cme bOBI AZAPY 1892 C Cornell University Library Ithaca, Nem York FROM THE BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY COLLECTED BY BENNO LOEWY 1854-1919 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY Playthings and parodies. Ha WORKS BY BARRY PAIN. STORIES AND INTERLUDES. SECOND EDITION. 3s. 6d. ‘Mr, Pain has a delicate fancy and a graceful style, a bitter-sweet humour, and a plentiful endowment of ‘the finer perceptions.’”— Punch. ‘Amazingly clever. . . . Teems with satire and good things.”— ' Speaker. IN A CANADIAN CANOE. THIRD EDITION. 2s. 6d. ‘We are much mistaken if Mr. Barry Pain’s ‘In a Canadian Canoe’ does not create a furore. Certainly it is one of the wittiest books of the year.” —Jd/ustrated London News. Lonpon: Henry & Co., 6, BOUVERIE STREET, E.C. Playthings and Parodies. BY BARRY PAIN, f. Author of “In a Canadian Canoe,” &c. &t. CASSELL & COMPANY, Limirep: LONDON, PARIS & MELBOURNE. 1892. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] AS96945 My thanks are due to the Editors of Cornhill, The Speaker, The National Observer, and The Granta for permission to reprint several things in this volume. Devicated to Mrs. RUDOLF LEHMANN. CONTENTS. PAGE Tue Srncerrst Form or Fruarrery— I. Or Mr. Rupyarp Krertine II. Or Mr. Joun Ruskin ‘ a ‘ III. Or Mr. R. D. Buackmore .. . i 14 1V. Or Mr. W. Pater . ‘ : , ‘ j 21 V. Or Count Lyor N. Toustor . ss Gag : 25 Tue Hunprep GarTEs. 4 A ; ‘ : ‘ 33 Tue Secutar ConressionaL— I, Tue Last Cuarter 4 ‘ ‘ ‘ : 61 TI. Broxen Hearts . : : ‘ ‘ ‘ 66 III. Tue Murper ar Euston : : ‘ : 73 IY. Bap Hazits . ; ‘ : : ‘ 79 V. Tue Processionat Instinct . é 4 2 84 VI. Brntzy’s Cigars. : j ‘ : i 90 VII. Tue Victim or Inprrectness, . 4 3 96 SKETCHES In Lonpon— UNDER THE CLOcK , ‘i ; : ‘ a 105 OutsipE A Boarp Scuoon ‘ ‘ ‘ é 113 A Sunztzss Dawn . ‘ : ‘ ‘ ‘ 121 No THOROUGHFARE , ‘ 3 5 ‘ ‘ 128 In Lrxcoin’s Inn FiELps ‘ 2 jj J 134 On THE UNDERGROUND . : : : i 140 In Kensineron GARDENS. ‘ é j ; 147 On WateERLoo Bripce ., ‘ ‘ : 153 Totrennam Courr Roap. y ‘ SKETCHES IN LONDON (continued)— Saturpay Nicut in THE Encware Roap At a Free 2 OxrorD STREET : F i . ‘ Noon in Jup#a Ar Kew . ei ‘ i if “ BANGKoLDY” at HampstreaD Heatu Tur Guost or Guosts . A THEME WITH VARIATIONS Tue Ports ar Tza . Home Pers— I. Boys II. Grrxs III. Recrrers ‘ IV. Fancy Pens. ‘ . ‘ V. Persona Frienps , ' z : 2 VI. Norz-Booxs . ‘ 2 ‘ ‘5 VII. Prano-Tuners i ‘i “ ‘ . f VIII. Duxges . : ‘ ¥ ‘ ‘ ‘ IX. Bazies . F i . ‘i “ X. Fires . i - ‘ . ‘ = XI. Curares i ‘ ji ‘ - ‘ fi XII. Warcuzs 3 x 165 171 177 183 192 199 209 219 225 233 239 247 354 261 268 276 282 288 293 299 305 THE SINCEREST FORM OF FLATTERY. I—OF MR. RUDYARD KIPLING. A Slight Inaccuracy. THIS is not a tale. It is a conversation which I had with a complete stranger. If you ask me why I talked to him, I have no very good reason to give. I would simply tell-you to spend three hours of solitude in that same compart- ment on that same line. You may not know the line; which is neither your loss nor the company’s gain. I do, and I had spent three hours alone on it; and at the end of three hours I longed for human converse. I was prepared to talk Persian poetry to an assistant commissioner ; I was ready to talk to any- one about anything; I would have talked to a pariah dog; talked kindly, too. So when the complete stranger got in I be- gan at once. You see, I did not know then that he was an inaccurate young man. I thought he was a nicely-dressed, average specimen. B2 4 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. It never does to judge from appearances. I once knew a T. G.,, or, rather, Tranter of the Bombay side knew him ; but that is another story. First we talked weather, and then we talked horse. He smoked my cheroots, and I told him several things which were quite true. He began to look a little uneasy, as if he were not used to that kind of talk. Then he told me the story of the little mare which he bought in Calcutta. He gave one hundred and seventy-five rupees for her. It was thought by his friends at the time that he had been too generous; she had a very bad cough and a plaintive look in the eyes. “T have now had her for two years,” he said, slowly removing my cheroot from his lips, “and she has not got over that cough yet. She also continues to look plaintive. But she is fast. The other day I drove her sixty miles along the road in an ekka.” I was given to understand that the time had been five hours, twenty minutes, and a decimal. Well, a country-bred mare will go almost any pace you like to ask. JI should have thought about believing the man if he OF MR. RUDYARD KIPLING. 5 ‘had not put in the decimal. As it was, I never really wanted to call him a liar until he picked up the book which I had been reading. It was a copy of “Plain Tales from the Hills,” and it lay on the seat by my side. I have a liking for that book, and I often read it. It is a good book. “Can you understand,” he asked, “ why that book is so popular in England? Perhaps you will allow me to explain. I understand books as well as I understand horses and men. First, note this. Even in your schooldays you probably saw the difference between the prose of Cicero and the conversational Latin of Plautus.” This last remark enabled me to place the man. He was, it seemed, a full-sized Oxford prig. They are fond of throwing their educa- tion about like that. Which is loathly in them. But they do it. I explained to him that I had never been to school. “Well, then, to come down to your level,” he continued. “You have read English books, and you must have seen that written English 6 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. - is not like spoken English, When we speak, for instance—to take quite a minor point—we often put a full stop before the relative clauses —add them as an afterthought. Which struck me as being true. “But when we write we only put a comma. The author of ‘ Plain Tales from the Hills’ saw this, and acted on the principle. He punctuated his writing as he did his speaking; and used more full stops than any man before him. Which was genius.” I think—I am not sure, but I think—that at this point I blushed. “Secondly, the public want to be mystified. They like references to things of which they have never heard. They read the sporting papers for that reason. So this man wrote of Anglo-Indian life, and put very little explana- tion into it. It was all local colour. Do you suppose the average cockney knows what ‘P. W. D. accounts’ are? Of course he doesn’t. But he likes to be treated as if he did. The author noted this point. And that also shows genius. Thirdly, the public do not OF MR. RUDYARD KIPLING. 7 like the good man, nor do they like the bad man. They like the man-who-has-some-good- in-him-after-all. ‘I am cynical, says our author, ‘and desperately worldly, and some- what happy-go-lucky, yet I, the same man, am interested in children. Witness my story of Tods and my great goodness to Muhammed Din. With all my cynicism I have a kind heart. Was I not kind even unto Jellaludin? I am the man-who-has-some-good -in-himn-after-all.’ Love me! Genius again. Fourthly, take the subject-matter—soldiers, horses, and flirts. Of these three the public never weary. It may not have been genius to have seen that. And the public like catch-words. I knew a girl once who did the serio-comic business at the ; but that is another story. To recognise the beauty of catch-words may not be genius either. But it is genius to say more than you know, and to seem to know more than you say—to be young and to seem old. There are people who are connected with the Government of India who are so high that no one knows anything about them except themselves, and 8 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. their own knowledge is very superficial. Is our author afraid? Nota bit. He speaks of them with freedom but with vagueness. He says Up Above. And the public admire the free- dom, and never notice the vagueness. Bless the dear public!” The train and the complete stranger stopped simultaneously. I was not angry. “How do you come to know the workings of the author's mind ?” I asked. I put the question calmly, and I waited to see him shrivel. He never shrivelled. He was getting his gun-case out from under the seat. “I am the author,” he said blandly. “Good afternoon.” Then he got out. He was so bland that I should have quite believed him if I had not written the book myself, “As it is, I feel by no means sure about it. Which is curious. IL—OF MR. JOHN RUSKIN. From ‘Lecture I—Arrowroot. 49. Eat! Nay, you do not eat. I do not know why any man of us under heaven should talk about eating. We spend our money—the money of a great nation—on filthy fossils and bestial pictures; on party journals and humiliating charities ; on foolish books and gas-lit churches. And on solid, honest beef we will spend nothing, unless we are driven by necessity; and, even then, there are those who content them with frozen mutton, the fat of which is base and inferior. I do not think there is any sadder sight in this world than a nation without appetite. I have pointed out to-night that the meat and vegetables which you have despised—nay, which you are daily despising—go to form part of the body; and that the brain is a part of the body ; and that on the brain all just conceptions 10 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. depend. So far we found that the scientist was with us. I left him dazed and trembling, hesi- tating on the verge of conclusions which I have not feared to‘state quite plainly. If you forget every other word that I have said, remember at least those- conclusions; for I do feel that they are significant and important to every one of us. I willstate them once more. The brain- life increases with the amount we eat. If we would have just conceptions, we must devour seven solid meat-meals a day. You do not do it. You cannot, in any true sense, be said to eat. Why do you thus neglect your duty? Have patience with me a little longer, and I will show you why. I say, firstly, that with most of us this thing is a physical impossibility. We trifle in some sort with three, or, at the most, four meat- meals, and we dare to say that we eat. I do not wish to speak wildly or harshly. On the contrary, the wonder to me is that we can do what we do on the little that we take. But have we not fallen very low when, in our struggle upwards, we find ourselves blocked by a physical OF MR. JOHN RUSKIN. ll impossibility? Secondly, we are the victims of the insanity of avarice. How long most people would look at the largest turbot before they would give the price of a first folio of Shake- speare for it! We venture even to ask the bless- ing of heaven on lentil soup and a slice of jam pudding. For what do you suppose is the cause of this consuming white leprosy of vege- tarian restaurants which has broken out all over our fair land? Lentil soup is cheap, and for that reason we allow it to take the place of nobler food. Every day I see in your streets some fresh sign of this insanity. I see men go forth from their houses and pollute the pure morning air with the breath of their filthy lungs, when that same breath might be sweetened and disinfected with the aroma of a Villur y Villar. Is this offence against nature excusable on any plea of economy ? Lastly, you are influenced by fashion. There is no need of words of mine for proof of this. I will say nothing of fashion, and I will not chide you. I know that you are weak, and the knowledge saddens me. I will only ask you 12 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. to let me read to you four lines of true poetry :-— Her eyes were deeper than the depths Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Aye, and even to-night it may be that this blessed. damozel looks down upon us from heaven’s golden bar. Can you not picture the sorrow that must be in her eyes? Can you be any longer content that your meat-meals shall be as the lilies, and not as the stars in number ? Remember this, my friends: The lilies look wp to the stars. 50. What, then, shall we do? I have now spoken to you for several hours, and I must bring my lecture to an end. I have drawn my bow at a venture; I have shot my arrow: I shall find it after many days; not, as the poet sings, in the heart of an oak, but in the root of our national degradation. That, indeed, is one of the reasons why I called this lecture “ Arrow- root.” What shall we do? The night is’ here, in which no man can either work or eat. For OF MR. JOHN RUSKIN. 13 the present, my friends, our holiest act will be to go to bed. And if, as you lie there to-night, sleep refuses to come to you, take refuge in no vile drugs, no doctor’s narcotics. Drink rather of the pure arrowroot; in other words, read a few pages of this lecture, which I have had printed by an entirely honest man, as well as he can do it, and which will be sold for a just price at the door of the hall. So shall you sleep well. And on the morrow may we wake, you -and I, with fresh strength and a better appetite. OF ‘MR. R. D. BLACKMORE. 15 door with the key of the little tool-house that stood at the south end of the garden, just where the Lonton Brook entered our land; being, in fact, a little short-sighted, but unwilling to acknowledge the fact, from humility, lest he should be credited with a greater age than it had pleased Providence to give him. He found the right key at last, and got the door open. There were two boxes—one of threepenny and one of sixpenny. That, at least, was the way he distinguished them, having a hearty con- tempt for all foreign names and fal-lals, as became a good English market-gardener with land of his own and the third best pew in the village church. Now these cigars were a luxury, upon the purchase of which my uncle never would have embarked knowingly; but the unforeseen overtakes us in many ways, and as- suredly it had overtaken my uncle in the matter of these cigars. His head-man, Long Jim, had showed such misplaced confidence in human nature as to send bushel after bushel of early kidneys up to the “Green Lion” as fast as the landlord, a man of no principle, liked to order 16. PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. them. Now it was well known all over Lonton that the « Green Lion” was in a failing way, the beer being inferior and the house standing too far back from the coach-road. At any rate, as no money was forthcoming, my uncle had been compelled to take the “Green Lion’s” entire stock of cigars instead; and though it grieved him at the time, he found them useful afterwards to mark occasions. “Which shall it be, Chris; threepenny or sixpenny?” he said. “Chris, you’re a good lad, and you’re going to marry a sensible girl with no nonsense about her. So it shall be a six- penny. Chris, my boy, you shall see me smoke a sixpenny in honour of your Chrissie.” I thanked him humbly, feeling quite sure now that he considered it a great occasion, and one of which he approved. For the sixpennies not only cost twice as much as the others, but did not entirely suit him, being very full in flayour and (it was thought by those who had had the good luck to try them) a trifle out of condition. I made a paper spill and lit his cigar for him, and mixed him a second glass OF MR. R. D. BLACKMORE. 17 of rum-and-water without saying anything about it. He did not seem to notice what I had done, but he sipped it cheerfully. He only allowed himself one glass every night; sometimes I took upon myself to. mix him a second, when the weather had been wayward, and he seemed to me to require consolation. He always chid me for doing it; but, being a sensible man, and knowing that there should be no bad blood between near relations, he would finally forgive me and drink the. liquor ; tor he knew that, if he did not drink it, it would fall to the portion of our old servant “Martha, and that rum-and-water was too high feeding for that spirited old dame. At this moment Martha tapped at the door and entered. She told us that Long Jim had just come back from Birstock, that he had put up the cart and seen to the pony, and that she had given him supper, as ordered. Further, that Long Jim had eaten two pounds of solid beef, but had not touched the undercut, having been duly instructed that -the undercut was not for the likes of him; that he had drunk therewith three pints of the Cc 18 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES, 7 second-best ale; that he seemed to have some- thing on his mind, and had hardly spoken; and that he sent his respects and compliments, and would like to speak to Master Chris.” “JT will go to him,” I said, starting up. “No, no,” said my uncle, with a natural feeling that Long Jim was his property, and had no business to speak at all, except in his presence and after encouragement ; “show him in here.” Long Jim’s real name was James Long, but he had been called Long Jim from his great height. He was a thin, dry, humble, dejected man. He had a large family, and worked hard for it; and was treated with a good deal of loving contempt by his busy little wife. He came shambling into the room with his hat in one hand, and gazed sheepishly first at my uncle and then at myself. «You may sit down, James Long,” said my uncle, “and tell me what you have to say.” He seated himself awkwardly. “There be a wise woman come to Birstock, and she do say that there be rain more’n enow to fall next Lord’s Day, an’ it seemeth.” OF MR. R. D. BLACKMORE, 19 “Jim,” I struck in, for I could see his manner, “you're lying. Tell us the truth, and don’t shirk it.” “Miss Chrissie Greenhouse hath left her home, and no man knoweth where she be—no, not one on ’em; nor why she hath done it.” ' Ido not quite know what happened nest. My uncle shaded his eyes with one hand, as if the glare of the candles hurt them. I felt that I must do something, or die: so I drank my uncle’s rum-and-water. I could hear poor Jim blubbering. My uncle was the first to speak. “James Long, be quiet.” I never before had seen my uncle look so brave and noble as he did then. “Where are we?” “Tn the first vollum,” sobbed Jim. “Then we must at once get on a false scent, and, to do that, we must have a detective. We must keep on with the false scent all through the second volume, and find the right trail about the beginning of the third. Bear up, Chris, my boy; we're all right, because we’re in a novel. Have a cigar. Have a six—I mean, have a threepenny cigar.” c2 20 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. It was my first cigar. While I smoked it, we discussed our plans. “George Bradby is at the bottom of this,” I said. My uncle slapped his knee. “You're right, Chris. Of course, he isn’t really,” he added in a whisper, “ but we must keep it up.” “Else there'll be no second vollum,” said Jim sadly. IV—OF MR. WALTER PATER. Marius at Sloane Street. ABOVE all, there was at this time a desire abroad to attain that which was best. It had spread over the country like a great wave; its furthest ripple reaching even to the lower and more common minds, and awakening in them an intelligent seriousness, a newer and brighter perception of their own immediate good, and the will to secure it at any cost to others. It seemed, as it were, a stray fragrance from the old school of Cyrene, blown by some petulant wind down the ages, and lighting at last upon this weary, overwrought civilisation. At least, this lucent, flame-like devotion to self—this strenuous, almost feverish, worship of the ego —was there, vividly present amongst men, and like to some new religion in its animating power. And if upon its high altar the happi- ness of others had to be sacrificed to personal 22 PLAYHINGS AND PARODIES. and individual ends, that sacrifice was ever made—as, indeed, all such must be made—in perfect simplicity and hopefulness. There was no tetchy, fretful complaining. The individual and his ideal being one, his holiest act was to please himself. All that was lost, with that purpose, was well lost; the highest and purest form of asceticism was the utter devotion to self. Marius—susceptible, as he had ever been, to all sweet influences—found himself strangely dominated by the beauty of this new spirit. Standing at the corner of the old Via Sloa- nensis, he felt almost faint with the longing to do something—a little thing, perhaps, but still something—to show how he loved himself. The public vehicles—snow-white or scarlet, sap- phire or peach-colour—passed before him in gorgeous procession from the distant circus. To him—as, indeed, to others—each colour had an inner meaning, and was not only decorative. It was an appeal, a voice that called: “Come into us. Be part of us. Come to the dreamy south or to the burning west. Come all the way, all the way!” OF MR. WALTER PATER. 23 The afternoon had been broken by showers, the wind only half drying the pavement before another torrent came; and Marius noted the ardent and special apprehension of the subsellia anteriora of these vehicles, and the musical chant of Plenum intra! Plenum intra! Yes, even in this crowd of quite ordinary and common people, the new spirit was showing itself. The renunciation of others for self, that true sacrifice, was made again and again, willingly and cheer- fully, each time that one of these public vehicles stopped. A chance gave Marius his opportunity, and he at once decided to take it. “I am going from this wet weariness,” he said to Cornelius, who stood by his side. “In yonder vehicle there is room for one only ; I shall be that one; and you, dear friend, will wait for the next.’ Without another word he pushed his way through the throng. Never had he been more conscious of his strength, his great, fiery man- hood. Carelessly enough he flung from the step of the vehicle some daughter of the people who would have anticipated him. He had not 24 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. noticed that she was not alone. Afterwards he could remember but little of what next hap- pened. His capacity for receiving exquisite physical impressions seemed suddenly satiated by some intense experience. He was only con- scious of quick movement; and then he knew that he had seated himself in the road, and that the people were crowding about him. For a few seconds he seemed to be living too quickly, too keenly. “What has happened?” he gasped, with a look of mad appeal. “You have been kicked,” said Cornelius simply, as he helped him to his feet. “Ah!” He limped away with the young soldier. “I have indeed been kicked,’ he said very slowly. Then, as the fulness and sharpness of the sensation became more convincing, he burst out: “Viai! Vexi! And where is the nearest temple of Atsculapius ?” V.—OF COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI. Donovitch’s Confession (Shockingly Translated ). DonovitcH uttered two sighs, and for some | time remained silent. His face had become longer, and there was more of his mouth. His ears twitched. It was frightful. Two passengers, who had been going on to Liverpool Street, got out at Charing Cross. I think they said that they would go on by the next bus. One of them was a young woman; she wore a green hat. It has nothing. to do with the story or anything else, and that is why I mention it. I am a Russian realist, and in a fair way of business. Admire, and pass on. “Music is an awful thing,” he went on at last. “What is it? Why does it do what it does? What is there in his wife’s musical evening that makes the husband to be detained on business ? Answer me that. You cannot? I will tell you, because I know. People say that music causes 26 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. ennwi—that it bores; also, that it occasionally distracts. Lies, lies, lies—all lies! It elevates the soul. That is why music is so dangerous and acts at times in so peculiar a manner. If one’s soul is elevated too far—how am I to ex- press myself ?—if one’s soul passes out of one’s reach, one has to get along without it until it comes down again. “On that particular morning it was bright and sunny. I felt light, but prescient; I knew that the Italian would come again, and that some- thing would happen. I want you to see that I was not entirely myself even before the Italian came. New feelings, new qualities, suddenly declared themselves within me. What was I experiencing? Dyspepsia? I cannot say. The Italian came at eleven o’clock. I hated him— hated his black hair and coarse face—hated the mechanical piano with the green baize covering —hated the immoral monkey which sat on the top. I would not let them see that I hated them. I was too proud for that, but my heart swelled. It was very painful, but I kept quiet. I was determined to be perfectly natural; so I went to OF COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI. 27 the sideboard and drank a glass of vodka. Then I lit a cigarette; I thought that it would deaden the feeling. I said to my soul: ‘Soul, don’t move. Stop where you are. Refuse to be elevated.’ Yet I must confess that directly he began to play ‘See-saw,’ I felt my control over noyself lapsing from me. I went to the window and looked at the Italian. I can see him now— a man in robust health, well nourished, with horrible red lips, turning a handle. Do you know ‘See-saw’? They always play it at the circus when the two performing dogs are fool- ing about at opposite ends of a plank. Every bar sends the soul up with a jerk; you will not believe me. But there is a point at which one positively wishes the music to stop. With me, that point was reached very soon. I flung open the window, and said distinctly: ‘Go away. Go quite away, and leave my soul alone, can’t you?’ I do not think the Italian understood. His monkey grinned. Oh, why did it grin? It ought not to have grinned. It is immoral to grin. In China monkeys are only allowed to grin on important occasions. Here they do it in 28 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. the open street, with young girls passing every minute. Do let us be moral! Have you never thought what the effect must be on the cab- horses? The Italian changed his tune. It was a florid arrangement of a music-hall song—I forget by what composer. I turned back into the room and flung myself on a sofa. I sobbed, but I do not know why. Then I put on my boots, and smoked two cigarettes at once, to deaden the feeling. I may tell you that I knew very well now what I was going to do; it was all planned in my mind just as it actually happened. Yet, if he had stopped playing at that moment all might have been well. He did not stop; he began to play ‘Annie Rooney.’ “T crept with soft, wolf-like steps into the hall. I took from the umbrella-stand a slightly-curved Damascus blade which had never been used, and which was extremely sharp. It had been in- tended for the water-rate, but now I had another use for it. Then I put on my hat and went out. I do not remember how I got out of the front door and into the street. I cannot say how I moved, whether I walked or ran. I remember OF COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI. 29 nothing of all that. I remember only the ex- pression of the Italian’s face as I stepped towards him, holding the dagger behind me. It was an expression of terror—absolute, abject terror. I was glad to see it. The monkey looked annoyed and darted a quick look of interrogation at his vaaster. Suddenly the Italian smiled, and as- suming an air of indifference so false as to be ludicrous, said: ‘We was giving you a little music.’ “He did not finish his sentence. I felt the need of giving free course to my rage. With a sudden cry I flung myself upon him. I must have frightened him dreadfully, for he became as white as a sheet ; he ran away, accompanied by the monkey. “