Chapter 5

This catastrophe ended the battle. The allied fleets had been swept off the face of the ocean. I packed what remained of H.M.S. _Bandersnatch_ in my tobacco-pouch, attached myself to a hen-coop, and thus floated triumphantly into Portsmouth Harbour.

* * * * *

CHARLEMAGNE AND I.

_Aix-la-Chapelle, Monday._--I have always had a strange longing to know CHARLEMAGNE. To shake him by the hand, to have opportunity of inquiring after his health and that of his family, to hear his whispered reply--that indeed were bliss. But CHARLEMAGNE is dead, and desire must be curbed. The only thing open to an admirer is to visit the place of his last repose, and brood in spots his shade may yet haunt. CHARLEMAGNE was buried at Aix-la-Chapelle (German Aachen), but since my arrival in the town, I find great difficulty in discovering his tomb. The great soldier Emperor resembled an unfortunate and unskilful pickpocket in one respect. He was always being taken up. He died in the year 814, and was left undisturbed till the year 1000, when the Emperor OTTO THE THIRD opened his tomb, and, finding his great predecessor sitting on a marble chair, helped him down. The marble chair is on view in the Cathedral to this day (verger, I mark) to witness to the truth of this narrative. One hundred and sixty-five years later, FREDERICK BARBAROSSA opened the second tomb where OTHO had placed C., and transferred to a marble sarcophagus what, at this date, was left of him. In the following century C. was canonised. Whereupon nothing would satisfy FREDERICK THE SECOND but to go for the bones again. They were now growing scarce, and only a few fragments fill the reliquary in which at length all that is left of my revered friend (if after this lapse of time I may call him so) reposes.

I have been fortunate in securing a relic, not exactly of CAROLO, but of the time at or about which he lived. It is a piece of tapestry, on which fingers long since dust have worked a sketch of the Emperor going to his bath. Considering its age, the tapestry is in remarkably fresh condition. The old Hebrew trader, whom for a consideration I induced to part with it, said he would not charge any more on that account; which I thought very considerate. He also said he might be able to get me some more pieces. But this, I think, will do to go on with.

But if there be nothing left of CAROLO MAGNO, there still is the city he loved, in which he lived and died. Here is the Kaiserquelle, bubbling out of Büchel in which, centuries ago, he laved his lordly limbs. Going down into my bath this morning I observed in the dim light the imprint of a footstep on the marble stair.

"That might have been CHARLEMAGNE'S," I said to YAHKOB, my bath attendant.

"_Ja wohl_," said YAHKOB, nodding in his friendly way, and, going out, he presently returned with a hot towel.

That did not seem to follow naturally upon my observation, which was, indeed, born of idle fancy. (I know very well C.'s death eventuated long prior to the building of the stately colonnade that fronts the present baths, and that therefore the footprint is illusory.) I am growing used to a certain irrelevancy in YAHKOB's conversation. My German is of the date of CHARLEMAGNE, and is no more understood here than is the Greek of SOCRATES in the streets of Athens. YAHKOB was especially told off for my service because he thoroughly understood and talked English. He says, "Ye-es" and "Ver well." But when I offer a chance remark he, three times out of five, nods intelligently, bolts off and brings me something back--a comb and brush, a newspaper, but oftenest, a hot towel. Once, when I asked him whether there were two posts a day to London, he lugged in an arm-chair.

I get on better with WILLIAM. WILLIAM is a rubber--not of whist, _bien entendu_, but of men. In build WILLIAM is pear-shaped, the upper part of him, where you would expect to find the stalk, broadening out into a perpetual smile. He has lived in the Baths twenty-three years, and yet his gaiety is not eclipsed. If he has a foible it is his belief that he thoroughly understands London and its ways.

"A ver big place," he remarked this morning, "where dey kills de ladees."

This reference not being immediately clear, WILLIAM assisted dull comprehension by drawing his finger across his throat, and uttering a jovial "click!" But it was only when, his eyes brimming over with fun, he said, "YAK de Reeper," that I followed the drift of his remark.

It is gratifying to the citizen of London travelling abroad, to learn that in the mind of the foreigner the great Metropolis is primarily and chiefly associated with "JACK the Ripper" and his exploits.

"I rob you not hard," WILLIAM incidentally remarks, pounding at your chest as if it were a parquet flooring he was polishing; "but I strong so I can break a shentleman's ribs."

I make due acknowledgment of the prowess, being particularly careful to refrain from expressing doubt, or even surprise. WILLIAM, always smiling, repeats the assertion just as if I had contradicted him. Try to change subject.

"I wonder if CHARLEMAGNE had a massage man in his suite?" I say, "and who was his Doctor? Now if he had had Dr. BRANDIS, I believe he would have been alive at this day. But we cannot have everything. CHARLEMAGNE had the Iron Crown of Lombardy; we have Dr. BRANDIS."

"Y e e s," said WILLIAM, still gloating over his own train of thought; "eef I like I break a shentleman's ribs."

Sometimes WILLIAM'S smile, contracting, breaks into a whistle, horribly out of tune. He rather fancies his musical powers, and is proud of his intimate acquaintance with the fashionable _chansons_ current in London to-day, or as he puts it, "Vat dey shings at de Carrelton Clob." Then he warbles a line of the happily long-forgotten "Champagne CHARLIE," with intervals of "Oh what a surprise!" He sings both to the same tune, and fortunately knows only two lines of one and a single line of the other.

Try to bring him back to CAROLO MAGNO.

"Wouldn't you," I ask "give all you are worth to have lived in the time of CHARLEMAGNE? Suppose some day you walked into this room and discovered him sitting on his marble throne as OTHO found him with the Iron Crown on his head and his right hand grasping the imperial sceptre, what would you do?"

"I would break hees ribs," said WILLIAM, his face illumined by a sudden flash of delighted anticipation.

Alack! we are thinking of two personages sundered by centuries. My mind dwells on CHARLEMAGNE, whilst WILLIAM is evidently thinking of Champagne CHARLIE.

* * * * *

"ANNALS OF A VERY QUIET FAMILY."

There were eight of us, each within a year or so of one another.

Father was a very quiet man, engaged all day in his study.

Mother was equally quiet.

Father would never allow a trumpet, drum, or any instrument of torture, except the piano, to be brought into the house.

Mother quietly saw his orders carried out.

In due course we all left home one after the other, and having been so quiet for so long, each one of us has contrived to make a considerable noise in the world since, and are all doing well. "Doing" may be used in the widest possible sense. Among other accomplishments we blow our own trumpets, as you see. As father and mother object to noise, we have not encouraged their visits.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"AS _HE_'D LIKE IT."

(_Shakspeare once more freely adapted to the situation._)

["We wanted, and we want, to do for the villages, what the first reformed Parliament did in conferring municipal government upon the towns. We knew that the Tory Party did not really mean to give us village or parish Councils.... 'The Radical agitators,' says Sir MICHAEL HICKS-BEACH, 'want to see a complete change in the social condition of rural society.' What if we do?... Why, it was for this that many of us, seven or eight years ago, and many more years ago, fought for getting the labourer a vote."--_Mr. John Morley at Cambridge._]

SCENE--_The Forest of Ha_(_w_)_arden._

_Touchstone_ (Mr. J-HN M-RL-Y); _Audrey_, (The Agricultural Vote); _Jaques_ (Mr. P-NCH), behind. Afterwards _William_ (Sir M-CH-L H-CKS-B-CH.)

_Touch._ Come apace, good AUDREY: I will fetch up your votes, AUDREY. And how, AUDREY?--am I the man yet? Doth my simple programme content you?

_Audrey._ Your programme! Lord warrant us, what programme?

_Touch._ I am here with thee and thy Votes as the glittering poet-god Apollo was among the herds of Admetus.

_Jaq._ (_aside_). Oh, knowledge oddly applied! Fancy Olympian Oracles in a thatched cottage!

_Touch._ When a man's speeches cannot be understood, nor a man's good platform wit seconded by the froward child popular understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a small minority on a big Bill. Truly, I would the gods had made thee political.

_Aud._ I do not know what political is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing?

_Touch._ (_with sardonic frankness_). No, truly; for the truest politics show the most feigning; and Tories are given to politics; and what they swear, in politics, may be said, as Tories, they do feign.

_Aud._ Do you wish, then, that the gods had made _me_ political?

_Touch._ I do, truly; for they swear to me thou art true Tory, parson-and-squire-ridden Tory. Now, if thou wert political, I might have some hope thou didst feign--to _them_!

_Aud._ Would you not have me Tory?

_Touch._ No, truly, unless thou wert fortune-favoured; for Toryism coupled to poverty is to have folly a sauce to misery.

_Jaq._ (_aside_). A shrewd fool!

_Aud._ Well, I am not rich; and therefore I pray the gods to make me Liberal.

_Touch._ Truly, and to cast away Liberalism upon a willingly "unemancipated" Voter, were to deck a porker with pearls.

_Aud._ I may not be "emancipated," but I thank the gods I am "enfranchised."

_Touch._ Well, praised be the Liberals for thine enfranchisement! Emancipation--from "squarsonry"--may come hereafter. But, be it as it may, I will marry thee.

_Jaq._ (_aside_). I would fain see this wedding. Methinks there will be sport forward ere it be fully achieved.

_Aud._ Well, the gods give us joy!

_Touch._ Amen.... But, AUDREY, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.

_Aud._ Ay, I know who 'tis: he hath no interest in me in the world. Here comes the man you mean.

_Touch._ It is meat and drink to me to see a--Tory: by my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for; we shall be flouting; we cannot hold.

_Enter_ WILLIAM.

_Will._ Good even, AUDREY.

_Aud._ Give ye good even, WILLIAM.

_Will._ And good even to you, Sir!

_Touch._ Good even, gentle friend.... Art thou wise?

_Will._ Ay, Sir, I have a pretty wit.

_Touch._ You do desire this maid?

_Will._ I do, Sir.

_Touch._ Give me your hand. Art thou learned?

_Will._ No, Sir.

_Touch._ Then learn this of me; to have is to have; for it is a great figure in Gladstonian rhetoric, that votes being deducted from one Party and added to another, by putting the one Out do put the other In; for all your writers do consent that _ipse_ is he: now you are not _ipse_, for I am he.

_Will._ Which he, Sir?

_Touch._ He, Sir, that must marry the woman. Therefore, you Tory, abandon--which is, in the vulgar, leave--the society, which in the boorish is, company--of this female,--which in the common is, woman; which together is, abandon the society of this female, or Tory, thou vanishest; or, to thy better understanding, skedaddlest; or, to wit, I defeat thee, make thee away, translate thy majority into minority, thine Office into Opposition; I will deal in programmes with thee, or in eloquence, or in epigram; I will bandy with thee in faction; I will o'errun thee with policy; I will "mend thee or end thee" a hundred and fifty ways; therefore, tremble, and depart!

SONG (_behind_).

It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the stubble fields did pass (Together WILL caught 'em). In the time of autumn, When M.P.'s spout, and "manoeuvre" about; M.P.'s (who are "out") love autumn.

About three acres and a cow, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino; The artful country folks know now. In the time of autumn, &c.

Since that the franchise was their dower, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, The Country Voters are a power. In the time of autumn, &c.

And, therefore, at the present time, With "an Agricultural Policy"--funny, ho!-- _Both_ Parties simple HODGE would lime, In the time of autumn, &c.

_Will._ (_aside_). Truly, though there is no great matter in the ditty, yet the note is very untuneable. [_Exit._

_Touch._ Trip, AUDREY, trip, AUDREY,--I attend,--I attend! [_Exeunt._

_Jaq._ (_appearing_). There is surely another political deluge forward, and these motley would-be couples are seeking the official ark! [_Exit._

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE TRUE TENNYSON.

We have all been startled to find from the researches of Mr. WOODALL in _Notes and Queries_, that "Between the story sung by the Poet Laureate in his romantic poem _The Lord of Burleigh_, and the actual fact, there seems to be little in common." HENRY CECIL, Earl and afterwards Marquis of EXETER, married Miss SARAH HOGGINS under the name of JOHN JONES, having a wife alive at the time, and she did not die as the poem relates. It is obvious then that TENNYSON must be re-written, and we offer his Lordship the following humble suggestions. _The Lord of Burleigh_ should henceforward run somewhat as follows:--

Quoth he, "Gentle SARAH HOGGINS," Speaking in seductive tones, "You must wed no HODGE or SCROGGINS, But espouse your own J. JONES." Oh! he was an artful party, And that marriage was a crime. He'd a wife alive and hearty, Though she'd left him for a time.

The above discovery has, of course, led to doubts regarding other Tennysonian heroines. Was Lady CLARA VERE DE VERE, for example, as black as the poet has painted her? Perish the thought! Here are a couple of specimen stanzas for an amended version:--

Lady CLARA VERE DE VERE, I vow that you were not a flirt, The daughter of a hundred Earls Would not a single creature hurt. "Kind hearts are more than coronets," What abject twaddle, on my word; And then the joke is in the end,-- We know they made the bard a Lord.

The tale of how young LAURENCE died, In some audacious print began; The fact is that he took to drink, He always was that sort of man. And as for ALFRED, why, of course You snubbed him; but was that a crime, That he should go and call you names, And print his atrabilious rhyme?

Then, again, was the _Amy_ of _Locksley Hall_ quite as shallow-hearted and so forth as the angry rhymester declares? It will probably turn out that she was not. Hence the verses should run in this fashion:--

And I said, "My Cousin AMY, speak the truth, my heart to ease. Shall it be by banns or license?" And she whispered, "Which you please." Love took up the glass of Time and waved it gaily in the air,

Married life was sweet at Number Twenty-Six in Camden Square.

AMY faithless! Bless your heart, Sir, that was not the case at all:

It was pure imagination that I wrote in Locksley Hall.

This process will doubtless have to be applied to many of the poems, but we must leave the congenial task to the Laureate.

* * * * *

A SONNET OF VAIN DESIRE.

AFTER THE HOLIDAYS.

As when th' industrious windmill vainly yearns To pause, and scratch its swallow-haunted head, Yet at the wind's relentless urging turns Its flying arms in wild appeal outspread; So am I vex'd by vain desire, that burns These barren places whence the hair hath fled, To wander far amid the woodland ferns, Where dewdrops shine along the gossamer thread; Where its own sunlight on the reddening leaf Sleeps, when soft mists have swathed the sunless tree,

Or where the innumerous billows merrily dance; Yet must I busily dissemble grief Whirl'd in the pitiless round of circumstance, Rigid with trained respectability.

* * * * *

New Way out of a Wager.

DESMOND, Theosophist Colonel, now thinks better Of his rash vow his gift to "demonstrate," Receiving a "precipitated letter" Warning him not to be--precipitate. Many a Betting Man who'd hedge or tack Must wish he had Mahatmas at _his_ back.

* * * * *

The Beggar's Petition.

(_New Version._)

Life must not be lost, Sir, with lightness, To _labour_ for life gives me pain; My exchequer's affected with tightness, But begging's the pink of politeness, Like Scribes, Sir, "I beg--to _remain!_" *

* And didn't CHARLES LAMB, in his most delightful essay _On the Decay of Beggars_, deplore their gradual disappearance?

* * * * *

DOCTOR LAURIE.

_Song by a Scotch Student_. AIR--"_Annie Laurie_."

["According to Dr. LAURIE, of Edinburgh University, the "teaching of Greek, so far as it is attempted in our secondary schools, is positively harmful."--_Daily News._]

Pedagogue brays are bonnie, When Greek they'd fain taboo; And 'tis here that Doctor LAURIE Gi'es utterance strictly true, Gi'es utterance strictly true, Which ne'er forgot should be, And for bonnie Doctor LAURIE, A Scottish boy would dee.

Auld HOMER is a humbug, ANACREON is an ass; Sumphs scrape enoo o' baith o' them, The "Little-go" to pass, The Little-go to pass-- It affects them "harmfullee." Ah! but bonnie Doctor LAURIE, He kens Greek's a' my ee!

Like diplomas fause and lying, Are "passes" such as this. Why should Scotch lads sit sighing O'er the _Anabasis_?-- O'er the _Anabasis_? XENOPHON's fiddle-de-dee? Oh, for bonnie Doctor LAURIE, I'd shout with three times three!

* * * * *

UNDER-LYNE'D.--Said Sir W. VERNON HARCOURT, at Ashton-under-Lyne, "I am very glad to be enabled to come here from the hospitable roof of Mr. RUPERT MASON." ... And again, "I have come here also from the roof of Mr. MATHER." Quite a Sir WILLIAM ROOFUS! But what was he doing on the roof? Was there a tile off in each case? Something wrong with the first house that a Mason couldn't set right? And with the second, did Sir ROOFUS sing, "Oh dear, what can the Mather be?" And why the invidious distinction between the two roofs? The first being hospitable, and the second having no pleasant epithet to recommend it.

* * * * *

PROPOSED NEW TITLE FOR LORD GR-M-TH-RPE.--Baron (H)ALTER EGO.

* * * * *

* * * * *

POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG;

OR, MISS BOWDLER AT THE MUSIC HALLS.

INTRODUCTORY.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

In these progressive days earnest reformers, especially those of the London County Council type, yearn to chasten and æstheticise the Muse of the Music Hall, who is perhaps the only really popular Muse of the period. My name gives me a sort of hereditary right to take exceptional interest in such matters, though indeed my respected, and respectable, ancestor is not in all things the model of his more catholic and cosmopolitan descendant. The McDougall regimen would doubtless be a little _too_ drastic. To improve the Music-hall Song off the face of the earth, is an attempt which could only suggest itself to puritan fanaticism in its most arbitrary administrative form. The proletariat will not "willingly let die" the only Muse whose ministrations really "come home to its business and its bosom." No, Sir, the People's Pegasus cannot, must not be ruthlessly consigned to the knackers. But may it not be gently bitted, discreetly bridled, and taught to trot or amble with park-hack paces in the harness of Respectability?

It is in this hope and faith that the following drawing-room versions of some of "the most popular Comic (and Sentimental) Songs of the Day" have been attempted by Your respectful admirer, VIRGINIA BOWDLER.

To the Respectable Citizen, the Moral Matron, and the Young Person, with a love of larkiness and lilt, but a distrust of politics, pugilism, and deep potations, the following eclectic adaptation of this prodigiously popular ballad may perhaps be not altogether unwelcome.

No. I.--TWO LOVELY BROWN EYES,

AIR--"_Two Lovely Black Eyes_".

Strolling one Sunday near Bethnal Green, This "æsthete" you might have seen, Surveying "the People" with scornful spleen When, oh, what a surprise! An Art Exhibition I chanced to see, Therein I entered right speed-i-lee, When--on a canvas--there shone on me Two lovely brown eyes!

_Chorus._

Two lovely brown eyes! Oh, what a surprise! Smiling right down on a dingy throng, Two lovely brown eyes!

From a canvas of "High Art" sort they shone, Their owner was cinctured with classic zone, She was spare of flesh, she was big in bone, Oh, what a surprise! A parson, whom everyone owned "a good sort," Had hung them there for the pleasure and sport Of the dreary dwellers in slum and court, Those lovely brown eyes!

_Chorus._

Two lovely brown eyes! Oh, what a surprise! Drawing the gaze of an East-End crowd, Two lovely brown eyes!

My own regard, as I loitered there, Fastened on one proletariat pair, With finery frowsy, and oily hair; Oh, what a surprise! "SALLIE" and "BILL" were the names they flung Frankly abroad with unreticent tongue, Lounging and staring where graciously hung Those lovely brown eyes.

_Chorus._

Two lovely brown eyes! Oh, what a surprise! SALLIE and BILL your calm beauty could thrill; Two lovely brown eyes!

Art (so I argue) for all is best, Here, in the East, on the Day of Rest, Lo! my pet theory put to the test! Oh, what a surprise! The chap staring there is a Coster true, Trowsered in corduroy, belchered in blue; What does _he_ think of your heavenly hue, Two lovely brown eyes?

_Chorus._

Two lovely brown eyes! Oh, what a surprise! "SALLIE", he whispered, "_she's_ got, like _you_, Two lovely brown eyes!"

The picture was one of BURNE-JONES'S best; "SALLIE" was snub-nosed and showily drest; I sought her visage in querulous quest, When oh, what a surprise! Plump in the midst of a "puddingy" face, Coarse-cut in feature, devoid of grace, Nature capricious had chosen to place Two lovely brown eyes!

_Chorus._

Two lovely brown eyes! Oh, what a surprise! There on each side of a salient "snub," Two lovely brown eyes:

Brown? Ah, yes! But, alack! alack! The brown was fringed with a halo of _black_, Fruit, it was plain of some marital thwack, Oh, what a surprise! "_She_," sighed the girl, "has a beautiful chump, Though she _do_ seem to 'ave got the 'ump. _Them_ pair o' lamps never felt a thump, _Them_ lovely brown eyes!"

_Chorus._

Two lovely brown eyes! Oh, what a surprise! Something seemed telling that man he was wrong, Two lovely brown eyes!

Say, was it fancy? I saw a flush O'er the coarse cheeks of that Coster rush, "Stash it!" he murmured. A Coster blush? Oh, what a surprise! SALLIE,--she clung to his muscular arm-- With a look half lovingness, half alarm, He stooped and--kissed her! Now, was it _your_ charm, Two lovely brown eyes?

_Chorus._

Two lovely brown eyes! Oh, what a surprise! Was it your influence, gentle yet strong, Two lovely brown eyes?

"BILL," whispered she, "you may bet two _d She_ never nagged at 'er bloke--like _me_-- He never wheeled a whelk-barrer, d'yer see? Oh, what a surprise! Parties with cultcher and piles o'cash Ain't no temptation to row or bash, But--who's to tell but she's jilted '_er_ mash-- Miss Lovely Brown Heyes?"

_Chorus._

Two lovely brown eyes! Oh, what a surprise! Twinkled like stars 'twixt a tear and a frown, Two lovely brown eyes.

The moral you've caught I can hardly doubt; On Art _versus_ Morals men sneer or shout, Leave it to OSCAR to fight _that_ out, If you would be wise. Better, far better, it is to let Beautiful things work their way--you bet! Then the Coster's wife may less frequently wet _Her_ lovely brown eyes.

_Chorus._

Two lovely brown eyes! Oh, what a surprise! Art-loving-Man is _less_ likely to black Two lovely brown eyes!

* * * * *

MEN OF THE PAST.

(COMPILED BY _THE_ MAN OF THE PRESENT.)

CROMWELL.--An English Brewer. Uncertain about his aspirates. Distinctly vulgar. Face disfigured by warts.

PETER THE GREAT.--Quite a common sort of Russian. Man with coarse tastes. Came to England to learn ship-building. Fond of low society; in fact, the type of an enterprising cad.

WASHINGTON.--Entirely provincial English rebel, who caused considerable trouble in America. Family fair, but not to be traced beyond three generations. Used to eat peas with his knife.

HANNIBAL.--Brutal barbarian. Feeblest ideas of stategy. Went the wrong way over the Alps. Given to oaths from childhood up. Quite a classical nobody.

BUONAPARTE.--A Corsican _Parvenu_.

* * * * *

The Garrick School.

School for young actors is the Garrick Playhouse. Upon the road to fame a quarter-way house For IRVING _fils_. And likewise note we there The heir apparent of a parent HARE.

* * * * *

"_DIO, age_!" of which the classic American translation is, "Do tell!"

* * * * *

JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.

NINTH ENTRY.

Curious thing, now that I am installed as a pupil in FIBBINS'S Chambers in Waste Paper Buildings, Temple, how few _new_ briefs I am given to read. Usual routine is for DICK FIBBINS to hand me a brief on which the dust of ages has collected, and to leave me to "get up the law about it"; but when he (FIBBINS) comes back from his day's business in Court, about 4·30 P.M., he doesn't seem to care a bit to know what the law is. Seems tired, and prefers to gossip and smoke; so I do the same, or "follow on the same side," as he expresses it.

"It strikes me forcibly," I begin, "that the Plaintiff, SMITHERS, in that running-down case you asked me to read to-day, hasn't got the ghost of a chance. Why, in _Blatherson_ v. _Snipe_, the Court ruled--"

"Tried the lawn-tennis in the gardens yet?" FIBBINS interrupts, in the rudest possible manner.

"No," I reply, "I was speaking of the Court, not lawn-tennis courts." (One for FIBBINS, I think.) "All the Judges held in _Blatherson_ v. _Snipe_, that--"

"Oh, did they?" he interrupts again: "doosid interesting. Was I for plaintiff or defendant?"

"Plaintiff, SMITHERS. A running-down case."

"Wish it had been a running-up case--a case of running-up the fees," he laughs. Then, resuming a more professional style, "You see, I've had such multitudes of cases since then, that I've forgotten the precise details. But you write out your own Opinion--not to-day; tomorrow will do. Then I'll see what it's like. Now let's go a trot down the Strand."

Another circumstance that strikes me as remarkable, is the frequency with which I hear the Impressive Clerk (in the little room next to mine) requesting persons who have called to "settle up that other little matter." Then the strange voice laughs, and says--"Oh, your Governor can wait." "No, he can't,"--it's the Clerk who says this--"it's been going on for three years, now." "Well," chimes in the unknown, "let it go a bit longer. When'll your Governor have settled those pleadings?" "When your people settle about the five guineas, and not before," replies the Impressive Clerk in his best Parliamentary debating style. Then follows a long wrangle, not on law, but on finance, which never--as far as I can judge--ends in the Clerk getting his way, and his money.

Astonishing event happens. A real live new brief comes in! Impressive Clerk--who looks like a Prime Minister in reduced circumstances--brings it to FIBBINS when I am in the room. More impressive than ever. "From ROGERS, in Chancery Lane--an excellent firm, Sir," he says. Poor FIBBINS tries, ineffectually, to conceal his delight, and his eye turns instinctively to the place where the fee is marked.

"Six guas" (legal slang for guineas) "for an Opinion, not bad," he comments, rubbing his hands. FIBBINS dusts a corner of his desk, and lays it down there.

_I_ am given this precious brief, and am asked to write a "draft Opinion" about it! "Just to try your hand," says FIBBINS, who does not wish me to be conceited. "Then I'll write my own afterwards," he adds.

I make a very elaborate commentary, quoting from innumerable parallel cases in English, American, and Roman law, and, after giving it to DICK FIBBINS to read, I don't see it again.

But, a few afternoons later, when Impressive Clerk happens to be out, a knock comes. Nobody in. At last, go myself (_Query_--infra dig.?) and open door.

"Here!" says a juvenile, who apparently mistakes me for the Clerk, and rudely chucks some papers to me, which hit me in the chest, "give these to your Governor. What a time you take answering a knock! Having a nap, hay? Take care old FIBBINS don't catch you at it, that's all!" Juvenile disappears downstairs, whistling, before I can think of a suitable rejoinder.

Open the papers. The same brief returned with request to "draw up a Statement of Claim,"--and my "Opinion" inside! It looks as if DICK sent these clients of his _my_ valuable advice, pretending that it was his own!

My learned "leader," when he comes in, treats affair very coolly.

"Oh, did I send _your_ 'Opinion' to them as well as mine? What an ass I am! I wonder what they thought of it?"

I also wonder. In looking over the returned brief just now, however, I certainly did not come across the "Opinion," manufactured by FIBBINS himself, of which that learned Counsel spoke. And I have no second chance of examining it, as he is careful to take "all the documents in the case" (a phrase of the Impressive Clerk's) home with him, for what he calls re-perusal.

The conviction that it _was_ my Opinion, and mine alone, which FIBBINS dispatched, probably out of sheer laziness, to ROGERS & CO., Solicitors, Chancery Lane, is one that I still retain. But it is FIBBINS who retains the fee!

* * * * *

AT THE CLOSE OF THE SUMMER.

(_By one who idled. To his Lady-help._)

I am back at my work, which is far from exciting After nothing to do for a month at a time, So I am not astonished to find myself writing To you, dear MELENDA, and writing in rhyme. In my rooms very often the scent of the heather Brings back with it sweet recollections, and so I think of the days when we idled together, Far away in the country a fortnight ago.

Yes, the two afternoons when, although we were sorry That it rained, we went out as to do we had vowed, And the wonderful echo we found in a quarry That took what we whispered and said it aloud. Whilst we wandered through fern-laden hedges and talked, it So happened a dragon-fly flew by your side. You remember, I'm sure, how you laughed as I stalked it, And how it seemed hurt, as it finally died.

Then I think of our pic-nic. The sunshine came glinting, And we thought that the summer had come--come to stay. We did not walk too fast, you were constantly hinting You were really afraid we were losing our way. I seemed to be catching two glimpses of heaven, As I gazed at the sky and kept looking at you; For the party that started by being just seven Had a curious habit of shrinking to two.

Why, that's quite sentimental. It isn't the fashion To write of such things in so high flown a style. Yet maybe I'm entitled to so much of passion As to say that you won me outright with your smile. Though a merciless fate may not let it befall so, For we know not at all what there may be in store, Yet next year, if you're down there--and I am there also, Shall we do what we did in the summer before?

* * * * *

"TO ERR IS HUMAN."--"Even I am not always infallible," observed _Mr. P._, on noticing that, in the dialogue under a picture, last week, the spelling of "cover-coat" for "covert-coat" had escaped his eagle eye. Just as he was wondering to himself how such things could be, his other and eagler eye caught this line in the correspondence, _per_ "Dalziel," from Chicago, in the _Times_ for Sept. 23:--"Great Britain has chosen a sight for her buildings at the World's Fair." If "taken" had been substituted for "chosen," the mistake might have borne a satirical meaning. No doubt Great Britain has not made any error as to the site she has selected, from any point of view.

* * * * *

MEM. IN COLOURS.

Man's life is in two colours, simply told: Green while you're young, and grey when you are old.

* * * * *

DOMESTIC COOKERY.--(_For a future New Edition of "Mrs. Glasse-with-care"_)--It will contain suggestions for new dishes, to be arranged according to grammatical divisions of gender and number, as "case" already exists. A specimen of the first will be _Une Femme-lette_, a female companion dish to _Un 'Ommelet_. Another example proposed is _La Petite Marmite_ and _Le Petit Pa'mite_, two dishes most suitable for a very small family party; say of dwarf Troglodytes. "Number" of dishes must always be "a party question;" though at the same time politics will be rigidly excluded from the new publication.