Chapter 2

_Mr. T._ Well, I don't see how I should ever strike that fair for myself, and I guess if there's anything to be seen we're bound to _see_ it, so me and my darter--allow me to introduce my darter to you--MAUD, this gentleman is Mr.--I don't think I've caught your name, Sir--PODBURY?--Mr. PODBURY who's kindly volunteered to conduct us round.

_Miss T._ _I_ should have thought you'd want to leave the gentleman some say in the matter, Father--not to mention me!

_Podb._ (_eagerly_). But won't you come? Do. I shall be awfully glad if you will!

_Miss T._ If it makes you so glad as all that, I believe I'll come. Though what you could say different, after Father had put it up so steep on you, _I_ don't know. I'll just go and fix myself first.

[_She goes._

_Mr. T._ (_to PODBURY_). My only darter, Sir, and a real good girl. We come over from the States, crossed a month ago to-day, and seen a heap already. Been runnin' all over Scotland and England, and kind of looked round Ireland and Wales, and now what _we've_ got to do is to see as much as we can of Germany and Switzerland and It'ly, and get some idea of France before we start home this fall. I guess we're both of us gettin' pretty considerable homesick already. My darter was sayin' to me on'y this evening at _table d'hôte_, "Father," she sez, "the vurry first thing we'll do when we get home is to go and hev a good square meal of creamed oysters and clams with buckwheat cakes and maple syrup." Don't seem as if we _could_ git along without maple syrup _much_ longer. (_Miss TROTTER returns._) You never mean going out without your gums?

_Miss T._ I guess it's not damp here--any--(_To PODBURY._) Now you're going to be _Mary_, and Father and I have got to be the little lambs and follow you around.

[_They go out, leaving CULCHARD annoyed with himself and everybody else, and utterly unable to settle down, to his sonnet again._

IN AN UPPER CORRIDOR, TWO HOURS LATER.

_Culch._ (_coming upon Podbury_). So you've got rid of your Americans at last, eh?

_Podb._ _I_ was in no hurry, I can tell you. She's a ripping little girl--tremendous fun. What do you think she asked me about _you_?

_Culch._ (_stiff, but flattered_). I wasn't aware she had honoured me by her notice. What _was_ it?

_Podb._ Said you had a sort of schoolmaster look, and wanted to know if you were my tutor. My tutor! [_He roars._

_Culch._ I hope you--ah--undeceived her?

_Podb._ Rather! Told her it was t'other way round, and I was looking after _you_. Said you were suffering from melancholia, but were not absolutely dangerous.

_Culch._ If that's your idea of a joke, all I can say is--

[_He chokes with rage._

_Podb._ (_innocently_). Why, my dear chap, I thought you wanted 'em kept out of your way!

[_CULCHARD slams his bedroom door with temper, leaving PODBURY outside, still chuckling._

* * * * *

THE WRONG OF SEARCH.

(_A DREAM OF THE BRITISH INQUISITION._)

The unfortunate foreigner, travel-stained and suffering from the after-glow of a stormy passage, crawled up the gangway and was once more on land. He carried in his hand a portmanteau.

"Have you anything to declare?" asked an official, in a gold-peaked cap and blue frock coat, gruffly.

"Only that your seas are terrible," was the reply.

The official made no answer, but merely pointed to some planks that had been placed upon trestles. The foreigner glanced at the people who were standing in front of these planks, and noticed that they were pale with apprehension.

"Have you anything to declare?" was a second time uttered--now by a person less gold-laced. Then the official continued, "Here, open it!"

In a moment the portmanteau was thrown with force on the planks, and the foreigner protested.

"I understand you now. I have no cigars--I do not smoke. I have no spirits--I am what you call a teatotaller. I have no lace--I am a widower."

"Open it!" was once more the cry--this time with great vehemence.

"But I am innocent of concealing anything! Believe me, there is nothing to declare! I have some photographic plates--to open them is ruin! I prize my shirts--they are heirlooms--if they are roughly handled I can never wear them again." And the foreigner wrung his hands in his despair.

"If you will not open it," replied the official, unmoved by his eloquent appeal, "we shall detain your luggage."

"But this is barbarous--cruel," continued the foreigner, answering with excitement. "I have been to Constantinople with its mosques, and the Turks have treated me with greater consideration. I have seen the glories of Rome with its Forum, the splendours of Petersburg with its fortress prison, the treasures of Madrid with its art gallery--and everywhere--everywhere I have been treated with greater kindness, greater charity than here! And yet you say this is the land of the brave and the free!"

"We say nothing of the sort," retorted the official; "we say, open it!"

The foreigner, whose pallor was fearful to see, with his teeth clenched and his eyes starting from his head, put the key into the portmanteau lock, turned it, and the contents of the box was revealed to view.

In a moment the officials were upon it--thrusting their inquisitive hands here, there, and everywhere. There was a salad of boots, waistcoats, collars and brushes. At length they came to the photographic plates--they were removed in a trice from their receptacle, and held up to the light.

"Have you no hearts!" cried the foreigner, his face streaming with tears. "In a moment you have undone the labour of years! That plate--now destroyed for ever--when properly developed would have revealed the smiling features of my wife's mother! It took me a quarter of a century to catch her with such an expression! For when she saw me she always frowned. But ah, my shirts, my heirlooms! In the name of mercy, spare my shirts!"

But no, once more the appeal was disregarded. The small portmanteau was turned inside out. This the official chalked.

"So this is one of the habits of the English," cried the foreigner, bitterly.

"Not only the habits, Monsieur," observed a bystander, who trembling with apprehension, was waiting his turn; "but the customs. Customs that are out of date with the age. Customs that are contrary to the spirit of the century. Customs that cost more than they yield, and deserve to be cussed!"

"They do," cried the foreigner, excitedly. "May the Customs be--"

"You must not utter that word," interrupted the Revenue Officer, in a tone of peremptory command.

"It is British; why not?"

But although the foreigner was baffled in his desire to use the appropriate imprecation--he thought it!

* * * * *

MOTH-EATEN.

It is a stifling night; I sit With windows open wide; And the fragrance of the rose is blown And also the musk outside, There's plenty of room for the moths out there In the cool and pleasant gloom; And yet these mad insectual beasts Will swarm into my room.

I've thrown so many things at him, And thrown them all so hard; There goes the sofa-cushion; that Missed him by half a yard. My hot tears rain; my young heart breaks To see him dodging thus; It is not right for him to be So coy--so devious.

As I sit by my duplex lamp, And write, and write, and write; They come and drown in the blue-black ink, Or fry themselves in the light. They pop, and drop, and flop, and hop, Like catherine-wheels at play; And die in pain down the back of my neck In a most repulsive way.

There's a brown moth on the ceiling. He Makes slow and bumpy rounds; Then stops and sucks the whitewash off-- He must have eaten pounds. He's only waiting for his chance To take me unaware, And then the brute will drop, and make His death-bed in my hair.

Why do they do it? Why--ah! why? The dews of night are damp, But the place to dry one's self is not The chimney of a lamp. And sultriness engenders thirst, But the best, the blue-black ink, Cannot be satisfactory Regarded as a drink.

They are so very many, and I am so very few-- They are so hard to hit, and so Elusive to pursue-- That in the garden I will wait Until the dawning light, Until the moths all go by day Where I wish they'd go by night.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ON THE BRIDGE!

(_A MUCH MODERNISED VERSION OF "THE VISION OF MIRZAH."_)

On the second day of the week, commonly called Saint Monday (which according to the Customs of my Forefathers, I always keep as Holiday), after having washed myself, and offered up my Morning Devotions at the shrine of Nicotine, I turned over the pages of _Bradshaw_, with a view to passing the rest of the day in some more or less Rural Retirement.

As I was here confusing myself with the multitudinous Complexities of this recondite Tome, I fell into a profound Contemplation of the Vanity of human Holiday-making; and, passing from one puzzling page to another, Surely, said I, Man is but a Muddler and Life a Maze!

"Right you are!" sounded a mysterious voice in my ear.

The Sound of the voice was exceeding Sweet, and wrought into a variety of inflections. It put me in mind of those heavenly Airs that are played from the tops of closely-packed wheeled Vehicles, from many-keyed Concertinas upon Bank-Holidays. My Heart melted away in Secret Raptures. By which signs I--who had read my _Spectator_ at the Free Library--knew well that I was in the company of a Genius! It is only Genii who drop upon one suddenly and unannounced, with a more or less pertinent commentary upon one's Inner Thoughts, in this fashion. I felt at once that I was in for the true Addisonian Oriental Apologue in all its hybrid incongruity.

I drew near with that Reverence which is due to a Superior--if nondescript Nature; and as my Heart was entirely subdued by the captivating Voice I had heard, I fell down at his Feet and wept. I could hardly have explained why, but 'tis the sort of thing one always does in an Eastern Apologue. The Genius smiled upon me with a Look of Compassion and Affability that familiarised him to my Imagination, at once dispelled all the Fears and Apprehensions with which I approached him, and turned off my Tearfulness "at the main," as _Samuel Weller_ said, concerning the Mulberry One. He lifted me from the ground, and, taking me by the hand, "MIRZAH," said he, "I have heard thee in thy Soliloquies; follow me!"

Now, my name is _not_ MIRZAH, but MATTHEW. Yet, after all, it did not much matter, and I felt it would be in questionable taste to correct a Genius.

He then led me to the highest Pinnacle of a Rock, and, placing me on the Top of it, "Cast thy Eyes yonder," said he, "and tell me what thou seest." "I see," said I, "a huge Valley, and a prodigious Roadway running through it." "The Valley that thou seest," said he, "is the Vale of Travel, and the Roadway that thou beholdest is part of the great Railway System." "What is the Reason," said I, "that the Roadway I see rises out of a thick Mist at one End, and again loses itself in a thick Mist at the other?" "Monopoly and Muddle freely engender Mists," responded the Genius. "Examine now," said he, "the Roadway that is bounded with Darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it." "I see a Bridge," said I, "standing in the midst of the Roadway." "Consider it attentively," said he.

Upon a more leisurely Survey of it--a Survey which, meseemed, it would have been well had Others made with similar Attentiveness--I found that the Arch thereof looked shaky and insecure; moreover, that a Great and Irregular-shaped Cleft or Crack ran, after the fashion of a Lightning-flash in a Painted Sea-scape, athwart the structure thereof from Keystone to Coping. As I was regarding this unpleasing Portent, the Genius told me that this Bridge was at first of sound and scientific construction, but that the flight of Years, Wear and Tear, vehement Molecular Vibration, and, above all, Negligent Supervision, had resulted in its present Ruinous Condition.

"But tell me further," said he, "what thou discoverest on it."

"I see," said I, "if my eyes and the dark Mists and Shadows deceive me not, a Figure couched upon the Parapet of the centre Arch thereof." As I looked more attentively, I saw that this figure was of a Spectral appearance, and Bony withal; albeit, its contours were to some extent hidden by its clinging cerement-like garments, and the equally clinging and charnel-like shades surrounding it.

Only an Attent, and, as it were, complacently Anticipative Visage, of an osseous and ogreish Aspect, gleamed lividly forth therefrom, as the Apparition appeared to Look and Listen through the Mist at one end of the Bridge for the welcome Sight of Disaster, the much desired Sound of Doom. A shrill and sibilant Metallic Shriek seemed to cleave the Shadows into which the Spectre gazed; a Violent Vibratory Pulsation, as of thudding iron nails threshing upon a resonant steel floor, seemed to heat the Roadway, shake the Bridge, and as it appeared to me to widen the levin-like Cleft or Crack which disfigured the Arch thereof.

Then did I quake inwardly and breathe short. "What, O Genius," I cried, "signifieth the Spectre, who thus sitteth On the Bridge, what forebodeth the Aspect of eager Anticipation, and for what doth he so gloatingly and expectantly Wait?"

"This," responded the Genius, gravely, "is Insatiate Death waiting for Inevitable Accident!"

I gazed with inexpressible melancholy upon the unhappy Scene. At length said I, "Show me now, I beseech thee, the Secrets that lie hid under those dark Mists which cover the regions to the right which you suggest are the realms of Monopoly and Muddle." The Genius making me no Answer, I turned about to address myself to him a Second time, but I found that he had left me. I then turned again to the Vision, but instead of the Roadway, the arched Bridge and the Attent Anatomy, I saw nothing but my own parlour, and my wife MARY picking up the _Bradshaw's Guide_ which had fallen from my sleep-relaxed hand.

* * * * *

On that particular Saint Monday I took, not as I had intended, a Railway Excursion to Rural Parts, but, telling MARY--to her manifest concern--that I Had Altered my Mind as regarded our Holiday, I betook myself to the "Blue Boar" at the corner, and passed the day in Safety--and Solitary Smoking! Next morning, however, I read something in the papers which led me to believe that Railwaydom Aroused meant exorcising and evicting that Sinister Spectre, "regardless of Cost;" and I shall look forward to my next Holiday Outing with a mind Relieved and Reassured.

* * * * *

BLACKFRIARS TO SLOANE SQUARE.

The man who got in at Blackfriars Was smoking the foulest of briars, But it went out all right-- Could I give him a light?-- Hadn't got one--well, all men are liars.

I've frequently noticed the Temple Is a place there are not enough rhymes to; And that's why I've made This verse somewhat blank, And rather disregarded the metre.

How _do_ you pronounce Charing Cross? It's a point where I'm quite at a loss. Some people, of course, Would rhyme it with "horse," But I always rhyme it with "hoss."

A woman at Westminster Bridge Had got just a speck on the ridge Of her Romanesque nose. "It's a black, I suppose," She observed. Then it flew--'twas a midge.

One man from the Park of St. James, Had really the loftiest aims; In the hat-rack he sat, Used my hair as a mat, And when I demurred called me names.

I bought from the stall at Victoria A horrible sixpenny story, a Book of a kind It pained me to find For sale at our English emporia.

I found when I got to Sloane Square That my ticket was gone; my despair Was awful to see, Till at last to my glee I looked in my hat--it was there!

* * * * *

'ILL-LUMINANTS!

["Sir E. WATKIN is about to introduce the Electric Light on the summit of Snowdon."--_Daily Paper_.]

Just started up Snowdon by Sir E. WATKIN's combined Galvano-Electric and Pneumatic Despatch Line, from Llanberis. Goes nearly to top. What a blessing! Saved all the bother of the mount. Go in tennis-shoes, as I'm told there's next to no climbing to be done.

Splendid day for view. Comfortable carriages. Hullo! what's this? Find myself suddenly shot into a mountain tarn. A Yankee would call it "tarnation cold." Get out dripping. Guard of train explains that "battery must be rather too strong this morning." Train put on line again. Up we go! Shivery. If I'd known this sort of thing went on, I'd have brought towels.

At Terminus, three-quarters way up, in a bleak and exposed crag, plastered with advertisements. Day not quite so glorious. Fog coming on. Or is it "Scotch mist?" But what has a Scotch mist to do in Wales? Ask engine-driver's opinion. He has none. "Then which is the way up?" Doesn't know. "_His_ way is down." Must speak to Sir E.W. about engine-driver.

Ascent continued. Leads down-hill. Curious. Sound of dashing waterfall close by. _Must_ see it. Turn round a corner. No waterfall at all, only the Electric-Light-generating station! Noise I heard was the "machinery in motion." _Query_--does an iron shed with chimney pouring out factory smoke, add to charms of wild scenery?

More surprises! Find an "Automatic Delivery" pillar! Curious sight on a mountain. Put a penny in, and you get a small book--_Guide to Snowdonia_. Thanks! But what I want is a guide to top. Fog worse than ever. Believe I've missed my way.

_Five hours later_.--I _had_. Shoes utterly worn out. Awfully, tired. Hit on top by mere accident. Resting in new hotel. Scrumptious, but dear. Don't care! Electric Light. What system? Waiter says "Brush." Must be 'air-brush up here, I fancy! Anyhow no good in a fog. Shall suggest foghorn to Sir E. WATKIN for thick weather. Also guides waiting at Crag Terminus. Bottle of beer. Divine! View? None, and don't want any. More beer. Electric Light better than I thought. Electricity is life. Electricity is also beer. More beer, please! Waiter asks "if I sleep at top?" Beds only two guineas a night. Of course I do! "Then shall he wake me for sunrise?" He'd better _not_. Goo' night! Sowdn--mean Snowdn--great sksess.

* * * * *

HER VIOLETS!

She gave them to me when the dance was done, Her eyes all lighted with the ecstasy Of triumph in the crushing contest won, Of all the joy of girlish victory. She gave them to me as we mounted up, With all the bold effrontery that dares To face the aged ones, who've come to sup, And sidles off to alcoves on the stairs.

She gave them to me, but some sprays, I know, All dying then, as though life's task were laid To rest within that burning breast of snow; And there the last great debt of all were paid. She gave them to me, and my heart did beat, As o'er my hope a greater promise came, And up the narrow way with steps so fleet She went, though I remember'd not her name.

She gave them to me, and I vow'd that they Should lie upon my heart till years had fled, Till, passing through life's narrow, thorny way, They'd rest with me when life's own leaves were dead. And thus I spoke, and then we wrote the deed, With fervid seal upon the heart's own slab-- Alas! alas! how memory runs to seed!-- I left her Violets in a beastly cab!

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

WATER SUPPLY.--Yes, we have read about the quantities of poisoned fish floating in the river somewhere near the "intake" of the Water Companies, and agree with you that under such circumstances the pretence of supplying a drinkable fluid is somewhat of a "take-in." But surely it is hardly necessary to adopt the extreme step you contemplate, of stationing an expert Thames fisherman at the side of your cistern night and day, in order to catch any fish that may come through the pipes. The Companies' filtering system may not be worth much, but it ought to be able to keep out something under the size of a whale.

HOLIDAY TRAVELLING.--You say that recent disclosures about Railway Bridges have made you nervous. The plan of personally inspecting every bridge your train will pass over on your way to Scotland is an excellent one, if you have time for it. Possibly also, a Railway Manager might agree to put a specially light engine to your train. As you say you are going to take a couple of tourist tickets, third class, it would probably pay him well to make any little alteration of that kind.

IMPECUNIOSITY.--We cannot help you. Reading the Riot Act and then assaulting them with a poker is not the best way of getting the Bailiffs out of a house. Try gentle persuasion. If you have recently had a case of black typhus in the house, you might mention the fact to them, and see what they say.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE LAST KNIGHT OF THE SEASON.

SIR AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS COVENT-GARDENIUS HARRIS, C.C.C.]

* * * * *

THE RULE OF THREE.

(A POSSIBLE SCENE OF THE FUTURE.)

PLAN OF ACTION.--_Somewhere conveniently situated for all parties. The King, the Kaiser, and the Emperor, discovered discussing the Treaty that has now been in force for some years._

_Kaiser_ (_with assumed cheerfulness_). Well, my dear Brothers, it is really time you should do something. It is not on my own account that I am anxious, but on yours--purely on yours.

_King_ (_dryly_). Certainly!

_Emperor_ (_with a smile_). No doubt! Pray proceed.

_Kaiser_ (_addressing Italy_). Well, my dear friend, as I am afraid we are on the eve of a contest with France, I must beg of you to place three Army Corps upon your Alpine frontiers.

_King_ (_with assumed surprise_). Why should I do this? It will be most inconvenient!

_Kaiser_. Why, to carry out the provisions of the Treaty.

_Emperor_ (_interposing_). Your pardon, that stipulation was suppressed at King HUMBERT's request.

_Kaiser_ (_annoyed_). Oh, was it! Then, my friend, perhaps you will be so good (as my relations with the CZAR are strained almost to breaking), as to station troops on the Russian frontier beyond Cracow.

_Emperor_ (_with improvised astonishment_). Why should I do this? It will be most inconvenient.

_Kaiser_. Why, to carry out the provisions of the Treaty.

_King_ (_interposing_). Your pardon; that stipulation was suppressed at the request of the Emperor of AUSTRIA.

_Kaiser_. Oh, was it? (_Losing his temper._) Then I consider the whole affair as gross a swindle as--

_Emperor_ (_interrupting_). Nay, Sire, remember your birth and position! It is a passing annoyance, but it should not move you. Remember, you are a Hohenzollern! Let me offer you a cigarette.

_Kaiser_ (_calming down_). Well, perhaps I had better be quiet. It is more dignified.

_King_ (_helping himself to the Emperor's cigarette-case_). Let me join you.

_Kaiser_. But I say, what use is the Treaty to either of us?

_Emperor_ (_with a smile_). Properly treated, it is of service to us all. (_Lights it, and offers it to his two partners_). It will serve as a spill for our cigarettes! [_Scene closes in upon the Treaty ending in smoke._

* * * * *

WELL DONE, DEAR!