PROCRUSTES. "NOW THEN, YOU FELLOWS; I MEAN TO FIT YOU ALL TO MY LITTLE BED!"
CHORUS. "OH LOR-R!!"
["It is impossible to establish universal uniformity of hours without inflicting very serious injury to workers."—Motion at the recent Trades' Congress.]
Break, break, break,
O voice, on my old top C!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me!
O, well for the fishmonger's boy
That he shrieks his two notes above A.!
O, well for the tailor's son
That he soars in the old, old way!
And the twelve-year chaps go on
Up the gamut steady and shrill;
But, O, for the creak of a larynx cracked,
And a glottis that won't keep still!
Break, break, break,
O voice, on my dear top C.
But the swell solo parts of a boyhood fled
They'll never give more to me!
This is the nineteenth day that I have had my face glued to the window-pane watching for the promised "break" in the weather that is to enable me to get a little of the benefit of the sea-air of this place that my doctor assures me is "to do such wonders for me in a week that I shall not know myself." What it might do for me if I could only get hold of it, I can only guess, but the result of the persistent rain has been slowly but surely to empty the Grand Esplanade, the drawing and dining-room floors of which announce on colossal cards that the whole twenty-four establishments are "to let," with the result that all the recreation that Torsington-on-Sea affords has formed a sort of conspiracy to drive me mad with amusement.
The trombone of the town band steals a march on the rest, commencing as early as eight o'clock in the morning with a very powerful rendering of "Il Balen," who is succeeded in turn by the discarded Christy Minstrel with the damaged concertina. Then comes a Professor in black velvet spangled tights, who insists, spite my shaking my head at him dolefully through the drizzling mist, in going through a drawing-room entertainment for the amusement and edification of a Telegraph-office Boy, who has apparently only one message to deliver, and it is to be presumed finds time hang in consequence a little heavily upon his hands. Spite my menacing and almost fierce refusal to appear at my window, however, he has the hardihood to knock, and ask for a "trifle." This, if I could only ensure that he would devote it to the purchase of a place on the coach to Barminster, I would gladly give him; but knowing that it will only enable him to make an early breakfast of cold gin and bitters at the "Boar's Head and Anchor," I shake my fist at him, as much as to say, "I am feeble I admit, and do not, I dare say, look as if there were much fight in me! But, by Jove! there is such a thing as the law, even, I suppose, at Torsington-on-Sea! You had best not tempt me too far, my fine fellow."
His reply to this is characteristic; at least, I think so. For within twenty minutes the discarded Christy Minstrel, the Silvery-voiced Tenor, some performing dogs, the whole of the Town Band, the Man with the Bath-chair and general crowd of "loafers," assemble opposite my dining-room windows, braving south-west wind (half a gale of it), and a general downpour, leaden sky, and indications of "being in" for "another day of it."
I feel quite convinced that the Professor in velvet tights has rapidly whipped up the whole place with some such sentence as "No. 27 on the Grand Esplanade. Give the Old Bloke there a taste. He wants waking up a bit!"
I write to my Medical Adviser. One day is much like another here, I cannot say I go forward very fast. I admit the weather has been against me here; still, things might, I think, have been better.
Take this, for instance, as a typical day for an invalid. It is hardly the sort of place to "pick up" in; at least, so it strikes me.
9 A.M.—Am disturbed after a windy night, which has threatened, to blow the front of the house (one of the twenty-four commanding a fine sea-view "both ways") off, and in my first and only turn of refreshing sweet sleep, by the Silvery-voiced Tenor, who persists, spite entreaties, requests, and finally threats, to move a little further away, or curtail a singularly florid version of "Fra Poco" under eighteen-pence. On, at length, threatening to send for the police if he declines to desist, he meets the announcement with shouts of derisive laughter, a fact which, Mrs. COBBLES, my landlady, is kind enough to explain, indicates that "The Policeman," not retiring till half-past one that morning, he will not be available, even for a murder, before two o'clock in the afternoon. I compromise the matter, therefore, by sending out sixpence to the Silvery-voiced Tenor, begging Mrs. COBBLES to give as heartrending a description as possible of my exhausted condition, which has the effect of wringing from the MARIO of Torsington an expression of sympathy, and an intimation that he will finish "Fra Poco" round the corner.
But ill news travels apace, and within ten minutes the discarded Christy Minstrel with the concertina that is somewhat out of order, and the Town Band (reduced to three), as if by common consent, together with the man in black velvet spangled tights, a short walking-stick, wash-hand basin, and small square of carpet, draw up, as if by magic, before Mrs. COBBLES' lodgings, and with the un-earning increment of Torsington-on-Sea as audience, commence a simultaneous matinée for my special benefit at twenty-five minutes and a half to ten.
Mrs. COBBLES' assurance that the poor gentleman has "not closed his eyes all night" seems only to stimulate them to further effort. As I feel that even twenty minutes of this recreation will certainly drive me mad, I beg Mrs. COBBLES to send the boy who comes to clean the boots and knives to disturb the One Policeman in his first sweet slumber. If nothing else will stir him, he is to be. informed that No. 34 on the Esplanade is on fire, or if that fails, he may throw in 33 and 35 as well. In fact, he need not be particular as to facts, but return with the Policeman he must! There is a good-sized crowd assembled on the Esplanade, but as I am attired in a scarlet flannel dressing-gown, white nightcap, and am arguing the Act of Parliament with the deserted Christy Minstrel with some warmth, it may account for it.
[CHARLES JAMRACH, the celebrated naturalist and menagerie-keeper, of St. George's-in-the-East, died on September 6, at the age of 76.]
The news on the town like a thunderbolt burst,
The loss of the Season 'tis reckoned;
We mourned long ago for King JAMRACH THE FIRST,
Now we weep for King JAMRACH THE SECOND.
There's grief at the Zoo, all the Lions bohoo,
And the Elephants dolefully trumpet;
The Tiger's in tears, and the lonely Koodoo
With sorrow's as cold as a crumpet.
He was seventy-six; but to cross o'er the Styx
At that age—for a JAMRACH—was premature;
There are lots of young cubs who feel quite in a fix
At the thought that he will not see them mature.
They howl with wide gorges to think that St. George's
Will see him no more—ah! no, never!
He will not preside at their shin-of-beef orgies,
Or nurse them through phthisis or fever.
The travelling menagerie must wait an age 'ere he—
JAMRACH—will find any fellow.
BARNUM, 'tis well you are gone we can tell you!
Bison, old boy, do not bellow
There quite so tremendously! Sad? Oh, stupendously!
So is the Ornithorhynchus.
But don't howl the roof off, your anguish in proof of,
Or Regent's Park swells mad may think us.
Yes, Marsupial Mole, we are "left in the hole,"
But still we must think of our dignity.
Animal sorrow from bardlings must borrow
The true elegiac benignity.
That Japanese pug I could willingly hug,
He yaps out his grief so discreetly,
And dear Armadillo knows how to sing "Willow,"
Like poor Desdemona, most sweetly.
My dear Felis Leo, I do feel that we owe
A debt to the urban proprieties.
Don't shame yourself, Ursa, but quite vice versa,
You know how impressive caste's quiet is!
But, JAMRACH! O JAMRACH! Woe's stretched on no sham rack
Of metre that mourns you sincerely;
E'en that hard nut o' natur, the great Alligator,
Has eyes that look red, and blink queerly.
Mere "crocodile's tears," some may snigger; but jeers
Must disgust at a moment so doleful.
For JAMRACH the brave, who has gone to his grave,
All our sorrow's sincere as 'tis soulful!
Cynics, and ye critics cold,
When the wasps return with Spring,
Tell them that THERSITES old
Perished in his fault-hunting,
Perished on an Autumn night.
Now no more he 'll ban and blight
In the "weeklies," as of yore;
But the valley and the height
Miss a biter and a bore!
Arrived! These are the works that POPPERIE & Co. built. On a height, commanding fine panoramic view. Approach to the house and stores is through a fresh-looking garden, everything neat and trim. Quite a surprise to find oneself suddenly among hundreds of casks and cases. Distant sound of carts and horses, of pulleys and cranks, of bringing in and sending out; but this sound is only a gentle hum—a murmuring accompaniment as it were; for, considering the amount of work that involves a lot of noise throughout the day, except, perhaps, during the feeding hours, the note of this place is its air of quiet activity. There is, I remark, a curious flavour in the atmosphere, that causes me to smack my lips, quite involuntarily, as if tasting wine. Remember somebody telling me, that the mere wine-laden atmosphere of the London Docks is quite enough to make anyone feel the worse for liquor, even though you do not touch a single drop in the vaults. We have not yet reached the vaults, but somehow there's something peculiarly exhilarating in the knowledge that we are in the outer court of one of King Champagne's many palaces. Mem. Grand idea for a scene in a Drury Lane Pantomime. Visit to Palace of POPPIN THE FIRST, king of the Champagne country. Register copyright and suggest it to Sir DRURY O'LANUS.
DAUBINET has his hat in his hand and his overcoat over his arm. With his handkerchief he is mopping his fevered brow. "Piff!" he exclaims, "qu'il fait chaud! No? You don't find it? I do. Caramba! O Champagnski! da Karascho! O Maman! Come on! Here is our leader, le bon VESQUIER! Allons! Marchons! Long to reign over us!"—then as we move forward, DAUBINET again bursts into song, as usual more or less out of tune. This time he favours us with snatches of "God save the Queen!" and finally, as we enter a huge tunnel, and, as I judge from the steep incline, are commencing our descent into the cave, I hear his voice behind me singing "We're leaving thee in sorrow, ANNIE!"
Darker and darker as we descend through this tunnel. Orpheus going to find Eurydice. No Cerberus about, thank goodness. Wonder if any rats or blackbeetles? By the way, Cerberus would have been a nasty one for rats. Cerberus, with three to one on him ("Heads I win—tails you rats lose"), doing a match against time in killing rats, is a fine subject for a weird classical picture yet to be painted. What R.A. could grapple with so tremendous a composition? On returning to "carp the upper air," must mention the subject to Sir FREDERICK the Great. Cerberus would be a nasty one for rats to tackle. My ideas of anything alive underground are generally associated with suchlike warmint. At last—out of the tunnel! and now, I presume, in the caves. Here someone, gradually assuming a palpable form, emerges from somewhere out of a dark corner, and hands to each of us a long piece of wood about the length of a harlequin's bat (note, pantomime again), only that this is an inch or so thick and quite two inches wide at one end, where presently a candle is fixed by an attendant sprite,—the slave of the tallow candle,—and the wand, so to speak, tapers off towards the handle. À propos of "tapers off"—the question occurs to me, later on, as we pass through labyrinths of dark passages, where should I be in the case of "taper off"? Beautiful title for sensational story—"Lost in the Catacombs."
Our trusty guide, M. VESQUIER, is well ahead, and DAUBINET follows closely at my heels. Thus we proceed, and if this order is preserved throughout, I feel that the sensational romance above mentioned will not be written, at least not on this occasion. We are in stalactite caverns; I expect a subterranean lake,—of still champagne of course,—and a boat; strange silver foil and gold foil fish ought to be swimming about, and the name of the subterranean lake should be Loch Foil, Loch Gold or Silver Foil, according to the material. No, nothing of the sort. It is all quite dry; uncommonly dry; atmosphere dry; ground dry; and, gradually, throats dry. Probably, champagne also dry. But remembering what I have heard of someone else's experience of Dock-visiting, which I presume is similar to cave-visiting, I do not mention my sudden drought. I feel that, while down here, if I took one glass of champagne, my head first, and then my legs, might become unsteady, whereupon nothing would be more likely than for me to take the wrong turning and lose my companions; if I did, what are the chances against my ever finding them again? Or if my legs failed me and I disappeared between the casks, who would think of looking for me there? Then, years afterwards, in some specially and unaccountably good vintage year, when there would be a run upon these particular casks, my mouldering skeleton would be found, among the sawdust, between the barrels, and some purveyor of ballads would write a song whereof the burden would not be unlike that of the once popular "Mistletoe Bough." As I follow my leader through the vaults all this occurs to me, as does also the appropriately melancholy refrain of another old song or "catch," "Down among the dead men let him lie!"
We are under the central dome of this Stalactite Champagne Cathedral dedicated to the worship of Bacchus. [Happy Thought.—The Champagne country is the true "Poppy Land." I present this with my compliments to Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT, whose pleasant articles in the Daily Telegraph on "Poppy Land" are, and will be, for some time to come, so deservedly poppylar on the North coast of Norfolk. When driving round and about Cromer, our flyman pointed out "Poppy Land" to me. Happy Thought.—In future let this be known as "Caledonia Up to Date, or the New Scott-land."] A strange light descends from somewhere above, producing a blueish atmospheric effect. Weird, very. We are now in the Wine Demon's Cave. More pantomimic effects: big demons and little demons at work everywhere: champagne demons with strange faces,—I should say "fizzes,"—moving about noiselessly: the only sound is that of the occasional irrepressible effervescence of youth, or a pop from a recalcitrant cork in a distant cell, and, in a mysterious all-pervading way, an accompaniment of hammering. The lights and awful shadows of the scene recall to my mind CRUIKSHANK's grim illustrations to AINSWORTH's Tower of London. If these wild figures under this Central Stalactited Dome, these fearsome Troglodytes, were suddenly to join hands and dance round us, keeping a "Witches' Sabbath," I should not feel surprised. I might be considerably alarmed; but surprised, no. It would be in keeping with the scene. Only where's the music? Surely a Special Champagne Dance ought to be supplied by the orchestra of "The Monday Pops."
Here DAUBINET, being tired, sits. He has seen it all before. "He knows his way," explains M. VESQUIER, "and we shall meet him again above." This sounds funereal, but, as an expression of Christian sentiment, hopeful.
DAUBINET, mopping his forehead, mutters something, in Russian I believe, which sounds like "Preama! Pascarry! da padadidi," which he is perhaps rendering into English when he says, "Go straight on! Be quick! All r-r-r-right!"
Suddenly finding myself the only follower of our guide, I begin to realise to its full extent the loss of one who, up to now, has been my companion. I realise this one fact among others, but quite sufficient of itself, namely, that if I once lose sight of M. VESQUIER in this maze of caverns down in the depths below, I shall have the utmost difficulty in ever coming up to the surface again. Now we are walking on a line of rails. All at once I lose sight of M. VESQUIER. He must have turned off to the right or left—which?—and I shall see his light in the distance when I reach the opening into the right, or left, passage.... What's that? A shriek? a howl? a flash!—"Hé là bas!" and at a rapid pace out of the blackest darkness emerge two wine-demons on a trolly. I have just time to reduce myself to the smallest possible compass against the barrels, when the wine-demons brandishing a small torch-light have whizzed past,—"Ho! Ho!"—goblin laughter in the distance, as heard in Rip Van Winkle, and described in Gabriel Grub—"Ho! Ho!"—and before I have recovered myself, they have vanished into outer and blacker darkness, and all around me the gloom is gloomier than ever.
"Hé! Monsieur VESQUIER!" I shout. I have taken a wrong turning; that is, I have taken some turning or other to the right, and there is no sign of my guide. My fears have come true. My forebodings are realised. I stumble on—over the tram-way lines—against the casks—"Hé, là bas! Hé! M. VESQUIER!!"—O dear!—"Home Sweet Home!" What was that negro melody that now recurs to me as a sort of singing in my ears—"Home once more! Home once more! Shall I ever see my home once more!!"—A shout in the distance—or is it an echo—no! Is it VESQUIER! I shout in return—then in the far distance I descry a light ... it grows bigger ... a shriek ... a wild waving of a blazing garish torch, and again I have to compress myself against the barrels as another trolly whizzes past at full speed, carrying two cheerful-looking, and except for that one shout, silent demons. "Hey trolly lolly!" I cannot stay there—they have gone like a flash—and the obscurity is becoming oppressive.... Shall I retrace my steps? It isn't a question of "shall I,"—it is "can I"? Through how many turnings have we come? No—I should never find my way back again. Better push on. I shout again: desperately but nervously. There is not even an echo. And now my candle, which has been guttering and sputtering for the last few moments, is threatening dissolution. It is the beginning of the end—of the candle-end. If the candle goes out before I do—Heavens! but I must move very cautiously. What a subject for a Jules-Verne novel! Ah, how I should enjoy reading about it in a story!! But as a personal experience ... Where am I? Is it straight on? or to the left?—I think there is a left passage—or to the right? I peer down in the hopes of seeing some evidence of life, at all events the glimmer of a light, which may probably mean my guide. No; not a sign. Are there rats here? If so.... the candle-end is sputtering worse than ever ... it is flickering ... What's to be done?... I shout "Hullo!" at the top of my voice. Yes, at the top of my voice, but at the bottom of the caves. Then the question occurs to me, of what use is it to shout in English? No one will understand me. The candle-end is making a final struggle for life. So must I. "He', là bas!" I shout "with all my might and main," like the celebrity of the old nursery tale, who jumped into a quickset hedge as an infallible remedy for blindness. No result. I think of the man in the dungeon who was eaten by rats. Well-known case, but quite forget the gentleman's name. Political prisoner probably whose offence had been "ratting"—and so his punishment was made "to fit the crime," as Mr. GILBERT's Mikado used to observe. Why do such grimly comic reminiscences occur to me now, when I am in so really awful a situation? So, once more I shout with desperation in my lungs, "Hé! là—! bas!"
And—oh, the joy—oh, the rapture!—there comes back to me—"Hé, là bas! Blass the Prince of WAILES!"
It is DAUBINET. He advances from somewhere, from an opening, the existence of which I had never suspected.
"Here! This way! Par ici, mon ami; par ici!"
And in another minute I am with him—I am out—and so is the candle-end. Ah! I breathe again!
"The first time, I believe, that you have ever seen these caves," observes M. VESQUIER, quietly, "which, one way and another, represent several miles of walking." Then looking at his watch, he adds, "It is time for breakfast. You must be hungry."
I am. Hungry, but oh! so grateful! If it weren't so expensive, I should give a Champagne-window to the Reims Cathedral, in piam memoriam of my fortunate escape. A real pane (not coloured paper pretence) in a window would be an appropriate memorial. Or, at all events, I might give one small "light," which, as recalling that little guttering, sputtering, candle, would be still more appropriate.
The Baron's Assistant Reader reports again:—I have just read The Book-bills of Narcissus, An Account rendered by RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. (FRANZ MURRAY; Derby. Leicester and Nottingham.) It doesn't make any difference to me whether this dainty little book was actually published at Derby or at Leicester or even at Nottingham, noted of old for lambs. It makes right pleasant reading, and that is the chief point. The Narcissus, about whose life (except in the matter of book-bills, by the way) we here learn a good deal, must have been an agreeable companion—for those who allowed the lad to have his own way, and always kept a spare £10 note handy for the humouring of his little caprices. His wayward moods, his innocent love affairs, his wanderings, his reading, his culminating grand passion, Mr. LE GALLIENNE renders his account of them all, and does it in a fresh and breezy style which suits his pleasant subject admirably. There is a special charm too about the graceful lyrics which sparkle here and there in the pretty little volume. In fact Mr. LE GALLIENNE is an artist. I don't say a genuine artist, because he justly dislikes the qualification.
OSCAR WILDE has desisted for a space from mere paradox, and gives us (am I late in thus noticing it?) Lord Arthur Savile's Crime. and other Stories. (London, J.R. OSGOOD, MCILWAINE & Co.) Macte virtute, say I; the tag is old, but 'twill serve. If you want to laugh heartily, read Lord Arthur Savile's Crime, the story of a deeply conscientious man to whom murder very properly presents itself as a duty. Then, if you wish to laugh even more violently, read The Canterville Ghost, in which OSCAR goes two or three better than Mr. W.S. GILBERT. I am specially thankful to OSCAR. When he is on humour bent, he doesn't dig me in the ribs and ask me to notice what a wonderfully funny dog he is going to be. He lets his fun take care of itself, a permission which it uses with great discretion. Please, OSCAR, give us some more of the same sort, and pray introduce me once more later on to the Duchess of Cheshire. If she continues to be as delightful as she was in her sweet girlhood, I envy his Grace.
The Baron is taking it easy. He has still by his side as his constant travelling companion, GEORGE MEREDITH's One of Our Conquerors, which has travelled to Switzerland with him, and was only left behind at the inn when the Baron had to go by a new route up a lofty mountain. To make this path known the Baron's assent was necessary, and he gave it. He had time, however, to read one shilling thrilling story. The Shilling Thrilling is by two authors, WALTER POLLOCK and ALEXANDER GALT, and is called Between the Lines. A happy title, as it enables the Baron to recommend everyone to read between the lines. A clever sensation story for which the Baron, now far away in his sea-girt home, thanks the two clever boys who wrote it. No more at present from
Peak Castle, Eagle's Nest, N.E.W.
"Philosophy is essentially the Voice of the Silence."—A Disciple of the Mahatmas.
Voice of the Silence? Brotherhood prodigious,
A babble-ridden age might well rejoice
Could you but give instead of talk litigious,
The Silence of the Voice.
"REAL MEAN."—The English Churchman, who, on returning from abroad, puts all his surplusage of Swiss silver—ten and twenty centime-pieces—into the offertory bag or plate.
SHAKSPEARE (ADAPTED) AT THE TRADES UNION CONGRESS.—"We must Vote by the Card, or Equality will be our undoing."
NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.