so scarce nowadays – I suppose they think they have the right to be a little fastidious.
First Ch. Bella has been out so much this week, that she doesn't care to dance except with a really first-rate partner. She is not so easily pleased as your Ethel, I'm afraid.
Second Ch. Ethel is young, you see, and, when one is pressed so much to dance, one can hardly refuse, can one? When she has had as many seasons as Bella, she will be less energetic, I dare say.
[Mr. Boldover has at last succeeded in approaching Miss Roundarm, and even in inducing her to sit out a dance with him; but, having led her to a convenient alcove, he finds himself totally unable to give any adequate expression to the rapture he feels at being by her side
Mr. B. (determined to lead up to it somehow). I – I was rather thinking – (he meant to say, "devoutly hoping," but, to his own bitter disgust, it comes out like this) – I should meet you here to-night.
Miss R. Were you? Why?
Mr. B. (with a sudden dread of going too far just yet). Oh (carelessly), you know how one does wonder who will be at a place, and who won't.
Miss R. No, indeed, I don't —how does one wonder?
Mr. B. (with a vague notion of implying a complimentary exception in her case). Oh, well, generally – (with the fatal tendency of a shy man to a sweeping statement) – one may be pretty sure of meeting just the people one least wants to see, you know.
Miss R. And so you thought you would probably meet me. I see.
Mr. B. (overwhelmed with confusion, and not in the least knowing what he says). No, no, I didn't think that – I hoped you mightn't – I mean, I was afraid you might —
[Stops short, oppressed by the impossibility of explaining
Miss R. You are not very complimentary to-night, are you?
Mr. B. I can't pay compliments – to you– I don't know how it is, but I never can talk to you as I can to other people!
Miss R. Are you amusing when you are with other people?
Mr. B. At all events I can find things to say to them.
Enter Another Man.
Another Man (to Miss R.). Our dance, I think?
Miss R. (who had intended to get out of it). I was wondering if you ever meant to come for it. (To Mr. B., as they rise.) Now I sha'n't feel I am depriving the other people! (Perceives the speechless agony in his expression, and relents.) Well, you can have the next after this if you care about it – only do try to think of something in the meantime! (As she goes off.) You will – won't you?
Mr. B. (to himself). She's given me another chance! If only I can rise to it. Let me see – what shall I begin with? I know —Supper! She hasn't been down yet.
His Hostess. Oh, Mr. Boldover, you're not dancing this – do be good and take some one down to supper – those poor Chaperons are dying for some food.
[Mr. B. takes down a Matron whose repast is protracted through three waltzes and a set of Lancers—he comes up to find Miss Roundarm gone, and the Musicians putting up their instruments
Coachman at Door (to Linkman, as Mr. B. goes down the steps). That's the lot, Jim!
[Mr. B. walks home, wishing the Park Gates were not shut, so as to render the Serpentine inaccessible
AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM
IN THE SCULPTURE GALLERIES
Sightseers discovered drifting languidly along in a state of depression, only tempered by the occasional exercise of the right of every free-born Briton to criticize whenever he fails to understand. The general tone is that of faintly amused and patronizing superiority
A Burly Sightseer with a red face (inspecting group representing "Mithras Sacrificing a Bull"). H'm; that may be Mithras's notion of making a clean job of it, but it ain't mine!
A Woman (examining a fragment from base of sculptured column with a puzzled expression as she reads the inscription). "Lower portion of female figure – probably a Bacchante." Well, how they know who it's intended for, when there ain't more than a bit of her skirt left, beats me!
Her Companion. Oh, I s'pose they've got to put a name to it o' some sort.
An Intelligent Artisan (out for the day with his FIANCÉE —reading from pedestal). "Part of a group of As – Astrala – no, Astraga– lizontes" – that's what they are, yer see.
Fiancée. But who were they?
The I. A. Well, I can't tell yer – not for certain; but I expect they'd be the people who in'abited Astragalizontia.
Fiancée. Was that what they used to call Ostralia before it was discovered? (They come to the Clytie bust.) Why, if that isn't the same head Mrs. Meggles has under a glass shade in her front window, only smaller – and hers is alabaster, too! But fancy them going and copying it, and I dare say without so much as a "by your leave," or a "thank you!"
The I. A. (reading). "Portrait of Antonia, sister-in-law of the Emperor Tiberius, in the character of Clytie turning into a sunflower."
Fiancée. Lor! They did queer things in those days, didn't they? (Stopping before another bust.) Who's that?
The I. A. 'Ed of Ariadne.
Fiancée (slightly surprised). What! – not young Adney down our street? I didn't know as he'd been took in stone.
The I. A. How do you suppose they'd 'ave young Adney in among this lot – why, that's antique!
Fiancée. Well, I was thinking it looked more like a female. But if it's meant for old Mr. Teak the shipbuilder's daughter, it flatters her up considerable; and, besides, I always understood as her name was Betsy.
The I. A. No, no; what a girl you are for getting things wrong! that 'ed was cut out years and years ago!
Fiancée. Well, she's gone off since, that's all; but I wonder at old Mr. Teak letting it go out of the family, instead of putting it on his mantelpiece along with the lustres, and the two chiny dogs.
The A. I. (with ungallant candour). 'Ark at you! Why you 'ain't much more sense nor a chiny dog yourself!
Moralizing Matron (before the Venus of Ostia). And to think of the poor ignorant Greeks worshipping a shameless hussey like that! It's a pity they hadn't some one to teach them more respectable notions! Well, well! it ought to make us thankful we don't live in those benighted times, that it ought!
A Connoisseur (after staring at a colossal Greek lion). A lion, eh? Well, it's another proof to my mind that the ancients hadn't got very far in the statuary line. Now, if you want to see a stone lion done true to Nature, you've only to walk any day along the Euston Road.
A Practical Man. I dessay it's a fine collection, enough, but it's a pity the things ain't more perfect. I should ha' thought, with so many odds and ends and rubbish lying about as is no use to nobody at present they might ha' used it up in mending some that only requires a 'arm 'ere or a leg there, or a 'ed and what not, to make 'em as good as ever. But ketch them (he means the Officials) taking any extra trouble if they can help it!
His Companion. Ah, but yer see it ain't so easy fitting on bits that belonged to something different. You've got to look at it that way.
The P. M. I don't see no difficulty about it. Why, any stonemason could cut down the odd pieces to fit well enough, and they wouldn't have such a neglected appearance as they do now.
A Group has collected round a Gigantic Arm in red granite.
First Sightseer. There's a arm for yer!
Second S. (a humourist). Yes; 'ow would yer like to 'ave that come a punching your 'ed?
Third S. (thoughtfully). I expect they've put it up 'ere as a sarmple like.
The Moralizing Matron. How it makes one realize that there were giants in those days!
Her Friend. But surely the size must be a little exaggerated, don't you think? Oh, is this the God Ptah?
[The M. M. says nothing, but clicks her tongue to express a grieved pity, after which she passes on
The Intelligent Artisan and his Fiancée have entered the Nineveh Gallery, and are regarding an immense human-headed, winged bull.
The I. A. (indulgently). Rum-looking sort o' beast that 'ere.
Fiancée. Ye-es – I wonder if it's a likeness of some animal they used to 'ave then?
The I. A. I did think you was wider than that! – it's only imaginative. What 'ud be the good o' wings to a bull?
Fiancée (on her defence). You think you know so much – but it's got a man's 'ed, ain't it? and I know there used to be 'orses with 'alf a man where the 'ed ought to be, because I've seen their pictures – so there!
The I. A. I dunno what you've got where your 'ed ought to be, torking such rot!
IN THE UPPER GALLERIES; ETHNOGRAPHICAL COLLECTION
The Grim Governess (directing a scared small boy's attention to a particularly hideous mask). See, Henry, that's the kind of mask worn by savages!
Henry. Always – or only on the fifth of November, Miss Goole?
[He records a mental vow never to visit a Savage Island on Guy Fawkes's Day, and makes a prolonged study of the mask, with a view to future nightmares
A Kind, but Dense Uncle (to Niece). All these curious things were made by cannibals, Ethel – savages who eat one another, you know.
Ethel (suggestively). But, I suppose, Uncle, they wouldn't eat one another if they had any one to give them buns, would they?
[Her Uncle discusses the suggestion elaborately, but without appreciating the hint; the Governess has caught sight of a huge and hideous Hawaiian Idol, with a furry orange-coloured head, big mother-o'-pearl eyes, with black balls for the pupils, and a grinning mouth picked out with shark's teeth, to which she introduces the horrified Henry
Miss Goole. Now, Henry, you see the kind of idol the poor savages say their prayers to.
Harry (tremulously). But n – not just before they go to bed, do they, Miss Goole?
AMONG THE MUMMIES
The Uncle. That's King Rameses' mummy, Ethel.
Ethel. And what was her name, Uncle?
The Governess (halting before a case containing a partially unrolled mummy, the spine and thigh of which are exposed to view). Fancy, Henry, that's part of an Egyptian who has been dead for thousands of years! Why, you're not frightened, are you?
Harry (shaking). No, I'm not frightened, Miss Goole – only if you don't mind, I – I'd rather see a gentleman not quite so dead. And there's one over there with a gold face and glass eyes, and he looked at me, and – please, I don't think this is the place to bring such a little boy as me to!
A Party is examining a Case of Mummied Animals.
The Leader. Here you are, you see, mummy cats – don't they look comical all stuck up in a row there?
First Woman. Dear, dear – to think o' going to all that expense when they might have had 'em stuffed on a cushion! And monkeys, and dogs too – well, I'm sure, fancy that now!
Second Woman. And there's a mummied crocodile down there. I don't see what they'd want with a mummy crocodile, do you?
The Leader (with an air of perfect comprehension of Egyptian customs). Well, you see they took whatever they could get 'old of, they did.
IN THE PREHISTORIC GALLERY
Old Lady (to Policeman) Oh, Policeman, can you tell me if there's any article here that's supposed to have belonged to Adam?
Policeman (a wag in his way). Well, Mum, we 'ave 'ad the 'andle of his spade, and the brim of his garden 'at, but they wore out last year and 'ad to be thrown away – things won't last for ever – even 'ere, you know.
GOING OUT
A Peevish Old Man. I ain't seen anything to call worth seeing, I ain't. In our Museum at 'ome they've a lamb with six legs, and hairy-light stones as big as cannon-balls; but there ain't none of that sort 'ere, and I'm dog-tired trapesing over these boards, I am!
His Daughter (a candid person). Ah, I ought to ha' known it warn't much good taking you out to enjoy yourself – you're too old, you are!
Ethel's Uncle (cheerily). Well, Ethel, I think we've seen all there is to be seen, eh?
Ethel. There's one room we haven't been into yet, Uncle, dear.
Uncle. Ha – and what's that?
Ethel (persuasively). The Refreshment Room.