Part 3

At _table d'hote_ last night at Hotel Russie, overheard one of those "things one would rather not have said," feigned by the fancy of English Artist of world-wide renown. Gentleman of distinguished appearance opens conversation with lady on his left:

_He._ "Homburg still seems very full."

_She._ "Yes, but they're a horrid lot now arriving compared with those who have just left; doncha think so?"

_He._ "Really, Madam, I cannot say, as I reached here only this afternoon." Pause in conversation.

_Friday._--There are compensations for everything. Weather has not permanently recovered earthquake-breaking-up on day of our arrival. Still sun occasionally comes out, making it worth while to be on foot at seven o'clock in the night, when the sky is an unclouded arc of blue, and the sun sparkles on dewy grass. Pleasant then at noon, or afternoon, to stroll about under the lindens in the Park, still full of leaves, or to lounge in Tennis grounds watching the play. Oftener it is cold and rainy, and here's where philosophic mind finds its recompense. Homburg perhaps most open-windowed town north of Alps. On sunny days not a window in any house closed. Every home has its piano, more or less in tune. Every piano has its relays of players. Pianist at No. 14A, Untere Promenade, cannot help hearing pianiste next door, and plays loud to hold the field. Next door hears practitioner on other side, and plays louder still; so it goes on all up and down the street. Here and there the uproar is pierced by the shrill voice of a singer. It is the same in the next street, and in the street after, till all Homburg becomes a Pandemonium of piano-pounding. Now I sit in my room, with windows closed, listening with gratitude to the pelting rain and the soughing of the wind through the dripping trees. All other windows are necessarily closed, and above wind and rain is audible undertone of universal piano-playing, like the sound of a barrel-organ in far-off back-street. Perhaps not quite worth while coming all the way to Homburg for; but I like to make best of things.

_Monday._--His Serene and Blind Highness still here, dutifully taking waters, and pluckily striding forth to complete regulation-turns. No one would guess at his affliction, except upon close observation. A photographic portrait of him on view in one of the Studios here, in which he looks forth open-eyed as keenest-sighted of his subjects; a kindly, genial, brave-hearted gentleman. All unconscious, he is made the occasion for a little satire on Royalty which would have delighted THACKERAY. To him ladies, entering into passing conversation, curtsey; gentlemen doff their hats; and _Jeames de la Pluche_ stands bare-headed as he hands him glass of water from spring. It is horrible to think that JEAMES might, with impunity--there being no on-lookers--shake his fist playfully in his Royal Master's face. Hope he never takes base advantage of his opportunities. But there is a look in JEAMES'S eye, as he hands the glass of water, which melikes not.

_Tuesday._--Between one and two in afternoon of revolving days, great centre of life in Homburg is Madame BRAHE'S little shop in Louisen-strasse; little only on first glance: contains unsuspected recesses in rear, whither surplus population flows. A model place for light luncheon such as Dr. DEETZ ordains: also for English visitors convenient exchange and mart for latest gossip and display of newest dresses. Whilst season in full tide, Madame BRAHE'S painfully reminiscent of Bourse at Paris. Evil communications have wrought proverbial effect; Germans feared throughout Europe by reason of their conversational shouting; but English ladies, and some gentlemen, met for luncheon _chez_ Madame BRAHE, might give them odds and beat them. Three or four girls, decently spoken at home one hopes, seated at small table here, carry on conversation at top of voice; many small tables, and as many friendly parties; one group not to be shouted down by a neighbour. British ladies never acknowledge defeat; competition kept up all round, till, dazed and deafened, the stray traveller gulps down luncheon and rushes into street.

_Wednesday._--Homburg really not Bad at all, but best part of it lies outside. To the north are delightful walks through illimitable beech woods and pathless pine forests. Messrs. BLANC, who created the place, knew very well ruling passion of gamester. The green tables, the sound of the roulette ball, the pattern on the cards, and the brilliantly-lighted Casino, only ostensibly attractions for him. What his heart desires is opportunity for communing with Nature. The solemn silence of the beech wood, the fragrance of the pines, the modest beauty of the wild flowers that gem the edges of the wood, are what he really hankers for. So Messrs. BLANC took surrounding country in hand; planted splendid pine woods with delightful footpaths, with benches wooing the pensive and wearied traveller.

Walked to-day by devious shady ways to Friedrichsdorf, a few miles out; a quaint old-world village of charmingly-tiled houses, straggling down a villanously paved street. Only one street in Friedrichsdorf, but more in it than meets the eye. Houses have way of playing hide-and-seek; you look up passage that seems entry to back of premises, when, lo! there lurks a complete house, with tiny casement-windows, and graciously-sloped red-tiled roof. JESSIE COLLINGS ought to know Friedrichsdorf, and Right Hon. RITCHIE would find in it encouragement for Amended Allotments Bill. It is, like many other villages hereabout, home of colony of small land-proprietors. All the rich and smiling country that lies around is theirs. Passed them working in the fields, men and women, comfortably dressed, sturdy, and apparently happy as day is long. Every man has at least his three acres, many more; the cow is also there, but is chiefly in shaft of cart or plough. As we picked way down awesome street, Friedrichsdorf, save for few children and old men, seemed deserted village; all able-bodied inhabitants at work in field. By-and-by, when sun goes down, they come trooping home, tramping down stony street, a jocund throng.

_Thursday._--Rain departed; for days in succession Homburg been at its best; almost seems like early spring, save that we still have roses; sun shining in cloudless sky, trees still rich in foliage; grass thick and green, with here and there abundant crocuses. Still emptying process going on with increasing rapidity. "Lawn tennis," writes anonymous author of _Miss Bayle's Romance_, "has become the outdoor dissipation at Homburg, and Dutch Top the indoor one." Only stray couples are left to frequent the courts on the tennis-ground, and the rattle of the Dutch Top is happily silenced. Still the band plays thrice a day. Springs go on like The Brook, and the few who are left begin to think that, after all, Homburg more enjoyable without the crowd than with it.

* * * * *

SOME NOTES AT STARMOUTH.

MY Nautical Drama is not making much progress. Must go more amongst men and things. That is the only way to gain ideas. World full of _dramatis personae_, who will provide their own dialogue, if you can only find them a good part. Interview old sailor; capital character--the very man to be "discovered drinking," (which must have frequently occurred to him) as curtain rises. Talk to him half-an-hour, but without hearing a single really telling line. Half-a-crown wasted! Pleasure-boat just "putting off,"--which is naturally a dilatory operation--Skipper says they are only waiting for me. I hesitate; does Art demand this sacrifice? Hitherto my voyages have been chiefly confined to journeyings in a penny steamer from Chelsea to Lambeth. But can I reasonably expect to become familiar with marine matters without some actual experience? If M. ZOLA could go and live for weeks down a coal-mine, surely I may trust myself in a pleasure-boat for one short half-hour? It is only sixpence.

I subdue my diffidence, and embark--that is, I fall over the stern, and stumble to the only vacant seat--a thwart in the middle. Should have _preferred_ a place nearer the gunwale.... We are off; boat pretty full, twenty-four passengers, to crew of two boatmen and a cornet-player. People enjoying what they call "a blow on the jetty," wave handkerchiefs to us as we pass. Curious, this blind impulse to wave greetings to perfect strangers--does it spring from vague enthusiasm for humanity? Chatty old gentleman next to me _will_ talk: he tells me confidentially that it is a singular thing, but it does so happen that he has never been on the sea without an accident of some sort occurring,--never! There is no superstitious nonsense about him, it seems, so he thought he would "chance it" once more. Very creditable--but more considerate if he would chance it in a canoe. The Cornet-player quite a cockney Arion (though nobody thinks, somehow, of pitching him overboard). He performs appropriate airs during trip. _A Life on the Ocean Wave_, as we start; _Only a Pansy Blossom_, (though I don't see the precise connection of this) as we tack; and the _Harbour Lights_, when we turn. Somehow, this rather vulgarises the Ocean--for me. Sea fortunately smooth: nobody at all unwell. I feel nothing--except perhaps a growing conviction that a very young infant opposite should not be permitted to eat a jam-puff in public. Boatmen use no nautical expressions. Passengers lively at first, though, by time we turn, the expression on our features, like that of young lady who wore the wreath of roses, seems "more thoughtful than before." We are close in now--the musician is sending round his hat. Resent this privately, it is _not_ seamanlike! In beaching, yacht swings round with her broadside to breakers, causing sudden wave to drench the Jonah gentleman and myself before we can disembark. He seems rather gratified than otherwise by so apposite an illustration of his ill-luck. The brown-eyed girl on sands watches me alight--on all fours, dripping. Sea-trip a mistake, I feel damped rather than fired.

_On the Beach again._--Cheap photographers, galvanic machines, chiropodist, tea-stalls, grim old ladies eating shrimps, as if they were cherries, out of paper bags. Open-air music-hall, where comic songs are shouted from platform by dreary men in flaxen wigs to harmonium--this always crowded. Enjoyment at Starmouth hearty perhaps--but hardly refined. Constantly haunted by song from open-air platform about "The Gurls," with refrain describing how "they squeeze, And they tease. And they soy, 'Oh, what joy!'" (or perhaps it should be--"sigh, 'Oh, what jy!'") Either way, it has hit the popular taste here. I may be prudish--but, even if a couple _are_ engaged, it seems to me that a nicer sense of propriety would deter them from dozing in a sand-pit, _coram publico_, with their arms around one another's neck. Nobody thinks anything of this at Starmouth, however.

What a matter of circumstance are our prejudices! I should once have thought that nothing would induce me to drive about on a _char-a-banc_--like one of the band in a circus procession. Yet I have just returned from a drive in one--and enjoyed it!

She--my brown-eyed divinity of the Phrenology lecture--was on one of the seats, which redeemed a drive otherwise prosaic. We went to ruined castle; scenery unpicturesque (she showed, I thought, delicate perception of this by reading _Family Herald_ all the way). Starmouth children ran by side of carriage, turning head-over-heels, and gasping comic songs for coppers. Had last glimpse of them standing gratefully in a row on their heads.

We did not alight to see castle, as coachman said there was nothing to see. On way home, conductor made collection on his own account. (The hat is not much worn at Starmouth.) Yet I was happy--I have made _her_ acquaintance! Charming as she is beautiful--so simple and _naive_ in the few remarks she made. She is called LOUISE, and the person I took to be her maid is, it appears, her aunt--a most shrewd and sensible old lady, full of quiet good sense. We became friendly at once.

_A Week later._--No time for notes lately--too absorbed in study of LOUISE'S character--most complex and fascinating. Am I drifting into love? Why not--who could help it? The rank she occupies is not, perhaps, a lofty one; but at least there is nothing unfeminine in the duty of providing old ladies and children with light refreshment from behind the counter of an Oxford Street confectioner. And her tastes are refined; she is a gentlewoman by nature and instinct. The lady-phrenologist has delineated her (privately), and declared that LOUISE "could learn science easily, and play the piano, if she turns her attention that way." As a matter of fact, she has not, because neither science nor the piano is in demand at a confectioner's; but still she undoubtedly possesses a superior intellect; no ordinary girl would enter into the Nautical Drama, for instance, as she does.

We have been to see _Caste_ at the theatre. LOUISE very grave and critical; she only laughed once, and that was when _Eccles_ blew rather loudly down his pipe to clear it. So many girls have an inconvenient sense of humour--quite unsexing, I have always thought.

Her aunt is not precisely patrician in her manner, which would be totally out of place in a Fancy Wool Repository--but, after all, I shall not have to go through any experiences like poor _D'Alroy's_. And I am sure my uncle's heart will warm to LOUISE at once. Why hesitate, then? I will not.

I have taken the plunge--LOUISE has consented. She tells me that she was won by my appearance in the Professor's chair, and still more by the character he gave me. How our choicest blessings masquerade! Drama, for the moment, in the background--but only apparently so. Literature has no stimulus like love, and I am constantly talking the play over with LOUISE. She has made one suggestion that convinces me she has a keen sense of dramatic effect--a hornpipe in one of the Acts. I am to read her the first Scene, as soon as it is put into shape.

Her brother "ALF" is expected down to-night. LOUISE is certain we shall "take to one another," he has "such spirits," and is "quite a cure." Always thought a "cure" was a kind of jumping clown--but ALF is a clerk in a leading establishment, somewhere in Marylebone--a steady, industrious young fellow, no doubt. However, I shall meet him to-morrow.

I _have_ met ALF. Although I love LOUISE with the first real passion of a lifetime, I cannot disguise from myself that her brother is an unmitigated Blazer. I would almost rather that he did not take to me--but he does. In half an hour he is addressing me as "Old gooseberry-pudden." If he is going to do this often, I shall have to hint that I do not like it.

I have been strolling with him on the sands, where he has already found several of his acquaintance. He _will_ introduce me to all of them. Hearty, high-spirited fellows, full of rough but genuine British humour. From the manner in which they all inquire "How my bumps are getting on," I infer they were amongst Professor SKITTLES' audience the other day. But they mean to be friendly enough--I must not let them see how they annoy me.... It is absurd to be stiff at Starmouth.

* * * * *

THE TYMPANUM.

(_A Remonstrance at a Railway Station._)

_The_ tympanum! The tympanum! Oh! who will save the aural drum By softening to some gentler squeak The whistle's shrill _staccato_ shriek? Oh! Engine-driver, did you know How your blast smites one like a blow, An inward shock, a racking strain, A knife-like thrust of poignant pain, Whilst groping through the tunnel murk You would not with that fiendish jerk Let out that _sudden_ blast of steam Whose screaming almost makes _us_ scream. Thy whistle weird perchance may be A sad and sore necessity, But cannot Law and sense combine To--well, in short, to draw the line?-- Across the open let it shrill From moor to moor, from hill to hill, But in the tunnel's crypt-like gloom, The Station's cramped reverberant room, A gentler, _graduated_ blast! Do let it loose, whilst dashing past, So shall it spare us many a pang; That dread explosive bursting "bang" Which nearly splits the aural drum, The poor long-suffering tympanum!

* * * * *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES:

On page 149, a period was added after "by a long way".

On page 149, a period was added after "he feels, afford them".