Chapter 2

At this juncture HANKIN returned, and GIDLING said a good deal to him. HANKIN was left to put out the fire, and we went back again to the Club. GIDLING seemed rather annoyed with me for laughing about his mistake.

"It's a deuced awkward thing," he said. "That water went down somebody's chimney, and it's put somebody's fire out. That means unpleasantness, you know, if he or she finds out who did it."

"Who live in the flats below yours?" I asked.

"An Art-student and her mother in the flat below mine--they are really most charming people, and I hope to goodness it wasn't their chimney that I poured the water down. I'm on rather friendly terms with them. Then on the first floor there's BUDWELL. He's a conceited affected ape. I only hope it was he who got the benefit of that water-jug. It's rather amusing, you know. BUDWELL's very much in love with Miss VANE (that's the Art-student), and she loathes him--at least I believe so. Poor beggar!" GIDLING laughed, sarcastically. "Yes, I hope that was BUDWELL's chimney, not the other."

It turned out afterwards that it _was_ BUDWELL's chimney, and he found out that it was GIDLING who had done the deed. So BUDWELL determined on revenge. He climbed up on to the roof with a large bath-can of water, intending to empty it down GIDLING's chimney. Chimneys ought to be labelled. The whole of the contents of that can descended into Mrs. VANE's fireplace. BUDWELL called and apologised, but it was of no use. They considered it mean of BUDWELL to take revenge for what was only a mistake on GIDLING's part; and they were not very well pleased at having their own fire put out. "A chimney's not the place for a cataract, you know, Mr. BUDWELL," said Miss VANE.

BUDWELL went back to his own flat and brooded over his misfortunes. He had now grown still more angry with GIDLING, which was irrational of him; and he determined to take a still fiercer revenge. Late at night he conveyed the bath-can and several jugs, all full of water, on to the roof. There was no fear of his selecting Mrs. VANE's chimney by mistake this time. One by one he emptied the jugs and the water-can, and then descended to his own flat, fiendishly triumphant, as he thought of the havoc he must have made in GIDLING's fire-place.

But when he got to his own flat, he found that he had emptied all that water down his own chimney.

After that he gave up his revenges, together with his affections and his apartments. But GIDLING tells the story with considerable unction; the facts of it were partly derived from BUDWELL's servant and partly from Miss VANE--with whom GIDLING is beginning to be on more than friendly terms.

* * * * *

INTERNATIONAL NURSERY-TALE CONGRESS.

The Chair was taken by Mr. JOHN HORNER, P.R.I.N.T.C., lineal descendant of the celebrated "Jack" of that ilk.

The President said he had no desire to waste the meeting's valuable time. He would at once address himself (and the company present) to the myth, if myth it could be called, which had immortalised his own name. Need he say he alluded to the legend of "Little Jack Horner"? (_Cheers._) Some commentators are of opinion that "HORNER." was a typographical error for "HOMER." But the prefix; and the epithet combined to militate against this ingenious and plausible, but specious, theory. "HOMER" was not in any sense "Little," nor was his Pagan name "JACK." Again, "Corner," in the second line, could not in any language have ever rhymed with "HOMER." He knew that "Cromer" furnished them with a rhyme for "HOMER;" but if this were accepted, what became of the ancient Greek, of the Syriac, of the Phoenician, of the Nimrodic legends, nay, of the very _Iliad_ itself, if "HOMER" were a native of "Cromer"? (_Loud and prolonged cheers._) No! "Jack Horner," or, as it was originally written, "Jakorna," was of Scandinavian origin, and it was, in all probability, a mythmic rhyth--No, beg pardon, he should say a rhythmic myth (_Cheers_) sung by a wandering Sam Oar Troupe on their visiting Egypt and the Provinces before the time of the Celtic-Phoenician O'SIRIS, or at least before the reign of RAMESES THE FIRST, ancestor of the great Scotch RAMSEY family--(_Cheers_)--at one of the social entertainments given on a non-hunting day by that eminent sportsman NIMROD. Then came the question of where was "the corner" in which Jakorna secluded himself? Of course, Christmas, as differentiating this pie from all others, was a modern substitution. The original word was probably "Kosmik." (_The lecture was still proceeding when our Reporter left, the dryness of the subject having unfortunately affected his throat._)

* * * * *

* * * * *

"WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?"

["The 'tehorni narod'--the inconceivably ill-used, patient, long-suffering 'black people,' as the moujiks of White Russia are grimly denominated by their rulers--are dying by thousands, of sheer starvation, without a hand being stretched out by the 'Tchin' to rescue them from the greedy jaws of Death."--_Daily Telegraph_.

The moujiks are remonstrating and even rebelling in consequence.]

"Little Father," we have suffered long, and sorrowed, We the "children" of the wonderful White Tsar, Steadfast patience from staunch loyalty have borrowed, Slaved for Slavdom still in Peace, and died in War; We have borne the yoke of power, and its abuses, We have trusted cells and shackles served their turn; Nay, that e'en the ruthless knout had noble uses; Now we starve--and think--and burn.

"Little Father," is your power then so paternal As in pious proclamation is set forth? If the round earth bears a brand of the infernal, Does the trail of it not taint our native North? Ay, we love it as in truth we've ever loved it. Our devotion, poorly paid, is firm and strong; Have our little pitied miseries not proved it, And our weary tale of wrong?

"Little Father," we are hungering now, neglected, While the foreigner shouts praises in our ports; We are honoured, say your scribes, loved, feared, respected, The proud Frank, we fought for you, your friendship courts. The golden price of it you hug most gladly. Well, that price, what is its destined end and aim? The indulgence of ambitions cherished madly? The pursuit of warrior fame?

Your realm is ever widening, Tsar, and lengthening, Though its peoples--your dear children--prosper not; Railways stretching, boundaries creeping, legions strengthening! And the end, O Tsar, is--where?--the purpose--what? The Afghan, Tartar, Turk feel your advancing, The Persian and the Mongol hear your tread, And an eager watchful eye is eastward glancing Where the Lion lifts his head.

And your children, "Little Father"? They are lying In their thousands at your threshold, waiting death. Gold you gather whilst your foodless thralls are dying! Is appeal, oh Great White Tsar, but wasted breath? On armaments aggressive are you spending What might solace the "black people" midst their dead? Of the millions the effusive Frank is lending Is there _nothing_ left for bread?

* * * * *

BOUILLABAISSE.

[There has been some correspondence lately about Bouillabaisse, and a writer in the _Evening News_ (who misquotes THACKERAY) actually gives a recipe without oil!]

Our THACKERAY in ancient days, Wrote of a very famous dish, And said in stanzas in its praise, 'Twas made of several kinds of fish. A savoury stew it is indeed, And he's "in comfortable case" Who finds before him at his need A smoking dish of Bouillabaisse.

And now folks laud that dish again, And o'er it raise a pretty coil, While one rash man we see with pain, Would dare to make it minus oil. Oh! shade of TERRÉ, you no doubt Would make once more the "droll grimace," At such a savage, who left out The olive oil, in Bouillabaisse.

* * * * *

"THOUGHT-WAVES." (_By an Un-Esoteric._)--The Theosophists talk mistily about "the concentration of mind-force on a thought-wave"--which seems only another way of saying that such minds are, at the time, "quite at sea."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

MONEY MAKES THE MAN.

(_A Fragment from a Romance dedicated by Mr. Punch to Mr. Diggle._)

"It is entirely your own fault," said the intruder, as he put another silver tea-pot in his bag.

"I don't see that at all," replied the master of the house, moving uneasily in his chair.

"Well, I have not time to argue with you," returned the other, as he held up an enamelled ship of beautiful workmanship. "Dear me, this is really very fine. I have never seen anything like it before! What is it?"

"I got it at a sale in Derbyshire. I fancy it must be something like the old Battersea enamel."

"Very fine! And solid silver, too! Well, in all my experience, and I have been in the profession some twenty years, I have seen nothing like it. Beautiful! Lovely!"

"If you had not tied my hands behind my back," explained the master of the house, "I could show you, by lifting that lid, you would see prettier subjects in the interior of the vessel."

"You certainly tempt me," answered the intruder, "to give you an increased facility in moving. But it is against my rules. I always work in a methodical manner, and one of my regulations is, before I open the safe, I must bind the master of the house hand and foot in an arm-chair. But what were we talking about?"

"You were saying," returned the other, with a sigh, "that it was my own fault that I find myself in this painful, this ruinous position. As a man of education I cannot see how you can advance such a proposition."

"But that's the point. I am _not_ a man of education. I don't know how to play the piano, and can scarcely manage a free-hand sketch of a cathedral. My Greek is shaky, and I speak French and German with an accent enough to drive a linguist mad. No, no, you take my word for it--this little incident would never have happened had you behaved wisely, and like a public-spirited citizen."

"What do you mean?" asked the householder.

"Why, this, that if you had paid more to the School Board, I would have received a better education, and have never been a housebreaker. As it is, I am only making up the difference between the sum you have paid, and the sum you should have expended."

And the burglar, helping himself to another silver tea-pot, continued his lucrative work.

* * * * *

THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES.

The "true sphere of woman"--so HARRISON says-- In effect--is the family circle. Some praise; But to geometricians it strange may appear, For a "circle" is only a _part_ of a "sphere." Since woman appeared at the wickets, some think (Though male cricketers from the conclusion may shrink), That the true "sphere" of woman must be, after all, A leathern one--typed by a new cricket-ball. Young girls think a "Ball" of another guess sort Is the sphere in which woman may find truest sport. To harmonise all these opinions, 'tis clear, Is hard; but, whatever be woman's true sphere, Whether found in the dictum of "Positive" HARRISON, And what ladies call his "degrading comparison," Or otherwhere,--this will be certainly found, If you'll let angry women alone they'll "come _round_."

* * * * *

"THE MAN FOR THE POST."--Sir JAMES FERGUSSON.

* * * * *

TALK FOR TRAVELLERS.

["The German officials at the frontier, since the relaxation of the passport regulations, have been ordered to treat foreign passengers with every politeness."--_Daily Papers_.]

Mein Herr, will you do us the honour to descend from the railway-carriage? It will be merely a matter of form. We need not disturb those gracious ladies, your wife and daughters.

This is the best way to the Customs. You will notice that we have swept the path that leads to the door.

Certainly, these arm-chairs are for the use of passengers. We have placed them there ourselves, and can recommend them.

Is it asking too great a favour to beg you to lend me the keys of your boxes? A hundred thousand thanks.

Your explanation is absolutely satisfactory. You are bringing these sixteen unopened boxes of cigars home for your grandmother. It is a most proper thing to do, and, under the circumstances, the duty will be remitted.

And these three hundred yards of lace of various makes and ages? An heir-loom! Indeed! Then, of course, the packet must pass duty-free.

As we have found nothing of consequence in this portmanteau of yours, it will be unnecessary to search the nineteen boxes of that gracious lady, your wife. No doubt she has obeyed your instruction not to smuggle. We are absolutely satisfied with your explanations, and are greatly obliged to you for your kindness and condescension.

This is the way to the carriage. We have placed steps before the door, as without a platform it is difficult to ascend.

No, Mein Herr, it is utterly impossible! We are forbidden by the EMPEROR himself to accept a gratuity.

Yes, Madam, it is indeed without charge. Do not tempt us. Instant dismissal is the penalty.

Certainly, Mein Herr, you could get the same politeness before the EMPEROR issued his Imperial instructions.

But then the charge was a thaler!

* * * * *

THE GREAT TWIN BRETHREN.

["I do not wish to call Mr. GLADSTONE by a name which would be both tasteless and pointless."--_Mr. A.V. Dicey's Letter to the Times._]

Tasteless and pointless, DICEY? Well, the time _is_ out of joint, And you were born to set it right, though _not_ with "taste" and "point." We cannot all do all things, Sir, and if you save the State (As the great Twin Brethren mean to in despite of HARCOURT's hate), What _does_ it matter, DICEY, if your letters are not quite In that style epistolary, which our fathers called "polite"? 'Tis a little too meticulous--in you--and rather late, After giving Mr. GLADSTONE such a wholesome slashing "slate." Take heart of grace, dear DICEY, and don't let Sir WILLIAM's "point" In your tough (if tasteless) armour find a vulnerable joint. "Old Timbertoes" won't trouble, Sir, to wish that _you_ were dead, And his taste (_not_ point) forbids him to call you "Old Wooden-head!"

* * * * *

KEEP WATCH!

[A Visitor fishing off Deal Pier brought up a gold watch and chain on his hook. It is supposed to be one lost by a resident, but the lucky angler has not been seen since.]

Paradoxical portent! Most worthy of rhyme Is this fortunate angler who tried to kill time. Fate made him the offer, and, wisely, he book'd it; He not only killed time, but he caught it,--and "hook'd it."

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* * * * *

BOULANGER.

So high he floated, that he seemed to climb; The bladder blown by chance was burst by time. Falsely-earned fame fools bolstered at the urns; The mob which reared the god the idol burns. To cling one moment nigh to power's crest, Then, earthward flung, sink to oblivion's rest Self-sought, 'midst careless acquiescence, seems Strange fate, e'en for a thing of schemes and dreams; But CÆSAR's simulacrum, seen by day, Scarce envious CASCA's self would stoop to slay, And mounting mediocrity, once o'erthrown, Need fear--or hope--no dagger save its own.

* * * * *

FROM BRIGHT TO DULL.--In an interesting article on artificial reproductions of Nature's treasures, the _Standard_ remarked that "Real diamonds have been turned out of the chemist's retorts." What a brilliant chemist he must have been! Probably of Hibernian origin, as among conversational sparklers there are few on record more brilliant than "Irish Diamonds." Stay, though! If the real diamonds were "turned out of the chemist's retorts," then his retorts, without these flashes of brilliancy, must have been a trifle dull, and he is no longer the chemist we took him for. "But," to quote our KIPLING, "that is another story."

* * * * *

THE NEW EVANGEL.

[M. ZOLA, in his new Novel, glorifies War, and the regenerative mission of human bloodshed.]

"ZOLA on War," intensifies the "Hola!" Of purists who are all for "war on ZOLA!" Well, he whose pen is touched with tints from Tophet, Is the right man to pose as Red War's Prophet!

* * * * *

A TRIFLE FOR _THE BUILDER_.--"When are houses like difficulties?" And the practical man replies, "When they have to be 'faced.'"

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* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Respected ANDREW LANG," writes the Baron's Assistant Reader, "I have read your criticism in _Longman's Magazine_ upon Mr. BARRY PAIN's _In a Canadian Canoe_. It's an ugly piece of bludgeon work, I admit, but not convincing to anyone who has read the book of which you speak. You tear away a line or two from the context, and ask your readers to say if _that_ is wit or humour. How your admirers would have protested had any sacrilegious critic ventured to treat one of your own immortal works in this manner. _Essays in Little_, a book which, by the way, appeared in the same series for which Mr. BARRY PAIN wrote, is a pleasant and inoffensive compilation, but even _Essays in Little_ would have presented a sorry appearance if, let us say, ANDREW LANG had reviewed it in this perfunctory and extractory and arbitrary fashion. I remember that in that case the critics were respectfully enthusiastic. Even Mr. BLUDYER would have doffed his cap, I fancy, to one

Who rhymes, researches and reviews, Who sometimes writes like Genesis, And sometimes in the _Daily News_.

For, after all, you stand high in the journalistic world. Your opinion passes current in many a select circle. Not even your vagaries seem to have power to offend the worshippers to whom your word has long been a law, whether you spoke of golf, of salmon, of folk-lore or of books. The censure of a BLUDYER (I wonder what has brought that formidable name to my mind) can do little to discourage you. But Mr. BARRY PAIN is a young writer. And yet some one remarked that _In a Canadian Canoe_ was better even than _Essays in Little_, and the audacious words were actually printed in a journal to which ANDREW LANG is an occasional contributor. I myself have never dared to go so far. There is something sacred about an established reputation. And I can honestly say that I like the elegant airy trifles which your little Muse has bestowed upon us, though I confess to a weariness when the talk is too much of golf-clubs and salmon rods. And I admire your appreciation of the original work of other men. In the present case you and I disagree upon a question of taste. That is all. _Tant pis pour moi_, I hasten to add. But I disagree in good company, for I note with some amusement, that the PAYN whom you rightly praise, has a kind and encouraging word for the PAIN whom you so vehemently disparage. And in this case I will stake my all upon the eulogy of JAMES PAYN as against the censure of ANDREW LANG. As you did me the honour to refer to something I had written, I thought myself bound in politeness to reply, and am

Your obedient servant,

AN A.R. IN THE B. DE B.-W.'s OFFICE."

* * * * *

A STRAIGHT TIP TO CANADIAN "CROSS COVES."

'Tis nice "in a Canadian Canoe" To practise what the ribald call "canoodling;" But what the deuce does the Dominion do, "In _this_ galley," with this new game of "boodling?" "Paddle your own Canoe," dear, if you will, But kick all "cross coves" out, and trust to honest skill.

* * * * *

JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.

TENTH ENTRY.

DICK FIBBINS, my more or less "learned" instructor in practical law, goes out to a good many evening parties, I find. Casually remarks that he "danced three square dances, the other night, with old DAVIS's ugly daughter, the Solor (legal slang for Solicitor), in Caraway Street." It's DAVIS himself, not the daughter, that is the Solicitor, and, it seems she introduced the gay FIBBINS to her Papa. Hence another brief, a rather complicated one, on some dispute about a mortgage.

On the morning when the case is to come into Court, DICK the Brief-hunter, who has promised to take me there, seems nervous. Yet he is still confident that, if "old PROSER" is the judge, he will "pull the thing off." It will be, apparently, a case of "Pull FIBBINS, pull PROSER."

In Court I occupy a seat just behind him, because--as he observes--I've been "grinding away at the case, and know the subject down to the ground"--which I don't think _he_ does. I therefore am to act as his reserves, also as his prompter, and to supply him with the names of cases which he has forgotten, and which he wishes to quote. Rather a responsible position. Should feel more confidence in result if FIBBINS had told me of this prompter arrangement before the very morning when the trial comes on.

"Old PROSER," appears to my untutored gaze to be rather a dignified occupant of the Bench. I don't know whether he cherishes any personal or professional animosity against DICK FIBBINS, but directly the latter opens his mouth to begin, PROSER seems inclined to jump down it.

"A complicated case of foreclosure?" he growls. "You needn't tell us that. All foreclosure cases are complicated. _I_ ever saw one yet that wasn't."

FIBBINS goes along unimpeded for a minute or two, PROSER having thrown himself back with an air of resigned inattention, one of the other Judges taking furtive notes, and the third resting his elbows on his desk, and his head on his elbows, and eyeing _me_ with a stony and meaningless stare. Can he suddenly have gone mad?

I have no time to consider this interesting point, as FIBBINS is again in difficulties about some precedent that he wants to quote, but which he has forgotten, and turns sharply round on me, saying, in a fierce whisper--

"What the doose _is_ that case?"

I look hurriedly down on the sheet of paper on which (as I fancy) I have jotted down the authorities bearing on the subject, and reply, also in a whisper--"_Cookson and Gedge_."

"The Court, m'luds," FIBBINS airily proceeds, as if he were indebted entirely to his own memory for the information, "held in _Cookson and Gedge_ that a mortgagor who desires to foreclose--"

"Where is the case you mention?" suddenly asks the Judge who was staring at me a moment ago. He is now engaged in first looking at my instructor suspiciously, and then at me, as if he thought that there was some horrible secret between us, which he is determined to probe to the bottom.

"Volume Six of the _Law Reports_, m'lud."

"Page?" snaps PROSER.