CHAPTER II.

When MARGERINE entered there was the usual family aloofness in her face, but also a new element of alleviation. Always plastic as the compound from which she derived her name she had now reached five feet seven and a half inches, and from the crest of her unutterably pullulating womanhood could afford to look down impersonally on her maiden aunts as they struggled in the trough like square pegs in a round hole.

The spectacle of burning leather was in her nostrils, and the vile smell of it gave her an insight into the situation. Plunging her Aunt's best silver-plated sugar-tongs into the flames, she rescued her shrivelled treasure, waved it above the coming tempest like a brand, and faced them, rigid with wrath, half-seas-over with the glamour of things.

An odd, earnest, ineffable look jumped into her eyes, changing their grey to pitch-black, with patches of ethereal blue, where the soul shone through. To their dying day the twins never forgot the smell, or ceased from the pain of their incapacity to grasp the fresh, unmellowed point of view. Points of view are the very dickens.

At last she got less rigid, and became nasty in soft, sweet, labial gutturals, like the whoop of a bull-frog on the sleepy pool just above the dam.

"Is this well-born and well-bred in you, I ask?" There was a defiant abasement in her tone. "Of course you can't help it. You never loved! Pooh!"

The two elder Miss DEMNINGS crushed the fledgling secret of the late curate into its nest, and vituperated till they fell short of matter, being but poorly winded. "Unregenerate--abandoned--viper--alleviator! Pass from our twin presence!"

MARGERINE moved toward the door; then, by a quaint habit that was a third nature to her (she had two others), she stood there absently, ajar and aloof. Her air of distinction came right out through her wretched frock. Then she went to the drawing-room, singeing her Pagan cheek with the smouldering volume, her young, expansive brain hot with the thought that there were no other copies in the village. "Unless he sends for another from town I shall never be able to keep up my unreasoning, palpitating ecstasy. I must have some ventilation for my inevitableness, or burst."

She rang for fresh tea. The crumpets were crystal-cold. She tasted one, and had a qualm, as if her sympathies were getting enlarged. For a moment she wondered what a headache such as she had read about in books could be like. The next, she was down by the trout-stream, familiar in all she-notes, and lay there gurgling with gutturals.

The peculiarity of CHAMOIS HYDE was that he could not bear making other people--college dons, for instance--ridiculous. About himself it did not so much matter. Oxford had succeeded Eton, and hard on the heels of a good degree had come a cropper in the hunting-field, a nurse, a complicated kiss, a proposal, marriage, disillusionment, in the order named. A poorer, singler man, with the same prancing tip-toe spirit, would have lost all sense of decency, and written a book. But being rich, and, by profession, married, he also was on his way to the usual trout-stream. Which was a thousand pities, and comes into the next chapter.

* * * * *

* * * * *

PROVERB FOR CHAPERONS.

Flirts of a feather spoon together; Amorous pairs flock on the stairs.

* * * * *

JAP AND CHIN.--"What a curious metamorphosis!" writes to us our esteemed contributor-at-a-distance, HERR VON SAGEFRIED. "Herr John Chinaman is suing for peace! so that the Chinese party becomes the real _Chap-on-knees_!"

* * * * *

COMMENT BY A LABOUCHERIAN.--Resolutions cannot be made with ROSEBERY.

* * * * *

THE NEW MAN.--Woman.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

II.--THE PUBLIC MEETING.

I promised last week that the third chapter should be devoted to my meeting, and a WINKINS'S word is as good as his bond, in point of fact, if anything a trifle better. But I think I ought first to mention that since the account of my interview with Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT and Mrs. ARBLE MARCH appeared in print, I have been subjected to the annoyance of receiving an anonymous letter. I should be the last to suggest that either of these ladies, for whom my admiration is equalled only by my respectful awe, had anything to do with this missive, but here is what it contained. "It is easy to jeer at Woman, but be warned in time. Her day will come. Already, married or single, she may vote, already County Councils tremble at her word. Treat Woman with respect, _or it will be the worse for you_." These last words were written in red ink. I confess I'm not easily frightened, but I don't like this kind of thing. And all my wife says is that it serves me right for getting mixed up in these public affairs at my time of life, and that I ought to know better.

"You're not fitted for it, TIMOTHY," she says, "and you'll only be made a fool for your pains." I am very fond of my wife, but I wished she wasn't a prophetess.

It is time to come to the meeting. It was held in the Voluntary Schoolroom, granted to me by the Vicar, on the express condition that I should be strictly non-political. The room was crammed with persons, men and women, married and single. The Vicar brought his daughters, two charming girls. BLACK BOB and his mates were there, in solid rows, whilst Mrs. HAVITT and Mrs. MARCH both turned up, attended by body-guards--the one of Women Liberals, the other of Primrose Leaguers. When the Chairman rose at half-past seven it is no exaggeration to say that the scene was striking and impressive. Then, two minutes later, I rose, and commenced my _magnum opus_ of oratory. I had fifty-two pages of notes, I drank six glasses of water, and twenty-three people left before I had done, which was not until an hour and five minutes had elapsed. I don't for a moment complain that twenty-three left; my complaint is that the number was so few. My peroration, to which I had devoted days of care, somehow hardly had the effect I had hoped for.

"This is indeed a memorable year," I said; "a year of truly rural significance. It remains with you to show that you are prepared to rise to the height of the occasion. If you do this, if you grasp firmly the benefits which this Act offers you, then when next New Year's Day the gladsome bells ring out once again to tell a listening world that one year is dead and that another lives, they will sound all the clearer, all the more joyous, because they ring in a year in which Mudford will have a Parish Council."

Then I sat down, amidst subdued applause, which, I admit, disappointed me. The Vicar's daughters never even took the trouble to applaud at all, and both seemed to have something to confide to their handkerchiefs. Black BOB whispered to his neighbour, "Laying it on thick to-night, isn't he?" I wonder what he meant.

After this commenced a torrent of questions, forty-six in all before they were done. May I never live to have such another experience! All the points I had evaded, because I had not understood them, came up with hardly a single exception. One man asked, "Can the Parish Council remove the parson?"--a most embarrassing question, which evoked roars of laughter from the audience, and a look of indignation from the Vicar. And the awful conundrums!--most of which I had to content myself with giving up. Here is one. "Supposing only eight people come to the Parish Meeting, and a Parish Council of seven has to be elected, and suppose seven of the eight are nominated for election, and the seven are elected chairmen of the Meeting in succession, and have all to retire because they are candidates for the Council, and suppose the eighth man cannot read or write, and when he's proposed as chairman, goes home, how will the Parish Council be elected?" I simply said I would consult my lawyer, and, if necessary, take counsel's opinion.

Of course there was a vote of thanks, and of course it was carried. When I got home, my wife, who had declined to go, asked me how it had all gone off. "My dear MARIA," was all I said; "you are quite right. A man at my time of life ought never to start taking part in public affairs."

* * * * *

THE DOOM OF THE MINOR POETS.

When Minor Poets grew so rife, They found a Minor Poet's life Was very little fun The Spirit of the Age they prayed They might be melted down, and made Into a Major one.

Each had a very little spark Of genius, that in the dark Might clearly be discerned. But in a universal glare! Who could perceive a rushlight, where By myriads they burned?

The Spirit heard the prayer they urged, That all their merits might be merged In one enduring Fame: "Yet, ere you all are whelmed and gone, You," she declared, "must fix upon The Major Poet's name."

Up rose a mighty clamour then, For SMITH proposed the cognomen Of SMITH, in ardent tones. "More suitable for high renown," Cried BROWN, "appears the name of BROWN." JONES advocated JONES.

Expecting yet some verdict clear, The Spirit waited half a year, Then spread her wings and fled, But ere she fled, pronounced this curse: "You all shall read each other's verse Till all of you are dead!"

Some, overburdened by the doom, Sank speedily into the tomb. In padded cells and lone There wander others, who abuse All day the volumes they peruse, But never ope their own!

* * * * *

* * * * *

CROSSED!

(_To a Girl at a Distance._)

Why must you go four thousand miles away? It throws our correspondence out of gear! I cannot cable to you ev'ry day-- It's much too public, and it's rather dear!

You write for sympathy--I sympathise; You get my answer ten days after date, And then, with spirits sky-high, you despise My poor attempts your sorrow to abate!

Meanwhile, to my hilarious last-but-one Here comes your late but similar reply; But now _my_ turn at dumps has just begun-- I can't enjoy your triumphs while I sigh!

And so our moods go see-saw, up and down, Our letters cross, perversely cold or fond! There's only one redress--come back to town, And then we'll _meet_, and cease to correspond!

* * * * *

THE MUSIC WITH A FUTURE.

(_An Imaginary Sketch of How Things can not Possibly be Done._)

SCENE--_The Composing Room of an_ Illustrious Musician. _The_ Illustrious Musician _discovered deep in thought in front of a Piano._

_Illustrious Musician_ (_picking out the notes with one finger_). "Dumty dumty, dumty dum dum." No, that isn't it! I am sure I had it just now. (_Tries again._) "Dumty dumty, dumty dum dum." No, that's not it either! I must try it again--oh, of course, with Herr VON BANGEMNÖT. Now to summon him. (_Blows trumpet_). That ought to bring my _aide-de-camp_.

[_Flourish of trumpets, drums; doors thrown open, and enter a Regiment of Infantry, with its full complement of officers._

_Colonel_ (_saluting_). Your Majesty required assistance?

_I. M._ (_considering_). Yes, I knew I wanted something. Oh, to be sure. Will you please send Herr VON BANGEMNÖT to me at once.

_Colonel_ (_saluting_). Yes, your Majesty. (_To troops._) Right about turn.

[_Flourish of trumpets, drums. The Regiment retires. Enter_ Herr VON BANGEMNÖT.

_Herr Von Bangemnöt_ (_making obeisance_). Your Majesty required my assistance?

_I. M._ Well, scarcely that, old Double Bass. The fact is, I've just composed a very pleasing trifle, but I can't write it down for the life of me. Would you like to hear it?

_H. V. B._ Certainly, your Majesty. I shall be overjoyed.

_I. M._ Well, it goes like this--"Dumty dumty, dumty dum dum." See. "Dumty dumty, dumty dum dum." Now, _you_ repeat it.

_H. V. B._ (_who has been listening intently_). "Dumty dumty--dum dum."

_I. M._ (_interrupting_). No, no; you've got it all wrong. See here, "Dumty dumty, dumty dum dum."

_H. V. B._ (_in an ecstacy_). "Dumpty dumpty, dumpty dum dum." Perfectly charming! It is really excellent!

_I. M._ (_pleased, but suspicious_). You really think it good?

_H. V. B._ Good! that isn't the word for it. Excellent! first rate! capital!

_I. M._ I am so glad you like it. I daresay you could write it out for me?

_H. V. B._ Oh, certainly. Beautiful! Only wants a little amplification to take the musical world by storm.

_I. M._ (_much pleased_). You really are exceedingly complimentary. You are indeed. I suppose it could be scored for an orchestra?

_H. V. B._ I should think so. I will turn it into a march for the Cavalry.

_I. M._ And for the Infantry, too? You see, there might be jealousy if you didn't.

_H. V. B._ Quite so. And there should be marches for the Artillery and Engineers. Then of course we should have a version to be played by the Navy, first in fine weather and then in a storm.

_I. M._ I think we ought to do as much. And of course the children should have a version suitable for their shrill voices. And it could be used as an opera, and played on the organ. All this, of course, you could manage?

_H. V. B._ Certainly, you may be sure it shall become universally popular. I will score it for every conceivable instrument, and every possible audience. It shall be played or sung in hospitals, railway stations, schools, and in fact everywhere!

_I. M._ It shall! But there must be one version teaching a man how to play the tune with a solitary finger.

_H. V. B._ May I venture to ask by whom that last version will be used?

_I. M._ Why, old Double Bass, can't you guess? Why, man alive, I shall play from it myself!

[_Tableau and Curtain._

* * * * *

NOVELTIES IN GASTRONOMY.

Talk about the Chinese eating dogs and cats, and the partiality of the South Sea Islanders for Missionary, what price this, from the _Daily Telegraph?_--

ROAST COOK (single) WANTED, for large hotel. State age, and last reference.

The cannibal advertiser evidently is a _gourmet_, for he is particular as to age, and never eats them married. Or is it that he likes them single in preference to double, as, _per contra_, one might prefer double stout to single stout. After this, we shall expect such delicacies as Boiled Butler, Sauce Maître d'Hotel, Fried Footman, garnished with Calves-foot jelly, or Pickled Pageboy with Button mushrooms. Every fashion must have some inaugurator; and who knows but that we are on the eve of cannibalism, and that the Advertiser and the _Daily Telegraph_ are its joint pioneers!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Writes a Baronitess, "How quaint and simple appear the affectations of Miss JANE AUSTEN'S heroines in _Pride and Prejudice_, especially now that one's mind is confused with the vagaries of the newspaper-created but impossible 'New Woman.'" Rather different days then, when girls addressed their mothers as "Ma'am," and were afraid of getting their feet wet, which was unromantic, and bread-and-butter romance was the fashion of those times. No matter, these romantic young women knew how to dress, according to the exquisite illustrations of HUGH THOMSON. What could be expected but sentiment, when the young men also appeared so picturesquely attired. This new edition of an old work is charmingly got up and published by GEORGE ALLAN. Turning from these very early nineteenth century attractions, I find _A Battle and a Boy_ staring at me from a brilliant red binding. The colour suggests a gory fight, but there is nothing martial about it, only a Tyrolean peasant-boy in a pugilistic attitude with another boy. He is having it out before starting on his battle of life, which, taking place in the gay Tyrol, where things happen out-of-the-way, BLANCHE WILLIS HOWARD has made it more interesting than an every-day fight.

Most young women nowadays like to be here, there, and everywhere, and so you will find them in the _Fifty-two Stories of Girl-life_, by some of our best women writers, and edited by ALFRED H. MILES. Messrs. HUTCHINSON who, publish this work, might head their advertisement with "Go for Miles--and you won't find anything better than this." Other jokes on "miles" they may discover or invent for themselves. These are mostly for our big girls, but the little ones will find a gorgeously gay _Rosebud Annual_ for 1895, quite a prize-flower, exhibited by JAMES CLARK & CO.; whilst _Rosy Mite; or, the Witch's Spell_, by VERA PETROWNA JELIBROVSKY,--this is a nice easy name to ask for!--is a most thrilling nursery tale of how a little girl, who ought to be an arithmetician after being reduced to the size of her little finger, is able to subtract much adventurous interest from among the insects and the insect-world, and is full of undivided wonders. The illustrations, by T. PYM, show how charmingly unconventional life can be in such circumstances.

So charming, after long years of parting, to come again on _Mr. Micawber_! Of all things, he has been writing an account of _The Life and Adventures of Thomas Edison_ (CHATTO AND WINDUS). The book purports to be the joint work of W. K. L. DICKSON and ANTONIA DICKSON. But that is only his modesty. The literary style is unmistakable. "Released from the swaddling clothes of error and superstition," no one but _Mr. M._ could have written, "the inherent virility of man has reasserted itself, and to the untrammelled vision and ripened energies of the scientist the arcana of nature have been gradually disclosed." "EDISON'S literary proclivities," he adds, in a sentence that recalls struggles in the house in Windsor Terrace, City Road, where _David Copperfield_ was a lodger, "were seriously hampered by the collapse of the family fortunes, and the early necessity of gaining his own living. Despite his paucity of years, and the practical claims which life had already imposed, EDISON devoted every spare moment to the improvement of his mind, and profited to the utmost by the wise and gentle tuition of his mother." My Baronite can almost hear _Mr. Micawber's_ voice choked by a sob as he declaimed this last sentence. Fortunately (or unfortunately) _Mr. Micawber_ does not last long. After the first chapter his hand is rarely seen, he probably, the God of Day gone down upon him, having been carried to the King's Bench prison. For the rest, the book is an admirable account of one of the most marvellous lives the world has known. Much of it is told in EDISON'S own words, conveying simple records of magic achievements. The book, luxuriously printed on thick glazed paper, is adorned by innumerable sketches and portraits, illustrating the life and work of the Wizard of the Nineteenth Century.

B. DE B.-W.

* * * * *

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Florence is undoubtedly one of the best places in the world for studying pictures. Resolve to visit the Pitti Palace. Now I shall see something like a palace--the home of the MEDICI, adorned with all the beauty of architecture and sculpture which they loved so well! No monotonous, painted barrack like Buckingham Palace, no shabby brick house like St. James's. And now I shall see a collection of pictures worthily housed in a magnificent building! No contemptible piece of architecture like our National Gallery, where you fall over the staircase directly you go in at the door, and where, when you have recovered yourself, you find three staircases, facing you like the heads of Cerberus at another entrance, and always go up the wrong one, and have to come down again and clamber up another before you find what you want. Even then, if you seek the watercolours of the greatest English landscape painter, you must go down yet another staircase into the cellar.

Ascertain the position of the Pitti Palace, and stroll gently towards it. There is plenty of time, for the daylight will last another three hours. Cross the Ponte Vecchio, and reach a large open space opposite a magnificent jail. Yes! Even the jails here are magnificent! Continue strolling on until I arrive at the open country. Ask the way to the Palace, and am told that it is about two kilomètres back along the way I have come. Curious that I should not have noticed it. Return, looking carefully right and left, but do not see it anywhere, and again arrive opposite the jail. Ask a man I meet how that prison calls itself. He informs me courteously that it is the Palazzo Pitti. That! That dismal, monotonous, gloomy, brown structure? Why, Buckingham Palace is a joy for ever compared to it, and even Wormwood Scrubbs Prison reveals unsuspected charms! Would like to sit down to recover from the shock, but as one is more likely to find a public seat in a London square than in an Italian piazza, this is impossible. Therefore, totter to the great central entrance. Perhaps the grand staircase leading to the galleries may be as attractive as the exterior is forbidding.

Discover that the entrance to the galleries is by a small side door, where I leave my walking-stick, and climb a narrow, steep staircase. Then climb a narrower and steeper staircase, and finally reach a staircase so steep and narrow that it might more accurately be called a ladder. Begin to think I have mistaken the way. Perhaps I shall find myself in the attics of the Palace, and be arrested as an anarchist. Have left my stick below, and have not even a passport with which to protect myself. Step cautiously up the first rounds of the ladder, when suddenly a large body completely fills the space above, and comes slowly down. It is impossible to go on; it is impossible to remain where I am. Must therefore go down to the least narrow staircase, and wait till the obstruction has passed. Do so. Awful pause....

[What the obstruction was, "A FIRST IMPRESSIONIST" will tell us in our next.--ED.]

[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]