No; that sickly-looking child that you notice entering the Board School is not, as you imagine, "pining for the fresh air of the country." He is recovering from an acute attack of scarlet fever, and is described by his fond parent as "peeling wonderful."
"Why does the medical man who attends the case,"—you ask—"not give instant notice to the Local Sanitary Authority, the Parish Doctor, the School Board Officials, and the nearest Fever Hospital?" Because self-preservation (or preserving a case for oneself) is the first law of nature, and also because in London neither the registration nor the isolation of infectious disease is considered at all essential.
Of course it is to be regretted that some of the fever patients who were taken the other day first to the West London Hospital in Hammersmith, then to the London Fever Hospital, and afterwards to Stockwell, and who finally—as those institutions were quite full—spent the night in a draughty corridor of the Homerton work-house, should have collapsed owing to exhaustion; but then what an admirable thing it is that there should be so many places for the reception—or rejection—of patients, and that they should be scattered all over the Metropolis!
It is really rather irritating that the laundress, whose services we have had to dispense with owing to five of her children being down with typhus, should call us "selfish" and "finicking," and threaten to summon us to the Police Court for interfering with her business.
Yes, a trip by steamer on the Thames can be confidently recommended to delicate persons in search of health. Wrap the whole face in cotton-wool, which has previously been soaked in some powerful disinfectant. Get the man at the wheel to sprinkle your clothing every ten minutes with the anti-cholera mixture. When passing "Barking Outfall," be particularly careful to go below, and keep your head completely buried in a basin containing a mixture of smelling salts in solution and Eau de Cologne. Beyond a sore throat for a week or two, you will probably—thanks to these precautions—experience no evil results.
My Dear Mr. Punch,
I think, however pleased you may look in your stall while listening to the charming music of Mr. Cellier in The Sultan of Mocha, you will agree with me that that gifted gentleman has been most unfortunate in the selection of his librettos. Dorothy was certainly feeble, but the revived opera at the Strand is feebler still. I admit that the work is well staged, equally as to scenery, dresses, and mise-en-scène, but the plot and the dialogue are unworthy of serious criticism. When the curtain rose upon a capital "set" of the Thames near Greenwich Hospital, when there were a lively chorus and a pretty dance, I imagined I was "in" for what other occupants of the stalls would have called "a real good thing." But the characters had only to talk to cause a sense of depression to envelope me, that nearly moved me to tears. Ponderous allusions to such recent "topics" as Lord Charles Beresford's signal from the Royal Yacht at the Naval Review, the Endacott matter and Turkish impecuniosity now and again attracted my attention, and I felt that I would give worlds to slumber as does the hero in the Third Act who appropriately sings himself to sleep. But Mr. Cellier's music made a success of Dorothy, and it is not impossible that "the movement may be continued" in the Sultan of Mocha. Of those who take part in the performance I may single out Mr. Charles Danby as fairly amusing. I do not remember to have seen him before, and it is to be trusted that the applause of a London audience will not cause him to favour a policy of exaggeration. So far he is good—not too good (as Mr. Brough was wont to amusingly observe), but just good enough. The voice of Miss Violet Cameron is as strong as ever, but at times I traced a tremolo that might wisely be abandoned. Mr. C. H. Kenney has good intentions, and no doubt some day will be seen and heard to greater advantage. I was not surprised to learn from the playbill that as the Sultan Mr. Ernest Birch was making "his first appearance." Of the remainder of the cast, Mr. Bracy sang well and acted fairly as "a heart of oak," and the sailors, villagers, and slaves were sufficiently comely to satisfy the requirements of a Strand audience met together to enjoy an opéra bouffe.
A new lever de rideau added to the programme of the Globe has called attention to the merry moments of The Doctor. From the first this piece went wonderfully well—now it goes better than ever. The house is nightly full of patients, who seem willingly to give themselves over to what I may call "the laughter cure and joke treatment."
Dandy Dick has moved from the Court to King William Street, Strand. Mr. Clayton, capital as the Dean, and Mrs. John Wood inimitable, exquisite, everything-superlative as the lady horse-owner. Mr. Bishop now plays Mr. Arthur Cecil's part in a manner that reduces our regret at the absence of his predecessor to a minimum.
A wonderful piece called Racing, by the "Great Macdermott," is being performed at Islington. It is composed of a mixture of Comedy and Tragedy. Both ingredients are equally funny.
Removing my gibus, and laying down my programmes and opera-glasses, I again sign myself One Who Has Gone to Pieces.
As arranged for the neighbourhood of the Round Pond under existing circumstances.
Can this be Kensington Gardens, or is it Tophet? This perfume is scarcely suggestive of flowers.
How nicely this little girl is burying the dead cat.
What a game at hide and seek those boys in white sailor suits are having in that reeking garbage.
It is strange, but the morning breeze is laden with Bacteria.
Why, that is the fifth dust-cart that has emptied its contents here this afternoon.
How merrily the dustmen are spreading the refuse over the surface of the grass.
The haggard Park-keeper seems to be growing paler and palerevery day.
I wonder why that entire family of children have broken out into green spots.
Who would have thought that the baby that had been brought
here for a little fresh air would have turned blue in the perambulator!
Who is really responsible for the conversion of an open pleasure-ground into a deadly centre for the dissemination of fever?
"The King of the Belgians is understood to be acting as his own Ambassador in the matter of the North Sea Fishery disputes. His visit to this country is stated to have for its object the prevention of future conflicts between British and Belgian fishermen in the North Sea."—Times.
Mr. Punch. Ah happy to see you, mon Chef! Here's a mess!
You'll soon put it all straight, Sir; you couldn't do less.
Your people you'll find are entirely to blame
For the kettle o'erboiling, the steam and the flame.
What is there in fish that in every quarter
So leads—in non-natural sense—to hot water?
And why should a Billingsgate dame, or a trawler,
Or Belgian or British, so oft be a brawler?
A Saint once held forth, Sir, the fishes to teach.
What a sermon to us, Sir, the fishes might preach!
The sea's lavish harvest was certainly sent
Man's palate to please, and his hunger content;
Not, not, my dear Chef, as mere strife-stirring spoil
His kitchen to slop, and his cooks to embroil.
Verb. sap.—you are sapient, I know, like your Sire—
And—you'll take this strange "kettle of fish" off the fire!
"Mighty Polite."—Last week Mr. Harrington, Barrister-at-Law (in Ireland), was called to account by Mr. Eaton, and threatened with removal from the Court over which that Magistrate presided, for conduct unworthy of a Counsel. Had "the learned gentleman" had the advantage of the influence of another Eton earlier in his career, his manners would doubtless have been less deficient in polish.
A Plank of the Wrong Platform.—The Plank-bed.
Thursday.—Homburg emptying and re-filling; but former process decidedly winning race. Change in class of company moreover striking. Natural order of things here reversed. The butterfly disappears and the grub succeeds. Now have come to us young men and maidens from the country. Elderly burgesses, wives and families from Frankfort, Coblentz and more distant Cologne. Prices specially designed for English falling away. Principal hotels humbly proffer pension at ten marks a day, and proprietors are accused of rapacity by their fellow-countrymen.
At table d'hôte last night at Hotel Russie, overheard one of those "things one would rather not have said," feigned by the fancy of English Artist of world-wide renown. Gentleman of distinguished appearance opens conversation with lady on his left:
He. "Homburg still seems very full."
She. "Yes, but they're a horrid lot now arriving compared with those who have just left; doncha think so?"
He. "Really, Madam, I cannot say, as I reached here only this afternoon." Pause in conversation.
Friday.—There are compensations for everything. Weather has not permanently recovered earthquake-breaking-up on day of our arrival. Still sun occasionally comes out, making it worth while to be on foot at seven o'clock in the night, when the sky is an unclouded arc of blue, and the sun sparkles on dewy grass. Pleasant then at noon, or afternoon, to stroll about under the lindens in the Park, still full of leaves, or to lounge in Tennis grounds watching the play. Oftener it is cold and rainy, and here's where philosophic mind finds its recompense. Homburg perhaps most open-windowed town north of Alps. On sunny days not a window in any house closed. Every home has its piano, more or less in tune. Every piano has its relays of players. Pianist at No. 14A, Untere Promenade, cannot help hearing pianiste next door, and plays loud to hold the field. Next door hears practitioner on other side, and plays louder still; so it goes on all up and down the street. Here and there the uproar is pierced by the shrill voice of a singer. It is the same in the next street, and in the street after, till all Homburg becomes a Pandemonium of piano-pounding. Now I sit in my room, with windows closed, listening with gratitude to the pelting rain and the soughing of the wind through the dripping trees. All other windows are necessarily closed, and above wind and rain is audible undertone of universal piano-playing, like the sound of a barrel-organ in far-off back-street. Perhaps not quite worth while coming all the way to Homburg for; but I like to make best of things.
Monday.—His Serene and Blind Highness still here, dutifully taking waters, and pluckily striding forth to complete regulation-turns. No one would guess at his affliction, except upon close observation. A photographic portrait of him on view in one of the Studios here, in which he looks forth open-eyed as keenest-sighted of his subjects; a kindly, genial, brave-hearted gentleman. All unconscious, he is made the occasion for a little satire on Royalty which would have delighted Thackeray. To him ladies, entering into passing conversation, curtsey; gentlemen doff their hats; and Jeames de la Pluche stands bare-headed as he hands him glass of water from spring. It is horrible to think that Jeames might, with impunity—there being no on-lookers—shake his fist playfully in his Royal Master's face. Hope he never takes base advantage of his opportunities. But there is a look in Jeames's eye, as he hands the glass of water, which melikes not.
Tuesday.—Between one and two in afternoon of revolving days, great centre of life in Homburg is Madame Brahe's little shop in Louisen-strasse; little only on first glance: contains unsuspected recesses in rear, whither surplus population flows. A model place for light luncheon such as Dr. Deetz ordains: also for English visitors convenient exchange and mart for latest gossip and display of newest dresses. Whilst season in full tide, Madame Brahe's painfully reminiscent of Bourse at Paris. Evil communications have wrought proverbial effect; Germans feared throughout Europe by reason of their conversational shouting; but English ladies, and some gentlemen, met for luncheon chez Madame Brahe, might give them odds and beat them. Three or four girls, decently spoken at home one hopes, seated at small table here, carry on conversation at top of voice; many small tables, and as many friendly parties; one group not to be shouted down by a neighbour. British ladies never acknowledge defeat; competition kept up all round, till, dazed and deafened, the stray traveller gulps down luncheon and rushes into street.
Wednesday.—Homburg really not Bad at all, but best part of it lies outside. To the north are delightful walks through illimitable beech woods and pathless pine forests. Messrs. Blanc, who created the place, knew very well ruling passion of gamester. The green tables, the sound of the roulette ball, the pattern on the cards, and the brilliantly-lighted Casino, only ostensibly attractions for him. What his heart desires is opportunity for communing with Nature. The solemn silence of the beech wood, the fragrance of the pines, the modest beauty of the wild flowers that gem the edges of the wood, are what he really hankers for. So Messrs. Blanc took surrounding country in hand; planted splendid pine woods with delightful footpaths, with benches wooing the pensive and wearied traveller.
Walked to-day by devious shady ways to Friedrichsdorf, a few miles out; a quaint old-world village of charmingly-tiled houses, straggling down a villanously paved street. Only one street in Friedrichsdorf, but more in it than meets the eye. Houses have way of playing hide-and-seek; you look up passage that seems entry to back of premises, when, lo! there lurks a complete house, with tiny casement-windows, and graciously-sloped red-tiled roof. Jessie Collings ought to know Friedrichsdorf, and Right Hon. Ritchie would find in it encouragement for Amended Allotments Bill. It is, like many other villages hereabout, home of colony of small land-proprietors. All the rich and smiling country that lies around is theirs. Passed them working in the fields, men and women, comfortably dressed, sturdy, and apparently happy as day is long. Every man has at least his three acres, many more; the cow is also there, but is chiefly in shaft of cart or plough. As we picked way down awesome street, Friedrichsdorf, save for few children and old men, seemed deserted village; all able-bodied inhabitants at work in field. By-and-by, when sun goes down, they come trooping home, tramping down stony street, a jocund throng.
Thursday.—Rain departed; for days in succession Homburg been at its best; almost seems like early spring, save that we still have roses; sun shining in cloudless sky, trees still rich in foliage; grass thick and green, with here and there abundant crocuses. Still emptying process going on with increasing rapidity. "Lawn tennis," writes anonymous author of Miss Bayle's Romance, "has become the outdoor dissipation at Homburg, and Dutch Top the indoor one." Only stray couples are left to frequent the courts on the tennis-ground, and the rattle of the Dutch Top is happily silenced. Still the band plays thrice a day. Springs go on like The Brook, and the few who are left begin to think that, after all, Homburg more enjoyable without the crowd than with it.
"A—a—Boy! Have you seen any Birds about here this Morning?"
"Ees, Zur! I seed a lot of 'em about 'arf an hour back, a sittin' on the Telegraph Woires!"
My Nautical Drama is not making much progress. Must go more amongst men and things. That is the only way to gain ideas. World full of dramatis personæ, who will provide their own dialogue, if you can only find them a good part. Interview old sailor; capital character—the very man to be "discovered drinking," (which must have frequently occurred to him) as curtain rises. Talk to him half-an-hour, but without hearing a single really telling line. Half-a-crown wasted! Pleasure-boat just "putting off,"—which is naturally a dilatory operation—Skipper says they are only waiting for me. I hesitate; does Art demand this sacrifice? Hitherto my voyages have been chiefly confined to journeyings in a penny steamer from Chelsea to Lambeth. But can I reasonably expect to become familiar with marine matters without some actual experience? If M. Zola could go and live for weeks down a coal-mine, surely I may trust myself in a pleasure-boat for one short half-hour? It is only sixpence.
I subdue my diffidence, and embark—that is, I fall over the stern, and stumble to the only vacant seat—a thwart in the middle. Should have preferred a place nearer the gunwale.... We are off; boat pretty full, twenty-four passengers, to crew of two boatmen and a cornet-player. People enjoying what they call "a blow on the jetty," wave handkerchiefs to us as we pass. Curious, this blind impulse to wave greetings to perfect strangers—does it spring from vague enthusiasm for humanity? Chatty old gentleman next to me will talk: he tells me confidentially that it is a singular thing, but it does so happen that he has never been on the sea without an accident of some sort occurring,—never! There is no superstitious nonsense about him, it seems, so he thought he would "chance it" once more. Very creditable—but more considerate if he would chance it in a canoe. The Cornet-player quite a cockney Arion (though nobody thinks, somehow, of pitching him overboard). He performs appropriate airs during trip. A Life on the Ocean Wave, as we start; Only a Pansy Blossom, (though I don't see the precise connection of this) as we tack; and the Harbour Lights, when we turn. Somehow, this rather vulgarises the Ocean—for me. Sea fortunately smooth: nobody at all unwell. I feel nothing—except perhaps a growing conviction that a very young infant opposite should not be permitted to eat a jam-puff in public. Boatmen use no nautical expressions. Passengers lively at first, though, by time we turn, the expression on our features, like that of young lady who wore the wreath of roses, seems "more thoughtful than before." We are close in now—the musician is sending round his hat. Resent this privately, it is not seamanlike! In beaching, yacht swings round with her broadside to breakers, causing sudden wave to drench the Jonah gentleman and myself before we can disembark. He seems rather gratified than otherwise by so apposite an illustration of his ill-luck. The brown-eyed girl on sands watches me alight—on all fours, dripping. Sea-trip a mistake, I feel damped rather than fired.
On the Beach again.—Cheap photographers, galvanic machines, chiropodist, tea-stalls, grim old ladies eating shrimps, as if they were cherries, out of paper bags. Open-air music-hall, where comic songs are shouted from platform by dreary men in flaxen wigs to harmonium—this always crowded. Enjoyment at Starmouth hearty perhaps—but hardly refined. Constantly haunted by song from open-air platform about "The Gurls," with refrain describing how "they squeeze, And they tease. And they soy, 'Oh, what joy!'" (or perhaps it should be—"sigh, 'Oh, what jy!'") Either way, it has hit the popular taste here. I may be prudish—but, even if a couple are engaged, it seems to me that a nicer sense of propriety would deter them from dozing in a sand-pit, coram publico, with their arms around one another's neck. Nobody thinks anything of this at Starmouth, however.
What a matter of circumstance are our prejudices! I should once have thought that nothing would induce me to drive about on a char-à-banc—like one of the band in a circus procession. Yet I have just returned from a drive in one—and enjoyed it!
She—my brown-eyed divinity of the Phrenology lecture—was on one of the seats, which redeemed a drive otherwise prosaic. We went to ruined castle; scenery unpicturesque (she showed, I thought, delicate perception of this by reading Family Herald all the way). Starmouth children ran by side of carriage, turning head-over-heels, and gasping comic songs for coppers. Had last glimpse of them standing gratefully in a row on their heads.
We did not alight to see castle, as coachman said there was nothing to see. On way home, conductor made collection on his own account. (The hat is not much worn at Starmouth.) Yet I was happy—I have made her acquaintance! Charming as she is beautiful—so simple and naïve in the few remarks she made. She is called Louise, and the person I took to be her maid is, it appears, her aunt—a most shrewd and sensible old lady, full of quiet good sense. We became friendly at once.
A Week later.—No time for notes lately—too absorbed in study of Louise's character—most complex and fascinating. Am I drifting into love? Why not—who could help it? The rank she occupies is not, perhaps, a lofty one; but at least there is nothing unfeminine in the duty of providing old ladies and children with light refreshment from behind the counter of an Oxford Street confectioner. And her tastes are refined; she is a gentlewoman by nature and instinct. The lady-phrenologist has delineated her (privately), and declared that Louise "could learn science easily, and play the piano, if she turns her attention that way." As a matter of fact, she has not, because neither science nor the piano is in demand at a confectioner's; but still she undoubtedly possesses a superior intellect; no ordinary girl would enter into the Nautical Drama, for instance, as she does.
We have been to see Caste at the theatre. Louise very grave and critical; she only laughed once, and that was when Eccles blew rather loudly down his pipe to clear it. So many girls have an inconvenient sense of humour—quite unsexing, I have always thought.
Her aunt is not precisely patrician in her manner, which would be totally out of place in a Fancy Wool Repository—but, after all, I shall not have to go through any experiences like poor D'Alroy's. And I am sure my uncle's heart will warm to Louise at once. Why hesitate, then? I will not.
I have taken the plunge—Louise has consented. She tells me that she was won by my appearance in the Professor's chair, and still more by the character he gave me. How our choicest blessings masquerade! Drama, for the moment, in the background—but only apparently so. Literature has no stimulus like love, and I am constantly talking the play over with Louise. She has made one suggestion that convinces me she has a keen sense of dramatic effect—a hornpipe in one of the Acts. I am to read her the first Scene, as soon as it is put into shape.
Her brother "Alf" is expected down to-night. Louise is certain we shall "take to one another," he has "such spirits," and is "quite a cure." Always thought a "cure" was a kind of jumping clown—but Alf is a clerk in a leading establishment, somewhere in Marylebone—a steady, industrious young fellow, no doubt. However, I shall meet him to-morrow.
I have met Alf. Although I love Louise with the first real passion of a lifetime, I cannot disguise from myself that her brother is an unmitigated Blazer. I would almost rather that he did not take to me—but he does. In half an hour he is addressing me as "Old gooseberry-pudden." If he is going to do this often, I shall have to hint that I do not like it.
I have been strolling with him on the sands, where he has already found several of his acquaintance. He will introduce me to all of them. Hearty, high-spirited fellows, full of rough but genuine British humour. From the manner in which they all inquire "How my bumps are getting on," I infer they were amongst Professor Skittles' audience the other day. But they mean to be friendly enough—I must not let them see how they annoy me.... It is absurd to be stiff at Starmouth.
The tympanum! The tympanum!
Oh! who will save the aural drum
By softening to some gentler squeak
The whistle's shrill staccato shriek?
Oh! Engine-driver, did you know
How your blast smites one like a blow,
An inward shock, a racking strain,
A knife-like thrust of poignant pain,
Whilst groping through the tunnel murk
You would not with that fiendish jerk
Let out that sudden blast of steam
Whose screaming almost makes us scream.
Thy whistle weird perchance may be
A sad and sore necessity,
But cannot Law and sense combine
To—well, in short, to draw the line?—
Across the open let it shrill
From moor to moor, from hill to hill,
But in the tunnel's crypt-like gloom,
The Station's cramped reverberant room,
A gentler, graduated blast!
Do let it loose, whilst dashing past,
So shall it spare us many a pang;
That dread explosive bursting "bang"
Which nearly splits the aural drum,
The poor long-suffering tympanum!
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.
On page 149, a period was added after "by a long way".
On page 149, a period was added after "he feels, afford them".