Chapter 2

Wonderful this extensive plain of vineyards! and what stunted little stumps with leaves round them are all these vines! Not in it with our own graceful hops. No hedges or ditches to separate one owner's property from another's. To each little or big patch of land there is a white headstone with initials on it, as if somebody had hurriedly and unostentatiously been buried on the spot where he fell, killed in the Battle of the Vineyards, by a grape-shot. At first, seeing so many of these white headstones with initials on each one, I conclude that it is some peculiar French way of marking distances or laying out plots, and I find my conclusion is utterly erroneous.

"These white stones," M. VESQUIER. explains, "mark the boundaries of different properties." Odd! The plain is cut up into little patches, and champagne-growers, like knowing birds, have popped down, on "here a bit and there a bit and everywhere a bit" from time to time, so that one headstone records the fact that "here lies the property of J.M.," and within a few feet is another headstone "sacred to the memory of P. and G.," or P. without the G.; then removed but a step or two is a stone with a single "A." on it. and a short distance from the road is "H."--poor letter "H" apparently dropped for ever. Here lie "M.," and "M. and C.," and several other heroes whose names recall many a glorious champagne. And so on, and so on; the initials recurring again quite unexpectedly, the plots of ground held by the same proprietor being far apart. But, as it suddenly occurs to me, if these champagne-growers are all in the same plains for twenty miles or more round about, all in much the same position, and all the grapes apparently the same, why isn't it all the same wine?

"_Karascho!_" exclaims DAUBINET, who, under the hot rays of the early morning sun, is walking in his shirt-sleeves, his coat over his arm, his hat in one hand, and a big sunshade in the other, "I will tell you." Then he commences, and except for now and then breaking off into Russian expletives, and interspersing his discourse with selections from British national melodies, his explanation is lucid, and the reasons evident. Soil and sun account for everything; the soil being varied, and the sun shifty. "_Pou ni my? comprenez-vous?_" he asks.

I do perfectly, at the moment; but subsequently trying to explain the phenomena scientifically, I find that I have not quite penetrated the mystery _au fond_. We visit the Wine-press, which (_Happy Thought!_) would be an appropriate title for a journal devoted entirely to the wine-growing and wine-vending interests.

"And now," says M. le Vicomte, "we must return to breakfast, or the sun will be too strong for us."

So back we go to our eleven o'clock _déjeuner_ in a beautifully cool room, of which repast the sweetest little cray-fish, fresh from the river, are by no means the worst part of the entertainment. Then coffee, cigars, and lounge. Yes, there are some things better managed in France than _chez nous_; and the division of the day between labour and refreshment is, in my humble opinion, one of them. In the contriving of dainty dishes out of the simplest materials, the French seem to hold that everything is good for food in this best of all possible worlds, if it be only treated on a wise system of variation, permutation, and combination. We discuss these subjects of the higher education until arrives the inevitable hour of departure. Let us not linger on the doorstep. Into the trap again. _Bon voyage! Au revoir!_ And as passing out of the lodge-gate we get a last glimpse of the party waving adieux to us from the upper terrace, DAUBINET flourishes his hat, and sings out at the top of his voice, "We're leaving thee in sorrow, ANNIE," which is more or less appropriate, perhaps; and then, as the last flutter of a pocket-handkerchief is seen, he finishes with "And blass the Prince of WAILES!" After which he subsides, occasionally breaking the silence to sigh aloud, "_O Maman!_" and thenceforth, for the greater part of the journey to Paris, he slumbers in a more or less jumpy manner.

_At the Grand Hotel, Paris_.--"Aha!" cries M. le Baron BLUM,--always in full Blum at the Grand Hotel,--"At last! arrived!" as if he had expected us for several weeks past,--"How are you? I have your rooms ready for you!" He must have seen us driving into the courtyard, and settled our numbers there and then, not a minute ago. It's a great thing for weary travellers to be welcomed on arrival. No matter if they're forgotten again the next moment, and not thought of again until the hour of their departure. It is the welcome that is everything; it implies so much, and may mean so little. But, at the Grand, Paris, _Avis aux Messieurs les voyageurs, _"When in doubt, consult BLUM!" We enjoy a good but expensive dinner at the Maison Dorée. For myself, I prefer the simple fare at half the price to be found _chez Noël_, or at some other quiet and moderate restaurants that I could name. Next morning a brief but welcome breakfast at Amiens, a tranquil crossing, and we are bidding each other adieu at the Victoria Station. Music to the situation, "_Home once more_." Good-bye to my excellent _ami_ DAUBINET, who stays a few hours in London, and then is off to Russia, Egypt, Iceland, Australia.

"_Da Karascho!_ All r-r-right!"

And so ends a pleasant holiday trip to the Champagne Country, or real "Poppy-Land."

* * * * *

STORICULES.

V.--A BORN ARISTOCRAT.

Whenever I forgot to put the matches in my pocket on leaving the chambers, I used to buy a box from a boy who stood at the street corner, where the 'busses stop. He was a small boy, somewhat ragged and occasionally a good deal splashed with mud. He was bright and energetic, and he did a very fair trade. There was an air of complete independence about him, which one does not often find in match-boys. His method of recommending his wares was considerably above the average of the peripatetic vendor; it suggested a large emporium, plate glass, mahogany counters, and gorgeous assistants with fair hair parted in the middle:

"Now off'rin! A unooshally lawge box of wax vestas for one penny. Shop early and shop often. Foosees, Sir? Yessir. Part o' a bankrupt's stock."

This was smart of him. By differing a little from the usual match-boy manner, he attracted more attention, and grins, and coppers.

One morning I had climbed up to the top of the 'bus and taken my seat, when I saw that the boy had followed me.

"No use," I said; "I don't want any this morning."

"Well, I ain't sellin' none this mornin', Sir. I'm goin' a ride on this 'ere 'buss. My wife's got the carridge hout in the Park; so I'm druv to takin' busses--same as you, Sir." He took the seat next to mine, and added seriously, "I expecks as you ain't likely to be buyin' no more matches from me."

"Why, WILLIAM?"

"My name is REGGERNULD, Sir. Yer see, I'm movin' inter other premises, as yer might say. I've give up my stand at yon corner." He jerked his thumb in the direction of it.

"What's that for?"

"Oh--well--nothin'. Some of 'em think I'm a fool for doin' it. The fac' was--I couldn't quite git on with my comp'ny there?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that other boy what come last Toosday, and started sellin' pipers at my corner. You don't know 'oo 'e is, p'r'aps, nor 'oo I am." I did not know, and I was very willing to get the story out of REGINALD.

"Well, I come o' pretty mod'rately 'spectable folks, I do; and I ain't goin' to chum up with no thieves' sons an' as like as not thieves theirselves. No thankyer. Them Board Schools is a deal too mixed. Thet's 'ow I come to know about thet boy. 'Is father 'ad a barrer, thet were what _'is_ father did for a livelihood, an' 'is mother were up afore the beaks for poppin' shirts what she'd took in to wash. Well, I ain't one to brag, but my father were a 'air-dresser's assistant in Pimlico. Pretty well up, too, 'e was. The way 'e'd shive yer were sutthin' to see. Shivin'? Yer couldn't call it shivin'; it were gen'us, thet's what it were. Speccilation rooined 'im. 'E stawted a small plice of 'is own, and bust. Then 'e took to the turf, and bust agin. Then Mother begun dress-mikin' and there weren't no dress-mikin' to be 'ad; so that bust. We was unfortnit. Heve'rythin' as we touched bust. But we never run no barrers, an' we never was up afore no beaks, and if there weren't such a thund'rin' lot of us, I shouldn't be doin' this now. Anywye, I respecs myself. So I'm goin' to start a new pitch an' chawnce it."

I inquired where the new pitch was to be.

"I'm swoppin' with another boy (EDDUDS 'is nime is) up fur end o' this street. 'E ain't so perticler as I am. Clerks lives there mostly, an' the biz ain't so good as it was in my old plice. Them clerks wears top-'ats, an' consequently they daren't smoke pipes. They cawn't afford to smoke cigars, and cigarettes is off'rin' eyep'ny oices to a stawvin' man. So they don't smoke at all, an' don't want no matches. An' I don't blime 'em, mind yer. Pussonally, I chews--but if I smoked a pipe I wouldn't do it with one o' them 'ats on. 'Cos why? 'Cos I believes in a bit o' style. Not that I'm stuck-up as yer might say, but I don't see no sense in lettin' myself down. If I'd liked I could 'a made it so 'ot fur thet newspiper boy that 'e'd 'ave 'ad to go. I could 'a mopped up the puddles with 'im if I'd wanted. But I wouldn't. I wouldn't conterminate myself by so much as 'avin' a word with 'im. I'd sooner leave--even if I lose money on it. My father were one for style too, afore 'is shop bust. Thet's 'ow it is, yer see. Some goes up, and some goes down. We've come down, but I draws the line somewheer fur all thet--sure's my name's REGGERNALD. An' what do you think?"

I told him that I was rather inclined to think that he was an idiot, and tried to show him why he was an idiot. But he would not be convinced. Class prejudice was strong within 'im.

"Look 'ere," he said, "you may think I'm young to be a'visin' o' you, Sir. But jest mark my words--you cawn' be too keerful what comp'ny yer gits familyer with. I gits off 'ere. All--right, kinducter, yer needn't stop."

* * * * *

MORE EXCITEMENT IN PARIS.

["A valuable porcelain vase having been stolen from Versailles Palace, a band of English tourists who were visiting the place have been searched by the police; but nothing was found upon them, and they have been liberated."--_St. James's Gazette, Sept_. 17.]

* * * * *

HOLIDAY FARE IN CORNWALL.

A roll on the billow, A Loaf by the shore, A Fig for fashion, And Cream galore!

* * * * *

"WHAT'S IN A NAME?"

Mr. AUGUSTIN DALY says, "I have never found, as CHATTERTON did, that SHAKSPEARE spelt Ruin." Perhaps he has been more inclined to think that SHAKSPEARE spelt REHAN, eh?

* * * * *

* * * * *

TURNING THE TABLES;

OR, THE BEAR AS LEADER.

["The French believed so implicitly in Russian friendship, even when there was nothing whatever to indicate its existence, that they may be excused for rating at more than they are worth expressions of goodwill, which, after all, are as ambiguous as they are tardy.... The success of a Russian Loan is not dearly purchased by a little effusion, which, after all, commits Russia to nothing. French sentiment is always worth cultivating in that way, because, unlike the British variety, it has a distinct influence upon investments."--_Daily Paper_.]

"But just fancy the confusion When a bear has burst his fetters!"

HEINE's _Atta Troll_.

AIR--"_BLOUDIE JACKE_."

Oh! why does your eye gleam so bright? Russian Bear? Oh! why does your eye gleam so bright? You've broken your fetters. Like some of your betters, Your freedom moves some with affright. All right? Well, _that_'s reassuring,--oh! _quite_!

Yes, your optic gleams piggishly bright, Russian Bear; It gleams with true ursine delight. 'Tis done--France is won, And 'tis capital fun To hold it in shackles, which, slight-- Ho! ho!-- Yet fit so remarkably tight.

The chains may feel light as a thread, Russian Bear! As light and as slight as a thread; But though light be the chain. Will his might and his main Again rend it in twain? Fear is fled! Quite fled! And old animosity dead. Haw! haw!

Nay, laugh not I pray you so loud, Russian Bear! Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear! Though sly is your smile The heart to beguile, Bruin's chuckle is horrid to hear, O dear! And makes quidnuncs quake and feel queer.

You have quite turned the tables, that's true, Russian Bear, The dancer did use to be _you_. Now _you_ thump the tabor, And France, your "dear neighbour," Seems game to dance on till all's blue. Hurroo!

Alliances _are_ pretty things, Russian Bear! Seductive and promising things; That rat-a-tat-too, Which suggests a Review-- Makes his legs whirl as swiftly as wings. How he springs And leaps to the wild whillaloo!

You pipe and he dances this time, Russian Bear! The Bear and his Leader change places. Quicker and quicker he, Steps; Miss TERPSICHORE Scarce could show prettier paces. _Houp là!_ _Atta Troll_ could not rival his graces.

He who pays for the Pipe calls the tune-- Russian Bear! Pooh! _that_ old saw's quite obsolete. Just look at that stocking! What matters men's mocking? _He_'ll pay, but your tune is so sweet-- Rat-tat-too!-- That it keeps him at work hands and feet!

How long? That remains to be seen, Russian Bear; But in spite of political spleen, And Treaties and Fables, You _have_ turned the tables. Such sight is not frequently seen.

You've slipped yourself out of your chains, Russian Bear; 'Till hardly a shackle remains In Black Sea or Bosphorus. This may mean loss for us, Bruin cares not whilst he gains.

Treaties and protocols irk, Russian Bear; And therefore are matters to shirk. Berlin and Paris, No longer must harass This true friend of France--and the Turk. Hrumph! hrumph! Well, well, we shall see how 'twill work!

* * * * *

"HANGING THEOLOGY."--Readers of the _Times_ have been for some time in a state of suspense--most appropriately--as to the result of the correspondence carried on by Lord GRIMTHORPE & Co. under the above heading. At all events the Editor of the _Times_ has been giving his correspondents quite enough rope to ensure the proverbial termination of their epistolary existence.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"REVOLTED MORTIMER."

[Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE, in a letter to the _Times_, attacks the logic and disputes the dogmas of the fanatical Teetotaller, and carries the war into the enemy's country by boldly asserting that "incalculable harm has been done to the average human organism, with its functions, which we are wont to classify as mental and physical, by the spread of teetotal views and practices."]

Oho! Doctor MORTIMER GRANVILLE, You are scarcely as bland as DE BANVILLE. On the Knights of the Pump Your assertions come thump Like an old Cyclops' "sledge" on his anvil.

Fanatical logic _is_ "quisby"; Each crank in his bonnet has _his_ bee. They swagger, dod rot'em!-- Like loud Bully _Bottom_ When playing the _Thraso_ to "_Thisby_."

Total abstinence purely pernicious? Oh, Doctor, that's really delicious! That's turning the tables On faddists, whose fables Do make the judicious suspicious.

Your modest and moderate drinker, Who's also a fair-minded thinker, Would look in the face The fell scourge of our race. Sense from logic should not be a shrinker.

But drinking and drunkenness, truly, Should not be confounded unduly. Fanatics here blunder; As far they're asunder As Tempe and Ultima Thule!

We thank you, whose lucid urbanity Assures us our favourite "vanity" (To quote cheery SAM) Need _not_ be a "dram" To drive us to death or insanity.

Good wine and sound ale have their uses, To distinguish 'twixt which and abuses The clear-headed want; But illogical cant Will ne'er solve our worst social _cruces_.

"Table waters and watery" wines, Sir, Don't cheer up a man when he dines, Sir. To gases and slops, And weak "fizzles," and "pops," The weak stomach only inclines, Sir.

Like teetotal cant, they're "depressing," And if you can give them a dressing. With logic compact, Firmly founded on fact, Sober sense will bestow its best blessing.

But drunkenness, Doctor is awful, 'Tis that we could wish made unlawful. 'Tis that which will prick A man's conscience when sick Of fanatics of flatulent jaw full.

Your sots are sheer abominations, But they who deserve castigations Much more than poor "drunks," Are those pestilent skunks Who _poison the people's potations_!

Good wine and sound ale need apology? No! But there's something to follow, G.! Distilling and Brewing Must work our undoing _When branches of mere Toxicology_!

Good malt, hop, and grape, though fermented, May leave a man well and contented, But poisons infernal (See any Trade Journal!) Drive decent souls drunk and demented.

_Verb. sap._! You'll, excuse the suggestion. They soften brains, ruin digestion; Sap body and soul, In the (drugged) Flowing Bowl. There, Doctor, 's the real Drink Question!

Meanwhile, _Punch_ admires your plain speaking. Enough of evasion and sneaking! Let fact, logic stout, And sound pluck fight it out. Truth's "at home" to right valorous seeking.

Of course, my dear Doctor, you'll catch it. The Pump is aggressive; you match it. Whoever proves right, Your pluck starts a good fight, And _Punch_ is delighted to watch it!

* * * * *

THE CONQUERED "WORTH."

(_SOME WAY AFTER POE'S_ "_CONQUEROR WORM_.")

["When women no longer interest themselves in silks and satins, ribbons and furbelows, it will be an infallible sign that the great drama of humanity is at length played out, and that the lights are to be turned down, and the house left to silence and the dark."--_Daily Chronicle_.]

I.

Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the "Rational" latter years! A female throng, dowdy, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sits in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, Whilst the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres.

II.

Mimes, dressed in fashion now gone by, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly: Mere puppets they who come and go At the bidding of a huge formless Thing That shifts the scenery to and fro, Ruling the World from flat and wing-- Paris and Pimlico!

III.

That motley drama--oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot; With much of Folly, and waste of Tin, And Vanity soul of the plot.

IV.

But see, amid the mimic rout A mystic shape intrude! A formless thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes! it squirms!--with mortal pangs, Mocked at by laughter rude; There's no more snap in its sharp fangs, Which once that crowd subdued.

V.

Out--out are the lights--out all! And over each pallid form, The curtain, Mode's funeral pall, Comes down amidst hisses in storm; And the audience, dowdy, but human, Uprising proclaim, with wild mirth, That the play is the Comedy "Woman," And the hero the conquered "WORTH."

* * * * *

EXTREMES MEET.

It is a noticeable thing That when Kent bines produce their crop, Swelldom is always "on the wing," And Slumdom "on the Hop"!

* * * * *

THE LATEST WEATHER-WISE DOGGEREL.

_BY A SCIENTIFIC RAIN-MAKER._

[It is stated that rain may be brought down by the explosion of dynamite and blasting-powder attached to oxyhydrogen balloons and kite-tails.]

Evening red and morning grey Will send the traveller on his way; But--blasting-powder on kites' tails spread, Will bring down rain upon his head.

_RETORT BY A WASHED-OUT WAYFARER._

If dynamite would bring _fine_ weather, Scientists might be in fine feather, As 'tis, I sing, to the schoolboy tune, "Yah-bah! (oxyhydrogen) balloon!"

* * * * *

FATHER AND SON.

(_A POSSIBLE DIALOGUE AFTER A RECENT DECISION AT MARYLEBONE._)

_Father_. And now, my dear Son, I must ask you for your rent.

_Son_. But surely, Father, I am entitled to a room in your house?

_Father_. Out of my love and affection; but this is a matter of business; and, if you desire to be a Voter, you must behave as such.

_Son_. But I have had some difficulty in scraping up enough to pay you.

_Father_. Surely, eighteen shillings a-week is a reasonable sum for an apartment, however small, in Mayfair?

_Son_. I do not deny it; still it seems hard that I should be mulcted to that extent some fifty times a-year.

_Father_. I cannot see the hardship, _nor_ the money!

_Son_. If you really want it, it is here.

[_Produces a pocket-book, from which he takes sufficient change to satisfy the claim._

_Father_ (_pocketing coin_). Thank you; and now we may say, adieu!

_Son_. But how about dinner--am I not to dine with you?

_Father_. Dine with me! What an idea! Why should you?

_Son_. Because I am your Son.

_Father_. You mean someone infinitely more important--my Lodger.

_Son_. And you absolutely refuse me food?

_Father_. Not I, my boy; not I! It is the law! If I was to give you what you ask, you and I would be had up for bribery.

_Son_. Then you prefer patriotism to paternal affection?

_Father_. Well, to be candid with you, I do! It is distinctly cheaper!

* * * * *

MUSCOVITE VERSION OF A MUSIC-HALL CHORUS.

HIRSCH! HIRSCH! HIRSCH! Here comes the Bogie Man! He wants to help the Hebrews; he'll catch them if he can. HIRSCH! HIRSCH! HIRSCH! He's hit upon a plan, And all the persecutors cry, "Here comes the Bogie Man!"

* * * * *

LINES ON A PHOTOGRAPH.

DOWNEY has photographed "the FIFES" at home. Aha! Domestic music! FIFE and "drum "!

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR REAL DESIDERATUM.

(_BY A "WELL-INFORMED" FOOL._)