Chapter 2

_Culch._ (_resignedly_). As much as there is in not going farther than somewhere else, _I_ should have thought.

_Podb._ Well, but look here--why not stop at Bacharach, and see what sort of a place it is?

_Culch._ You forget that our time is limited if we're going to stick to our original route.

_Podb._ Yes, of course; mustn't waste any on the Rhine. Suppose we push on to Maintz to-night, and get the Rhine off our hands then? (_With a glance at Miss TROTTER._) The sooner I've done with this steamer business the better!

_Miss T._ Well, Mr. PODBURY, that's not a vurry complimentary remark to make before me!

_Podb._ We've seen so little of one another lately that it can hardly make much difference--to _either_ of us--can it?

_Miss T._ Now I call that real kind, you're consoling me in advance!

_The Steward_ (_coming up_). De dickets dat I haf nod yed seen! (_examining_ CULCHARD's _coupons_). For Bingen--so?

_Culch. I_ am. This gentleman gets off--is it Bacharach or Maintz, PODBURY?

_Podb._ (_sulkily_). Neither, as it happens. I'm for Bingen, too, as you won't go anywhere else. Though you _did_ say when we started, that the advantage of travelling like this was that we could go on or stop just as the fancy took us!

_Culch._ (_calmly_). I did, my dear PODBURY. But it never occurred to me that the fancy would take you to get tired of a place before you got there!

_Podb._ (_as he walks forwards_). Hang that fellow! I know I shall punch his head some day. And She didn't seem to care whether I stayed or not. (_Hopefully._) But you never _can_ tell with women!

[_He returns to his camp-stool and the letter-reading Old Ladies._

* * * * *

A SONG IN SEASON.

'Twas the autumn time, dear love, The English autumn weather; And, oh, it was sweet, it was hard to beat As we sailed that day together! It was cold when we started out, As we noted with sad surprise; And the tip of your nose was as blue, I suppose, As the blue of your dear, dear eyes.

We sailed to Hampton Court, And the sun had burnt us black; Then we dodged a shower for the half of an hour, And then we skated back; Till the weather grew depressed At the shifting state of its luck, And the glass, set fair, gave it up in despair, And much of the lightning struck.

We sat on the bank in the storm, In the steady fall of the snow, In the stinging hail and the howling gale, And the scorching sun, you know; We sat in it all--yes, all! We cared for no kind of weather-- What made us so mad was the fact that we had The whole of the kinds together.

* * * * *

ROBERT'S FUTURE.

My kind Amerrycain aquaintance--I musn't call him frend tho' he is so werry free and social with me, for I hopes I knos my propper place--has giwen me a long acount of his week at Brighton. It seems as he was in grate luck, for it was Brighton Race Week, and he is good enuff to say that, whatever diffrent opinyons the men of other countries may find in regard to the warious customs and manners of our grate but rayther rum nashun, they all agrees, with one acord, that a English race-course is the prettyest and nicest thing of the sort that the hole world can show. I rayther thinks as he dropt his money there, but it couldn't have bin werry much, for it didn't have the least effeck on his good temper. It seems as he got interdooced to some sillybrated pusson who rites in papers and seemed to kno everythink, but wot he wanted to kno was if I coud tell him what caused his werry bad indijeshun, to which I at once replied, without a moment's hesitashun, that it was probberbly owing to his being, wich he told me he was, a sort of relashun of a real Common Councilman of the Grand old Citty of London! at which he larfed quite hartily and said, "Bravo, Mr. ROBERT, that's one to you!"

He arterwards arsked me for the werry best place to go to, where he coud have jest about a few hours quiet refleckshun all to hisself without not nothink to disturb him; so I sent him to Marlow, gentlemanly Marlow, if you please, with a letter to my old friend BILL the Fisherman, and there, he told me arterwards, he had sich a luvly day of it as he never rememberd having afore. He sat for fours ours in a luvly Punt, in a bewtifool drizzlin rain, with lots of fish a biting away, but he was much too much engaged to pay the least atenshun to 'em, and there wasn't not noboddy to bother him; so he sat there, and thort out about the most himportentest ewent of his life; and when I waited upon him at the "Grand Hotel" arterwards, I don't think as I ewer seed a reel Gent, as he suttenly is, in such jolly good sperrits. So, seeing how werry successfool I had been, I wentured to say to him,--"And now, Sir, if you wants to see gentlemanly Marlow in quite another aspic, and one that estonishes and delites all as sees it, just take the 9:45 train from Paddington next Sunday, and, drectly you gets there, go at wunce to the Lock, and there, for ours and ours you will see sitch a sight of most ravishing bewty, combined with helegance and hart, as praps no other spot in all the hole world can show! Why, Sir," I said, "every time as the full Lock opens its yawning gates, at the command of one of the principel hofficers of the Tems Conserwancy, you will think of the Gates of Parrydice a hopening for a excurshun of hundreds of the most bewtifoollest Angels as ginerally lives there!" "Why, Mr. ROBERT," says the Amerrycain, "your henthusiasm xcites my curosity, and I'll suttenly go, and," he added, with almost a blushing smile, "I rayther thinks as I'll take a companion with me."

And off he went on the follering Sunday, and didn't git back till seven o'clock to dinner, and his fust words to me was,--"Mr. ROBERT, you didn't in the least xagerate the bewty of the scene as you sent me for to see--it was as strange and as lovely as a Faery Tail! I wasn't at all surprised to see what Swells there was among 'em, and what werry particklar attentions they paid to 'em, cos I reklek how My Lord RANGDULF CHURCHILL slected that particklar spot, on henny particklar fine Sunday, to seek that werry welcome and much wanted change from his sewere Parlementary dooties, as he used wen he were ere among us to rekquire, for I guess as there ain't sitch a sight to be seen not nowheres else so well calklated to brighten a pore feller up who's jest about done up with reel hard work." I didn't quite understand what made my Amerrycain smile quite so slily as he finished his rayther long speech, but he most certenly did, and then set to work at his dinner.

He arterwards told me as how as he means to pay a wisit, when the season begins, to our new Hotel at Monty Carlo, sumwheres in France, and try his new system at the Tables, and if he suckseeds, as he knows he shall, he will, praps, sum day tell me his secret, and then I shall have to ask my gentlemanly Manager here to let me have a few weeks there, and then I shan't want to do any more waiting! What a prospeck!

ROBERT.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE CANADIAN "SEARCH-LIGHT."

(A SONG OF SINCERE SYMPATHY.)

AIR--"_THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP_."

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The Search-Light sends its ray! What is that hideous oozy tramp? What creatures crawling 'midst jungle damp Scuttle from light away?

Revealing radiance shine, oh shine, Through black bayou and brake, Where knotted parasites intertwine, And through the tangles of poisonous vine Glideth the spotted snake.

Where hardly a human foot would pass, Or an honest heart would dare The quaking mud of the foul morass, With rank weed choked, and with clotted grass, Fit for a reptile's lair.

They dread the light, do those dismal things, Its gleam they dare not face. Their snaky writhings, their bat-like wings, Their quaking menace of fangs and stings Make horror of the place.

All things should be so bright and fair In a land so glad and free; But the Search-Light layeth dark secrets bare, And shows how loathsomeness builds a lair In a land of Liberty.

Push on, brave bearer of piercing Light, Through pestilential gloom, Where crawls the spawn of Corruption's night! Deal out, stout searcher, to left and right, The cleansing strokes of doom.

That fair lithe form in that fleet frail bark Is a comely Nemesis, Before whose menace 'tis good to mark The reptile dwellers in dens so dark Driven with growl and hiss.

The saurian huge and the lizard slow, Foul shapes of ruthless greed, And the stealthy snake of the sudden blow, All owl-like shrink from the Search-Light's glow, Or fly with felon speed.

Corruption's spawn must be chased and slain, Scourged from the wholesome earth. It clingeth else like the curse of CAIN. Smite, smite like flail upon garnered grain, These things of bestial birth!

* * * * *

OLD DOGGEREL RE-DRESSED.

(_AFTER READING CERTAIN CRITICISMS ON CERTAIN NOVELISTS, CERTAIN COMMENTS ON THOSE CRITICISMS, AND CERTAIN REJOINDERS TO THOSE COMMENTS_.)

Little novelists have little critics, Like little gnats, to bite 'em; Those little critics have lesser critics, And so _ad infinitum_!

* * * * *

LINES BY A LEWISHAM WITLER.

The PENN is mightier than the sword-- Of any Red-Rad whipster. I _said_ he'd win--doubted _my_ word; But I'm the O.K. tipster. Rads roughed on me and called me "Bung;" I've bunged them up--a corker-- At the result their heads they hung. _They_ whip the Witler? Walker! We're the PENN-holders. For their man That One-Six-Nine-Three nicked him, Witlers warmed up "Old Warmingpan;" PENN gave him odds, and licked him. "Villadom" did its duty--game; Rads jeered it; that's their mania. Lewisham? No, we'll change the name, And call it--PENN-Sylvania!

* * * * *

TIP BY A TORY.--The _Star_, talking of "HODGE's Political Salvation," says that Mr. GLADSTONE has given the Liberal country programme in a sentence. _I_ will give it in a word. It is all "Hodge-podge!"

* * * * *

UNATTRACTIVE COMBINATION.--If a young woman is "fast," and uncommonly ugly, wouldn't she make a great mistake were she to combine the two qualities, and be "fast-'idious"?

* * * * *

NAME FOR A CERTAIN SECTION OF THE ILLUSTRATED PRESS.--The Nude Journalism.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE COQUETTE OF THE PERIOD.

You vowed you loved me, but your eyes Said just the same to dozens, The music of your low replies, Was heard by several cousins. Forgive me if I could not cope, With charms so comprehensive; And scarce believed a love whose scope, Was really too extensive.

The fashion of the age you'll say, But I've a predilection For girls who in the olden way Retain one man's affection. You favoured me with witching smiles, You gave me frequent dances; But other men that I wished miles Away, enjoyed your glances.

Man loves as men loved in old times, And as in legends hoary, We celebrate a maid in rhymes, Is that too old a story? But still man loves one girl alone, And flies when he discovers-- That she he thought was all his own, Has half a dozen lovers.

You sighed and said that you felt hurt, And prettily you pouted, When anybody called you flirt, A fact I never doubted. And yet such wheedling ways you had, Man yielded willy-nilly; And half your swains were nearly mad, And all of us were silly.

Youth's first illusions fly apace, And now one man confesses He scarcely can recal your face, Or colour of your dresses. And whether you were false or true, Or what fate followed after, Remembrance only keeps of you The echo of your laughter.

* * * * *

PROVERBIAL PRAYER FOR A PAUPER-HATING BUMBLE.--Give me neither poverty nor Ritchies!

* * * * *

A CREDITABLE INCIDENT IN THE NEXT WAR.

(_AN ADVANCE SHEET FROM MR. PUNCH'S PROPHETIC HISTORY OF EUROPE._)

["Italy is bound to maintain abroad the appearance of a great and rich country, while at home she ought to conduct herself as if in straitened circumstances."--_Daily Paper_.]

The Italian Army had been completely victorious. There was but one drawback to the entire satisfaction of the Commander-in-Chief--one of his favourite Generals was under arrest, and was being tried by court-martial. The accused had refused the assistance of Counsel, and had insisted upon pleading "Guilty."

"But," urged the Commander-in-Chief, "you surely have some excuse. To sack a private house belonging to your own countryman was unpardonable. It was an aimless piece of Vandalism! For your own reputation--for the sake of your ancestors--on behalf of your descendants--some explanation should be afforded."

"Surely this is no time for levity," murmured a Warrior-Journalist, who was suspected of combining with the duties of a hero the labours of a Special Correspondent for a Roman journal.

"Do I look like a jester?" asked the Prisoner; and then he added, "My brave companions, it is for the honour of our country--to conceal her poverty from the sneers of foreigners--that I carry with me the secret of my action to the family vault. Press me no further--see, I am ready for the firing-party!"

There was nothing further to be said, and the little procession made its way to the Barrack Square. The Prisoner shook hands warmly with his Judges, and with the weeping soldiery who were to act as his executioners. "I will give the words of command myself. Ready--present--"

"Stop!"

An aged man had approached the group. He was out of breath with running. The firing-party paused, and lowered their rifles.

"Do not listen to him!" shouted the Accused. "And if he will not desist, shoot him too--shoot us both."

"You exceed your duties, Sirrah," said the Commander-in-Chief, with some severity--for discipline was strict in the Italian Army. "It is for me to command, not you!" The Prisoner lowered his head at the just reproof, and then his superior officer continued, "Why do you ask us to desist?"

"Because the Prisoner is innocent. He acted from the best of motives. I was the proprietor of the shop he sacked, and I (for, after all, I am a patriot) demand his pardon!"

"You!" exclaimed the Commander-in-Chief. "Surely you ought to be the last to urge such a plea. We do not know what your shop contained, but presume that the contents was your property."

"You are right in the presumption," acquiesced the aged man; "but these documents will show that he was right, from a military point of view, to sack my shop."

The Commander-in-Chief hastily glanced at the papers, and with a thrill of pleasure, ordered his favourite General to be released.

"This mystery must never be revealed," he murmured. And it never would, had not the hero-journalist printed the story. Thus it was that the tale became international property. Now it is known all the world over that the General sacked a shop to obtain the arms and accoutrements of the Italian Army. But it is still (comparatively) a secret that the proprietor of the establishment carried on on the premises the business of a pawnbroker!

* * * * *

COMPULSORY GREEK;

OR, BYRON UP TO DATE.

(_A BRITISH BOY'S VIEW ON A BURNING QUESTION._)

Compulsory Greek! Compulsory Greek! Though "burning SAPPHO loved and sung," Why in Greek shackles should they seek To bind the British schoolboy's tongue? Eternal bores, that Attic set, But, heaven be thanked, we'll "chuck" them yet.

"The Scian and the Teian Muse" Ruled us as tyrants absolute; Now even pedagogues refuse To stodge us with such stale old fruit. Why should the STANLEY-dowered West Make the _Anabasis_ a test?

They teach us about Marathon, But what is Marathon to me? Tell me of fights still going on, Men "rightly struggling to be free;" Nay, _I_ find interest much more brave in The mill 'twixt Thingummy and SLAVIN.

Oh, feed me not on mythic lore, But Science and the modern Fact, Teach me Electric Fires to store, The difference 'twixt "Bill" and "Act." Why should a Cockney care a "cuss" For HOMER or for ÆSCHYLUS?

For who _are_ they? But what art thou, My Country? On thy fertile shore The heroic lyre is tuneless now; To scheme for dividends, dig for ore, _These_ are the things we hold divine, Not HOMER's long-resounding line.

If you would make a splendid name Amidst a lucre-loving race, You must be in god Mammon's game, And hustle for a foremost place. What do we want with poets here? For Greece a snub, for Greek a sneer!

Must _we_ still pore o'er classic text Because our simple fathers said It made "a gentleman"? What next? Let the dead languages stay dead! Hooray for Fact and Rule of Three! Compulsory Greek is fiddle-de-dee.

Place me on Stock Exchange's steep With nought to do but sell and buy To Bull and Bear we need not keep Our classics up; that's all my eye. Ho! for the Factory, Mart, and Mine The toils of Greek our souls decline.

* * * * *

* * * * *

SOLOMON PELL IN ALL HIS GLORY.

_A DICKENSIAN DREAM AT PLYMOUTH._

"Boy!" cried Mr. SOLOMON PELL, in the tones of a severe Stentor. The small Boy with the Big Blue Bag responded promptly with a deferential "Yussir."

"Listen!" pursued Mr. PELL, with dignity. And he read with emphatic elocution from some closely-printed columns in the _Times_, interjecting exclamatory comments from time to time.

"'When we remember the importance of the work daily intrusted to Solicitors (_Important, indeed!_), and the amount of industry (_Quite so!_), judgment (_Exactly!_), learning (_I believe you!_), and integrity (_Why, cert'n'ly!_), it involves, and the responsibility which is necessarily incurred by them in advising, not only in public and political matters, but in all the details of private transactions, the dealings with property, and matters affecting not only the purses, but the honour and reputation (_Ah!!!_), of the members of the community (_Well, and pointedly put, Boy!_), and when we remember, in addition, what a powerful and (on the whole) respected body they are (_I should think so!_)--a body, too, consisting not merely of a "fortuitous concourse of atoms" (_I should say not, indeed! Fancy me being a mere "atom," or fortuitous!_) ("Please, Sir, I _can't_;" interjected the Boy with the Bag)--each going his own way, and seeking his own interest, but bound together, as the great bulk of its members are, and organised by means of this great Society, and of the kindred societies scattered over the country, and acting in harmony with it--it seems most surprising (_Surprising? Astounding, Sir!_) that so little in the way of dignity and reward can be looked forward to by the Solicitor, however honestly, ably, and conscientiously he may perform the arduous and responsible duties of his profession.'"

Mr. PELL here paused, and panted, like one who comes to the surface after a deep-sea dive. Then he pursued:--

"There, Boy! _That_ is from the opening speech of the President of the Incorporated Law Society at Plymouth! And excellent it is,--though perhaps a little long-winded. As a mere sentence, a sinuous sequence of words, a 'breather' in syllables, an exercise in adjectives, it cuts the record and takes the cake. But look, Boy, at the sound common-sense of it! Since the famous, if flattering, remarks--concerning Me!--of my late friend, the ex-Lord-Chancellor, who said--nay, swore, that 'the country ought to be proud of me,' I have met with no observations concerning our Profession which so commend themselves to my judgment."

"Oh, please Sir, yussir, right you are, Sir!" jerked out the Boy with the Bag.

"Right Mr. MELMOTH WALTERS is," corrected Mr. PELL, severely. "I knew it would come, Boy, and it _has_. Though it has taken time, it has taken time. Listen yet further, and don't fidget with that Bag!

"'I contend (_He contends!_) that it is the duty of the State to provide due recognition of merit in the ranks of a Profession which has been set apart (_Dedicated, as it were, like a--like a--sort of a scapegoat--ahem! no, not that, exactly, either, but--a--you know, Boy, you know!_), and regulated (_Just a leetle too much, perhaps_) by it, from which so much is expected, and to which so much is confided.'

"Splendid! My sentiments to a touch! Sir, that Blue Bag is a Temple of Sacred Secrets, and _should_ be a shrine of Open Honour. (_Must make a note of that for my next speech at the Forum!_) 'Sir SOLOMON PELL' would not sound badly, eh, Boy?"

"Oh, please Sir, yussir--I mean, no, Sir, fur from it, Sir--_fur_ from it!"

"And yet the Bar gets all the honours, and most of the emoluments, whilst the Blue Bag, too often, is sent empty away. Is it just? Is it judicious? What says once again the Plymouth oracle?

"'I ask whether it is wise or prudent on the part of the State to leave unnoticed and disregarded the higher aspirations and ambitions of a large and useful and powerful class of the community?'

"No, Sir--a thousand times no! Let our 'higher aspirations' be considered. _Some_ of us have souls above six-and-eightpence, and yearnings beyond bills of costs. Let 'em be gratified, Boy!"

"Oh, please Sir, yussir: let 'em! Immediately--if not sooner, Sir!"

"_By_ the State--with a capital S! If a soldier may carry a Field Marshal's _bâton_ in his knapsack, why, _why_ should not a Solicitor carry a Baronetcy in his Blue Bag?"

"And Ekker answers, 'Why?' Sir."

"I beg your pardon, Boy, it is the _Times_, not the _Echo_, which so answers. The _Times_ says:--

"'They (Solicitors) are the guardians of our dearest (yes, our _dearest_) interests, the confidants of family secrets, the arbiters in family controversies, and not infrequently the custodians of the honour and the good name of their clients.'