Chapter 5

=The Library again.=

_Grumpy._ Well, Virginia, and how's Ernest? Better, hey! He ought---- Good heavens, child, what's that you've got in your hand?

_Virginia._ Just a dicky, grandfather.

_Grumpy (excitedly)._ Let me look ... Virginia, it's an india-rubber one! (_Sternly_) Where did you get this?

_Virginia._ Mr. Jarvis gave it to me.

_Grumpy._ Mr. Jarvis! Aha! (=He hides behind the sofa.=)

=Enter _Mr. Jarvis._=

_Jarvis (-to _Virginia_=)._ I'm afraid my conduct must seem very strange, but I had to come back to see you. I--er--lost the shirt-front you gave me. Could you let me have my own back again? You see, I'm going abroad and I must have _one._

_Grumpy (=popping his head up=)._ Ah, Mr. Jarvis, did I hear you asking for a shirt-front? Allow me to offer you one--an india-rubber one, Mr. Jarvis! (=_Jarvis blenches._=) And the price, Mr. Jarvis, is the diamond in your waistcoat-pocket!

CURTAIN--=except that _Ernest_ gets engaged to _Virginia_ first.=

* * * * *

_Postscript._--On reading this through I feel that it hardly does justice to the clever acting of Mr. MAUDE as an always delightful old gentleman, the excellent support given him by the rest of the company, and the pleasantly exciting melodrama provided for them by Messrs. HORACE HODGES and T. W. PERCYVAL. To all of them my thanks for an entertaining evening.

A. A. M.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Pat (having hung up an ostrich's egg on the hen-house door)._ "There, ye deginerate little spalpeens, look at that and thry what ye can do!"

* * * * *

From a letter to _The Scotsman_:--

"It goes without saying that when recognising a friend in the street one raises one's hat by the hand removed from that friend."

Of course. But it is proper to return the hand immediately after the little ceremony with a few words of thanks.

* * * * *

"For the latter an excuse must be offered in that he was badly hit on the left hip by the previous ball--a yorker--to that which bowled him."--_Evening News._

In the over before he had been stunned by a sneak.

* * * * *

_The Yorkshire Daily Observer_ on the income tax:--

"A Bradford widow has been left with five children under 15 years of age. Her income is £300 a ear."

Or £3,600 in all. We refuse to be moved by her hard case.

* * * * *

"Miscellaneous Volumes. 10s. per cwt. (No theology.)

Theology. 5s. 6d. per cwt."--_Catalogue._

Money being tight, we are ordering 8 stone 7 lbs. of theology for the drawing-room.

* * * * *

"The Government has introduced another Bill to regulate the sale of milk and the inspection of dairies. This disgracefully dilutory Parliament of ours has been playing with similar Bills for five years."--_Daily Herald._

The dilutory milkman is really more to blame.

* * * * *

MEDIATION.

[SCENE--_A room at Niagara Falls. The Argentine, the Brazilian and the Chilian mediators are mediating; that is to say, they are sitting on rocking chairs not very close to a large table covered with papers, pens, ink, etc. A deep noise of falling water pervades the air. Out of compliment to Canada the conversation is carried on in English._]

_Argentine Mediator._ Cold, isn't it?

_Brazilian Mediator._ Yes, there's a great deal of cold in the atmosphere.

_Chilian Mediator._ We often get it colder than this in Chili.

(_A pause._)

_A. M._ There's a lot of water coming down.

_B. M._ Yes, and it keeps coming, too, doesn't it?

_C. M._ It isn't as noisy as I thought it would be, though.

_A. M._ Oh, I don't know. It's quite noisy enough.

_B. M._ Yes, it's very difficult to concentrate one's mind. We've got a waterfall in Brazil which has the same effect. You can't do any work near it. People go there for a rest-cure.

_C. M._ There are a good many waterfalls in Chili, too, and they make more noise than this one.

(_A pause._)

_A. M._ How long do you think we shall be here?

_B. M._ A week, or a month, or a year--I don't know.

_C. M._ It's a dull place, isn't it?

_A. M._ Yes, it is, dull as ditchwater.

_B. M._ Dull as a ditchwaterfall. Ha, ha.

_C. M. and A. M. (together)._ Ha, ha. That's capital.

_B. M._ You fellows must remind me to telegraph that home to Brazil.

_A. M._ By the way, I see ROOSEVELT has been in Brazil.

_B. M._ Yes; isn't it awful?

_G. M._ Discovered a river, hasn't he?

_B. M._ Something of that sort. He'll discover the world next.

_A. M._ Anyhow, I'm glad he's not here.

_B. M._ By Jove, yes. Wouldn't it be dreadful if he were?

_C. M._ Don't. You make my flesh creep.

_B. M._ After all, I'm not sure he's worse than WILSON. They're all alike, these Yankees. I've no use for them and their MONROE Doctrine; have you?

_A. M._ Not the slightest. If they think we're children they'll soon find out their mistake.

_C. M._ Hear, hear!

(_A pause._)

_A. M._ Anything new from Mexico?

_B. M._ No. Same old game.

_C. M._ What's HUERTA up to?

_B. M._ Sitting tight.

_A. M._ And what's VILLA doing?

_B. M._ Oh, he's been capturing Tampico a good deal lately.

_C. M._ Isn't a fellow called ZAPATA chipping in somewhere?

_B. M._ Yes, he's having a go too.

(_A pause._)

_A. M._ I say, you men, I've got an idea.

_B. M._ Out with it, then.

_C. M._ Yes, let's have it.

_A. M._ Well, then, suppose we start by saying that HUERTA and WILSON must _both_ be eliminated. That'll please both sides. HUERTA will be tickled to death if WILSON has to go, and WILSON will be delighted at our backing up his policy. What do you think?

_B. M._ I can't think at all in this noise.

_C. M._ Nor can I, but I daresay it's all right.

_A. M._ I'm glad you like the idea. It's fair to both sides, you see. That's what mediation's for.

(_Left mediating._)

* * * * *

THE BATH UNREST.

My bath awaits me! It contains to-night, Besides the customary water--stay: Before I name ingredients, let me say Exactly who and what I am who write.

(My bath awaits me!) I am known to fame, First, as a rising music-hall artiste; But, secondly and chiefly, I'm the beast Who Puts Things in his Bath. You've met my name.

(My bath awaits me!) People come, you see, With sample packets of the Lord knows what, And want me to "endorse" the silly rot. Well, I "endorse"; receiving £. _s._ _d._

(My bath awaits me!) But I specialise In baths. I will not "like it in my soup," Nor "take five drops before I loop the loop"; Nor will I "find it helps to keep off flies."

(My bath awaits me!) Am I over-nice? I cannot "thank you for the lovely sox," Nor shall "my children quarrel for the box." I Put It In My Bath. Let that suffice.

(My bath awaits me!) Now, to take the list: Mustard, by thirteen makers; salt, by six; Saponica; Shampoona; Sozothrix; Eau-de-Cologne (nine samples); Bathex; Vrist.

(My bath awaits me!) These and more than these (I drop the catalogue) in pungent strife, Stench hard at grips with stench for loathly life, Yon seething cauldron holds. Excuse a sneeze.

(My bath awaits me!) Why the cauldron? Why Not desecrate the dustbin? Here's the rub: All the endorsements specify my tub; The dustbin is not mentioned. Can I lie?

(My bath awaits me!) So I made a vow, Soon as the groaning shelf could bear no more, In one doomed bath to mix 'em. What I swore I've done. The night of reckoning is now.

My bath awaits me! True. But then I said Not "use" but "put." Why have my beastly bath? Bed, too, awaits me; be the bedward path My choice. I do not Put Things in my Bed.

* * * * *

"The following are good dishes for a small luncheon, not a complete menu, but suggestions for filling one out with those light and tempting dishes which the jaded modern palate so greatly prefers to the solid English cookery of our forefathers."--_Truth._

That is all very well, but if one really wants filling out these little kickshaws are no good; roast beef and Yorkshire pudding is the thing.

* * * * *

"Folds of net and thick white face lighten the effect of the corsage."--_Westminster Gazette._

The writer seems keen, but we are not.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE SCRUTINEER.

_Eliza Jane._ "'Ere, that last one didn't seem like a full sack to me."

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

Not the least attractive feature in Madame WADDINGTON'S new book, _My First Years as a Frenchwoman_ (SMITH, ELDER), is the revelation, undesignedly made, of a keen-sighted, vivacious, exceedingly womanly woman. During her residence in France as the wife of a highly placed Minister she had rare opportunity of watching the progress of historic events from a favoured standpoint behind the scenes. When she married M. WADDINGTON, in later years known to this country as French Ambassador, the National Assembly was sitting at Versailles. THIERS, first President of the Republic, had been overthrown and MACMAHON reigned in his stead. Madame WADDINGTON was brought into personal touch with these statesmen, with their successors, JULES GRÉVY, DE FREYCINET, CARNOT and with their varied _entourage._ Of each she has something shrewd, sprightly and informing to say. While immersed in international politics, perhaps not wholly free from anxious conviction that she was in some measure responsible for their direction, she had a seeing eye for frocks. Frequently, when describing social gatherings at the height of political crises, she stops to tell you how some lady was dressed and how the apparel suited her. Amongst other men of the epoch she has something to say about BLOWITZ, the famous Paris correspondent of _The Times._ It is evident that, without premeditation, he managed to offend the lady. She reports how Prince HOHENLOHE expressed a high opinion of the journalist, remarking, "He is marvellously well-informed of all that is going on." "It was curious," writes Madame, "how a keen clever man like the Prince attached so much importance to anything Blowitz said." For the side-lights which it flashes on high life in Paris at a critical period of the Republic the volume possesses exceptional value.

* * * * *

The subtleties of human motives, the fine problems of temperament, the delicate interplay of masculine logic and feminine intuition, what are these compared to blood, thunder, plots, counter-plots, earthquakes and, from the final chaos, the salvage of the "sweetest woman on earth" effected in the nick of time by a herculean and always imperturbable hero? Mr. FRANK SAVILE is not out to analyse souls. The opening chapter of _The Red Wall_ (NELSON) plunges us into a fray, irrelevant to the narrative save in so far as it introduces _Dick Blake_ and _Eileen O'Creagh_ and removes any possible doubt that might ever have been felt as to their respective merits and their mutual suitability. That preliminary complete, we proceed to the real business of the agenda, and momentous, passionate, nefarious, diabolical, mysterious and incessantly exciting business it is, covering the gamut of private emotions and international complications. In such narratives I demand three things: the first, that my author should combine a graphic (and grammatical) style with the professional knack of imparting an air of probability to his tale; the second, that things should go all wrong in the beginning and come all right in the end; the third, that if any German schemers are involved these should be eventually outwitted. Mr. SAVILE has abundantly satisfied me in all particulars; although I incline to carp at the opportuneness with which nature is made to erupt from time to time, and I venture to suggest that men and women never were and are probably never going to be like _Dick_ and _Eileen._ The book is, however, of the sort which is to be read and enjoyed but not considered further.

* * * * *

_Joe Quinney,_ the curiosity shop man in Mr. HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL'S _Quinneys'_ (MURRAY), is undoubtedly a "card," not unrelated, I should say, to Mr. BENNETT'S _Machen._ He is an entertaining fellow with his enthusiasms, his truculences, his fluctuating standards of honesty. Mr. VACHELL didn't quite get me to believe in _Joe's_ expert knowledge, which indeed seemed to be turned on and off in rather an arbitrary way as the exigencies of the story rather than the development and experience of the character dictated; but he did make me see and like the fellow. _Mrs. Quinney,_ that faithful timid soul, is admirably drawn, both in her courtship and her matronly days. But I found _Quinney_ a little hypocritical in his denunciation of _Miggott_, the chair-faker, who was not really sailing half so close to the wind or so profitably as _Quinney_ and his bibulous friend of a dealer, _Tamlin._ There are some interesting side-lights upon the astonishing tricks of the furniture trade, which are reflected by the authentic experience of the bitten wise. An entertaining and clever book; but why, why should H. A. V. drop from his Hill into the discreditable fellowship of those who have misquoted "honoured in the breach"?

* * * * *

Anybody can understand how extremely annoying and inconvenient the complete disappearance of a husband would be to a wife after a mere fortnight or so of married existence, before he had even begun to complain of the--well, anyhow that is what happens in Mrs. BELLOC LOWNDES'S latest novel, _The End of Her Honeymoon_ (METHUEN). The _Dampiers_ arrive in Paris, a Paris _en féte_ and crowded beyond all custom because of the state visit of the TSAR, and are obliged to occupy rooms on different floors of the _Poulains'_ hotel. Next morning _Mrs. Dampier_ awakes to find herself in the awkward predicament of Ariadne on the beach of Naxos, with the aggravation (spared to Theseus' bride) that the hotel people absolutely deny that she came with a husband at all. A punctilious if sceptical American senator (refreshingly guiltless of accent) and his enthusiastic son and daughter take pity on her, and the rest of the book resolves itself into a detective story, saved from conventionality by the pleasantly distinguished style in which the author writes and the intimate knowledge which she appears to possess of the Paris _préfecture de police._ _Gerald Burton,_ the young American, not entirely platonic in his solicitude, is baffled; _Salgas_, a famous enquiry agent, is baffled; and I am ready to take very long odds against the reader's unravelling the mystery, unless he happens to be familiar with a certain legend of the plague (though no plague comes in here). Indeed, it is only a chance conversation in the last chapter that throws light, my dear Watson, on this particularly _bizarre_ affair. And what then, you ask, had happened to _Jack Dampier_ after all? Ah!

* * * * *

I wonder why it is that so many books about walking tours should be written in much the same style. At least I don't really wonder at all, since it is quite apparent that R. L. S. and _Modestine_ are the models responsible for this state of things. And, since the style in itself is pleasant enough, I don't know that any one need complain. What put me upon this reflection was _Vagabonds in Perigord_ (CONSTABLE), which, for the modulation of its prose, might almost have been an unacknowledged work of the Master, but is actually written by Mr. H. H. BASHFORD. It concerns the wanderings on foot of certain pleasure pilgrims along the course of the river Dordogne; and is, for those that like such things, one of the most attractive volumes I have met this great while. I liked especially the author's happy gift of filling his pages with a holiday atmosphere; there is, indeed, so much fresh air and sunshine in them that the sympathetic reader will emerge feeling mentally bronzed. Nor does Mr. BASHFORD lack an agreeable humour of phrase. "Those wonderful three-franc dinners that seem to fall like manna upon France at seven o'clock every evening" is an example that lingers in my memory. Moreover, running through the whole is a hidden joke, and very cunningly hidden too, only to be revealed in the last paragraphs. Not for worlds would I reveal it here; I content myself with admitting that I for one was entirely fooled. I am less sure whether as a record of travel the book tempts to emulation. The drawbacks are perhaps too vividly rendered for this--heat and thirst through the flaming June days, and by night not wholly unbroken repose. But I am delighted to read about it all.

* * * * *

BRAM STOKER, whose too early cutting off saddened a wide circle of friends, was the Fat Boy of modern writers of fiction. He knew how to provide opportunity in fullest measure for making your flesh creep. A series of stories named after the first, _Dracula's Guest_ (ROUTLEDGE), is a marvellous collection of weird fancies wrought with ingenuity, related with graphic power, that come as near EDGAR ALLAN POE as anything I am acquainted with. There are nine, widely varying in subject and plot. I have read them all, and am not ashamed to confess that, finishing one before commencing another of the fascinating series, I found it convenient and agreeable to turn aside for a while and glance over less exciting pages. Not the least marvellous thing about the banquet is that it is provided at the modest charge of a shilling.

* * * * *

Illustration: (_A nervous individual, having been advised by a specialist that he must undergo an operation, calls upon his own doctor to ask him to administer the anæsthetic._)

_The Doctor (a conscientious practitioner)._ "Well! I will administer the anæsthetic, but--you know, I never like doing it. _The jury are always down on the anæsthetist._"