Chapter 2

So much, then, for BENJAMIN. In spite of everything I have a sort of sneaking regard for the poor man, especially since I discovered that he was not a free agent, but was inspired in word and action by your blatant influence. Were it not that I feared to weary you, I might proceed at much greater length. I might parade before you regiment upon regiment of pompous local magnates and political nobodies all drilled and disciplined by your offensive methods, and all of them as absurd and preposterous as they can be made. But the spectacle would only move you to derision. One point, however, I must insist on. Whatever you do, don't throw JOSHUA POSER across my path again. I might do him an injury. We were at College together, he being my senior by a year. Even then he always assumed a condescension towards me, an air as of one who temporarily stepped down from a pedestal to mingle with common grovellers. He became a personage in the City, a Chairman and a Director of Companies, and I lost sight of him. Yesterday I met him, and he was good enough to address me. "Yes, yes," he observed, "I remember you well. I have read some of your contributions to periodical literature, and I can honestly say I was pleased; yes, I was pleased. Of course the work is unequal, and I marked one or two passages that might have been omitted with advantage. For instance, the discussion between the vicar and the family doctor is not quite in the most refined taste, but there is distinct promise even in that. By the way, why don't you write in _The New Congeries_? Your style would suit it. I always take that paper in, and I find it very much appreciated in the pantry. The butler reads it, when we have done with it, and passes it on to the footman. It keeps them out of mischief. Now take my advice, and contribute to that." I humbly murmured my thanks to this intolerable person, and left him. As I turned away I half thought I heard the sound of your Excellency's bellows in the neighbourhood of POSER. Was I wrong?

I remain (merely in an epistolary sense), Your Excellency's humble servant,

DIOGENES ROBINSON.

* * * * *

APPROPRIATE TITLE FOR MR. ANDREW LANG.--The Folk-Loreate.

* * * * *

"AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM!"

(_A PENDANT TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON'S "THE KEY-BOARD."_)

Five-and-thirty black slaves, Half-a-hundred white. All their duty but to make Shindy day and night, Now with throats of thunder, Now with clattering lips, While she thumps them cruelly With stretched finger-tips.

When she quits the chamber All the slaves are dumb, Dumb with rapture, till the Minx Back shall come to strum, Dumb the throats of thunder, Hushed chromatic skips, Lacking all the torturing Of strained finger-tips.

Dusky slaves and pallid, Ebon slaves and white, When Minx mounts her music-stool Neighbours fly with fright. Ah, the bass's thunder! Oh, the treble's trips! Eugh, the horrid tyrannies Of corned finger-tips!

Silent, silent, silent, All your janglings now; Notes false-chorded, slithering slaps, Pedal-aided row! Where is Minx, we wonder? Ah! those scrambling skips! Back she's come to torture us With her finger-tips!

* * * * *

CHARLEMAGNE AND I.

_Aix-la-Chapelle, Monday_.--CHARLEMAGNE was doubtless well advised in selecting this town for his residence. However that be, it is not a matter for us to dogmatise about. I have heard a lamented friend, suddenly and all too soon lost, say there are few things more regrettable than the tendency of the present age to review the actions of great men, not lost but gone before, and to pass judgment upon them without having enjoyed the opportunity of hearing what they might have to say in justification or palliation of the proceedings challenged.

That is true and tersely put. Still I may observe that if C. lived at this period and had his choice, say between Aix-la-Chapelle and Homburg or Aix-les-Bains, it is doubtful whether he would have built his cathedral here. Unlike the two latter watering-places, Aix-la-Chapelle has other fish to boil besides the invalids who come hither attracted by the fame of its hot springs. It is a manufacturing town, and has all the characteristics of one. At Homburg or Aix-les-Bains you walk up a street, turn a corner and find yourself among pine-trees, or in a smiling valley with a blue lake blinking at the sun. Here the baths are in the centre of the town, and, like a certain starling, you feel you "can't get out."

But invalids musn't be choosers, and if RUSTEM ROOSE sends you to Aix-la-Chapelle--he's always sending somebody somewhere--to la-Chapelle you must carry your Aix, in the hope that you may leave them there.

"I wonder," said the Member for SARK, who as usual is grumbling round, "if the local female population was less unlovely in CHARLEMAGNE's time? Probably, since he married with a frequency not excelled by our HENRY VIII. But what was HILDEGARDE like--HILDEGARDE, his favourite spouse? If she in any way resembled the women who throng the streets of Aix-la-Chapelle to-day, C.'s lot was not a happy one. Never in any city, in either hemisphere, have I suffered such a nightmare of ugly ill-dressed women as is here found."

That is a most unfair and unjustifiable remark to make. Brimstone evidently does not agree with SARK who is more disagreeable than ever. The only thing that has touched his stony nature since he came to Aix is the unselfish devotion of the local aristocracy to the interests of the town. Visitors mustering in the Elisengarten for their morning cups, notice the group of musicians in the orchestra by the entrance-gate. Every man wears a top-hat, the only head-gear of the kind seen in Aix. SARK, attracted by this peculiarity, made inquiries, and learned from an intelligent native that these are nobles in disguise, who, desirous of contributing to the common weal, turn out at seven every morning to play the band. They are willing to sink all social distinctions, save that they _will_ wear the cylindrical hat of civilisation. Not comfortable, especially in wet weather; but it adds an air of distinction to the group.

"Very nice of them," SARK grudgingly admits; "but"--he must have the compensation of a sneer--"imagine our House of Lords forming themselves into groups to play the band in Palace Yard, with HALSBURY wielding the mace by way of _bâton_! They'd never do it, TOBY, even in top-hats. Germany's miles ahead of us in this matter."

Sorry to find Squire of MALWOOD, who spent a morning here on his way to Wiesbaden, agreeing in SARK's view of the standard of female beauty at Aix.

"Strange," he mused, "that Nature never makes an ugly flower or tree or blade of grass; and yet, when it comes to men and women, behold!" and he swept a massive arm round the blighted scene in the crowded Kaiserplatz.

A small boy who thought the beneficent stranger in blue serge was chucking pfennings about the Square, careered wildly round in search of the treasure. We walked on without undeceiving him. To quote again from an old friend: "There is nothing more conducive to the production and maintenance of a healthy mind in a sound body than enterprise and industry, even when, owing to misapprehension or miscalculation, their exercise leads to no immediate reward."

It had been quite a surprise one morning to find the SQUIRE striding into the coffee-room at "Nuellens."

"Thought you were down at Malwood," I said, "looking after your flocks and herds, your brocoli and your spring onions."

"So I had hoped to be," he said, as we strolled up and down under the trees in the Elisengarten. "But the fact is, TOBY, dear boy, I could not stand the weather. I am of a sensitive nature, and it cut me to the heart to see cold winds nipping the fruit and trees, the flood of rain beating down the corn, the oats, and the mangel-wurzel. People make a mistake about me. They regard me as an ambitious politician, caring for nothing but the House of Commons and the world of politics. At heart I am an agriculturist. Give me three acres and a cow--anybody's, I don't care--and I will settle down in peace and quietness, remote from political strife, never turning an ear to listen to the roll of battle at Westminster. I am often distraught between the attractions of interludes in the lives of CINCINNATUS and of WILLIAM OF ORANGE's great Minister. Of the two I think I am more drawn towards the rose-garden at Sheen than by CINCINNATUS's unploughed land. Before I die I should like to create a new rose and call it 'The Grand Old Man.'"

Quite a revelation this of the true inwardness of the SQUIRE. Would astonish some people in London, I fancy, if ever I were to mention this conversation. But, to quote once more from a revered authority: "We all live a dual life, and are not actually that which, upon cursory regard, the passer-by believes us to be. Every gentleman, in whatever part of the House he may sit, has a skeleton in the cupboard of his valet."

The SQUIRE stayed here only a morning, passing on to other scenes. I watched his departure with mingled feelings; sorrow at losing a delightful companion, and apprehension of what might happen if he were to remain here to go through the full cure. The place is, as SARK says, the most brimstony on the same level. You breathe brimstone, drink it, bathe in it, and take it in at the pores. At the end of three weeks or a month you are dangerously saturated with the chemical. An ordinary lucifer match is nothing to a full-bodied patient at the end of three weeks treatment at Aix-la-Chapelle. If the SQUIRE had stayed on, I should never have seen his towering frame pass underneath a doorway without my heart leaping to my mouth. Some day he would have accidentally struck his head against the lintel and would have ignited as sure as a gun.

If CHARLEMAGNE were now alive, I feel certain from what I know of him, he would have exhausted the resources of civilisation in search of a preventive of this ever-present and dangerous risk. Under CAROLO MAGNO the patient might have gone about the streets of Aix-la-Chapelle with sweet carelessness, knowing that, however much brimstone he carried, he would strike only on the box.

* * * * *

* * * * *

FAMILY TIES.

["The journal (the _Grashdanin_) is of opinion that in making common cause with the other European Powers against China, Russia would but serve the ends of ... England to the prejudice of her own interests, which demand that she should not jeopardise the security of her Asiatic shores, or contribute to the complete ascendancy of Great Britain in the Pacific Ocean, by arousing the antagonism of China."--_Times_.]

_Muscovite loquitur_:--

"Won't you help me bind the Dragon?" says the Briton to the Russ. Oho! ingenuous JOHNNY! I'm opposed to needless fuss, And have other fish to fry--say near the Oxus! Not a hang Do I care for what may happen on the great Yang-tse-Kiang.

I approve Non-intervention. 'Tis your favourite doctrine, JOHN, And you stick to it _so_ closely, and that's just why you get on. If you think that Dragon's dangerous--I hold 'tis but his play!-- There's but one thing you've got to do--clear out of the brute's way.

I am sure he doesn't want you where you've stayed a deal too long; He wishes you would up and go to--well _not_ to Hong-Kong, But the natural home of all such "Foreign Devils," in _his_ view. Why, he's none too sweet on Me, JOHN; is it likely he'd like _you_?

_Grattez le Russe--et cetera_. You are mighty fond, J.B., Of quoting that stale epigram. You fancy it riles me. Not a bit of it, my Briton; Tartars have a thickish skin, And your foe and I are neighbours, nay a distant sort of kin.

The Mantchus and the Romanoffs are not exactly chums, And a Tartar insurrection, when that little trouble comes, As it may do if you press too much at Pekin, well, who knows? There is always something pleasing in the quarrels of one's foes.

The Mantchus miss a many of once subject Tartar tribes Who have--gravitated Russwards. Little call for blows or bribes To make blood-relations mingle. On the Mantchus this may jar, But we've not forgotten Kuldja, and we recollect Kashgar.

Wheels within wheels, dear JOHNNY! As to missionaries, well, They are troublesome--and useful; but to put things all pell-mell On account of priests and parsons, and of quite an alien creed, That's scarce "diplomatic," JOHNNY; it is not, dear boy, indeed.

A new Tamerlane, my JOHNNY, who could stir the Tartar hordes To--say "Asiatic Concert,"--well, you know that thought affords To your talky "Only General" a quite sensational theme. But prophecy's not "business," JOHN, and CÆSAR should not dream.

Oh! the world is full of Bogies. _I_'m the biggest of them all In the minds of many croakers who ne'er saw the Chinese Wall, But are frightened at the spreading of my kindred--on the map; For I'm semi-Asiatic, and half Tartar, dear old chap.

Now put this and that together, think of Pamir, Turkestan, Of Persia, of the Dardanelles!--I think you'll see, old man, That though this ramping Dragon _you_ may wish to tie and tame, A Benevolent Neutrality is rather more _my_ game.

* * * * *

A PLAYGOER'S "LAST WORD."

(_AN ECHO FROM THE PIT._)

The Season is--_has_ been for some time--silly, And lengthy correspondences are rife. We have, alas! to read them willy-nilly; They take a deal of pleasure out of life. To flee such evils here's an easy way-- Let morning dailies idly rant or vapour, At the Lyceum go and see the play, The programme there's the finest DALY paper.[2]

[Footnote 2: A Correspondent, signing himself "A Knight of the Free Lists," suggests that free admissions to the Lyceum should be known, during the American Company's season, as "The Best Daly 'Paper.'"]

* * * * *

MOTTO FOR A DEPRESSED TEETOTALLER.--"Whine and Water."

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* * * * *

TIPPLING SALLY.

_A SONG OF SORROW ON ZOO SUNDAY._

[SALLY, the Chimpanzee (late of the Zoo), is stated to have "drunk beer daily."]

Of all the monkeys at the Zoo There's none like Tippling SALLY. She was the first who quenched her thirst Quite al-co-hol-i-cally. A draught of beer made her not queer, But seemed her strength to rally. MORTIMER GRANVILLE well might cheer Three cheers for Tippling SALLY.

Of all the days within the week I chiefly favoured one day, That was the day when children seek The rapture called "Zoo Sunday." For then full drest all in my best I'd go and visit SALLY, And see her soothe her hairy breast So al-co-hol-i-cally!

But now no more poor SALLY's tricks With glee fill girl or boy full; No mug of beer her soul can cheer, Nor glass of O-be-joyful! We yet may see some Chimpanzee With Drink's temptations dally, To WILFRID's woe; but no, ah! no! It won't be Tippling SALLY!

* * * * *

AN ESSAY IN REVIEWING.

We are obliged to "Beginner" for the proffered contribution to our collection of Book Reviews. That is, however, a department of the paper our noble friend the BARON DE BOOK-WORMS reserves for his own pen. But as _Mr. Punch_ has never been known to discourage beginners, he finds room here for the interesting contribution, which perhaps should more appropriately have been addressed to his _confrère_ at the office of the _Athenæum_:--

_Don Quixote_. By MIGUEL CERVANTES. We have conscientiously plodded through this voluminous work, which is certainly not entirely without merit. It purports to recount the daily doings of a resident in a village of La Mancha (Spain) who, accompanied by a clownish retainer, went forth in search of adventures. He was not very happy, his day's sport being invariably rounded oft by a sound drubbing, received either by himself, his Squire, or both. We wish Lord MACAULAY had lived to see the publication of this work, and had with fuller leisure relieved us of the task of reviewing it. Remembering his method of procedure as illustrated in his article on Dr. NARE's _Memoirs of Lord Burleigh_, he would doubtless by careful enumeration have been able to show that from first to last _Don Quixote_ had more ribs broken than any man has actually possessed since ADAM was privy to a diminution of their original number. He seems also to have had a perpetual renewal of teeth, keeping pace with their frequent removal by brute force. As for the number of legs and arms he had fractured, MACAULAY's Schoolboy would have shrunk from the task of computing their aggregate.

These are blemishes upon a work that is, at least, well intentioned, and which might have been more successful had our author been inclined to give his hero credit for more acumen. When he represents _Don Quixote_ as running tilt at windmills under the impression that they are armed knights, and when he pictures him charging a flock of sheep in the belief that it is an ordered army, we think he too grossly trifles with the assumed credulity of his readers. Exaggeration is, indeed, the bane of a work that, from first page to last, bears evidence of the drawback of extreme youth on the part of the author. We have been pleased to notice some indications of humour in the conversation of _Sancho Panza_. But it is the pennyworth of sack to an intolerably large quantity of bread. What we have written has been without desire to discourage Mr. CERVANTES, whom we shall be glad to meet with again, bringing with him the fruits of unremitted practice and of maturer views of life.

* * * * *

TO ARAMINTA.

(_AFTER HEARING MR. SAMSON'S LECTURE._)

["To keep the family true, refined, affectionate, faithful, is the woman's task--a task that needs the entire energies and life of woman; and to mix up this sacred duty with the grosser occupation of politics and trade, is to unfit her for it as much as if a priest were to embark in the business of money-lender."--FREDERIC HARRISON.]

I Prithee, ARAMINTA, hear What FREDERIC HARRISON has said: Don't read for College honours, dear, And put a towel round your head. Don't sully what should surely be An unstained soul, with tricks of trade; Leave stern official work to me, While you remain a simple maid.

Don't prate of woman's function, sweet, Your only duty is to charm; Leave platform spouting, as is meet, To men; it cannot do them harm. Your influence comes from gracious ways, Your glory in the home doth lie; The guardian angel of our days, Until you bless us when we die.

Don't enter on ignoble strife With man, 'tis yours to soar above-- To all the higher things of life, Divine compassion, and pure love. 'Tis yours to stimulate, refine, To win men by a kindly heart; Not grovel with us where the sign Of Mammon hangs above the mart.

Thine is the task to reign supreme Within the sacred sphere of home; To make our life one happy dream, Thine own as spotless as the foam. To trade, to toil, to head the feast, To seek the politician's gain, Were hateful:--ay, as though the priest Took usury, within the fane!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS owns to being easily affected by a pathetic episode. He well remembers how years ago in the course of a discussion among literary men about books and their writers, the Baron acknowledged that in spite of his having been told how the pathos of DICKENS was all a trick, and how the sentiment of that great novelist was for the most part false, he still felt a choking sensation in his throat and a natural inclination to blow his nose strenuously whenever he re-read the death of _Little Paul_, the death of _Dora_, and some passages about _Tiny Tim_. There was no dissentient voice as to the death of _Colonel Newcome_; all admitted the recurrence of that peculiar choking sensation, read they their THACKERAY never so often. Now the Baron differs from _Josh Sedley_ in, as he thinks, many respects, but he is almost as "easily moved to tears" as was that stout hero. Wherefore this preface? Well, 'tis because the Baron owns to having "snivelled," if you will, when reading a delightful story, published by MACMILLAN in one volume ("bless all good stories in _one_ vol., clearly printed!" says the Baron, parenthetically), entitled simply, _Tim_. No relation to _Tiny Tim_ already mentioned; quite another child. The Baron strongly recommends _this_ story, and especially to Etonians past and present, as giving a life-like picture which the latter will recognise, of the career at that great public school of a fragile little chap entirely unfitted by nature for the rough and tumble of such a life. The considerate tutor, too, is no effort of imagination; he exists; and, perhaps, such an one may have always existed since the division between Collegers and Oppidans first began. The Baron in his own time, nigh forty years ago, knew an exceptional species of this rare genus; but there are plenty of witnesses to the truth of the Etonian portion of _Tim_. "_Tolle, lege_!" quoth the Baron, and be not ashamed if in reading the latter portion of the story you have to search for your pocket-handkerchief, and, glancing furtively around, murmur to yourself, "But soft! I am observed!" Then when unobserved, "_wipe_ the other eye!" and thank the unknown author of _Tim_; at the same time not forgetting your guide, philosopher, and friend,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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* * * * *

A FALLEN LEADER.

CHARLES STEWART PARNELL.

BORN, JUNE 27TH, 1846. DIED, OCTOBER 6TH, 1891.

"The falcon-crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty MARMION?"

_Sir Walter Scott_.