Chapter 2

Quoth the Baron, "Much liketh me the Macmillanite series of _English Men of Action_, and in a very special manner do I laud the latest that, to my knowledge, hath appeared 'yclept _Montrose_, by Master MOWBRAY MORRIS--a good many 'M's' in these names--who hath executed his _Montrose_ with as loving a heart and as tender a touch as ever did use old IZAAK towards the gentle that he, and the simple fish, did love so well. Did not the very hangman burst into tears as he thrust the unfortunate nobleman off the step? and did not a universal sob of pity break from the vast crowd assembled to see the last of the noble cavalier, victim to an unfortunate tradition of loyalty? What wonder then if we sympathise with this luckless hero of romance? The weak-knee'd villain of this historical drama was '_Charles_ (his friend),' in which character, be it allowed, this sad dog of a Merry Monarch not infrequently appeared. Thank you much, Mr. MOWBRAY MONTROSE MORRIS," quoth

THE BENEFICENT BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

* * * * *

APRIL SHOWERS;

OR, A SPOILED EASTER HOLIDAY.

(_A VACATION CANTATA._)

_Master George (stretching forth his fingers to feel if the shower is abating) sings_:-- Rain! Rain! Go away! Come again Another day!

_Master Arthur_ (_gloomily_). Pooh! Rain won't go away, not in these times, By being sung at to old nursery rhymes: Especially in such a voice as yours!

_Master George._ Needn't be nasty, ARTHUR!

_Master Robert._ How it pours! Thought we were going to have a real jolly day, And now it's set in wet, to spoil our holiday.

_Master George._ Always the way at Easter. Shall we trudge it?

_Master Arthur._ Not yet. What have you got, GEORGE, in your Budget?

_Master George._ Not very much, I fear!

_Master Arthur._ Ah, that's vexatious! It might have cheered us up a bit.

_Master George_ (_indignantly_). Good gracious! You're always down on me, with no good reasons. You know _I_'m not the ruler of the Seasons. Now if I'd been in _your_ place--but no matter!

_Master Robert._ By Jingo, how the raindrops rush and clatter! Ah, Primrose-gathering is not half so jolly As once it used to be.

_Master Arthur._ Ah! my dear SOLLY, The springs are now so awfully wet and cold, The "cry" don't seem so fetching as of old.

[_Pipes up._

_Recitative_. "_Who will buy my pretty, pretty Pri-im-ro-o-ses!_ _All fresh gathered from the va-a-a-ll-ey?_"

_Master George._ The wet and cold have got into your throat, A quaver and a crack on every note!

_Master Robert._ Don't aggravate each other, boys; 'tis wrong, But while it rains _I_'ll tootle out a song:-- (_Sings._) The days we went a-Primrosing!

AIR--"_The days we went a-Gipsying!_"

The days are gone, the happy days When _we_ were in our Spring; When all the Primrose loved to praise, And join its gathering. Oh! we could sing like anything, We felt the conqueror's glow, In the days when we went Primrosing, A long time ago.

_Chorus._--In the days, &c.

Then April's flowery return Was "Peace-with-Honour's" goal. And the bright brimstone-bunch would burn In every button-hole. Our Dames were gaily on the wing, With blossoms in full blow, In the days when we went Primrosing, A long time ago.

_Chorus._--In the days, &c.

But now Progressive storms prevail Election blizzards chill; The Primroses seem sparse and pale In valley and on hill. Yon cloud looks black as raven's wing! Things did not menace so. In the days when we went Primrosing A long time ago!

_Chorus._--In the days, &c.

_Both._ Oh, brayvo, BOBBY!

_Master Robert._ Thanks. Yet my song's burden Is dismal as the croakings of _Dame Durden_. Our holiday is spoilt by driving showers. I fear we shall have no great show of flowers; But--anyhow my boys we're under cover; And let us hope that storm-cloud will pass over Without first giving us a dreadful drenching, And all our April-hopes entirely quenching.

_All_ (_singing together_). Rain! Rain! Go away! Come again Another day!

[_Left crouching and singing._

* * * * *

FROM THE THEATRES, &C. COMMISSION.--"I am afraid," said Mr. P.S. RUTLAND, speaking of the Music Halls, and in answer to a question of Mr. BOLTON's, "we cannot do a wreck. (_Laughter._)" Mr. WOODALL: "Without being wrecked in the attempt. (_Renewed laughter._)" Oh, witty WOODALL! Why, encouraged by this applause, he may yet be led on to make a pun on his own name, and say, "_Would all_ were like him!" or some such merry jest. The proceedings in this Committee were becoming a trifle dull, but it is to be hoped that they may yet hear something still more sparkling from the wise and witty WOODALL.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO MY COOK.

Oh, hard of favour, fat of form, How fairer art thou than thy looks, Whose heart with kitchen fires is warm, Thou plainest of the plainer Cooks!

Low down upon thy forehead grows Thick hair of no conducive dye; Short and aspiring is thy nose, Watched ever by a furtive eye.

In shy defiance rarely seen Where kitchen stairways darkly tend, A foe to judge thee by thy mien, Proclaimed in every act a friend!

I know thee little; not thy views On public or on private life, Whether a single lot thou'dst choose, Or fain would'st be a Guardsman's wife;

For who can rightly read the change When, still'd the work-day traffic's din, In best apparel, rich and strange, Thou passest weekly to thy kin!

A silken gown, that bravely stands Environing thy form, or no; Stout gloves upon thy straining hands, For brooch, the breastplate cameo.

Shod with the well-heeled boots, whose knell Afar along the pavement sounds, Blent with the tinkling muffin-bell, Or milkman, shrilling on his rounds.

_Nil tangis quod non ornas._ Nay, 'Tis not alone the parsley sprig, The paper frill, the fennel spray, The Yule-tide's pertly-berried twig;

But common objects by thy art Some proper beauty seem to own; Thy chop is as a chop apart, Fraught with a grace before unknown;

The very egg thou poachest seems Some work of deft _orfévrerie_,-- A yolk of gold that chastely gleams Through a thin shrine of ivory.

From thee no pale and wilted ghost, Or branded by the blackening bar, But crisp and cheery comes the toast, And brown as ripening hazels are.

Thy butter has not lost the voice Of English meads, where cowslips grow, And oh, the bacon of thy choice-- Rose-jacinth labyrinthed in snow!

And mutton, colder than the kiss Of formal love, where loathing lurks Its deadlier chill doth wholly miss, Fired with the spirit of thy works.

To true occasion thou art true, As upon great occasions great; Doing whatever Cook may do When PHYLLIS, neat, alone will wait,

As when the neighbouring villas send Their modish guests to statelier fare, And PHYLLIS, neat, is helped to tend By that staid man the Greengrocer.

Though thou art more than plain in look, Thou wieldest charms that never tire-- O Cook--we will not call thee Cook, Thou Priestess of the Genial Fire.

* * * * *

LAYING A GHOST!

PROSPECTIVE ARRANGEMENTS.--Owing to the continued success of _Hamlet_, it has been decided (by arrangement with the Author) to postpone, &c.--_Extract from Advertisement in Daily Paper._

SCENE--_Sanctum of Popular Actor-Manager of Theatre Royal Haymarket, Popular Actor-Manager dozing over a submitted Play. He closes his eyes and slumbers. When to him enter Master WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE._

_Master W.S._ (_shouting_). What ho, Sir Player! Wake up, Sir, wake up!

_P.A.-M._ (_rousing himself_). Delighted to see you, Mr. SHAKSPEARE. I hope you have been in front and seen us?

_Master W.S._ Yes, I just had a glance. Find you have put in some new business. When will all you fellows leave me alone?

_P.A.-M._ (_earnestly_). I hope, Sir, that in the cause of Art you do not object, that--

_Master W.S._ (_interrupting_). Oh, no! It makes little difference to me what you do. _My_ author's fees ceased years ago! But look here, What do you mean by this? (_Produces Press-cutting of advertisement and reads_)--"Theatre Royal, Haymarket, Prospective Arrangements. Owing to the continued success of _Hamlet_, it has been decided (by arrangement with the Author) to postpone" another play. Now, Master TREE, or as I may call ye, "Master up a Tree," what have you to say to that? You see your advertisement has caught my eye. I am here to answer it!

_P.A.-M._ Most wonderful! I do not know how or wherefore my pen slipped, but slip it did, indeed. However, I apologise. Is that enough?

_Master W.S._ More than enough!

_Enter the Ghost of HAMLET's Father suddenly._

_Ghost_ (_with a glance at W.S._). Ah, the Governor here already! Still, I may have my chance as well as he! I gave the plot of _Hamlet_! Why shouldn't I have another shot? (_To P.A.-M._)-- But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul.

_P.A.-M._ (_eagerly_). The very thing for a melodrama. Delighted to make your acquaintance--hem--in the Spirit!

_Master W.S._ Nay, good Master Player, this is scarcely business! If anything in _that_ line is to be done, I should do it. (_To Ghost of HAMLET's Father_). Begone, Sirrah!

_Ghost._ Nay, this is professional jealousy! (_To P.A.-M._). I find thee apt--

[_A book falls, and Master WM. SHAKSPEARE and Ghost of HAMLET's Father vanish together._

_P.A.-M._ (_opening his eyes_). Was I dreaming? (_With a recollection of "The Red Lamp"_) I wonder! [_Left wondering._

* * * * *

TAKING A SIGHT AT RINGANDKNOCK.

(_BY RUDDIER STRIPLING._)

After the roughness of the Atlantic, in which to my taste there is far too much water moving about, I stepped on to America with considerable relief. I was quite satisfied, after that excellent dinner, the first I had enjoyed since Liverpool slid away eastward, to walk aimlessly through the streets till I fell into the arms of a broad-shouldered, pug-nosed, Irish New York policeman. I remember no more till New York passed away on a sunny afternoon, and then I fell asleep again and slept till the brakeman, conductor, Pullman-car conductor, negro porter and newsboy somehow managed to pull me out into the midnight temperature of 80 below freezing. It was just like having one's head put under the pump, but it did not quite revive me, for I mistook my host in his sleigh for a walrus, and tried to harpoon him with my umbrella. After matters had been explained, we went off, at least I did, and never woke up till I fell out into a snow-drift, just as we turned a corner at our journey's end.

In the morning, I had some idea that the sky was a great sapphire, and that I was inside it, and that the fields were some sort of velvet or wool-work, going round and round with the sun rioting over them, whatever that may mean, till my head ached. I can't quite understand all this now, but it seemed a very picturesque, impressionist description when I wrote it. Then I went for a walk down Main Street. I think it is about 400 miles long, for I got nowhere near the end, but this was perhaps owing to my uncertainty as to which side was the pleasanter to walk on. At last I gave it up, and sat down on the side-walk. Now, the wisdom of Vermont, not being at all times equal to grasping all the problems of everybody else's life with delicacy, sometimes makes pathetic mistakes, and it did so in my ease. I explained to the policeman that I had been sitting up half the night on a wild horse in New Zealand, and had only just come over for the day, but it was all in vain.

The cell at Vermont was horribly uncomfortable. I dreamt that I was trying to boil snow in a thimble, to make maple syrup, and to swim on my head in deep water, with a life-belt tied to my ankles. There was another man there, and in the early morning he told me about Mastodons and Plesiosauri in a wood near the town, and how he caught them by the tails and photographed them; and also that Ringandknock, a mountain near, was mentioned by EMERSON in a verse, which I remembered, because he made "co-eval" rhyme with "extended." Only a truly great Philosopher could have done that.

It was all new and delightful; and it must have been true, because my informant was a quiet, slow-spoken man of the West, who refrained from laughing at me. I have met very few people who could do that. Next day all the idleness and trifling were at an end, and my friends conveyed me back to New York.

* * * * *

EPITAPH ON A DYER.

This Dyer with a dire liver tried To earn a living dyeing, and he died.

* * * * *

THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

NO. VIII.--THE DUFFER AS A HOST.

Of course I don't try to give dinners at home. The difficulties and anxieties are too enormous. First there is inviting the people. I like to have none but very clever men and very pretty women, but nobody's acquaintance is limited to those rare beings, and, if I did invite them, they would all have previous engagements: I do not blame them. But suppose that two or three of the wits and beauties accept, that is worse than ever, because the rest are a Q.C. (who talks about his cases) and his wife, who talks about her children. An old school-fellow, who has no conversation that does not begin, "I say, do you remember old JACK WILLIAMS." This does not entertain the beauty, who sits next him.

A Dowager Duchess, she knows none of the other people and wonders audibly (to me) who they are. A clever young man, whose language is the language of the future, and whose humour is of a date to which I humbly hope my own days may not be prolonged. A Psychical Researcher, with a note-book; he gets at the Duchess at once, and cross-examines her about a visionary Piper who plays audible pibrochs through Castle Blawearie, her ancestral home. Does she think the pibroch could be taken down in a phonograph. Could the Piper be snapped in a kodak? The Duchess does not know what a phonograph is; never heard of a kodak. She does not like the note-book any more than _Mr. Pickwick's_ cabman liked it. She is afraid of getting into print. Then there is the Warden of St. Jude's, a great scholar; he pricks up his ears, not the keenest, at the word kodak, and begins to talk about a newly-discovered _Codex_ of PODONIAN the Elder. Nobody knows what a _Codex_ is. There is a School-board Lady, but, alas, she is next the Warden of St. Jude's, not next the enthusiastic Clergyman, who proses about a Club for Milliners. There is GRIGSBY, who develops an undesirable interest in the Milliners' Club. Have they a Strangers' Room? Do they give suppers? Are they Friendly Girls? Everyone thinks GRIGSBY flippant and coarse; I wish I had not asked him to come. There is a Positivist, who sneers at the Clergyman; there are a Squire and his wife from Rutlandshire: she is next the Radical Candidate for the Isle of Dogs. They do not seem to get on well together. GRIGSBY and the humorist of the future are chaffing each other across the table: nobody understands them; I don't know whether they are quarrelling or not. Miss JONES, the authoress of _Melancholy Moods_ (in a Greek dress, with a _pince-nez_: a woman should not combine these attributes) is next the Squire: he has never heard of any of her friends the Minor Poets: she takes no interest in Hay, nor in Tithes. I see the Guardsman and the Beauty looking at each other across the flowers and things: the language of their eyes is not difficult, nor pleasant, to read. Why is the champagne so hot, and why are the ices so salt and hard? I know something is the matter with the claret: something is always the matter with the claret. It has been iced, and the champagne has been standing for days in an equable temperature of 65°.

When they want to go away, it is a wet night, and those who have come in cabs cannot get cabs to go back in. The Duchess's coachman lost his way, coming here, she was half-an-hour late: she is anxious about his finding his way home. GRIGSBY has got at the Psychical-Researcher, and I hear him telling stories, as personal experiences, which I know are not true. Psychical-Researchers have no sense of humour. "S.P.R.," why not "S.P.Q.R.?" I hear GRIGSBY asking, and suggesting "Society for Propagating Rubbish." It is very rude of him, and not at all funny.

However, they do go away at last, that advantage a dinner at home has over a dinner at the Club, there they often seem as if they would never go away at all.

On the other hand, the wine is all right at the Club, I believe, for I know nothing about wine myself. Some men talk of nothing else, and seem to know the vintages without looking at the names on the bottles.

The worst of giving a dinner at the Club is, that I never know how many men I have asked, nor even who they are. It is enough if I remember the date. It might be a good thing to write these matters down in a Diary, or on a big sheet of paper, pinned up in one's room. I know I have written to ask some Americans whom I have not seen: they brought letters of introduction. I forget their names--there is a Professor who has written a novel, there is a General, I think, and a Mad Doctor.

My best plan will be to stand about in the drawing-room, and try to select them as they come in. Here is WILKINSON, who was at St. Jude's with me: I shake hands with him warmly. He looks blank. It is not WILKINSON, after all; it is a stranger, he is dining with somebody else. Some other men have come in while I am apologising. One of them comes up and says, "Mr. McDUFFER!" He must be an American. Which? He tells me: he is the Mad Doctor. He introduces his countrymen; they all say "Mr. McDUFFER!" How am I to remember which is the General and which is the Professor? Other people drop in. Here is CRIMPTON. He is a Reviewer. Clever fellow, CRIMPTON. Here is old BEILBY--he is hot from the University Match. He begins to tell me all about it. JONES was awfully well set, but that muff SMITH ran him out. BEILBY does not believe it _was_ out. Odd the spite umpires always have at our side. Feel that I must tear myself from BEILBY, the only man whose conversation really interests me. Here is an English writer on military subjects. I introduce him to the American General. Find he is the Professor, after all. We get down-stairs somehow. BEILBY is opposite me. CRIMPTON is next the Professor. The Military Writer is next the General. Things do not appear to go very smoothly. It seems that the Military one has said something about General BEAUREGARD which he should not have said. The General is getting red. I hate it, when men begin to talk about the American War. Any other war they are welcome to: the Danish War, the war of 1866, the war of 1870, the glorious affair of Majuba. But Americans are touchy about their war, not easy to please them whatever you say. Much best to say nothing. CRIMPTON is laughing at American novels. He does not know that the Professor is an American novelist. What am I to do? I try to kick him under the table. I kick the Mad Doctor, and apologise. Was feeling about for a footstool. BEILBY is trying to talk about Base Ball to the General, who is still red. Nothing is more disagreeable than these international discussions at dinner.

Now, a clever host would know how to get out of this; he would start some other subject. I can think of no other subject. Happy thought: gradually glide into American cookery, clams, canvas-backed ducks, what is that dish with a queer name--Jumbo? I don't feel as if it were Jumbo. Squambo? Terapin soup? It sounds rather like the Hebrew for a talisman, or an angel of some sort. However, they are talking about cookery now, and wines. Is there not an American wine called Catawampus? The Mad Doctor has his eye on me; he seems interested. I thought I heard him murmur Aspasia, or Aphasia, or something like that. It is not Catawampus--it is Catawba. I feel that I _patauge_--flounder, I mean. I am getting quite nervous; feel like a man in a powder-magazine, with lighted cigarettes everywhere. If one can withdraw them to the smoking-room, they will settle down somehow. They do. The Military Critic gets into a corner with BEILBY. The Americans and I consort together. Most agreeable fellows; have been everywhere, and seen everything. CRIMPTON, luckily, is reading one of his own reviews in the evening paper. I glance at it; it is a review of the Professor's novel. Not a kind review--rather insulting than otherwise. He hates BEILBY, and he does not know the Military Critic. If he joins us, there will be more international discussion. I get them on to the balcony, and pretend to go to ring the bell for coffee. I whisper to CRIMPTON. He is quite taken aback. "Awfully sorry; never dreamed the Professor was not English." He wants to tell the Professor that, thinks he will be pleased. He apologises to me; it is dreadfully disagreeable to be apologised to by a guest. "All my fault," I say; and, really, so it is. CRIMPTON remembers an evening engagement, and goes off _à l'Anglaise_.

The Americans go off; say they have enjoyed themselves. I feel inclined to apologise for CRIMPTON. On second thoughts, I don't. They do not look like men who write about their adventures in their native newspapers. Ladies do that. A weight is off my mind. The Military Writer goes home. He asks, "Who was that old man who fancied himself so about SHERMAN's March?" "That was General HOME, who held a command under SHERMAN." The Military Writer whistles; wishes I had told him that before dinner. I wish I had, but I got so flurried and confused. It is midnight; I am tired to death. Yes, BEILBY _will_ have something to drink, and another cigar--a very large one. He begins to talk about the University Match, about all University Matches, about old scores, and old catches, from MITCHELL's year to the present day.

It is three o'clock before I get home; the Americans _may_ have enjoyed themselves, I have not. I dream about the Mad Doctor; perhaps he will put me into his next book on _Incipient Insanity_. Serve me right.

* * * * *

THE YOUNG GIRL'S COMPANION.

(_BY MRS. PAYLEY._)

I.--THE YOUNG GIRL'S DIARY.