THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Quite at Home.
 
 COLLECTED UNIFORM 
 ILLUSTRATED EDITION 
 
 OF 
 
 F. C. BURNAND'S 
 WRITINGS. 
 
 ^rom "iunclj."
 
 Qinxe 
 
 kl itOMg <*~ 
 
 By F. C. BURNAND 
 
 AUTHOR OF "HAPPY THOUGHTS," " VEKY MUCH ABKOAD,' 
 " KATHEK AT SEA." 
 
 WITH 
 
 3fIlusiratiotts from " "Bunch " 
 
 LONDON 
 BRADBURY, AGNEW, & Co. Ld., BOUVERIE STREET 
 
 1890
 
 LONDON : 
 BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LIMD., PRINTERS, WHITKl'RI AR*.
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE . 1 
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE : 
 
 I. MIDLAND COUNTIES 79 
 
 II. SCOTLAND 187 
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN . . 245 
 
 * tr*«~*<r\'~«r~- a
 
 QUITE AT .HOJVIE, 
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 GOING A FISHING — OLD-FASHIONED COUNTRY HOUSE BOODELS OF 
 
 BOODELS THE BUTLER AND THE EEL — THE FISH-POND. 
 
 fl' 
 
 AVE N'T seen 
 
 you for an age ! 
 
 Name your day, 
 
 and come down. Place 
 
 looking lovely." 
 
 This was from Boo- 
 dels of Boodels. He 
 is quite right. I have 
 not see him for an age ; 
 or, at all events, for a 
 considerable time. It 
 is, in fact, some years 
 since I was invited to 
 his place, to assist in 
 dragging the pond. 
 That ceremony was 
 deferred sine die, and 
 we did not drag that 
 pond, brave boys, and 
 " we did not catch that 
 Whale " — or, rather, 
 that Eel. There has 
 been a big Eel — a tremendously big Eel — in Boodels' pond.
 
 2 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 It's a traditional Eel — : it is to Boodels' pond what the Sea 
 Serpent is to the ocean. 
 
 The Eel in Boodels' pond has been seen more than once : 
 in fact, it must have been seen to have been appreciated ; but 
 it is difficult to arrive at the fortunate person who has seen 
 hirn. The Head Gardener hasn't, but he knows he's there." 
 But why should a Head Gardener see an eel more than any- 
 body else? He has nothing to do, professionally, with the fish- 
 pond. Boodels' Head Gardener wears moustachios, and has a 
 military air. He evidently delights in planting all his vegetables 
 and fruit in lines. He passes along the lines, reviewing, as it 
 were, his troops. When the right moment arrives, he will say, 
 " Up, Strawberries, and at 'em ! " The Under Gardener, who is, 
 somehow, officially connected with the ducks, is reported to have 
 seen the Eel. 
 
 This individual, however, is of a taciturn disposition, and 
 if he has seen the Eel, he won't tell. When asked about the 
 Eel, he smiles, wags his head (a sign of pleasure with him 
 when addressed, and is, probably, a habit acquired from having a 
 good deal to do with the animals on the establishment), and 
 mutters something about there being a big " Eel " somewhere (he 
 is unintelligible beyond this), and walks on. My private im- 
 pression, after awhile, founded upon observation, is that if this 
 Under Gardener has seen the Eel, he has eaten him. Hence his 
 silence, and hence the smile. Hence, also, the mysterious legends 
 still current at Boodels', and in the neighbourhood, about the 
 marvellous Eel. The Butler, in idle moments (of which, I fancy, 
 he has several at command), has set lines for this Eel. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — The Butler and the Eel, a fine subject for a 
 poem.] 
 
 No result. The Eel, if there, stayed where he was, and the 
 Butler retired. 
 
 Everybody having nothing better to do at Boodels', wanders 
 down to the pond, hears from some one (generally from Boodels 
 himself), who finds this subject likely to interest his visitors — 
 visitors being always interested where there is a probability of 
 their getting something by it, and that something, eatable) — about
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 3 
 
 the Eel, and immediately says, meditatively, as if it were quite a 
 new and original idea, " I should like to catch that Eel." 
 
 " Why," the visitor diffidently adds, turning to his host, " why 
 don"t you set lines ? " 
 
 Boodels smiles at this. It is what every visitor has said to him 
 from the first day he took the house with the fish-pond. He only 
 replies, in a guarded manner, that, from what he has heard (as the 
 Police say, "from information received,") he believes that anyone 
 fond of the sport can have capital fishing in the pond. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — To say to Boodels ; " There may he ' capital 
 fishing,' but is there ' capital catching ? ' " 
 
 ' That depends on the fisherman," replies Boodels, drily. 
 / don't think so. It seems to me to depend upon the fish.] 
 
 There was a Poet stopping at Boodels' who made this suggestion 
 about setting lines. I seconded the motion, for several reasons. 
 First — Because it was something to do. Secondly— Because I had 
 often heard of "lines," and wanted to find out what they were. 
 Thirdly — Because I wished to find out if the Poet, who tried to 
 appear so sporting, knew any more about it than I did. Judging 
 from his blank look, when Boodels, pointing to something on the 
 ground that appeared to me like a very large and very dirty- white 
 tee-totum wound round with thick cord, said, " Here's the 
 Trimmer and the lines," I am convinced that the Poet had not 
 the smallest idea what he had been talking about. 
 
 The Poet said " Oh ! " and looked at the Trimmer, then at me. ' 
 I had only found out a few minutes before that he was a Poet. 
 I should have thought from his general appearance that he was 
 clerk in something — not "in orders" but something official. The 
 only outward sign of genius about him is his nose. He has a low 
 forehead (I don't believe in foreheads), and a very large nose. 
 What he loses in forehead he makes up in nose. Most poets are 
 strong in the nose. Boodels, who is always enthusiastic about his 
 friends, specially if only recently made, tells me that Hamlin 
 Miunley is a very clever man, simply " the cleverest man," he 
 (Boodels) " had ever met." This sounds as if Boodels' circle of 
 acquaintances were limited. A consoling thought is "present 
 company always excepted." "He has," adds Boodels vaguely, 
 
 B L"
 
 4 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " something coming out very soon ; and he's had some wonderful 
 reviews in the papers." 
 
 " What papers'? " I ask, as I don't remember to have seen the 
 name of Hamlin Mumley anywhere. 
 
 " Oh," replies Boodels, evidently not expecting to be cross- 
 examined on the subject, " I don't know. You can read 'em for 
 yourself." And so the subject drops. 
 
 I eye Mumley distrustfully. At present "the cleverest man 
 that Boodels ever knew " is throwing bits of stick into the pond, 
 and frightening the ducks. Our attention is now centered on the 
 Trimmer. It looks to me such an awkward antiquated piece of 
 machinery that I cannot understand any eel, associated as he is 
 with slipperiness, wriggling, and low cunning generally, could be 
 caught by such a very apparent trap as this Trimmer. It occurs 
 to me that, as a boy, I used to learn " easy lessons " out of a 
 Trimmer. These were, if I remember rightly, Trimmer's Guide to 
 the Alphabet" — (By the way, I wonder at what distance from the 
 Alphabet one would require a Guide?) — and so, perhaps, a 
 Trimmer, piscatorially, is a sort of Little Angler's First Step to 
 Fishing. The second title might be Line up>on Line. 
 
 There is another friend (new to me) of Boodels staying here — 
 a fresh-coloured, round-faced, light-moustached, small stout man, 
 always ready to smile. His expression seems to be saying beseech- 
 ingly, " Do, please, make me smile ! I'm only waiting to be asked 
 to smile ! " I set him down at once as a Gentleman Farmer. I 
 propose talking to him about crops. I will lay myself out to get 
 some information about corn, hay, pigs, poultry, and turnips. I 
 begin by a few remarks on the weather being bad for the 
 country. He smiles, and fancies that it is worse in some parts 
 than others. 
 
 " It's bad for crops," I suggest, throwing much sympathy with 
 his supposed losses into my tone. 
 
 "Is it 1 ?" he replies; then adds, inquiringly, " Do you know this 
 part of the country well 1 " 
 
 " No," I say ; but I thought he did. No, he doesn't : in fact, 
 it's his first visit. The conversation flags. Getting Boodels alone, 
 I ask him, 
 
 "Who's that?"
 
 IN J COUNTRY HOUSE. 5 
 
 " Oh ! " replies Boodels, " I thought you knew. " That's Pogmore 
 the Composer." 
 
 " What does he compose ? " I ask. 
 
 "Why music, of course," retorts Boodels, rather testily. He 
 never likes to be pressed too closely as to his friends' accomplish- 
 ments. He accepts a clever friend as a genius, en gros, and 
 disdains details as a disloyalty. 
 
 " He's one of the cleverest men I ever met," says Boodels, still 
 speaking of the Composer. " He's got something coming out." 
 He says this as if Pogmore was going to exemplify, personally, a 
 Darwinian Theory. He explains, however, " an Oratorio, I think 
 — Sims Beeves, Santley ; in fact," adds Boodels, rather vaguely, 
 and being a little tired of the subject, " everybody's going to sing 
 in it." 
 
 It occurs to me that the Oratorio must be a work of gigantic 
 proportions. We all walk down the garden to the fish-pond. As 
 a matter of fact, the walks in Boodels' garden are limited. You 
 either go to the fish-pond or you don't. The walks are : — Towards 
 the fish-pond, which means loitering in a beautiful flower-garden ; 
 to the fish-pond, round the fish-pond, which includes chance inter- 
 views with curious-looking creatures and big rats ; half-round the 
 fish-pond, and back the same way, nervously ; and when you don't 
 go to the fish-pond, you go to the kitchen-garden. 
 
 As a rule, every one on arriving for the first time at Boodels', 
 looks out of the drawing-room window, and immediately exclaims, 
 
 " Oh ! let's walk as far as the fish-pond ! " 
 
 There has never been an exception to the rule, except in the 
 instance of a grumbling old Gentleman, who on his arrival in the 
 middle of summer, begged that all the windows and doors might 
 be shut ; growled out that the place lay very low ; that the beauty 
 of the flowers, specially the roses, was only a clear sign of the 
 dampness of the atmosphere ; and, on being asked if he would like 
 to walk as far as the fish-pond, replied, surlily, 
 
 " No ; he didn't want to catch his death of cold, for the sake of 
 looking at a duck-puddle ! " 
 
 Boodels never forgave this old man. " In fact," said Boodels, 
 justly irritated, " if it hadn't been for his age, I'd have ordered a 
 fly, and had him taken back to London at once."
 
 6 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 As we walk to the fish-pond, Boodels and Mumley first, then 
 Pogmore and myself, I start Pogmore on the subject of music, in- 
 stead of crops. He informs me that he is composing an Oratorio 
 on the subject of The ArTc. " A grand subject 1 " he suggests, in- 
 quiringly, as if he had some lurking doubt about it himself. 
 
 " Very," I reply. " Only " 
 
 " Only what ? " he asks. 
 
 " Only," I say, " aren't the animals a difficulty? " 
 
 "Ah ! " he exclaims, with the air of being evidently relieved by 
 this being my only objection, " but I see my way to that. All I 
 want is a good libretto. That's what I'm sticking for now — a 
 good libretto. I wish you'd try your hand." 
 
 I feel highly complimented, but, with innate modesty, I suggest 
 that he should ask Hamlin Mumley. "He," I point out, "is a 
 Poet." I don't infer from this that I'm not. " And," I add, " he 
 would write you a magnificent libretto." Implying that mine 
 would be a more magnificent one. Pogmore has asked him. 
 Mumley has replied that good poetry is quite thrown away on 
 music : that the librettist gets no fame — only abuse ; and that no 
 one ever yet heard the words of any song, or ever cared to ask 
 who wrote them. 
 
 " I rather agree with him," says Pogmore. 
 
 So do I. But then why ask me to write the libretto ? 
 
 "See what you can do for me, will you?" says Pogmore, care- 
 lessly. You might strike out something." 
 
 He says this much as he would have suggested that I might 
 catch the Eel, if I only lived long enough, and fished regularly. 
 I promise, however, — to think of it. 
 
 Tom Milburd, — younger brother of our old friend the Jester, — 
 has run down to Boodels for a few days. Boodels says he likes to 
 have him there because he's " invaluable in a country-house — he 
 makes everything so lively " — which is not much of a compliment 
 to us ; as if we made everything so dull, and he had to be invited 
 to counteract our depressing influence. 
 
 Tom Milburd, coming down the walk from the house, hears 
 Pogmore say, a propos of the Oratorio, that there's so much 
 " character in it." Milburd, Junior, is a very loud man, and his 
 laugh is overpoweringly noisy. He has got a trick of bursting
 
 I A A COUNTRY HOUSE. 7 
 
 into his loudest laugh, generally about nothing, or about some- 
 thing that only he himself sees the fun of, close by your ear. He 
 keeps his laughs, as it were, in shells, and suddenly explodes them. 
 He comes down between us, and exclaims, in a stentorian voice, 
 " Oh, I know what he's talking about. His old Oratorio." Here 
 he roars : No one can get a word in, and he continues, still roar- 
 ing, " Capital subject — ha ! ha ! ha ! Noah and all his little men 
 — ha ! ha ! ha ! — with long coats, and sticks, and flat hats. Which 
 are the wives, and which are the sons ? Eh ] Whichever you 
 like, my little dear ; you pays your money and you — ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! " 
 
 And here he is off again, as if this venerable quotation were 
 one of the raciest things he had heard for years. "We look serious. 
 Pogmore is annoyed. But Milburd doesn't care. He takes Pog- 
 rnore by one arm and me by the other, shaking us both as if to 
 get a laugh out of lis by sheer force — he is very muscular — and 
 begins again, just as loudly as ever. 
 
 "Then the music !— ha ! ha! ha! The March Past of the 
 Animals into the Ark ! and the songs ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! I say, 
 though, how do you get over their being all duetts 1 " Here Mil- 
 burd goes into convulsions of laughter, but he won't leave go of 
 our arms, which he shakes and squeezes during his laughter. And 
 this is the man whom Boodels says "is invaluable in a country- 
 house, and keeps everything lively " ! Why he'll drive me wild 
 with his voice alone. As to Pogmore, he'll be mad before he 
 reaches the fish-pond. Milburd shouts out, still bursting with 
 laughter, " They must be duetts, because they went in in couples. 
 Ha! ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 " Nonsense ! " says Pogmore, irately. " The music will be 
 descriptive." 
 
 " Of course," exclaims Milburd. " I see it. Bassoon for the 
 Elephant," — here he makes noises which he thinks represent the 
 instruments in question, and, thank heaven, releases our arms, in 
 order to pretend to be playing first double bass, and then the 
 ophicleide, — " ophicleide for Lion ; the Black-beetles will be a 
 difficulty. The Donkey's easy enough." 
 
 " Yes, you can play that," cuts in Pogmore, quickly. 
 
 I feel this retort was weak on Pogmore's part.
 
 8 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " No objection to leam, if you'll teach me," returns Milburd. 
 Then he suddenly seizes my arm again, and squeezes it roughly, 
 as if to point his repartee, which he repeats three times, and roars 
 and shakes with laughter. 
 
 At this point I should like to come to Pogmore's aid, and put 
 Milburd down, only I haven't got the right thing to say. Milburd 
 never knows where to stop, except at Boodels', where he certainly 
 knows how to stop. 
 
 This is the first half hour after my arrival (we are expecting 
 dinner), and we are all down by the fish-pond. The fish-pond has 
 a quieting effect, momentarily, on Milburd. He is silent. Then 
 the influence of the place overcomes Hamlin Mumley, the Poet ; 
 and, turning to Boodels, he says, solemnly, 
 
 " There must be a great many fish here. Why don't you set 
 some lines ? " 
 
 Happy Thought. — (Suggested politely to both the clever men.) 
 If Mr. Mumley will compose the lines, Pogmore will set them. 
 Both eminent men much pleased. So is Boodels. He considered 
 this compliment, he tells me afterwards, very neat, and " so epi- 
 grammatic." Milburd (who is evidently jealous, and who never 
 turned a smile when he heard it, though I feel sure he'll go and 
 use it afterwards as his own) says, "Oh, very epigrammatic! 
 What's ' epigrammatic ' mean ? ha ! ha ! ha ! eh ? " 
 
 This offends Boodels, as it implies that he (Boodels) has used a 
 long word without knowing its meaning. We walk silently 
 towards the house. Boodels begins to doubt whether Milburd is 
 as funny as he had once thought he was, and whether he hasn't 
 become rather coarse. 
 
 "How about the Trimmer?" calls out Pogmore from the pond, 
 and he is seconded by the Poet. 
 
 Boodels turns. Personally he doesn't care about fishing, con- 
 sidering it dirty work, and, from long experience, he does not (I 
 am convinced) believe in his own pond, or in the Eel. But these 
 doubts he keeps to himself. 
 
 " If you like to go and dig for worms," he replies — (this to Pog- 
 more and the Poet ! — fancy the two cleverest men Boodels had 
 ever met being sent to dig for worms ! — so thoughtless of Boodels.
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 9 
 
 If you do have a Poet and Composer staying with you, they ought 
 to be treated properly and not sent to dig for worms. I am quite 
 hurt by it : and I'm sure they must feel it, though they say 
 nothing) — " you can get some very fine ones near the Pig-stye, 
 and then you can set the lines yourselves. But," he adds, 
 looking at his watch, "you won't have much time now, as the 
 gong for dinner will sound in five minutes. See about it 
 to-morrow." 
 
 So nothing is settled about the catching the Eel in the pond. 
 But we've got at least a week before us at Boodels'.
 
 10 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 STILL WITH BOODELS OF BOODELS— PLEASURES OF RETIREMENT — 
 BIRDS, BEASTS, AXD FISHES — THE TROUBLES AND CARES OF 
 BOODELS AN AWFUL REVELATION. 
 
 fl R S T Night— 
 Everyone to bed 
 early, except Boodels, 
 who didn't ask his visi- 
 tors into the country to 
 go to bed early. They 
 say they've had enough 
 of late hours in town. 
 Boodels disappointed. 
 
 First Morning in the 
 Country House. — Every 
 one up and out very 
 early, except Boodels. 
 The Poet and Composer 
 go out separately; pro- 
 bably for inspiration 
 and respiration. Mil- 
 burd Junior summoned 
 to town by telegram. 
 I lounge on a garden-seat, wondering at my own immense capa- 
 bilities for doing nothing. Masterl} 7 inaction. 
 
 First Summer Morning. — Shall I open the window while dressing, 
 and admit the balmy air ? I will. I find that if I had opened it 
 I should have admitted a wasp, or something of that sort, which at 
 this moment comes burring, not buzzing, and flopping itself 
 against the glass. Lucky I didn't open it. Nothing more un- 
 pleasant than a big wasp in your dressing-room when you're not 
 prepared to receive visitors. 
 
 I mention this to Boodels when he does appear. He wishes it 
 had been a wasp, as that would be a sign of fruit.
 
 IN A COUNT BY HOUSE. 11 
 
 What I admire about Boodels' place is that there are lots of 
 living things wandering about. There is repose, but animation. 
 There are dogs and cats, ducks and bees, poultry, pigeons, a 
 parrot, and birds everywhere. 
 
 " How happy one could be here," I say to Boodels. " I envy 
 you, always living in the country." 
 
 Boodels, however, replies that I have no idea of his troubles 
 and bothers, and that he has had serious thoughts of giving up the 
 place. 
 
 I protest (in the name of hospitality) against any such proceed- 
 ing. If the other guests were here, they would join me. 
 
 " Ah," says Boodels, " you don't know." 
 
 Then we walk to the pond. 
 
 Boodels is melancholy and reserved. I admire everything ; but 
 whatever excites my admiration, only draws from Boodels a tale 
 of woe. 
 
 "You ought to have excellent fishing," I say, repeating what 
 I'm sure I've heard a dozen times from Boodels himself when in a 
 good-humour. 
 
 "Ah ! " he replies. " I don't know what's the matter with this 
 pond. It was an awfully dull winter, and the fish were found all 
 floating about dead." 
 
 Horrible ! As ghastly as the Ancient Mariner's story. "What an 
 appalling view T of the dulness of Boodels' place in the winter, that 
 even the fish should commit suicide, and drown themselves in 
 sheer desperation. Boodels thinks they must have been poisoned. 
 But, I ask, who would poison a fish ? Who could have a grudge 
 against the fish 1 Perhaps, I observe, in order to take a cheerful 
 view of matters and enliven Boodels, perhaps the fish wanted 
 thinning : too many fish spoil the pond. Can't he consult some 
 fish-doctor 1 I suppose there is such a person for dealing with 
 diseases in fish, just as there is a Veterinary and a Cow-Doctor. 
 What is the professional name for a fish-doctor? A Piscinary '] 
 
 The Troubles of Boodels. — He can't get the pets to answer to 
 their names. There's a Peruvian goose — I think it is a Peruvian 
 goose — waddling about that ought to answer to the name of 
 Doddles. But whenever Doddles is called, a little toy -terrier, with
 
 12 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 bells round its neck, rushes up barking-. The terrier's name is 
 Squig, but he prefers being Doddles. The Peruvian goose rejects 
 both Squig and Doddles as inappropriate, and has elected to answer 
 only to Tittikins, which appellation belongs by right to a stealthy 
 white cat with a very pink nose. 
 
 All this is a source of deep annoyance to Boodels, who prides 
 himself on his extraordinary influence over animals. Whenever 
 Squig appears, Doddles utters a sound between a grunt and a 
 quack, and waddles off, shaking his tail with an air of grave dis- 
 satisfaction. 
 
 The Peruvian goose is a remarkable bird. His natural pecu- 
 liarity is a bright scarlet carbuncular excrescence over the beak, 
 just as if he had been in the habit of taking more port wine than 
 was good for him. I congratulate Boodels on the specimen, when 
 I discover that this goose is another of Boodels' troubles. He 
 ought, it appears, to eat the slugs, but he prefers the strawberries. 
 This, perhaps, accounts for what I had set down to port wine. 
 Then, another thing, this goose will not join the ducks on the 
 " big pond," but will (with another goose whom he has induced to 
 join him) insist on bathing in the small pond exclusively devoted 
 to gold fish. 
 
 From time to time Boodels, and the Gardeners, drive him 
 away — everyone drives him away from the pond ; but crafty 
 goose watches his opportunity, generally squatting by^a tree 
 within easy walking distance of the pond, and pretending, artfully, 
 to be fast asleep ; then, when no one is near, he summons the 
 other goose (of a very weak character, and easily led), and they 
 both waddle down to the gold-fish pond, and are into it, with a 
 flop, before anyone can get at them. Squig, the nervous black 
 and tan terrier with the fool's bells round his neck, generally gives 
 the alarm on these occasions by rushing to the edge of the pond, 
 making vigorous feints of jumping in at the geese, for which they 
 don't care a straw, being far too old birds to be taken in by this 
 sort of chaff, and barking with all his might and main until some- 
 one arrives to see what on earth is the matter, when he assists in 
 chiveying the Peruvian goose, who sometimes, forgetting his figure 
 and his dignity, takes, literally, to flight. His flying is a very 
 awkward performance, his movements being as unsteady and as
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 13 
 
 noisy as those of the " property " dove in Lohengrin. However, he 
 doesn't go far — about twenty yards — just enough to astonish the 
 terrier, to whom this sudden levitation of a heavy body evidently 
 savours of the supernatural. Squig turns tail, and retires into the 
 house, shaking his head with a puzzled air, as though there were 
 something wrong somewhere. 
 
 I admire the pond : the smaller one, where the gold-fish disport 
 themselves. No, it won't do ; nothing is satisfactory. 
 
 " Why," says Boodels, pointing to a something sticking up in 
 the centre of the pond, that looks as if an umbrella had taken a 
 header into the water, had stuck in the mud handle downwards, 
 and left only its ferule visible above the surface. " Look there ! — 
 that is a fountain. I mean," he explains ; and the explanation is 
 necessary, " it ought to be. That fountain won't work." 
 
 I suggest that he means " won't play," which, he replies, is the 
 same thing. It may be the same thing to a fountain, but not 
 to me. 
 
 Another great trouble of Boodel's is a duck that won't sit on 
 eleven eggs. The Gardener is of opinion that Squig, the terrier 
 with the bells, "harries" her, and drives her away. Squig comes 
 up, gambolling, at this very moment, when we are standing by the 
 bush, where the eggs are, and assumes an air of total indifference 
 to the subject, as much as to imply, 
 
 " I really don't know what you are talking about. I wouldn't 
 hunt or harry a poor duck, or prevent her sitting ! Absurd ! " 
 
 " She must be made to sit," says Boodels, angrily, to the Under- 
 Gardener, who thereupon appears hurt. 
 
 Proverb for the Occasion. — " The duck that can sit, and won't 
 sit, must be made to sit." 
 
 " At all events," I say, " your bees are all right." 
 
 Are they 1 That's all I know about it ! Why the bees have 
 been emulating the example of the fish, and absolutely drowning 
 themselves in a small pan of water. Boodels thinks they must be 
 mad, and advises me not to go too near the hives. 
 
 And yet I thought a purely country life must be so unruffled ! 
 
 But Boodels hasn't yet told me half his troubles. 
 
 " How are your orchids getting on VI inquire.
 
 14 QUITE AT SOME. 
 
 " Orchids ! " he exclaims. " Don't mention them ! " 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" I ask. 
 
 " Matter ! " he returns. " We've got the Mealy Bug in the 
 house — in fact, it's infested with the Mealy Bug." 
 
 The Mealy Bug ! What a nasty, creepy sort of name ! What 
 an unpleasant thought, too, that, as the orchid-house is quite close 
 to the house, the Mealy Bugs may, when tired of the orchids, walk 
 in and . . . ugh ! 
 
 I think I shall go back to town. Have a telegram as Milburd 
 did, and be obliged to return. 
 
 Luncheon gong. The Poet and Composer are at table, punctu- 
 ally, with tremendous appetites. 
 
 Yes, but they haven't yet heard of the proximity of the Mealy 
 Bug! 
 
 I wish I were more of a naturalist and knew the habits of the 
 Mealy Bug. Is he called " Mealy " because he eats so much ? If 
 so, how many meals a day? Does he live on vegetables as well as 
 orchids ? Is the Mealy Bug so tenacious of life as to survive the 
 boiling of a vegetable ? Could he hide in the corner of a cabbage 
 and so be served up? Or could he, like Ariel, "lurk" in the heart 
 of a lettuce and be mixed up in salad 1 
 
 Oh the Mealy Bug ! There's something so undefinably sneaking 
 about the name. It's not grand and bold like the Colorado 
 Beetle. There is a military dash in the sound of Colorado Beetle 
 which is bombastically operatic. Were a tall, stout, fierce-looking, 
 middle-aged Gentleman in a crimson and gold uniform and a 
 cocked hat pointed out to you as "the Colorado Beetle," you 
 would be inclined to believe it. " Colorado " is a magnificent 
 word for music. There is a ring of El Dorado about it. You can 
 imagine an epic describing the fight of some hero of romance with 
 the Colorado. St. George and the Colorado Beetle ! ! Why, it 
 might even be a battle-cry ! It looks grand — it sounds grand ! 
 But St. George and the Mealy Bug ! No — ugh ! 
 
 Hang it, I wish Boodels had kept the Mealy Bug to himself. 
 
 " No salad, thank you."
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 15 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OUR EXCITEMENTS AND AMUSEMENTS AT BOODELS' — THE TRIMMER 
 
 THE WALK WANTED — THE COMPOSER'S LECTURE LIMITS TO 
 
 EXERCISE CALM CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 THE Poet Hamlin Mumley, 
 Pogmore the Composer, and 
 Milburd, have set the Trimmer 
 to catch the Eel in the Pond. 
 
 This is, at present, our chief 
 excitement. We go to bed at 
 night, early, wondering if there'll 
 be anything on the Trimmer in 
 the morning. We get up early, 
 and go down to the Pond to see 
 if anything is on the Trimmer. 
 No, the Trimmer has not been 
 touched during the night. Every 
 hour, somebody, generally two of 
 us, go up to the Pond, and look 
 with increasing curiosity at the 
 Trimmer. Our first impulse is 
 to take it up. Our second is to 
 let it be there a little longer, 
 and give it a chance. We begin 
 to speak of it as something with 
 a character to redeem. 
 
 Boodels explains to us that it 
 is no use taking it up, as when 
 anything has been caught, the 
 Trimmer turns up of its own 
 
 accord in the water, and floats topsy-turvy. 
 
 Throughout the day we walk at intervals up to the Pond, and 
 
 stand on the bank silently watching the Trimmer, as if a friend 
 
 had been drowned in the Pond, and this were the tombstone over 
 
 his watery grave.
 
 16 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 The Trimmer does not turn up. But we go on, expecting this 
 to take place. In fact we are like four Miccavbers " waiting per- 
 petually for something" (the Trimmer) "to turn up." Milburd 
 is always wanting to " rout it out with a pole," and is invariably 
 restrained by the Poet or by Boodels. The Composer thinks that 
 a "musical situation" might be got out of it "somehow," and 
 suggests as an idea The Troll of a Trimmer. Milburd instantly 
 says, alluding to the Composer's Oratorio, " There were no 
 Trimmers in the Ark ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Unless they had to ' trim 
 the boat ! ' ha ! ha ! ha ! " But nobody laughs, as it is felt that 
 Milburd is a fool for rushing in where angels (ourselves) dare not 
 tread. 
 
 As the day wears on — it is a very hot day, and I fancy there is 
 a smell from the Pond (which suspicion Boodels resents as a libel 
 on his place, " because," he says, " if there is a smell, it's any- 
 thing but an unwholesome one " — but Boodels won't allow there 
 can be anything unhealthy about his place — that's his one strong 
 point) — the excitement of visiting the Trimmer begins to pall 
 upon me. I want to walk out somewhere — to a hill if possible, 
 if there is such a thing in the neighbourhood — (" Lots ! " replies 
 Boodels, indignantly), and get some fresh air. This desire for 
 fresh air also annoys Boodels. It is a slight on his air. He 
 becomes sarcastic, and pretends to apologise for his place not 
 being by the seaside. He doesn't perceive any smell from the 
 Pond. He doesn't complain of the atmosphere. He, in fact, 
 finds it very pleasant. 
 
 But then Boodels has the place on a lease for some considerable 
 time, and, of course, he is not going to depreciate the Pond by (as 
 it were, to put it proverbially and vulgarly) " crying stinking 
 fish," not even if the Trimmer should have already caught the 
 Eel without having turned up, and the Eel were being boiled in 
 its native sun-heated water. 
 
 Boodels does not want a walk, and lie won't come. He says, 
 " When you come back I'll walk up to the Pond with you and see 
 how the Trimmer's getting on." Bother the Trimmer ! Will the 
 Composer, Pogmore, accompany me 1 I find he is in the drawing- 
 room at the piano, accompanying himself. I happen to look in 
 at a moment when he has got into some difficulty with an E flat
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 17 
 
 •which oughtn't, by rights, to be in a chord in his composition, but 
 which has got in somehow, and produced such a marvellous effect 
 that he has begun to think of writing a treatise on the 
 " Unexpected seventh " and revolutionising music generally. 
 
 " Walk ! " he cries out impetuously, appearing as violently hor- 
 rified as though I'd asked him to come and commit a murder in 
 the lane. " Walk ! my dear fellow ! " (the tone in which he says 
 " My dear fellow ! " implies " You confounded idiot, to come in 
 and interrupt a Composer ! ") "I can't walk now. Any other 
 
 time I'll be delighted; but 1 really can't now!" And he 
 
 bends, inquiringly, over the forefinger of his right hand, which 
 he has not yet removed from the astonishing E flat. 
 
 It perhaps flashes across him, that, considering me as his pro- 
 bable librettist, he may have treated me rather cavalierly in 
 shouting at me as he has just done (for he 7ias shouted, and no 
 one likes to be shouted at), and so he turns to me while sitting 
 and stooping over the key-board, as if he were either the tuner, or 
 a naturalist in search of an insect that had slipped out of one of 
 the cracks between the notes — (by the way, why shouldn't a Com- 
 poser who writes all his airs in C major — as I should if I were a 
 Composer — be called a " Naturalist," and another who might 
 confine himself to D a " Two Sharpist," and another, who might 
 stick invariably to F Major, a " One-Flattist " ? But though I 
 interrupt the Composer with the question, he simply replies, " It 
 couldn't be done ") — and saj-s more politely, " I can't come now, 
 because I've hit upon something which may turn out of the 
 utmost importance. I think," he says, " I can resolve the D into 
 the dominant without a recurring seventh"— or words to this 
 effect. "If I can do this " (whatever it is), " it will be," he 
 exclaims, " a most invaluable discovery." 
 
 Pogmore, it strikes me, is treating Music as if it were 
 Astronomy. This is a new light to me, and I am always, not 
 only ready to learn anything, but interested in acquiring know- 
 ledge from experts. 
 
 " But," I say to him, "you can't discover notes as you can stars." 
 " Of course, you can," he replies. 
 
 I am inclined to ask him if, instead of a telescope, he uses a 
 stethescope with which doctors take soundings, but I feel that 
 

 
 18 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Pogmore is not in the vein for this remark, so I only beg him to 
 continue his insti-uction. 
 
 " Well," he says, still with his finger on the E flat, as though 
 the loss of this note involved ruin, "well, in music you know, 
 there are millions of sounds which cannot be represented on the 
 piano. There wouldn't, you see, be room for such an instrument 
 in am' house, and it would take several hands to play it at once. 
 Now the ambition of every Composer is not merely to produce a 
 composition for an instrument where he is limited to thirteen 
 notes more or less defective, but to evolve new sounds and fresh 
 permutations and combinations of sound from the illimitable 
 system of Harmony existing in nature." 
 
 Dear me ! What an Oratorio the Ark will be ! I must try 
 and think of a libretto for Pogmore. 
 
 "But," I mildly insinuate, "you can do all you want with a 
 piano." 
 
 Pogmore scorns the idea. " My dear fellow,"— by the way, he 
 might just as well be out walking and talking, as lecturing me in 
 a room with the thermometer at something terrific — "My dear 
 fellow, the piano is a most defective instrument. For instance, 
 do you think for a moment that all the sounds of which Music is 
 capable are exhausted in an octave 1 You," this to me, as an 
 argiunentum ad hominem, " can make more sounds than those." 
 Certainly I can. " You can sing notes that are not on the 
 piano ? " Can I ? well yes — perhaps I can. 
 
 " Then," I say, struck by a new idea, " if one had never heard a 
 piano so as to be restricted by its limited capabilities," this is the 
 view I begin to take of pianos in general, " then every man would 
 have invented an instrument for himself, reproducing the sounds 
 peculiar to himself, and by unity of these instruments we should, 
 long before this, have obtained one grand harmonicon, so to speak." 
 
 " Well." says Pogmore, rather taken aback by my sudden grasp 
 of the idea, " the question would be where could such an instru- 
 ment be placed, for the scientific Philosophy of Music teaches us, 
 that, in all probability, musical sounds are commensurable with 
 space." 
 
 Dear me ! But why won't he come out for a walk ? If I could 
 only keep him interested, perhaps he will, because I can suggest
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 19 
 
 that he can talk as we walk along. I'm afraid I can't hook him 
 yet ; an attempt to pull him out would only result in his breaking 
 away with the hook in his jaw. But I encourage him, on the 
 chance of getting a companion. 
 
 "For example. You understand,"' he continues, "that there 
 must be some sounds between C and D ? " 
 
 "Yes— I do." (Would this be a good point for suggesting the 
 walk ?) 
 
 " The first sound that occurs to you is half C and D — that is 
 C sharp." 
 
 Precisely ; but we're rather wasting time, because he might be 
 saying all this to me on the top of the hill that I want to go and see. 
 
 Without showing any signs of stirring, Pogmore continues : — 
 '• Xow where is the quarter of C, or the eighth of C, or the 
 sixteenth, or the hundredth 1 Where are any of those fractional 
 infinitesimal sounds which must exist as parts of a whole ? " 
 
 "Quite so — where are they ?" I say, and I twiddle my straw 
 hat as a hint. 
 
 Pogmore is wound up. He is giving me tli3 result of recent 
 scientific training, and I believe is practising on me for his own 
 benefit. 
 
 " Again," he says, " this one black note, that represents at the 
 same time both C sharp and D flat, must be a very imperfect in- 
 vention. It is impossible that C sharp and D flat can be the 
 .same sounds." 
 
 " Quite," I say ; then I add, as persuasively as I can, " You'd 
 be all the better for a little exercise, and come back quite fresh to 
 work." 
 
 Xo. He won't move. He simply says, " Don't stop for me," 
 and turns once more to the piano. " I say," he calls out as I 
 am quitting the room, "you might turn over the libretto while 
 you're out walking. And when you come back I don't mind 
 walking with you as far as the Pond to see how the Trimmer's 
 getting on." 
 
 Hang the Trimmer ! Where's the Poet, Hamlin Mumley ; 
 perhaps he'll come. There he is in the middle of the lawn, 
 not far from the Pond. He and the Peruvian Goose together, 
 facing one another at a distance of about six feet, and con- 
 
 C 2
 
 20 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 templating each other in a drowsy stupid fashion, as if they 
 were both waiting for an inspiration. On coming up towards 
 them, I notice that while the Poet is regarding the Goose with 
 interest, as though he were mentally commencing a poem,. 
 
 beginning with, " 0, strange Peruvian Goose, whose , &C."" 
 
 The Goose, on the other hand, is apparently fast asleep. The 
 Poet has mesmerised the Goose, and as Mumley seems to be 
 unable to remove his eyes off the bird, the Goose has mesmerised 
 the Poet. 
 
 Happy Thought. — The Pond has already suggested The Butler 
 and the Eel as a ballad. Now the next is The Poet and the 
 Peruvian Goose. — The collection of poems to be called The 
 Boodels Ballads. 
 
 I rouse Mumley from his lethargy. The Goose opens his eyes 
 and wobbles his tail. Will the Poet come out for a walk ? There 
 is, I tell him by way of inducement, a beautiful view from the top 
 of some hill near here. No. He thanks me ; he will another day, 
 but just now he is rather anxious about the Trimmer. Why not 
 come down as far as the Pond (that is, about ten yards), and look 
 at the Trimmer'? That, he adds, "will be exercise." Milburd 
 comes in through a gate, flushed and hot. "I'll go with you. 
 Where ? " he shouts. 
 
 " Ah, it's too late now," I say evasively. " I only wanted a 
 little exercise." 
 
 " If you want exercise, old boy," he shouts, though I'm quite 
 close to him, " you go into the field there where the cow is. Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! She's as mad as a hatter, and she'll give you some 
 exercise. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I should like to see you cutting round 
 the field, with the old cow after you ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Milburd Junior's jokes are most offensive ; and he is always 
 seeking fun in what might result in some most serious, if not 
 absolutely fatal, accident. Suppose I did go into the field, 
 supposing the cow were to run at me, and I couldn't get away 
 quickly enough, would Milburd ever forgive himself, for, as it 
 were, having dared me to the encounter 1 
 
 " I wonder," cries Milburd, " how the Trimmer's getting on." 
 And off go Mumley and Milburd to the pond. Where can I 
 go for exercise? To the Trimmer? No, I will not go to the
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 21 
 
 Trimmer. Then where 1 This opens my eyes to the fact that 
 the boundaries for exercise 'within the Boodels' domain are 
 limited. For example, when you want to walk in the Kitchen 
 Garden, you are strongly advised not to, on account of the bees. 
 This is enforced by Boodels with a story of how the bees (not his, 
 but some bees of his acquaintance) once swarmed on a man in a 
 garden. The man was standing still (just as the Poet does when 
 he thinks he has an idea), and one bee came on to his nose. The 
 man, having considerable presence of mind, didn't attempt to 
 brush it off, as he knew that he would be stung. The bee 
 remained on the tip of his nose. To this bee came another, 
 and clung on to the first bee ; then came a third, and clung 
 on to bee number two : then came a fourth, and so on, until 
 gradually, within an hour, nearly a thousand bees had swarmed 
 and were hanging, in a bunch, from his nose. He dared not stir ; 
 he couldn't speak ; he couldn't be fed ; no one could venture to 
 come near him until the bees had finished swarming, and they 
 often take a couple of days to finish swarming. Fortunately for 
 him, these bees got it over in about three hours' time, when the 
 Gardener came with a hive, and took the swarm. The man never 
 stood still in a garden again as long as he lived. 
 
 (Boodels' Anecdotes of Country Life, a companion to The 
 Boodels Ballads. Clearly a valuable compilation. Shall ask 
 Boodels if he has any objection to my compiling such a book. 
 Most interesting, and would destroy many popular fallacies as 
 to the unalloyed enjoyment of the country.) 
 
 So the Kitchen Garden is tabooed. Well, why not the Meadow 1 
 Why not 1 because of the cow. She is so uncertain. She chivied 
 the Butler the other day, and he only narrowly escaped by 
 jumping into the ditch. But what was the Butler doing there ? I 
 ask. " Oh ! he had gone out to catch the pony," Boodels replies, 
 as if catching the pony was a Butler's ordinary routine business. 
 
 Well, how about the Paddock ? A walk about there, eh ? The 
 pony is in the paddock, and he is good tempered enough with the 
 Butler, but he is inclined to be vicious with strangers,- — unless 
 they've got bread to give him. This bars the paddock. 
 
 The Farm-yard, then? Oh, you can't walk there, it is so 
 mucky. "But," says Boodels, "if you want to get exercise and
 
 22 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 do some good, you might take a stick and beat about for rats, 
 they swarm by the pigstyes as big as rabbits, and you stand a fair 
 chance of killing some." Declined, with thanks. 
 
 There is only one other place left; the Stable-yard. "Ah," 
 says Boodels, "you'd better look through the gate first, and see 
 if Gripper is chained up. Sometimes he is loose." Gripper is the 
 bull-dog, with a fixed idea of everyone, except the Butler, the 
 Postman, and the Baker, being burglars. 
 
 Then there is nothing to do unless I take a walk alone. I am 
 dissatisfied. Boodels rises from the chair in the tent. He has 
 a remedy for all ills, an excitement that never fails. It is 
 this : — 
 
 " Come," he says, " I don't mind walking with you as far as the 
 Pond, to see what the Trimmer's doing." 
 
 And then for the fourteenth time we all four stand again on 
 the bank, silently regarding the Trimmer. The four Micawbers 
 waiting for the something to turn up. As we began the day 
 so we end it . . . And this is life in the country ! Dinner 
 time.
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 23 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MORE ABOUT THE TRIMMER HYPOTHESIS — LEGENDARY — SIGNS OK A 
 
 R0W DISCUSSION — FRESH ARRIVAL THE BUDDERMERS. 
 
 ECIDEDLY, we 
 
 have been gradually 
 getting into late 
 hours. Our sittings 
 at night have been 
 imperceptibly pro- 
 longed like those of 
 Parliament. The 
 amendments have 
 been generally in the 
 form of, " On, just 
 one more pipe," or, 
 '• Just half a pipe 
 before we all go," 
 and then some fresh 
 subject of conversa- 
 tion has turned up, 
 though this less 
 rarely happens than 
 the revivification, at 
 
 midnight, of a topic supposed to have been exhausted three hours 
 ago. The time of rising has become uncertain, and the Butler is 
 bothered. We had commenced life in the country meaning to go 
 in for health — " Early to bed and early to rise. - ' "We had set the 
 Trimmer overnight, and had been down to the Pond betimes to 
 see what the Trimmer had been up to during the silent hours. 
 The Trimmer — it was set three days ago — has not as yet dis- 
 tinguished itself. It has not turned up ; and we, the Poet, the 
 Composer, Milburd, and myself, are still in the character of the 
 four Micawbers — but we are now the four languid Micawbers,
 
 24 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 awaiting the turning of the Trimmer. {Happy Thought. — The 
 Turning of the Trimmer, a political novel.) 
 
 Boodels strolls down and looks at us indolently. He has seen 
 his visitors doing exactly the same thing before ; his visitors, 
 indeed, having never had much else to do. The history of his 
 visitors repeats itself. He knows exactly what chance there is of 
 our fishing agent, the Trimmer, doing anything either for us, its 
 employers, or on its own account. 
 
 Speaking of the Trimmer as our " fishing agent " leads me to 
 consider what was the origin of the Trimmer, and, indeed, what 
 was the origin of fishing. 
 
 It strikes me that the inventor of the Trimmer must have been 
 some Gentleman in post-diluvian times — when the fish had got 
 settled again, and business was being carried on as before the 
 alterations — who was fond of bathing in his own Pond. This 
 Post diluvian Person was of a rude, uncultivated, savage nature, 
 and of revengeful instincts. He was bathing, and the Eel, then 
 less crafty and wriggling than he has since come to be by experi- 
 ence, seeing something that looked eatable, seized hold of his great 
 toe. With a sudden yell the bather gave a tremendous leap, 
 turned head over heels in the water, and the Eel, after clinging on 
 as long as it could, was kicked off on to the bank. The Gentle- 
 man, having righted himself, discovered his enemy, went at it 
 viciously, but finding that he was unable to grasp the creature 
 securely, he seized it with his teeth, and, being hungry, ate part of 
 it, liked it, wondered how it tasted boiled, tried the rest boiled, 
 liked it still better, and finally wanted more. But how to obtain 
 it ? Clearly, he must bathe again, and incur the pain of the toe- 
 bite. (Had it been possible for this Person to have been subse- 
 quently converted to Christianity, he might have written a dis- 
 course on the Book of Toe-bite, and been made Bishop of Eely.) 
 But though the Eel was to his taste, the pain wasn't ; so he hired 
 a boy ; or, if in easy circumstances, compelled a Slave. The 
 Slave remained in the Pond, and caught Eels, or rather the Eels 
 caught him. 
 
 After a time the Eels would be exhausted, and so would the 
 Slaves. Then one Slave, cleverer than the rest, made a sham foot 
 and toe to save his own, and the Eels were caught as before.
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 25 
 
 From this to tying the sham toe on to something, and putting it 
 in from the bank, was a small jump, and thence to the Trimmer, 
 the hook, and worm, nothing but a step. Of course the apparatus 
 was not called Trimmer at first. Being a neat invention, it was 
 called Trim ; but the Person who improved on it called his the 
 Trimmer. {Happy Tltoitght. — Another contribution to The Boodels 
 Ballads, " The Toe and Eel") 
 
 Midday. — Fourth day at Boodels'. All by the Pond. Milburd 
 says this sounds like a parallel Cockneyism to " 'All by the Sea." 
 His joke is received in silence ; but he roars, and then explains it 
 to us. 
 
 " Oh ! yes," replies the Poet, testily, " we saw it. We're not 
 idiots ! " (Milburd and Hamlin Mumley the Poet don't hit it off 
 •exactly.) 
 
 " Talking of idiots," says Milburd, " were you ever in Hanwell 1 " 
 Mumley frowns. Milburd continues, after laughing boisterously, 
 " I don't mean as a patient ; but did you ever go over the 
 Asylum ? " 
 
 No, the Poet growls, he never did. 
 
 " I did," says Milburd, "the other day." 
 
 " Wonder they let you out," growls Mumley. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! that's your experience, eh 1 " retorts Milburd. 
 We all feel that unless something turns up — either the Trimmer 
 or a new topic — we are on the brink of a row. Milburd winks at 
 us and laughs. We do not encourage him. We all silently watch 
 the Trimmer, as if it were an experiment in torpedoes. But 
 Milburd doesn't know when to stop. He resumes seriously, " I 
 say, Mumley, though— joking apart," this conciliates Mumley, who 
 thinks he is now appealed to as some one of above the average 
 intellect, "you would be interested in the literature the patients 
 are allowed to read." 
 
 " No doubt," says Hamlin, gravely. " It must be, indeed, dif- 
 ficult to select works which shall suit these poor half-brained 
 beings." 
 
 "Yes," returns Milburd, in the same serious tone, "the 
 Librarian told me that the selection has been most troublesome — 
 in fact, almost impossible until last year."
 
 26 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 "Ah," says Hamlin Mumley, interesting himself, as we all do,, 
 being glad to find that Milburd can talk rationally when he likes, 
 " then last year were the patients of a different mental calibre 1 " 
 
 " Yes, they were very much below the usual standard." 
 
 " Indeed ! poor creatures ! " sighs Hamlin Mumley, compassion- 
 ately. " And did they ask for any particular books 1 " 
 
 " Yes," replies Milburd, quickly, "they all insisted on having 
 Hamlin Mumley's New Book of Poems ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " You idiot ! " says Pogmore the Composer, smiling however. 
 He owes Mumley one for having said that " good poetry was 
 thrown away on music." The Composer feels that, to put it 
 musically, through the instrumentality of Milburd, he has 
 " scored." 
 
 I laugh, because Hamlin Mumley is confoundedly conceited 
 about his one book of poems. 
 
 Boodels, as host, takes it all seriously, and does not smile. He 
 expresses his opinion that " he really does not see anything very 
 funny in it ; and for his part he (Boodels), were he Hamlin 
 Mumley, would feel most gratified at having been able to relieve 
 the monotony of the Lunatics' life." " I think," he adds, as if his 
 opinion were a judicial summing-up for the defendant, " / should 
 think, if I were Mumley, that a greater compliment couldn't be 
 paid to my work." 
 
 " Hum ! " growls Mumley, more hurt by this well-intentioned 
 remark of Boodels' than even by Milburd's chaff. " Upon my life 
 I don't see that." 
 
 " I do," returns Boodels, shortly. 
 
 "Do you mean to say I ought to be highly gratified if only 
 Lunatics read my books ? " asks the Poet, warmly. 
 
 " If it alleviates their sufferings," replies Boodels, " of course 
 you should be." 
 
 " But," remonstrates the Poet, " I don't write merely to alleviate 
 sufferings. My object is to elevate the mind." 
 
 " Well," retorts Boodels, " then you can't begin with a better 
 set of readers than Idiots." 
 
 If ever a storm was imminent, it is noxv, by the Pond, with the 
 Trimmer cynically at rest. Milburd has retired, temporarily, from 
 the contest, but is delighted, winking at Pogmore (who himself
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 2T 
 
 intends to dash in presently when he sees an opportunity for 
 bringing in music), nudging me, and emitting subdued chuckling 
 sounds. Mumley is ruffling his feathers previous to making a 
 crushing reply, when I am struck by a Happy Thought, of which 
 I deliver myself at once : "Mumley needn't be annoyed at being 
 popular with Lunatics. ' Great wits to madness nearly are 
 allied.'" 
 
 For one second I see that Hamlin Mumley is uncertain whether 
 to take this as a genuine tribute to the greatness of his wit, or as 
 a satirical compliment. Have I alluded to him as a madman at 
 large, or as a great unfettered Poet 1 ? He, sensibly, decides for 
 the latter ; and, as the Parliamentary reports have it, " The sub- 
 ject then dropped." (By the way, what a complimentary descrip- 
 tive title for a Poet would be, " The Great Unfettered ! " Mem, 
 Try it on some one.) 
 
 "Now," cries Milburd, "let's take up the Trimmer." Agreed 
 to nem. con., as a distraction. 
 
 When taken up, there is nothing on it, — not even the bait. 
 
 " There ! " says Boodels, triumphantly, " I said there were eels 
 in the Pond ! " He is as pleased as if they'd been caught : more 
 so, in fact, as there is still a future in the Pond for his guests, 
 who, if they had been successful in catching the Eels, would soon 
 be tired of their only amusement. 
 
 "But," I object, to Boodels, "you said that if anything were 
 caught, the Trimmer would turn up. It didn't." 
 
 " Yes, it did," he replies, " in the night. The Eel swallowed the 
 bait, and went off. It must have been a very big Eel. I'm sure 
 there is a very big Eel in this Pond." 
 
 The Butler announces a Mr. and Mrs. Buddermer. We knew 
 they were coming, and had discussed them. 
 
 Fresh arrivals in a country house, if strangers to the guests in 
 possession, are regarded by the latter as intruders. 
 
 We have all been on the very verge of a violent row among our- 
 selves; we now unite (that is, without expressing ourselves openly 
 to one another we have this co-operative store of sympathy) as 
 against a common foe. 
 
 Boodels has exclaimed, "Oh, I'm so glad ! " and has hurried off 
 to welcome his guests.
 
 28 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 None of us like our host's appearing " so glad," and saying so 
 before us, and then rushing off. It implies that he has had enough 
 of us. We remain, sulkily, by the Pond. 
 
 " Who are these Buddermers ? " asks Pogmore the composer. 
 We all simultaneously shrug our shoulders to show our ignorance 
 of the Buddermers, and our social superiority to everybody outside 
 Boodels generally. 
 
 " I suppose," grumbles Milburd, who has found another worm, 
 and is making a horrid mess of it with the Trimmer's line and 
 hook, " I suppose we shall have to dress for dinner." 
 
 " T shan't," says the Poet, determinedly. He professes to de- 
 spise conventionalities. 
 
 " If you don't I won't," says Milburd. 
 
 " I shall," says Pogmore. " I always do." Pogmore has some 
 vague sort of notion that he raises the character of the musical 
 profession by being dressed for dinner. Milburd shouts, 
 
 "I say, why will Pogmore be like a hot roast joint 1 ? Eh? 
 Because he'll be ' dressed for dinner.' Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Then he shouts again, " Do you see, eh ? ' Dressed.' You 
 know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" 
 But tve do not encourage him. 
 
 " I'll do what everybody else does," is my genial motto. 
 Secretly, as there is to be a lady present, I decide on siding 
 with Pogmore. 
 
 " I wish he wouldn't have company till we have "gone," says 
 the Poet. "It's so much pleasanter being all by ourselves 
 here." 
 
 I agree with him, of course. But as we have been on the very 
 verge of a row every evening except the first, aud as we should 
 have reached the culminating point to-night (after this narrow 
 escape just now) I am not sorry that we have the respite of the 
 Buddermers. Besides, I point out to Pogmore, a propos of a 
 libretto for the Oratorio of The Ark, we're now going to have just 
 what you want in your subject — a little female interest. There is 
 a Mrs. Buddermer and a Miss Buddermer. 
 
 Pogmore becomes interested in Miss Buddermer. He goes so 
 far as to " wonder what she's like." 
 
 The Poet briefly observes, " I hate young girls.'
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 2!> 
 
 We are silent. We march in to the sound of the gong for 
 dinner. 
 
 "By Jove!" shouts Milburd, rushing up to us. We all stop 
 and turn, under the impression that the Trimmer has done some- 
 thing at last. He seizes Pogmore's arm. <; There's an idea for 
 your Oratorio. Gong sounds ! March of all the animals two and 
 two into dinner ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! Eh 1 Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 He nudges me roughly with his left elbow, takes Pogmore by 
 the arm with a jerk that makes him cannon against the Poet, and 
 then walks his victim off like a prisoner, still roaring in his ear,. 
 " All the animals— ha ! ha ! ha ! — into dinner — ha ! ha ! ha !. 
 First-rate notion, eh ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " I hear," groans Pogmore, faintly, vainly trying to extricate- 
 himself. But he can't. Milburd has got him, and shaking him 
 and shouting at the unfortunate Composer of the future Oratorio,, 
 he literally pushes and hoists him up-stairs.
 
 :30 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE NEW ARRIVALS — OPINIONS THE LADIES ETIQUETTE RE- 
 ARRANGEMENTS BOODELS' INFORMATION CHATTING A 
 
 THOROUGH BORE — THE BALD ONE. 
 
 />OODELS' 
 
 /^ great merit is 
 his superlative valu- 
 ation of his friends. 
 The more recent his 
 acquaintance with 
 them, the more 
 brilliant they are in 
 his eyes — like new 
 furniture or patent 
 leather boots just 
 sent home. 
 
 When Boodels 
 makes new friends, 
 he likes them to be 
 sent to his home at 
 once, just as he does 
 with new purchases. 
 Consequently, the 
 Buddemers, whom 
 he first met quite recently at Scarborough, have already arrived, 
 -and we have been prepared, by Boodels' enthusiastic description, 
 to see something exceptionally brilliant. Mrs. Buddermer — 
 Boodels always speaks of the lady first, giving you to understand 
 that she has generally been the attraction — " Mrs. Buddermer," 
 he says, " is simply the handsomest woman he has ever met. 
 She is so charming, so unaffected, and the dresses are the most 
 •expensive things you ever saw, and her taste exquisite ! " Mr. 
 Buddermer (he is not always so enthusiastic, we notice, about the 
 husband) is a very clever man. He is connected, says Boodels,
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 31 
 
 with several scientific societies, and there's hardly a subject on 
 which he is not thoroughly well informed. " He writes, I believe," 
 Boodels adds, "for the Saturday Review and The Quarterly." 
 
 " So do I," cries Milburd, winking at me. 
 
 "You ! " retorts Boodels, contemptuously. 
 
 " Yes I do," Milburn returns. " I write for the Saturday Review 
 — to the office, whenever I want it, inclosing sixpence-half-penny, 
 and they always send it. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Eh ? " Then turning 
 to me, and alluding to Boodels, " He thought 1 wrote articles for 
 the paper. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 "And Miss Buddermer?" I ask, anxious to return to the subject 
 and nip Milburd's fun in the bud. 
 
 " She is his daughter by a first marriage," Boodels answers. 
 "One of the cleverest and most amusing girls I ever met. There 
 isn't a novel she doesnt read." 
 
 " Pretty % " is the natural reply from his audience. 
 
 "She's very pretty. In fact," he goes on, feeling that he has 
 not said half enough about her, " she is, simply, the prettiest girl 
 I've ever seen, I think. And she's an heiress with about fifty 
 thousand pounds of her own. She dresses magnificently. Such 
 diamonds ! But so has Mrs. Buddermer : they're literally 
 smothered in diamonds." 
 
 "What's old Buddermer, then'?" asks Milburd, who affects to 
 be no respecter of persons. "A money-lender? Eh! Ha! ha! 
 ha ! He's old Shixty-per-Shent. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Boodels is thoroughly annoyed with Milburd. 
 
 " They are my guests," says Boodels, sniffing indignantly ; " and, 
 if they're not good enough for you, you can go." 
 
 " All right, old boy ! " returns Milburd with the utmost good- 
 humour. " I don't mean anything, you know. I'll get Old 
 Buddermer to lend me a few thousands, and then marry his 
 daughter in order to pay him back. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Milburd has been asked here expressly because "there never 
 was such a fellow for a country-house as Milburd for keeping 
 everyone in such good spirits," and not a day — not an evening 
 — has passed, without everyone being on the verge of a row with 
 some one (generally with Boodels himself,) in consequence of 
 Milburd. Milburd has a most good-humoured and pleasant knack
 
 32 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 of setting everyone by the ears, and then retiring, as it were, from 
 the field of battle, occasionally returning:, conversationally, to see 
 how the fight's going on, and jnst joining in, siding first with one 
 side then with another, just to keep the game alive. As for him- 
 self, he only says the rudest things in the heartiest manner ; and 
 as he hasn't an idea of what delicate consideration means, nobody 
 likes to attempt a repartee with him, because he is sure to reply 
 with something personal and peculiarly objectionable. Again, you 
 can't do much, in the cutting retort line, against a strong young 
 man, whose never-failing repartee is a whack on your back with his 
 big open palm, and a shout of " Hallo ! old boy ! " in your ear, as- 
 though he were calling to you a mile off; and don't you wish he 
 were 1 He always has " a gallery " with the servants. Milburd 
 at dinner poses for them, and is stronger in broad farce (in 
 " clowning," the Poet Mumley calls it) than in comedy. 
 
 This evening the presence of the new arrivals causes an altera- 
 tion in the table arrangement. Hamlin Mumley the Poet, who 
 has been, till now in the Vice-Chair, is deposed to make room for 
 Mr. Buddermer ; "because," says Boodels (who has his own views 
 of the strictest etiquette) " he is the older man, and you can't 
 put a bachelor at the bottom of the table when there's a married 
 man present." 
 
 Somehow we, of the previous established party, are inclined to^ 
 resent this. We are all older friends of Boodels than this Mr. 
 Buddermer, whom he only met last year at Scarborough. " A Jew 
 money-lender, or a swindler, for anything Boodels knows about 
 him," insists Milburd. 
 
 Boodels takes an opportunity of informing us, pointedly before 
 Milburd, that the Buddermers live in the best society; that they 
 are out every night during the season, except when they are giving 
 most splendid parties at their own house ; that they have the most 
 beautiful equipage in London ; that they go to the Prince of 
 Wales's garden-parties ; that there isn't a State Ball to which they 
 are not invited ; that privately, without anyone knowing much 
 about it, she (Mrs. Buddermer) visits the Queen at Buckingham 
 Palace, "and is" (Boodels informs us the more emphatically 
 because he detects Milburd winking) "constantly at Windsor; 
 not, of course, when anyone's there, but as a private friend.
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 33 
 
 But," Boodcls adds, as though he were afraid of having committed 
 some breach of confidence about his Scarborough acquaintances, 
 " don't talk of it before them." 
 
 " No, 1 should think it would be a sore subject," says Milburd, 
 giving me a painfully sharp nudge. But Boodels pays no atten- 
 tion to his remark. 
 
 We are all of us oppressed by this greatness being thrust upon 
 us. For my part, when I am dressing for dinner on the first 
 evening of their arrival, I feel inclined to go to bed, and leave the 
 Buddermers to Boodels. 
 
 Pogmore, Mumley, and Milburd are all more or less sulky about 
 it, and agree that the charm of the place will be thoroughly 
 destroyed by this incursion. 
 
 Consequently, we ore all late for dinner except Milburd, who, 
 after abusing Mr. Buddermer as a money-lender, and the whole 
 party as, probably, "swindlers" who have gammoned Boodels at 
 Scarborough, has dressed rapidly, has been down in the drawing- 
 room a full quarter of an hour before anybody else, has thoroughly 
 ingratiated himself with the new arrivals, and has conciliated 
 Boodels to such an extent, that I overhear our host in the recess 
 in conversation with Mrs. Buddermer, informing her that his old 
 friend Milburd is the cleverest, Avittiest man he has ever met, that 
 he'll keep you in a roar of laughter, that he is the life and soul of 
 every Country House. " And," he adds, in order to increase his 
 present house value, " he is a most difficult man to get hold of, 
 he's always engaged." 
 
 " I think," I hear Mrs. Buddermer observe to Boodels, " I 
 remember meeting him at Brikfield, the Duke of Strawborough's 
 place, two years ago." 
 
 " Very likely," says Boodels, carelessly. Had Milburd himself 
 told him of his having been in such aristocratic society, Boodels 
 wouldn't have believed him, but, taking it on Mrs. Buddermer's 
 authority, it assumes the greatest importance as a fact, and 
 Milburd's value has gone up immensely in the market. In future, 
 Boodels' account of Milburd will be, " Don't you know him 1 Oh ! 
 he's a very old friend of mine. He's the wittiest, cleverest fellow 
 you ever met. It's most difficult to get him to come and stay a
 
 34 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 few days, as he's always with the Prince, or at the Duke of Straw- 
 bury's place, or with some of our greatest swells." 
 
 Mrs. Buddermer is a rather tall, elegant lady. There seems to 
 be a great deal of velvet and glitter about her, also lace. She is 
 the first person you see on entering the room, and the first person 
 who sees you. You recognise her voice as Mrs. Buddermer's, though 
 you've never heard it before. She is still a handsome woman. 
 Her eyes invite you to come up and talk as an intimate friend at 
 once. Mumley is caught. The Composer is caught. I am caught. 
 We are all caught in order, hooked, landed. She is the Trimmer — 
 very much the Trimmer — and we are the Eels. Hamlin Mumley, 
 who came in like a sulky lion, is going on like a silly lamb. 
 
 Pogmore the Composer, who assumed indifference (everyone 
 comes into the drawing-room in his own peculiar manner, both 
 before and after dinner), is now standing by Miss Buddermer, 
 pointing out the beauties of the garden. I want to take my turn 
 with Mrs. Buddermer, but Milburd is with her, and if I go up 
 now, he is sure to say something unpleasant, personal, about my- 
 self. He has no tact. Boodels, however, introduces me, and 
 leaves me. Mrs. Buddermer acknowledges my presence, but 
 resumes her conversation as if I were a parenthesis in the middle 
 of a sentence. Milburd ignores me. I feel inclined to walk 
 away, but then I am sure they would laugh at me behind my 
 back. What they are talking about, I haven't the slightest idea. 
 Boodels should have chosen another moment for introduction. 
 
 " I don't think he was always like that," she observes to 
 Milburd, taking up the thread of their previous conversation 
 which I had interrupted. 
 
 " Yes," replies Milburd, " after her escapade. You see it was a 
 very unpleasant affair." They don't even throw me a hint to 
 catch hold of. It's very awkward to feel " out of it," but I do. 
 
 " Of course. But it was her fault making it so public." 
 
 " Partly. How did you like the ponies 1" 
 
 " The creams 1 Oh, they were veiy pretty, but they were so 
 slow, and she used really to flog them unmercifully." 
 
 " She used. You know what they used to say in the Park? 
 jSTo ? Didn't you hear ? They used to call them the Whipped 
 Creams."
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 35 
 
 "The whipped creams!" repeats Mrs. Buddermer. " Oh, that's 
 very good." Then she laughs. She lias beautiful teeth. But 
 while she laiighs at Milburds wretched nonsense, she's only pre- 
 tending to laugh, I'm sure — she looks at me as much as to say, 
 " Do talk, do join and relieve me, I'm sure I'd much rather talk to 
 you than him, and if you begin perhaps he'll go." 
 
 As the Poet and the Composer, early next day, express a very 
 favourable opinion of Mrs. Buddermer, I wonder if they felt this 
 at/rait as well as myself. 
 
 " Mr. Boodels has no Lawn Tennis ground here, has he 1 " she 
 observes, as a chance to me. 
 
 " No, he hasn't. Do you play, Mrs. Buddermer 1 " I ask. 
 
 "A little. I began it last year." 
 
 " You don't play, do you ? " breaks in Milburd to me, loudly 
 and rudely. He has had his innings ; why can't he let me have 
 mine? I feel a presentiment that he intends saying something 
 objectionable so as to make me appear ridiculous before Mrs. 
 Buddermer. These are his tactics invariably. 
 
 " Not much," I reply, and am going to talk to Mrs. Buddermer on 
 more interesting subjects, when Milburd laughs loudly, and says — 
 
 " You ought to play regularly two hours a day. That would 
 fine you down a bit. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 If I retorted that " While I was playing Lawn Tennis he ought 
 to go to school and learn manners," he would reply, "Well, you 
 teach me — you're old enough." And I should be obliged to take it 
 all good-temperedly, although if for this sort of thing I could, with 
 moral and physical safety to myself, call Milburd out into the 
 garden, now, on the spot, and shoot him, I would. I don't mean 
 to say that I feel sanguinary and revengeful, but I should just 
 like to shoo! him sufficiently to give him a lesson; and I feel that if 
 every one could shoot Milburd whenever he was rudely personal, 
 he would soon be stopped without being destroyed, and Society 
 would be considerably the gainer. 
 
 The dinner-gong fortunately sounds at this moment. Pogmorc 
 has to escort Miss Buddermer, who is small, with light frizzy hair, 
 and a pair of eye-glasses which she is perpetually using. She is a 
 sharp, quick talker, and is far older in manner than her step- 
 mother. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Mr. Buddermer is portentous. He is bald. On the strength of 
 this he is accredited with intellectual superiority. Milburd says 
 " he is a very clear-headed man," but explains that he alludes to 
 the absence of hair. He has a philosophic beard, and if in classic 
 drapery, -would be an excellent model for Mr. Poynter, or Mr. 
 Alma Tadema. He is opinionated, and argumentative. He reads 
 evei'ything, and apparently learns leading articles off by heart. 
 He is impervious to Milburd's jokes. He is one of those nuisances 
 who will read the newspaper aloud to you at breakfast. He is 
 down first (that we found out on the morning after his arrival), 
 and seizes the Times, leaving only the advertisement portion on 
 the table. He destroys everyone's enjoyment of the news of the 
 day by telling it us beforehand, picking out bits here and there, 
 prefacing them with such exclamations as "Dear me!" " Only 
 imagine!" "Bless my soul!" or " That's very remarkable ! " or 
 " That's very strange ! " in order to induce someone to ask him 
 " What's very strange 1 " " What's very remarkable 1 " and so 
 forth, when he invariably reads the paragraph aloud in the most 
 impressive manner. 
 
 If (as happens after an experience of three mornings) no one 
 takes any notice of him, he begins, " There's a bad accident at 
 Doddlebrook Junction " — and then reads it ; or he observes, " I 
 don't think a Magistrate is justified in saying " — then comes the 
 Police News. Milburd does the state some service at the close of 
 the fourth breakfast by saying, "I wish you'd keep that to your- 
 self. You're so confidential. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Mr. Buddermer the Bald (the Poet calls him " Baldest the 
 Beautiful " ) takes the hint and the paper ; with which he dis- 
 appears every morning, and there is the greatest difficulty in 
 finding it again. This is his revenge. 
 
 The Bald One is now vice-chairman of the hospitable board at 
 Boodels.
 
 IN J COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 37 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE DINNER WITH THE NEW ARRIVALS THE VICE-CHAIR THE 
 
 FIRST TOPIC DINNER CANTATA — A SUGGESTION PRELUDE — 
 
 FINISH OF FIRST MOVEMENT NOTES ON THE WEATHER — SOME 
 
 OF OUR EXCITEMENTS — THE BLUSHER PLUNGING IN. 
 
 T dinner on this 
 first evening with 
 our new arrivals 
 the Buddermers, the 
 order of conversa- 
 tion is as follows : — 
 First, the weather, 
 by way of prelude 
 (as I subsequently 
 surest to Poo - - 
 more the Composer, 
 who might do worse 
 than write a Cantata 
 in Eight Courses and 
 a Dessert, entitled 
 Dinner, — to my 
 mind a most expansive idea), led off by Buddermer in the vice-chair, 
 looking as wise as he is bald. In his gravest and most philosophic 
 manner, after having settled himself on his seat and arranged his 
 napkin to his liking, Buddermer, with the air of a man of science 
 intensely interested in the probable forthcoming solution of a 
 problem which has been apparently disturbing his rest for days, 
 put this question to the Poet — 
 
 " What sort of weather have yon been having here lately ? " 
 In breathless suspense, and in strained silence, only broken by 
 the Butler handing the soup, we await Mumley's reply. We, as 
 it were, hang on the Poet's lips. We are all (I feel sure) trying 
 to recall what sort of weather it has been during the last three 
 days at Boodels, just as boys in a class, dreading individually lest
 
 38 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 the question put by the master to number one should be passed 
 on to them, scrub up their wits to try with all their might and 
 main to remember the right answer. We are all becoming 
 mentally confused as to whether it was or was not fine on 
 Monday last, and are inexpressibly relieved when Mumley, with 
 greater presence of mind than could have been expected of a Poet 
 in such an ordinary affair, deliberately replies— 
 " "Well, it has not been much to boast of." 
 
 Whereupon the strings of our tongues being loosened, we shake 
 our heads, the strings of our heads are at the same time loosened 
 also, and declare that Mumley is right, and that the weather has 
 not been much to boast of. Then Buddermer, in the vice-chair, 
 being a man of vast conversational resources, seizes the oppor- 
 tunity to tell us what sort of weather he had (from his account 
 you would think that Providence had arranged the weather for 
 his special annoyance) when he was in Wales this time last year ; 
 which reminiscence gives the cue for Mrs. Buddermer to observe 
 to Boodels, "You know Wales, of course, Mr. Boodels ? " and 
 Boodels, whose thoughts have been far from the subject of con- 
 versation, having been engaged in calculating whether the fish 
 would go all round or not, and whether he hadn't been helping 
 too plentifully, replies, " Yes — Wales. Oh yes, charming " — 
 sending off a plateful— "beautiful," — sending off another — "1 
 mean I did'nt like it at all — (to Spurling, the Butler), eh % one 
 too many? — oh, that's all right," — and he takes the extra 
 plate himself, rejoicing. Then there is a pause. Everybod}' 
 wondering to themselves what everybody else would like to talk 
 about. 
 
 Pogmore the Composer finding the silence oppressive, comes 
 out with, " So you didn't like Wales, eh, Boodels 1 " 
 
 But the Butler is whispering something in his master's ear, 
 and there being nothing in Pogmore's observation calling for 
 immediate attention, no one takes any notice of it, except Mil- 
 burd, who looks up at him pitifully, touches his forehead, and 
 then resumes his eating, whereat Pogmore looks angry, colours 
 up, is just going to say something sharp, but thinking better of 
 it, dashes in again at a remaining bit of fish, and we relapse into 
 silence.
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUHE. 39 
 
 Murmurings of " No, thank yon," and " Thank yon, yes," to 
 the Butler's assistant (a hireling) going the rounds with sherry, 
 set us talking again. 
 
 Mrs. Buddermer leads off with a note of admiration — "What a 
 very pretty place you have here, Mr. Boodels ! " 
 
 Boodels, pleased, admits, diffidently, that it is a pretty place. 
 His smile of satisfaction expresses, "Yes, Nature and myself have 
 done it. ' Nature and Boodels ' is the firm." 
 
 Mrs. Buddermer continues, "And at the end of your garden I 
 think I saw a considerable piece of water. Is it a river ? " 
 
 "No," Boodels explains, "it's not a river. It's fed from the 
 river. It's a pond." 
 
 I know, and we, the habitues, all know the remark that is sure 
 to come from some one of the new arrivals. We eye one another 
 as much as to say " You'll see," and are silent. 
 
 It comes gravely and oracularly from Buddermer the Wise 
 in the vice-chair, or in the Wise-chair, at the end of the 
 table. 
 
 " There ought to be a lot of fish in your Pond, Boodels." 
 
 This makes Buddermer one of us ; he has made the remark, 
 and we can now talk to him in a brotherly spirit. 
 
 This observation about "fish in the Pond," is the kev to the 
 freedom of Boodels. We are all down on Buddermer the Bald at 
 once. We tell him of the Trimmer and its marvels ; Ave recount 
 wonderful stories of the Eel that must be seen to be appreciated, 
 and which lias never been properly appreciated, in consequence of 
 never having been seen. Buddermer bites ; even he, the stoic, 
 the grave, the bald, the wise, even he becomes excited, and, but 
 for the decencies of society, he would rush from the table down to 
 the Pond, and set the Trimmer. The Pond certainly has a mar- 
 vellous attraction. If, one day, from that Pond should arise a 
 Nix (which does not mean a Nothing, but a sort of German fresh- 
 water Mermaiden), who should captivate a visitor, perhaps Bud- 
 dermer the Bald, and descend with him, fascinated, to the bottom 
 of the Pond, never to return, or to return only once, when there 
 would be such a row with Mrs. Buddermer (who would naturally 
 want to know what had become of him lately) as would either 
 send him back posthaste to the Nix, or keep him terrified on land
 
 40 QUITE' AT HOME. 
 
 until the Nix came to fetch him — and then — oh, what a scene ! — 
 to he described hereafter appropriately on the piano by the 
 Composer, and celebrated in verse by the Poet. But this is 
 romance. 
 
 Then Mrs. Buddermer winds up this new movement in the 
 dinner cantata with, 
 
 " I hope it will be fine enough for us to go out after dinner, 
 and walk do\on to the Pond." 
 
 And Miss Buddermer, who is shy and blushing and jerky, and 
 who hasn't spoken as yet, but who has been looking about her 
 through her little eye-glasses like a frightened fawn, or as a 
 frightened fawn would if it had eye-glasses and were disturbed 
 while feeding, even she observes nervously to me, " Yes, I should 
 like to walk down to the Pond." 
 
 Boodels is afraid that it's not warm enough for al fresco amuse- 
 ments after dinner. 
 
 While they are discussing this, and going over the old subject 
 of the Trimmer and the Eel, in which, Buddermer, who gives out 
 that he is a fisherman, evinces an immense interest — [By the way, 
 all wise-looking, grave, bald men profess themselves fishermen ; 
 they disappear at certain seasons of the year in order to keep up 
 the illusion, generally returning very much sunburnt, and with 
 fiercedooking imitation insects of unnatural patterns, more calcu- 
 lated to frighten the fish into fits than catch them, complicated 
 tackle, nasty awkward hooks, brown baskets and straps — but no 
 fish~\ — while they are discussing these important piscatorial 
 matters, and while Miss Buddermer, the nervously near-sighted, 
 and myself are privately and separately determining what we 
 shall begin to talk about to one another, I will just enter a few 
 notes a propos of that most important subject in a Country House, 
 viz., the Weather, 
 
 I often see in the paper a heading, " The Weather and the 
 Crops." At Boodels we have no crops, but plenty of weather. 
 
 Our first excitement in the day has invariably been, and will 
 ever be, to go down to the Pond and see what the Trimmer has 
 done in the night ; for the Trimmer, being a disappointed, rakish 
 kind of fishing apparatus, does nothing all day, in consequence of 
 having been " out all night." The Trimmer, ajjparently, while
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 41 
 
 out all night, generally shows signs of having got into bad com- 
 pany, as it has invariably been robbed of its bait, and presents 
 itself to our eyes, under a very careless and untidy aspect. But 
 that the bait has been taken by fish, proves incontestably that 
 there must be fish in the Pond to take it. If what the old 
 proverb says about the sea is true, viz., " There are as good fish 
 in it as ever came out of it," then how excellent must the fish in 
 Boodel's Pond be that have never come out of it at all ! 
 
 But the visit to the Pond is not our host's first excitement. No, 
 his is the state of the weather. Before he enters the breakfast- 
 room, he stops before the glass in the hall, and taps it sharply ; 
 sometimes frowningly, sometimes smilingly, sometimes with an 
 air of hopeless resignation. Then we, in the breakfast-room, 
 inquire after the glass, more as a matter of politeness, as one 
 might inquire after the health of Boodels' grandmother or other 
 relative, than from any confidence in the meteorological sound- 
 ness of the barometer. And Boodels replies reservedly that " it's 
 going up," or "going clown," or that "it hasn't moved," or he 
 looks suspiciously at Milburd, and wants to know " if anyone's 
 been touching the glass," which implies either that something 
 awful in storms is being threatened on an evidently fine day, or 
 that the index marks "set fair," when the rain is coming down in 
 torrents. Milburd, in an injured tone, assures Boodels that he 
 wouldn't think of doing such a stupid thing, and Boodels sits 
 down to his egg and toast with a very incredulous air. 
 
 The next excitement for Boodels (after a fierce tirade against 
 Buddermcr for having disappeared with the Times, the Telegraph, 
 and two amusing local papers, with which literature in his hand, 
 and in his pockets, we generally, after a hot pui'suit, run him to 
 earth in a small secluded arbour, at the end of the kitchen-garden) 
 is again in connection with the weather. He retires to the Library, 
 and locks himself in. When he re-appears, it is with a Weather 
 Chart, which is a piece of paper, scored all over with musical lines, 
 over which runs a zigzag kind of continuous crotchet, indicating 
 (according to Boodels) what direction the wind has been taking 
 since yesterday morning. We then walk out, and look up at the 
 weathercock, which is a perfect genius of eccentricity. I make 
 my own private annotations and remarks, They are as follows: —
 
 42 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Barometer. 
 
 Weathercock. 
 
 Actual Weather. 
 
 Fair. 
 Rain. 
 
 Stormy. 
 Fine. 
 
 N. and N.W., then suddenly 
 8., then S.E., but chiefly 
 N. and N.W. 
 
 E. N.E. Round again to 
 S.W. Round again to 
 N.E. Generally eccentric, 
 but chiefly E. 
 
 1ST., N.E., N.W. Pretty steady 
 to-day : probably tired of 
 its eccentricity yesterday. 
 
 The Arrow going round and 
 round, then stopping, then 
 waggling convulsively, 
 then round again quickly, 
 like the needle on a game 
 of chance making the circle 
 of black and red. 
 
 Rain ; dull and muggy. 
 
 Hot. Our best summer day. 
 Lovely sunset. Hardly any 
 breeze to speak of where toe 
 are, but then the Weather- 
 cock is some forty feet above 
 us. 
 
 Sun shining ; very hot ; scarcely 
 any air. First appearance 
 of wasps ; birds singing ; 
 insects humming ; flies on 
 Pond ; fish leaping out to 
 catch them. Trimmer un- 
 moved. 
 
 Steady downpour of rain, so 
 that you can hardly see 
 through it. 
 
 Evidently, as regards the Barometer and the Weather-cock, two 
 of a trade never agree. 
 
 The climate at Boodels is remarkable. When it is hot, it is in- 
 tolerably hot. The atmosphere, laden with scents of flowers, is so 
 heavy, that the visitors stretch out their hands to push it away 
 from them, and make a hole in it for breathing through • after 
 this effort they lie on the grass and gasp for breath, like so many 
 freshly-caught fish on the bank of a stream. They drag them- 
 selves to the Pond, in the hope of a breeze. But the Pond on 
 such a day appears to have become too lazy even to ripple, and is 
 stagnant. A scum has collected on the surface, and there is most 
 decidedly an odour, an unpleasant odour. Boodels, on this being 
 hinted to him, resents it as a cruel aspersion on his Pond, intended 
 to take away its character. He says, 
 
 " If there is a smell " (and he doesn't smell it, he says), " it is 
 only vegetable, not animal, matter ; and decayed vegetable matter 
 in a Pond is, as every chemist will tell you," he adds emphatically, 
 " rather beneficial to health than not." His guests say,
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 43 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! Is it ? " 
 
 But they avoid the Pond on these peculiarly beneficial days. 
 
 If it's so remarkably healthy, Boodels might make a good thing 
 by turning his house into a Pond-Cure Establishment during the 
 summer. 
 
 When it's not oppressively hot at Boodels in July and August, 
 it is so warm and humid, that the subject of conversation is the 
 value of certain mineral waters considered as medicines for torpid 
 livers and bilious headaches. The male guests try to rouse them- 
 selves, and go for walks (there are no games at Boodels — Boodels 
 not playing any himself), and the female guests (we are divided 
 like an opera chorus) pass their day in "lying down," taking tea 
 in their rooms, and reading novels. Fortunately Milburd has dis- 
 covered a friend of his near at hand at whose house is a billiard- 
 table. Boodels is glad to hear of it, and informs his guests of 
 other people in the neighbourhood who have lawn-tennis grounds 
 and bowling-greens, and who will be only too pleased to see them. 
 
 Further Notes. — I remark that the morning in this country- 
 house (and in most country-houses that I've visited) commences 
 with the sound of laborious pumping, as if a wing of the house 
 were on fire and the engines had suddenly arrived. Even the 
 pump, suffering from the climate at Boodels, has become congested, 
 and endures agonies every morning. Its last hydraulic groan is a 
 sigh of relief, when its tortures are at an end. 
 
 A little later, I see the result of all this pumping in my bath, 
 where the water is of a light-brown colour with little bits of stick 
 in it, like weak cold tea with a sediment. And about this water 
 there is a fusty sort of smell, which clings to my sponge for days 
 after, and is highly suggestive of the Pond on one of those 
 "scummy " days, which Boodels declares are so highly salubrious. 
 
 If the Eel were to appear in my bath one morning I should not 
 be surprised. 
 
 These ;ire all subjects of conversation with which I can amuse 
 Miss Buddermer, as a stranger to the place at dinner. With one 
 exception already recorded, she has not as yet spoken, but has 
 been sitting very upright, very forward, on her chair (not being 
 otherwise in the least "forward,") and has been occasionally
 
 44 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 glancing out of the nearer eye, nervously, sideways at me, and 
 simpering. 
 
 " Simpering " is the word. Till now, often as I have heard the 
 expression, I have never realised its meaning. Miss Buddermer 
 simpers. When not glancing sideways, nor simpering, nor eating, 
 she is engaged in making jerky furtive investigations into what 
 everybody is doing all round the table, and into all corners of the 
 room through her eye-glass. When she uses this, she puckers 
 up her eyes so closely as almost to close them. She " squinnies " 
 through them ; that is the word. She squinnies and simpers. I 
 am wondering wdiat topic will interest her, when, as a preparatory 
 note to the key in which I am going to pitch my conversation, I 
 cough. This startles her, she drops her glasses, blushes, regards 
 me askance, blushes more, and then simpers foolishly, as though I 
 had intended something rather risque by my cough. Evidently 
 to prevent misconstruction I must begin. I dash in with " Are 
 you fond of the country, Miss Buddermer 1 " at which she blushes 
 more than ever. In fact her face is suffused with blushes. If any 
 observant stranger were to look at us two, now, at this moment, 
 he could not avoid coming to the very natural conclusion that I 
 was a villain of the deepest dye, who had, in a low tone, uttered 
 something horribly rude, which has mortally wounded her maiden 
 modesty, and that she is on the point of flying from her ill- 
 mannered persecutor by quitting the table. The latter effect 
 would come from her sitting so far forward, and so rigidly upright. 
 I almost feel inclined to apologise, and to whisper, " Pardon me if 
 I have unintentionally offended you, but I only said, ' Are you 
 fond of the country 1 ' " 
 
 I am pausing for a reply, but I can't help thinking that if 
 Boodels has asked as one of the guests, a girl who is bent on mis- 
 understanding everything, and taking offence at nothing, we shall 
 have a nice time of it. I should call her The Blusher. If I were 
 a conquering hero like the late Iron Duke, this could be a new 
 historical picture for the Boodels Gallery, recording my introduc- 
 tion to Miss Buddermer, as " The Meeting of Wellington and 
 Blusher." 
 
 She is catching the Speaker's eye ; mine, sideways.
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 45 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE DINNER PARTY AT BOODELS — ARISTOCRATIC ANECDOTES —TRUMP 
 
 CARDS — THE BLUSHER — THE GAME PLAYED OUT A NEW TOPIC 
 
 — THE GRAMPUS. 
 
 HE DINNER 
 
 progresses. Mrs. 
 Budderner regales 
 Boodels with tales 
 of the aristocracy. 
 I am able to catch 
 a few words here 
 and there. She has, 
 I notice, the art of 
 ascertaining, first of 
 all, whether her 
 listener knows any- 
 thing at all about 
 the subject on which 
 she wishes to talk, 
 and then the 
 amount of her infor- 
 mation and gracious 
 confidences is in inverse proportion to the extent of the other's 
 knowledge. 
 
 When Mrs. Buddermer is perfectly sure that her audience is 
 utterly unacquainted with the people and the style of life that 
 form the staple of her conversation, then their ignorance is her 
 bliss, and she pretends to assume that they do know as much as 
 she does (which is probably true), so as to secure their interest, 
 and their vote afterwards, when she is absent. 
 
 " We couldn't," she imparts in confidence to Boodels, " we 
 couldn't, you hnow, go to Lady Mountgarrct's this season — dear 
 old thing? You know how eccentric she is." 
 
 Boodels bows affirmatively, though I am convinced he is as pro-
 
 46 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 foundly ignorant of who or what the lady in question is, as I am 
 myself, or, perhaps, as Mrs. Buddermer is, who is perfectly happy 
 to receive her information about the aristocracy, at fourth hand, 
 from dapper little Captain Hangeron, who frequently favours them 
 with his company at dinner, and from old Lady Tattel, who dines 
 out on her title every night of her life, and whose anecdotes of 
 high Society are the delight and glory of the Buddermers' select 
 circle at Bavswater. 
 
 " She has," continues Mrs. Buddermer, still speaking of Lady 
 Mountgarret, inclining herself slightly towards Boodels to impress 
 him with the notion that this is for his ear alone, — " she has such 
 very odd people about her now, you know, ever since poor Lord 
 Dummelin made that fearful faux, pas, which everyone was talking 
 about the whole season, — weren't you dreadfully astonished when 
 you heard of it 1 " she asks Boodels. 
 
 Boodels doesn't like to admit, point blank, that he is so utterly 
 out of the world as not even to have heard a whisper of what 
 "everyone has been talking about the whole season." So he 
 replies, with some diffidence — 
 
 " The fact is, Mrs. Buddermer, I live so much in the country 
 that I am not in the way of hearing all these scandals." Here he 
 thinks, he has shown sufficient humility, and accordingly retrieves 
 his character by adding, " But I recollect having heard something 
 about the affair you mention." 
 
 If Boodels means that he recollects having just this minute heard 
 of it, for the first time, from Mrs. Buddermer, he has given us 
 what might be termed a colourable imitation of the truth ; but if 
 he intends to convey the idea that he had been, at some time or 
 other during the season, informed of all the details of the lament- 
 able scandal in question, it is, to say the least of it, a suggestio 
 falsi for the sake of humouring Mrs. Buddermer, keeping up his 
 own reputation " as a man who could go into the best society in 
 the land if he would only take the trouble to step out," and also 
 with a view to assisting the conversation. 
 
 " I don't know what Society's coming to, I'm sure ! " exclaims 
 Mrs. Buddermer, throwing up her eyes and wringing her hands in 
 elegant despair, " as dear old Tatt — Lady Tattel you know," — 
 Boodels bows and nods, and steals a glance at his guests as much
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 47 
 
 as to say, " Yes, yes, Lady Tattel, old Tatt of course. / know 
 what she's talking about — bless you, I'm acquainted with all these 
 swells, only I don't mention 'em before such fellows as you and 
 Milbuid. "Well," continues Mrs. Buddermer, "dear old Tatt 
 who was dining with us the other day, when that naughty old 
 man who knows everything he shouldn't — Lord Baxtayres, you 
 know, I mean him, of course, everybody knows dear old Baxy, as 
 we call him." 
 
 Boodels nods affirmatively, and Mrs. Buddermer proceeds with 
 her account of some terrific scandal, in which the highest per- 
 sonages in the kingdom are implicated. "We listen, we all listen, 
 we can't help it, breathlessly. Even Milburd is awed. Then, 
 strange to say, everyone gradually joins in the conversation 
 with an anecdote of some person of quality, with whom he (the 
 speaker) is on the most familiar terms, and of whom, up to this 
 moment, when the opportunity for producing him as though he 
 were a trump card only to be played at a right moment has 
 arrived, he has been totally oblivious. 
 
 Buddermer the Bald plays into his wife's hands by pretending to 
 deprecate her mentioning what he hints she had heard only in 
 confidence, whereupon Mrs. Buddermer retorts that surely they 
 are now among friends who probably have heard most of the 
 details (of whatever scandal they may be talking about at the 
 moment), and she protests she thinks it better to state the facts, 
 than to allow a false impression to get abroad. Buddermer shrugs 
 his shoulders, elevates his eyebrows, and gravely strokes his beard, 
 in the character of a Philosopher who, like a Stylites on a pillar, 
 could afford to look down on these mundane absurdities and give 
 them their proper value. 
 
 Miss Buddermer becomes more and more nervous. In trying to 
 keep up an under-current of conversation, so as to avoid the 
 aristocratic whirlpool into which everyone is Vicing drawn, I ask 
 her, "I suppose you've been engaged every night during the 
 season ?" whereat she blushes so deeply, that it quite pains me, 
 and I feel bound to explain that what I meant was, '• Have you 
 been out to parties every night?" To which she replies, simper- 
 ingly, "Yes." Then with her profile towards me she regards me 
 timidly out of one eye, (this is a wonderful movement of hers, and
 
 48 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 suggests a mixture of shyness and slyness), and with a little 
 nervous titter asks, " Are you fond of dancing ? " Then she looks 
 away from me as if she'd said something, oh so bold and so 
 dreadful, that once more I am quite pained, and I wait for her 
 profile to come round to me again in order to give this one-sided 
 view of her my reply. For a second she raises her glasses, looks 
 at everybody comprehensively, but wonderingly, as if astonished 
 to find them all still there since she last looked for them, and then 
 as if startled by my cough, by which I had intended to attract her 
 attention, she drops the glasses as though she'd been shot (she is 
 perpetually acting the suddenly stricken deer), and the simpering 
 profile is again timidly listening to my reply, which, as my lips for 
 this especial conversational purpose only, are for falsehood framed, 
 is to the effect " that I'm very fond of dancing ; but it depends on 
 my partner." 
 
 Whereat she blushes so nervously and looks so abashed, that a 
 casual observer would swear I had just proposed to her. Milburd, 
 from the opposite side, breaks off in the middle of the general 
 conversation about the Aristocracy to say to me, " Oh ! you sly 
 dog ! I'm looking at you ! " which makes me blush in my turn, 
 and brings us (my partner and myself) into the stream of conver- 
 sation for safety. 
 
 By this time the game of the Aristocratic Anecdote has pro- 
 gressed wonderfully ; every one is doing his best to score. Boodels 
 has played a Baronet, which has been trumped by a Literary Lord 
 produced by Hamlin Mumley the Poet. Pogmore then led a 
 Roman Prince of great musical reputation who had once dined 
 with him, and who knew the whole truth about what had happened 
 at the celebrated gambling club in the Harz Mountains when Lady 
 Emma came to grief, — " The origin," puts in Milburd, " of the new 
 slang about ' Woe, Emma ! ' " 
 
 (But Milburd is passed over as though he had not spoken, and 
 he has to content himself with winking at me and laughing ; but 
 I owe him one, and pretend not to notice him, as though he had 
 said something too vulgar to be tolerated for a moment. As a 
 rule, it is dangerous to trifle with Milburd, as you never know 
 how he will retort, but now it can be done with safety, as I am 
 with a respectable majority.)
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 4<» 
 
 And when Pogmore has finished this marvellous story in which 
 Royal personages from all countries figure, there is a short pause for 
 breath, and I with some diffidence play a Duke whom I had once 
 met quite pleasantly and agreeably at somebody's Club one evening, 
 and who wouldn't shake hands with me when I came across him 
 again in the Lobby of the Opera, and I had to explain to him who 
 I was, and why I wanted to shake hands with him. I then 
 mentally swore a terrible oath that I would never speak to a Duke 
 again — unless a Duke first spoke to me. However, he is conver- 
 sationally useful now, and, so to speak, I lug in the Duke by the 
 heels. I play my trump thus : — 
 
 " I remember having heard something about what you've just 
 told us," this to Pogmore, who is pleased at any corroboration, 
 •" from the Duke of Dulwich, with whom I was supping "— I choose 
 " supping " as suggestive of the snug and familiar terms I would 
 have them suppose me to be on with his Grace — "the other 
 ovening. The Duke — he's a capital fellow, old Dulwich, you 
 know " — I say, addressing myself directly to Boodels, whom I ;it 
 once implicate in the swindle ; " you met him with me at 
 Boulogne, and we all went to the fair together, and did the round- 
 abouts." Boodels mutters something vaguely in the affirmative, 
 and forthwith plays into my hands as an accomplice. 
 
 "Well," says Milburd, loudly, when the audience is gradually 
 recovering itself after this douche of Duke, "Well, I don't think," 
 —he is speaking in a serious tone, most unusual with him, — 
 " you're right — at least, not from what the Duke said to me." I 
 look up. What does he mean? Does he know the Duke — really ? 
 " He always says what he really means to me" continues Milburd, 
 " as I've known him for years. His son, Earlswood, was at Eton 
 with me. And whenever I have a spare week in September, I run 
 down to Colney Castle for the shooting. It's the jolliest house to 
 stay at anywhere — except, perhaps, Sandringham." 
 
 No, no! this is going too far. The Buddermers are gasping 
 Old Buddermer is staring reverentially at Milburd, as though he 
 were meditating going down on his knees and worshipping him. 
 Boodels is taken aback, though, in consequence of what Mrs. Bud- 
 dermer has said before dinner about having met Milburd at Lord 
 Brikfield's, he is not absolutely incredulous. Mumley is bothered, 
 
 E
 
 50 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 and Pogmore would rather believe than not. I won't. I say, 
 boldly, — 
 
 " Touve not been to Sandringham." 
 
 Which seems to shock everybody, specially, to my astonishment, 
 Boodels, who asks severely, "Why not?" adding, "If Milburd 
 knows the Prince, he would be compelled to accept his invitation. 
 Besides, I recollect some years ago " — and here comes out the real 
 secret of Boodels backing up Milburd. 
 
 He has a romantic, but an old story, (which I have never 
 believed, and which I am convinced, he invented), about his. 
 meeting the Queen somewhere in the Home Park by accident, 
 about his being introduced to the Princess Mary of Cambridge, 
 about his requesting them to take their pick out of a pottle 
 of strawberries, which he was eating all by himself under a tree, 
 and how they laughed, and how he laughed, and how they 
 invited him to the Castle, and how some of the Royal children had 
 subsequently recognised him, merely from her Gracious Majesty's 
 description, and how they had nodded to him out of a private box, 
 and so forth, which being quite the trump card, wins the game, 
 finishes it, and nous revenons a nos moutons, though the mutton 
 having vanished, we are now at the chickens. 
 
 We all feel that our powers of invention and faculties of credulity 
 have been exposed for the last half hour to too severe a strain. 
 " By one consent," as the Old Hundredth has it, we drop the con- 
 versation, and Hamlin Mumley seeing that there is a chance for 
 him to air his opinions on English Poets, leads up to what he him- 
 self is going to say, by artfully asking Buddermer the Bald if he 
 has read Swinburne's new prose book 1 
 
 Hamlin Mumley the Poet little knows the man whom he has 
 singled out as fittest to hold the stirrup for him (Mumley) to mount 
 his Pegasus. 
 
 Miss Buddermer, blushing and all profile, says aside to me, 
 •' Mr. Mumley has just given Papa what he likes to talk about." 
 
 I am all attention. 
 
 Buddermer the Bald pulls himself together, clears his throat, 
 arranges his napkin, strokes his beard, and commences. 
 
 ■'Swinburne, as a writer of prose " 
 
 Here the Butler begs pardon, and sets before him a couple of
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 51 
 
 chickens to carve. Buddermer nods at the chickens, and recom- 
 mences : — 
 
 " Swinburne, as a writer of prose, is perhaps as perfect a 
 master " 
 
 Here he suddenly starts and dashes his right hand upwards 
 towards his bald head, as if about to brush off an irritating fly. It 
 isn't a fly, however, that has disturbed him, but the hireling 
 waiter v v ~ ^as a grampus-like habit of breathing heavily on you 
 through his nose, which must be peculiarly refreshing on the top 
 of Buddermer's head. 
 
 " Swinburne is, I was saying, as perfect a master " 
 
 " 'Ock or champagne, Sir?" inquires the hireling Grampus confi- 
 dentially in his ear, as if this inquiry must be entirely between 
 themselves and go no further. 
 
 " 'Ock," replies Buddermer, unconsciously imitating the un- 
 educated Grampus ; then correcting himself, he substitutes " No ; 
 champagne please." Then, as the Waiter pours out the wine, he 
 
 resumes, " a perfect master of the English Eh, what is 
 
 it ? " This, rather irritably, to the Butler, who is at his left 
 elbow. 
 
 " Mrs. Buddermer will trouble you, Sir." 
 
 From Buddermer's face at this moment you can gather that 
 Mrs. Buddermer does trouble him considerably. He wrinkles his 
 forehead, unwrinkles it, then takes up the carving knife and fork, 
 and just asMumley thinks he sees a chance for what he is burning 
 to say, Buddermer takes up the thread of his discourse while 
 commencing to carve the chickens. 
 
 K 2
 
 52 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER — THE FUNNY MAN A NUISANCE EXCITEMENTS 
 
 THE COMMENCEMENT OF A MODERN SYMPOSIUM AN ENTIRELY 
 
 NEW CHARACTER. 
 
 KEVERTHELESS 
 the Poet Hamlin Mum- 
 ley has no chance against 
 Buddermer the Bald at 
 Dinner, when the latter has 
 commenced on one of his 
 pet subjects, " the Prose 
 of Modern Poets," handi- 
 capped as he is, too, by 
 having to carve the fowls. 
 Poor Mumley, who has let 
 himself in for it, out of a 
 desire to ventilate his own 
 opinions, is compelled to 
 listen, and though he 
 makes a few bold attempts 
 to insert the thin edge of 
 his conversational Avedge 
 between the jointings of 
 a chicken, yet they are 
 eminently unsuccessful, as 
 Buddermer has one eye 
 fixed on him, and is down 
 on him, at once, with the 
 continuation of a suspended sentence, Avhich it would have been 
 the height of rudeness on Mumley's part to interrupt. 
 
 As Buddermer's views (which he has lately adopted from some 
 magazine or critical review) are diametrically opposed to Mumley's, 
 the latter is actually writhing at being forced out of mere polite- 
 ness to hold his tongue, while Buddermer flows on with what
 
 IN A COUNT BY HOUSE. 53 
 
 Mumley characterises very strongly afterwards, and in confidence, 
 as " dash'd nonsense." 
 
 "He was talking," growls Mumley, "dash'd nonsense about 
 Poet's prose." 
 
 "Yes," I reply, "as you couldn't have your say, we had all the 
 prose and none of the cons." 
 
 Nobody laughs very much at this ; certainly not so much as it 
 deserves, and Milburd doesn't laugh at all. He pretends to be 
 looking away and thinking of something else, and he, rudely 
 (rudely to my mind, because I should have liked the present 
 company to have discussed whether a better thing than this of 
 mine about prose and cons had ever been attributed to Sheridan, 
 Swift, or Sidney Smith), changes the subject by abruptly inquiring 
 of Boodels, " Is there much game about here ? " 
 
 If Milburd himself had uttered this jew de mot (or this bon mot 
 whatever it may be, perhaps a little of both, say a bon jeu de mot) 
 of mine, he would have roared with laughter, himself, first of all, 
 having dug two persons in the ribs, and asked them " if they saw 
 it, eh 1 " then have explained it, laughing heartily all the while, 
 to two more, and finally taken me (probably) by the arm, walked 
 me into the recess of the window, and have repeated the joke, 
 pointing out to me how really good it was, and how it didn't lose 
 by repetition. 
 
 And yet, when he hears a joke, a really good one, a witticism 
 in fact from anyone else, specially from an intimate friend 
 (I believe he detests all his intimate friends) he perversely 
 wont see anything in it ; or, if forced to give it his attention by 
 reason of being asked by some one, a stranger of course, whether 
 tluxt (whatever it was) of So-and-so's wasn't very good, he either 
 pretends that he hasn't heard it, or that he has heard it before, 
 when it was first said, originally, and so much better by somebody 
 else ; and if the jeu de mot is absolutely and undeniably new, 
 Milburd will wink at the perpetrator and say, " Hallo ! here we 
 are again ! Joe Miller : page three hundred and two, number six 
 thousand and eighty-four in the books ! " 
 
 Unfortunately Milburd having a reputation as an authority, 
 the company will, one after another, observe, " Indeed ! I did 
 not know it was old ; " then, " I fancy I've heard something
 
 54 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 like it before," and finally everybody will actually arrive at 
 remembering it distinctly, being led thereto by Milburd. The 
 consequence is that the unhappy person who has said this 
 genuine witticism, which would have been like a thing of 
 beauty and a joy for ever in any society where Milburd wasn't 
 present, will be henceforth looked down upon as that most 
 unpardonable of all social impostors, the man who sets himself up 
 for a humorist above his fellows, and struts in plumes of borrowed 
 wit. 
 
 Milburd, as I have intimated, has been asked by Boodels because 
 he is popularly supposed to have such an inexhaustible flow of 
 spirits, and in a Country-House " keeps the whole thing going " 
 —but it strikes me that he " keeps himself going " by shutting 
 up every one else in the most brutally loud manner, roaring 
 and laughing, while he morally treads on your toes and gags you. 
 In fact, if one has a good thing to say for the appreciation of the 
 company, the best way (happy thought this) is to tell it to 
 Milburd alone first, secure his approbation and " Hall Mark," as 
 it were, then to lead up to it at dinner, and get Milburd to tell 
 it, when one can seize the opportunity of correcting him in 
 details. It is dangerous to try this more than once, as even 
 in such a case Milburd will betray his trust, and when you 
 (who told him the story) say, "Milburd, tell them what I was 
 telling you this afternoon— you'll do it better than I shall," he 
 will reply, "Well, no one could do it worse, because I really did 
 not see the point of it." " But," you retort, " you laughed ! " 
 " I laughed," he will return, coolly, " because I thought it was a 
 practical joke of yours to mystify me. I didn't think it was a 
 story at all." This induces every one to cry out, " Oh, do 
 tell it ! " 
 
 When, if you comply, Milburd will interrupt, pretending to 
 elucidate the gist of the story by means of cross-questioning, 
 or he will undertake to tell the joke himself as you told it him, 
 and thus make it intensely stupid by carefully omitting the point 
 and the raison d'etre of the jest. 
 
 , Milburd may, we all, I believe, gradually agree, be " the life 
 and soul of a Country-House," but it must be when there is 
 nobody there but himself.
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 55 
 
 We have two new excitements now besides the Trimmer, which 
 is set daily by somebody, and watched with the usual sad interest 
 from the bank by everybody. Capital opportunity for joke here — 
 interest from the Bank — which would have set an ordinary com- 
 pany in a roar if Milburd hadn't been present. In his absence 
 somebody would have said it, and we should all have enjoyed 
 the harmless pleasantry ; but now, no one dares to joke ; we wait 
 for his (Milburd's) jokes as the professional side-splitter, and, 
 if he is silent, we are gloomy. And this one of the effects of 
 Boodels having asked a man down here who is " so full of spirits, 
 who will keep everybody going, and be the life and soul of the 
 party." ("Keep everybody going wrong," I think to myself.) 
 And Pogmore the Composer, who resents Milburd's constantly 
 recurring chaff about the Oratorio of The Ark, and in whom I 
 confide, agrees with me. 
 
 One of the two new excitements, alluded to above, a Hare, 
 which comes out on the front lawn at breakfast-time and takes its 
 meals in a painfully disturbed state of mind. Any sound at any 
 distance disturbs that Hare. He nibbles, and runs away, and 
 hides himself among the bushes. Presently, out he comes again 
 very cautiously, as if he were trespassing, looks round, erects his 
 ears, sits bolt upright like his toy counterpart that plays a drum 
 with his forepaws, decides that it's all right, and nibbles again. 
 His action suggests the idea of his being uncertain about the 
 arrival of some train (behind the laurel bushes) by which he has 
 to go ; this uncertainty weighs on his mind, and causes him to 
 just take a nibble, then run off to see if the train has come in, 
 then return, listen with ears erect to be quite sure that he doesn't 
 hear a bell, or ;i whistle, and then having satisfied himself of this, 
 he squats down again and nibbles hurriedly. 
 
 We watch him from the window. 
 
 " I say, Boodels," roars Milburd, "1 came down here for fresh 
 air, and there's the same hare here every morning ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Eh, don't you see, old boy '( Eh ?" this to Buddermer, who is on 
 the point of giving us an extract from the Newspaper. Buddermer 
 not liking to be dug in the ribs, says, with a sort of grunt, " Yes, 
 / see — hare — very good ! " when Milburd repeats it to everybody, 
 still laughing loudly himself. Once, and once only, Buddermer
 
 56 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 the Bald, emboldened, perhaps, by some more than ordinarily 
 strong tea at breakfast, comes out of his stronghold (being ordin- 
 arily entombed behind Saturday Reviews and Literary and Scien- 
 tific Journals), to attack Milburd. Expecting the support of the 
 company, Buddermer looks up from his Times, and says, " Mr. 
 Milburd, you shouldn't laugh at your own wit ! " 
 
 " It would be a precious long time before I had the chance of 
 laughing at any of yours," is Milburd's rough and ready retort — a 
 retort which explodes in a tremendous ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Buddermer elevates his eyebrows and looks round on the com- 
 pany as if for assistance, but, meeting with only a frown and a re- 
 proving shake of the head from his wife, he succumbs, and revenges 
 himself on society generally by waiting until everyone is engaged 
 in conversation at the breakfast-table, when he walks off" with all 
 the newspapers, and cannot be found anywhere for the rest of the 
 morning. 
 
 On this occasion even Boodels is compelled to remonstrate with 
 
 the bald philosopher when he turns up again at dinner, smiling 
 
 blandly as if utterly unconscious of the wrong he has done 
 
 to us. 
 
 One of Boodels' strong points is the social gathering in the 
 
 tmoking-room in the evening. With our present party — a Com- 
 poser, a Poet, a Funny Man, a Philosopher and myself (as a link 
 in the conversation — the Linkman) we ought, he says, to enjoy a 
 real symposium. Ladies are admitted if they like to come, and to 
 stop there as long as they care to remain. 
 
 Hitherto before the Ladies and the philosophic Buddermer had 
 appeared, Ave have lounged silently, yawned (much to Boodels' 
 disgust), and dropped off to bed one by one, professing a regard for 
 health and early hours in the country. Now, however, there is a 
 chance for some really intellectual conversation, and for two 
 evenings we have discussed poetry, music, and literature, with 
 Mumley, Pogmore and Buddermer as chief debaters. Long after 
 Miss Buddermer has retired, Mrs. Buddermer settles down in an 
 arm-chair, and is soon absorbed in a novel. She generally closes 
 volume the third (her average is a novel a day) sharply, and saying 
 to her husband, " Well, don't sit up all night talking," wishes the 
 company good night and leaves us.
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 57 
 
 To-night Milburd, who has gone ont after dinner to play 
 billiards with a friend, has received permission from Boodels to 
 bring his friend back with him. Being a neighbour recently 
 arrived, Boodels is delighted to make his acquaintance. Milburd 
 has told us that we shall all like Dick Caltop immensely, 
 "as he knows everybody, and something of everything that's 
 going on."' 
 
 At half-past nine we are in the smoking-room, and as it were 
 "prepared to receive a stranger," when Milburd enters introducing 
 " my friend, Mr. Caltop." We smile, patronisingly, as though the 
 new arrival were a highly privileged individual about to be intro- 
 duced to a most exclusive circle. 
 
 Milburd in a free and easy manner introduces us to him, not 
 him to us. 
 
 Mr. Dick Caltop (about twenty-seven at most), not in the least 
 overawed either by Boodels, or Buddermer the Bald, or by the 
 presence of ladies, nods familiarly all round, and, taking a pipe 
 and a pouch out of the pocket of a very sporting-looking coat, 
 remarks pleasantly, 
 
 " I see you don't mind a little bit o' baccy. Quite right : 
 ' they all do it.' After you, Sir," to Pogmore, " with the light," 
 and seats himself on the sofa, as though he had known us all 
 for years. 
 
 " Rather rough on you," he says in a tone of good-humoured 
 apology to Boodels, " turning up at this time ; but Jemmy," indi- 
 cating Milburd, " said I must ; and Mother didn't say I musn't," 
 here he winks at Buddermer, who tries to smile. "When he told 
 me there was B. and S. on the tappy, I said, ' Right you are ; that's 
 good enough for me : I'm on.' " And then once more he winks at 
 us all round, gives a knowing shake of the head, and lights his 
 pipe. 
 
 Buddermer frowns and strokes his beard with Oriental gravity. 
 He has looked forward to a literary, scientific, and philosophic 
 evening : so have I. I want to hear Pogmore on music, Mumley 
 on poetry, and Boodels on astronomy, orchids, and the Mealy Bug. 
 And we have admitted among us the uncongenial element of a 
 modern slang young man. 
 
 Miss Buddermer looks frightened. Mrs. Buddermer resumes
 
 58 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Volume Two of her Novel. Buddermer ignores the new arrival, 
 and sententiously addresses Mumley to this effect : " I suppose you 
 
 have carefully read Ruskin's last article in the ' when Mr. 
 
 Caltop inquires of Boodels, with an air of deep interest, " How are 
 you off for rats here ? " 
 
 And the evening has fairly commenced.
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 59 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 «< 
 
 WITH A VENGEANCE, OR A 
 
 x-'rt 
 
 ACCOUNT OF A "MODERN SYMPOSIUM 
 
 " NICHT Wl' BOODELS o' BOODELS." AFTER WHICH THERE CAN'T 
 BE MUCH MORE TO BE SAID OR DONE. 
 
 
 
 CCU PI ED deeply with 
 Volume the Second of 
 some most interesting novel, 
 and with Volume the Third 
 in her lap (on the "one- 
 down t'other-come-on princi- 
 ple," as our new arrival, 
 young Caltop, would say), 
 Mrs. Buddermer sits en- 
 sconced in a comfortable arm- 
 chair in the corner. Miss 
 Buddermer has retired. 
 Buddermer the Bald is on 
 the [sofa, with a philosophic- 
 looking meerschaum pipe, 
 eager to air his latest opinions 
 culled from the Spectator, 
 Saturday, Contemporary, and 
 Fortnightly Review*. His 
 great delight is a philoso- 
 phical literary conversation. 
 Boodels has looked forward 
 to such a Symposium as is 
 now l'epresented in his smok- 
 
 Buddermcr has suggested the artistic channel into which the con- 
 versation is to flow, by saying profoundly (Buddermer the Bald is 
 nothing if not profound) to Mumley, " Have you read Buskin's 
 
 ;irticle on " when he is interrupted by Caltop's question to 
 
 Boodels — 
 
 " How are you off for rats here ? " 
 
 Caltop does not mean this as an interruption. 
 
 But we arc so
 
 60 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 placed, that no two of us can enter upon a conversation without 
 cutting into, and right across, the subject of at least two other, if not 
 three, separate conversations. Boodels is obliged to listen to Caltop, 
 it being the latter's first visit ; and besides he is a neighbour. 
 
 Buddenner, pretending to ignore the rat theme which con- 
 tinues as an accompaniment to his air, and worries him con- 
 siderably, continues : 
 
 " I see that Ruskin is going to bring out a new work on 
 Mediaeval Forms. Now, judging from his " 
 
 Here Mumley cuts in with a reply : 
 
 " Judging of Ruskin from the Fors Clavigera, you were going 
 to say ? Well, it is hardly fair to form an opinion of a future 
 Work by the opinions put forward in " 
 
 I am deeply interested. I want to know something about 
 Fors Clavigera. Is it a Poem 1 or a Treatise 1 or English 1 or 
 Latin 1 But the more eagerly I attempt to listen to them, the 
 more distinctly rises, under my nose, the account of a little 
 Terrier Dog catching rats, which is being given by Caltop to 
 Boodels, in a louder tone than he would have otherwise used, had 
 not Milburd from his end of the room cut in, and asked how 
 " Fanny " (the Dog's name) was getting on. 
 
 " Oh, first rate ! " replies the Sporting Young Man. " I am 
 telling the Governor here," he alludes to Boodels as the Governor,, 
 never having met him before in his life ! how she wired into that 
 old rat under the old floor. She did tackle him to-rights ! 
 Rather ! " And here he pauses, as if dwelling on the recollection 
 of a picture which beggars description. 
 
 Availing ourselves of this voluntary cessation, Boodels turns 
 slightly towards Mumley, and so do I, politely intimating by this 
 movement that we wish to drop rats and take up Ruskin. 
 Mumley, who has the parole, is naturally pleased. Triumph of 
 Mind over Ratter. Buddenner foresees his turn will come, and,, 
 without in the least attending to Mumley, rehearses mentally what 
 he is next going to say. I know this by his shutting his eyes and 
 smoking slowly, as if he were weighing his opponent's arguments. 
 " Ruskin," says Mumley, with a contemptuous air, " flatters 
 himself he has founded a school — but, in this respect, he does 
 flatter himself. In what has he ever shown himself as either a
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. (51 
 
 critic, or a true student of Art in its highest sense, but a man of 
 
 "Have you got that Fox-Terrier still?" asks Milburd, not 
 loudly, but in an under-current of voice, that takes away, as it 
 were, the legs of the dialogue which, but for this, would go on 
 ■swimmingly. 
 
 Caltop nods, and, turning to Boodels, asks, — 
 
 " Did you ever see that little liver-coloured dog of mine ? " No, 
 Boodels hasn't ; and, having said this much out of sheer polite- 
 ness, he tries to catch up the Ruskin subject again, which at the 
 present moment is stationary, merely keeping itself afloat by spas- 
 modic efforts with the hands against the under-current aforesaid. 
 These efforts are apparently unnoticed by Caltop. I try to help 
 Mumley and Buddermer, who are struggling. I say, — 
 
 " Didn't Ruskin get a lot of Oxford Men to work for him during 
 the Vacation at digging?" (It is all I know of Mr. Ruskin, but I 
 think it represents the latest popular idea about that eminent 
 individual.) 
 
 If Buddermer, or Mumley, would only catch at this rope, it 
 would save them ; but they won't ; they are above it ; they are 
 bent on discussing Ruskin and High Art. They both nod assent 
 and dismiss me, as it were, as not coming up to their standard of 
 intellect, and Buddermer commences instantly about "Ruskin 
 
 being, after all, a mere dilletante professor who " just as 
 
 ! '« >gmore, tired of silence, and anxious to bring the conversation 
 round to the only subject in which he is personally interested, 
 observes to me (over their heads, as he is standing up to help 
 himself to soda and-brandy), " I saw you at the Wagner Concert. 
 Didn't you think," &c. 
 
 lint at this moment, whatever was to have been his question, it 
 is lost in a reply made to Caltop by Boodels, who has become 
 suddenly interested in the former's conversation, on account of Ids 
 having judiciously praised one (if Boodels' little dogs (the nervous 
 one that won't answer to its name, and is frightened at the sound 
 of its own bells round its neck). 
 
 " Yes," says Boodels, pleased with Caltop, who is evidently a 
 sporting man, and an authority on dogs and horses, "he is a very 
 good breed."
 
 62 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " Oh, I can see that," says Caltop, eyeing the little animal, which 
 is cm-led up on the rug fast asleep ; " he has all the points of a 
 thoroughbred black and tan. You don't often see one like that 
 now-a-days." 
 
 " No," says Boodels ; " I am rather proud of that dog." 
 
 " You used to have a pug," Milburd says from his side to 
 Boodels. " A lovely pug. You ought to have seen that" he re- 
 marks to Caltop. 
 
 " Oh, I often saw that pug," cries Caltop. " He used to come 
 as far as the corner of the lane by Sir Martin Crupper's house, and 
 then run back again. You know Crupper, don't you ? " he asks of 
 Boodels. 
 
 JSo, Boodels doesn't. As a matter of fact, he says, he has never 
 cultivated his neighbours. Mrs. Buddermer looks up from her 
 book at the mention of Sir Martin. Buddermer has caught the 
 name, and evidently begins to have a better opinion of Caltop. 
 
 " Georgy Martindale and Lord Grassmere, you know," says 
 Caltop to Boodels, with a careless look round, which Milburd 
 replies to with a nod of intelligence, " were standing at Sir Martin's 
 stable-door, and we often tried to coax your pug in, but he 
 wouldn't come." 
 
 Boodels is immensely pleased. He fills his pipe modestly, and 
 almost blushes as he remarks that that pug was a dog for which he 
 could have taken a first prize had he wished to compete at the 
 Crystal Palace Dog Show. From this moment it is all up with 
 Buskin and music. I think that even the interest of Mrs. Budder- 
 mer in Yolume the Second is momentarily diminished. We all 
 help ourselves (not for the first time) to refreshments. Pipes are 
 replenished. Mrs. Buddermer saying, pleasantly, that she is 
 " quite accustomed to smoke " (which means that she intends to 
 sit up for her husband), takes up Volume the Third, and then we 
 settle down into talk about dogs, horses, stables. Everybody 
 suddenly remembers that he knows a dog that can do something. 
 Even Buddermer commences a story about a valuable retriever 
 which was given him some years ago. It interests nobody. He 
 appeals to his wife for corroboration. She looks up for an instant, 
 and says, " That b( rrid thing ! I'll never have another in ~the
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 63 
 
 house ! It's all very well for people who understand dogs, but you 
 don't." 
 
 After this Buddermer refreshes himself, but is prudently silent. 
 
 " Ah," says Caltop, " you should see Mrs. George Bigg's retrievers. 
 George Bigg," he explains to everyone, " used to drive in the Park 
 last season. You must have seen her." This to every one, be- 
 ginning with Boodels, who at once " thinks he remembers her ; " 
 then to Buddermer, who appears to be trying to recall all the 
 people he has ever seen in the Park, in order to single out the lady 
 in question. 
 
 " She used to drive four ponies," says Milburd. 
 
 " Yes," returns Caltop. " They were the Earl of Shortland's. 
 One of those ponies — Jessie, the black one — was no bigger than a 
 Newfoundland, and one day when a boy fell in the Serpentine, she 
 went for that boy, collared him, and brought him out." 
 
 " They wanted to stop Georgey Bigg's wife from coming into the 
 Park followed by all these animals," continues Caltop; "for he- 
 had a couple of goats, and three fallow deer besides the ponies. 
 The police were inclined to be rather rough on Georgey, but he 
 got six to four the best of 'em, and then bet Boss Green — you 
 know Boss Green 1 " — this to Milburd, who nods assent, and we all 
 wonder who Boss Green is, but don't like to inquire — "a couple of 
 ponies that he'd take the whole menagerie right through to the 
 Magazine when all the four-in-hands were out." 
 
 " And did he 1 " I ask, vaguely, for I am not certain whether my 
 inquiry applies to Boss Green, George Biggs, or Lord Shortland, or 
 perhaps somebody else whose name I've missed. 
 
 " Did he ? " exclaims Caltop, as if utterly astonished at the 
 ignorance displayed by my question. "I should rather say he 
 did. They wanted to stop him. One Bobby tried it on, but 
 Georgey — our Jai-gy, as we call him — tipped the peeler a sparkler 
 (he'd have made it warm for Master Bobby if he hadn't taken it), 
 and then he went, full split, right up the drive, with all the 
 ammiles careering after him, a regular buster, before you could say 
 knife. The Duke couldn't start his team ; it gave him fits ! It 
 was real jam to see little Norris, who was out for the first time, in a 
 horrid state about his four greys. Georgey did the trick. They said 
 he hedged the bet, but anyhow he copped Boss Green's fifty quid."
 
 «4 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " Rather rough on the Boss," I venture, with a mild attempt at 
 suiting my conversation to my company. 
 
 "Oh, the Boss ! " exclaims Caltop, "he's a regular mug." 
 
 Everyone appears amused, and no one likes to ask what on 
 earth Caltop means. At this moment the Poet remarks that there's 
 a fine moon, and opens the window to look at it. Mrs. Buddermer 
 asks her husband to give her the slightest drop of sherry-and- 
 ■water. This causes the Butler to be summoned to fetch the 
 sherry ; when he appears, Pogmore complains of the cold in con- 
 sequence of the window having been opened. Milburd agrees that 
 it is cold, and Caltop remembers that he'll probably have a chilly 
 walk home. Buddermer casually mentions " hot grog " as the best 
 preventive. Boodels, as host, asks if Caltop would like some hot 
 grog before he starts, as, if so, the Butler can make a first-rate 
 brew. Caltop at first refuses, then alters his mind, and saying, 
 " I really must go immediately after that," he, to \ise his own 
 expression, "goes for that grog." Milburd admits that he, too, is 
 " Nuts on grog." I notice that whenever Caltop, or Milburd, likes 
 anything, they are either " nuts on it,'' or it is " real jam" to them. 
 Odd ! Pogmore observes " That he doesn't mind if he does just 
 take a drop of hot grog." "Whereupon Buddermer begins to think 
 that it wouldn't do him any harm, which evokes a look of surprise, 
 and a warning, from his Wife, who, however, consents, after a very 
 brief argument, to assist him with a mere sip. Boodels hasn't 
 taken hot grog for years, he says, and now they mention it, he 
 rather feels inclined for it than otherwise. The only one who has 
 any doubts at all on the advisability of hot grog is the Poet, who 
 returns from the window (which we all insist on being shut at 
 once) looking as if the moon had had some effect on his com- 
 plexion. 
 
 " Have some grog," Caltop suggests to him, with an aside wink 
 to us ; "just to show there's no ill-feeling." 
 
 As the ill-feeling, to judge by the Poet's face, is confined entirely 
 to himself, and has regard to no one else, the administration of the 
 hot grog is questionable. Mumley accepts and subsides into his 
 arm-chair. The conversation re-commences on general topics, by 
 which I mean, that, with the exception of Mumley, who is remark- 
 ably silent, we are all talking, more or less, at once. The Butler
 
 IN A CO UNTR Y HO USE. 65 
 
 re-appears with double the quantity of hot grog that was ordered. 
 This probably from a knowledge of human nature, and to save 
 himself trouble. We all resolve ourselves into a tasting com- 
 mittee, and commence sipping. 
 
 " This is the sort of stuff," says Caltop, " to walk home on." 
 
 Then he says what he would do were he waylaid by a footpad. 
 This leads us to the subject of highwaymen ; then to recent high- 
 way robberies ; then to burglaries ; then to anecdotes of eminent 
 house-breakers, till Mrs. Buddermer's attention is distracted from 
 her Novel, and she begs us not to talk on such dreadful subjects, 
 or she won't get a wink of sleep all night. Whereupon Buddermer 
 (whose hair seems to have suddenly grown wild round his bald 
 head) facetiously offers her a " night-cap " of grog. This leads to 
 an examination of the jug, which is found to be empty. 
 
 Boodels rises gravely with a long cherrywood-stemmed pipe in 
 his hand, which he has been carefully lighting every five minutes 
 for the last half hour, and, with studied politeness, says, — 
 
 " Mrs. Bud'mer, Milburd will ring bell more grog." 
 
 Whereupon he reseats himself most carefully — his original in- 
 tention, of walking as far as the bell, having been evidently 
 abandoned. 
 
 Buddermer thinks quite pleasantly that we don't want any 
 more, and beams on everybody. 
 
 Caltop says that, as he has to go out and walk, another tumbler 
 won't hurt him ; and Milburd (who has rung the bell violently 
 and returned to his chair) announces loudly his intention of 
 " seeing him through it." 
 
 Mumley the Poet wakes up for a minute, and asks, huskily, 
 ""What's time?" Receiving no reply, Buddermer alone taking 
 any notice of it by making a movement with his left hand as 
 though he remembered having had a watch somewhere once, but 
 had recently got out of the way of consulting it, — his head drops 
 again, and he is asleep. I notice all this clearly, but I do not feel 
 inclined either to leave my seat and fetch the fresh grog from the 
 table, or to join in any conversation. The Butler pours out the 
 relay, and hands it round to everybody. Boodels at this point 
 becomes scrupulously particular as to the quantity of whiskey 
 which the Butler has put into his particular tumbler. 
 
 p
 
 66 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 "I never," he tries to explain, solemnly, to anybody who'll 
 listen to him, "take more'n 'arfglass to thlee " (he means 
 "three") "to thlee plarts wart," by which he is understood to 
 mean " three parts water," and we all nod at him gravely, 
 like a consultation of waxwork doctors worked by machinery. 
 
 On being earnestly assured by the Butler that this proportion 
 has been carefully observed, he consents to take the tumbler. 
 
 What leads us to talk of people's heights I don't know, but we 
 do. Caltop bets with Pogmore that Buddermer is taller than 
 Milburd. Boodels says, with the knowing air of a man who can 
 settle the question at once, "I've got plencil somewhere in 
 my plocket. The best way's to mlake the mlark on the door." 
 However, as he can't find either the "plocket" or the "plencil," 
 the subject is allowed to drop. 
 
 The next thing we become aware of is, that Caltop has dis- 
 appeared. No one saw him go. No one said good-night to 
 him. 
 
 Boodels suddenly recollects having said good-night to some- 
 body, but " whether," he adds, always gravely, " it was to-night, 
 or whether I'm thinking of some other time, I don't know." 
 Then, after five minutes' silence, he calls to mind distinctly 
 Caltop having wished him good-night, and he is quite angry 
 with Buddermer, who wants to argue with him on the impossi- 
 bility of Caltop having left unobserved by the rest of the party. 
 However, he is certainly not in the room. 
 
 This leads to the subject of marvellous appearances ; this to 
 the disappearances of phantoms ; this to ghosts ; this to Milburd's 
 open avowal of general incredulity ; this brings up Pogmore, who 
 is fond at certain times of discussing the supernatural ; this to a 
 dash of theology, when Buddermer, who has got some theory 
 in his head about stars being peopled by spirits, and the 
 contents of whose fourth tumbler are now damaging the 
 sofa-cover, makes vain efforts to remember and enunciate an 
 argument on the Plurality of Worlds, which he has recently 
 
 read. 
 
 "If," he says, with a pipe-stem in his hand, from which the 
 bowl has long since dropped off, " if the creative power — I mean 
 s'pose I," here his eyelids droop, but he is aroused to wakeful-
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 67 
 
 ness by accidentally putting his hand flop into the mess on the sofa, 
 " s'pose I were to have to cre-ate a world " 
 
 But at this point Mrs. Buddermer closes Volume Third with a 
 sharp click, and says, sharply, — 
 
 "Create ! You create ! Nonsense ! It's time you created to 
 bed. Good-night, Mr. Boodels." 
 
 Boodels, as host, rises from his chair in order to open the door 
 for Mrs. Buddermer. The door is on the opposite side furthest 
 from Boodels, and to reach it he has to get round the table. 
 With his empty pipe still held to his mouth by one hand, he 
 with the other guides himself round the edge of the table. 
 Then, with one short and decisive step to the door, he grasps the 
 handle, and opens it with such unexpected suddenness, that it 
 backs on to himself and cannons him up against Milburd, who 
 catches at the chimney-piece. Recovering himself, Boodels smiles 
 and bows with the sort of excessive politeness that is to be seen 
 on the part of the Comic Baron in the opening of a Pantomime, 
 and when Mrs. Buddermer [who has carefully taken the candle 
 out of her husband's hand, and sent him on first into the passage, 
 where he tumbled over the mat and made the dog bark] has 
 retired, Boodels surveys us with a sad and sorrowful aspect, 
 makes three attempts to light his candle, drops the match-box, 
 then, having opened the door carefully for his own exit, be 
 addresses us most solemnly, as if these were his last injunctions 
 before being led off by the executioner, — 
 
 " I deprend p'n you put out glas," meaning that he depends 
 upon us (the Poet, Milburd, Pogmore, and myself) to put out the 
 gas ; and with this, he too, after a difficulty with the rug and the 
 dog, retires. We all laugh and look at one another : all, that is, 
 except the Poet, who is now snoring heavily. 
 
 " Don't go — cmite early — have 'nother pipe," is the last that I 
 hear in a very drowsy tone from Milburd, as I do manage to light 
 a candle and get to my room, where, in the midst of undressing, 
 it occurs to me that I haven't made my diary for several days 
 past. . . . Evidently this carelessness mustn't be allowed to go on, 
 T say to some one (not myself) in the looking-glass. I take out 
 the book — the pens — the blotting-paper. . . . Odd — there 
 doesn't seem to be any ink . . . and the neck of the inkstand
 
 68 
 
 is too small. 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Ah! 
 
 . I thought that would happen with 
 such a stupid inkstand . . . over. . . . Wonder . . . wonder 
 ... " The best thing," I am conscious of saying to myself — 
 giving it as a sound and invaluable piece of advice — " the best 
 thing is, . . . if you're tired, my friend, to go to bed. Nothing 
 like going to bed . . . when you're tired. My dear fellow," still 
 to myself, as somebody to whom I am imparting words of unutter- 
 able wisdom — very nearly unutterable, by the way — "my dear 
 fellow — take my advice — and go ... go ... to .. . bed." 
 
 And somehow or other, all in a lump, I fall in, and become 
 absorbed in the bedclothes. A steamboat sensation for a few 
 minutes, as if in the Bay of Biscay in roughish weather . . . 
 then we sail with the gale from the Bay of Biscay oh, and are 
 fast asleep.
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 09 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE MORNING AFTER — BREAKFAST — GRUMPINERS EVERYBODY WRONG 
 
 — THREATENING OF STORM — CHAFF — FIRST DISAGREEABLE 
 
 SECOND THIRD ALL DISAGREEABLES DIVISION — PARTING 
 
 SHOTS — THE LAST TO LEAVE — THE TELEGRAM — THE NOTE A 
 
 CHEERFUL ARRIVAL — MY DEPARTURE BOODELs' CONSOLATION 
 
 END. 
 
 THE morning after the 
 Symposium. Irregular 
 breakfast. Dull morn- 
 ing. Leaden sky. Every- 
 thing damp, specially the 
 boots, which come up as if 
 they'd been cleaned under 
 the pump. A slimy chill 
 about the atmosphere gene- 
 rally, such as one might feel 
 for a minute or two after 
 putting one's hand suddenly 
 and unexpectedly on a pond- 
 frog. The perverse glass in 
 the hall is, of course, going 
 up. The eccentric weather- 
 cock in the meadow is twist- 
 ing about, restlessly, up 
 above, as much as to say, 
 " Here's your fine fresh air ! Climb up here! Here's your fine 
 fresh air at the top of the pole ! " 
 
 As we drop in, one by one, to breakfast, Mrs. Buddermer (in a 
 long green velvet dress, and a very pronounced gold chain round 
 her neck, and tucked in at her waist somewhere, suggesting the 
 idea of a Diana Vernon who had been made Lady Mayoress) holds 
 up her bands, and pretends to be shocked. Miss Buddermer 
 blushes and simpers. I observe to her, "We were rather late last 
 night, Miss Buddermer." She replies, in her usual startled manner,
 
 70 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 "Yes — very." Then she blushes deeper than ever, simpers ner- 
 vously, and hurriedly putting up her pince-nez looks straight 
 through it, earnestly, at the tea-urn, as if for protection. 
 
 Buddermer has, as usual, been down before any of us, and is 
 seated on the Telegraph reading the Times. Mumley the Poet has 
 intimated that he does not wish for any breakfast, and has gone as 
 far as the Pond to look at the Trimmer. 
 
 Milburd is less noisy than usual, and asks for a bloater. He 
 speaks of himself as " feeling a bit chippy," and wonders how r 
 Caltop got home. We all wonder how T Caltop got home ; for, as 
 no one saw him leave, there is a generally pervading idea that he 
 is still in the house, having perhaps tumbled into the hat-and- 
 cloak closet, and there passed the night. 
 
 Boodels comes down, complaining bitterly of a headache. He 
 will take nothing but very hot tea, and very dry toast. He 
 remarks that he can't account for his feeling so unwell this 
 morning, as last night he didn't sit up later than usual, and 
 really did not take half so much as he ordinarily does. Pogmore 
 the Composer, who looks pale about the cheeks and very red about 
 the eyes, but who tries to keep up an air of forced gaiety, observes 
 that he thinks everyone had too much last night. 
 
 Boodels won't admit it for an instant. "You may have had too 
 much," he says to Pogmore. "/ hadn't; and I'm sure no one else 
 had." 
 
 At this, the Bald Philosopher, from behind his newspaper, 
 elevates his eyebrows, but makes no observation. Pogmore looks 
 at Milburd and myself significantly, and Milburd says, 
 
 " AVell, I fancy that Caltop had as much as was good for him." 
 Thereby evidently intending that the gentleman in question had 
 taken more than was good for him. 
 
 " No," Boodels replies positively, and really charitably, " I don't 
 think so. In fact," he adds, which, by the way, shows his reason 
 for actpiitting Caltop of inebriety, "I don't think anyone took too 
 much. / know I didn't ! " 
 
 "At all events," says Pogmore, sticking to his point, "no one 
 can eat breakfast this morning." 
 
 " That's the w T eather," retorts Boodels, becoming rather annoyed 
 at Pogmore's persistence in charging him and his guests with an
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 71 
 
 orgie. " Besides," he adds, looking round, " it strikes me everyone 
 has made a very good breakfast." 
 
 " Capital !" cries Milburd. To which sentiment I also respond 
 affirmatively, feeling it due to Boodels as our host. 
 
 " I'm afraid we kept you up very late, Mrs. Buddermer," Boodels 
 says courteously, but inquisitively, as if her evidence on the matter 
 would settle the question. 
 
 " Oh, not at all ! " she replies, cheerfully ; " I'm accustomed to 
 it. When we were at Swyllin — Lord Lushborough's place, you 
 know — in Hertfordshire — we used to sit up much later than that 
 every evening." 
 
 Buddermer, having finished his papers, and probably foi-eseeing 
 that he will be lugged in to corroborate his wife's recollections of 
 the aristocracy, rises, stretches himself, walks to the window, looks 
 out, and observes, "I wonder where the Hare is this morning?" 
 
 He refers to the hare, or rabbit, which has regularly come out 
 to feed on the Lawn since we've been in the house. For a bald 
 man, in the presence of such a professional wag as Milburd, he 
 could not have made a more unfortunate remark. 
 
 " Where's the Hare ? " repeats Milburd. " Why, that's what 
 you must sa_y every morning when you look in the glass ! Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! " And Milburd roars. Then, seeing that Mrs. Buddermer 
 is bridling up, that Miss Buddermer is blushing, and that everyone 
 is made uncomfortable by this personality, he bursts into a guffaw, 
 slaps Buddermer on the back, " Eh ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! Where's the 
 hair ? Eh ] " Then, holding his victim's elbow, and addressing 
 us, he shouts, "That's what he asks every morning! The long- 
 lost hair / Eh ? Have you got a strawberry-mark on your left 
 arm 1 " This to Buddermer, who is stroking his beard, and trying- 
 hard to preserve his philosophic calm ; but he is glaring danger- 
 ously. Under much of this torture Buddermer would go 
 mad. 
 
 Unfortunately, Milburd is not to be put down by any repartee, 
 however brilliant, or by any retort, however rude. In either case 
 he will simply repeat his own jest with louder laughter and more 
 slaps on his victim's back, or digs in his victim's ribs. Nor is he 
 to be put down by brute force, for Milburd Junior is a cricketer, 
 an athlete, and as strong as a cart-horse. He is a sort of Franken-
 
 72 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 stein's Monster suddenly become a stupid jester and perpetual 
 practical joker, and we, pro tern., are Frankensteins, each in 
 turn. 
 
 Mrs. Buddermer leaves the room, followed by her daughter. 
 Buddermer stalks out by the window, and the rabbit or hare, or 
 whatever it is, frightened, makes a bolt into the laurels. He 
 walks round the house, frowning, and subsequently is seen to join 
 the Poet at the Pond. When we next observe them they are 
 standing gloomily, about three yards apart, with their backs to 
 the house, contemplating the Pond, while between them stands, 
 sympathetically, the Peruvian Goose with the port-wine beak. 
 The three are as motionless, with the exception of an occasional 
 sign of life in the Goose's tail plumage, as if they'd been frozen up 
 on the spot. 
 
 Boodels is annoyed with Milburd, who, in a huff, replies that 
 Buddermer is an old ass if he can't take a joke. Boodels begs 
 Milburd to remember that not everyone can stand chaff; to which 
 Milburd replies that those who can't had better remain in their 
 ow r n rooms. Pause : verge of row. Pogmore, with a view to 
 changing the subject pleasantly, tells us that he is going to try 
 something of his own composition on the piano previous to writing- 
 it out. 
 
 Boodels, from behind the Daily Tele<jrap>h, growls out, " What, 
 more of your rubbish 1 Mind you don't bother the Ladies ; and 
 if you're going to strum on the piano, shut the doors/" 
 
 " Oh, I won't play at all, if you don't like it," says Pogmore, 
 very angrily, grasping the door-handle. 
 
 " I don't mind," returns Boodels, still reading the Daily Tele- 
 graph, as if he didn't want to be bothered. " I don't mind, as 
 long as I dorJt hear it. That's all." 
 
 Pogmore quits the room in a fury. I do pity him. Fancy a 
 young Handel being told by a friend not to " strum his rubbish 
 on the piano ! " In another second he has banged a hat on his 
 head, and with both hands rammed into his trousers' pockets, he is 
 walking with an agitated step towards the Pond. 
 
 " Come," says Milburd to Boodels, ''don't you talk to me about 
 chaff ! Why, that's far worse than anything I said to Bud- 
 dermer."
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 73 
 
 But Boodels takes no notice of the retort, and continues reading 
 most provokingly. I have the Times. Milburd leaves the room 
 sullenlv. After a short deliberation he takes one of Boodels' 
 favourite sticks (an ebony cane, with a silver lizard curled round 
 the top), and switching the flowers as he goes, walks leisurely 
 towards the Pond. Now nothing irritates Boodels so much as 
 anyone walking off with this particular cane. I foresee a row 
 when I catch sight, from the Library window, of Milburd's 
 proceedings. 
 
 I see the three at the Pond. All gloomy, as if meditating 
 suicide. The two Ladies, wrapped up, are strolling on the paths. 
 Presently they join the gentlemen at the Pond. Evidently a 
 conspiracy. 
 
 Another moment, and I hear the Dog with the bells scampering 
 about and barkiug ; also another dog. From which I infer that 
 Boodels is in the hall getting his hat, previous to going out " for 
 a turn." 
 
 There is a great rattling of the umbrella stand, and a shaking 
 of all sorts of things in the Hall. 
 
 Then the Butler's voice, " I don't know where it is, Sir." 
 
 Then Boodels, angrily demanding " Who cleans the Hall in the 
 morning?" Then the Butler calling the Maid. Cross-examina- 
 tion of the Maid. She's certain she didn't move it. It was here 
 this morning, she's sure. The Butler, too, will swear to having 
 seen it yesterday. Boodels more and more angry. He bursts 
 into the Library. 
 
 "Have you taken it?" he asks, abruptly. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " My ebony cane with the lizard top." 
 
 No, I haven't. But, I suggest, rather maliciously (because why 
 should he always suspect me of taking everything? — as a fact, he 
 always does) " Perhaps one of the others has got it." 
 
 He won't go out without it ; not even into the kitchen-garden. 
 It has become a necessity. The Butler will go and ask if anyone's 
 got it, and, if they have, he Mill bring it back. From the window 
 we see the Butler on his way to the Pond. We witness his recep- 
 tion by the assembled conspirators. It is all pantomime action to 
 us. It does not inspire confidence in the result. All that Boodels
 
 74 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 has said, since sending the Butler, is, as he stood at the window 
 eyeing the scene, "I hate practical jokes." This is meant as a 
 warning to me, not to take one of his sticks. 
 
 The Butler returns empty-handed. With a half-grin he says 
 (more to me than to his master), " Mr. Milburd says, Sir, as he's 
 very sorry, but in trying to catch the Eel, the stick tumbled into 
 the Pond/' 
 
 " Nonsense ! " exclaims Boodels, exploding. 
 
 In a second he is down at the Pond, myself after him. We are 
 all at the Pond now. Milburd insists on the stick having fallen 
 in, and tells Boodels, if he doubts him, to go into the Pond and 
 see, and offers to buy him another, in the Lowther Arcade, for 
 fourpence-halfpenny. This is too much. Boodels accuses Milburd 
 of upsetting everybody, and of being rude to the Buddermers. 
 Milburd appeals to the latter. The Ladies are sure that Mr. 
 Milburd was not intentionally rude ; while Buddermer, who has 
 suffered, most magnanimously replies that, for his part, he doesn't 
 mind being chaffed. "Of course you don't!" returns Milburd, 
 enthusiastically, and with a hearty slap on Buddermer's shoulder 
 that makes the Philosopher wince, and causes him to add with 
 considerable feeling, " But I protest against being hit on every 
 possible occasion." 
 
 Milburd roars, and shakes the Philosopher's elbow, saying, 
 " Why that's half the fun. You'll enjoy it when you're used to 
 it. Let me give you a good whack now, and see how you'll 
 laugh." 
 
 Buddermer, however, retires a few paces, holding up his hand 
 deprecatingly. 
 
 "No, thank you," he says, "one must draw the line some- 
 where." 
 
 " Yes, draw a line in the Pond," returns Milburd the incorri- 
 gible, " and bring up the Eel and the Stick. I say," he shouts 
 to Boodels, " I dare say the Eel is walking about with it in the 
 mud, and Pogmore can put him into his Oratorio. Solo for Eel on 
 going into the Ark. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Boodels walks away. It is of no avail that, subsequently, Mil- 
 burd reproduces the Stick, and pretends to. present it, as a testi 
 monial, to Boodels from his admiring friends. This evening
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 75 
 
 Boodels draws our attention to a calendar, and shows us the dates 
 he has arranged for certain guests to come. 
 
 He says, as if he were merely giving us hints on how to conduct 
 an establishment, "You see, if one didn't do this, I should never be 
 able to get all my friends here. Everyone understands that, you 
 know ; and so I always name the day of arrival and of departure, 
 so that they can arrange their own plans elsewhere. It's so much 
 better to do it in this way." 
 
 Mrs. Buddermer, very shortly, agrees with Boodels. " Oh, of 
 course," she says, " it's the only way. You're quite right. You 
 know I told you we couldn't stop beyond to-morrow, as John and 
 myself have to go home first, and then to the north to Kupford 
 — Sir Minton Burridge's place. Sir Minton is a connection of ours, 
 you know, so we are bound to go to him, and we shall be t/i ere for 
 three weeks or a month." 
 
 This is (as Caltop would have said) " a nasty one " for Boodels, 
 who has now to pretend that the Buddermers' departure quite takes 
 him by surprise. 
 
 Mumley says he finds the atmosphere here uncongenial to com- 
 position, and that he wants to get somewhere where he can breathe. 
 He explains himself as not intending any snub to Boodels, by 
 adding, " You see in some places I feel I am at once inspired ! In 
 others I don't." He has decided to leave to-morrow morning, to 
 seek inspiration. 
 
 Pogmore gives Boodels a parting dig by observing, " Sorry I 
 must go, old fellow ; but I must get on with what you call ' my 
 rubbish,' and to be in a room alone, with pens, ink, and paper, and 
 a piano, is an absolute necessity for vie." 
 
 "I'm coming to stop with you," says Milburd in Boodles' 
 hearing to Dick Caltop, who has driven round in a pony-trap in 
 which he is seated at the door, having pulled up with a loud shout 
 of " Woa, Emma ! " 
 
 "Bight you are!" replies Caltop. "How's the Governor to- 
 day 1" meaning Boodels, who speaks of himself as being not very 
 well. 
 
 "Another good man gone wrong ?" exclaims Caltop laughing, 
 whereat Milburd laughs too. 
 
 "I thought you wired in a bit too much last night. I'm
 
 76 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 altogether rumbo," he admits ; by which we take him to mean that 
 he is not quite so well as might have been expected. This is how 
 we translate " rumbo." "I'll take you now, if you are ready," he 
 adds. 
 
 The Butler, hearing this, asks Milburd if he shall pack up for 
 him, as it won't take five minutes. 
 
 " Yes," cries Caltop, " put 'em in the barg ! " and within a 
 quarter-of-an-hour Milburd has driven off with his friend. 
 
 " I hate everyone going at once." Boodels confides to me when 
 they've all retired early. "It's so dull in a house which has been 
 full of company." 
 
 It is. And that's the reason why I'm going away too. I don't 
 like to mention this. Xext morning, on pretence of seeing the Poet 
 off, who is going by the first train, I stop at the telegraph-office, 
 and wire to a friend, answer paid, to send me a business message 
 compelling my immediate presence. 
 
 All the guests leave before Boodels is up. My telegram arrives 
 just as he comes down to breakfast. I break its contents to him 
 gently. 
 
 He tries to induce me to stay by hinting that " Now they've all 
 gone, and it's quite qniet down by the Pond, we may have some 
 sport." 
 
 "No," I say pleasantly. "We must leave the Eel for another 
 time." In fact I know well enough that he no more believes in 
 the Eel than I do. 
 
 A letter by post for Boodels. He brightens up. 
 
 " It's from Dulton ! " he cries delighted. Then he rings for the 
 Butler, and says, triumphantly, "Mr. Dultou's coming down this 
 afternoon," and he gives directions for my room being immediately 
 prepared for the visitor. 
 
 I have a great mind to stay, and see if there is such a person, 
 as it occurs to me that the coming of Dulton is about as real as the 
 business of importance in my telegram. 
 
 Boodels is in ecstasies about Dulton. " He is," he says, "the 
 most charming fellow. His information on every subject is some- 
 thing quite marvellous. Buddermer couldn't hold a candle to him. 
 Besides, Dulton has his own original ideas, and Buddermer hasn't. 
 He plays and sings delightfully, and never refuses when he's asked,
 
 IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. 77 
 
 as Pogmore does ; and then lie is a thorough musician. He writes 
 in most of the magazines, and many of his poems are worthy of 
 Tennyson at his best, and he's not so conceited about it as Miimley 
 is. Dulton will read his poems to you without affectation ; Mumley 
 won't : he thinks that he's throwing pearls to swine." 
 
 "Dulton," I observed, " must be a clever fellow." 
 
 " Clever ! " cries Boodels. " He is clever ! And so funny ! 
 Real humour ! not stupid practical jokes like Milburd's. Some of 
 Dulton's stories have kept me laughing — crying with laughter— 
 for hours. And the way he tells them ! ! I really do not know 
 any one," says Boodels, summing up, " who is so thoroughly good 
 a companion as Dulton." 
 
 " Is there a Mrs. Dulton 1 "I ask. 
 
 "Ah, I hope she'll come too," replies Boodels, who I notice, by 
 not giving a direct answer to my question, confirms my suspicion 
 as to the total unsubstantiality of the Dultons : " for," he continues, 
 " she is simply the loveliest woman I ever saw. A perfect lady ! 
 She goes about three times as much as Mrs. Buddermer, and into 
 the very highest society — (I know she often goes to tea at Windsor 
 Castle in the Queen's private apartments, who consults her on all 
 sorts of subjects ; she's agreed friend of the Queen's) — but she isn't 
 always talking about the aristocracy as Mrs. Buddermer is. "When 
 people talk so much about it, I don't believe 'em." 
 
 Consequently, if all this is true, the Dultons in their two selves 
 represent, only in perfection, all the talents of the recent party. 
 But I can't stop to see these rune aves without my telegram plan 
 being discovered. So I congratulate Boodels on the accession of 
 Dulton, and, thanking him for a very pleasant time, take my 
 departure. 
 
 As I am stepping into my fly at the door, a short man, in a suit 
 of dittos, an old umbrella, and a dingy, out-of-shape wideawake, 
 followed by a boy with a florid carpet bag, walks up, very warm 
 and very dirty. 
 
 " Is M — M — M — M — Mister Boo— hoo — hoo — hoo — boo — boo- 
 dels in ? " he asks, in a very loud voice, and with the most deter- 
 mined and provoking stutter. 
 
 Boodels steps forward. 
 
 " II ulloa, Dulton !" he exclaims ; "I'm delighted to see you/'
 
 78 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 And he tries to draw him out of earshot. But Dulton cannot be 
 got out of earshot so easily. 
 
 " I've cur — cur — cur — cur — cur — come down," I hear him saying, 
 " to sus — sus — sus — sus — see you. Der — der — der — der — did you 
 get my lei— lei— lei— lei— letter, eh 1 " 
 
 Dulton may be the cleverest and brightest and most amusing 
 creature in the world, his stories may be the most laughable, but his 
 way of telling them must be wildly irritating. Boodels is welcome 
 to him. But what desolation, after a week of company, to be left 
 in an old house, in damp, heavy weather, with only a stuttering 
 man for a companion ! 
 
 And so I return to Town, after my Few Days in a Country- 
 House, — i.e., chez Boodels of Boodels.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 I. MIDLAND COUNTIES.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 I. MIDLAND COUNTIES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE ACCIDEXTAL MEETING SPONTANEOUS INVITATION HESITATION 
 
 DECISION EXPLANATION INSTRUCTION SUGGESTIONS 
 
 INSULTING A TRIED COMPANION — THE BAG — THE ADDRESS 
 
 MORE NEXT TIME. 
 
 A 
 
 BOUT THIS 
 
 time I man- 
 age to give a few 
 friends the benefit 
 of my presence. I 
 did it last year. I 
 have begun again. 
 
 My friend, Josslyn 
 Dyke, is jealous of 
 my other old friend, 
 Boodels of Boodels. 
 Josslyn Dyke com- 
 plains that, when- 
 ever I do go any- 
 where, I alwavs 
 visit Boodels of 
 Boodels at Boodels- 
 The repartee is evi- 
 dent, " Then ask 
 me, my dear Joss- 
 lyn. Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," — which last quota- 
 tion, by the way, is inscribed on a Cab-call presented to me on my 
 
 G
 
 82 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 birthday. The instrument in question is pretty on a watch-chain, 
 and amusing as a puzzle, but its practical working is a failure. 
 It is, " Blow your whistle ! I won't come to you, my lad ! " 
 This is merely avis aux siffleurs. 
 
 Josslyn Dyke replies, warmly, " Come the day after to-morrow." 
 
 This is sudden : but it is " now or never " with Josslyn. I am 
 all for " now," and I accept. 
 
 " Capital ! " says Josslyn, as heartily as before ; " that's first- 
 rate." 
 
 Then he pauses, and puts his head on one side, as if considering 
 a difficulty. I make a pretence of being uninterested, but I own 
 to a misgiving about his invitation. It was given readily, it was 
 as readily accepted. It was offered carelessly ; it was received 
 with caution. 
 
 "Hum!" he says, dubiously, as if turning it over in his 
 mind, " let me see — I'm going to the Thompson Bonhams on— 
 ah " 
 
 This sounds as though he were going to the Thompson 
 Bonhams on the very day of my arrival. But I've accepted. 
 Ergo : Put off the Thompson Bonhams. I make no observation, 
 thinking it better for him to arrange his own affairs with himself, 
 and leave mine to myself. My affair is that I am going down to 
 stay with him, and, however he may treat the Thompson 
 Bonhams, I am not going to be put off. 
 
 He goes on soliloquising — " Yes, let me see — if I don't go to 
 them then — I can write and say that — yes — if you come down on 
 Monday," — I brighten up at this — I foresee a pleasant week — 
 "Yes, if you come down on Monday — then I can go to the 
 Thompson Bonhams on Thursday — that will suit you, eh 1 " 
 
 " Oh, yes," I reply, considerably damped by the sudden 
 curtailment of my projected visit. 
 
 It seems as though he were calculating my cost per diem, or 
 that it had suddenly occurred to him how tired he might possibly 
 become of me in two clays' time, and what a loophole was at once 
 offered him by the Thompson Bonhams' engagement. 
 
 Josslyn Dyke, having concluded his soliloquy, and very nearly 
 made his fixtures for the next few days, continues, as we walk 
 along: "The fact is," he says, confidentially, "the country's
 
 FllIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 83 
 
 charming, delightful in the summer," he emphasises "summer" 
 strongly, "when my house is full — lots of pretty people and pretty 
 dresses, you know — nnd the birds are singing, and all the flowers 
 are at their brightest and sweetest " — (quite a poet is Josslyn ! only 
 I cannot avoid the thought that flashes across me, " If it were 
 such a Paradise in summer, why the deuce didn't he ask me there 
 when there were, as he says, lots of pretty people and pretty 
 dresses 1 " However, I'll keep this — I'll brood over it — till we 
 have a cosy tete-a-tete in his snuggest of snug smoking-rooms), 
 " but now," he goes on, "when all the leaves are falling, when the 
 fogs rise and steal up the garden-walks like chilled ghosts of the 
 
 past " 
 
 " My dear fellow ? " I remonstrate, " you're romancing. It can't 
 be so bad as that." How about my bargain, and my pleasant 
 time at his country house, if he's going to have foggy ghosts 
 stealing up the garden-walks 1 
 
 "0 yes, it is," he insists. "You see, at four o'clock, one is 
 only too glad to close the shutters, draw the curtains, put on the 
 logs, light gas and candles everywhere we can, and keep out the 
 shadows of the night and the sort of churchyard damp that will 
 stream in through the chinks and crannies of the old house in 
 spite of everything." 
 
 " Ah ! " I say, endeavouring to divert him from his present 
 gloomy line of thought. What's the matter with him ? He is 
 tall, rather a chubby-faced, or cherub-faced, man, guiltless of 
 moustache and whisker except for a little bit that seems to have 
 slipped down from under his hair on each side, and been fastened 
 on flat with gum, and broad shoulders with just the slightest 
 stoop. I have always heard of him as being, or as having been 
 (and quite recently, too), dauntless as a lion in the cricket-field (a 
 lion in the cricket-field would be the only dauntless one there, if 
 the other dauntless ones had any sense — so it is a good simile 
 after all), and a hero at lawn-tennis. 
 
 " Ah ! " I exclaim, cheerily. " Yes, yours is an old house, a 
 very old house, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Yes," he begins. But I am afraid of his harking back to his 
 former theme, and 1 cut him short with — 
 
 " I love an old house, whether in England or abroad ! " I've 
 
 G 2
 
 84 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 not seen very many anywhere, except when in process of demoli- 
 tion for " Metropolitan Improvements ; " but inference, and not 
 accuracy, is the point when conversation has to be made. In fact, 
 an originator of conversation should drop vague hints, calculating 
 on the probable inferences to be drawn from them by his auditors, 
 who will then keep up the interest for themselves. This process 
 might be called the Inferential Calculus. This is a note by the 
 way. 
 
 " I love old houses ! " I go on enthusiastically. I feel I must 
 be enthusiastically joyous with a man so depressed as Josslyn. 
 Odd that he should be taken like this immediately after giving 
 me my invitation. Is it repentance ? Regret 1 
 
 " An old house is so cheerful in winter," I say ; and here it 
 occurs to me that I will give him a hint, and oppose ghosts with 
 real flesh and blood — " I mean it is so lively, when there are 
 about half-a-dozen pleasant people "• —is half-a-dozen enough 1 I 
 ought to have asked more, and then he would have come down to 
 that — I retrace my steps carefully — " half-a-dozen, or a dozen ; 
 according, of course," I am careful to add, "to the size of the 
 house. A few ladies to brighten up the scene. Then the chat 
 round the fire " — somehow I can't get away from the fire. When- 
 ever I begin with my ideal of the cheeriness of a country house in 
 winter, the fire is the centre, as it were, of my system, and I 
 invariably picture everybody sitting round it all day long, as 
 though really afraid for their very lives to move away, lest they 
 should be frozen to death, I leave this inference, however, for 
 him ; only, as far as I've gone, my sketch does not present that 
 idea of hearty joviality with which it had been my object to 
 impress him. Sitting round a fire the whole day is more sugges- 
 tive of a purring, sleepy, stupid state, than of rollicking country- 
 house amusement. I determine to throw more spirit into my 
 description, just to encourage him to ask some pleasant people ; 
 for if he doesn't, and if he is going to be as gloomy as he is just 
 now, I shall begin to regret I accepted Josslyn's invitation. 
 
 " Yes," I continue, " some lively people, all bright and cheery 
 round the breakfast-table in the morning — the freshest, merriest 
 meal of the day ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " he interrupts, " I hate breakfast in the morning ! "
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 85 
 
 When would he have it then ? In the evening 1 
 
 No ; he meant it seriously. He wouldn't, he says, have it at 
 all. Personally, he doesn't have it for himself, only for his guests. 
 
 I am compelled, out of deference to my future host, to tone 
 down this brilliant colouring at the commencement of the day, 
 and go on to the next step. 
 
 " Well," I admit, as if convinced by his manner, more than his 
 arguments, and in a general way deferring to his better sense and 
 greater experience (always in view of him as my future host), 
 " Well, there is something in what you say. A row and a noise 
 in the morning is not good ; it's exhausting. But then after- 
 wards — the first pipe, for example, after breakfast — ah — ah ! " and 
 I try to represent, in action, what rapture is mine when smoking 
 my first pipe in the morning. 
 
 " Ah ! " says Josslyn, most seriously, " I detest smoking early 
 in the morning ; I only smoke at night : last thing." 
 
 " Indeed ! " I exclaim ; and for a few seconds I haven't any- 
 thing further to say. I am a trifle shaken in my notions of the 
 jollity of Josslyn as a companion; but I think it best to "go 
 with him," so to speak, as far as I can, and (still in view of being 
 my future host) by an effort I recover this blow — for it is a blow, 
 when a man who is to be your host and companion, differs from 
 you on such an essential point as the first pipe in the morning — 
 and say — 
 
 " Well, possibly you're right — it suits me — but one can't legis- 
 late for others"-— (I wish I could) — "but then that's not the only 
 pleasure " (and I quite pick up again as I begin to picture 
 to myself a brilliant society at Jossljn's house) — "there are the 
 Ladies " 
 
 " Never look well in winter," he says, shaking his head, then 
 adds — " and so difficult to get the right ones. Hate girls." 
 
 What age is Josslyn? I'll go and talk him over with a friend. 
 At present my object is to show I'm the " Cornerless Man," who 
 will fit in everywhere and anywhere. 
 
 \Happy ThowjlU. — Capital name for a story, The Cornerless 
 Man. Also, good idea for an Advertisement : —
 
 86 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 WANTED, by a COENERLESS MAN, several pleasant 
 COUNTRY-HOUSES to stop at during the Winter 
 Months. Hunting and Shooting quarters not so much an object 
 as agreeable Society, and all found. No objection to travel in 
 perfectly fine weather, and the sea like a lake. — Address C. M., 
 Somebody Else's Chambers, No. 1 (which number he is at 
 present engaged taking care of).] 
 
 "Yes," I own to Josslyn, "you are right. It is difficult to 
 select exactly the people. But you have always plenty ready and 
 willing to come down to yov. Then " — (I go on with my ideal 
 country-house and its joys) — "there's riding, or perhaps hunting, 
 or a walk out and a drive back " 
 
 " And rvalh back," he corrects me quickly, so that there should 
 be no misunderstanding, no accepting on false expectations. 
 "I don't keep any horses or carriages." 
 
 " No — but " — (I suggest, as possible) — " a pony-trap " 
 
 " No trap at all," says Josslyn, decisively. 
 
 I am about to recover myself with greater difficulty this time, 
 as I foresee not being met at the Station, which is an omission I 
 detest, and am trying to pump up some fatuous remark about 
 walking being better for the health, and so forth, when he takes 
 up the conversation, and says — 
 
 " No ; out of the summer, it's a very dull place, and I'm only 
 too glad of anyone coming down to talk to me." 
 
 The deuce ! 
 
 " But I shan't have any one else there, because if two fellows 
 come, they talk to one another, and not to me ; and they go out 
 together, and leave me at home, because I don't walk much now. 
 No ; " he goes on becoming more contented with the prospects of 
 my being down there alone, and, so to speak, in his power; "we 
 will have the place to ourselves. It's an enormous old house. I 
 shut up most of the rooms when there's nobody there, and occupy 
 one; that'll be quite enough for us." "Oh, quite!" I say; but 
 my heart fails me, and my mind misgives. 
 
 " You'll see what a strange,' queer old ghostly place it is : some 
 terrible legend to every room in the house. That's what you'll 
 enjoy." 
 
 He is now quite lively again, as he bids me good-bye, and tells
 
 FBIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 87 
 
 me he shall certainly expect me the day after to-morrow. In 
 answer to my question about the line and station, he informs me 
 that I start from Fenchurch Street Station. Fenchurch Street ! 
 Oh ! I almost exclaim. Couldn't he make it anywhere else ? If 
 there is a station I detest — but, no matter, it is too late now — I 
 have accepted — and it mayn't be so far, after all, — only to begin 
 with Fenchurch Street Station on a foggy, mizzly, dull, damp 
 November afternoon — as a place to start from (better, in that 
 aspect, thank Heaven ! than as a place where we might be forced 
 to stop ! !) is not an encouraging prospect. 
 
 "From Fenchurch Street," he explains (and he thinks it a 
 charming station ; far better, he says, than Paddington, or St. 
 Pancras, or Liverpool Street — oh ! far better ! — so much more 
 convenient ; yes, for Avhere he wants to go) " you take the train " 
 — or, more correctly speaking, the train takes me ; for I couldn't 
 take a train anywhere without making a dreadful mess of it — "the 
 train takes you," continues Josslyn, "to Bursted Mills. There 
 you get out." 
 
 " Yes : and take a fly for your place," I say, with ready intelli- 
 gence. 
 
 I am wrong, Josslyn explains. I do not take a fly. Does a fly 
 take me 1 " No," Josslyn replies, with such gravity, that I at once 
 become seriously attentive. Another train comes up on a loop-line, 
 and that takes me to Clogsole and Clayboro" ; and this last is his, 
 Josslyn Dyke's, Station. 
 
 I feel as glad as though I were there already. 
 
 " There is sure to be," he informs me, " some one there to carry 
 your bag " — -he has evidently decided on the limit to my luggage, 
 and my stay — "and if there isn't, you can walk up through the 
 village ; and I can send the Gardener down, if he hasn't gone 
 away. But," he adds, in a hopeful tone, " we'll manage — some- 
 how." 
 
 I detest this expression when applied to dealings with my bag. 
 " Love me, love my bag," is my motto as a traveller, and if I don't 
 care about being treated " somehow," much less do I like to think 
 of my bag having to rough it in that sort of manner. After all, 
 what am I without my bag? What is any man, travelling, with- 
 out his bag ? Absolutely nothing. And knowing this as well as
 
 88 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 every one with any experience must do, nothing irritates me more, 
 or more justly — as it should irritate every right-minded, honest, 
 self-respecting person — than to hear a host, or a butler, or any 
 servant, but specially a host, say carelessly, " Oh, your bag will be 
 all right. It'll come up somehow. And, if it doesn't, we can easily 
 send for it " 
 
 No, I do not like this prospect as presented by Josslyn ; and 
 from this moment I have one fixed determination for this visit, 
 and that is, Not on any account to part with my Bag ! 
 
 I reserve these remarks, and do not tell Josslyn how he has 
 wounded a sensitive nature. 
 
 " And the name of your place — I forget exactly ! " I ask. 
 
 " Here it is — on my card. I thought you knew," he replies. 
 " The Mote, Moss-End. It's about three miles from the station." 
 
 Happy Thought. — More Re-mote than Mote. But I musn't ven- 
 ture on a jest about the name of a man's place, where his fore- 
 fathers and foremothers may have lived for centuries. But yet, 
 wasn't he disrespectful to my bag ? He won't be when he sees it. 
 Boy carry my bag, indeed ! I should like to see the Boy who could 
 carry the bag that I'm going to take down with me to The Mote, 
 Moss-End. That Boy would have to be a young Hercules. 
 Jossl}'n little suspects that in that bag of mine I can pack things 
 sufficient to last me for three months at a time ! I'm an old carpet- 
 bagger, and patent packing has been my study for years. But, 
 he will see. I shall arrive — the Corneiiess Man with the Carpet- 
 Bag! 
 
 We part. And the day after to-morrow will see me — if the 
 day after to-morrow only looks out sharp enough, and isn't too 
 foggy- — down at The Mote, Moss-End, chez Josslyn Dyke. An 
 revoir !
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 89 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE DISPIRITING JOURNEY — FOGS — MIST FENS — DAMPNESS LIGHT 
 
 MORE LIGHT — BURSTED MILLS LANTERN ONWARD POOR 
 
 GHOST — SUSPICIONS CLAYBORO' BOUND FOR JOSSLYN'S — SUG- 
 GESTIONS FOR HEAD-WARMERS — THE FLY ARRIVAL — THE KNELL 
 
 —SIGNS OF LIFE OPEN LOCKS — THE RECEPTION PRESENTI- 
 
 M ENTS — REGRETS. 
 
 P 
 
 RIZZLY, damp, 
 and dirty at Fen- 
 church Street Station. 
 All along the line, misty, 
 murky, and vapoury- 
 such a vapour as ghosts 
 might be made of — the 
 ghosts of victims lost hope- 
 lessly in the fens. The 
 gaslights struggling for 
 life — gasping and shiver- 
 ing. If I could peer into 
 the life of the fog, I am 
 sure I should see Jack- 
 o'-lanterns and unwhole- 
 some goblins dancing with 
 frogs, toads, and other such 
 slimy, grotesque creatures, 
 familiar to the pencils of 
 Doyle and Cruikshank. 
 The carriages appear damp, mouldy, and gloomy : all the 
 passengers wear a mysterious air, as it seems to me, wrapping 
 themselves up, and hiding themselves away in corners out of sight 
 of one another, as though each, having committed some great 
 crime, were escaping from justice, or, perhaps, the deed of dark- 
 ness being still undone, each sombre passenger is bound for some 
 lonely spot in the Fens, where the punctual victim will be met by 
 appointment, and then— —and then will be heard of no more !
 
 90 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Oh for the Electric Light all over the Essex Marshes, right away 
 down to the river, to scare the ghosts, the goblins, and the 
 murderous prowlers of the night ! Wake up, Mr. Edison, and 
 start land lighthouses, here, to begin with. Hang the expense ! — 
 do it, Sir ! Ruin yox;rself, and receive the gratitude of thousands 
 of poor trembling belated travellers. 
 
 Burstcd Mills Station ! More like an outlying shed for home- 
 less cattle in the midst of the Great Dismal Swamp. A shivering 
 porter, very damp, and very sniffling, is holding his lantern under 
 his jacket, with bis arm affectionately round it, as though to keep 
 it warm, and perhaps by this means impart some additional life to 
 his own pulsation. Hiding his light under a bushel, as it 
 were. 
 
 He regards me with pity, and evidently wonders what on earth 
 can have induced me to get out at Bursted Mills. 
 
 The train for Clogsole and Clayboro' is waiting, and there are 
 two other ghosts besides myself going by it. 
 
 We get into our compartments silently, avoiding one another. 
 The train starts noiselessly. No bustle, no screaming, no life. The 
 wheels are muffled, and the rails have been oiled by the greasy fog, 
 for we glide along into a deeper and deeper gloom, and the curtains 
 of mist close around us and behind us, deadening all sound, and 
 gradually shutting us out from the outer world. 
 
 I am wondering what evil genius prompted me to accept Josslyn 
 Dyke's invitation to his country-house at this time of year ! But 
 'tis done ! May I arrive safely ! 
 
 We stop at Clogsole. Somebody gets out. I arrive at the fact 
 by listening attentively. I can just see a shadowy figure — a 
 melancholy shade. He becomes merged in the fog, like the shadow 
 that used to stand behind the Haunted Man's chair in the Adelphi 
 drama, — and then he disappears, — perhaps burked on the spot, 
 robbed, and rolled over into a muddy ditch outside Clogsole 
 Station — to be left till called for. And when will he be called for ? 
 Alas ! poor ghost ! 
 
 In the old days of murderous romances and thrilling melo- 
 dramas, it used to be the innkeeper, or the miller, who gave his 
 victims shelter for the night, when their fate was sealed. In these 
 days of steam-travelling, can it be that the civil station-master has
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 91 
 
 taken the place of the black-browed host of the Roadside Inn, or of 
 Grindoff the miller 1 
 
 Clayboro' Station. I dread getting out. I look cautiously 
 round. I descend. No porter. Nobody. I hear a voice, some- 
 where in the night air, sighing out sadly, " Clayboro' " —that is all. 
 
 My luggage — that is, my Wonderful Bag is with me. The 
 phantom train glides away, and vanishes in a flash of fire : then 
 all is darkness on the Line. I am alone, with my bag, on the 
 platform. At last a glowworm porter advances to take my ticket. 
 I tell him I am bound for Mr. Josslyn Dyke's, The Mote, Moss- 
 End. By an effort of memory, as though unaccustomed to con- 
 versation, he recalls, after some hesitation, the name of the house 
 and its owner. I fancy he regards me suspiciously, as though I 
 might be a detective in disguise, and Josslyn of The Mote a 
 coiner. 
 
 I am inclined to re-assure him by protesting I mean no harm to 
 Josslyn Dyke, that I am his warmest friend, that is, if in these 
 parts there can be such a thing as a warm friend, unless he go 
 about in bearskins three deep, with coals of fire heaped on his head 
 like the itinerant roast chestnut vendors in the London streets— 
 which has always struck me as a wonderful invention for keeping- 
 one's head warm. 
 
 [Happy Tliought.—WQ have feet-warmers, why not " head- 
 warmers 1 " Strange that this fashion in our climate should not 
 be more generally adopted. No need to sell chestnuts ; merely a 
 hatfull of coals, lighted by the servant when you go out. The 
 " New patent iron hat for keeping the head warm in winter," — is a 
 brilliant idea. Might write, on this subject too, to Mr. Edison. 
 He'd work it up into something. Only / register it first. The 
 New Patent Coalhole Hat, invaluable for lightness and warmth. 
 No brushing required. | i 
 
 Fortunately there is a fly. This is a rare bit of luck. Josslyn 
 Dyke hadn't sent it. It has come to take somebody else some- 
 where else, and the somebody else's heart has evidently failed him 
 at the last minute, as he hasn't arrived, and can't now for another 
 two hours. With my bag I take my seat in the fly, and cheer up 
 a bit. No matter to me, now, that the fly lias a nasty odour of
 
 92 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 damp hay — no -matter to me that the doors are warped and c]ose 
 with difficulty— no matter that one window won't come up and the 
 other won't go down, and that it rattles, and shakes, and wobbles. 
 These are no discomforts to me noiv, for I am spared a dirty walk, 
 and saved, perhaps, from losing myself, and losing everything else, 
 it might be, bag included, on the lonely road between the station 
 and The Mote. 
 
 I can see nothing of the country, and very little of the village. 
 It is a village. I can make out the straggling, dimly-lighted shops 
 of the general-dealers, and we nearly bump up against some 
 waggons standing out in the road in front of the old village inn. 
 There is some shouting, not much, and some bad language — the 
 latter stronger than the shouting, and more of it, — and we con- 
 tinue our route. More and more vapoury and misty. Danker 
 and damper. 
 
 yllappy Thought. — Capital name for an opera bouffe, Danker and 
 Damper. Musical, of course — with Mile. D'Anka as the heroine. 
 Great blessing to be able to have even one flash of a " happy 
 thought " in such surroundings as these.] 
 
 Faint, flickering, bilious-looking lamps, at intervals, the posts 
 being invisible. The trap takes a turn to the left, then another to 
 the right, then to the left again : and then I couldn't swear 
 whether it is turning right or left, or whether we are curving 
 round and round, and travelling in a circle. All I am sure of is, 
 that we are not going straight : and at times I could almost 
 positively swear that we are going backwards. Wherever The 
 Mote may ultimately be, the road to it seems to be through a 
 labyrinth of lanes ; and, to judge by the jolting, we are passing 
 over deep ruts, or old water-courses. 
 
 At last we pull up. I can see absolutely nothing. Can I have 
 arrived at Nowhere, the country residence of Mr. Nobody 1 I 
 know that in crowded London, Josslyn Dyke would probably be 
 Nobody ; but here in the country I thought he would be Some- 
 body. Nobodies in London, are, more often than not, Somebodies 
 in the country. 
 
 The Flyman has descended, and, as far as I can make out, is 
 trying to climb up a pole. Good Heavens ! is this the way into
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 93 
 
 Josslyn Dyke's house 1 No ; he isn't trying to climb : he is only 
 fumbling about a door-post to find a bell. 
 
 Becoming accustomed to the darkness, I see that "\ve are close up 
 against a high, and, as it seems to me, black wall. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — Good omen. Arriving at Blackball. Used 
 not Blackwall to be famous for its dinners 1] 
 
 We are between two black walls, and under heavy, over-hanging 
 branches. A large, massive gateway looms gradually out from the 
 wall, slowly taking form, shape, and colour, like a change in a 
 dissolving view. Then, too, I become aware of a house, at some 
 little distance off — an old gabled house — and, as I think, a tower. 
 
 The Flyman has discovered the bell-chain by the mere accident 
 of the iron handle hitting him on the nose, which makes him, not 
 unnaturally, angry, but sets him to pulling at it with the vigour 
 of an irritable person suffering under a sense of injury, and de- 
 termined to " let 'em have it " whoever they are. 
 
 But it takes three pulls to produce one sound. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — Idea for a " Sound Table," — with my com- 
 pliments to the " Ancient Society of College Youths," or whatever 
 the scientific bell-ringers call themselves, — on - the plan of any 
 other table of weights and measures. And why not ? There is 
 such a thing as a " measured tone," and how will the ordinary 
 dealer measure it, if not by rule, i.e., by table. I don't see my 
 way to the proportions except starting with — 
 
 Three pulls (at a bell) make One sound. 
 
 Two sounds ,, Somebody hear. 
 
 Somebody hearing makes No difference. 
 
 No difference „ One angry.] 
 
 But these are details merely suggested at Josslyn Dyke's door, 
 by the fact of the Flyman having rung several solemn knells — and 
 the bell only knells once solemnly to every three good hard pulls 
 — without any result. It really appears as if the people within, 
 on hearing the knell, had gone quietly off and buried themselves. 
 I have often heard of persons " burying themselves in the country," 
 but never knew it was done in this way before. 
 
 I mention this jestingly to the Flyman, who doesn't understand 
 the humour of the thing, and is inclined to fancy I am chaffing
 
 94 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 him. However, as he has his fare in view, and an extra sixpence 
 for bell-ringing, he does not retort on me : but he is doing any- 
 thing but " blessing the bell" at that moment. 
 
 Lights ! The sounds of life ! Bolts, locks, and bars are flying 
 asunder ! Chains rattle as though a hundred persons were being 
 let loose out of the Bastille. More bolts, locks, and bars. More 
 chains. Then the deep baying of a hound from somewhere. 
 Where ? It occurs to me that if this basso-profondo hound is the 
 watch-dog, he must be rather useless, seeing that he took no notice 
 of our arrival, and had to be roused by the bell before he uttered a 
 sound. 
 
 However, that's Dyke's affair, not mine ; all that concerns me 
 about the hound with the bass growl just now is — where is he at 
 this minute ? I can't see him ; and I hate to hear an invisible dog. 
 
 The outer portal — it is a portal — opens, — of its own accord. 
 Through it, I see a line of light leading to a doorway, where stands 
 a tall figure, holding a lantern, and peering out cautiously. Then 
 the tall figure advances, gravely. 
 
 Associating his appearance — he is in black, and a stiff white tie 
 — with the funereal knell that has just sounded, I cannot help 
 looking upon him as an undertaker attached to the establishment. 
 He advances upon me, holding his lantern aloft, as though he were 
 searching for a body — as an undertaker might be expected to do 
 if he had lost one in the snow ; and then for the first time I per- 
 ceive behind him a huge St. Bernard mastiff. This completes the 
 picture of finding the body in the snow (only there's no snow, but 
 plenty of glistening dead leaves), and he ceases to represent an 
 undertaker, but a monk of St. Bernard turned Protestant, and 
 dressed as a clergyman of the Evangelical school. It is Josslyn 
 Dyke's butler : and — thank Heaven ! — this is Josslyn Dyke's ! 
 
 Joyfully I bestow largesse on the Flying Bellringer — I mean the 
 Bellringing Flyman ; and, after making friends with the dog, who 
 sniffs about me to assure himself of my being the sort of person he 
 would recommend his master to admit, I surrender my bag — my 
 bag of bags — to the care of the butler, and, without another word 
 from him to me, or from me to him — it is all done silently, in 
 dumb show, like a ballet in plain clothes — and there is an air of 
 mystery about, as if I were the last conspirator to arrive, and had
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 95 
 
 kept the others waiting — I follow the butler and the bag into the 
 Hall. 
 
 \llappy Thought (title for song). — The Butler and the Bag.] 
 
 In another second there is a pattering of feet on the dark oak 
 floor, and two dogs suddenly appear, stop short, and glower at me 
 suspiciously. They are weird-looking creatures, both of them. 
 The first, a trifle in advance of the other, has a large goblinesque 
 head with great goggly eyes, awkward overgrown legs, long 
 tawny body, and a tail that writhes and twists like an eel. 
 Were I asked, at haphazard, to fix his breed, I should say some- 
 thing between a bulldog, a pug, and a grotesque Chinese ornament, 
 the last factor in his composition predominating. The other dog 
 is, as far as I can make out, white, thin, and long pointed at both 
 ends like a double pencil. It is an unsubstantial dog, and strikes 
 me as a phantom animal : the first is a fiend. They do not utter 
 a sound or move. On my left stands the austere Butler and the 
 St. Bernard. None of us move or utter a sound. It is a tableau. 
 Enter upon this picture, my friend Josslyn Dyke who steps 
 forward, greeting me cordially but solemnly. 
 
 " Dinner," he says, gravely, " will be ready in half an hour. "We 
 dine punctually. Gool will show you your room. If you want 
 anything, ask Gool : he will see to you." 
 
 Gool is the Butler — a Phantom Butler ! — lank, dark, and pale, 
 and solemn as a mute, when officially engaged, standing silently, 
 and moving noiselessly ! 
 
 [Happy Thought (paraphrasing a well-known line). — Moving 
 noiselessly — "An excellent thing in Butlers."] 
 
 Gool inclines his head, and motions me to follow him up the 
 broad old dark-pannelled staircase. It is a ballet in plain clothes. 
 I express my willingness to accompany him also in dumb show. 
 There ought to be music. 
 
 Josslyn somehow vanishes. The dogs have all vanished. I 
 never saw or heard them go. 
 
 The place is dimly lighted, and there are black shadows lying 
 in wait in every corner, as though to pounce out on the venture- 
 some stranger.
 
 90 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 More ballet. Serious ]?as de deux between myself and the 
 Butler on the landing. 
 
 I am depressed. I am nervous. I wish I were at home, any- 
 where, in the centre of London, or at my Club, before the fire .... 
 but it is all too late .... Fate has pronounced .... and I 
 follow the Phantom Butler with the Bag.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 97 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AT J03SLYN DYKE'S THE HOUSE PASSAGE STAIRS — CLOCK BOGIE 
 
 CORNERS PHANTOM BUTLER — CHAMBER — PORTRAIT APPARI- 
 TION DOWN AGAIN — A SURPRISE — TO BE EXPLAINED IN OUR 
 
 NEXT. 
 
 IT IS a solemn, 
 silent house, this of 
 Josslyn Dyke's. Oak 
 panellings, casement 
 windows in deep re- 
 cesses. Doors in all 
 sorts of unexpected 
 places. The house ap- 
 pears to have been 
 built by some architect 
 who has gone mad on 
 dark corners. 
 
 It seems as if this 
 architect had said to 
 himself in drawing his 
 plan, " Now, look here, 
 we'll have a great big 
 staircase leading to a 
 dark corner halfway up 
 to the first floor ; then 
 the second part of the 
 staircase shall finish at 
 a landing where there are nothing but dark corners." 
 
 The architect must have chuckled over this idea. No one 
 remembers his name, but it is supposed that he " flourished " in 
 the Elizabethan period. Flourished is a good word, if it were not 
 suggestive of the question, "What did he flourish?" Was it his 
 stick with a handkerchief tied to the end of it, to express joy on 
 finishing his work 1 Or was it his hat 1 Or did he simply flourish, 
 not like a green bay-tree, but as a great bay-window, which would 
 be more appropriate to him as an architect 1
 
 <J8 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 However, no matter how he nourished, or when, certain it is that 
 he must have been a man of infinite humour in his design for The 
 Mote, Mossend, which was apparently built with a view to the 
 accommodation of a large family of Little Jack Homers, who could r 
 with smallest possible chance of observation, sit in various corners, 
 eating a corresponding number of Christmas pies. 
 
 Happy Thought for a Christmas book. The Homer Family, 
 By a " Corner Man." In a Horner-mental cover, price, &c. 
 
 After this one flight of stairs, which leads up to the first floor T 
 Gool, the Phantom Butler, glides before me with my bag and a 
 candle, along a narrow strip of carpet. 
 
 At the end of this passage something looms out upon us which 
 strikes me, at first, as not unlike a pump, without the handle. 
 
 Nearer approach shows it to be a gaunt, melancholy, yet 
 military-looking, clock. It bears a fanciful resemblance to a 
 highly-finished sentry-box in dark wood, with a front door to 
 it, which the sentry could lock after him when he felt cold, and 
 went in. If he opened it now and stepped out, I don't think I 
 should be vei-y much surprised. I am sure Gool wouldn't be. 
 If goblin Jack Homers are in all the dark corners, eating 
 phantom Christinas pies — goblin' goblins — then there is another 
 phantom Jack-in-the-box, in the sentry-box, who comes out 
 perhaps when the clock sounds midnight. Involuntaiuly I take 
 out my watch to compare London time with what they accept as 
 the correct thing down here, so as to accommodate myself to my 
 host's views in regard to punctuality at meals. 
 
 But the clock's face o-ives me no information. It is a vellowish 
 complexion, which, being of metal, was once, perhaps, as bold as- 
 brass, but now the numbers are almost illegible, except the ten 
 and the two, which form a pair of eyes on either side of a little 
 round discoloured button of a nose, from which depend, at two 
 acute angles, left and right, two straight dark lines, really the 
 hands, which have the appearance of moustachios of the same 
 period as the house — i.e., the Elizabethan. 
 
 "That clock, Sir," observes Gool the butler, solemnly, in answer 
 to my inquiry — " that clock never tells the time. It never has 
 done, since Tve been here." He says it with pride, and with a 
 touch of sympathy in his voice, that makes him, for a second,
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. £9 
 
 almost human, at all events a trifle less ghostly. I notice, after- 
 wards, that when Josslyn speaks of his clock he does so in, the 
 same tone of affectionate pride, as one would do of a superannuated 
 servant who had done his work in his day, and had become a 
 pensioner of the family. 
 
 " No, Sir," says a footman afterwards coming upon me suddenly 
 (everyone comes across everyone else suddenly in Josslyn Dyke's 
 house, they are all surprise passages), while I am examining this 
 clock ; examining, but not consulting it any more than I should 
 think of consulting a nonagenarian physician who had lost his 
 memory — " no, Sir. You can never get the time from that 
 clock. We always take it from the one in the hall or the 
 kitchen. The little one in the dining-room ain't much use ; it 
 goes well enough, but it generally gets very fast." 
 
 Of course, the little one in the dining-room is scarcely fifteen 
 years old. A giddy thing, bright and Frenchified (the gift of 
 some kind friend who wanted to brighten up the general gloomi- 
 ness of The Mote), a go-a-head sort of fellow, a kind of clock that, 
 never pays in the end, always tick, tick, tick, always fast, 
 thoroughly unprincipled, never to be relied on for a moment, 
 much less for an hour. 
 
 But the old Clock on the Stairs that never will tell the time ! 
 That keeps its own counsel in its own case ! That not by sound, or 
 sign, ever lets out its secret. That watches everything and says 
 nothing ! Why is this clock silent 1 Did it neglect to speak 
 once, on some fearfully important occasion, when its voice ought 
 to have forbidden the banns of marriage, and, as the penalty, had 
 ever afterwards to hold its tongue ? I must ask Josslyn Dyke 
 about this clock. Proceed, Gool, this confidential clock interests 
 me much. 
 
 Through a small door into a narrow passage. Through another 
 small door, and on to another staircase. More doors, more corners, 
 dimly lighted by one gas jet shining through a pale green medium. 
 One more door. My chamber. 
 
 Our entrance with the candle seems to disperse the shadows 
 which were gathered about the hearth, as if the superior 
 Phantom Butler had said " Come ! No loitering about here ! 
 It won't do, you know ! Move on ! No hanging about and 
 
 h 2
 
 ICO QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 haunting here, 'cos I won't have it " — and I become aware of 
 the presence of a cheerful fire, in — for the architect couldn't 
 resist the temptation even here — in a dark corner. The dog- 
 grate is in a deep tiled recess — the back is coal black — the tiles 
 are smoked black — the woodwork about is almost black — the dog- 
 irons are black— and as the fire is the very model of a fire for 
 roasting chestnuts by, there being no flame — it sheds a glow 
 which has a warm and cheerful appearance, but which fails in 
 reaching a single corner. 
 
 There are two candles on the dressing-table, which Gool lights ; 
 but twenty of the best wax wouldn't illuminate this room satis- 
 factorily. 
 
 A casement window in a deep recess. Dark and draughty. Old 
 faded brown, Scotch snuff-coloured curtains, which have had 
 a serious quarrel, and won't meet, despite all attempts at 
 reconciliation on the part of friendly intervention. Pitch dark 
 outside. 
 
 The bed is enormous, and funereal, reminding me of a lying-in- 
 state. There are four dark, sturdy, posts, and six dingy, heavy 
 curtains ; a patchwork coverlet, of many colours, as though 
 they'd caught and killed a poor old faded Harlequin, and had 
 stuffed his skin for this purpose ; a large pillow, and watch- 
 pockets for two, pinned on to a sort of patternless tapestry 
 back-ground. 
 
 Gool unpacks for me : sees that everything is ready, and then 
 becoming absorbed into the deep shadow, he melts away suddenly, 
 and disappears — through the door, I suppose ; but the door is in- 
 visible, and his movements were inaudible, so that I couldn't swear 
 positively, in a court of justice, to either the means or manner of 
 his exit. 
 
 A languor steals over me. I should like to sleep before the fire, 
 if there were a comfortable chair, or to go straight to bed, then 
 and there. This influence is so strong on me, that I surprise 
 myself in the act of unconsciously winding up my watch. 
 
 This discovery causes me to pull myself together, and rouse 
 myself for a supreme effort. 
 
 The supreme effort is taking off my coat. After which I stare 
 vacantly at the fire, and then, reversing my position, I stare at
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 101 
 
 the bed. Then I wonder what the room was originally used for ; 
 then becoming more accustomed to the light, such as it is, I am 
 suddenly startled by seeing what, on the instant, appears to me 
 to be somebody looking at me through a hole up above the 
 wainscot, on the wall opposite the side of the bed furthest from 
 the window. 
 
 Of course in another second I am aware of its being a picture. 
 The old stories recur to me of the top of the bed slowly descend- 
 ing, as the picture gradually disappears from view ; of the con- 
 cealed assassin watching his victim through the portrait's eyes ; 
 and I am conrpelled to take a candle, and examine the painting 
 closely. I say to myself, " I wonder whom it's by?" I look for 
 the name of the artist. Then I say to myself, " I suppose it's a 
 portrait." Then I get on a chair so as to place myself vis-a-vis 
 with the face of this grim-looking Spaniard in black doublet and 
 ruff, and once more I soliloquise, " queer-looking old chap " — but 
 somehow in speaking of him in this manner, I feel inclined to beg 
 his pardon for the liberty, and to account for it as a lapsus linguce, 
 caused by my nervousness on the introduction. I wish to look on 
 it, and speak of it, and think of it, as a work of art, and as a 
 curiosity ; but, somehow, though I have taken the greatest 
 pains to put myself on a familiar footing with the picture, I 
 feel the picture has got the better of me, and though as I wash 
 my hands, I say to myself in a vague sort of dashing incredulous 
 way, " How absurd ! ridiculous ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! " — yet I can't 
 help looking over my shoulder to see if anything has happened, 
 and if the picture, or rather the three-quarter man in the picture 
 is still where he was. 
 
 \_Harppy Thought. — Three-quarter man. Ku legs. But even 
 this doesn't entirely reassure me, as I have an uncanny sort of 
 feeling that legs are, so to speak, " no object to him," if he once 
 took it into his head (which he has got) to come down, and have 
 a look round.] 
 
 A bell rings solemnly from some part of the house. Dinner, I 
 suppose. I hurry on with my dressing, but from time to time 
 I cast a glance at the picture to see what he's doing. 
 
 I am startled by a sepulchral voice saying, " Are you ready, 
 Sir ? "
 
 102 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 It is the apparition of Gool. He has come, like the statue of 
 the Commendatore in Don Giovanni, to take me below to dinner. 
 
 It has occurred to Josslyn Dyke that I may not be able to find 
 my way, and he has despatched Gool to be my guide. 
 
 Phantom Butler, I come to dinner. Alas, poor Ghost ! lead on, 
 I follow. 
 
 I expect the evening will be awfully slow and dull. 
 
 What do I hear ? 
 
 Voices 1 Merriment in the distance 1 Impossible ! 
 
 Gool throws open a door in a corner, — always a corner, — leading 
 out of a dark passage. 
 
 And I see before me .... I can hardly believe my eyes.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 103 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE SURPRISE— A PARTY RECOGNITION — DESCRIPTION — CATALOGUE 
 
 — OLDEST OF OLD COUNTIES — THE BEAUTY — INTRODUCTION 
 
 MAUVAIS QUART D'HEURE — ETIQUETTE — MORE SOLEMNITY 
 
 DINNER IN STATE. 
 
 HAD expected 
 p. Josslyn Dyke to 
 be alone, and, to niy 
 utter astonishment, 
 find myself suddenly 
 thrust in, as it were, 
 on a comparatively 
 large party, that, 
 apparently, hadn't 
 in the least expected 
 me to be added to 
 their number. 
 
 The rapidity with 
 which I have been 
 let in, aud the door 
 closed behind me, 
 seems somethinglike 
 a practical joke on 
 the part of the Phan- 
 tom Butler. 
 
 Nobody takes the 
 slightest notice of me, except two or three Ladies, who look round 
 as much as to say, "What's this?" and after an inspection so brief 
 as scarcely to interrupt their conversation for a second, they seem 
 to say, "Oh, is that all — well, as we were saying," and they resume 
 their talk. Awkward. 
 
 My host is engaged with a tall, elderly, crusty -looking Gentle- 
 man by the fire-place. The Crusty Gentleman has taken up the 
 usual peculiarly Englishman's attitude in front of the fire, so as to 
 render himself more crusty than ever. He is doing himself to a
 
 104 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 turn — [Happy Thought. — Doing himself a good turn. Charity 
 begins at home, i.e. at your own fireside] — sometimes with great 
 impartiality presenting a side view to the fire, and sometimes 
 turning right round while conversing with Josslyn Dyke, so that 
 in time, the Crusty Old Gentleman will be thoroughly done 
 through. Whatever the engrossing subject may be, Josslyn is 
 saying, "it is," and the Crusty one is "begging his pardon, and 
 assuring him that it isn't." 
 
 I only see one face I know. It belongs to a man whom I meet, 
 occasionally, once in two years, but as Josslyn is evidently not 
 going to introduce me to anybody, and as, without this ceremony, 
 I can't address anyone, even about the weather, without being 
 considered ill-bred, I go straight up to the face I know, and say 
 heartily, " Ah ! how are you 1 " He is in the middle of a discus- 
 sion on the latest news of the day with a tall, hazy-eyed man, with 
 an eye-glass that he can't fix for more than a second at a time, 
 and whose expression is something so between a laugh and a cry, 
 as to convey the idea of his having taken his wine before dinner, 
 instead of having that pleasure to come. 
 
 The gentleman whom I recognize, stares at me, then exclaims, 
 " Ah ! how are you ! " in a surprised way, implying that, had 
 politeness permitted, he would have added, "And ivho the deuce 
 are you ? " 
 
 Then follows the usual stupid pause, and the usual nervous 
 laugh. We are both trying to remember where we saw each other 
 last, and what we know of one another, if anything. 
 
 We discover, to our mutual relief, that there is no deception ; 
 that we did meet at the Shalluses, about a year or so ago ; which 
 leads us to inquire of one another what has become of the Shal- 
 luses, as if they'd been hanged, or sold up, or transported in 
 the mean time. Neither of us knows what has become of the 
 Shalluses ; and here the conversation would come to a standstill, 
 but for the hazy-eyed man, who evidently resents my interruption, 
 and attracts my acquaintance's attention with, " By the way, 
 Hoshford " — ah ! that's his name, Hoshford, of course — " I was 
 going to ask just now," which implies that he would have asked 
 him, if I hadn't come up and interrupted, — " whether you ever 
 got a satisfactory reply from the Serjeant about the terms of the
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 105 
 
 lease 1 " This is so pointed a hint, as to their conversation up to 
 the moment I had " intervened " — like a Queen's Proctor — having 
 been peculiarly private and confidential, that I cannot avoid 
 feeling myself " not in it," and so turn away, hoping either that 
 Josslyn -will introduce me to some one, or that dinner will be 
 announced, or that there is a photograph-book that I can 
 examine. 
 
 I survey the company. Another face I recognize — a man whom 
 I've seen, generally at luncheon-time, at the Club for years ; 
 never ascertained his name, and never seen him speaking to any 
 one. I remember having been informed that this was a Country 
 Member who lived some distance from town, and who apparently 
 only came up at luncheon-time, and then went back again. I 
 doubted it then ; now I believe it to be true. He advances 
 towards me, and observes, cheerfully, " I think we ought to know 
 one another ! " I respond to the sentiment with much cordiality. 
 At the same time, I wonder if, after this, we shall do more than bow 
 distantly for the remainder of our lives, except when on another 
 similar occasion bringing us again together, we shall make the 
 same remark. 
 
 I ask him if he knows many people here, which question imply- 
 ing that he doesn't, rather depreciates the value of his friendly 
 greeting. He replies, " No ; not everybody." 
 
 At this moment Josslyn Dyke comes up to me, and with an air 
 of the deepest mystery, says, " I want you to take Mrs. Lawleigh 
 Byrne in to dinner." 
 
 Of course I reply, " that nothing I could possibly have imagined 
 would give me greater pleasure than to take Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne 
 in to dinner," and I look round to see which is Mrs. Lawleigh 
 Byrne. There are two old Ladies by the fire chatting together ; 
 one with a conspicuously false brown front, and the other with a 
 most festive cap ; and I do hope that neither of these is Mrs. 
 Lawleigh Byrne. 
 
 Josslyn Dyke relieves my mind by saying, sadly — he generally 
 speaks sadly as though he were reluctantly fulfilling some painful 
 duty — 
 
 "You know her, don't you?" 
 
 "No, I don't think ."
 
 106 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 He murmurs in my ear with melancholy emphasis 
 
 " Great beauty. Everybody about here been going mad after 
 her. Widow. Very rich. Very old county family. Come ! " 
 
 I am overawed by this description, and almost begin to wish 
 that the introduction had been, after all, to one of those two old 
 Ladies by the fire, — even to the one in the festive cap. 
 
 I delay him for a moment to ask who all the people are. 
 Josslyn explains them to me as if they were catalogued figures in a 
 waxwork exhibition. " That old Gentleman there, talking to Mrs. 
 Lawleigh Byrne, is Mr. Kendlesham of Pikley — very old county 
 family — the old Lady with a cap is Mrs. Aysford Synge of The 
 Wick, near here, one of the oldest families in the county " —and it 
 occurs to me one of the oldest Ladies in the county too — " and," I 
 ask, " the other funny old Lady with the " — I am just going to 
 add, " evident false front " — when he interrupts me gravely, " That 
 is my aunt, Mrs. Tupton, who is staying here " — very glad I 
 didn't say any more. He continues, " Hoshford, you know." 
 
 " He's not an old county family, is he 1 " I ask, incredulously, 
 having hitherto only associated him with London. 
 
 " Yes, very old county family. Hoshford came over with the 
 Aysford Synges." I thought he was going to say " with the 
 Conqueror." " The tall man with the eye-glass is Henry Sandi- 
 lands, a very old friend of mine." Glad I didn't venture on any 
 personal remark about him. " The thin elderly Gentleman with 
 the bald head is Aysford Synge, of The Wick — and the stout man 
 he's talking to is Pelkin Wadd, an ex-Master in Chancery."' 
 
 I remark that I once knew a Wadd family in Sussex. 
 
 Josslyn resents this. I had evidently no business to know a 
 Wadd family in Sussex, who, apparently, were impostors, as these, 
 the Pelkin Wadds, have no relations anywhere out of this county — 
 in fact, never been out of Dampshire. It occurs to me that the 
 Pelkin Wadds resemble the Christy Minstrels, who never perform 
 out of St. James's Hall — and that all the other Wadds are coun- 
 terfeits. I wonder what the other Wadds say to this. It appears 
 that I am among the representatives of all the oldest county 
 families. Quite a gathering of the Clans. Josslyn's serious and 
 impressive manner seems to imply that he feels what a responsi- 
 bility he has incurred by bringing together this valuable collection
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 107 
 
 of old county families. After going through the catalogue 1 
 almost aspect him to add, " Please not to touch the figures." 
 
 There is age upon them all except Hoshford and Mrs. Lawleigh 
 Byrne, the former looking younger than he really is (I've known 
 him by sight for years), and the latter looking, it strikes me, older 
 than she really is ; but still a Beauty. 
 
 A sudden shyness comes over me. But it is too late. I am led 
 up to Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne. She is a fine, handsome, lustrous- 
 eyed lady in black velvet, much lace, and sparkling diamonds, a 
 iianiing crimson cap of satin, all crumpled as if some one had been 
 sitting on it by accident, and white gloves, with about sixteen 
 buttons, up to her elbows. 
 
 She is seated, and still engaged in conversation with the Crusty 
 Elderly Gentleman, — Rendlesham of Pikley. 
 
 If there is one ceremony more awkward than another, it is that 
 of introduction to the person you are to take in to dinner. To 
 begin with : it's not the choice of either party : your host is the 
 providence for the occasion. Then you know nothing of one 
 another ; you are utterly ignorant as to whether there is between 
 you any similarity of tastes, or some agreement of opinion. 
 Perhaps one may dislike everything the other fancies, and vice 
 versd. Then the necessity of introduction seems to imply to the 
 Lady, " Look here ! You won't have any dinner unless he takes 
 you in, because you can't go in alone." And much the same to 
 the Gentleman, who is made responsible for his companion's enjoy- 
 ment during the remainder of the evening. 
 
 The introduction is completed, Josslyn Dyke (who is really one 
 of the gravest, and, ordinarily, one of the most sensible men in the 
 world) stupidly adding, on leaving us, as a recommendation of me 
 to her favour, " He'll amuse you, Mrs. Byrne," whereat The Beauty 
 •slightly elevates her dark eyebrows, aud brings to bear on me the 
 full power of her electric lustrous eyes, as though expecting to see 
 me do something to amuse her on the spot, there and then. Stand 
 on my head perhaps, or swallow a paper-knife and bring it out of 
 my right ear. I know men who can do this, and, conversation 
 failing, I envy them the accomplishment. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — Must learn tricks with cards. Garry a pack 
 in my pocket, and, on being introduced, come to business at once
 
 108 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 with the question, " Take a card — look at it : you're sure you'll 
 know it again 1 ? " &c. This would start a subject of conversation 
 between two utter strangers, and do away with all the wearisome 
 twaddle about the weather and the news. 
 
 However, as I haven't matured this plan, I can only protest 
 feebly against Josslyn Dyke's remark. But he doesn't stay to 
 listen to it. J 
 
 I would protest, but Josslyn Dyke has gone. 
 
 I can only smile, inanely. I am painfully conscious of the utter 
 inanity of the smile, and say, 
 
 " Well, it rather " 
 
 But I don't get any further, as Old Crusty — I mean old Rendle- 
 shani of Pikley — resumes his conversation at the point where he 
 had dropped it, and Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne turns her head towards 
 him and away from me, so that I can only stand before them and 
 listen to what they have to say to one another, which is all about 
 their county matters, which, as I am utterly ignorant on the subject, 
 have no sort of interest for me. I don't like to go away, I don't 
 like to stop. If there were a chair at hand, sitting-down would 
 give me some occupation. 
 
 I am nervously aware of Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne's observing me out 
 of the corner of her eye. Perhaps at this moment I am fulfilling 
 my mission, and amusing her. I wish old Old Crusty would retire. 
 
 The announcement of dinner breaks up the groups, and I have 
 to offer my arm to Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne. 
 
 Which arm ? 
 
 [Happy Thought. — Watch my host, Josslyn Dyke, and see which 
 arm he gives.] 
 
 I could have sworn I saw him give his right arm. I give mine. 
 Immediately afterwards I find 1 am the only person who has given 
 his right arm. Perhaps giving the left arm is one of the ancient 
 customs of the oldest county families. I apologize. Shall we 
 change 1 Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne appears a little annoyed at the 
 awkwardness. Our changing arms involves a delay of the proces- 
 sion, which is arranged on some principle of county precedence, 
 which in my ignorance I violate by stepping gaily before old 
 Pelkyn Wadd, the ex-Master in Chancery, with Mrs. Tupton, 
 Josslyn's false-fronted Aunt, on his arm.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 109 
 
 Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne says, seriously, in an undertone to me, 
 "" They'll never forgive me for this. "We're out of our place." 
 
 I try to reassure her by replying cheerfully that "we shall 
 soon be in our right place," meaning at dinner, but she evidently 
 regards this as levity, and the procession moves, silently and 
 solemnly, into the dining-room, where for a time, but only for a 
 time, the gloom of The Mote would have entirely disappeared, but 
 for the sombre pictures on the walls, and the impossibility, even 
 here, with all the candles — -"the thousand additional lamps"- — of 
 throwing any gleam of light into the dark bogie corners of this 
 old Elizabethan dining-room, — and but for, above all, the presence 
 of Gool, the Phantom Butler, and his carefully-selected band of Old 
 Country Waiters.
 
 no 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DINNER-PARTY — OLD COUNTY PEOPLE NO CHANCE — OUT OF IT 
 
 DESCRIPTION HAPPY THOUGHTS — APPLES POTATOES ANI- 
 MATED DISCUSSION — INTERESTING — POTATO TOPICS — DEARTH 
 
 SADNESS — DESPAIR — DIFFERENCE OF OPINION — SUDDEN CHANGE 
 — SOMETHING NEW " OLD COUNTY PEOPLE." 
 
 I SOON 
 
 } discover,, 
 that, for 
 thoroughly 
 enjoying the 
 conversa- 
 tion at Joss- 
 lyn Dyke's- 
 table, I 
 ought to 
 have be- 
 longed to 
 an Old 
 County fam- 
 ily. Itbeing 
 impossible 
 to be elected 
 as a Mem- 
 ber of an 
 Old County 
 
 family on the spot, I am obliged to content myself with trying to 
 interest myself in -whatever subject Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne is con- 
 versing about with Josslyn Dyke on her left, or attempting to 
 beguile her into interesting herself in me. 
 
 I dare say, that, apart from the Old County set, Mrs. Lawleigh 
 Byrne would be delightful. But as one of the Old County set, and 
 mixed up in it, she seems unable to speak on any but Old County 
 topics. 
 
 Mrs. Tupton, with the evident false front, Josslyn Dyke's Aunt,
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. Ill 
 
 keeps up quite an animated discussion on kindred matters on my 
 right : Hoshford and Miss Aysford Synge are, so to speak, in the 
 same s~\vim. I can't swim, with this stream at least ; and so r 
 figuratively, I sit on the bank watching the others, and wishing 
 for some subject to be started that shall be as a touch of nature to 
 make the whole world kin. This means, on reflection (for I have 
 plenty of time to reflect), that I want something to be started that 
 I can talk about. In fact, I'm not quite sure, after my enforced 
 silence, whether I. shouldn't be glad to have all the talk to myself. 
 
 My one chance is with Hoshford, whom I had recognized as an 
 acquaintance, whose life I had fondly imagined had been passed 
 chiefly in London, and who therefore would be at home on con- 
 genial matters. Not a bit. He is at this moment eloquent upon 
 the merits of some archery parties and pic-nics, given by some 
 well-known Old County People in the past summer ; and he and 
 Miss Aysford Synge are comparing notes about the flirtations that 
 took place on those occasions, the marriages that are on the tapis,, 
 the probability of the Fourth Light Something succeeding the 
 Thirteenth Heavy Somethingelses at the garrison town, and the 
 particular advantages or disadvantages of that change of military 
 contingent to this part of the county. 
 
 Miss Synge is a washed-out young Lady — a sort of '-'symphony," 
 in no colour in particular. She is not exactly tall, nor lanky, nor 
 gawky, but long — a symphony in neutral tint, a note of Whistler's 
 long drawn out. Had I met her in one of the obscure passages 
 on The Mote, I should have taken her for the Resident Ghost. 
 
 [Happy Thought {all to myself, having no one to say it to). — Why 
 is The Mote like one of Mr. Robert Browning's poems ! Because 
 it's fidl of obscure passages. Remember this, and ask it presently. 
 Only if Mr. Robert Browning doesn't happen to belong to one of 
 their own Old County families, I don't think there's much chance 
 of my conundrum being appreciated.] 
 
 Mr. Pelkin Wadd, the ex-Master in Chancery, at the other end 
 of the table, is talking about the state of the roads and labourers' 
 cottages with Mr. Aysford Synge, while Mr. Sandilands' conversa- 
 tion is entirely about fishing, in which Mrs. Aysford Synge appears 
 to be deeply interested. 
 
 There are only two subjects which seem, for a short time, to 
 unite them all — one is Apples, and the other Potatoes.
 
 112 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 I think I may venture on Apples. I try it with Mrs. Lawleigh 
 Byrne, while for one moment there is a break in her conversation 
 with Josslyn. 
 
 " Is this a great apple-growing county 1 " I ask, with the deeply 
 interested air of an inquirer into statistics. 
 
 " Well," she replies, with rather a defiant manner, apparently 
 resenting my question as an impertinent curiosity about county 
 matters that cannot possibly concern me, " this is not a cider 
 county." 
 
 "Oh," I say, glad to find that I have succeeded in starting a 
 subject for both of us, and beginning to feel for the first time that 
 I have, as it were, at least a small stake in the county ; " not like 
 Devonshire, then 1 " 
 
 " Oh, not in the least ! " she returns, with a supercilious smile, 
 and turning the light of her eyes full on to me as though she were 
 detecting an impostor, she adds, emphatically, " not in the least 
 bit like Devonshire ! " 
 
 If I yielded to impulse, for the mere sake of keeping up the con- 
 versation, I should immediately rejoin, " Oh ! then there's no 
 cream 1 " But, fortunately, this subtle remark of mine is pre- 
 vented by Hoshford, who, addressing her from the opposite side 
 of the room, observes, — " I hear it's been a bad apple-year with 
 you, Mrs. Byrne?" This brings up Mr. Rendlesham of Pikley, 
 and then all the others. 
 
 Bendlesham says, despairingly, " I can't get apples anywhere," 
 as if he had lived on them all his life, and would die within a very 
 short time if the supply wasn't kept up. 
 
 Every one pities Mr. Bendlesham. 
 
 Mr. Synge wishes he had kept his apples till now. This sounds 
 as if he regrets not having brought a lot of them in his pocket to 
 eat himself, and let friends have a few bites. Unfortunately it 
 appears he sold them early at a very low figure. His tone is that 
 of a man whom ruin is staring in the face. 
 
 Sandilands asserts, with the air of a man who is giving up life 
 as one grand mistake altogether, that he had offered a fabulous 
 sum per bushel for apples, but couldn't get them. 
 
 Dyke wishes he had known this last week, as he sent his last up 
 to London and only got a very poor price for them. 
 
 " It's been the same with potatoes," observes Pelkin Wadd.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 113 
 
 "Worse ! " remarks Sandilands, moodily. 
 
 " Have your potatoes been bad, Air. Sandilands ? " asks Mrs. 
 Byrne, in a tone of intensely sympathising pity, leaning forward, 
 and looking down the table at him. 
 
 Sandilands replies that " he really can't get a potato." 
 
 This is said with such an utter abandonment of all hope of ever 
 getting a potato here or hereafter, that I wonder Josslyn Dyke 
 doesn't order Gool to put up whatever cold boiled ones are left from 
 dinner for the poor potatoless man to take away with him. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — Good title for a country story — The Potato- 
 less Man : a Tale of Hard Times .'] 
 
 Josslyn Dyke now joins in. 
 
 "You'll never get any potatoes on your land," he says, with an 
 air of authority, "until you use Dumpton's Dressing." 
 
 Sandilands doesn't believe in Dumpton's Dressing. No more 
 does Aysford Synge. The ladies are entirely against Dumpton's 
 Dressing. I should like to cut in with some pleasantry about 
 their being still more against Dumpton's £/?i-Dressing, but I feel 
 that anything of this sort would be out of place among the Old 
 County families. 
 
 Pelkin Wadd declares his belief in planting potatoes close 
 together. This sounds sociable, and pleasant for the potatoes. 
 Mrs. Byrne won't hear of it. Her gardener, Dixon (they all nod, 
 as much as to imply, oh yes, we know Dixon), never plants 
 closely. 
 
 Rendlesham thinks Dixon's right, but the secret of planting is 
 to cut the potatoe in half, " that," says Rendlesham triumphantly, 
 " is the only safe way." 
 
 Sandilands begs his pardon : he has tried it. His advice is, 
 "Cut it into quarters. Then you may rely on a crop." 
 
 Rendlesham denies this warmly. Sandilands asserts it with 
 equal warmth. 
 
 Hoshford thinks that potatoes should be planted whole and 
 close together. Mrs. Byrne says not whole, but close. 
 
 Josslyn Dyke insists upon Rendlesham's plan with a modifica- 
 tion. " Cut them in half," he says, " but plant at good intervals." 
 
 " Deep 1 " asks Synge. 
 
 i
 
 114 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " Oh, no, not deep ! " cries Mrs. Byrne, appealing earnestly to 
 Dyke. " You don't mean deep, do you Mr. Dyke 1 " 
 
 Dyke is sorry to differ from the beautiful widow, but his candid 
 opinion is in favour of depth for the potatoes. 
 
 "Never deep, my dear Josslyn," says Sandilands, smiling at 
 such a preposterous idea. 
 
 " It surely depends upon the soil," observes old Mrs. Tupton, 
 timidly. 
 
 It appears that whether they've planted them deep or shallow, 
 whether they've used Dumpton's Dressing, or planted them widely 
 or closely, the result is the same — they've got, they say, "no pota- 
 toes— to speak of." And yet they've been speaking of them for 
 the last half-hour. 
 
 Apples and potatoes carry us right through dinner. Unfortu- 
 nately for me, I cannot recollect any good stories about apples or 
 potatoes ; and knowing nothing about them, except as to methods 
 of cooking them, and only one of eating them, I am obliged to 
 listen. Suddenly, as if by the touch of a spring, the conversation 
 changes entirely. Some one has observed that the best potato- 
 ground was by Cotley's Farm ; whereupon Rendlesham asks, 
 " Who has got Cotley's now 1 " 
 
 Nobody seems to know. Pelkin Wadd has heard that it was in 
 the market again, and Mrs. Aysford Synge thinks that Mr. Gash 
 of Saltend has bought it ; when Dyke turns to Gool, and 
 observes — 
 
 " Gool, do you know who's got Cotleys 1 " 
 
 The Phantom Butler replies, solemnly, " No one won't take it 
 now, Sir." 
 
 He says nothing more, but it is enough. Apples and potatoes 
 have had their day. 
 
 " Ah, of course ] " exclaims Sandilands, suddenly, remembering. 
 " It's next to The Grange, and it's getting just as bad, they say." 
 " Really ! " exclaims Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne. 
 "Yes, Mrs. Byrne," says Miss Synge, in answer to the inquiry, 
 " it's quite true. No one will live in the place." 
 My opportunity has arrived at last. 
 " Bad drainage ? " I ask. 
 " Oh, nothing of that sort," returns Mrs. Byrne, again resenting 
 
 S>
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 115 
 
 my interference in what may be considered as Confidential County 
 Matters. " That could be cured. But you know when a house 
 oiicp gets the reputation of being haunted, you can't induce people 
 
 to take it." 
 
 " It's more than a reputation," observes Josslyn Dyke, gravely. 
 
 « It's a fact." 
 
 We are all listening, and old Mrs. Tupton gives a perceptible 
 shudder. 
 
 i 2
 
 116 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FACT FICTION EVIDENCE DOUBT — ASSERTION — PHANTOM BUTLER 
 
 MORE EVIDENCE JOSSLYN's NERVOUS AUNT — COMFORT 
 
 FEAR MRS. BYRNE CONDESCENDS — THE PALLID WHISTLERITE 
 
 DARKER — THE SCEPTIC CONVERTED WINE FIRST GHOST STORY 
 
 UNSATISFACTORY COLD AIR — DIGESTION AN AWFUL MOMENT. 
 
 YES," re- 
 peats Joss- 
 lvn, "that 
 The Grange is 
 haunted, is as cer- 
 tain as that all the 
 family have left 
 the place." 
 
 Poor old Mrs. 
 Tupton begins 
 fanning herself, as 
 if she could keep 
 away Ghosts like 
 flies. Gool startles 
 her by offering her 
 jelly, which, from 
 its quivering, and 
 its peculiarly pale 
 colour, appears to- 
 be as nervous as Mrs. Tupton is herself. 
 
 " It may be a fact," says Pelkin Wadd, ex-Master in Chancery,. 
 " but who can vouch for it 1 ?" 
 
 " Cotley's people," answers Dyke, with conviction. " They've 
 told me all about it." 
 
 Mrs. Aysford Synge remarks that for her part she doesn't 
 believe in Ghosts, but that The Grange has never been inhabited 
 since she was a girl ; and, Miss Synge adds, that she never liked 
 the look of the place.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 117 
 
 " It's a matter of evidence," observes the ex-Master in Chancery, 
 sententiously. 
 
 "tjtiite," replies Mr. Aysford Synge, J.P. "But Cotley's 
 gardener and his wife came to me, and wanted to depose on oath 
 to what they'd seen and heard at The Grange." 
 
 This arrests everybody's attention. 
 
 Mrs. Tupton's jelly remains on her plate untouched, still 
 quivering. She informs me, in a frightened whisper, behind her 
 fan, that " if you once get her nephew Josslyn on this topic, he's 
 something dreadful. Why," she adds, with a shiver, "he knows 
 all about the Ghosts all over the country, and likes them. Ugh ! 
 If they go on talking like this, I'm sure I shan't get any sleep to- 
 night ! " 
 
 In the gloom by the side-board I think I can just make out 
 Gool smiling grimly. 
 
 " Who lives at The Grange now 1 " asks Hoshford. 
 
 "A policeman and his wife," answers Aysford Synge. "Their 
 married son stays at Cotley's, and keeps up the garden. The 
 family have all left." 
 
 "They're rent free, of course," observes the ex-Master in 
 Chancery, with a cynical smile. 
 
 Everyone resents this imputation ; and Mr. Aysford Synge 
 informs the ex-Master, with some asperity, that he knows the 
 policeman, and his wife, and his son — that a more honest set does 
 not exist ; and Sandilands corroborates the prevalent notion about 
 The Grange being haunted, by asserting that, for Ms part, he 
 (Sandilands) wouldn't live there for a trifle. He adds, that, of 
 course, he doesn't believe in Ghosts, yet he should object to a place 
 with a reputation for being haunted. 
 
 Everyone, except our host, chimes in with this sentiment. 
 Everyone, except our host, professes to consider a belief in Ghosts 
 absurd, but, on the other hand, no one would, as a matter of 
 choice, prefer residing in a haunted house. 
 
 " Then," says Dyke, quietly, " there's not much chance of 
 letting this." 
 
 " Why ! " exclaims Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne, beginning to draw on 
 her long gloves, " surely The Mote's not haunted ! " 
 
 " Didn't you know that 1 " returns Josslyn, quite astonished.
 
 118 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 "Why, there's hardly a room in this old house without a legend. 
 And," adds Josslyn, with considerable pride, " I think Hoshford 
 and Sandilands will bear me out as to the White Lady of 
 the Mote being as well authenticated a Ghost as any in the 
 county." 
 
 Hoshford and Sandilands nod acquiescence in this statement ; 
 and Iiendlcsham of Pikley — the crusty old man — turning to Mrs. 
 Tupton, says, 
 
 "You're stopping here, Ma'am, aren't you?" 
 
 " Yes, I am," replies the poor old Lady, whose false front 
 almost slides off her forehead with nervousness — •" yes, I am ; 
 but," she goes on piteously, " my nephew never said anything 
 about it before. I've only heard him speak of Ghosts in other 
 houses — not here." 
 
 " Oh, you won't see it, Aunt," says Dyke, consolingly. 
 
 " I don't like to talk about such things," she says, making a 
 move, which the Ladies take as a hint, and Ave all rise. 
 
 " You are staying here, too," says Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne to me. 
 " I know I should be afraid of going about alone in this house. I 
 have heard that the servants never stop here long — but I didn't 
 know the reason. The Synges have an old haunted tower in their 
 grounds. I shall get her to tell me all about it. I love ghost- 
 stories, when there's a good fire and lots of people." 
 
 This is the first time since our introduction that the " haughty 
 Beauty " has condescended to treat me on an equality with the 
 County people. The Ghost subject has done it. This is " the 
 touch of nature " I was waiting for ; and it has come with the 
 supernatural. In Ghost-land, Old County Families, and No 
 County Families meet on common ground ; though the idea is 
 rather churchyardy. However, one's thoughts can't be lively, 
 when such a topic is under discussion. 
 
 Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne sweeps out of the room after the elder 
 Ladies, and followed by Miss Synge, who, as she disappears 
 through the dark oak door, in the old oak panel, with her 
 vapoury dress, long white neck, with a black band round it — 
 reminding me of that awful guillotined woman's story — with her 
 pale face, strange melancholy eyes, and immaterial hair, might 
 easily be mistaken for the White Lady of the Mote, who had
 
 Fit I ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 119 
 
 accepted an invitation, just for once and away, and whose hour for 
 professional haunting having struck, was compelled, by her strict 
 sense of duty, to vanish from the festive scene. 
 
 The room has grown darker in consequence of some of the 
 candles in the old sconces having burnt down, when they were 
 silently extinguished by Gool, while we were waiting upon the 
 ladies' departure. 
 
 The gentlemen shuffle themselves into fresh places, and, at 
 Josslyn's suggestion, we form in front of the fire, each one 
 selecting a safe place for his wine-glass. 
 
 " I didn't want to frighten the ladies," says Pelkin Wadd, the 
 ex-Master, who has hitherto posed as the sceptic of the party, 
 " but I know all about The Grange. Cotley's old gardener, who 
 came to us afterwards, had seen the ghost himself." 
 
 " Indeed ! " I can't help exclaiming, being interested. 
 
 " Yes. He's a sensible and sober old fellow is Gadd, and lie's 
 told me of his having seen a figure at night digging in the garden. 
 And when he went up to it, it vanished." 
 
 This seems to everyone rather a tame conclusion to a ghost 
 story that had promised very well at the beginning. There's a 
 general impression — felt, not expressed — that we're to have some- 
 thing better, from someone, presently. 
 
 Hoshford also remembers having talked to the man who used 
 to live at The Grange before the Policeman and his wife went 
 there. 
 
 " What did he say 1 " I ask. 
 
 " Well, the belief is that Cardinal Pole once lived in The 
 Grange ; that he buried a large treasure there, and that it is his 
 ghost that haunts the place." 
 
 " And this man had seen him ? " I inquire. 
 
 " Yes. He'd seen something ; and he said he thought it must 
 be the Cardinal. So I asked him what the ghost was like ; and 
 he told me that he was a little old man, with grey stockings, 
 brown knee-breeches, and buckles, a blue tailed coat, brass 
 buttons, and an old-fashioned wig, with a pig-tail. He felt sure 
 it was Cardinal Pole, he said, because of his dress." 
 
 We all smile, but have a slight suspicion that Hoshford is turn- 
 ing the subject into ridicule. Josslyn Dyke says so plainly, and
 
 120 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 remarks that though Hoshford's informant was of course wrong in 
 attempting to make this particular Ghost fit in with the tradition 
 of the place, yet it does not prove anything against his having 
 seen the ghost of some one, though not of Cardinal Pole. 
 " Besides," — Dyke puts this as an unanswerable climax, — " the 
 Ghost never said he was Cardinal Pole." 
 
 Hoshford hastens to assure us that he, personally, believes in 
 Ghosts ; that he knows several men who've seen Ghosts ; as also, 
 it appears, does every one present. 
 
 The general opinion appears to be that, on the whole, it is safer 
 to believe in Ghosts than not. It's more complimentary to the 
 Ghosts, of course, and, I fancy, what we all feel about it is, that 
 we would rather assert our belief in Ghosts openly and boldly, so 
 that should any Ghost be listening, he would hear nothing said 
 that might be an inducement for him to catch any one of us alone, 
 and frighten the individual into fits, in order to prove his 
 existence. Our unexpressed formula about Ghosts seems to be : 
 " We believe in Ghosts, because we don't want to see any. If we 
 said, ' We don't believe in Ghosts,' then one of them, lurking about 
 this old house — and The Mote, to speak sportingly, is a most 
 likely find for both Ghosts, and rats — might catch us unawares, 
 when the consequences would, probably, be serious." 
 
 Josslyn Dyke doesn't like speaking of this subject before the 
 servants. He whispers to us that, after they've served the coffee, 
 and withdrawn — he will, perhaps, tell us what he himself has 
 frequently seen in this very house, which would be quite enough 
 to scare away most men in one night. And here he looks fixedly 
 across the table into the furthest gloomiest recess, as though 
 penetrating the darkness, and requesting one of the resident 
 apparitions to stop there quiety while he is telling the story, and 
 not to come out until his presence is absolutely required for 
 corroboration. 
 
 We fill our glasses in turn, silently, as if "charging" to drink a 
 Ghost's health—" A toast to a Ghost ; and here's a health to all 
 good Goblins ! " Then some look at their watches with a sort of 
 intuitive perception of the near approach of midnight. There is a 
 perceptible air of reassurance on finding that it is barely ten 
 o'clock. Aysford Synge shivers, as if he felt a draught, and draws
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 121 
 
 his chair nearer the fire. Hoshford notices this, and observes 
 with, I think, an effort, that "a cold feeling after dinner is 
 good." 
 
 " Sign of digestion," says Mr. Sandilands, trying to be cheery. 
 
 We laugh in a quivering, uncertain way, and I almost fancy I 
 hear a sort of hollow echo of our laugh behind the heavy tapestried 
 window-curtains, where anyone could hide and play a practical 
 joke. But who would do it ? No one, / hope. 
 
 The door opens slowly. Involuntarily we all turn our heads 
 and eyes, in that direction, like mechanical figures in a waxwork. 
 The door opens, wider, wider, wider, as if pushed from without 
 slowly, and a dark shadow growing and growing from out of the 
 hall, seems to be borne in, silently, on the icy chilling draught. 
 
 No one utters a word; and yet we all wonder why some one 
 doesn't say something — no matter what.
 
 122 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ENTRANCE — GHOST STORIES COMMENCE UNSATISFACTORY DEEPEN- 
 ING SHADOWS — MY STORY HOSHFORD's — OTHERS JOSSLYN 
 
 DEPARTURE — REMAINDER — NERVOUS AUNT — RETIRING TO REST. 
 
 T 
 
 coffee. 
 
 HE door remains open for 
 a few seconds ! ! No one 
 appears. 
 
 Then servants enter with 
 We all seem much 
 relieved, having, 
 though no one liked 
 to own it, expected a 
 Ghost, or several 
 Ghosts. 
 
 Gool had heen keep- 
 ing the door open with 
 one hand, so as to give 
 free passage to the 
 servants. Gool himself 
 now follows handing 
 the liqueurs. 
 
 Happy Thought. — 
 Spirits — no Ghosts. 
 
 Conversation languishes during the ceremony of helping ourselves 
 to coffee. Josslyn Dyke motioning us to silence. We are all 
 longing to continue the conversation about Ghosts, specially to 
 hear Josslyn Dyke's own experiences in this very house, the old 
 Mote ; but he puts his finger to his lips, as though saying, " Not 
 before the Boy— I mean — Not before the Butler." 
 
 Servants must feel rather awkward during the Dead Silence. 
 
 Gool doesn't. He seldom speaks unless addressed by someone. 
 In fact, the Phantom Butler himself might be described as a Mute 
 in attendance on a Dead Silence. 
 
 Usually, Gool floats or glides out of a room. But now, when 
 we all have our eyes on the door, which is held open for him by a
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 123 
 
 servant, in return for Gool's previous courtesy, we see the Phantom 
 Butler actually walk out, as solemnly, but as really as Hamlet's 
 father's Ghost does on the stage, — that particular Ghost is usually 
 a very heavy and very human person, with a sonorous voice, — and 
 so if Gool came in like a Ghost, at all events, he goes out like a 
 Butler. This sounds like a proverb — " To come in like a Ghost, 
 and go out like a Butler." 
 
 The room is gloomy, so many of the candles having guttered 
 down and been extinguished. 
 
 In the dark recesses, the shadows are listening, — cold shadows 
 far away from the fire. 
 
 In the robes of some of the portraits on the walls suddenly 
 appear grotesque faces, formed by the pleats and the folds. We 
 point these out to one another in an undertone, and everyone 
 says, "Odd!" 
 
 Josslyn Dyke alone seems to think nothing odd in his house that 
 is at all goblinesque in character. In his opinion|The Mote is the 
 very place for Ghosts and goblins ; and he wouldn't keep it a day, at 
 least, so it seems, were he not sure of the place being full of them. 
 
 Someone remarks that if there are not Ghosts here, at all events, 
 there are rats in the wainscot. 
 
 Josslyn quietly returns, that for his part he likes rats in the 
 wainscot. He also likes Ghosts ; the Ghost not in the wainscot. 
 Both in their proper places. 
 
 In a second we are back "to our muttons" — that is, to our Ghosts. 
 
 Josslyn wishes to reserve his evidence until the others have 
 given theirs : whereupon Pelkin Wadd, the ex-Master of Chancery, 
 volunteers an account of a friend of his, whose daughter saw r an 
 old man, in a fur cloak, sitting on a box in a room at the top of 
 their house. She recognised him as a friend of the family who 
 had gone to New York, or somewhere ; at all events he was the 
 last person she would have expected to find sitting in a box-room 
 at the top of the house. 
 
 We quite agree that this is extraordinary in itself, as such a 
 proceeding would be absurdly eccentric on the part of any friend 
 of any family. 
 
 " What did she do ? " I ask. 
 
 " She went down-stairs," answered Pelkin Wadd, very slowly,
 
 124 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 as though he were on his oath and paying the greatest attention 
 to details, " called her mother, and said, ' Oh, Mamma, I'm so 
 frightened ! There's Mr. Waddilove, in a fur cloak, sitting on a 
 trunk in the box-room ! ' " 
 
 We are breathless. 
 
 Pelkin Wadd continues, " She said, ' Oh, nonsence ! it can't be ! ' 
 but her daughter insisted on her accompanying her up-stairs. So 
 up they went, opened the door " 
 
 " Yes," we all say — all except Josslyn Dyke — bending forward 
 eagerly. 
 
 "And — could see nothing. The Ghost in the fur cloak had 
 vanished." 
 
 We are all dissatisfied. 
 
 " Might have been a burglar," remarks Sandilands. 
 
 No, no, we won't have any such commonplace explanation as 
 that. Besides, do burglars go about in fur cloaks, and sit quietly 
 on boxes 1 
 
 Sandilands retorts, " Yes ; why not, when they've nothing else 
 to do ? " 
 
 Pelkin Wadd wishes to add the finish to his story. 
 
 " A letter came, some time after," he recommences — (Ah ! now 
 we're going to have the real point!) — " from New York, saying, 
 that at such a time and on such a day, Mr. Waddilove died ; and, 
 on comparing dates, the moment of his decease exactly corre- 
 sponded with the time of the apparition. I don't attempt to 
 explain this sort of thing," says Pelkin Wadd, mysteriously ; "I 
 only tell you what was told me on really unimpeachable 
 authority." 
 
 During the discussion that follows Pelkin Wadd's narrative, 
 I try to think of a ghost-story — a first-rate one — told me by the 
 very man himself, who had seen the Ghost, with the names, dates, 
 places, and everything as clear as daylight ; and himself, the 
 narrator, a public character, above fear, and of irreproachable 
 morality. Dear me ! What was his name ? I feel it is no use 
 beginning the story, unless I can give his name ; and I can't, for 
 the life of me, recall it at this moment. I shall probably re- 
 member it to-morrow, when I am miles away from the present 
 party. Still, if I could but remember the story noiv, is it so good,
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 125 
 
 so convincing, and would be presented on such evidence, that I am 
 sure I should dwell in the grateful remembrance of every one, as 
 the raconteur of the marvellous story of this evening. And as I 
 am only second-band with this story, having received it directly 
 from tbe person to whom it occurred, any one wishing to treat his 
 friends to such a story, would naturally send for me. In fact, it is 
 one of those stories, which is a little fortune in itself to diners-out. 
 It is far better than a humorous story, as the interest depends on 
 getting it first-hand, if possible, but if not, at all events second- 
 hand ; while a humorous story may be all the better for the little 
 embellishments and additions of various witty raconteurs ; truth 
 in the latter case, being no object. 
 
 I do wish I could remember my story. 
 
 Hoshford tells us about what he himself saw when he was 
 sleeping in some old manor house. 
 
 "I woke up," he declares, "and saw as clearly as I see 
 you " — this he addressed to Pelkin Wadd, who is a very evident 
 object — -" a woman in a sort of white dress, and without a head." 
 
 This does startle us. Without a head ! We all unconsciously 
 move our chairs nearer the fire, and the shadows seem to be creep- 
 ing slowly up towards us out of the recesses. Looking nervously 
 behind me, it seems that we are at this moment only separated by 
 the dining-table from the shadows. 
 
 " But," says Sandilands, "you were dreaming." 
 
 We all wish to force Hoshford into allowing that he doesn't 
 know whether he was dreaming or waking. He won't alter a single 
 item of his story. He says in effect you can take it or leave it. 
 There it is, swallow it, or don't swallow it. I should like to sug- 
 gest the explanation, that it was somebody who had lost her head, 
 and wandered into his room ; but I know Josslyn Dyke would set 
 this down to sneering or trifling, while really it is only due to 
 nervousness. 
 
 " I tell you," he affirms with evident conviction, " that I saw a 
 Headless Woman standing at the foot of my bed, as clearly as I 
 see any one in this room." 
 
 Josslyn observes calmly. "Certainly. Why not?" 
 
 We are all silent. Why shouldn't Hoshford see a Headless 
 Woman 1 No : no one can state any just cause or impediment.
 
 126 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 I am still trying to remember my story. I don't like to say 
 " I've got such a capital ghost-story if I could only recollect it." 
 That's the truth ; but I must be silent, as truth is not to be told 
 at all times. 
 
 Then Josslyn, being asked to give some account of The Mote, 
 begins by saying, " "Well, I'm not fond of talking about it" — this 
 sounds as though he were on intimate terms with the Ghosts, and 
 didn't like to betray their secrets. 
 
 " There's not a room in the house," he goes on deliberately, 
 *'• that isn't haunted. I don't wish," he interrupts himself to say, 
 turning to me ; " I don't wish you to repeat this to my Aunt, or 
 she would be frightened into fits, and wouldn't get a wink of sleep 
 all night." 
 
 I intimate that on no account would I mention the subject to 
 his Aunt, Mrs. Tupton ; and of course I feel bound to accept as a 
 compliment the fact of his confiding the ghost-stories of The Mote 
 to me, as much as to imply that / am dauntless, and my repose 
 not to be disturbed by a thousand ghosts. 
 
 I wish I could recollect my story of my friend who saw a Ghost. 
 I can't even recollect his name ; and its credit depends on his 
 personal authority. It's better than anything I have heard yet — 
 except, perhaps, Hoshford's, about the Headless Woman — which 
 was first hand. I remark, however, curiously enough, that the 
 general tendency is to give implicit credit to second-hand stories, 
 but to question the good faith of anyone who relates something 
 marvellous that happened to himself. In fact, on our quitting the 
 room, I overhear Aysford Synge asking Sandilands what the latter 
 had thought of Hoshford's story, and receiving the curt reply that 
 in his (Sandiland's) opinion, Hoshford was screwed and didn't 
 know what he was talking about. How much better Hoshford's 
 story will come out when he himself isn't present. I shall tell it 
 myself, if I can recollect it, and, of course, shall add that the man 
 to whom it happened was as sober as a judge on the bench, and 
 one of the most sensible men I've ever met. 
 
 Josslyn Dyke informs us, that " There is one room in the house 
 — he would rather not mention which — where the wicked old lord, 
 the Earl of Depford — was murdered. The assassins, it was sup- 
 posed, entered either through a panel or from behind the bed ; and
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 127 
 
 after the deed, they managed to conceal the body in a closet, where 
 it was found some months afterwards. The figure of the old Earl 
 is secu, points to the wounds with one hand, and with the other to 
 a dark mark on the wall, where it is supposed he had secreted some 
 important papers. These have never been found." 
 
 "Have you ever seen the Ghost — yourself? " I ask, for I don't 
 like to inquire if I am to sleep in the haunted chamber : and if I 
 can get him to start a good long ghost-story, it will give me time 
 to remember mine. Also T feel that if I can only tell a ghost- 
 story myself, I shall be less nervous. 
 
 " Oh dear ! yes," replies Josslyn, " often." 
 
 Silence. We regard one another. Josslyn is perfectly sober, at 
 all events. On the other hand, he is our host, and no one likes to 
 question or contradict him. 
 
 " Isn't there a room here that hasn't been opened for centuries 1 " 
 asks Pelkin Wadd. 
 
 " Yes," replies Josslyn ; "but the door is concealed, and we've 
 never been able to discover it. But what I've seen in this very 
 room where we are now sitting," he soys, impressively, " would 
 " Here he pauses, — So do I ! 
 
 s^- 
 
 IPffiu
 
 128 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 JOSSLYN's EXPERIENCE INQUIRY ANXIETY DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 GHOSTS IN THE DRAWING-ROOM MRS. TUPTON's FRIGHT 
 
 DEPARTURE MY UNREMEMBERED STORY — TO BED — UP-STAIRS 
 
 RETRACING THE CLOCK THE OLD LEGENDS OF THE HOUSE — 
 
 BUT WHAT NEXT 1 
 
 w 
 
 E ARE 
 listening 
 
 for what Joss- 
 lyn is going to 
 tell us about 
 his own experi- 
 ence of Ghosts 
 in this house. 
 
 He considers, 
 then continues : 
 "Well, I was 
 sitting here one 
 evening, about 
 five o'clock, in 
 the winter, 
 when from that 
 cornex*" — point- 
 ing to a dark 
 recess between 
 window and 
 door, which we 
 all regard in- 
 tently, then 
 murmur "Yes," 
 
 k Z .— -_ . _% X whereupon he 
 
 ' resumes in a 
 
 measured tone, with his eyes fixed on that spot — " from that 
 corner, there seemed to come an icy cold blast, not blowing 
 strongly, but like a draught through a small ventilator. In fact, I 
 cannot describe to you the strange sensation which seemed to take
 
 FMIEXDS AT A DISTANCE. 129 
 
 possession of me at that moment. I am not at all nervous, and I 
 walked up to the corner in order to examine the place." 
 
 It occurs to me how nervous /should have been in such a situa- 
 tion. Enough to make one's hair turn white. I do not utter this 
 observation aloud, but only smile approvingly, as though to convey 
 the idea of my perfect approbation of his conduct in such trying 
 circumstances, and wish him to understand that, of course, any 
 one of us here, especially myself, would have behaved in precisely 
 the same courageous manner. 
 
 " I tapped the wall," continues Josslyn, " and looked everywhere ; 
 there was no crack, no opening ; but the strange, chill draught 
 continued ; and, as I returned to my chair, I heard a step following 
 me, close at my heels. I turned round. There w T as nobody ! " 
 
 We hold our breath, and Josslyn resumes, quietly, 
 
 " I sat down, and took up the book I had been reading." 
 
 "What was it — I mean what book?" asks Rendlesham of 
 Pikley, the crusty man, thinking that noiv he has got at the cause 
 of the hallucination. 
 
 " The book? " returns Josslyn Dyke, carelessly, " Oh, it was by 
 the Cambridge Professor of Political Economy, about the ' Analysis 
 of the Theory of Equitable Insurance considered as a Factor in 
 the Future of the British Empire ' — a dry subject that interested 
 me at the time." 
 
 Rendlesham of Pikley retires, so to speak, into his shell. The 
 book in question was not calculated to inflame the imagination 
 about Ghosts. 
 
 " Well, go on ! " I say, for I am anxious, very anxious, to know 
 what is to be seen in this house where I have to stay all night. 
 But not to-morrow, if I know it. 
 
 " Well," continues Josslyn, slowly, and looking over his shoulder 
 at the deepening shadows, as though consulting them on the sub- 
 ject, " Well, there suddenly grew out of that corner an enormous 
 
 " Here he breaks off. We are all waiting. Presently he 
 
 shakes his head, and says, " No — I won't tell you what I saw. It 
 is better not. You would only laugh at me, and think me cracky 
 if I told you." 
 
 We all swear we won't laugh and think him cracky. This, 
 however, is to encourage him to go on with his story. 
 
 K
 
 130 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Nothing will induce him to litter another syllable. He rises, 
 regretting, he says, that he should have said even as much as he 
 has. We look at one another. There is some hesitation about 
 leaving the room. This would be the opportunity for my story, if 
 I could only call to mind the man's name, and where he was when 
 it happened, and what it was that did happen. I have a faint 
 glimmering of my story. Just so much as to enable me to say to 
 myself, " His name was something like Hoskins," when we have to 
 join the Ladies in the drawing-room. We don't saunter out, we 
 crowd out, as if for warmth. 
 
 In the drawing-room they also have got on to ghost subjects. 
 It is impossible to help it, in this house. Poor Mrs. Tupton is 
 trembling. Miss Aysford Synge has been telling such dreadful 
 stories, " All about this place, too ! " she exclaims. 
 
 Mrs. Synge has also been narrating a story about some house in 
 this count}', where a coach-and-six always drive up to the front 
 door whenever one of the family is going to die. Mrs. Tupton 
 begs them "not to go on in this manner," and the words are 
 scarcely uttered when we all hear the sound of a carriage and 
 horses coming up to the front door. Mrs. Tupton starts hysteri 
 cally, and is only prevented from going off altogether by the 
 entrance of a footman to announce "Mrs. Lawleigh Bryne's 
 Carriage ! " 
 
 Mrs. Lawleigh Byrne declares she is really too awfully nervous, 
 and daren't go out into the hall alone for the world. Josslyn 
 accompanies her, to assist her with her mantle. 
 
 The carriages are announced. At this moment the name of the 
 hero of the ghost-story I have been trying to remember the whole 
 evening, suddenly occurs to me. I can't ask Josslyn to recall the 
 company to listen to my story, and, indeed, now I've got his name, 
 I am not quite sure of the details. While I am putting these 
 together, the guests have all left; and Josslyn, his Aunt, and 
 myself are alone at The Mote. Mrs. Tupton sends for her maid 
 to sleep in her bed-room, as she is so dreadfully nervous, and 
 Josslyn takes up his candle. 
 
 Josslyn asks me if I think I can find my way to my room. At 
 first I say, "Yes, I think so," and add, with an air of gaiety, 
 " Good night, Josslyn. Hope I shan't see any ghosts." But, on
 
 FBIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 131 
 
 reconsideration, I ask him to show me to my room, as I am not 
 quite 8B-re of its whereabouts. 
 
 " Yes, with pleasure." 
 
 I say to him, " I should like to have a good chat together over 
 old times, and we can smoke a cigar before the fire." 
 
 He makes no reply to this suggestion. 
 
 My artful idea is to get him to talk and smoke before a good 
 fire in my room, while I gradually, but surely, undress and get 
 into bed. Then Josslyn can put out the light and leave me ; for, 
 once comfortably in bed, with a nice, ruddy, cosy fire smiling at 
 me, like a cheery companion, I defy ghosts — specially with my 
 eyes shut. 
 
 If Josslyn Dyke will only fall, so to speak, into my sociable 
 trap, then I don't care whether mine is the haunted room par 
 excellence — they're all haunted more or less — or not. 
 
 " Come ! " says Josslyn, as solemnly as though he were leading 
 me to the condemned cell. All the lights are out, except the 
 candle he is carrying. Suddenly I start back. " What on earth 
 ■ 1 " A few inches above the floor are two goggle eyes glower- 
 ing at me. Recovering myself, I ascertain that these eyes belong 
 to one of the weird animals, the one that is something between a 
 bull-dog and a grotesque Chinese ornament, which I had seen on 
 my arrival. The other dog, the thin white one, pointed at both 
 ends, is just behind him. 
 
 " Are the dogs coming up-stairs ? " I inquire. 
 
 "Yes," answers Josslyn. "Snap and Fiend sleep in my room. 
 So does Grif, the black cat. You can have one of them with you, 
 if you like." 
 
 Offer declined with thanks. Hate making a menagerie of abed- 
 room. Besides, I have always understood animals see ghosts 
 quicker than men do (isn't this idea embodied in a proverb about 
 " Pigs seeing the wind 1 ") and behave in a manner that would drive 
 me to the verge of insanity. No ; let them all come with Josslyn 
 to my room ; but let the whole party quit the apartment together. 
 We ascend the stairs. 
 
 Past the dark corners again — darker than before ; along the 
 narrow slip of old carpet, which seems to have been laid down to 
 accommodate a line of acrobats, past the military ghost clock, 
 
 k 2
 
 132 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 ■which keeps time, as a secret, locked up in its own case, in front 
 of which Josslyn stops, as do also the animals, his three familiars, 
 Fiend, Snap, and the black cat Griff, who, having trotted on in 
 front with his tail erect, as though he were saying, " Suivezmoi ! ' 
 now turns, and sidles up against the wainscote, making his tail 
 describe all sorts of curious curves, and then performing the figure 
 " 8 " in and out between Josslyn's legs, occasionally rearing him- 
 self up on his hind legs while opening a very red mouth to utter a 
 complaining sort of whine, intimating his impatience at our un- 
 necessary loitering. 
 
 " That clock," Josslyn informs me, in a subdued voice, as if 
 afraid of being overheard, and perhaps contradicted, by some 
 members of the Phantom Horner family, perpetually in the corners, 
 " that clock is nearly two hundred years old. It is said to have 
 stopped at the very hour, on the evening of the murder, when the 
 wicked old Earl went to his room for the last time. No one has 
 ever dared to move it ; and all attempts at winding it up have 
 been utterly useless." 
 
 "The hands have been moved, I suppose 1" I observe, as care- 
 lessly as I can, though with that ghostly faded old clock-face 
 staring into mine, I am somehow conscious of my remark probably 
 being considered as an impertinence. Not by Josslyn — oh dear, 
 no ! not at all by Josslyn ! I don't take him into consideration in 
 the presence of the Clock. 
 
 " The hands," my host answers, "have never been altered. One 
 of the family, a reckless, hard-drinking, hard-riding Squire, who 
 inhabited The Mote about fifty years ago, made a bet that he would 
 move the hands." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " "Well — when his companions, whom he had left at table, came 
 to look for him, they found him sitting where we now stand, a 
 gibbering idiot, the glass of the clock-face open, and the hands 
 pointing where they had always pointed, and where they have 
 pointed ever since." 
 
 The clock hands, I notice, point to twenty- five minutes past eight. 
 
 " The wicked old Earl," I observe, " used to retire early." 
 
 Josslyn regards me regretfully. I beg his pai'don. I really did 
 not intend a pun. No, I explain, I simply meant that the wicked
 
 FEIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 133 
 
 old Earl did not on that particular night go to bed late. On my 
 word, there seems to be a punning fiend at my elbow, suggesting, 
 " Now for another ! Say that, though deceased, he couldn't be 
 spoken of as the late Earl." But I won't yield to the temptation, 
 which is simply a matter of nerves, as is a joke with the Dentist 
 who in another second will be holding your jaw for you and 
 pulling up an ancient tooth by its roots. I beg Josslyn to believe 
 me when I say that I really did not mean to pun, but am perfectly 
 serious. 
 
 Apparently satisfied with my apology, which he seems to accept 
 on behalf of the clock, Josslyn answers, 
 
 " Yes, twenty-five minutes past eight was his time for retiring. 
 And that hour has been ever since invariably associated with some 
 calamity in the family history." 
 
 " Really ? " 
 
 The dogs both settle themselves down with their forepaws out 
 before them, like two young Sphinxes, as though expecting a story. 
 The black cat, whose patience has been long ago exhausted, has, 
 with less politeness, disappeared. 
 
 "At twenty -five minutes past eight," Josslyn commences in a 
 mysteriously confidential tone, " the second Earl of Depford was 
 born. He ruined the property ; and one morning he was found 
 hanging on an elm-tree. They cut him down, but he was dead. 
 His watch had stopped at twenty-five minutes past eight." 
 
 " How strange ! " I murmur ; and my voice seems somehow or 
 another to belong to some one behind me, so that I am strongly 
 inclined to turn round and see who it is. The words, " How 
 strange ! " seem to have come to me from outside ; to have pervaded 
 me, to have so got into my head, that I feel as though there were 
 some mechanism fitted up inside it, arranged to produce only the 
 two articulate words in a dull, muffled tone, " How strange ! " 
 
 " The third Earl," continues Josslyn, eyeing the imperturbable 
 clock-face with respectful sadness, " ran away with an heiress, and 
 they were privately married in this house, one Christmas eve, at 
 twenty-five minutes past eight. He wouldn't wait till the half- 
 hour, as the guardians of the young Lady were actually hammering 
 at the dooi*. The marriage was an unhappy one. That day year 
 he returned home suddenly to find his young wife unfaithful. The
 
 134 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 dinner, which should have been only laid for one, was set out for 
 two : the Earl rushed from the room, met Captain Gerard Cleve- 
 land on these very stairs, and stabbed him to the heart. On re- 
 turning to the dining-room, he found the young Countess sitting 
 before the fire. Thinking it was the Captain, she said, ' Gerard, 
 you are too soon ; we do not dine till eight-thirty.' 'And it is now 
 eight twenty-five ! ' thundered the husband. What became of 
 them no one knows." 
 
 "Were they never seen again?" I inquire, for the story seems 
 to finish rather abruptly, and then, to clear my throat — for my 
 voice sounds husky, I cough gently, very gently — stifling the sound, 
 as though I were in the sick-room of an invalid, whose life de- 
 pended on his not being disturbed by the slightest sound, and at 
 the same time casting a side-glance at the historical staircase. 
 
 Josslyn answers slowly, — 
 
 " They were never seen again . . . alive. But — — 
 
 He pauses, regarding me inquiringly, as if debating with himself 
 whether my initiation is sufficiently advanced to permit of my 
 being admitted to the real secrets. He decides in my favour, and 
 resumes — 
 
 " But "
 
 FMIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 135 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CONTINUATION OF LEGEND — TO OUR ROOMS — HAUNTED CHAMBER- 
 THE FIRST SURPRISE — A DIFFICULTY. 
 
 £ 
 
 UT,» say s 
 J o s s 1 y n 
 Dyke, con- 
 tinuing the story 
 of the Earl, the 
 Countess, and 
 the Lover, as 
 we stand be- 
 fore the weird 
 old clock on the 
 landing, " but 
 they are often 
 seen in the house, 
 on the stairs, in 
 the rooms, in 
 the passages, the 
 three Earls, the 
 Countess and her 
 Lover, and that's 
 my difficulty in 
 getting any ser- 
 vants to stop. They say they won't stay in the same house with 
 Ghosts." 
 
 I pretend to smile at this unwillingness on their part, as a 
 vulgar prejudice arising from want of education. Still is is a 
 dilemma for a master, when his servants come to him and say, 
 " Well, Sir, either the Ghosts or ourselves must go. Which is it 
 to be ? If the Ghosts stay, xve give notice." It is a difficulty. 
 
 Josslyn shakes his head and simply quotes, " ' There are more 
 things in heaven and earth, Horatio,' I am Horatio in this 
 instance, ' than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' ' I admit 
 the probability implied in this sentiment, and he continues,
 
 136 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " How can you explain the stoppage of this clock at this 
 particular hour ? the impossibility of altering it ? the connection 
 of this time with the dreadful events I've just told you? And, 
 mind, these apparitions are only seen at intervals of eight days, 
 and then invariably at three separate times, eight hours apart, 
 within the twenty-four hours, commencing at 8 - 25 in the morn- 
 ing, then at 4 - 25 in the afternoon, then at 12*25 at midnight, 
 and lastly at 8.25 a.m., when their visits cease for another eight 
 days." 
 
 I am just about to ask, " Have you seen them lately?" when 
 it occurs to me that this is the title of some music-hall comic 
 song, most inappropriate to the occasion, and quite opposed 
 to my present state of mind, which is, to say the least of it, 
 reverentially respectful towards all Ghosts in general, and the 
 Ghosts at The Mote, Moss End, in particular. 
 
 " I don't talk about these things to everybody," observes 
 Josslyn, making a move, whereat his familiars look curiously 
 at him, with their head on one side, as much as to say, " Well, 
 what are you going to do now i " 
 
 " No, it wouldn't do to tell everybody," I return, taking his 
 remark as highly nattering to myself. 
 
 " But," he says, pausing, after taking half a dozen steps down 
 the passage. " But, it is curious that this should be the eighth 
 of the month, and," he adds, taking out his watch, " I very rarely 
 sit up as late as this talking, least of all on such a subject." 
 
 " Late ! " I exclaim, " surely it's not past twelve." " The time 
 by me," he replies most impressively, " is exactly twenty-five 
 minutes past twelve." 
 
 I refer to my own watch. Yes, that is the time. At least, by 
 me, it is exactly thirty-five minutes past, but then I always keep 
 my watch ten minutes fast. 
 
 I am staggered. I find myself murmuring, "So it is," and I 
 am conscious of the mechanism at work again in my head on 
 the two muffled words, " Very strange — Very strange — Very 
 strange ! " 
 
 Josslyn is waiting for me at the end of the passage. Until I, 
 as it were, woke Tip and saAv him I was unconscious of standing 
 still. To say "Go on! I follow," occurs to me; but, like
 
 FBIENDS AT A DI STANCE. 137 
 
 Macheth's answer, it sticks in my throat, for I remember they 
 are Hamlets request to the Ghost. Very strange — Very strange 
 — Very strange ! 
 
 " Heine's your room," says Josslvn, throwing open the door. 
 
 I had hoped he was coming in to keep me company. No ; 
 he only nods at me, and says " Good night." I can't exercise 
 hospitality to my own host, and invite him to " step in and sit 
 down. - ' 
 
 I watch his retreating figure, accompanied by his familiars. 
 Snap slouching along as if he'd met a Ghost who had kicked 
 him severely, and Fiend with pointed head turning this way 
 and that, and pointed ears pricked up in a nervous state, as if 
 ready to jump out of the Ghost's way at the slightest and shortest 
 notice. 
 
 Josslvn stops to look round, and say in a low whisper, " Gool 
 will call you in plenty of time. We breakfast at eight twenty- 
 five punctually. Good night." 
 
 Then he once more turns on his heel, and presently disappears 
 round a corner, then the light gradually dies away. The passage 
 is in darkness. I shut the door of my room, and — I haven't done 
 such a thing for years — examine the lock. 
 
 Then I say to myself, " Pooh ! what nonsense ! " 
 
 Thank goodness, a cheerful fire. 
 
 I deposit my candle on the dressing-table. I light the other 
 two. I should like to light fifty, and have them all about 
 the room, which, on the other side, away from the light of 
 fire and candles, is in deepest shadow, though not in utter 
 darkness. 
 
 I won't stop to think. 
 
 1 don't like to brush my hair before the glass, lest I should see 
 a face peering over my shoulder. Nerves. 
 
 I'll get into bed rapidly; and I won't look at the grim old 
 picture, three-quarter length, which may be that of the wicked 
 Earl of two hundred years ago. I come to the conclusion that 
 I won't cross the room to put my boots outside. No; Gool 
 will take them in the morning. 1 wonder if the wicked Earl 
 put his boots outside, on the night when — hang the wicked 
 Earl !
 
 138 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Now for the candles — stay — is the fire blazing — yes — plenty of 
 cheery firelight — so one, two, three ! out go the candles ! And 
 now, with one jump — 
 
 No — something moving between my legs and the bed-post— 
 between me and the post — 
 
 Something which leaps on to the bed before I can get there. 
 
 I start back, and very nearly fall backwards into the fire- 
 place. 
 
 What the . . . ? 
 
 The Black Cat, on my bed, walking up and down like a per- 
 turbed spirit on the counterpane, rubbing itself against the post, 
 then taking another turn, then looking at me . . . and I at her. 
 A pleasant beginning of the night's rest. Myself and Black vis a 
 vis, the cat having far and away the best of it, having its warm 
 fur coat on, and being on my bed, while I have anything but a 
 warm fur coat on, and not even my slippers, and I'm out of bed. 
 
 I don't like a strange cat in my room ; I don't like any animals 
 in my room ; but specially a strange cat, when I'm — when I'm — 
 well, in fact, when I'm going to bed. 
 
 I should be afraid of falling asleep while a strange cat was 
 there ; though there's not much chance of that, as I have heard 
 well-authenticated stories of a partiality, peculiar to cats, for 
 sucking up the breath of sleeping infants, and so killing them. 
 
 I am not an infant, it is true, but this is a cat, and when I'm 
 asleep, and only my head visible on the pillow, woidd a cat know 
 ivlietlier I was an infant or not I 
 
 If the whole story isn't true, then all I can say now feelingly is, 
 that it's the sort of thing nurses tell children, who never forget it. 
 I haven't forgotten it. It's a very big cat, what they call a fine 
 cat, and it plucks, impatiently, with its fore claws spread out, at 
 the counterpane, in a tigerish way. Then it describes a sort of 
 arch with its back, and erects its tail rigidly, as if some wild idea 
 had entered its cat's head of representing itself, bodily, as a model 
 for a Norman gateway, with a perpendicular tower at the side. 
 No one ever yet heard of a cat having gone mad on the subject of 
 architecture, yet this looks like it. It has a wild look about its 
 eyes too. The longer I regard the creature, the wilder it seems 
 to become, and the more energetically does it claw the counter-
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 139 
 
 pane, as though it were something alive that it felt a cruel delight 
 in tearing to pieces. Then it opens its red mouth and "wows," — 
 savagely, I think. 
 
 Years ago I remember being in a kitchen when a cat had fits. 
 It flew madly round the place, smashing plates and soup-tureens 
 (it got its head into one — but backed out of it again furiously), 
 biting and scratching, and was finally knocked on the head by 
 a bell-hanger with a hammer. The awful thing about that mad 
 cat was that, during the entire paroxysm, it never littered a 
 sound. 
 
 If this cat has fits, there is no hammer, and what is worse, no 
 bell-hanger to use it !
 
 140 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CAT ON COUNTERPANE — INDUCEMENTS CONSIDERATIONS ABOUT CATS 
 
 WITCHES — FAMILIARS — MANOEUVRES DECISION — AWAY DIS- 
 APPEARANCE — RETIREMENT — THOUGHTS ON SMILES — IN BED 
 
 PRACTICALITY ATTEMPTS — MY DREAM — AN AWAKENER — INEX- 
 PLICABLE — MORNING MYSTERY — QUESTION ANSWER — RETURN 
 
 ■ — APPOINTMENT NARRATION — RUDE INCREDULITY MEM. 
 
 THE Black Cat— Griff 
 is its name — still on 
 the bed. It won't 
 come off. There is nothing 
 for it but coaxing. A dog 
 being of a more credulous 
 nature, can be induced to 
 run out of a room on re- 
 ceiving an intimation (false 
 of course) as to the existence 
 of rats, or cats, outside. But 
 a cat is not to be taken in, 
 or rather is not to be put 
 out, by such simple devices. 
 Were I to open the door, 
 and say, "Mouse! mouse! 
 Hi ! In there, good cat ! " 
 he wouldn't stir. The men- 
 tion of a rat would present 
 no attraction ; and though 
 a dog would dash off any- 
 where in expectation of finding a cat, yet the reverse of this is 
 the case with the latter animal. 
 
 The part of the room where the door is, becomes darker and 
 darker, as the fire only throws a warm glow on its own little social 
 circle of fender, fire-irons and hearth-rug. Occasionally, a gleam, 
 shooting up like a signal to the spirits, illumines, for a second, the
 
 FEIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 141 
 
 face of the old Cavalier in the picture. In that brief space, as I, 
 in my bewilderment, am looking up from the cat to the wall, 
 utterly forgetful of the picture, he seems to appear before me like 
 the apparition of the Flying Dutchman did to Senta ; and, by the 
 light of that fitful flame, his eyes open and close upon me, as though 
 he (whoever he is) were astonished at my hesitation in dealing with 
 a mere cat. 
 
 But it isn't a mere cat ; it's a Tom Cat, a big Tom Cat, and a 
 Tom is much fiercer than a Tabby. At least, so I have always 
 understood. 
 
 I feel I must be asleep before the fire goes out. 
 
 I cross into the shadow, and open the door. Silence and gloom 
 in the passage, anything but enticing to most animals, though I 
 fancy cats rather prefer darkness ; and to a London cat, a coal-hole 
 offers unusual advantages for rest and meditation, with occasional 
 diversion, — occasioned, I should imagine, by beetles and mice. But 
 a cockney cat, or Whittingtonian kitchen cat, is quite another 
 being from the sleek drawing-room bred, dining-room fed, black 
 cat, in a country house, which probably disdains the common 
 domestic mouse, — a term that sounds better than the " house- 
 mouse,'' — and indulges only in field sports, and the excitement of 
 poaching on various preserves. 
 
 I hold the door open. I could not be more polite were I ushering 
 a Duchess into a drawing-room. 
 
 " Puss ! Puss ! Puss ! Come Pussy ! " 
 
 " Mow ! " replies Griff, still pacing up and down, and lifting up 
 his feet as though the counterpane were a patchwork of hot 
 plates. 
 
 It flashes across me how so many fairy stories are associated with 
 cats, and not one with a dog. At least, I do not remember any dog 
 figuring as a hero. The witch's familiar is invariably a black cat- 
 Cats are always associated with something grotesque, weird, or dia- 
 bolical. I don't so much mind a feminine cat, like, for example, the 
 White Cat ; but a black Tom Cat, a monster with glaring eyes, 
 and claws that you can hear as they pluck at the quilt — no ! — out 
 he must go. I can't stand shivering at the door any longer. The 
 fire-shovel and poker must be introduced into the scene, when 
 it will become uncommonly like a haunted bed-room in the good old
 
 142 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Pantomime times, — only without the music, — and I must take my 
 chance of waking people with the noise. 
 
 I steal round to the fire, giving, by my manners, no hint to the 
 cat of the contemplated manoeuvre. Now then ! Whoosh ! 
 Whirr! Clang! I am executing a sort of white-robed classic 
 Indian war-dance on the hearth-rug:. 
 
 The cat has vanished. Into the darkness. Gone. I assure 
 myself of the fact, very carefully, and cautiously. Now, as Lady 
 Macbeth says, (why that horrid scene conjured up now ?) " To 
 bed ! To bed ! To bed ! ! " 
 
 I expect to see a ghost. Were a ghost to appear now, as I 
 snuggle into the pillow, and insist on tucking me up for the night, 
 it would be nothing more than I had expected. I expect the door 
 to open slowly (in spite of its being locked). I hear the crackling 
 of the last log on the fire. I hear the furniture, and the wood-work, 
 snapping, like overstrained fiddle-strings. But it is warm and 
 comfortable in bed, and if a ghost came now, I feel I should have 
 the best of it. In seeing a ghost, I fancy being in bed, or out of 
 bed, must make all the difference. So it seems to me, — at present. 
 In fact, I begin to wonder about the wicked old Earl, and the 
 picture, and the clock, and then I remember somebody's after- 
 dinner story about the ghost of Cardinal Wolsey in blue coat and 
 brass buttons, and I actually smile. 
 
 I like smiling in bed ; it is so cosy. I am convinced that at no 
 time of one's life can one's smile appear so perfectly happy, or be 
 so indicative of a contented mind, at peace with all the world, as a 
 smile in bed. 
 
 It is a pretty subject, too, for a picture, "The Smiler in 
 Bed," no matter who the smiler may be. It may be true, 
 and is true to a certain extent, to say "There is no place 
 like Home;" but give me the very kernel of that sentiment, 
 and let me exclaim Avith enthusiasm, "There is no place like 
 bed ! " 
 
 With the glass at several degrees below freezing point, with 
 expenses within and expenses without, there is no place like bed. 
 Bed ! bed ! soft, warm bed ! wherever I wander there's no place 
 like bed. And as to ghosts — the bed-posts mark, as it were, the 
 boundaries of the charmed circle, within which no ghosts can
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 143 
 
 penetrate to hurt me. No, here I can think, and blink, and smile 
 at the fipe, and be happy. 
 
 Then, I argue, that if there are ghosts they won't hurt me ; and 
 I have half a mind to utter this sentiment aloud, so that, should 
 there be any ghosts ready to appear, they may be anxious not to 
 lose my good opinion. 
 
 My clothes, hanging helplessly over the chair-back, assume a 
 fantastic shape, and I can't help thinking how really fearful it 
 would be, were the double of one's own face gradually to appear 
 out of the looking-glass. I direct my attention with a sort of 
 deferential defiance towards the portrait, half daring it to come out 
 of its frame, and half imploring it not to do anything of the sort, 
 
 Then I close my eyes, and try to sleep. Failure. 
 
 It occurs to me how foolish it is to indulge in any conversation 
 late at night calculated to excite the imagination. As a remedy, T 
 will close my eyes once more, and be practical. I will arrange 
 what I am going to do to-morrow. Everything in order, beginning 
 with the first thing in the morning — breakfast, I don't intend 
 staying here another day, as Josslyn Dyke and his nervous aunt, 
 Mrs. Tupton, will not be lively company. 
 
 This practicality leads to sleep. I do sleep, but I dream an 
 uninteresting stupid dream. 
 
 Somehow I am dressed in a Cambridge B. A. gown and hood, which 
 is not exactly a B.A. gown and hood, but only something of the 
 sort ; and I am dining with a Lady, who it is I haven't the slightest 
 idea, as I am ignorant of her name, and have never seen her face 
 before, though she is, somehow, a very old friend of mine, and I 
 am, apparently, on the most intimate terms with her ; and there 
 is a thin person at table, who seems to be all shirt-front, and no 
 features. Suddenly there appears before the Lady a dish for her 
 to carve. She and the featureless guest both laugh, and I declare 
 that T cannot eat rat with white sauce. I argue the point with 
 somebody. It is a strange dish ; it has a body like a chicken, but 
 smothered in white sauce, with the head and tail of a rat. I am 
 aware (how I don't know) that there is nothing else coming, and 
 immediately afterwards, without, however, ever losing sight of the 
 Lady, or the dish, or the featureless guest with the shirt-front, I 
 go up the steps of a Church, and find myself on a platform, where
 
 144 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 I pass several eventful years of my life as a soldier, and, for having 
 done something which affects me to tears, I am tried by a court 
 martial in India, and condemned to be shot. I say farewell to a 
 number of people in bright blue coats, and the word is given for 
 the guns to fire. They fire ; and I am awoke by the most tre- 
 mendous thud on the floor. I start up. It is perfectly dark. I 
 can see nothing. I will swear to the thud on the floor, with the 
 force of a sledge-hammer. 
 
 I wait anxiously for a repetition of the sound. No ; a distant 
 clock — I have not previously noticed the sound of a clock — strikes 
 four. I wish it had been five, or six. The fire is out. I do not 
 know where to find the matches. But the thud 1 Could it have 
 been the cat 1 Impossible, or I should hear it scrambling about. 
 A bird down the chimney 1 No, or it would be fluttering in the 
 room. And to have made such a noise the bird would have had 
 to have been as big as an ostrich and as hard and heavy as a piece 
 of granite. Somebody in a room above, or below 1 No. Not a 
 sound in the room. Sleep is out of the question. I know what it 
 will be, I shall remain feverishly awake till daylight, then drop off 
 into a sound slumber when I ought to be getting up. No further 
 noise. Clock strikes five. 
 
 Before six I am once more asleep, undisturbed by dreams, and 
 am only aroused by a knock at my door, and somebody vainly 
 turning the handle. It is Gool with the hot water. He reminds 
 me that breakfast is at twenty -five minutes past eight. 
 
 When up, I examine the room. Not a sign of anything having 
 fallen. The noise is inexplicable. 
 
 I don't mention it to Josslyn at breakfast. In fact I do not 
 intend to tell him at all. I think I detect a certain disappointment 
 in his manner, but that may be my fancy. As Mrs. Tupton does 
 not come down, we are alone. Josslyn hopes I slept comfortably. 
 Oh ! most comfortably. Did I see any ghosts 1 " Ghosts ! Oh 
 dear no," I reply cheerfully, "ghosts don't bother me." I am sure 
 he is disappointed. 
 
 I consult the train-book, and suddenly become impressed with 
 the absolute necessity of my returning to town immediately to 
 keep an appointment, which requires my personal presence, as no 
 substitute will do as well, nor can the matter be arranged by
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 145 
 
 telegraph, or put oft', without loss to one of the parties. (An in- 
 terview with my hairdresser constitutes in reality the appointment 
 in question — he expects me always on a certain day, and at a 
 certain time ; and as over his door he writes himself " Hair-dresser 
 by appointment," I always make the appointment, and he keeps it. 
 But I don't let Josslyn Dyke into the secret.) And, so, with 
 thanks on my part, for a very pleasant evening and with hopes, on 
 his part, that I will come down whenever I feel inclined, to which 
 I respond heartily, " I will, certainly," I get into the fly, with my 
 wonderful bag, and leave behind me the Phantom Butler, Fiend, 
 Snap, Griff, and their gloomy master, Josslyn Dyke, of the Old 
 Mote House, Moss End. 
 
 Happening to meet my old friend Milburd, I recount to him my 
 extraordinary experience in the haunted room at the Mote. 
 Milburd is utterly wanting in reverence. I tell him that I 
 distinctly heard a bang. 
 
 " Yes," retorts Milburd, rudely ; " so do I now : and you tell it ! " 
 Then he goes off in a roar of laughter, shakes me violently by the 
 elbow, hits me in the ribs, and says, " That won't do here, my boy. 
 It's not the first bang you've heard in your life which you couldn't 
 account for, eh 1 And not the first you've told, either, eh 1 Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Then away he goes in a perfect whirlwind of laughter, taking 
 with him two men, who had been inclined to listen gravely to my 
 story, and to treat me with respect and considei'ation, but who now 
 have a broad grin on their faces, and who henceforth, when they 
 meet me, will only treat me as a farceur, and refer to this story of 
 mine, — this absolutely true narrative of my own experience, — with 
 a wink and a laugh, as a jocose attempt on my part to impose on 
 their credulity with what Milburd has politely called " a bang." 
 
 Mem. — Never tell Milburd anything serious again. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Go and stay with another "Friend at a 
 Distance " on the first opportunity.
 
 146 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 A 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 INVITATION SURPRISE CAPTAIN — REGIMENTALS — HAT SWORD 
 
 PICTURE PROBABILITIES PETER DERMOD EXPLANATION 
 
 AN IMPORTANT CHARACTER— THE HUTCH ALTERATIONS— SPIRAL 
 
 STAIRCASE CHILLINESS PREPARATION. 
 
 N invitation 
 from Mr. and 
 Mrs. Felix Pilton to 
 visit them at their 
 country house, the 
 Hutch, Halfshire. I 
 had accepted Pil- 
 ton's invitation in 
 Town some time 
 ago. 
 
 Two things come 
 upon me as a sur- 
 prise in connection 
 with Felix Pilton. 
 The first is that he 
 is only "Mister." I 
 always thought, till 
 now, that he was a 
 "Captain." At the 
 Club the hall porter 
 and the waiters have always spoken of him as " Captain " Pilton ; 
 and every one I know has called him Captain. I had not looked in 
 the list to see if that was his title, and it never occurred to me that, 
 for years, people could go on calling a man "Captain " unless he tvere 
 a Captain. Had I been asked by a stranger, who might have seen 
 ine walking with Pilton, " Who's your military-looking friend 1 " I 
 .should, with some pride, have answered, " That is Captain Pilton ! " 
 Had the inquiry been pressed further, and had I been called upon 
 to mention the Captain's regiment, I should — in the absence of 
 any definite information on the subject — have resented the
 
 FRIENDS AT A BIS TAN CE. 147 
 
 question, as implying a doubt of my friend's character. When you 
 tell any one that a friend of yours is " Captain So-and-So," you 
 naturally expect to be believed implicitly. To be asked, imme- 
 diately afterwards, " Captain ! what in ? " sounds like a sneer, not 
 only at your friend, but at yourself. It's as much as to say, 
 " What ! you know a Captain ! A pretty sort of Captain he must 
 be ! Get out ! he's no more a Captain than you are ! " — at least, 
 that is the impression that such a question leaves on my mind. 
 Still, I admit that I've never been able to answer it. I have 
 replied in an offhand manner, " Oh — Pilton 1 — he's Captain in 
 some Hussar regiment" — as, when in doubt, I always choose 
 "some Hussar regiment" for any friend of mine, as it sounds 
 dashing, and is the sort of regiment I should have joined, had I 
 felt, in earlier days, any inclination in that direction. 
 
 My notions about regiments, and, about the Army generally, I 
 admit (I admit to myself, not publicly) are more than a trifle 
 vague. My idea of a Hussar uniform for example, is founded upon 
 a full-length picture I saw, years ago, when I was a boy. Where 
 I saw it, I don't know, as I might have confused it with some 
 brilliant sign-board — but I don't think so. It represented a Royal 
 Personage in Hessian boots, with very tight-fitting, cherry-coloured 
 pants, gold spurs, maroon jacket covered with gold embroidery, 
 which, by the way, was spangled about in very conspicuous and 
 unnecessary places, suggesting the idea of the tailor having a job 
 lot of gold braid on hand, and sticking it about wherever there 
 was an opening, in sheer despair of ever getting rid of it, — and a 
 sort of flower-pot hut, with something like a smuggler's red night- 
 cap hanging out of the crown (convenient for bivouacking), some 
 gold cords, resembling cut bell-ropes, fastened to it, and a feather 
 stuck into the front, like a small drawing-room hand dusting- 
 brush, perhaps intended to divert the enemy's aim — and this hat 
 lie carried jauntily under his arm, as being a better place for it 
 than on his head, while over his left shoulder hung a jacket, the 
 counterpart of the one he was wearing, which might be of use to 
 him in cold weather, as I fancy it was trimmed with fur, or which 
 he might lend to a friend for a fancy ball, — and then, of course, 
 he had a magnificent sword — more like a Turkish scimitar than 
 an ordinary sword — and his right hand was resting on the holster 
 
 h 2
 
 148 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 of a fiery and richly-caparisoned steed, while a half-drawn curtain 
 in the background discovered a fearful scene of carnage going on 
 in the far distance, indicated by flames, and smoke, and a melee of 
 little figures careering about in a great state of excitement. 
 
 Whether the Eminent Person was aware of what was going on 
 when his back w T as turned, or whether this apparent indifference 
 was intended to impress the spectators with some idea of the 
 Eminent Person's coolness in battle — for to be standing quietly 
 with your horse, in an attitude, having your portrait painted 
 behind a curtain, while one of the fifteen decisive battles of the 
 world is raging outside, within a few yards of you, does certainly 
 denote a vast amount of coolness both on the part of the model, 
 and the artist, — or whether the whole thing was ideal, and the 
 Eminent Person was not a General at all, any more than my friend 
 Pilton is a real Captain, is only known, I suppose, to the painter. 
 But however this may be, my notions of a Hussar have always 
 been regulated by this picture ; and when I am asked, " What 
 Pilton" — or any friend of mine, who calls himself Captain, "is a 
 Captain in V I invariably reply, with a touch of profound astonish- 
 ment at the ignorance of my questioner, " In the Hussars ! " 
 
 I say to other friends, " I always thought Pilton was a Cap- 
 tain." They return that they had always thought so too. No 
 one had ever taken the trouble to inquire. We had always pre- 
 ferred to think of him as a Captain, and it is a surprise to every- 
 one, when I inform them that he is not a Captain. Another sur- 
 prise — for me, at least — comes out on the occasion of this invitation 
 — and that is that Pilton is a married man. 
 
 " Oh yes," says Peter Derinod, who knows everything about 
 everybody, without anybody knowing anything at all about him, 
 " Pilton's been married for eighteen years, or more. Why, his 
 eldest daughter is quite seventeen." 
 
 We ask Peter Dermod, " What's Pilton a Captain in 1 " 
 
 " Some Yeomanry regiment," replies Peter, readily. "I think 
 it's Lord Melidew's Royal Duffs. There are about sixty of 'em : 
 Gentlemen farmers, and landowners. They go out about twice 
 a year, and have a dinner, and an annual ball. It's more to 
 encourage the breed of horses in the county than for anything 
 else. But it's a handsome uniform."
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 149 
 
 We are satisfied. Pilton is a Captain, when he's at home. 
 And he is a Captain in order to encourage the breed of horses. 
 
 Peter Dermod is going down to spend a few days with Pilton. 
 We are to meet there. He wishes he could go for longer than a 
 few days, but he has so much on hand just now. " I can't," he 
 says, with an air of mysterious importance — " I can't spare the 
 time, my boy, just now." 
 
 Peter Dermod is a good man to know. You never hear him 
 spoken of as Dermod without the Petei', and should somebody 
 who had only met him casually, ask any friend of his " if he knew 
 Dermod," he would be immediately met with the rejoinder- — 
 " Dermod 1 You mean Peter Dermod," and the casual acquaint- 
 ance will perceive at once that not to know Peter, or to speak of 
 him as Dermod, argues himself unknown. 
 
 Peter is supposed to be an Irishman. On occasion he affects a 
 strong brogue, but no one can fix his county, if Irish, nor can any- 
 one be positive as to his nationality. He is consulted on every- 
 thing by everybody as an authority, and is presumed to have 
 access to authoritative sources of information on most subjects 
 connected with politics and finance ; and as he possesses the art of 
 pretending to conceal his profound knowledge, and at the very 
 crisis of an animated discussion about the Government policy, 
 when appealed to, cajolingly, with, "Come, Peter, you can tell us," 
 will shake his head knowingly and walk away as if silently begging 
 you not to press him, Peter is generally credited with being in- 
 trusted with such secrets as might determine the fate of empires, 
 and make the fortune of any speculator in foreign stock. 
 
 Pilton considers himself fortunate to have secured Peter Dermod, 
 who, I have always heard, is full of anecdote, and the very best of 
 company. Clearly a treat is in store. 
 
 I go down to the Hutch, Halfshire, and find a considerable 
 party assembled. Peter is anxiously expected. 
 
 The Hutch, Halfshire, is a pretty house, in a charming, well- 
 wooded situation, and, like Rome, was evidently not built in a day 
 — by which I mean that the Hutch has been, probably, put 
 together, at different times, by different people with different 
 opinions. The oldest portion is of the early and very plain 
 English farm-house type, with pointed roof, and plenty of waste
 
 150 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 space for box-rooms and lofts. Then came someone who thought 
 it would be cheaper to add than rebuild, and who had a taste for 
 verandahs. This second owner decided that the first was wrong in 
 putting his front door facing north, and so he commenced altera- 
 tions by turning the hall into the drawing-room, converting the 
 door into a window, and making the entrance on the east side, 
 under a verandah. This gentleman's successor evidently considered 
 both his predecessors utterly mistaken, and at once decided that 
 the drawing-room must be where the kitchen was, that the hall 
 should take the place of the drawing-room, that the front door, 
 with a carriage drive, should be on the West, that the verandahs 
 should remain, and a garden door should occupy the place of the 
 dining-room window. 
 
 Then came Pilton, who took The Hutch because, he said, " He 
 saw what could be done with it " — which, apparently, up to the 
 present time, at least, turns out to be very little — except, that as 
 a commencement, he has employed an architect to draw plans, 
 which are to include a turret, and a spiral staircase somewhere. 
 His one idea is the absolute necessity in every house of an iron 
 spiral staircase. It is so convenient, and so inexpensive, and so 
 useful in case of fire, and then he adds, as a recommendation, "It 
 looks so light." The advantage of such an appearance apparently 
 being, that, in the event of some dishonest person being struck by 
 the practicability of feloniously abstracting it, like Samson with 
 the gates of Gaza, he would find, to his astonishment, that, though 
 it looked light, it was uncommonly heavy. 
 
 Beyond plans, Pilton has done nothing. The last owner had 
 added a wing and a storey, and offices and stable. The wing 
 appears to have been built by someone who had a fancy for 
 variegated tiles, and who thought that the effect of these relieved 
 by Swiss chalet woodwork balconies, and narrow casements, would 
 be in admirable contrast to the architectural notions of the previous 
 builder. 
 
 " I object," says Pilton, " to regularity and uniformity in a 
 country-house." 
 
 Pilton is inclined to burliness and baldness. He likes putting 
 his hands in his pockets and objecting. Not much ever comes of 
 his objecting, and very little from his not objecting. As a rule he
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 151 
 
 objects, without proposing an amendment. He seldom commits 
 himself to a decided opinion, but usually either represents himself 
 as objecting, or not objecting. Mrs. Pilton is a quiet, thin person, 
 who seems as if she had been shrivelled up by a north-east wind, 
 and was ready for a shiver at any moment. 
 
 \Happy Thought (but not for the person ivhom it most concerns). 
 — A constitution knocked all to shivers.] 
 
 Mrs. Pilton is always languidly projecting, and Pilton decidedly 
 objecting. The result is, that they stop where they are, at the 
 Hutch. 
 
 They don't quarrel. The girls — three of them with ancient 
 Saxon Christian names, indicative of Mrs. Pilton's aristocratic 
 ancestry, for she has rather come down in the family's estimation 
 by marrying Pilton (at least so Peter informs me) — the girls all 
 side with their mother on every question ; they all project, and 
 Pilton goes on objecting. 
 
 Pilton objected to the family going to London, so Mrs. Pilton 
 projects a party at the Hutch. Pilton objects to too large a party. 
 Mrs. Pilton projects a moderate-sized one. " It's for the girls," 
 says Peter, shrewdly. 
 
 I arrive, with Peter, in time for dinner. 
 
 Pilton shows me to my room — a bachelor's room — with, so to 
 speak, scratch furniture, — Pilton having objected to unnecessary 
 expense. 
 
 " It's not a warm room," says Pilton, standing before the empty 
 grate, with his hands in his pockets; "but I object to a warm 
 room : it's unhealthy." 
 
 I say politely that I also object to too warm a room; and I 
 glance at the fire-place. 
 
 " We tried the fire," says Pilton, " and it smokes horribly ; 
 perhaps it's only in this wind, or perhaps the chimney's a bit 
 damp. But I said to my wife that you wouldn't mind, just for 
 once and away, not having a fire." 
 
 "Oh, dear no !" I reply, with a serious smile, wishing to good- 
 ness he had told me when he invited me that he was going to put 
 me in a small room without a fire, furnished with a small chest of 
 drawers, which has to serve for a toilette-table, and a washing- 
 stand, on which there is no room for a water-bottle or even a bath- 
 sponge
 
 152 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " You'll find the bed all right," he adds : " it's only a small iron 
 chair-bed." I see that, and hate it : "but," he goes on, "/don't 
 object to a small iron chair-bed myself." No, perhaps not ; but 
 then he is not going to sleep on it, 
 
 {Happy Thought. — I hope when I do sleep on it, I shall think 
 better of it.] 
 
 Pilton, it appears, doesn't object to a small washing-stand, he 
 doesn't object to the top of the chest of drawers serving for a 
 toilette-table, he doesn't object to no fire in the room, nor to one 
 candle to dress by, nor to only a strip of carpet, nor to the blind 
 only coming half-way down, nor to there being no bell, nor to the 
 draught from door to window, nor to my catching cold — in fact, he 
 doesn't appear to object to anything disagreeable that may happen 
 to Me. And I suppose he doesn't object to my leaving to-morrow, 
 as I certainly shall, if I'm not more comfortable.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 153 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A JOLLY EVENING AT PILTON's — THE GLASS PILTON's ANTICIPATIONS 
 
 HIS OBJECTIONS — AGREEMENT ARGUMENTS FEMALE PILTONS 
 
 DESCRIPTION LIVELY PILTON's IDEAS PROPOSALS YOUNG 
 
 FISHER HIS REFUSAL — ANNOYANCE NO AMUSEMENT — DERMOD's 
 
 ANECDOTES FISHER'S TUNES THE GAMES — DESPERATION. 
 
 T 
 
 HE looking-glass in my 
 room at The Hutch is 
 unique of its kind, — at 
 least I hope so. It is a very 
 small glass, in a thick, heavy, 
 mahogany - coloured frame, 
 supported by two pillars fan- 
 cifully shaped like the letter 
 " S," the curve at the base 
 of each pillar being fixed into 
 an imitation mahogany stand. 
 The glass itself is about six 
 inches by eight, and the chest 
 of drawers on which it stands 
 being only about three feet 
 from the ground, I have 
 either to bend over the glass, 
 with a candle in one hand 
 and a hair-brush in the other, 
 or to slope the glass to- 
 wards me, and kneel down 
 before it, at the imminent risk of dropping the wax on my head, 
 and, probably, getting my parting all wrong. In neither case is 
 the result satisfactory, and the effort of trying to get a view of the 
 top of my head gives me a headache. The difficulty, however, is 
 to induce the glass to remain in any fixed position for more than 
 two seconds. There is a screw loose somewhere at the side, but 
 the only remedy, apparently, is by inserting wedges of paper,
 
 154 QUITE AT HMOE. 
 
 f 
 
 which process occupies the greater part of my valuable dressing- 
 time. By daylight the glass reproduces my face tinted with a 
 curious sea-green colour, and my hair is reflected as a sort of 
 washed-out whitey brown ; the whole picture representing the 
 Portrait of a Gentleman in an advanced stage of biliousness. 
 Pilton says he "doesn't object to this sort'of glass ;" but then he 
 hasn't to use it. / have. 
 
 " We shall have a jolly evening," says Pilton to me before 
 dinner. " Peter Dermod's capital company. There's Fisher, too 
 —a very amusing fellow — and his sister, one of the best musicians 
 you ever heard." 
 
 1 am glad of this. According to Pilton's account, the evening 
 promises well. 
 
 " I object," says Pilton, in a tone of annoyance, as if I had been 
 contradicting him, or propounding some uncongenial theory, 
 " I object to ordinary people in a house. I object " — he will 
 use this formula — " to your namby-pamby Misses, who 
 can only squeak out of tune, and play school exercises on the 
 piano." 
 
 I hasten to disabuse him of any idea, which he apparently 
 entertains — for he is talking at me as well as to me — as to my 
 having a predilection for squeaking girls, and unmusical exercises 
 In fact nothing bores me so much. He takes no notice of my 
 answer, but continues in the same strain, as though I were 
 entirely opposed to him. 
 
 " I object," he says, with increased irritation — he is really 
 making himself angry about nothing — " I object to fellows who 
 can't do anything — who have no conversation, who talk about the 
 weather, and can only come into the drawing-room after dinner, 
 and sit about staring at one another, like stuck pigs." 
 
 I warmly protest that no one can object to such proceedings, on 
 anybody's part, whoever they may be, more than I do. The more 
 completely I agree with him, the more emphatic he becomes ; so 
 that it really seems as if he wished me to take up the opposite 
 side, for the sake of argument. 
 
 " I object to mere tittle-tattle, and gossip," he goes on ; "I 
 like some fun after dinner." 
 
 I assure him that, I personally, shan't stand in his way, as from
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 155 
 
 his manner he appears to anticipate my turning out a sort of kill 
 
 joy. 
 
 " I object to doing nothing after dinner," he says, as he leaves 
 the room. 
 
 I comfort him with the prospect of our doing something. What 
 does he want us to do 1 Fireworks 1 Dance 1 I suppose I shall 
 find out ; but somehow he seems to have aroused within me the 
 very spirit of opposition to amusement to which he " objects " so 
 strongly. If there is one thing I detest above another, it is being 
 forcibly driven into amusing oneself, or other people. If the 
 amusement arises spontaneously, "then," as I say to Pilton at 
 dessert, "it is safe to be a success." 
 
 " Oh ! " retorts Pilton, " if we're to wait for everyone to amuse 
 themselves by inspiration, we should have to wait a long time. 
 You must have some one to start it." 
 
 The female Piltons — Mrs. Pilton and three daughters, who are 
 not so much chips of the old block, as dried-up shavings from the 
 parent maternal stock — are about the very last people to do any- 
 thing amusing, or to appreciate it when done. They are as stiff, 
 as cold, and as highly polished on the surface as new drawing- 
 room pokers ; and the expression on their four countenances, 
 which must be taken by courtesy to represent a smile, is what 
 might be produced on most people's faces by the sudden and 
 unexpected swallowing of bad soda-water. When they do laugh, 
 which is quite exceptional, it is as though they were, for the 
 nonce, tolerating something vulgar, in the absence of getting any 
 entertainment of a higher class. They look chilly ; and their 
 sentences are frozen up short. They like talking of titled people, 
 and these, I find, are all on Mamma's side, Papa belonging, they 
 in effect intimate, to a lower order of beings. 
 
 Pilton, in despite of living in this refrigerating atmosphere, 
 considers himself an essentially jovial fellow. He is always bent 
 on amusement, and must very seldom find his ideas realised. 
 His one great notion of amusement after dinner is " games." He 
 doesn't know any himself, but he expects his guests to have 
 a number of games at their fingers' ends. He can't imagine 
 any greater enjoyment than dressing up and performing a 
 charade.
 
 156 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 After dinner he proposes this. It is not jumped at. Peter 
 Dermod, who likes to sit over a cigar, says, " Ah, capital fun," but 
 excuses himself from any physical exertion on the score of gout in 
 his right foot. 
 
 Young Fisher, whom I had expected to find — according to 
 Pilton's description of him — " such an amusing fellow," is evidently 
 very nervous, and on being asked by Pilton if he will join in a 
 charade, replies that "he hasn't done such a thing for an age— 
 and that really — he can't act — indeed he can't — at all." 
 
 But Pilton remonstrates, " You can dress up." 
 
 " Yes," Fisher, with a timid smile, admits. " Yes, — oh yes, — I 
 can dress up— but," he pleads, more nervously and piteously than 
 ever, " I can't do anything when I am dressed up." 
 
 " Pooh," says Pilton, encouragingly, " we'll all help you." 
 
 Poor Fisher looks despairingly round to us, as though to appeal 
 acainst bein£ sacrificed as a victim to his host's idea of amusement. 
 The others at table— there are several to whom I have not been 
 introduced — hope that Fisher will dress up and amuse the com- 
 pany. We don't care what he dresses up as, if he will only settle 
 it with Pilton, and leave us to enjoy ourselves in peace. 
 
 " You can't think," says Pilton, looking round to us, and then 
 nodding his head sideways towards Fisher, as indicating the object 
 of his eulogium, "you can't think what a first-rate actor he is. 
 He's splendid ! " 
 
 A feeble protest from Fisher, who is heard to murmur to his 
 neighbour that " Pilton is mistaken — that he isn't anything of 
 the sort." 
 
 " Oh, you are," Pilton asserts, contradicting him positively. 
 " You are, only he's afraid of doing it before you," — this to me — 
 " and Dermod." 
 
 I declare that no one is more easily pleased than myself (if I'm 
 only let alone and not worried and bothered), and Peter Dermod 
 bears witness to himself as being the most uncritical man in 
 existence. 
 
 " Yes," says Pilton to us, "you fellows who are always seeing 
 the best acting, can make allowance for an amateur," — this is 
 pleasant for Fisher, though beyond dressing up, I haven't a notion 
 what he is being called upon to do, or in what his peculiar talent
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 157 
 
 lies — " and we'll all join. We'll all dress up, and do something. 
 It will amuse the Ladies." 
 
 I, for one, venture my opinion that the Ladies — I am thinking 
 chiefly of the Piltons — do not want to be amused in this way. 
 
 " It's so meaningless," I protest. 
 
 " It's not more meaningless," Pilton retorts, " than sitting there 
 doing nothing." 
 
 This argument appears unanswerable, at all events no one likes 
 to contradict our host, and so an awkward silence ensues, which is 
 broken by Peter Dermod observing, in an undertone, to young 
 Fisher, that, " he'd better dress up and have done with it." 
 
 Fisher replies also in an undertone that "he doesn't see the fun 
 of it when he is dressed up." 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaims Pilton, evidently disgusted with Fisher's 
 unexpected obstinacy, " of course there's no fun in it, if he won't 
 see any in it. He used to be very different." 
 
 We see that the fate of the unhappy Fisher is sealed. He won't 
 be asked again to Pilton's, unless, to quote the old song, " he 
 smiles as he was wont to smile." 
 
 Pilton is annoyed. He has looked forward to a rollicking 
 evening, and we won't rollick. A gloom seems to have fallen on 
 the company, and Pilton passes the wine sulkily, as if he grudged 
 it to a set of people in whom he has been bitterly disappointed. 
 It occurs to me that, living in such a house with only his female 
 wet-blanket society, he must have looked forward immensely to 
 the chance of an amusing evening among a few fresh faces, and 
 hearing some fresh ideas. In fact we had been asked to cheer 
 him up, to amuse him, in his own way, and we have, with 
 ungrateful unanimity, disappointed him in his object, by 
 expressing a decided preference for amusing ourselves in our own 
 quiet way, — our quiet way being a real relief to us who have come 
 from London. 
 
 But Pilton is grievously hurt about his guests, — they won't do 
 anything. He had evidently told his neighbours who have come 
 in to dinner, what a jovial evening they were going to have, what 
 capital stories Peter Dermod would tell, what a song I should sing 
 (I'm sure he has told them this), what marvellous imitations of 
 popular actors young Fisher would give, how charmingly Miss
 
 158 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Fisher sings, with various other inducements to "look in during 
 the evening," which had put the neighbours, like John Gilpin's 
 family, " all agog," and on the tip-toe of expectation. 
 
 Peter Dermod's stories are all lost, chiefly because the point of 
 most of his anecdotes, as we now find, depends on his audience 
 knowing the people of whom he is talking. I try to assist him, 
 pretending to remember the chief dramatis personal of his anec- 
 dotes, but this helps nobody else, and as the others turn away 
 and talk in undertones among themselves on local matters, Peter 
 Dermod has no one to whom he can tell his old stories — and they 
 are old — except myself ; and, not wanting to be bored, I stop him 
 at the outset with the information that " I've heard it before," — 
 whatever it is.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 15!) 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A JOLLY EVENING AT PILTON's (continued) FESTIVITIES IN POSSE- 
 
 RISE FISHER THE TALENTED — REVIVAL- 
 
 THE VICTIM VICTIM'S VENGEANCE FINISH- 
 GAME AN AWAKENER DISAPPOINTMENT - 
 
 MAROO AFTER ALL PROSPECTS. 
 
 -MUSIC REFUSALS 
 
 -GAMES BILBY- — HIS 
 
 - TIME NO COCKA- 
 
 r 
 
 LTON still 
 fondly clings 
 to the hope that 
 Fisher will do some- 
 thing to amuse us. 
 Fisher, however, 
 carefully avoids all 
 topics tending in 
 this direction. 
 
 The conversation 
 flags. We are be- 
 coming meditative, 
 and constantly 
 checking the clock 
 on the mantel-piece 
 by our watches. 
 Then, in answer to 
 P i 1 1 o n ' s o 1 d - 
 fashioned question, 
 " Shall we join the 
 Ladies 1 " Ave rise, and put down our napkins, as if we'd all just 
 finished being shaved, and were much freshened by the operation. 
 I wonder if anyone was ever so rude as to reply to the question 
 about "joining the Ladies" in the negative? One solitary person 
 in a very bad temper might do it ; and, if so, the obstructionist 
 would be "left sitting" — "bloomingly alone," like the last rose of 
 Summer. 
 
 Pilton informs us, confidentially, as we leave the dining-room, 
 that " Fisher possesses real dramatic talent, if he'd only dress
 
 1(50 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 up ; " but as the talented Amateur persists in his refusal, — subse- 
 quently informing me " that he didn't want to make a fool of 
 himself before a lot of strangers," — we can only imagine what an 
 intellectual treat we have lost. 
 
 We all, more or less morosely, enter the drawing-room. Here 
 most of the party again consult their watches, with reference to 
 the clock in this room, in the hope of finding the time sufficiently 
 advanced to offer a reasonable excuse for getting out of this jovial 
 evening at Pilton's. 
 
 Pilton rouses himself from the depression into which our obstinacy 
 in not amusing one another has thrown him. 
 
 He rubs his hands, with as much heartiness as he can assume, 
 and proposes music. He is coming out as a revivalist. 
 
 Everybody immediately appears frightened. No one likes to be 
 the first. 
 
 Mrs. Pilton appeals to a lank Lady, with a short waist, " Won't 
 she sing 1 " No, thank you, she would rather not. " Won't she 
 play something 1 " No, she doesn't play. She would if she could ; 
 but she has left her music at home, and doesn't play from memory. 
 " But," she spitefully retaliates, " surely your daughters will 1 " 
 
 Mrs. Pilton's daughters — looking like three Lot's Wives, in the 
 process of being frozen into salt-pillars — give three little acid 
 simpers, and protest, one after the other, with three little signals 
 of distress, in the way of coughs, that they really can't sing, as 
 since the East wind set in, they've entirely lost their voices. 
 
 [Happy Thought (by the audience much relieved). It's an ill 
 wind that blows no one any good.] 
 
 Miss Fisher, on being requested to favour the company with 
 some musical trifle — which expression sounds as if Pilton had asked 
 her to do anything, no matter what, as long as it's something on 
 the piano just to fill up the time — regrets that she can neither 
 play nor sing, at least not from memory, and she has no music 
 [she's got it all upstairs in a box, but she won't fetch it ; I found 
 this out next day], but James, her brother, can — " You know he 
 can, Mr. Pilton ! " she says, appealing to her host, with a sweet 
 smile, whereupon our distracted host makes a fresh descent on the 
 unhappy young Fisher, — who looks round, imploringly, as though
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 161 
 
 he were saying to himself, " Why can't they let me alone 1 " — and 
 reminds him that he can, if he will, " play anything ; " that 
 further, " he has a perfectly wonderful touch; and there's not a 
 thing he can't play from memory." 
 
 So the miserable young Fisher is lugged out of his corner, and 
 away from a photograph-book, in which he had buried himself, in 
 the vain hope of escaping unobserved from his tormentor, and is 
 comp3lled, hut always under protest, to sit down to the piano. 
 
 He hesitates what to begin with. His sister reminds him of 
 something. He objects that his audience "all know that.'* 
 Whereupon his audience, who do know it by heart (it is something 
 from Madame Angot), go to the extent of perjuring themselves for 
 politeness' sake, and declare they've never heard it before, ;md 
 would so like to hear it now. 
 
 So young Fisher, thus adjured, sets to work to play tunes from 
 Madame Angot, which he has picked up by ear, and of which he 
 has not, apparently, succeeded in getting a firm grasp, as only the 
 first seven bars or so are right, and then the air suddenly becomes 
 something totally different. It is a sort of nightmare of Madam? 
 Angot, and very irritating. 
 
 Once at the piano, it is very difficult to remove him. Pilton's 
 victim is going to be revenged on Pilton in particular, and on the 
 company generally. He seems to have become, suddenly, part and 
 parcel of the music-stool, and, like the ornaments in a Ritualistic 
 €hurch, he "can't be removed without a faculty." We employ 
 -our faculties in trying not to listen to him ; but he goes on play- 
 ing snatches of airs, asking any one who may happen to be near 
 him, "if they recollect this '! " or " do they remember thuV and 
 as they generally do, and exhibit no desire to hear it again, or 
 ■don't recollect it, and don't wish to hear it in a mutilated form, 
 young Fisher's tunes gradually become less and less coherent, lie 
 plays jerkily at short intervals, like a musical-box out of order, and, 
 failing at last in even amusing himself, he finally subsides into 
 private life, in his old corner, with the photograph book. 
 
 We only discover that he has ceased playing by the gradual 
 ■cessation of the conversation. We sit about helplessly, like Lotos- 
 •eaters. Once more we all furtively consult our watches, as though 
 we were playing some game of mental arithmetic against time, or 
 
 M
 
 162 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 anxiously expecting an important visitor. No ; time isn't up yet, 
 and we must eke out another half-hour, at least, in some sort of 
 conversation. Pilton, finding his jovial evening becoming intoler- 
 ably dull, suggests " Games." 
 
 " Doesn't anyone know a game 1 " he asks, in despair. 
 
 Once more everyone seems scared. No ; no one knows a game-. 
 It flashes across me suddenly, that I once was told of a game — I 
 think it was a game — called " Cockamaroo ; " but whether it was 
 played by counting up numbers, halving them, and adding ten, or 
 whether it wasn't quite a different sort of thing altogether, and 
 played with sticks and a small bell, the flash of memory is too 
 transient to enlighten me. So I keep " Cockamaroo " to myself, 
 and only shake my head. 
 
 Pilton turns to Peter Dermod. " Surely he knows a game 1 " 
 
 Peter, who has nearly fallen asleep on a chair in a corner, replies 
 that he is acquainted with nothing except leap-frog ; and, having' 
 smiled amiably on the company all round, he drops off again into 
 a doze, when, from occasional spasmodic movements, we presume 
 that he is probably playing leap-frog in his sleep. 
 
 I reply to Pilton, that I'm afraid I don't know any games ; and, 
 as he suggests the alternative of a song, I declare emphatically 
 that I never sing. 
 
 People seem to be reassured on hearing this positive assevera- 
 tion from my own lips ; but we are no nearer a jolly evening than 
 we were a couple of hours ago, when suddenly a very mild young 
 man— somebody's cousin, 1 fancy, — [capital name for a novel, 
 Somebody's Cousin — N.B. book it] — but I'd never noticed his- 
 presence before — in a remote corner of the room, is suddenly 
 observed whispering to a stout Lady near him, who thereupon 
 exclaims, " Oh ! " as if she had been pinched, which, attracting our 
 attention, she goes on to inform us that " Mr. Bilby," the mild 
 young man, "has got a game," which sounds as if the individual 
 in question had been suddenly seized with some form of epilepsy. 
 
 Pilton sees a forlorn hope in Bilby. Bilby is the mouse who- 
 comes to the lion's rescue. 
 
 Bilby blushes, and says, " Well, it's not much of a game.'' 
 Being pressed to go into details, he informs us, bashfully, — as 
 though it were something improper which he would rather not
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 163 
 
 mention in polite society, — that it consists in everyone saying; 
 " Hish ! " " Hash ! " and " Hosh ! " all together. 
 
 We don't see, at first sight, that this is a very exciting game, 
 nor indeed how it can be a game at all, but Pilton joyfully 
 welcomes it as better than stagnation, and evidently considers it 
 to be, at all events, a move in the right direction. 
 
 The elderly Ladies regai'd Mr. Bilby with interest, as a new 
 discovery, and we are all more or less surprised at his, so to 
 speak, suddenly coming out of his pod, and bursting into life 
 with a game. 
 
 " You direct it," says Pilton to Bilby, with an air of importance,, 
 and playing off Bilby against young Fisher, who now appears 
 inclined to patronise Bilby, rather officiously. 
 
 Thereupon Bilby diffidently apportions the " Hishes," the 
 "Hashes," and the "Hoshes," among us. Three ai*e to say 
 "Hish," three to say "Hash," and three to say "Hosh," and 
 so on. It takes a good deal of arrangement, and some argument 
 and explanation, as to whether the words are to be said simul- 
 taneously, or one after the other, and so forth. 
 
 These knotty points having been decided, and Peter Dermod- 
 having been aroused to a sense of the importance of the occasion, 
 Pilton wishes Bilby to stand on the hearthrug, in front of us all,, 
 and give the signal, which he does. Also, if young Fisher, who 
 has nothing whatever to do with this game, beyond playing it,, 
 will kindly get off the hearthrug, and get a seat in a corner, any- 
 where, Pilton will be much obliged. Snub for young Fisher. 
 
 Are we ready? Yes. Then, off! Whereupon we all say r 
 "Hish, hash, hosh!" together, as one woi'd, and then stare at 
 one another to see the result. Nothing:. 
 
 " Is that all?" asks Pilton, much disappointed. 
 
 "Yes," answers Bilby, nervously, "that is all." 
 
 " But that's not a game ! " Pilton protests, with evidently a 
 sense of injury. 
 
 Poor Bilby seems to be suddenly convinced of this himself. He 
 only returns, " No, I don't say it's much of a game, but I thought 
 it would amuse you." 
 
 After this Bilby retires. Triumph for young Fisher. Bilby 
 has strutted his brief five minutes on the hearthrug, and now " is 
 
 m 2
 
 164 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 heard no more " — like the " Poor Player " — which, in rny opinion 
 serves any poor player right. 
 
 Everyone is irritated with him and his game. Peter Dermod, 
 angry at having been woke up, declares that such an amusement 
 is only fit for an idiot asylum. 
 
 However, we've eked out the time. The carriages are announced, 
 the outdoor guests leave, thanking the host and hostess for " a 
 very pleasant evening," and the indoor guests retire for a pipe to 
 the smoking-room, where, after young Fisher has retired, Pilton 
 lays all the blame on his shoulders, "because he can be so amusing 
 if he likes, but he wouldn't ; and he wouldn't dress up." 
 
 When Peter Dermod has gone to bed, Pilton remarks that he 
 is not as amusing as he used to be. I apologise for my own short- 
 comings, and regret my inability to remember " Cockamaroo," 
 which, I am sure, from the sort of vague impression I have of it 
 when I last saw it played, would have caused endless amusement. 
 Everybody regrets that I couldn't think of "Cockamaroo" in time. 
 To-morrow, when I shall have left, Pilton will confide in Mrs. 
 Pilton, and the three young Ladies, how disappointed he is in me, 
 and he is sure to finish by saying — 
 
 " I object to people who can do something to amuse, and tvon't." 
 He will then probably add with a deep sense of injury, " Why, 
 he " (meaning me) " remembered a game called Cockamaroo, only 
 he wouldn't tell it." 
 
 " When I want a jolly evening, nothing shall induce me to go to 
 
 Pilton's," says Peter Dermod to me next day, on his way back to 
 
 town. 
 
 ****** 
 
 I have got two or three more friends to visit. This is fortunate, 
 as there is something the matter with the roof of our Old House 
 at home, where my forefathers, «fec, and they are mending and 
 painting. Milburd, being a good-natured wag, will, of course, 
 spread the report that " there's a tile off, chez lui ; " and at all 
 events, for the present I am roofless. This gives me, as it were, a 
 title to my friends' hospitality. 
 
 Happy Thought. — New title, Sir William Proofless. Sounds 
 historical.
 
 FB TENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 165 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 INVITATION — A NAME TOPSY-TURVY ACCEPTED INCIDENT — SENSA- 
 TIONAL SPRIGHTLY SERVANT — LUXURY POETRY ARRIVAL. 
 
 A 
 
 LETTER of invi- 
 tation comes to me 
 from — ■ 
 
 " Meadowsweet Manor, 
 " Tricklington. 
 
 "My dear Fellow, 
 
 " I shall be delighted to 
 see you, if you'll only come 
 and take pity on a poor hermit 
 in his cell. We are ricrht 
 away from all amusements — 
 ten miles away from anywhere 
 — so if you can summon up 
 courage to make the venture 
 you are hereby forewarned 
 that you'll have to entertain 
 yourself, the livelong day, as- 
 best you can. But come, by 
 all means, 
 
 " Tours truly, 
 " C. Mosthyn Dickie." 
 
 Musthyn Dickie is a good all-round grumbler. I don't wonder 
 at it, with such a name. Ho starts, as a cart-before-the-horse man. 
 With him everything has gone right in spite of himself. But to 
 hear him talk, to judge by his correspondence, you would think 
 that everything was invariably going as wrong as possible with 
 him. 
 
 His name is enough to have put him out of all his calculations 
 in life. There should be a law against the use of a Christian 
 name as a surname. One ought no more to be permitted to use a
 
 H)G QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Christian name as a surname, than one is able to use a hat as a 
 waistcoat. Any one doing the latter, frequently, would be locked 
 ■up in a lunatic asylum ; and the lunatic tailor would soon be sent 
 for to show the unfortunate man what kind cf waistcoat he would 
 .have to be fitted with for the future. 
 
 Mosthyn Dickie is so evidently Dickie Mosthyn topsy-turvy, 
 that it is quite irritating to hear it, and still more to see it, on 
 paper. When his friends call him " Dickie," it sounds ridiculous, 
 — or ri-dickie-lous, — while to speak of him or to him as " Mr. 
 Dickie," is even more absurd. It is like talking to a canary in a 
 cage. " Well, Mr. Dickie, how are you this morning 1 " which 
 you expect to hear followed up with a chirrup, and a " Sweet, 
 :sweet, swe-e-et ! " 
 
 All his intimates call him Mosthyn. This sounds all right, but 
 it puts a stranger, so to speak, on entering, on to the wrong scent; 
 •for who would suppose that those who call a man " Dickie," and 
 •" Mr. Dickie," are his merest acquaintances, while those who call 
 ihim Mosthyn are his most intimate friends ? 
 
 How did it begin? Trace the genealogical tree to its an- 
 cestral root, and there will probably be found a Richard at the 
 bottom of it. He came over with the Conqueror, or without 
 ihim, as Richard, simply Richard. His friends called him 
 " Dick." His playful friends called him " Dickon." An eccentric 
 old Norman baron called him " Dickie." This old Norman baron 
 ■was rich. He quarrelled with his family, left his money and 
 •estates to his boon companion, whom he had only known as 
 •" Dickie." This fixed the heir's name. Henceforward he and 
 .his heirs were Dickies. They went on and prospered, in spite 
 -of, as the vulgar phrase has it, or used to have it (and can have 
 it again as far as 1 am concerned), in spite of " its being all dicky 
 with them." 
 
 The above is a hypothetical history of the Mosthyn Dickie 
 family. Some Dickie in the Sixteenth Century married into the 
 Mosthyn family — whose name, probably, owed its origin from 
 rsome witty King seeing one of his courtiers very lank and meagre, 
 sand, like Julius Cassar, considering lean men as dangerous to the 
 .State, he at once designated him as Most Thin, and gave him 
 some fine fat lands to subsist on. " Mcst-thin " then became
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 167 
 
 Mosthyn — and thenceforward a rich, happy family, and stout 
 supporters of Royalty. 
 
 [Happy Thought— Write a Hypothetical History of the Origin 
 of English Family Names and Titles. Perhaps, the English 
 families would subscribe largely, to make it worth my while not 
 to do it. Either notion's remunerative.] 
 
 Of course I accept Mosthyn Dickie's offer. 
 
 Here, en route for the Manor, I must note what would be sensa- 
 tionally announced in some American papers thus — 
 
 AN INCIDENT AT THE STATION. 
 
 I am in the waiting-room. I see the bald head and eyes of a 
 short man in a great coat. I see no more of the short man than 
 the bald head and eyes, because he has got his hat off, and is, 
 to put it nicely, vising his pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 From the bridge of his nose, to the second button of his great- 
 coat, all is enveloped in a silken cloud of mystery, i.e., in pocket- 
 handkerchief. What I do see of him — mentioned above — I 
 recognise. I go up to him with outstretched hand and a smile on 
 my expressive countenance. I am about to say, " Hallo, Von 
 Schmidt," — that being the name of the individual I expect to find 
 behind the pocket-handkerchief, — when, the curtain being drawn 
 aside, discovers somebody else, a total stranger, who stares at me 
 in a half-frightened manner, as though uncertain what to make of 
 my advance. I suddenly change my front, scowl, as though 
 asking the stranger, " What the deuce he means by being some- 
 body else and deceiving me under shelter of his pocket-handker- 
 chief," and walk off, indignantly, by the side-door. That bald- 
 headed stranger, who ought to be Von Schmidt, wouldn't get into 
 the same carriage with me for a trifle. 
 
 After this, still in sensational paragraph style, I will describe 
 my next step as 
 
 ON THE TRACK. 
 
 Which simply means that I get into a comfortable smoking- 
 carriage, and finally arrive at Tricklington Station, where 1 meet 
 with an
 
 i68 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 ENTHUS'ASTIC WELCOME 
 
 from one person, whom, of all others, I am glad to see — in fact it 
 is I who give him the enthusiastic welcome — for he is a servant 
 from Meadowsweet Manor, who has been awaiting me, in the snow, 
 for the last quarter of an hour. And it has snowed ! It must 
 have snowballed down, so thickly and heavily does it lie on the 
 roads, on the trees, on the roofs, on everywhere. Had the giants 
 taken to snowball the Great Northern Gods, and the Great 
 Northern Gods replied in kind from their Hundred-and-Twenty- 
 four Pounder Snowball Factory and Arsenal, a more damaging 
 result could not well be conceived. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — Appearance of the Northern Divinity, Thaw. 
 Transformation Scene.] 
 
 The dapper and sprightly servant — rendered more dapper and 
 sprightly by the cold — in a long whitey-brown coat, identifies me 
 with the certainty of a detective in plain clothes, and has me out, 
 bag and baggage, in less than no time. 
 
 1 try to explain as to number of parcels, and where they are ; 
 but he knows all about it. His manner seems to say, " Bless you. 
 You're not the first that's been down here by a many. I know 
 what you've got. I know the sort o' things you'd bring, by the 
 look of you. Don't vou bother — I know my work." And true 
 enough, before two minutes have elapsed, all my things are out,, 
 nothing left behind, and we, in a procession of footman, porter,, 
 and self, make for the station-door, where there is a pair-horse 
 brougham in waiting, with a coachman, in a fur cape, respectfully 
 delighted to see me. My baggage being provided for — I feel 
 it will be all right, and ask no questions. In I get, and off 
 we go. 
 
 From this moment I see 1 can relieve myself of all responsibility, 
 I feel more than at home, as I lounge back in the pair-horse 
 brougham comfortably, most comfortably rugged and wrapped. 
 The sensation is, " This is mine ! I am monarch of all I survey " 
 (I can't see out of the windows for the steam, which makes them 
 into ground-glass), and emancipated from trouble, or responsibility, 
 the poetry comes out of me thus : —
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 161' 
 
 I'm mom reh of all I survey. 
 
 ■? 
 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 I know that I've nothing to pay — 
 A sum which my pocket will suit. 
 
 \Happy Thought. — Poetry in me is a sort of Ballon Captrf. Tin' 
 ropes are the responsibilities and troubles. Cut the ropes, and 
 the Poet soars aloft. How about coming down again 1 Let the 
 gas off. But — well, we must not press a simile so far.] 
 
 Mosthyn Dickie's carriage is delicious. We are at the gate 
 of the Manor House. In a few minutes we are at the Mansion 
 itself. 
 
 Mansion ! Yes, quite a Mansion ! It is of the Italian Portico 
 style, and with its steps, pillars, and capitals, it gives you the 
 idea of a Public Library, or Club, having stepped out of St- 
 James's Square, or Pall Mall, or a British Museum Junior which 
 had forwarded itself down here for a little change of air. 
 
 Country House ! Not a sign of it. That is, according to the 
 received Old English type — the sort of thing, for example, that 
 Mr. Caldecott loves to illustrate, and wherein he excels. But at 
 Meadowsweet Manor there should be a surrounding of Italian 
 gardens, of Signori and Signoritas, with mandolines and guitars, 
 greyhounds stepping daintily with one foot up in the air, monkeys- 
 led by black boys, in turbans, silks and satins, and a scowling 
 Italian hiding behind a pillar of the portico, fumbling at a stiletto 
 in his best doublet, while he eyes a young couple in whom he 
 evidently feels the very deepest interest. 
 
 This is the scene suggested by .Mosthyn Dickie's Manor House, 
 But this picture is for summer, and now the snow is on the 
 ground, except where it has been carefully swept away from the 
 drive and from the steps, which are exactly like those leading up 
 to the British Museum, or the National Gallery, only without the 
 policemen or the sentries ; and under the portico above are wide 
 glass doors, more than ever suggesting the idea of some public 
 Exhibition say, lor example, the "Old Masters "at Burlington 
 House — so that I can scarcely refrain from asking the official in 
 plain clothes — the Beadle — whether it is a free day, or whether 
 the admission is by payment; and having resigned myself to this 
 sort of Exhibition idea, I am looking round to see where are the
 
 170 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 respectable individuals, who, as at Burlington House, live in pews 
 in the hall, and play at pawnbroking all day by giving tickets for 
 umbrellas deposited with them — [Happy Thought. My Uncles !] 
 — and where the man who takes the money, and who won't give 
 change, is to be found, when, as a footman takes me out of my 
 great-coat, I hear a hearty voice coming along the hall, ex- 
 
 claiming - 
 
 " Bravo ! I never thought you'd come in such dreadful 
 weather ! " and Mosthyn Dickie has come out of his sanctum, and 
 is grasping my hand heartily.
 
 F MENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 171 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AT MEADOWSWEET MANOR MOSTHYN DICKIE — HIS HEARTINESS 
 
 DEAFNESS TEA — TYRANNY — VIOLENCE SUNSHINE — SERVANTS 
 
 HOUSE AND HOUSEHOLD — QUOTATION GRUMBLE ACUTE- 
 
 jIBSg — VIOLENCE PINS — MRS. POUND — REPLY — HERMIT— CELL. 
 
 M' 
 
 DEAR fellow!" 
 he exclaims, in a 
 lilutf, good-humoured tone, 
 and smiling all over his 
 face, under and all round 
 his grey beard and mous- 
 tache. "My dear fellow! 
 this is capital of you ! Ex- 
 cellent ! You're a trump to 
 come down in such abomin- 
 able weather." 
 
 Mostyn Dickie is tho- 
 roughly hearty. It is evi- 
 dently genuine ; nothing of 
 the faux-bonhomme about 
 him. 
 
 Happy Thought (a title 
 for a good old hospitable 
 Country Gentleman). — '"His 
 Heartiness." 
 
 I observe, that I am only too delighted. He is, I find, a trifle 
 •deaf, and looks me steadily and earnestly in the face, as tin nigh 
 he suspected me of saying something that I don't want him to 
 hear. I repeat louder, that I am delighted, most delighted, to 
 have the opportunity of visiting him. 
 
 This makes him beam again, and he won't let go my hand. It 
 •seems as if he could never have enough cither of my hand, or of 
 staring me in the face. He appears to be trying to convince him- 
 self, beyond all possibility of error, that it is myself and nobody 
 else. He frowns on me, always good-humouredly, but, still, witli
 
 172 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 an air of uncertainty, as though he were saying to himself, " It's 
 uncommonly like the man I expected ; but I've been so taken in, 
 lately, by impostors, I'd give a trifle to know if it is really he or 
 not." He swings my hand forward and backward, then shakes it, 
 then wrings it, then repeats, " Well, this is kind of you to come," 
 as though lie were in some awful difficulty, and I had just arrived 
 in the nick of time to save him. 
 
 At last he seems to have made up his mind that I really am the 
 person I've represented myself to be, whereupon he gives my 
 hand a final hearty shake, as though he were saying " Good-bye " 
 to me (in effect he is dismissing me from his mental doubts), and 
 then, just as he is relinquishing my hand, he suddenly seizes it- 
 again as if afraid lest, on being released, I should make for the 
 glass door and run away, and says in a tone that evinces the 
 deepest anxiety for my welfare, " Now you'll have something ? " 
 "No," I thank him. 
 
 " Quite sure 1" he asks, still detaining my hand, and scrutinising 
 me in a way that implies he is accustomed to inconsistency on the 
 part of newly-arrived guests. 
 
 He is right. I am not quite sure. 
 
 "Ah ! " he exclaims — it is a very broad "Ah ! " — much relieved. 
 "That's right. You will have something. Glass of sherry? 
 Brandy-and-soda 1 Anything you like. Everything's here. 
 What'll you have ? " 
 
 Evidently, I've got into good quarters at Mosthyn Dickie's. I 
 intimate, modestly, that if a cup of tea can be obtained without 
 trouble — mind, without trouble — 
 
 But I have not to say another word. He does not clap his 
 hands, and a thousand ebon slaves appear, as, since my arrival, 
 there have been two or thi'ee servants awaiting my commands in 
 the hall, with absolute nervous anxiety. 
 
 At the mention of tea, one of them has disappeared, through a 
 side-door, which swings-to noiselessly. 
 
 "Now, what's he gone for?" asks Mosthyn Dickie, who being,, 
 as I have said, slightly deaf, has not caught my expressed wish 
 for tea. 
 
 " James has gone for tea, Sir," replies Servant Number Two. 
 "Eh, what?" exclaims Mosthyn Dickie, spreading out his
 
 FBIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 173 
 
 hands, and appealing to roe in the utmost despair, as if every- 
 thing in. the world had collapsed suddenly, and he had lost his 
 fortune at one fell swoop. " There ! Did you ever see such a set 
 of idiots ! That's what I'm surrounded by — Idiots ! " (present 
 company, I hope, excepted). "They can't wait — absolutely can't 
 wait for orders ; but just because it's his tea-time, off he must go ! 
 I tell them," he continues in a deeply injured tone, " I tell them, 
 when any one arrives, to wait until they know if anything is 
 wanted ; but no — off they go "• — he is working himself up into a 
 fury — "and once for all, I won't have it /" 
 
 At this point James returns with the tea, and I am able to ex- 
 plain that this is what he had been to fetch for me. 
 
 "Oh," says Dickie, with the air of a man who, out of politeness, 
 has been compelled to receive an excuse, " that's quite another 
 thing. Oh," he repeats, with a sort of vague bow all round, but 
 specially directed towards the hats and coats that are hanging up 
 in the hall, " oh, all right ! Only" here he thrusts both hands 
 into his trouser-pockets, and turns round full on me as if he were 
 going to put a regular poser to me this time, at all events, " why 
 didn't he say so ? " 
 
 I really have no answer for this. The two Servants — the 
 offending James and another — are still standing there in the hall, 
 but they make no sign ; and as 1 do not, so to speak, hold a brief 
 for them, I am silent, and occupy myself with the tea. 
 
 The two Servants are just on the point of withdrawing, when 
 Mosthyn Dickie stops them suddenly and peremptorily. His 
 manner is startlingly tierce, and f tremble lest the men should be 
 involved in another difficulty on my account, in which case they'll 
 go into the Servants' Hall and express themselves in very decided 
 language on the subject of my visit. 
 
 Mosthyn Dickie turns to me, frowns, and, in a tone of the 
 most intense earnestness, asks, 
 
 " Have they given you any sugar ! " 
 
 These words are given so tragically, as to impress me with the 
 idea that I am listening to a quotation from some Shakesperian 
 tragedy, — perhaps Hamlet^ though I don't recollect the line. 
 
 So despotic is his whole bearing that, though 1 don't look at the 
 Servants, as I am facing the stove and they are behind me in the
 
 174 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 middle of the Hall, I can fancy them both shaking in their shoes, 
 their hair standing on end (specially if they are comic servants), 
 tremblingly awaiting my answer, which will decide their fate, as, 
 evidently, were I obliged to own that the sugar had been omitted, 
 the Tyrant would instantly exclaim, " Off with their heads ! " and 
 there 'd be an end of them in a twinkling. 
 
 I reply, therefore, a little nervously, I admit — "Yes — thank you 
 —plenty ! " 
 
 I fancy I hear a suppressed sigh of relief from the two servants. 
 
 " You are sure?" asks Mosthyn Dickie, with searching emphasis-, 
 as though he were examining me on my oath. 
 
 " Yes, I'm quite sure. It's very nice," I say ; and I drink it, in 
 proof of my assertion, while he watches me narrowly, as if to see 
 whether any irrepressible spasm should contradict my statement. 
 No. After disposing, as pleasantl}' as possible in the circum- 
 stances, of half the contents of the cup, I look round at him, and 
 smile, as I was wont to smile. 
 
 " Because," he says, still eyeing me distrustfully, as though ex- 
 pecting me to recant my opinion, and refuse to swallow any more 
 tea, unless it were immediately sweetened; — "because Mrs. Pound 
 always forgets either the sugar or the milk, or something. She's 
 got no head — not a bit "• —most extraoi'dinary phenomenon Mrs. 
 Pound must be, whoever she is — " she always forgets something, 
 either the sugar — or the milk — or," he adds suddenly as a climax 
 — " or the Tea ! " This so tickles him that he must needs take his 
 right hand out of his pocket to dig me forcibly in the ribs, as 
 though to attract my wandering attention to the point he has just 
 made — and which I notice has highly amused the two servants — 
 and repeat, " or the Tea ! Eh ? Forget the Tea ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! n 
 Whereupon the servants, seeing that the storm has blown over r 
 discreetly disappear through a noiseless green-baize door. 
 
 Mosthyn Dickie continuing to relish this joke Avithout reference 
 to me, I take the opportunity of looking round the hall to get 
 some further idea of what Meadowsweet Manor is like. 
 
 Judging from what I can see of the Italian style, portico and 
 pillars without, tesselated pavement within, polished marble (or 
 imitation) columns, and lofty whitewashed ceilings, ornamented 
 with that sort of fancy-plaster-work which the decorative art at
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 175 
 
 the confectioners' seems to consider as an indispensable finish to 
 the white-sugared top of a children's twelfth cake, — judging, I 
 saj, from the general shininess and polish, I begin to think I am- 
 realising the vision of the operatic poet who sang 
 
 " I dreamt that I dwe-elt in mar-ar-ble halls, 
 With vassals and serfs at my si-i-de." 
 
 And I add to myself, that I feel pretty sure I shall " be happy 
 yet." For it is easy for anyone to discover, in less than a quarter 
 of an hour after his arrival in this house, that these sudden out- 
 bursts of Mosthyn Dickie's are simply his way, which really alarm 
 no one who is accustomed to them, and that, in spite of all his- 
 grumbling, he is absolutely idolised by every dependant on the 
 establishment. 
 
 He is a widower, and the lady of the house is, I find, his 
 daughter — Mrs. de Breslin — who, with her two young children, 
 usually reside at Meadowsweet Manor. The people about address- 
 her as "Madame de Breslin," or simply "Madame," and from 
 Mrs. Pound (the housekeeper "without a head") I soon ascertain 
 enough of the family history to make it evident to me that the 
 less said about Monsieur de Breslin the better. He is spoken of 
 as " compelled to travel a great deal on various important foreign 
 missions." 
 
 I have just received this information from Mrs. Pound, the 
 housekeeper, who is the real manageress of the entire establish- 
 ment, when Mosthyn Dickie enters my room. 
 
 "Ah !" he exclaims, standing stock still in the doorway, thrust- 
 ing his hands into his pockets, rattling some keys, and sternly" 
 eyeing first Mrs. Pound, then myself, as though he suspected some 
 conspiracy on our part. "Ah ! Well — " here he relaxes for a 
 moment and scrutinises the fire — then he turns to the House- 
 keeper, "Are you giving him a good fire, Mrs. Pound? Plenty of 
 coals, eh 1 Are yon quite, sure it doesn't smoke ?. " 
 
 This last inquiry is given with terrible earnestness, and again 
 impresses me with the idea of my having heard the line before 
 somewhere in Shakespeare, probably Hamlet. 
 
 Mrs. Pound replies, smilingly, that she is perfectly happy in 
 her mind on all these points. Such an assurance would be to any
 
 176 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 one more than satisfactory, coming from Mrs. Pound, who, in 
 herself, is an embodiment of the spirit of tidiness and comfort, 
 and whose voice and manner are those" of one of the kindliest, 
 motherliest, and most considerate of women. 
 
 But Mosthyn Dickie will have his grumble. It's quite enough 
 for him to be the best and warmest-hearted friend, and most in- 
 . dulgent master without showing it. He likes to look upon himself 
 as a tyrant, as a man who will "know the reason why" though he 
 never succeeds in obtaining it. His hobby is, that nothing escapes 
 his notice ; " Do what they will," he says, as though everyone all 
 round were trying to deceive him from morning to night, " I see 
 it all, though they don't think I do." 
 
 For instance, he walks up to my dressing-table where every 
 article has been most carefully laid out, and turning on Mrs. 
 Pound, exclaims, as though he were doing an injury to himself 
 by suppressing the violence of the emotion with which the 
 reckless and ungrateful conduct of his Housekeeper has inspired 
 him, — 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Pound — there arc no pins!" 
 
 Unaccustomed as yet to Mosthyn Dickie, and anxious for 
 Mrs. Pound's position (I am not aware at this moment that she 
 has been in the family for twenty-five years), I hasten to point 
 but at least a dozen pins in the cushion, and to add, that were 
 they not there, it would be no loss to me, as I really do not 
 absolutely rely on pins, either for dressing or washing. 
 
 Mosthyn Dickie turns a deaf ear to my plea for Mrs. 
 Pound. 
 
 " No ! " he exclaims, haranguing me, in a powerful ora- 
 torical manner, with his left hand in his pocket, and his right 
 pointing at her, " No ! She will not put any pins in the pin- 
 cushions. She won't do it. I beg and pray of her to do it, and she 
 iron t. 
 
 " Oh, Sir ! " remonstrates Mrs. Pound, quite cheerfully. 
 
 "She won't /" he continues emphatically ; " she won't do any- 
 thing she's told. She forgets it all. She forgets everything." 
 Then he turns to her : " You've got no head — you know you 
 haven't— except to put a cap on, and trim it with finery " —here
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 177 
 
 Mrs. Pound smiles complacently ; for she really has the very 
 neatest and quietest cap : and her Master winks aside at me, as 
 though intimating that he had touched her on her weak point, 
 now, at all events. 
 
 " Ah, well, Sir ! " replies Mrs. Pound, with perfect good temper, 
 as she goes towards the door, " if I'm no use, Sir, you'd better get 
 rid of me." 
 
 " Get rid of you ! " he exclaims, in utter surprise at such an 
 extravagant proposition — "get rid of her!" he repeats, turning 
 to me ; " why I couldn't get rid of her, if I tried ! She wouldn't 
 go ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pound shakes her head, smiles, hopes I'm quite comfort- 
 able now, and quits the room, not, however, without reminding 
 her master that the dressing-bell has rung, and that he will 
 probably be late for dinner, adding, that Miss Claudine is not 
 at all well to-day, and oughtn't to be kept waiting. With this 
 advice, she disappears. 
 
 " Ah ! " repeats Dickie to himself, " True ! She's not well. 
 Xo. Mrs. Pound's right." Then to me, " I don't think you 
 know my daughter Claudine. Madame de Breslin is her married 
 name, but that stupid old idiot, Mrs. Pound, always unll call her 
 Miss Claudine. She was her nurse, and brought her up. And 
 so " (he finishes in a tone implying utter despairing hopelessness 
 in dealing with Mrs. Pound's denseness on this point) "there it is! 
 I can't get it out of her head — if she's got a head. Well, well— 
 they're all alike. There it is, and so it is ! " And he throws up 
 his hands, as though he were getting rid of everything left and 
 right, and making up his mind to have nothing more to do with 
 the cares and burdens of life, but to go off straight, by the next 
 train to the nearest desert, there to set up for himself as a Hermit 
 in a Cell. At present, however, he only goes down to look after 
 the Hermitage in the Cellar. And a marvellous bottle of that 
 wine we sulisci|uently enjoy. 
 
 So the grumbling is only the way of the Master of Meadowsweet 
 Manor. In fact — 
 
 Happy Tlwught — his Manner:
 
 178 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MADAME — GUESTS — BOY 
 
 -CONVERSATION- 
 PLEASURE. 
 
 #^X 
 
 -DINNER GRUMBLE AGAIN 
 
 Breslin 
 
 elegant 
 
 MADAME de 
 k*K is a quiet, 
 s§, lady, above the middle 
 height. Perhaps the idea 
 K**^ arises in my mind from 
 Mrs. Pound's story, but I 
 fancy I remark a shadow of 
 melancholy that rests, from 
 time to time, on her hand- 
 some features until it is 
 chased away by one of the 
 sweetest and brightest smiles 
 it has ever been my lot to see 
 on the face of woman. 
 
 Our company to-night con- 
 sists of Mosthyn Dickie, our 
 host, Madame de Breslin and 
 her daughter Florence, Mr. 
 McAllister, a Scotch gentle- 
 man evidently retired from 
 some business with money — his own, of course — and not intending 
 to go " bock agen " — and a Mr. Denson, a man about fifty, with 
 his son Horace, a handsome lad, dark as a Spaniard, with a half 
 shy, half sulky, dissatisfied air, as though he had been brought 
 down to Meadowsweet Manor much against his will, and would at 
 that moment give a trifle to be miles away. These two last have 
 arrived only a few hours before myself, and they are leaving to- 
 morrow. Mosthyn Dickie possesses, I have always heard, immense 
 influence somewhere — where, I do not know ; but within the first 
 few minutes of our meeting in the drawing-room Mr. Denson has 
 informed me, more or less confidentially, that he is looking out for 
 something for his boy, — I find he is always " looking out for some
 
 FBIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 17'J 
 
 thing for his boy," — and that Mosthyn Dickie has promised to do 
 all he can for him; "And," he adds mysteriously, as though I 
 were, of course, in the secret, "you know he can do something in a 
 certain quarter." Here he w T aggles his hands, and nods his head 
 at me like one of the German figures on the top of a bon-bon box. 
 Being evidently supposed to know all about it, 1 nod and waggle 
 back again, completing the resemblance, on my part, to the bon- 
 bon box figure by observing a discreet silence. 
 
 Mr. Denson goes on to inform me, quite gratuitously, that his 
 boy has had an excellent education, and I catch myself replying, 
 " Indeed ! " in a surprised tone, which implies that I should not 
 have gathered the fact from the youth's manner and bearing. 
 
 " He was at Eton," says his father, proudly. 
 
 "Near Eton," interposes his son, sullenly, and with marked 
 emphasis. 
 
 " Well," his father resumes, a trifle abashed, but maintaining a 
 smiling countenance, " at a most excellent school near Eton, where 
 they pursue the Eton system, and have matches like the Eton boys, 
 and go on the Eton grounds, and so one really may say he was at 
 Eton." 
 
 Of course I am ready to admit he may say anything, but I 
 merely bow politely, and observe, " Yes, naturally," which seems 
 to chime in quite pleasantly with Mr. Denson's notions. 
 
 "Then," he continues, finding he has got a listener, "he went 
 to a private tutor's, and then he went abroad " 
 
 " Only Boulogne," interposes the lad, surlily. 
 
 " Well," returns his father, deprecating the interruption, "that 
 is abroad." 
 
 "I don't call it so," mutters the boy, sulkily, "it's regular 
 English." 
 
 " But it's in France," answers his father, triumphantly, which 
 statement even his son, whose mission is clearly to gainsay and 
 contradict his parent on every possible occasion, is compelled to 
 allow as being geographically true. 
 
 " He has studied for several examinations, but I have come to 
 the conclusion that business is the best thing for him," says Mr. 
 Denson, Senior, winding up the subject somewhat abruptly, it 
 having possibly occurred to him that I am about the last person 
 
 N 2
 
 180 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 likely to be able to forward his views as to bis son's career in this 
 particular line. 
 
 The lad is evidently favourable to any scheme not involving an 
 examination. He seems to be scanning me furtively, as though 
 suspicious of my being an Examiner, in disguise, ready to tackle 
 him with a poser at a moment's notice. On being introduced to 
 me, formally, he shakes hands, as though he had not forgotten the 
 time when he used to hold out his palm for the cane, and, after 
 withdrawing it as rapidly as possible, he stands swaying about, 
 scrutinising the carpet, as if to discover some means of slipping 
 suddenly through a hole in the pattern, and so escaping all chance 
 of being tackled with posers. Mrs. Breslin comes to our relief. 
 She apologises for being so late, and wonders if Papa is aware of 
 the second bell having been rung. 
 
 At this moment Papa himself — Mosthyn Dickie — enters in a 
 fuss and a flurry. 
 
 " They never told me," (he stands at the door declaring indig- 
 nantly) — " they never told me. Not a soul ever came to tell me. 
 My dear fellow " (this to Mr. Denson, but addressed to us all as we 
 stand in a semicircle), " I keep a houseful of servants, and not one 
 of them can come and tell me that the dinner is ready ! " Then 
 he adds, despairingly, "I don't know what to do! They're all 
 ;ilike ! " And, as usual, he throws up his hands, as if life were no 
 longer worth living, and that, all things considered, the best thing 
 to be done is to go to bed and have no dinner. 
 
 Mrs. Breslin reminds him that the bells rang as usual ; but as 
 he replies to this that he didn't hear them as usual, no one ventures 
 to make any further observation. 
 
 The waiting staff consists of a butler and two servants. The 
 table is arranged perfectly. But, somehow or another, with 
 Mosthyn Dickie nothing is right. 
 
 After grace he criticises the memi. That's all wrong. 
 
 " I told that stupid woman " — he is speaking of the cook — " I 
 told her not to give us a fricandeau, and she does! I don't know 
 what to do. I can't get what I want ! Ah, well, well ! " and he 
 tucks his napkin under his chin and takes a spoonful of soup, then 
 pauses, looks round the table, and asks Mr. McAnister if he doesn't 
 taste anything curious about the soup 1
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 181 
 
 "No," Mr. McAllister just finds time to gasp, as he is working 
 hard with his spoon. If there is anything seriously wrong with the 
 soup, it's too late for Mr. McAnister now ; his doom is sealed. 
 
 We all pronounce it excellent. Upon which Mosthyn Dickie — 
 who is really highly pleased with our verdict, and who would back 
 his Cook against any in England — assumes an air of astonishment 
 and pity, and says, " Well, I don't know. I hope it's all right. 
 But sometimes it's too hot, and sometimes it's too cold ; and one 
 evening it's flavoured with this, and then with that — I can never 
 depend on her. That's where it is," he concludes, with sad and 
 solemn emphasis ; "I can never depend on her." With which 
 melancholy confession he sets himself steadily to his soup, with the 
 air of a man nobly determined to fulfil an unpleasant duty ; and 
 drain the cup of misery, so to speak, to the last dreg, — which in 
 fact he does, not leaving a drop in the plate, which he pushes 
 violently away from him, with an air of almost utter abhorrence of 
 the thing before him, and giving vent to an "Ah !" expressive of 
 the deepest disgust, he drinks off a glass of sherry in a twinkling, 
 as though to take a nasty taste out of his mouth as soon as 
 possible, throws himself back in his chair, and looks round in a 
 defiant manner, as though saying, "Come what come may, I'm 
 ready for it, whatever it is ! "
 
 182 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AT MOSTHYN DICKIE'S — AFTER DINNER HIS DIFFICULTIES DENSON, 
 
 JUNIOR— A HAPPY FATHER — THE REAL FACTS — CONCLUSION FOR 
 THE PRESENT. 
 
 AFTER dinner the 
 conversation turns on 
 the advantages of 
 the Country over Town. 
 Everyone congratulates 
 Mosthyn Dickie on his 
 being in the Country, which 
 is questionable as a compli- 
 ment, as his visitors reside 
 in Town. 
 
 Mr. Denson — whose son 
 occupies himself in demo- 
 lishing the dessert in a 
 quiet, but determined man- 
 ner — observes — 
 
 " Well, you must find 
 great benefit from your 
 farm 1 " 
 
 " My farm ! " exclaims 
 Mosthyn Dickie, throwing 
 up his hands, as if in utter astonishment at the existence of any 
 person capable of venturing such a remark, "My farm ! Why, my 
 dear fellow, I get nothing from it — absolutely nothing I " 
 
 Not knowing much about agricultural matters generally, but 
 being always ready to learn, I inquire, in a comparatively off-hand 
 manner — 
 
 " But you keep cows, don't you 1 " 
 
 After saying cows, it occurs to me that I ought to have said 
 " bullocks." Before I can move an amendment, that the words, 
 " and bullocks" be inserted, Mosthyn Dickie retorts —
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 183 
 
 " Well, my dear fellow, and what am I to get from cows % " 
 I consider. To reply, " Milk," seems absurd ; and yet, what is 
 he to get from cows, if not milk 1 It can't be eggs ; and it 
 certainly isn't mutton. There's cream ; but he must have the 
 milk first. 
 
 Everyone is silent. Mosthyn Dickie has clearly put a poser. 
 "What is he to get from cows?" Nobody seems to know. 
 Or if everybody knows, no one likes to make the evident 
 answer, "Milk." 
 
 Young Denson, Junior, who has just emptied a dish of almonds 
 and raisins, says, sullenly, " Calves ! " 
 
 His father stares at him, much as Balaam must have stared at 
 his donkey when it gave him a bit of its mind ; then he looks 
 round with a supremely proud smile, as much as to say, " There's 
 a boy ! Ain't he wonderful ! He'll get on — he will ! Only give 
 him a chance ! " 
 
 " Well," returns Mosthyn Dickie, as though not quite prepared 
 to admit the entire truth of the proposition. " Well — yes — calves. 
 And how many calves 1 " 
 
 "Depends on the cows," says Denson Junior, taking a large bite 
 out of an apple. 
 
 His father is immensely delighted with his boy. What a career 
 is not before him ? What obstacle is there that Denson Junior 
 will not overcome ? It is of such stuff as this that Chancellors are 
 made, for Chancellors have been boys once, eaten almonds, raisins, 
 and apples, and been none the worse for it — intellectually. 
 
 Mosthyn Dickie surveys the youth through his spectacles. He 
 is pleased — evidently pleased. 
 
 "He's right," be says, turning to Denson, (who is immensely 
 gratified, and at once assumes such an air of superiority as is 
 intended to convey that "This is the style of son I bring up — it's 
 all my doing — I'm his clever father — his good, kind, clever father, 
 Gentlemen ! ") — " He's right," says Mosthyn Dickie—" there are 
 calves— lots of 'em. But do I ever sec any veal? No. Not a 
 ha'porth ! I have to buy my veal. Do I get anything by my 
 calves ? Not a penny ! " 
 
 " But you sell them ?" I suggest. 
 
 "Sell them ! No, they sell me !" he retorts. Whereat we all
 
 184 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 laugh except the boy Denson, who is now hard at work sucking 
 viciously at an orange. Evidently, whatever young Denson goes 
 in for, he gives all his mind to. All his mind is now in the 
 orange. 
 
 A shade passes over his father's countenance. In his system of 
 education he has forgotten to instruct his son when to laugh, with 
 whom to laugh, and at whom to laugh. If Denson Senior could 
 kick Denson Junior under the table, I fancy, from Denson Senior's 
 expression of countenance, he would do it now — with a will. 
 
 When we have all recovered, Mosthyn Dickie continues, 
 
 "My good Sir" — this to us all collectively, as one man — "I 
 have about fifty cows, and I never get any cream, except what I 
 buy, and then I pay more than any one else for it — and I never 
 get any milk. Somebody buys it and allows me for it — that's 
 what I'm told — but what I'm allowed for it I'm hanged if I know. 
 They tell me my butcher ' allows me ' for the calves. All I can 
 see is that he 'allows me ' to sell them to him for something less 
 than he'd get 'em elsewhere." 
 
 " But how about chickens V I ask, having a vague idea on the 
 subject of poultry generally. 
 
 My knowledge is limited to the outside of a shilling- 
 book entitled How to Make Poultry Pay. Personally I 
 can't conceive poultry paying anything, unless they are a 
 very wealthy sort like Guinea Fowls. But this suggestion would 
 be levity. 
 
 " Chickens !" replies Mosthyn Dickie, smiling with quiet con- 
 tempt at the very idea. " Chickens ! I never see a chicken. 
 Never. I've about a hundred and fifty, and / never get any eggs. 
 When I want a fresh egg I have to buy it, and each egg in the 
 country costs me double what it used to in town. Why," he con- 
 tinues, " I never get a spring chicken till nearly Michaelmas day. 
 That's not spring, eh 1 " 
 
 No, he is right, Michaelmas is not spring, and it is the time for 
 geese — not chickens. But I remark at all events in the matter of 
 vegetables the country does offer advantages — ■ — ■ 
 
 He interrupts me at once. " What advantages ? " 
 
 Well, on the spur of the moment, I don't know. But say 
 " growing them and getting them fresh."
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 185 
 
 He shakes his head vehemently. Clearly I know nothing 
 about it. Why of all the deceptive things in the country, growing- 
 fresh vegetables is about the most deceptive. 
 
 " You can't," he says, " rely on vegetables." 
 
 Soil, seasons, frost, blight, insects, birds, — in fact, everything 
 animate or inanimate is against the entire vegetable tribe. 
 I am staggered. If this is so, then a potato is a priceless 
 gem, and its successful growth almost a miracle. Clearly 
 " there is more in Heaven (birds, storms, frost, &c), and earth 
 (slugs, insects, and soil), Horatio, than is dreamt of in my 
 (Cockney) philosophy. 
 
 But I remonstrate. " You do grow them, and you don't get 
 them second-hand." It strikes me I never have heard of a second- 
 hand cabbage, for example. 
 
 " 1 do grow them," he says ; " but I can't get the gardener to 
 give them me when I want them. My potatoes are all old before 
 they're new. And as to cucumbers — it takes him half a year to 
 grow one ; and when all the asparagus is finished in London, tht >.n 
 my gardener triumphantly produces a bundle as a treat." 
 
 This does not sound encouraging. 
 
 But getting Mosthyn Dickie alone and walking round his 
 farm and about his grounds, and splendid wall-fruit and kitchen 
 garden, where everything is admirably kept — " I don't want 
 'em kept," he says, "I want 'em for use," — and then I hear 
 • jiiite another tale. Offer him so much down to leave the place, 
 with another ready to go into. Would he accept ? Not he. 
 Offer any one of his servants from the bailiff downwards, double 
 the wages to enter somebody else's service, would they accept I 
 .\<»t they. 
 
 I see baskets of eggs in the house, pans of cream in the dairy, 
 •sheep, cows, bullocks, enough to provide a garrison for six months. 
 Mosthyn Dickie has his grumble — he thinks it does good ; in fact, 
 I believe that he -the kindest and most generous of masters— 
 absolutely fancies himself a martinet who has his eye everywhere, 
 and knows, to the fraction of a wine-glass or an egg, what goes on 
 in the house or out of it. 
 
 But his plan with his employes is really Dr. Arnold's Rugby 
 system with the Sixth Form. They are all on their honour, as it
 
 186 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 were. They have an excellent employer, and the youngest servant 
 in the place has been with Mosthyn Dickie at least ten years. But 
 Mosthyn Dickie was born to protest against everything. Fate had 
 called him Mosthyn Dickie, when he ought to have been Dicky 
 Mosthyn — and there's an end of it. 
 
 It is the very perfection of a house to stop at — and this being 
 the case — 
 
 Happy Thought. — Stop here for the present — and so winter 
 having, I hope, passed away, I conclude this series of Friends at a 
 Distance.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 II. SCOTLAND.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 II. SCOTLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SUMMARY — J0URXEY — MOBXIXG — OBSEEYATIOXS— BBEAKFAST BILL 
 
 OF FABE STEAWBEEBIES AXD CREAM HERCULES SCOTCH 
 
 FARMER LUNCH THREE COURSES — DIFFICULTIES— DYSPEBTK i 
 
 — LAWN TENNIS. 
 
 UMMARY at 
 
 Journey — (which 
 
 is the only thine: 
 
 Summery about 
 
 it just now). — 
 
 "Stands Scotland 
 
 where it did ? '" 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 Take the Midland 
 
 _J Train from St. 
 
 : Pancras at 10.30 
 
 a.m., and you']] 
 
 __'-=: find it, without 
 
 ; a change. 
 
 First Morn in;/. 
 ~lfsL_ Lovely. Bracing 
 air. View of 
 [ islands, moun- 
 tains, rivers, and 
 ^f-s> Ben Somebody— 
 not Disraeli — in 
 the distance. The "Ben" something we're looking at in the 
 distance is a Big Ben with a vengeance.
 
 190 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Breakfast. Scotland is celebrated for its breakfasts. What 
 will I have 1 Loch Fine haddocks, very fine haddocks, or Ayr 
 trout, or Clyde salmon, or cold beef, or ham, or eggs poached, or 
 ham and eggs, or eggs boiled, or bacon, or duck, or chicken curry, 
 or broiled chicken, or some tongue, or some braised something, or 
 kijjaree 1 — and, of course, tea or coffee with plenty of cream, and 
 shortbread cakes (hot), or rolls, or buttered toast, or toast unb ut- 
 tered, or bread-and-butter cut ready to save trouble, or some 
 peculiar Scotch cakes, and some jam or marmalade, and, to finish 
 with, just some fine fresh strawberries and cream. 
 
 My breath is almost taken away by the embarras des richesses 
 It will be taken away entirely, if I only accept an eighth of the 
 offers. Allow me to consider. Let me first observe to everyone 
 that it is a lovely morning, and, as an apology for what I am 
 about to receive, so appetising. Everyone agrees with me. I 
 only hope every thing will agree with me as well as everybody. 
 Coffee with hot milk and the thickest cream ? Yes, please. Had- 
 dock, to begin with 1 Well — yes. And salmon broiled as the 
 lever du rideau. To be followed by the comedy of Broiled Chicken, 
 in three Acts. Act I., with an egg. Act II., without an egg. 
 Act III., with a little curry, and a quotation Curve/ cur re ! 
 During the entr'actes, the toast-and-butter band will perform — 
 (and what will the waistband be doing ?) — and the whole to con- 
 clude with the laughable farce of Strawberries and Cream. That's 
 my programme, or bill of fare. 
 
 What cream, what strawberries ! Delicious, luscious, enormous, 
 Scottish Qiieens. They're too big to be Skittish Queens. I had 
 I confess no idea they were so enormous, until I had smashed 
 them up, and got through half a plateful. I have undertaken a 
 herculean task. 
 
 One of the Seven Labours of Hercules should have been to have 
 eaten strawberries and cream. It is an expansive dish. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Must go in for lawn-tennis, or rather, must 
 go out for lawn-tennis. 
 
 The game of lawn-tennis is a first-rate training for anyone going 
 in for strawberries and cream. 
 
 Walk about. Have another look at Ben Lomond, or, as he 
 keeps himself at a distance, and I am a stranger, it would be more
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 191 
 
 respectful of me to speak of him as Benjamin Lomond. We look 
 at castles in the distance — Castles in Ayr. Discuss the prospect 
 of fine or wet weather. Talk to a Scotch farmer over the hedge. 
 It is one thing to talk to a Scotch farmer over a hedge, and quite 
 another for a Scotch farmer to talk to me. This reminds me of 
 the riddle, " What's most like a cat looking out of window 1 " and 
 so forth. I can't understand a word of what the Scotch farmer 
 says to me, except when he says " What for no 1 " which seems to 
 conclude his argument, whatever it may have been, to which I 
 reply politely, by saying, " Yes, quite so," and then I wish him 
 good morning. 
 
 On our return from the summer-house, we again look at Ben- 
 jamin Lomond, and discuss the weather and the crops. 
 
 The morning has passed very quickly. 
 
 Luncheon. — What will I have? — beef, ham, chicken, tongue, 
 mayonnaise, lobster cutlets, pigeon-pie, salmi of duck, salad, gi-een 
 peas, French beans? — and, to follow, shall it be strawberry and 
 currant tart, or currant fool with cream, or jelly with cream, or 
 tipsy cake with cream, or champagne cup, or claret cup, or hock, 
 and, to finish with, just a few strawberries and cream, some Scotch 
 cake, and a glass or two of sherry 
 
 I have three courses before me. More. Can I venture on 
 strawberries and cream just to finish with ? Yes. My host says 
 it's only at first you feel the effect a bit when you're not accus- 
 tomed to it. 
 
 Courage ! Screw my courage to the sticking point. No doubt 
 about the strawberries and cream being the sticking point. But 
 shall I blench before strawberries and cream ? No ! — but I shall 
 afterwards — probably. No matter. Nothing like dash when in 
 action ! C'est magnijique ! Mais ce n'est pas la guerre. A propos 
 of " dash," perhaps just a dash of liqueur might — eh ? 
 
 Another five minutes, and only an empty plate is before me. 
 llegrets are vain. One cannot undo the past, but one can un- 
 buckle one's waistband. 
 
 " Oh, horror ! " as the librettist of an Italian Opera expresses it 
 — " unhappy one !".... 
 
 For the first time I ascertain that the fool of a tailor has 
 neglected his duty, and has omitted the waistband. The climate,
 
 192 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 here is very bracing, but I want unbracing. I can only " let out " 
 at the tailor. 
 
 I wish I hadn't taken that last big strawberry — the tria-juneta- 
 in-iino one. 
 
 Mem. — It's the last straw-berry that breaks the camel's back. 
 I must bask in the sunshine with a pipe. No lawn-tennis at pre- 
 sent, thank you. Presently I'll cut in. " Never again with you 
 my Scottish Queen ! " I mentally vow to the strawberries and 
 cream. Then I add, "At all events, not for some time." Feeling 
 that this is rash, I reduce it to a determination not to take so 
 many twice in one day : a few, and then without cream. I am 
 already suffering from a sort of nightmare in the daytime, in a 
 waking sleep. 
 
 It is my turn to play at lawn-tennis. 
 
 " Now, then ! " shouts my partner, " you must run ; as we've 
 got to play the winners." 
 
 Have we 1 As far as I'm concerned I shall not disturb their 
 proud position. Fortunately, our lawn-tennis firm — our side I 
 mean — consists of an active and a sleeping partner. The latter 
 myself. 
 
 At Laivn-Tennis. — The game is a series of surprises — chiefly to 
 myself. My first uncertainty is to whether I shall hit over the 
 net or not. If I do send it over the net, the next uncertainty is 
 to whether it will fall into the right court. I serve. Ich dim. 
 Bless the Prince of Wales. 
 
 Surprise the first. — It is over the net. 
 
 I feel that I have done my duty, and finished for the day. 
 This excitement is not shared by partnei', or the opposition firm. 
 
 Surmise the second. — Return of the ball. I hit at it wildly. 
 
 Surprise the third. — I have hit it. 
 
 Still greater Surjirise. — Evei'yone cries out "Bravo! Fine 
 stroke ! " I smile knowingly, and feel inclined to bow in polite 
 acknowledgment. I suppose I've scored something, but no one 
 makes any remark on the subject ; and while I am thinking 
 whether I shall run the risk of exposing my utter ignorance of 
 the game by asking anything about it, the ball is flying about.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 193 
 
 1 didn't even know we had begun again. I make a dash at 
 it 
 
 Surprise again. — Hit it, and up it goes over a tree — miles 
 away, apparently, — perhaps to Benjamin Lomond. Ironical cheers. 
 I explain that " I hadn't an idea I'd hit it so hard," and I examine 
 the racket, as though the fault, somehow or other, was in that. 
 
 " The other side ! ; ' says my partner ; and I find that we have 
 got into a fresh game, or that I've wandered out of my court. 
 Ought I to stop al ways in one court ? Will ask afterwards. I 
 wonder how the game is? Are we winning, or are they? If I 
 knew how the scoring went I should feel more interest in the 
 game. If I could only get excited about it, I could forget the 
 strawberries and cream, and run. As it is, I do not feel excited, 
 and do not forget the strawberries and cream, and I don't run. 
 
 My partner is running about, playing capitally : I, as the reserve 
 force, am waiting, as it were, to be called out. 
 
 I flourish my bat, just to keep up some excitement, and say, 
 " Well played ! " in praise of the other's performance. Except for 
 the look of the thing — by " the thing " I mean the racket in my 
 hand — I might be an impartial spectator who has stepped into 
 the court quite by accident. I am doing no good, and very 
 little harm. I am an armed neutrality, practising masterly 
 inactivity. 
 
 My partner is working away tremendously — he is gasping. I 
 wonder whether he has been hitting balls that I ought to have 
 taken 1 He has just made a splendid hit from the furthest end of 
 his coui't, and I am watching his performance with unbounded 
 admiration, when he cries to me, I think, " Now take it ! " and I 
 become aware of a ball jumping up, quite playfully, just in front 
 of me. I make for it. Too late. I only hit the ground. Ironical 
 cheers from the gallery on the lawn. Partner angry. 
 
 " You might have hit that" he says. 
 
 I explain, humbly, that I thought it was his ball. 
 
 " What do I mean by my ball ?" he wants to know, testily ; and, 
 before I can further explain my theory (which I find is peculiar 
 to myself), of each person having his own court and not interfering 
 with the other's, he cries out, "The other side! " and I find that 
 I am just in the way when he is about to serve. 
 
 o
 
 194 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 The other side, relying on my still remaining the sleeping part- 
 ner, send me what every one calls a " a nasty one." 
 
 Immense Surprise. — I take it, and return it. Great success. I 
 feel, all in a moment, that I shall never be able to do it again, 
 and devoutly hope it won't be returned. Just to give me breathing 
 time. 
 
 It is not returned. Thank goodness. I have breathing time, 
 and, so to speak, I breathe again. My partner is pleased. I 
 think we've won the game. No; it's "Deuce." Now what the 
 deuce is deuce 1 
 
 One of our opponents is called away, and a young Lady — a quiet- 
 looking young Lady — takes her place. She has to serve to me. 
 
 Now I shall have a chance. She will probably send an easy 
 one. I prepare to receive an easy one. I am in attitude (there's 
 a good deal in attitude) and she hits. I run forward. The ball 
 is not over the net. Fault. 
 
 1 am walking a few steps backwards, quite leisurely, so as to 
 replace myself, when, without any cry of " Play ! " — it's so unfair 
 not to cry " Play ! " — she has served ! 
 
 Surprise — The ball comes at me. It is no longer a ball — it is 
 an invisible something, whirring like a rifle-bullet through the air I 
 Whizz ! — I hit out vaguely and spasmodically. Roars of laughter 
 from the gallery on the lawn. Bravo ! " Eh 1 where is it ? " I 
 want to know. My next question is " Wasn't it out 1 " Not a 
 bit of it. I dread the time when I shall have to stand up again 
 before that young Lady. It is some comfort to be told afterwards 
 that she is one of the best players in the county. 
 
 Wishing to be deeply interested in the game I ask what the 
 score is, when my partner replies, " Vantage to us." I say " Oh 
 indeed ! " and haven't an idea what he means. I shall find out. 
 But why on earth can't this sort of game be scored simply like 
 "fives"? Why can't the game be fifteen, the players who are 
 " in " to score, their opponents tryiug to put them out, and no 
 " fault " to be allowed to the " game ball 1 " I am meditating on 
 this, when my partner shouts out something, — the ball arrives at 
 my toes. I make some extraordinary gymnastic effort, and hit 
 my chin with my bat. How, I don't know. It came up like a 
 spoon.
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 195 
 
 Happy Tluought. — New name for novel, Cometh up like a Simoon. 
 To be followed by Goeth down like a Strawberry. 
 
 " You thought you were taking some more strawberries and 
 cream," observes my partner, sarcastically. " We have lost the 
 game. More than that, we have lost the set." 
 
 Last Surprise. — The set ! We've played a set ! Don't like to 
 ask " How many go to a set 1" I fancy 1 hear someone say that our 
 opponents won five games out of six. Which did we win 1 The 
 first, I think. 
 
 Hostess politely asks me if I will play again. With a great 
 show of self-denial, I say. " Oh no, let somebody else take my 
 place." Offer accepted at once. 
 
 " Now," I hear some one remark, " we shall have a good game." 
 
 1 light a cigar, and join the gallery on the lawn. 
 
 
 o 2
 
 11)6 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SECOND DAY — MORE CREAM CAKES — PROVERBIAL — SHORTBREAD 
 
 NAMES LUNCH PARTY TENNIS — LIFE — LIVING — SLEEPING 
 
 BOOK THIRD DAY A CHANGE — CARE MACDUFF TWO EMI- 
 NENT INDIVIDUALS— WEATHER SIGNS REMARKABLE FORECASTS 
 
 FRIENDS POINTS OF INTEREST — REPETITION BEN AND ROBBIE 
 
 — HEARTHSTONE — VIEWS — NIGHT. 
 
 REAKFAST as 
 before. Luncheon 
 as before. More straw- 
 berries and more 
 cream. Also cakes. 
 I forgot that this is 
 the Land of Cakes. I 
 shall not forget it 
 again in a hurry. In 
 fact, there's no chance 
 of being in a hurry, 
 after the cakes and 
 the shortbread. Why 
 "short-bread?" Be- 
 cause it what they 
 call " eats short " — 
 but lasts long. How- 
 ever, it is short and 
 sweet — shortbread 
 and sweetbread all in 
 
 one. Somehow Shortbread sounds like an upholsterer's firm. No ; 
 
 that's Shoolbred. 
 
 We commence the day with a walk to the summer-house, to see 
 
 if Ben Lomond hasn't disappeared during the night ; and on our 
 
 return we say, " There's Burrrns's Monument." This is a sort of 
 
 religious duty. After this we can play till lunch. 
 
 At lunch a party. After lunch it increases, like many other
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 197 
 
 parties do after lunch. I feel inclined to "join the Gallery," and 
 watch the lawn-tennis. 
 
 Too many strawberries and cream spoil the tennis-player. 
 
 Excellent exercise. Difficult to watch. Difficult to score. At 
 present I am bothered by " deuce " and " vantage." 
 
 Watching first-rate players is a cause of great comfort to me. 
 They miss. They sky the balls over trees. They hit their chins. 
 They fail to send 'em always over the net. In fact, the better the 
 play the less the hitting, the quicker the scoring, and the shorter 
 the game. 
 
 The best players get themselves into very absurd attitudes. As 
 one of the Gallery, I am immensely amused. I find I know just 
 enough of the game to be a critic. I see clearly what everyone 
 ought to have done. 
 
 Having played once, I say to myself, " He played no more that 
 day " — which is a quotation adapted ; and I think that half-an- 
 hour's meditation on a sofa, or in an easy-chair, with a book, and 
 one's eyes shut, would refresh me considerably before dinner. " Do 
 so, Barkins." I do so. 
 
 At dinner, more cream with fruit tart. 
 
 After dinner, more strawberries and cream. Last night of 
 strawberries and cream. Feel a little heavy. "There was the 
 weight that pulled me down, Cromwell." Also quotation. 
 After a course of strawberries and cream, I shan't be much "pulled 
 down," Cromwell ! By the way, did Shakspeare think that 
 Cromwell was an Irishman, when he made Wolscy address him as 
 " Cromwell " ! {Note for Shakspearian Society.) 
 
 After a short game of billiards, I retire to my room. 
 
 Take up a book — Is Life worth Living ? by Mallock. That is 
 tin' question — "Is life worth living?" Interesting subject. In 
 the middle of the first chapter, 1 think I certainly won't eat any 
 more strawberries and cream. Every additional spoonful of straw- 
 berries and cream weakens the power of resistance in the will. 
 No : strengthens it, I should imagine, tor, after a while, there's no 
 more will -it must result in a most determined "won't." 
 
 The " Positivist School " wish to show that Life possesses an 
 intrinsic happiness which makes it worth living for its own sake. 
 
 Hum ! — let me see. Tremendous breakfast in the morning, pipe
 
 198 QUITE AT ROME. 
 
 at the right time, lawn-tennis, driving, riding, strolling, great 
 garden always open, shooting, luncheon, lawn-tennis, &c, da capo 
 —dinner, champagne, claret au choix — billiards, music, toddy, lied 
 . . . " Is life worth living 1 " 
 
 Happy Thought. — "Is Life worth Living "depends on the Liver. 
 Sum this up, and suggest it to Mr. Mallock with my compliments. 
 
 " Is Life worth Living ?" I don't know. I'll go to bed. 
 
 I read Mr. Mai lock's admirable work in bed — that is, four pages 
 of it. I begin to meditate on some of his problems. Don't think 
 much of Professor Huxley. He shuts his eyes to facts. . . . So 
 will 1 . . . . 
 
 Is Sleep worth sleeping? Yes. 
 
 Third Bay. — Morning. No strawberries and cream, thank you. 
 Shortbread? No, thank you, not this morning, Baker. Will I 
 stroll out and — " See Ben Lomond and Burrrn's Monument" ? 
 
 Yes, with a pipe. Not a bag-pipe, but a 'baccy-pipe — a baggy- 
 pipe. Scotch joke, registered. " Lay on, Macduff," which was a 
 good tip of Macbeth's, as Macduff beat him, and anyone laying on 
 Macduff would have won. But to our stroll. 
 
 I am in the country of two celebrated individuals, Bobbie 
 Burns — pronounced " Burrrns "— - and Ben Lomond. I am per- 
 petually being reminded of Burns, and somebody is always pointing 
 out Ben Lomond. When we can't see Ben Lomond, we are con- 
 tented with a view of Burrrns's Monument, at ten or fifteen miles' 
 distance. AVhen it is too hazy to see either, we guess at the spot 
 where each ivould be if we could see it. 
 
 In the morning. Examine glass. Glass going up, but rain 
 coming down. Weather forecasts in this country appear to be, if 
 rainy in the morning it's safe to clear up afterwards ; but when 
 " afterwards" may be is a trifle vague. 
 
 Weather signs, as far as I can gather from natives, are peculiar. 
 When you see a fly lying down in a dusty road, it's a sure sign of 
 rain. A dog barking all night is another sure sign. When a cock 
 crows in the daytime, it will rain before night. When you hear a 
 clock strike ten very clearly, it's a sure sign of rain. When you 
 can't see Ben Lomond fifty miles off, it's rain to a certainty. 
 When you can see it most distinctly, there's no doubt about it
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 199 
 
 eoing to be bad weather. When there's a mist about Burrrn's 
 Monument, it's sure to be going to rain. When the cows get up, 
 and stand about in a field, it's an infallible sure sign of rain : also 
 when they lie down under a tree. The appearance of midges and 
 flies in numbers, betoken a change in the weather for the worse ; 
 if the midges bite and the flies sting so as to drive everyone wild, 
 it will rain before morning to a dead certainty : and the only 
 promise of fine weather is when it's pouring, or when it's thundering 
 and lightning, or when there's a drizzle, or a dense mist. Undei 
 these last conditions the glass rises, and everyone is hopeful. But 
 when the weather is fine, and the sun shining, then we all go 
 about examining the weathercocks, looking at Burns's Monument, 
 and shaking our heads at Benjamin Lomond in a nervous, anxious 
 manner ; for when it is a downpour we know the worst, and hope 
 for the best, but when we get the best, we know that any change 
 must be for the worse. 
 
 After breakfast my host suggests walking up to the summer- 
 house. By all means. He takes glasses with him, as if we were 
 going to the races. When at the summer-house, he adjusts the 
 glasses, and scrutinises the details of the country as carefully as 
 though trying to detect unfriendly Zulus concealed behind the hay- 
 cocks in the mealy-cloverfields. I watch him anxiously. He is 
 looking about for somebody or something. I am silent. Presently 
 he smiles with joy. "There he is!" he cries. "You can see 
 him ! " And he hands the glass to me. 
 " See whom 1 " I ask. 
 
 " Ben Lomond," is the answer. " There he is ! " And he directs 
 my sight towards the spot. 
 
 Yes, thei-e is Ben Lomond — a " Big Ben " of Scotland. I 
 shouldn't have picked him out as a celebrity at this distance, if he 
 hadn't been pointed out to me. \Happy Thought. Good subject 
 for a " Celebrities at Home " paper — " Ben Lomond chez lui."] 
 
 " Can't see him very clearly to-day," says my host, with a tinge 
 of melancholy in his voice, as though he were afraid that Ben 
 Lomond had got tired of Scotland, and had left the place quietly 
 during the night. " 'Fraid there's going to be a change in the 
 weather ! " 
 
 1 return him the glasses, and he has another look at Ben
 
 200 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Lomond, to ascertain if he really is there. He is. He hasn't 
 gone away. 
 
 Then, with an attempt at getting up some fictitious excitement 
 iu Ben, I ask for the glasses again, as I want to have another look 
 at him. 
 
 This pleases my host, I am sure, who is fond of Ben, as a sort of 
 pet to be shown to guests. 
 
 " He looks well," I remark. 
 
 "Yes, he does," says my host, much gratified, as if the thriving 
 condition of Ben Lomond was due to his peculiar system of feeding 
 him. 
 
 " What's his height 1 " I ask, in a tone implying the deepest 
 interest in Ben, as one might express for a tall lad who was out- 
 growing his strength. 
 
 My host is a little hurt by the question, for it turns out that 
 Ben Lomond — his Ben — is not by any means the tallest in Scot- 
 land, there being at least three other Bens above him. However, 
 Ben turns out to be about three thousand two hundred feet, and, 
 as I am as pleased with this estimate as I should have been had I 
 heard he was twenty thousand, the smile returns to my host's 
 countenance, and he takes another look at Ben through the glasses 
 with an anxious expression, as if he were making quite sure that 
 he had not done Ben an injustice by understating his height — • 
 perhaps leaving out one of his numerous feet. 
 
 " No," he murmurs, more to himself than to me, as he lowers 
 the glass — "that's it. Yes; he's about three thousand two 
 hundred feet." He says this in a decided tone, as the result of 
 his having just measured him with his eye, and he returns the 
 glasses to their case. 
 
 We go back to the house. On the terrace he points out a spire 
 in the distance, visible to the naked eye — Burrrns's Monument. 
 We see it too clearly. Sign of rain. 
 
 Luncheon. — Several guests. Elderly Gentleman asks me if I've 
 been in these parts before % No, never. 
 
 We walk out together afterwards, — that is, the Elderly Gentle- 
 man and myself. He takes me apart, and, as if he were going to 
 tell me a secret. We light a cigar, and walk up the plantation.
 
 FKIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 201 
 
 He is evidently bursting to impart some confidence to me. Per- 
 haps a scandal about our neighbours. I do not notice that we 
 have entered on the path that leads to the summer-house. He has 
 been asking me all the way along whether I know this person and 
 that person. Evidently a scandalous story coming, which will be 
 most amusing. 
 
 We stop at the summer-house. 
 
 He takes my arm. His manner becomes most confidential. I 
 didn't catch his name when he was introduced, but I have a vague 
 idea that his name was something like Hearthstone ; but I do not 
 risk it. I don't address him as Hearthstone ; I only think of him 
 as Hearthstone. Being a Scotchman, of course he is The Hearth- 
 stone of Hearthstone, and none other genuine. 
 
 Hearthstone of Hearthstone takes my arm and draws me to the 
 side of the summer-house. He's going to tell me — I feel sure of it 
 — of some awful crime committed on this spot, — a legend, with a 
 scandal and a ghost in it. 
 
 "Yes," he begins, slowly, and I am all attention — "where we 
 are standing " 
 
 •• Yes," 1 say, encouragingly, catching his tone. 
 
 "Where we are standing," he continues, "you can just see — 
 between those two trees right in front of us " 
 
 " Yes," I reply, nodding my head at the trees just a few feet 
 from us, which probably mark the spot where some dreadful deed 
 was committed. 
 
 " Well — between those trees," he goes on deliberately, and now 
 raising his right hand, slowly, and shading his eyes, and once more 
 I am all attention — "yes — between those two trees — straight 
 before you " 
 
 " Y.-S " 
 
 " Well— that's Ben Lomond!" 
 
 I ferl as it' I had been awfully sold. 1 look at him, to sec if he 
 is in earnest. He is — terribly in earnest. 
 
 Not liking to hurt his feelings, I say, " Yes, I see it." Then L 
 add. presently, " I saw it this morning." 
 
 "Ah!" he says, not a bit chagrined or disappointed. "Of 
 course Allison showed it you." 
 
 " Yes, he did."
 
 202 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 We return. Hearthstone of Hearthstone leads the conversation 
 on to various topics, chiefly sporting, and all interesting as 
 novelties. Before reaching the house he stops, as though he were 
 a pointer on the track, and, after a brief pause, observes in rather 
 a subdued tone, as though uncertain as to how I am going to take 
 the remark. 
 
 " You can see Burrrns's Monument from here. There it is." 
 
 I reply, "Yes, there it is." 
 
 "Ah !" he returns, quite cheerfully, "Allison will have showed 
 it you this morning." 
 
 Yes ; my host did show it me this morning. 
 
 Hearthstone of Hearthstone is satisfied. Dinner. We are all 
 satisfied. 
 
 We stroll out. 
 
 A lovely night when the stars shine bright, and the moon sheds 
 her light, &c, &c, when, in fact, everything is conducive to poetry, 
 specially a good digestion as a basis, and I am standing on the 
 terrace — as we all are — smoking. 
 
 The others are chatting, and I am silent. I am thinking 
 of the starry firmament, of "Is life worth living 1" of straw- 
 berries and cream, and other sublime subjects, when a voice 
 exclaims, 
 
 " By Jove ! I didn't think it was possible ! " 
 
 All are startled. What is ic? A gathering of the Clans 'I A 
 descent of the Highlanders on the Lowlanders ? An explosion of a 
 case of whi/skey 1 
 
 No. The speaker is a Johnstone of Johnstone ; and I inquire 
 anxiously what may be the matter. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," he replies. " Only — if you stand exactly here " 
 — and I move from my place, and take some pains to place myself 
 exactly there — 
 
 "Well?" I ask, expecting an Aurora borealis, or something 
 marvellous. 
 
 "Well." he goes on, extending his right arm, "by this light you 
 can just see — Ben Lomond." 
 
 " Ah ! Yes. Thank you. Very interesting." Only if I look 
 
 at Ben again, I'm But no matter. 
 
 Carriages. Guests depart. Host sees me up to my room.
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 203 
 
 Everything comfortable. Quite. He goes to the window. The 
 blind is up. He shakes his head sadly. 
 
 " Going to rain to-morrow 1 " I ask, cheerily. 
 
 "No," he replies, "I don't think so." 
 
 Then why shake his head so despondently ? Well, he had told 
 them to give me another room — not this. 
 
 "Anything the matter with this ?" I inquire. 
 
 "Oh, no, it's all right," he returns. "Only" — he adds, regret- 
 fully — "you can't see Ben Lomond from the window. Good 
 night." And he retires. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — Then it's a bad look-out for Ben Lomond.] 
 
 I open Is Life worth Living 1 Commence reading. Knock at 
 door. " Come in ! " My host's head appears. He has quite for- 
 gotten to tell me that my window commands a splendid view of 
 Burrrns's Monument. Oh ! Much obliged to him. Good night. 
 I shall dream of Ben Lomond and the Monument.
 
 204 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 VISITS — GROUNDS BEX AGAIN THE MONUMENT DA CAPO FOR- 
 TUNES MACMILLIONAIRES MORE BEN EXTERIOR INTERIOR — • 
 
 VIEWS — LANDSCAPE GARDENING DRIVE HOME PROSPECTS 
 
 GROUSE MALLCCK'S BOOK AGAIN MORNING TAM SOUTER. 
 
 K ] 
 
 EXT morning 
 I take the 
 initiative. I point 
 out Ben Lomond 
 and Burns's Monu- 
 ment to my host. 
 I know exactly 
 where to find them, 
 and, so to speak, I 
 can put my hand 
 on them at a mo- 
 ment's notice, — that 
 is to say, from these 
 grounds ; but, away 
 from here, I am 
 always being intro- 
 duced to either 
 Ben or the monu- 
 ment, or both, as 
 something quite new which I oughtn't to miss on any account. 
 
 We pay visits, and see beautiful grounds and magnificent 
 houses. No matter where I go, people, perfect strangers, with 
 the kindliest possible intentions, take me into various parts of 
 different grounds, and, always confidentially, with a sort of implied 
 compliment that this is a treat they wouldn't trouble themselves 
 to give every visitor, they say, "Look ! from here you can see Ben 
 Lomond!" And a little while after, "There! do you see that 
 spire-looking thing in the distance?" "Yes." "Well, that's 
 Burns's Monument." 
 
 Nobody thinks much of anyone's place if it doesn't command a
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 205 
 
 view of Ben Lomond or the Monument, or both. As for the latter, 
 it is like the Crystal Palace — there is no getting out of sight of it ; 
 and unlike Ben, it almost defies the variations of haziness. 
 
 The Isle of Arran come next in the list, but as an object of 
 interest it is not, so to speak, within several miles of either Ben or 
 the Monument. 
 
 After a week of it, when anyone comes up to me mysteriously, 
 and wishes to take my arm in a confidential manner, and walk me 
 off to a distant part of the grounds, I at once, and boldly, say to him, 
 
 " Look here ! Is it anything about Ben Lomond, or Burns's 
 Monument? Because if it is, I've seen 'em both, and know all 
 about 'em." 
 
 I am becoming callous. I can't be caught even by an excited 
 stranger in a trap — I should say I can't be caught in a trap by an 
 excited stranger (I mean as we are driving in a trap) — calling out, 
 suddenly, " Oh, look ! " I never turn my head. I shake it, and 
 simply, but firmly, reply, " I know. Ben Lomond, or Burns. It 
 won't do with me." 
 
 I'm not to be taken in. Catch a weasel asleep, and show him 
 Burns's Monument ! 
 
 More luncheon and tennis-parties. The hospitality is some- 
 thing delightful. Everyone lunches and dines with everyone 
 else, and invitations are flying about right and left. As a visitor 
 I find myself quite at home. Better than merely " at home," as 
 if I were at home I shouldn't be doing this. The conversation is 
 general, and is on the turn-and- turn-about principle. Those who 
 are not playing tennis discuss those who are, and so each party 
 has its innings of play and talk. Highly instructive. 
 
 " From information I receive " I gather that no one who hasn't 
 :sixty thousand a year can live in Scotland — or, at least, in this part 
 of it. At this present moment the united fortunes of the four 
 :sets engaged in lawn-tennis amount to, as far as I can compute, 
 .about five millions. A monthly account of the residents in thiis 
 fortunate Isle might be called Maemillionaire & Magazine. 
 
 I am introduced to a young lady — Miss Ferguson, of Arkiltree. 
 
 1 mean that it sounds like " Arkiltree," though I should be, and 
 
 am, puzzled how to spell it. I notice that everybody is Somebody 
 
 <■>/ Somewhere, and that Somebody of Somewhere invariably speaks
 
 206 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 with a sort of contemptuous pity of a Somebody of Somewhere 
 Else who happens to possess the same name. You are either The 
 Somebody of Somewhere, or A Somebody of Somewhere, or, with a 
 sudden and startling drop, The Nobody of Nowhere. Additional 
 Note — that most of the names are pronounced either as if the 
 person speaking were cracking a nut and talking at the same time, 
 or trying to struggle against being choked, or suddenly inter- 
 rupted by a sneeze. 
 
 "She's a millionairess," whispers Captain Macdonald to me, 
 alluding to Miss Ferguson of Arkiltree, and accompanying the 
 information with a friendly nudge and a wink, evidently implying, 
 "Go in, and win." Neither of us can go in and win, but I thank 
 him for the hint, which was well intended. We chat. 
 
 Have I been here before 1 No, I've not. Do I play tennis ? 
 Only a little. Don't I think it very nice having this seat on a 
 bank so as to see the games going on below 1 I do. It is an 
 excellent position. It is beautiful weather for lawn-tennis, isn't 
 it 1 It is : charming. I suppose Miss Ferguson plays a great 
 deal 1 Oh, yes. She often comes over here, too. It's a nice 
 drive, and such a beautiful place. It is. 
 
 " Yes," she says, and suddenly rises. I follow her example, 
 being under the impression that she is inclined for a tete-a-tete 
 stroll in the grounds. No ; she is shading her eyes with her folded 
 fan, and is, I fancy, watching the game. 
 
 " Yes," she exclaims, " you can ! " 
 
 " What ? " I ask, looking about. 
 
 " You can see Ben Lomond from here." 
 
 Then she resumes her seat. I believe there's a conspiracy to 
 show me Ben Lomond. I ask her if Burns's Monument is visible. 
 Dangerous ground. She doesn't like my tone in alluding to 
 Burns. If I had been "going in to win," according to Captain 
 Macdonald's advice, this remark would have settled my haggis — so 
 to speak with a little local colour. 
 
 Miss Ferguson of Arkiltree takes her turn at lawn-tennis. I 
 talk to Captain Macdonald of Monteith — I think it's " Monteith " 
 — at all events, it sounds like some " teeth " or other — who 
 repudiates all connection with the Macdonalds of Drumrick — and 
 I am on a wrong ground again. However, we pull together, so to
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 207 
 
 speak, on the subject of a gentle tonic composed of one part 
 brandy to three of soda, and we enter the house. 
 
 Our hostess, at whose place we are spending the afternoon, in- 
 vites me to view the orchids. Charming ! splendid colours, and 
 fantastic, elfdike forms. They remind me of those fairy pictures 
 of Dicky Doyle's, where the little tiny atomies are riding on 
 petals, and playing hide-and-seek in the flowers. Wonderful 
 models for a transformation scene by Mr. Beverley. We pass on 
 to another house — tropical plants. Am I fond of flowers 1 Very. 
 She supposes I often visit the Botanical in London 1 Rarely : but 
 I will. The hostess learns that there is a prize for Landscape 
 Gardening. I believe there is. " It is quite an art," she adds. 
 " It was a very clever landscape-gai'dener who planned this part 
 of the grounds, and chose this spot for the Tropical House." 
 •' Excellent," I say, and am about to enlarge on the luxury of 
 being able suddenly to change, as it were, from Scotland to India 
 without taking more than a couple of steps, when she interrupts 
 me with — 
 
 " Yes, isn't it ? And so clever, too, to keep Scotland before you 
 while you sit under an Indian palm ! " 
 
 " I don't quite see how he has accomplished this," I say, 
 deferentially. 
 
 "No?" She rejoins, highly pleased, "You wouldn't at first, 
 but if you look between these two large plants which form a sort 
 of frame, you'll see — there — you see it now — that's Ben Lomond !" 
 
 And she is triumphant. I don't like to ask anything about the 
 Monument — Burrrns's, 1 mean. I subside. This Ben is becom- 
 ing to me a sort of pantomime mountain perpetually exclaiming, 
 " Here we are again ! " 
 
 Allison says he'll drive me home by a different route, through 
 some lovely scenery. I stipulate that if Ben Lomond or the 
 Monument is visible, neither shall be pointed out to me. 
 
 Agreed. I am happy. 
 
 Lovely evening drive. Promising sunset. Mist rising. 
 
 Allison is silent about Ben and the Monument, but falls back 
 on the Isle of Arran, which is just visible in the distance. 
 
 We trot on, enjoying everything in the balmy air and delicious 
 silence.
 
 208 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " Fine day to-morrow ?" I ask. 
 
 Allison shakes his head. He is uncertain. Why 1 
 
 "Well," he says, "you can see Ben Lomond so clearly to-night : 
 and, if you look " 
 
 No, no ! I'm haggis'd if I do. 
 
 I know what's coining. " If I look, I shall see Burns's Monu- 
 ment." 
 
 No, no ! Drive on, Macduff ! 
 
 Captain Macdonald of Monteith discusses with Allison of Dum- 
 fraser the grouse prospects. The latter is afraid " the birds will 
 be very wild." This seems nothing but natural. I should be 
 uncommonly wild if I were going to be shot at. As a grouse on 
 the twelfth, I should quote Mr. Toole, and say, "It does make me 
 so wild ! " 
 
 The Captain wants to know if I am " going out on the twelfth." 
 I reply, that, as at present advised, I have no intention of " staying 
 in " on the twelfth. If I do " go out," I do not think the grouse 
 will have much cause for alarm. They certainly need not be wild 
 if they only know I am coming. Allison informs us that he has 
 had some excellent accounts from the moors. 
 
 [Happy Thought (for Stock Exchange). — Better accounts from 
 Moors than from Turks. 
 
 Thoughts on Lawn Tennis by Somebody who's " not so young as he 
 was," and who is no longer a rachetty fellow. — -Forty's the deuce. 
 Fifty's the deuce and all. At forty, if it's still " 'vantage to you," 
 you're lucky — or forty-nate. At fifty the game's over. (Put these 
 down on retiring to rest, and call them, instead of Young's 
 Night Thoughts, which were very heavy, Young's Night-Light 
 Thoughts.) 
 
 Happy Thought on seeing a Young Lady forcibly return a ball 
 just over the net, before it had touched the ground — 
 
 " When lovely woman stoops to volley " 
 
 I don't know- the remainder of the quotation, but supplement it 
 with — 
 
 What can her male opponent do ]] 
 
 Before retiring to rest, take up William Hurrell Mallock's book,
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 209 
 
 Is Life worth Living ? What would the grouse answer to this on 
 the twelfth 1 Don't think much of Huxley, don't think much of 
 Dr. Tyndall .... think less and less of anybody .... sleep, 
 gentle sleep . . . . Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle .... out, 
 out, brief candle .... extinguo. 
 
 Plan for Next Day, if fine. — Look at Ben Lomond and Burns' s 
 Monument in the morning, immediately after breakfast. Ben and 
 Burns rather hazy. Evidently been out all night. We drive over 
 to see the Yeomanry shoot the Militia, or vice versd. 
 
 Part of the practice is that the Yeomen are to ride a certain 
 distance at full gallop, jump off, shoot something or somebody, 
 jump on their horses, shoot on their horses, then, in taking a fence, 
 be perhaps shot off their horses. 
 
 I see the Yeomanry riding at a tremendous pace. I get hold of 
 a military man, and ask him what they're doing. He is not quite 
 certain — in fact, at first he is unable to see if they are doing any- 
 thing until he gets his glass in his eye, when he informs me that 
 the enemy are supposed to be advancing from the right, and the 
 cavalry, he adds, are manoeuvring. The " manoeuvring " appears 
 to me to be the simple process of scudding away as fast as they 
 can lay legs to the ground, in the direction of the left, when the 
 enemy are only supposed to be advancing from the right. I don't 
 like to express my opinion, as a civilian, boldly to the military 
 man by my side, but this manoeuvring appears to me to be un- 
 commonly like practising how to run away when the enemy's 
 coming. It's what I should do myself, I've no doubt, in actual 
 warfare, but I shouldn't require any practice. Still, it's a pretty 
 si^ht, and I am informed that "the retreat is masterly." We 
 adjourn to take a tonic. There is a good deal of dust, a great 
 smell of sulphur, and a refreshment-tent, to which we make a 
 masterly retreat— treating and retreating every half-hour. I 
 believe that the day's festivities are to finish with a grand torch- 
 light procession in honour of Burns's next centenary. 
 
 There's always something going on somewhere in honour of 
 Burns. Dinners in commemoration of Burns's birthday. Break- 
 fasts with the same object. A great Cheese Show for the benefit 
 of the Burns Statue at Kilbannock. Grand Cake Contest given 
 
 p
 
 210 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 by the MacDougal trustees, the proceeds to go towards erecting a 
 
 statue of Burns on the first vacant spot. 
 
 ****** 
 
 This morning — after one strawberry and no cream (nothing like 
 diet) — Allison suddenly says, 
 
 " Would you like to " 
 
 " See Ben Lomond 1 " I at once interrupt him. 
 
 " No," he replies, " it's " 
 
 " Burns's Monument ?" I say immediately. " I'm sure it's one 
 or the other." 
 
 I'm right. It's the other. 
 
 They are going to unveil a statue to-day, and Tarn O'Shanter 
 and Souter Jolinie will be in full force. Ne Souter ultra crepidam. 
 Don't let Souter Jolinie take more than he can carry. He can 
 just tak' a wee drappie i' th' ee, but he munna be aye drarm 
 drinkin'. Yes, by all means let's go and unveil a statue. " A 
 chiel's amang ye," &c. We start — Souter Jolinie, Tarn 0' Shanter, 
 and the chiel'.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 211 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A CEREMONY UNTIMELY JEST COMMENCEMENT — CAKE AND WINE 
 
 STRUGGLES HONOUR OF BURNS BELL — FUNEREAL APOLOGIES 
 
 — SPIRIT THE TRADES GENIUS — PRIVATE CHARACTER — THE PRO- 
 CESSIONISTS — OUTLAWS — COSTUME — SOUTER TAM CEREMONIAL 
 
 READING SPEECHES MASONIC BAND INTERRUPTIONS 
 
 THE MEMBER ORATION CEREMONY CONCLUDED. 
 
 WE ARE full of 
 Burns. Burns's 
 Monument is in the 
 distance, and inside it 
 is Burns's Statue, 
 wrapped up as though 
 they were afraid of his 
 catching cold. He is 
 to be unveiled to-day. 
 Of course somebody 
 says that " he hopes 
 3c the covering will come 
 off at the first pull, so 
 that there may be no 
 un - a - vailing efforts." 
 But somebody is 
 frowned down as this 
 is no joking matter. 
 
 Everyone talks of 
 Burns. As we drive 
 along to the town we pass waggon-loads of festive people, bonnie 
 lassies, and their chields — all, so to speak, going on about Burns. 
 
 The town is crowded. There is to be a monster procession of 
 the trades, and crafts, and guilds, and societies— from Freemasons 
 to Foresters, all represented. Refreshments have already begun 
 at the hotels, public-houses, eating and drinking houses, in honour 
 of Burns.
 
 212 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 With difficulty we enter the Town-Hall. It is crowded. There 
 is open house for everybody, and everybody appears to be taking 
 advantage of it, in honour of Burns. 
 
 On the tables are cakes of all sorts and sizes, principally of the 
 sponge kind, quite new, canary yellow inside, and light brown 
 without. Fresh and filling. Everyone is talking energetically, 
 everybody is explaining everything to everybody else, and all 
 mouths are full of Burns and hunches of cake. So much cake, 
 and such huge cakes, I never saw. When a cake appears, which 
 haj)pens every five minutes, there is an immediate rush for it by 
 every one in its immediate vicinity. 
 
 At first I withdraw in order to allow the elders to "cut 
 in ; " finding, however, that I am losing by this politeness, 
 and that there is no chance of any sustenance for another 
 three or four hours, I make a gallant and dashing descent on 
 a waiter with a cake. I am a foraging party, and I intercept 
 the supplies that are going into the front room. Waiter makes 
 a faint show of resistance, but yields, and I retire with the 
 spoil, of which I have only time to take a modest slice, before it 
 has been demolished by rapacious cake-eaters. One cake, two feet 
 high, made in a jelly-mould pattern, is placed on a table by a 
 struggling w T aiter, and disappears in less than no time. It has 
 been pounced upon by Town Councillors in black coats and white 
 ties, and visitors. 
 
 Everyone has a glass of something in one hand and a slice of 
 cake in the other. The "something" is either whiskey, sherry, 
 brandy, or port — the spirits, of course, with water ; if it weren't 
 for the water, there would be Burns on every tongue with a. 
 vengeance. 
 
 The white ties and the black coats, and the cake and sherry, 
 at first suggest the notion of a funeral, without the gloves and 
 weepers. There is something funereal, too, in the idea that all 
 this festive cake-eating is "to the memory of Burns." We seem 
 to have 
 
 " Come to bury Csesar, not to praise him." 
 
 Suddenly, a deep-toned bell takes to tolling at regular intervals 
 Whether this is an accident, or a signal, I don't know, but the
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 213 
 
 effect is solemn, and more than ever suggestive of a funeral, or an 
 execution. Perhaps it means that the artist has just executed the 
 statue. 
 
 What I specially notice in all remarks about the great Robin 
 Burns is that everyone apologises for him. His genius is taken for 
 granted, and scarcely alluded to, but the shortcomings of his 
 private life seem to demand perpetual excuses. Burns undoubtedly 
 represented the spirit of the people, and the spirit of the people is 
 whiskey. 
 
 But that was in his jovial moods, when his genius was making 
 a night of it among the drinkers of the New Lights, which Robin 
 had exchanged for the Auld Lights of other clays that had not yet 
 faded. Because other folks were virtuous, were there to be no 
 more cakes and whuskey for Robin 1 
 
 The popular view of Robin Burns is inscribed, as a motto, on 
 the car of the Carpenters, or Butchers, or one of the trades. I 
 don't distinctly make out which it is — perhaps the Top Sawyers : 
 " Robin was a Rantirf RovirC RoarirC Boy ! " 
 
 When the Rantin' Rovin' Roarin' Boy was suffering from 
 the effects of to-morrow's headache, then his genius inspired 
 him with the Cotter's Saturday Night, and so balanced the 
 account. He had a sober genius, and a drunken genius, 
 and was perpetually between the two, like Garrick in the 
 well-known picture, between Tragedy and Comedy. But by 
 whichever inspired, the sober or drunken, the works are in- 
 spirations, powerfully good or powerfully bad, as it might 
 chance. 
 
 Tarn O'Shanter and Souter Johnie were a couple of drunken 
 blackguards, for whom every Scotchman has more than a sneaking 
 kindness. Their faults are to be pardoned because they drank 
 much. 
 
 To-day the statue of Burns is erected in honour of his genius, 
 and not in honour of his private character, to which any allusion, 
 in connection with this celebration, seems to me entirely out of 
 place. 
 
 Thirty thousand, and more, are here to honour Burns, the 
 exciseman, in whose memory thousands of pounds have been 
 spent, and to whom, living, an appreciative country barely afforded
 
 214 QUITE AT ROME. 
 
 a subsistence. The dead lion of Scotland is in far better condition 
 than was the living dog. 
 
 Here are the Freemasons in all their glory of aprons, and signs, 
 and tokens, and squares, and sashes, and hammers, and mallets, 
 and ribands, and jewels, and other insignia. They walk along in 
 procession, trying to look very mysterious, as though not a gallon 
 of whuskey should force their secrets from them. Here are 
 Worshipfuls, and Deputy Worshipfuls, and Masters, and Past 
 Masters, and Junior Wardens, and Senior Wardens, and Deacons 
 with trowels, and Tilers with their tiles on, and a band in full 
 blow — all in honour of Burns, who was himself a convivial crafts- 
 man. 
 
 Then there are the Carpenters, with a triumphal car, in 
 which is one of the trade at work, in honour of Burns, who wasn't 
 a carpenter. 
 
 Then come the Butchers, mounted on saddles of mutton, 
 with drawn bills in their hauds — though these ought to be 
 carried by the Bankers ; then the Firemen, with their hose 
 ready to extinguish the fire of genius, in honour of Burns, or 
 should the necessity arise, to put out the speaker in the middle of 
 his address ; then the Gardeners, in honour of Burns, with bunches 
 of the flowers of poetry, and the Printers, with a car representing 
 a press, and attended by a Printer's Devil correcting a clerical 
 error, in honour of Burns and the New Lights ; then the Foresters, 
 in russet boots, large hats, and feathers, green velvet tunics, and 
 the regular "penny plain, and twopence coloured " costume of the 
 merry days of "Bold Robin " — not Burns, but Hood — poets both, 
 by the way. Friar Tuck is out of it, but here is Maid Marian in 
 a sort of fancy Kilmarnock bonnet and a gorgeous riding-habit of 
 pink and scarlet ; and here, too, is Little John, whom I can't dis- 
 tinguish from Robin Hood ; and the popular outlaws are all doing 
 their best to keep up a gay and gallant appearance while bestriding 
 unpleasantly restive steeds, whose sudden movements cause an ex- 
 pression of brief but sharp agony on the countenances of the bold 
 outlaws, who for the first time seem to be doubtful as to whether 
 theatrical pink " fleshings " are quite the most comfortable, or 
 most durable, costume for an equestrian. If they have ridden 
 from Sherwood Forest, I pity them.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 215 
 
 Here are two low comedians, from some theatrical company, 
 dressed as Tarn O'Shanter and Souter Johnie, from whom great 
 things are expected, but who do nothing at all, and look very much 
 as if they were wishing they had confined their make-up to their 
 own statre, and had not come oat as a sort of advertisement whicli 
 won't have much effect on anyone. 
 
 We all gather about the Statue, from which the vast crowd is 
 separated by ropes and rails. 
 
 The Ceremonial commences. 
 
 Somebody reads something to the Provost, who, in return, reads 
 something to him. These proceedings are of so strictly a private 
 and confidential character, as far as the general public is concerned, 
 that the theory generally prevailing outside the mystic circle of 
 six feet in diameter, is, that the officials are reading Burns's poems 
 to one another — perhaps for a prize. Then somebody else reads 
 something else — another poem, perhaps — which is replied to. 
 Official-looking papers are handed about to flurried people, who 
 appear astonished to get them, and who, having got them, don't 
 know where to put them. 
 
 The questions, " Who's that 1 " " What's he doing 1 " " What's 
 going on now ? " are general. The Ladies up above, near the 
 Statue, smile on everybody, and try to interest themselves in the 
 proceedings by guessing at what it all means. To the majority 
 of the spectators the entertainment is a sort of open-air Dumb- 
 ( Irambo played at by the Provost, the Town Councillors, and 
 somebody on a chair. 
 
 The mysterious personage who has taken the chair, not as a 
 formal proceeding, but because he really wanted to sit down, is the 
 Member of Parliament, whom the officials on the steps are doing 
 their best to keep hidden until the proper moment, when he is to 
 be produced as a sort of coup de thedtre, which is intended to take 
 the people as much by surprise as does the ring which the conjuror 
 finds in the centre of an orange. He is the trump-card of the 
 Festival pack : his eloquence is to be like the brilliant bouquet of 
 fireworks whicli brings to a splendid climax a fete at the Crystal 
 Palace. 
 
 He is kept back not to be caught sight of by anyone but 
 the exceptionally privileged, who, on being introduced, shake
 
 216 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 hands with him, as though he were going on a long and dangerous 
 voyage, and not likely to return. This shaking hands with an 
 orator who is about to address a crowd, seems to suggest the idea 
 that we are taking leave of him because he may ramble in his 
 discourse, and wander to such an extent that we may never see 
 him again. 
 
 At the right moment the sitting M.P. rises, and is shown to the 
 people, when an energetic fugleman gives the signal for a cheer, 
 which signal other fuglemen below obey and reply to. The result 
 is a hearty cheer from at least five hundred out of the thirty 
 thousand, of whom the remainder, being still in a state of un- 
 certainty as to what's happening, think that something must have 
 gone wrong, as what they have come to see is the Unveiling of the 
 Statue, and the Statue is still covered up, as if the family were out 
 of town. 
 
 Then comes a cry in the vernacular, " Up wi' the Hippen ! " — 
 meaning, " Raise the Curtain ! " and equivalent to Hamlet's im- 
 patient exclamation to the poor player, " Leave oft' thy damnable 
 faces, and begin!" — which rather disturbs the gravity of the 
 officials, and testifies to the growing impatience of the assembly. 
 Taking the hint, they proceed to business, cutting short several 
 other persons with documents all ready, who thereupon pocket 
 them with an air of deeply offended importance. 
 
 Now silence is demanded for a prayer by the Masonic Chaplain. 
 The demand is at once complied with by the Freemasons' Band 
 mistaking the signal, and striking up a tune closely resembling 
 " He's a Jolly Good Fellow!'' 1 which, in any circumstances, can 
 scarcely be considered an entirely devotional air. 
 
 The band, having their eyes firmly fixed on their music, and 
 their lungs hard at work, are with difficulty silenced, excepting, 
 however, the big drum and cymbals, who, having got into a 
 sheltered corner under the steps, where ignorance of the whole 
 proceedings is their bliss, keep it up between them in fine 
 style, until they are absolutely collared by the infuriated con- 
 ductor, and the tune shaken out of them, when they subside 
 sulkily. 
 
 And now we are ready for the Masonic Chaplain. 
 
 He raises his hand and delivers a Masonic Prayer, in which
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 217 
 
 there are a few sly hits at Burns's private life, with an apology 
 for his weaknesses, which, considering the occasion, strikes me as 
 corning a little late, and being rather more than usual out of 
 place. 
 
 However, only about twenty people, of whom I happen to be 
 one, quite close to the Chaplain, hear what he is saying, and the 
 other twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty people, 
 about and below, are perhaps under the impression that the 
 gentleman with his hand up is trying to pull the covering off the 
 Statue. 
 
 Then the band is called upon again, and reluctantly re-com- 
 mences where it left off. Once more they're wrong. They were 
 asked for the "Old Hundredth" and they have resumed " lie's a 
 Jolly Good Fellow!" or whatever the "Masonic Anthem," of a 
 very rollicking description, might have been. But I suppose the 
 Masons know best, and doubtless they possess some authoritative 
 tradition for " Hes a Jolly Good Fellow /" having been played on 
 the opening of Solomon's Temple, with Hiram of Tyre as con- 
 ductor of the orchestra. 
 
 Then the Member of Parliament, not yet entirely visible to the 
 crowd, pulls a string, and down comes the drapery, discovering 
 not only the Statue, but somebody who had been hiding behind 
 the Statue, and who now slips down hurriedly and hurts himself. 
 Immense cheering. 
 
 Then the Provost and the officials crush themselves into as 
 small a space as possible, in order to show the Member of Parlia- 
 ment to the people below, and to get well out of reach of any 
 consequences of his oratorical energy. More cheering, led by the 
 fugleman. 
 
 Then the Member of Parliament, holding on tightly with the 
 grip of a drowning man to the stone parapet in front of him, 
 waves his right arm aloft, sways himself to and fro, and with 
 exhausting effort, pitches his voice so as to be distinctly hoard- 
 well, say within a semicircle of twenty yards to the farthest point. 
 If he has any voice left to-morrow, I'm a Dutchman. He literally 
 vibrates under the exertion, and seems actually to perspire through 
 his black frock-coat. 
 
 From those straight in front of him, and from the fugle-
 
 218 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 man's immediate followers, he receives the profoundest atten- 
 tion, but the outsiders have already begun " all the fun 
 of the fair," and the guilds and trades want to be home 
 again, and out of these festive dresses as soon as possible. 
 Actuated by this sentiment, one body of processionists, — I rather 
 fancy it's the bold outlaw, Jiobin Hood, and party, still painfully 
 anxious as to the durability of their pink fleshings, — sets the 
 example, and their band strikes up a noble march just as the 
 Member of Parliament is making one of his best points. This 
 disconcerts him only for a second or two, but the exodus has 
 commenced, and, as no set of processionists can move off except 
 accompanied by their band, the harmony of the proceedings is 
 somewhat interfered with. 
 
 The oration goes on, interesting to those who, being close at 
 hand and so jammed up that they can't get away, have nothing 
 left for it but to cheer loudly at every point which they think is 
 likely to be the finish of the speech, while those not personally 
 known to the excellent Member, or who are not directly under 
 his eye, ai*e looking about to discover the shortest, . easiest, and 
 quietest way of escape, comforting themselves for what they may 
 lose, by remembering that they'll see it all in the papers to- 
 morrow. 
 
 So we return to the hotel and fetch the trap. 
 
 Only just in time, for already the whiskey has begun to tell on 
 a great number of those, who, in drinking to Burns's memory, 
 have considerably impaired their own, 
 
 Tarn o' Shanter and Souter Johnie I see before me, — two genuine 
 successors of Tam and Johnie, with more than a wee drappie in 
 their ee — "fou," helplessly " few," but insisting on driving them- 
 selves home in a gig, but which, to begin with, they can't even 
 climb. 
 
 The landlord and his ostlers are equal to the occasion, and 
 on their third attempt to mount, which ends in their both 
 sprawling in the yard, they carry them off, swearing, protesting, 
 kicking, and struggling to fight everybody, and finally lock them 
 up in an empty old two-stalled stable, where they can lie like pigs, 
 as they are, in the dirty straw, till they recover their senses, 
 murmuring to themselves, " A mon's a nion for a' that."
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 219 
 
 The festivities will be kept up, I am informed, until a late 
 hour in honour of the Rantin' Roarin' Rovin' Boy, Robin Burns. 
 One of these celebrations is enough. " Never again wi' you, 
 Robin." 
 
 Back to Allison's and thus ends not a Nicht wi' Burns, but a 
 Day wi' him. And, in the words of the modern songster, " What 
 a day we've been having." 
 
 ^-f-
 
 220 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 GROUSE — SUMMARY — CONSOLATION PREFERENCE DRIVING — RULE 
 
 EXCEPTIONS ZULU A POINT BOGS BIRDS AIM 
 
 THOUGHTS— SIGHS DOGS — BOGS LAUGH — SADNESS — SHOOTING 
 
 HITTING DIARY TENNIS — OUT OF IT ARRIVAL. 
 
 AUGUST 12th. 
 Bravo, grouse ! 
 A day wi' Moor after 
 a nicht wi' Burns. 
 The Lowlands. 
 
 Lovely weather, 
 Tiring heather, 
 Good strong leather 
 For the nether Man ; 
 Pointing dogs, 
 Sticky bogs, 
 Fire at grouse, 
 Go in souse, 
 i ! et out how I can. 
 
 Summary of Morn- 
 ing's Performance. — 
 Walked for the first 
 hour and saw no birds. Next two hours the birds saw me. Luncheon. 
 Pigeon and steak pie : the " Consolation Steaks." End of Act I. 
 
 After luncheon. Walking, hopping over, and into, the boggy 
 peat, and re-peating the process, on the bonnie — I should say 
 boggie Scotch moor, is fatiguing. A prospect of three hours' 
 more Hop-Scotch is not encouraging. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — Ayr and exercise.] 
 
 The birds have a knack of getting up just when a bird is the 
 very last thing I'm thinking about. 
 
 I fancy I should prefer "driving," when I am informed that you 
 are put into a pit — like Joseph by his brethren, only that wasn't 
 on a grouse moor — and the birds are driven towards you. To
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 221 
 
 enjoy this entertainment I fancy 1 should prefer a seat in the pit, 
 to remaining in the bogses. You sit, quietly and happily, for half- 
 an-hour or so, then, as you see them flying towards you (so it was 
 vividly described to me), you go " bang, bang ! " and down they 
 come. 
 
 All- this I feel is an exact description of what I should do, were 
 I in the pit, from the very commencement of "sitting quietly and 
 smoking a pipe for half-an-hour ; " in fact, I follow it with all a 
 sportsman's keenness up to the "bang, bang ! " — the go-bang — in 
 which, as far as letting off the gun goes, I yield to no man living 
 — but at this point the description ceases to apply to me. The 
 denoiXment of " down they come ! " is not my climax. When I 
 "let off" the gun, I generally "let off " the birds at the same 
 time. I say generally, because there is no rule without one, or 
 two, brilliant exceptions. The grouse may think they are safe 
 with me, but they are not. I am not to be depended upon. I 
 may kill them when they least expect it. I have sometimes wept 
 over the untimely fate of confiding rabbits innocently sitting up in 
 a field, and, often, absolutely staring me full in the face, up to 
 within a second of their decease. They didn't think I was in 
 earnest, poor things ! But I was ; and I've eaten them afterwards 
 — in pies. Perhaps they thought I'd only got a hare-trigger, and 
 wasn't going in for rabbits. But when I've once tasted blood, so 
 to speak, I could shoot anything — even a landlord from behind a 
 hedge, I believe, just for practice, and about quarter-day. Yes, 
 when I've once begun, all the latent savagery of my nature comes 
 out. Also, when I've not tasted blood again, so to speak, and 
 meaning when I've missed every blessed shot, I feel as wild as the 
 birds are, and am ready for anything. I am vindictive ; I rage 
 against the birds ; I could put torpedoes in peat bogs, and make a 
 bag of some thousands in a minute. Are these the peaceful senti- 
 ments of a Christian? Yes — when he's given himself up to the 
 Moors. 
 
 [/lap])// Thought. — Anyhow " driving " must be better than 
 walking.] 
 
 Pointer points. Keeper makes mysterious signs to me, as if he 
 had caught sight of a Zulu, or other black game, in a bush.
 
 222 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 I am still stealing towards the mysterious spot, and am arranging 
 in my own mind exactly what I shall do should a covey suddenly 
 get up, when, before I have quite settled my plans, there is a 
 chuckle, a napping of wings, and away flies a bird. Bang ! — with 
 one barrel, and away he still flies. 
 
 And as he flies 
 The keeper sighs. 
 
 Wonder, to myself, why I didn't fire the other barrel immediately. 
 The other barrel doesn't seem to come so readily. If this is so, 
 next time I will begin with the other barrel. If my mind had 
 only been quite made up before that grouse appeared, he would 
 never have left this moor alive. But as it is — 
 
 The Grouse that flies 
 
 And gets away, 
 Surely dies 
 
 Another clay. 
 
 I feel that if I were to meet that bird again, it would be the 
 worse for him. 
 
 I tramp o'er the moors, breathing slaughter against the grouse. 
 It is a long time before I see another. I fancy they are hiding, 
 and looking at me as I pass. 
 
 A young dog is told off to us. He is a gay young dog, and fond 
 of practical joking. All his points are sly jokes, as there is never 
 anything to be seen. He is chastised for playing the fool, and 
 dismissed to the care of a boy, who brings us such an old hand at 
 the game that he scores two points straight off. I bang both 
 barrels, as a sort of feu de joie, and the birds go off extiltingly. 
 The Keeper sighs again heavily. I fancy I hear a smothered 
 laugh in the direction of the boy with the comic dog. The boy 
 looks serious enough. Perhaps it is an illustration of " The little 
 dog laughed to see such sport ! " On we tramp again. 
 
 Interminable bogs ! To paraphrase what a trespassing Scotch- 
 man said when he was asked where he was going to — "Bock 
 again ! " so it is with me — " Bog again ! " I'm again up to my 
 knees or knickerboggers. 
 
 "When asked, subsequently, if I've had good shooting, with the 
 strictest regard for truth I can reply, "Yes, first-rate shooting"-
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 223 
 
 with an emphasis on the " shooting ; " but as to the hitting — that 
 were to inquire too curiously. 
 
 Chuckle, chuckle, flap-flap, from a bird. The Keeper, who has 
 given me up as hopeless, takes no notice of either the bird or me, 
 except to sigh to himself and to plod on. But my blood is up. 
 This time he shall not escape me. Bang ! Missed ! Banc J 
 Winged him ! " I've done the deed ! Did you not hear a noise 1 " 
 Rather. 
 
 Now, more birds — quick ! The cry is still, they don't come. 
 But I have finished with a grand blaze of triumph, and the Keeper 
 who had been with me, and whom my splendid failures have 
 plunged into the deepest melancholy, is radiant once again. " Sigh 
 no more, Keeper ! " 
 
 End of Second Act. Milk and whiskey. End of The Gamester. 
 Return of Shooter Johnie. 
 
 It suddenly occurs to me that no one has pointed out to me all 
 day either Ben Lomond, Burns's Monument, or the Isle of Arran 
 in the distance. A most remarkable day. 
 
 In the paper next day I see with pride, in the accounts from the 
 moors, " Mr. Allison of Dnmdoddie and party bagged eighty brace, 
 three plovers, and four hares." It is gratifying to know that I was 
 one of the "party." Also gratifying that details are not given. 
 In fact it would be invidious. 
 
 ****** 
 
 We spend our evenings in reading Burns's Poems and toasting 
 Burns's memory. I don't wonder at Burns's memory being kept 
 so warm in Scotland, as it's so frequently being toasted. 
 
 Then, later on, with the whiskey we become philosophical, and 
 discuss Mallock's Is Life worth Living ? A Nicht wi' Mallock, 
 Huxley, Tyndall, and George Eliot, who, with Ophelia, might 
 ask — 
 
 "What means this, my Lord?" 
 
 Whereupon I should reply — 
 
 " Marry, this is miching Mallock — ! " Which sounds very 
 like what Burns himself would have said — " It means mischief." 
 
 Alight-Light Thoughts on Lawn-Tennis. — A perfect specimen of 
 Lawn-tennis would be " A Love game, and no Deuce." Scoring at
 
 224 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Lawn-tennis contains the headings of Chapters in a Romantic 
 History : — Chapter I. Fifteen, Love. — Chapter II. Thirty, Love. 
 — Chapter III. Forty, Love. — Chapter IV. Forty, Fifteen (Love's 
 out of it). — Chapter V. Forty, Thirty (Better Match). — Chapter 
 VI. Forty all ! Deuce ! — Chapter VII. Coquetting. 'Vantage to 
 one, 'Vantage to t'other. The Deuce, like the Queen's Proctor 
 intervening. — Chapter VIII. Triumph. — Chapter IX. A Love 
 Match. Retirement. 
 
 No more strawberries and cream. As Rip Van Winkle used to 
 say, " I've swore off." Feel lighter-hearted in consequence. 
 
 Charming place. Weather unsettled. We all hope it will make 
 up its mind to " fine." 
 
 Lovely afternoon. Three courts ready. Visitors arriving. On 
 reaching the lawn, I hear an energetic lady arguing with her 
 opponent, across the net, as to the state of the score. 
 
 " I'm forty ! " she announces, at the top of her voice. 
 
 Her opponent, who is waiting for her service, replies, " Yes,, 
 forty, and one fault ! " 
 
 She admits the one fault cheerfully. 
 
 There's a moral. " Forty, and only one fault ! " 
 
 Well, well, — in vain is the net set in the sight of the tennis- 
 player ! 
 
 \Happy Thought (here). — Excellent Scotch name for a Tennis 
 Professor — the McRacket.j 
 
 They are making up their sets. Our hostess is, as it were, 
 casting the parts for three comediettas of four dramatis personal 
 each. 
 
 Becoming wary by experience, and aspiring to improve, I prefer 
 playing in company with my fellow-men. As, out of politeness to 
 the fair guests (of various ages), I cannot utter this sentiment 
 aloud, I adopt much the same plan of tactics as one does in a ball- 
 room when the smiling hostess attempts to surprise you into 
 dancing with some neglected faded fair one, for whom she has 
 charitably undertaken to find partners. 
 
 The formula then is, " Thank you so much, but I've been 
 dancing everything, and I really must," &c. ; or, plainly and de- 
 fiantly, " Thanks, but I'm engaged — just waiting for my partner
 
 FRIENDS Al A DISTANCE. 225 
 
 to return ;" or, "Thanks, but I don't dance a galop, or a waltz," 
 &c, or any other excuse ready at the moment. Or one retires into 
 a remote corner of a conservatory, followed by the hostess with her 
 protege, or down to the refreshment-room, or, in fact, "anywhere, 
 everywhere, out of the world ! " 
 
 I see a gallant set (male) in flannels and colours. I should like 
 to make one of their party. They were enthusiastic till I came 
 up diffidently. The hostess suggests my joining them. They 
 pretend to be in doubt as to whether Maclaren isn't coming. The 
 hostess says I can play till he comes. There is no avidity on the 
 part of the flannels and colours to close with this proposition. 
 
 It suddenly occurs to me that / am in the position of the 
 " Neglected Faded Flower " for whom the hostess is so charitably 
 anxious to obtain a partner. I say, apologetically, "Perhaps you've 
 made up your set ? " They reply, awkwardly, " that they have, 
 
 but " Then they regard one another in a furtive way, and 
 
 appear considerably embarrassed. Maclaren comes to their relief, 
 and they hail him with such a shout of joy as might come from a 
 crew on a shoal at the sight of the lifeboat. I fancy I detect a 
 wink passing round among themselves as they retire to their 
 ground. 
 
 In the meantime the other sets have been made up, and, for the 
 nonce, I am out in the cold. 
 
 At this moment a trap is driven up carrying two young ladies 
 and a small boy. 
 
 He is in that neatest of all boys' suits, an Eton suit ; so white 
 about the collar, and so trim about the legs, so generally natty and 
 tidy, and, when topped up, on a Sunday, with a glossy hat, so 
 thoroughly " gentlemanly " — the type of an English Home Insti- 
 tution. The boy, I feel instinctively, is an Etonian. I shall 
 interview him.
 
 226 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTEK VI. 
 
 THE ETONIAN MODERN BOY — INTERVIEW CONTRAST — TEMPORIS ACTI 
 
 STYLE OLD — NEW — QUESTION ANSWER — LONG AGO — DEAD 
 
 WATER — MORE TENNIS — SOMETHING NEW A MATCH FAGGED — 
 
 A BOY AGAIN — GALLERY CHAFF RETIREMENT — 'VANTAGE 
 
 RESOLUTION. 
 
 AVING been at Eton 
 myself, I am enabled to ask 
 him certain questions with 
 an air of an old hand. Not 
 having talked to modern 
 young Etonians for some 
 time, I am a little at a loss 
 what to say to him. 
 
 My host says to me, 
 " Here's Teddy Mackenzie — 
 he's at Eton. You " (to me) 
 " were at Eton, weren't you?" 
 I say " Yes," and look at 
 the small boy, who smiles 
 incredulously. His smile im- 
 plies " Gammon ! You " 
 (meaning me) " wern't at 
 Eton." 
 
 I see that the boy's manner 
 is not without its effect on my host. He begins to believe I wasn't 
 at Eton. In another second, if this small boy goes on smiling 
 incredulously, he'll begin to believe I'm a humbug— a MacHum- 
 bug — altogether. 
 
 Must put Etonian questions to Eton Boy, and show I have been 
 there. 
 
 I say, at haphazard, with a vague memory of the form the ques- 
 tion ought to assume, "Where are you at?" 
 
 On thinking it over subsequently, I discover that what was in 
 my mind was, " Where do you keep ? — a Cambridge Undergraduate
 
 FBIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 227 
 
 expression for "Where do you lodge?" confused with "Whose 
 house are vou in ? " 
 
 D 
 
 " Where am I at I " repeats the little Etonian, carelessly cutting 
 at an imaginary ball with his racket. " What do you mean 1 — ■ 
 I'm at Eton." And again he smiles, more incredulously and super- 
 ciliously than before, and makes another careless cut at an invisible 
 ball. 
 
 Now, did I reply in this manner when / was a little Etonian ? 
 Wasn't / far more respectful to my elders? I'm afraid there's a 
 falling off in this respect — literally in this "respect." 
 
 "I know you're at Eton," I reply, blandly, while my host 
 watches us as though it were a fine contest of intellects between 
 me and the little boy, in which the odds were greatly in favour of 
 the latter. " But at what house 1 " 
 
 " Oh ! " he says, explaining to me what I do mean, and looking 
 up at me from under his wide-brimmed hat. " You mean who's 
 my tutor 1 " 
 
 Yes ! — I did mean that. The memory of my boyhood's days 
 comes back again in a flash ! Yes, I did mean " Who's your 
 tutor ? " 
 
 " Toby Bunford's my tutor," he says. 
 
 What ? is it possible ! Bunfoixl — without the Toby — was my 
 tutor, and we used to call him Punch Bunford. Evidently, they 
 call this Bunford Toby because he comes after Punch ; Toby being 
 supposed to follow his master. Good. I give the young Etonian 
 my information about Punch, and my theory about Toby. It has 
 no effect upon his manner, however. He still preserves his smile 
 of supercilious incredulity, and my host, I firmly believe, thinks I am 
 inventing my experience, but listens with as impartial an air as he 
 can assume. The contest of intellects is still going on, only it has 
 assumed the appearance of a serious counsel being suddenly 
 examined by a flippant witness, before a judge who is rather 
 pleased at the turn things are taking. 
 
 The boy looks at me as though he didn't believe for one moment 
 that Punch Bunford had ever been a tutor, and says curtly, 
 
 "Punch Bunford's a Fellow." 
 
 Indeed ! Oh, then, I suppose they make Fellows of superannuated 
 tutors. Then the Fellows in my day had been tutors in somebody 
 
 o 2
 
 228 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 else's day. I never knew this before. Would it have made any 
 difference in my conduct in years gone by had I known it 1 I don't 
 think so. 
 
 [Hajypy Thought. — Every tutor has his day. Like a saint, — and 
 a dog. Toby is now having his day, Toby Bunford, I mean. And 
 his day is a " day out " in the vacation. Poor Toby !] 
 
 I turn to my host and explain to him that, in my time, Punch 
 Bunford was my tutor, whereat he doesn't appear the least bit 
 interested. I feel convinced that if he talks me over with this 
 small Etonian, alone, he will come to the conclusion that I never 
 was at Eton at all, and am ati impostor, a sort of Claimant. I am 
 determined to prove that I was at Eton, and to compel the 
 Etonian's respect — not for my age, but for my honesty. I wish 
 him to recognise me as a boy and a brother. I should be happier' 
 if he would shake hands with me heartily, and tell me all about 
 everything, of how the old place has changed, and how it remains 
 the same, and how they do much the same noiv as I did then, and 
 in fact, clearly prove to me that I only left Eton the day before 
 yesterday, that I am only this little boy's senior by a fortnight or 
 so at most, and that when the holidays are over, I shall go back 
 again, and we shall both meet in the school yard and talk 
 about " knowing him at home." But no — he is a determined 
 boy. He only smiles incredulously, and remains peculiarly 
 uncommunicative. 
 
 My host is still waiting, judicially, to hear the issue of the 
 examination. It almost seems that I had been invited here on the 
 strength of my having been an Etonian, and that if, from this boy's 
 evidence, it is shown that I have not been at Eton, my things will 
 be packed up on the spot, and I shall be politely requested to 
 leave, as having obtained an introduction here under false 
 pretences. 
 
 I can't think of old Etonian terms which could effectually con- 
 firm my position. 
 
 Suddenly the expressions " wet bob," "dry bob," occur to me. 
 I feel my face lighting up with the radiant smile of victory. I can 
 never forget that "wet bob" means a boy who goes in for boating,, 
 and " dry bob " one who goes in for cricket.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 229 
 
 "Are you a wet bob or a dry bob?" I ask, with an air that 
 implies. " Now, then, my lad, am I not a Boy and a Brother?" 
 
 " I've got a lock-up," he replies. 
 
 Deuce take him ! What's a " lock-up ? " I ought to know. Let 
 me see ! Oh, I remember ! A " lock-up " was a boat to oneself, 
 and i; a chance boat " meant one's paying so much and taking one's 
 chance of whatever happened to be in. Good ! Xow I'll show him 
 I know all about it. 
 
 " Ah ! " I say, with a smack of satisfaction, recalling happy 
 memories of idle times, " I suppose you get your sherry cobbler 
 and pipe, and go up Dead Water. Eh ? " 
 
 I rather emphasise the '' pipe," implying that / know what these 
 young dogs do, and that they can't get over me. 
 
 He stares at me. What do I mean ? 
 
 My host stares at me, too. " That's a nice way of beiim- at 
 Eton," he remarks, with a dry, caustic laugh. 
 
 " Dead Water ! " repeats the boy, shaking his head sharply, and 
 nearly laughing outright. " Where's that ? " 
 
 " Oh," I say, " come, hang it — not know Dead Water? Why, 
 
 when I was there " Ah, but it suddenly occurs to me that this 
 
 was longer ago than the day before yesterday ; and as the Young 
 Etonian, all of the Modern Time, has never heard of " Dead 
 Water " —which was an aquatic lounge in my day — the water 
 which was dead then, must have been buried, long since, in a watery 
 grave. He could tell me more about the Dead Sea, I dare say, if 
 I were to ask him ; but I shan't. 
 
 The Etonian goes on to tell me that he occupies himself chiefly 
 in volunteering, shooting, and drilling. This is all new to me. 
 
 " Volunteering and shooting ! " Dear me ! 
 
 "And," I ask, " is old Webber still there?" 
 
 I prefix " Old " to the name of Webber (who was a confectioner) 
 because it occurs to me that if Punch Bunford is a superannuated 
 tutor, Webber must be a superannuated pastry-cook. 
 
 The Etonian shakes his head, and smiles suspiciously. Am I 
 chaffing him ? He doesn't know any " Webber." 
 
 "He bad a shop on " (here my memory fails me) — "on 
 
 Dear, bless me, what's the name of the bridge?" 
 
 "Windsor Bridge?" suggests the boy, maliciously.
 
 230 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 "No, no — just out of bounds," I say, with a side-look at my 
 host, to see if he is not favourably impressed by my knowledge 
 of localities. He isn't, that's evident. It is, apparently,, to him, 
 still a contest of wits between myself and the Etonian, with six to 
 four in the latter's favour. 
 
 "Barnes Bridge," says the boy. 
 
 " Yes ! " I exclaim, exultingly — " on Barnes Bridge, and Barnes, 
 too, and the Pool ! " 
 
 And I nearly shout with J03* at remembering so much. 
 
 The little Etonian only shakes his head pityingly. All gone — ■ 
 except the bridge. 
 
 I question him about the position of certain houses. No. He 
 doesn't know them. He has never even heard of them. " Joe's 1 " 
 Pooh! Who's Joel "Brian? Spankie?" The Etonian smiles 
 upon me sadly. I feel that were he to put his thoughts into 
 words, he would say, " Poor old chap ! What is he maundering 
 about 1 " 
 
 I am inclined to ask if Eton exists at all, as / knew it 1 
 
 My host tires of the conversation — perhaps of me. I remark to 
 him, for the sake of my character for veracity, "The place must 
 have changed considerably." 
 
 He nods. 
 
 The boy, cutting at the hundredth invisible ball with a racket, 
 and smiling, knowingly, up at me, from under his broad brim, 
 observes, 
 
 " I s'pose you haven't been there for a very long time ? " 
 
 It occurs to me, as something that had never struck me before, 
 that I have not been there for a very long time. I begin to call to 
 mind when I left, and when I went, — dates for the boy's informa- 
 tion, and my own. 
 
 My host suggests that Teddy, the Etonian, should play a game 
 of lawn-tennis with me ; whereat the boy seems to measure me 
 from head to foot (not a very length}- calculation, though I would 
 not hear my enemy say so), and his smile becomes more super- 
 cilious and more decided than ever. 
 
 "Do you play lawn-tennis at Eton?" I ask diffidently, and am 
 almost inclined to add "Sir," and raise my hat to him, respect- 
 fully.
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 231 
 
 "A little — not much," he answers, carelessly, switching the 
 racket about. 
 
 " I suppose," I say to him, still diffidently, and with a trembling 
 sort of fear that he will by some sort of right, fag me to fetch the 
 balls, or order me to run and get something for him that he has 
 left in the house, " I suppose you are a great swell at tennis 1" 
 
 I put this to him in a flattering tone, so as to conciliate him / 
 and induce him not to be severe, or unkind, with me. 
 
 "No," he says, "not much of a swell," and he begins driving 
 the balls into the corner of the court where he is going to play. 
 
 By this time the other players in the other court — first-raters — 
 are taking a rest, and have formed a gallery on the terrace. 
 
 I am in full lawn-tennis flannel costume, evidently intending to 
 work hard. My antagonist, the little Etonian, doesn't even con- 
 descend to remove his coat, but saunters into the right-hand 
 corner, and in another second, without saying " Play ! " he has 
 whizzed a ball right over the net, I have missed it, and he has 
 taken the other side ready for next service. 
 
 The balls come whizzing over the net one after the other. He 
 keeps me running from side to side without hitting one once, and 
 in less than a minute the game is over. 
 
 Roars of laughter (at me), and ironical applause from the 
 gallery. 
 
 I have to serve. Ripples of laughter from gallery, and 
 facetious remarks on the match, all the worse for not being 
 spoken out loud, but whispered half audibly. 
 
 I serve. Fault. J/ea culpa/ 
 
 I serve again ; and again. Mea culj>a ! Ironical cheers. 
 Somebody shouts out something to me. I smile, and say 
 "What?" 
 
 liny cries out, "Now then — that's your court ! " and points to 
 me to change sides. I had forgotten. 1 bow to him humbly, and 
 wish I had never been at Eton. 
 
 Serve again. Good. He returns a whizzler. 1 make for it. 
 Hit it. ^Yhere it goes I can't see. Nor anybody else. I have 
 sent it flying over the tups of the trees. Ironical applause. 
 
 " Don't use so much force ! " shouts my host, anxiously, who 
 foresees the loss of the balls.
 
 232 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 "All right ! " I reply, as cheerfully as I can. 
 
 "The other side!" cries out the boy, in a tone that implies, 
 " Now then, stoopid ! " and again I bow mentally in the deepest 
 humility, and feel that I am getting fagged just as much as 
 though I were a boy again waiting to pick up the ball behind the 
 five-courts in the school-yard. Do they exist still 1 I don't know. 
 I don't care. I won't ask any more about Eton. It is no longer 
 " the old place " — but quite a new one. And the boys are all 
 new too. I'm sure we were more respectful. 
 
 Another serve. Fault. Applause. Hang the fault ! 
 
 Another serve for the right. Returned into the centre. It 
 comes slowly. 1 see it coming. I know exactly the place where 
 it must bound. 1 slip forward, make my hit at it, but the ball 
 passes on underneath. 
 
 Applause from gallery. 
 
 The Etonian calls out, " There's a hole in your racket." 
 
 I examine my bat. Boars of laughter, specially from boy. As 
 I am examining it, and sec no hole, it suddenly occurs to me that 
 this is his chaff. I am perfectly sure / was more respectful to my 
 elders — for I now admit I am his elder — when I was a boy at 
 Eton. On a change tout eel a. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — To continue my inspection of bat as if this 
 was part of my chaff. Everybody, however, I am sure, sees 
 through this very shallow performance.] 
 
 More games. After the third I fall back, so to speak, on my 
 weight of years and gravity of character, and protest I don't see 
 the fun of running about — not, of course, that I can't, but simply 
 that I don't care about doing it. 
 
 Boy becomes careless, as despising his foe. He wins all the 
 games in something less than a quarter of an hour. I've only 
 scored twice, when he was very careless. 
 
 I say to him, patronisingly, " Why, you're a capital player ! " 
 
 He has become rather grumpy — I think he has been bored — by 
 being sent to play with me, as if I were so many years younger, 
 and no companion for him. At all events, he replies, candidly, 
 - "You don't practise much, do you?" 
 
 I admit that I do not " practise " much, by way of answering
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 233 
 
 his question, which implies that I " don't practise much, and can't 
 play at all." 
 
 " Now, then," cries my host, apparently in exuberant spirits at 
 the conclusion of my performance, " well have a real good 
 match ! " And forthwith, while 1 retire into the shade, the 
 Etonian is mixed np in a set of four, is obliged to take off' his 
 coat, and, to my great delight, is tackled by his elder sisters, who 
 work him hard and chaff him mercilessly : he then finds himself 
 pitted against an elderly, but cool, and agile gentleman, an expert 
 at the game, who, on every occasion (having no fear of Eton 
 before his eyes), treats him as though he were a mere child, and I, 
 as one of the gallery, following the fortunes of the game, come out 
 of my shell, applaud ironically, make facetious remarks, call out 
 " Butter-fingers ! " when the Little Etonian misses the ball, and 
 congratulate myself generally on taking the change out of him. 
 
 [Happy Thought (as one of the sptectators). — " 'Vantage to me. 1 ' 
 I confess 1 am rather afraid of a reprisal ; but he hasn't time for 
 it, as he is taken away by his family, who have to return to dinner 
 after this exciting contest is finished. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Shall run down to Eton and stay a few days 
 at the Christopher— is there a Christopher? — do they "keep up 
 the Christopher ?"— just to see what the place is like. I will. 
 Yet — won't it be melancholy ? Shall I not be returning to my 
 former haunts, like a Spirit from The Shades 1 I shall have no 
 one to talk to ; and if I address one of the boys, he will run away 
 as though he had seen a ghost. 1 might get another ghost to 
 accompany me. I'll try.]
 
 234 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE END — CHANGES WEATHER-GLASS RECON- 
 NOITRING CAUTION DEW DISCUSSION PROPHETICAL 
 
 WEATHERCOCK WIRE NEWS — SUMMING UP — CALLOUSNESS 
 
 FAMILIARITY PERFECTION TOL1TENESS WORKING ORDER 
 
 PRESENT STATE PROSPECT— NEPHEW KEEPING ALIVE OX 
 
 WIRES — ARRIVAL. 
 
 T 
 
 IS the last 
 strawberry f of 
 summer, all his 
 blooming com- 
 panions have faded 
 and gone. Nobody 
 attempts to show 
 me Ban Lomond, or 
 to point out Burn's 
 Monument in the 
 distance. We look 
 at the Isle of Arran 
 when it is visible,, 
 and we look for it 
 when it is invisible, 
 silently. All that 
 can be said about 
 them has been said. 
 We have exhausted 
 the subject. Even the weather, as a topic of conversation, 
 is dismissed cursorily. 
 
 A few weeks ago, everybody coming down fresh in the 
 morning — " fresh " in the morning sounds dissipated, but is 
 meant healthily — used to tap the glass, screw the ivory button, 
 tap it again, scrutinise it closely as if trying to detect a 
 falsehood on the very face of it, shake his head despondently, 
 or hopefully, or triumphantly, as the case might be, and 
 then yield his place to the next comer, who would take his
 
 FBIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 235 
 
 turn at the glass with that eager, earnest expression that is seldom 
 seen on a man's face, except when he is looking at the dim reflec- 
 tion of himself in a London shop-window, to see if he has got a 
 black on his nose, or not. Then the two barometer- inspectors 
 would go outside, not venturing further than the door-step, 
 cautiously, as if fearful of being taken by surprise and captured, 
 and not stirring until they have reconnoitred the carriage-road, 
 left and right, as though on the look-out for the sudden appearance 
 of an unfriendly Zulu out of the bushes. 
 
 There being no signs of danger, the visitors would step on to the 
 gravel, and some, braver than the others, would just touch the 
 lawn with the tips of their toes, drawing back quickly, as if they'd 
 been stung by something, and then examining their soles to see 
 what was the matter. This would lead to discussion. 
 
 Was the moisture the dew, or had there been a heavy fall of rain 
 in the night 1 This having been dew-ly settled, one way or the 
 other, everyone would then take up different positions for making 
 meteorological observations. More discussion. Prophecies. 
 Doubts, fears, hopes. Suddenly it strikes some one, that a really 
 valuable opinion might be obtained from the Weathercock, just as 
 it would naturally occur to anyone in a legal difficulty to consult 
 a Solicitor. 
 
 The Weathercock, being consulted, differs slightly from that 
 other eminent authority, the Barometer, and, apparently, from 
 two other distinguished weathercocks in the immediate neigh- 
 bourhood. Who shall decide when weathercocks disagree 1 
 
 Happy Tltought. — Wire to Forecast Department in London, and 
 ask Clerk of the Weather what sort of a day we're going to have 
 here in Scotland. Answer paid. 
 
 More conversation on the subject. Then a council would be 
 held, in the carriage-drive, with a view to reconcile these apparent 
 discrepancies. The most experienced in weather predictions talks 
 of what would be infallible signs in any other part of the world 
 with which he is personally acquainted, but admits that here he ia 
 at fault — this being his first visit. One or two bold thinkers pro- 
 nounce for fine weather, and are regarded with a sort of veneration 
 by the more timid ; while the hopeful, but cautious minds, refer to
 
 236 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 the sunset of last night as a prognostication of what the weather 
 ought to be to-day. The elders shake their heads dubiously, as 
 old birds who are not to be caught with chaff, and who, appear- 
 ances being proverbially deceptive, are not going out without their 
 umbrellas — catch them ! Then the host, inclining to the last and 
 more cautious opinion, would give the others a ray of hope in 
 pointing out how hazy was the view of Benjamin Lomond and 
 Burns's Monument, " which," he would add, "is a good sign." 
 
 This summing-up used to be, mysteriously enough, the signal 
 for the gong to sound, which meant " All in, to begin ! " — breakfast. 
 
 But now this overture of the day, ending with the gong solo, 
 seldom takes place, or, if at all, on a very limited scale. 
 
 We nod at the glass indifferently, as much as to say, " Still 
 there, you old bore-ometer ! " "We just go to the front-door, give a 
 sharp look out, shrug our shoulders, say nothing, and, the gong 
 having sounded long ago perhaps, without any of vis having 
 remarked it, we enter the breakfast-room, nod to the nearest 
 person, in much the same style as we had previously nodded to the 
 barometer, if we haven't seen him before, and then occupy our- 
 selves in a very business-like way. 
 
 When we first met together in this pleasantest of Country 
 Houses, it was a perfect school of politeness for anyone to come 
 into suddenly. It was a real pleasure to see, and to assist in. No 
 one could do too much for anyone. 
 
 The Gentlemen were eagerly watching the Ladies, to anticipate 
 their slightest wishes in the way of eggs, toast, ham, chicken, 
 kijjaree, marmalade, strawberries, and so forth, while the Ladies 
 showed their appreciation of this devotion, by presiding in a 
 really masterly manner at the tea urn, coffee- and cocoa-pots, never 
 allowing hot milk to do duty for cold, keeping the tea fresh and 
 fresh, in fact, hotter and hotter, so that the last cup of any of the 
 breakfast beverages was equal to the first in strength, tone, taste, 
 temperature, and every other perfection. 
 
 Then, after a few da}*s, we improved. The politeness was in no 
 way diminished : on the contrary, it was at high pressure, and in 
 full working order. All went easily, without effort. Gentlemen 
 knew which Ladies took ham, which eggs, and which eggs and 
 ham, how many were for chicken, how many were for braised pie,
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 23T 
 
 and could tell to a second when each would be ready for a clean 
 plate and a fresh help. The waiting of the Gentlemen was SO' 
 perfect, that the Ladies never had to wait at all. 
 
 On the other hand, the Ladies knew to a man who took coffee, 
 who tea, and who cocoa, who took hot milk, who cold, who liked 
 much sugar, who liked little, and who took none, and everyone 
 was helped exactly to his taste and liking — always, of course, with 
 the exception of that one undecided person, who will turn up on 
 every occasion of this sort, and who never can make up his mind 
 as to what he really does want, so upsetting all calculations, and 
 generally finishing by saying, " Oh, don't mind me — I'll help my- 
 self; " and ultimately taking something of everything. 
 
 After a while, getting to know one another thoroughly well,. 
 unpunctuality set in. The men had gradually sat up later and 
 later, and therefore rose later and later. They dropped into 
 breakfast with various apologies, the younger offering excuses for 
 their tardy appearance, and the more experienced not attempting 
 to explain anything. Then, imperceptibly, there was a falling-off 
 in politeness, generally, though sustained only in private and par- 
 ticular instances ; the tone became familiar and less courteous. 
 We had, as it were, begun with the minuet de la cow, and were 
 ending with a polka. Perhaps the strain had been too great at 
 first, and "self" was reasserting itself. At last our house party 
 has dwindled down to a few, who cling on affectionately, like 
 the bluebottles in September, and we are dependent for excite- 
 ment on outsiders, to whose houses we go, and who return our 
 visits. 
 
 My excellent host and myself agree that this is what we like. 
 We have plenty of time for the papers, which are no longer seized 
 on, taken away, and hidden, and after dinner we can sit down 
 quietly to discuss claret, Burns's works and life, and with the 
 second bottle we discuss philosophy and social science. If my 
 host insists on producing some peculiarly fine old port, after the 
 claret, then we get into theology. On the whole, with the assist- 
 ance of a little occasional contradiction from externs, the evenings 
 are passed seriously, pleasantly, and profitably. After any pro- 
 longed discussion, finishing only with the departure of the last 
 guest, whose carriage has been announced two hours ago, 1
 
 238 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 invariable retire to read up a certain portion of what are, to my 
 mind, clenching anti-positivist arguments in Mr. Mallock's Is Life 
 ivorth Living ! 
 
 Having commenced a chapter, I find that this must be the 
 same chapter I began last night, and when I've got to the second 
 page, which determines me on the point, I close my eyes, to 
 make a mental resume of the strong points in the previous argu- 
 ment. The resume becoming rather muddled, gets itself mixed 
 up with lawn-tennis, with what we'll do to-morrow, with an indis- 
 tinct recollection of having said something to somebody in London 
 about something of great importance, which suddenly connects 
 itself with something else that happened years and years ago, that 
 I had forgotten till now, — and then — I pull myself together, and 
 determine to .... to put out the candle before I forget it. 
 
 Thus we are passing a pleasant and peaceable time, when one 
 morning my host enters with a telegram, and announces to us 
 generally, that "Jim's coming !" 
 
 The prospect of Jim's coming puts everyone into good spirits. A 
 flash of delight passes round like an electric current. I own to 
 feeling intensely pleased. Not because I know Jim, or have the 
 slightest idea who he is, or what he is — " What's Allison to Jim, 
 or Jim to Allison?" {Mac Shakspeare adapted) — but simply from 
 seeing the delight depicted on everyone's countenance. Jim, it 
 turns out, is Allison's nephew, the life and soul of the house — 
 when he's there. 
 
 Host and hostess beam, as the former flourishes Jim's telegram, 
 for it is a peculiarity with Jim, that, no matter where he may be, 
 no matter how far from home, or how near — whether in India, 
 Africa, Paris, Germany, London, or merely in the next village, if 
 there is only a telegraph station to be found, Jim telegraphs. 
 
 Allison's house is six miles from a telegraph station, but this 
 makes no difference to Jim, who, in the impulse of a message, anni- 
 hilates time, space, and expense — the latter having nothing to do 
 with his own pocket personally. So a messenger has arrived in 
 hot haste on horseback, from the nearest town ; and as there is a 
 request that an answer may be sent, Allison complies with it, and 
 sends one — it being comparatively economical to pay a shilling for 
 .sending a message, in order to forestall another five-shilling tele-
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 239 
 
 gram from Jim in the course of the morning, inquiring if the first 
 had come all right. 
 
 Everyone personally acquainted with Jim beams again. 
 
 " He'll wake us up a bit ! " says Allison ; which, though he 
 means it well, is rather a slur on the present company's liveliness. 
 We all express intense delight at the prospect of being woke up, 
 and privately to one another — those who don't know Joseph, I 
 mean Jim — wonder how the operation is going to be performed. 
 
 " He'll keep us alive ! " repeats Uncle Allison, beaming again. 
 And once more the guests express themselves with extreme 
 politeness on the subject of being kept alive, but secretly resent 
 the liberty that Nephew Jim is going to take with their existence. 
 It really sounds as if we were a set of old dummies, whose 
 machinery having gone wrong, was going to be set in motion by a 
 touch-up from Nephew Jim, and we are as much disturbed as 
 would be a party of over-fed lotos-eaters by the emptying out on 
 them a tankful of electric eels. 
 
 Jim has already given us his first shock with his telegram. We 
 are undoubtedly more alive than we were an hour ago for example. 
 
 And, as I have said, everyone is beaming. The servants all 
 beam, specially the Butler, who beams almost to bursting, so 
 intense is the struggle going on within him between rapturous joy 
 and proper decorum. 
 
 The day goes on. Like Mariana, we become a-weary of waiting, 
 and anxious. The beams are hidden by clouds. The Butler is 
 shrinking again to his natural size. Suddenly they all beam 
 again. Another telegram ! ! Another five shillings ! Uncle 
 Allison beams less this time than at first ; but the Butler is again 
 inflated with joy, and beams more than ever. But for a strong 
 command over himself, which enables him to "keep himself down," 
 he would swell up, rise in the air, and only descend after a sharp 
 contact with the ceiling. 
 
 Uncle Allison I rather think I hear mutter, 
 
 " Confound the fellow ! Why the doose does he go on tele- 
 graphing ? '' 
 
 We are all anxious to know the contents. What does lie say 1 
 Is he coming ? Nothing wrong? Let us know the worst or the 
 best.
 
 240 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " Missed train, catch next. Wire to Carlisle, say if carriage 
 meets. If not, will wire on for fly." 
 
 That's what he lias to say. We breathe again. Butler, who, 
 for one second, has been in danger of collapsing suddenly, beams 
 again. All beaming. We're all beaming, beam, beam, beaming, 
 we're all beaming at our house at home — except Allison, who 
 must send another telegram to catch Jim at Carlisle en route ; for, 
 if not, Jim will order a fly to meet him, and that will be another 
 useless expense. 
 
 There is still a sort of uncertainty as to how or when he may 
 arrive. Were he an ordinary person he couldn't be here for five 
 hours at least. This, however, doesn't prevent the Butler from 
 going to the door about every half-hour, to look out and see if he 
 is coming. 
 
 No one who knows Jim would swear to feeling perfectly sure 
 that he isn't on the premises at this present moment, hiding, and 
 ready to bounce out on us. 
 
 Our host disposes of this idea, " as," he says, " if Jim were any- 
 where about, we should have heard him long ago." 
 
 When Nephew Jim does come, we do hear him with a vengeance. 
 
 Having finished our tennis, we are enjoying, after a bath, that 
 deliciously refreshing semi-siesta, when one dawdles over dressing 
 for dinner, and the edge of one's appetite becomes gradually keener 
 and keener, — when, suddenly, a blast from a coach-horn startles 
 me from a reverie over the waning state of my dress-boots. Coach- 
 horn or bugle, or whatever it is, sounds again, and the next 
 moment there is a shouting of directions, and a staggering on the 
 staircase of heavily-laden people with boxes ; then a dashing charge 
 of one, up the stairs, three steps at a time ; then a loud inquiry 
 from the landing as to the dinner-hour, to which the reply, that it 
 is at eight, is almost lost in a wild whoop, as an introduction to 
 the following mysterious sentence, delivered in the cheeriest 
 possible tone, 
 
 " All right ! Hokee-pokee ! Play up for the cocoa-nuts ! " 
 
 When there is another bang of a door that shakes the house to 
 its foundations, and, judging from the noise of chucking heavy 
 weights about, the occupant of the room next to me is apparently
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 241 
 
 " playing up for the cocoa-nuts " in preference to dressing for 
 dinnci. 
 
 As I descend the stairs five minutes afterwards, I hear bursts 
 of vocal melody within, snatches of popular airs whistled, and a 
 dull wooden-sounding accompaniment, which may either be the 
 clog-dance, or a violent struggle with a boot-jack. 
 
 I meet my host on the stairs. 
 
 "Jim's come !" he cries, gleefully. 
 
 I thought so. He has come — like a whirlwind — and the process 
 of " keeping us all alive " has commenced. 
 
 u
 
 242 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 KEEPING ALIVE DESCRIPTION DINNER DISCUSSION GLOOM A 
 
 FLASH SUGGESTIONS ANNOYANCE INTERRUPTION JIM'S 
 
 OPINIONS BETS BUTLER CHALLENGES HALF-CROWNS 
 
 REPLIES SCORING RABBITS SAWBBATH — DEPARTURE; END OF 
 
 VISIT. 
 
 : / ////. /'/ fi in i / an i m.: 
 
 RULY, Nephew Jim does 
 keep us alive. I bad no 
 idea how sedate we had 
 become until his appear- 
 ance on the scene. 
 
 He has a vocabulary and 
 idioms of his own, which 
 he has partly invented and 
 partly compiled by a process 
 of careful selection from 
 burlesques, music-hall 
 ditties, the Clown's catch- 
 words in pantomimes, and 
 sporting slang generally. 
 He is, undoubtedly, a 
 fine young English gentle- 
 man all of the very mo- 
 dernest time, and we are 
 miles away behind him in 
 the foggy land. 
 He is full of snatches of various melodies, no one of which he 
 ever gives in a complete form. He enlivens the house generally, 
 with the most telling points of popular refrains, seldom going up 
 or down stairs without a chorus, begun, if ascending, with a shout 
 at the foot of the staircase and ending with a bang of his door 
 on the second landing ; or, if descending, commencing with a 
 bang and ending with a jump of three steps taken in a flying 
 leap. 
 
 He is hearty and jovial, in the highest possible spirits, and
 
 FRIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 243 
 
 ■decidedly impatient of the serious, political, or philosophical con- 
 versation with which our sedate selves have hitherto beguiled the 
 •evenings. 
 
 At dinner the subject that occupies our attention is the present 
 serious state of the country, agricultural distress, lowering of 
 rents, difficulties between landlords and tenants. 
 
 There are three landed proprietors at table, including our host, 
 and I am deeply interested in their views of the prospects of the 
 United Kingdom. 
 
 "It is a serious matter," observes Sir Andrew McCorrie, a 
 severe-looking elderly gentleman, with an inclination to lay down 
 the law on every subject, "and there is but one thing to be done 
 for the next year at least, and that is to reduce the rents all 
 round." 
 
 Mr. Alexander, a younger man, and a lesser landlord, does not 
 see this in the same light. He would suggest another course. 
 
 " There is no other course," says Sir Andrew, frowning at the 
 idea of anyone's attempting to improve on his original suggestion 
 
 Our host shakes his head dubiously. 
 
 "It will play the deuce with some of us," he observes, "and 
 there'll be no going up to London for the Season," — here our 
 hostess becomes interested in the discussion — " and precious little 
 to do in the country too, if the hunters are to be sold, and 
 •establishments reduced all round." 
 
 " Ah ! " sighs our hostess sympathetically, as if for the first time 
 a light was breaking in upon her as to the effects of the weather 
 and the crops on the parks, ball-rooms, and opera houses. 
 
 We are all silent and sad, moodily regarding our champagne as 
 though it were the last glass at parting previous to our all being- 
 led off to the workhouse. 
 
 But Nephew Jim has not come down for his holidays — he has 
 been reading with a Coach — to be gloomy, and at this point, being- 
 no respecter of persons, he dashes in brilliantly. 
 
 " I say, Uncle," he cries, " I'll tell you what you can do if you 
 are all hard up." 
 
 We all listen, and Sir Andrew frowns more portentously than 
 ever. The idea of his being included among the " hard up " 
 ones ! ! 
 
 K 2
 
 244 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " Well," asks our host, " what 1 " 
 
 " Why, look here," continues Jim, "I've got a Bogardus trap — 
 rifle, glass balls, and all complete. I'm a nailer at it. Bobby 
 Roberts laid me two to one I wouldn't hit ten out of fifteen " 
 
 "And did you 1 ?" asks his Aunt, pretending a sudden interest in 
 the Bogardus trap, partly to shield him from the evident wrath of 
 Sir Andrew at the irrelevancy of the interruption, and partly 
 because she has some sort of latent faith in her Nephew's origi- 
 nality, though at present none of us clearly see how Jim's hitting 
 ten out of fifteen glass balls, shot out of a Bogardus trap, can pos- 
 sibly benefit the struggling farmers or the unfortunate landlords. 
 
 " Yes," replies Jim, with a perfect shout of triumph that nearly 
 sends Sir Andrew into a fit. " I hit fourteen out of fifteen, and 
 pocketed his two quid. I scored off him there." 
 
 " I don't see what that has to do with what we were speaking 
 about," remarks Sir Andrew, sententiously, and then adds, patronis- 
 ingly, " which perhaps you are not yet old enough to understand." 
 
 But Jim is not going to be patronised, and not going to be put 
 down. 
 
 " Yes, it has," he says ; " Uncle and I will go round the country 
 with the trap, take six to four everywhere. I'll shoot, and Uncle 
 shall carry the balls — — " 
 
 " Thank you," says our host, amused, — as we all are except Sir 
 Andrew, who, evidently objecting to such ill-timed levity, would 
 interrupt if he could ; but Jim, having once started, won't let him, 
 and goes on enthusiastically, as though he were organising the 
 most brilliant scheme for the relief of the present distress. 
 
 "And," he continues, "we'd welsh 'em. I'd make a miss or 
 two, just to put 'em off; then they'd double the odds. I'd do the 
 trick. Uncle should collect the coin, and on we'd go again. You 
 might come with us," he adds, as a kindly afterthought, to Sir 
 Andrew. 
 
 Sir Andrew's breath is literally taken away, and he replies,, 
 severely, 
 
 " I don't shoot glass balls from — from " He hasn't caught 
 
 the name of the trap. Jims assists him to the word. 
 
 "From Bogardus traps, eh ?" says Jim. "Oh, you'd soon do it 
 with practice. If you came with me and Uncle, you might drive
 
 FBI ENDS AT A DISTANCE. 245 
 
 the caj»van or beat the drum. We'd diddle 'em ! Here, Waiter 
 • — I mean Butler ! " 
 
 The Butler is doubtful as to being addressed as Waiter, but gets 
 over it quickly, and attends to Jim's request that he won't put 
 quite so much froth into his champagne next time. 
 
 " I'll get the real stuff while I can," he explains affably to Mr. 
 Alexander, "as we're all going to the workhouse." 
 
 It is all in vain, after this, that Sir Andrew attempts to state 
 his views on home or foreign politics, on all of which subjects Jim 
 expresses himself in his own peculiar style very freely, generally to 
 the effect that " The Nigger" — meaning either the Ameer or Cete- 
 wayo — " will diddle us if we don't bosh him." As a rule, he offers 
 to back his opinions for a small sum. He is always betting half- 
 a-crown that something is or isn't, or that somebody won't or will. 
 It is only a form of expression, and never finds any takers. 
 
 The grouse is just the slightest bit full-flavoured. The guests 
 are too polite to notice it. Not so Jim, who at once shouts out to 
 our host, 
 
 " I say, Uncle." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 11 Game's a bit lofty, eh 1 " 
 
 Then to the servant — not the Butler this time — who had 
 neglected Jim's instructions as to filling his glass. 
 
 "I say — here — you'll get yourself disliked, you will." And 
 the man, audibly tittering, has to return and make up for the 
 deficiency. 
 
 The conversation turns, at last, as it must do in Scotland, at 
 least once during the evening, on Burns, and his merits as a song- 
 writer are discussed. 
 
 " In his songs," says Sir Andrew, who has seized the opportunity 
 presented to him by Jim's having his mouth full of hot tart, to 
 monopolise the conversation, " Burns showed himself pre-eminently 
 a genius. His songs are unequalled. I know nothing, that, for 
 pathos, for true poetic fire, and for local colouring, can touch them. 
 Where is the song-writer nowadays 1 " 
 
 Jim is equal to the occasion, and suddenly recovering from the 
 effects of the over-hot fruit, he looks up and answers decidedly, 
 " Macdermott."
 
 246 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Sir Andrew elevates his eyebrows, and observes that he has never 
 heard of the poet in question, whereupon Jim, resuming his currant 
 and raspberry, says, 
 
 " He's first-rate. Writes 'em and sings 'em. You go next time 
 you're in town. Canterbury or Oxford," he adds, with his mouth 
 full. 
 
 "An Oxford man, did you say?" asks Sir Andrew. 
 
 Jim nearly explodes. 
 
 "No. Oxford Music-Hall man. Had you there ! Right you 
 are, says Moses. Whoa, Emma ! But I say," he goes on, cutting- 
 short his list of ballads, and warming with his subject, as he finishes 
 his tart, " have you heard Terry in Don Ccesar and Little Doctor 
 Faust? 'How does he do it?' 'The Continong— the Conti- 
 nong ! ' " and if it were not for the table, I am convinced that he 
 would give us an imitation, with dance to follow, on the spot. 
 
 Burns, as a song-writer, is nowhere after this. 
 
 " I know a fellow who sings all the songs, and plays the banjo^ 
 too, fine ! " continues Jim, enthusiastically. " You ask him down 
 if you're fond of music," he says, leaning across the table to Sir 
 Andrew, who at that moment looks as if he could murder a song. 
 " You come over and hear him sing, ' I've been iJiotogra-phed like 
 this.' You'll like him awfully." Then he adds, pleasantly wink- 
 ing aside to me, " Scored off him there ! " 
 
 Jim is irrepressible. Sir Andrew is longing for an opportunity 
 to take him down, or, as Jim would say, to " score him off." Sir 
 Andrew assumes a patronising air of intense superiority. He tries, 
 to treat Jim as a mere boy. But it won't do. He catches Jim 
 munching a juicy pear in a most schoolboy ish fashion, and says- 
 condescendingly, hoping to turn the laugh against Jim with his- 
 mouth full, — " You seem to be well occupied." 
 
 " All right up to now," is the instant rejoinder, and we laugh 
 with Jim, much to Sir Andrew's discomfiture. 
 
 " You'd like another pear ? " says Sir Andrew, addressing him as 
 though he were a child of ten years old. 
 
 " Not this journey," replies Jim. " Full inside ! All right ! " 
 Henceforth he won't leave Sir Andrew alone, and we all feel that 
 the latter has brought it on himself. Jim offers to shoot him at 
 Bogardus balls for half-a-crown, to back himself to stand on his
 
 FEIENDS AT A DISTANCE. 247 
 
 head against Sir Andrew for the same amount ; and, on similar 
 terms, he wishes to challenge him to compete in various other 
 feats, such as performing on the coach-horn, strokes at billiards, 
 and playing the side-drum. 
 
 " I scored off him ! " cries Jim, triumphantly, as Sir Andrew 
 drives away ; for Jim evidently takes as much delight in giving 
 pride a fall, as did Jeames, when he slapped " Old Pompossaty " on 
 the shoulder and addressed him as "Bareacres, old Buck ! " 
 
 Nephew Jim in the daytime appears in brilliant flannels, and a 
 planter's straw hat. As he is seldom without a rifle, or some mur- 
 derous weapon in his hand, he has the air of an amateur back- 
 woodsman. A faithful bulldog, of most unprepossessing appear- 
 ance, waddles in a slouching sort of way at his heels, scaring every- 
 one, but being really the most good-tempered gentle animal that 
 ever winked at a cat and passed on. 
 
 When Nephew Jim is not singing snatches of his favourite melo- 
 dies, he is either taking a light blow-out on the coach-horn — he 
 says, "You see I'm reading with a Coach, so I ought to play the 
 horn, else we shouldn't get on" — or practising bugle-calls, or, 
 having military proclivities, he is inspiring himself with a pas de 
 charge on the side-drum. 
 
 Sunday in Scotland is a dull day for everyone, but a very dull 
 day for Jim, who becomes dreadfully depressed. 
 
 It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and conseo^iently 
 Sunday is a real holiday for the unfortunate rabbits, who have led 
 a miserable sort of hunted-clown, in-and-out-of-a-hole existence 
 since Jim's arrival. The rabbits, for six days in the week, are per- 
 petually playing a game of hide-and-seek with Jim and his gun, 
 but on Sunday they appear with quite a festive air in the fields, 
 sitting on the lawn, coming boldly up to the garden, and defying 
 Jim, as it were, under his very nose. 
 
 Music being prohibited in Scotland on Sunday, Jim, fortunately 
 imagining that his coach-horn, side-drum, and bugle come under 
 this denomination, finds his occupation gone. 
 
 Uncle Allison appears in gorgeous apparel for the Kirk. Top 
 hat, frock-coat, and all ready for Hyde Park in the Season. This 
 is calculated to produce a fine moral effect on his Nephew, as from 
 this special costume, combined with a suitable air of sobriety,
 
 248 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 lemon-coloured gloves, and an ornamental prayer-book, you may 
 gather something as to the importance of the " Sawbbath " in 
 Scotland. 
 
 But all that it elicits from Nephew Jim, on seeing his Uncle 
 thus arrayed, is, " What a dawg ! " which is not quite what was 
 intended. 
 
 We are kept alive every day in the week by Nephew Jim, 
 except Sunday, when his melancholy is something touching, to 
 behold. 
 
 And the day comes when he has to return to his coach-horn, 
 Bogardus trap, glass balls, bugle, side-drum, and "the whole bag 
 of tricks," and we have to leave the land of Burns, and, as we 
 drive away from Allison's, where we have spent such a pleasant 
 time, we take a last fond look at our old friend, Benjamin Lomond, 
 in the distance, wave our adieux to Burns's Monument, and say 
 farewell to the genial hospitality of Ayr, hoping to return ere long.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN.
 
 ROUND 
 ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AT LITTLE SHRIMPTON TYPICAL DEVELOPMENTS BASKING — AUNT 
 
 UNCLES — GRANDFATHER'S STORY — IN FUTURO — JACK AND GIL 
 
 ANYBODY'S HEAD CONSULTATION SPHINX ENTANGLEMENT- — 
 
 SUGGESTIONS OF GARDENING AND FARMING — THE JOHNSONARY 
 
 — THE GLYMPHYNS DESIGNS. 
 
 ERY Happy 
 Thought.— By 
 
 the sea-side. 
 At Little 
 Shrimpton. 
 
 I note, 
 also, that the 
 FirstVolume 
 P of Typical 
 Developments 
 has nearly 
 reached com- 
 pletion : all 
 but putting 
 it together, 
 and writing 
 the last three 
 hundred and 
 fifty pages, 
 it is com- 
 paratively 
 finished. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Finish it positively. 
 
 Popgood and Groolly, my publishers, are thinking about it. It
 
 252 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 will certainly be a grand, philosophic, and generally compre- 
 hensive work. They want to know, by way of coming practically 
 to business, " What it will make 1 " 
 
 Happy Thought. — To reply, genially, "A Hit." They mean, 
 however, " How many pages will it make 1 " The question with 
 me is, "How many pages do they ivant it to make 1 " Subject 
 postponed until I've found this out. I decline to hurry it. They 
 agree with me. Because a work like this requires application, con- 
 centration, and sustentation. Again they agree with me. In the 
 meantime they have, they say— at least, their Managing Director 
 says — that they have by them some novel illustrations for a 
 Christmas book about Cinderella, and if I would like to under- 
 take "writing up "to these, why, Typical Developments, Vol. I., 
 might easily wait, Think it over at sea-side. Little Shrimpton 
 with my Aunt and a couple of Uncles. 
 
 Complication in Family Matters. — Basking in the rays of a warm 
 sun on a pebbly beach, under a clear blue sky, and fanned by a 
 gentle breeze, which is neither east nor north — and that's all I, 
 negatively, know about it — I lie, considering present circumstances. 
 I am here, supposed to be, what my friend Englemore calls "pick- 
 ing myself up," and "pulling myself together." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Like a puzzle. Mem. — Note this for Typical 
 Developments, Vol. I. (or somewhere, if not room for it here on 
 account of Popgood and Groolly wanting it to make so many or so 
 few pages), under heading, "P. for Puzzle; Man," &c, &c. There's 
 a fine thought in this, rather hidden, but to be worked out. Do 
 it later. 
 
 The process of pulling myself together and picking myself up, 
 seems to consist, chiefly, in laying myself out, not to shine in 
 Society, but away from Society, in the sun. After two weeks of 
 this method I am partly pulled together, and slightly picked up. 
 
 Without a family, I am a family man. Inexact quotation which 
 occurs to me, " Some achieve families, and some have families 
 thrust upon them." Mine is the latter case. My Aunt came to 
 look after me, and my two Uncles were bequeathed to my care. 
 
 My two Uncles are now on the sands, within ensy reach of the 
 human voice (mine), trying to bury one another with wooden
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 253 
 
 spades in holes of moderate depth. If necessary, I can take both my 
 Uncles, under my arm, and whip them, if they deserve it. They are 
 four and five years of age respectively. They are the result of a 
 
 Happy Thought (occurring to a hale and hearty grandfather over 
 seventy). — Marry again. 
 
 Reminds me of arithmetical game of Thoughts. " Think of a 
 grandfather, over seventy. Double him. Add two to him. Halve 
 him. Then subtract him altogether. Remainder my two Uncles." 
 Orphans. Poor little Uncles ! * * * One of these days, as their 
 guardian, I shall have to take them to school, then to college. I 
 shall have to write to their Master, and say : " Dear Sir, — I hear 
 that you make some reduction on taking two Uncles instead of one. 
 How much per annum for the pair 'I " tire, &c. 
 
 " P.S. I wish my Uncles to have One Shilling each pocket- 
 money, per week, and a cold bath every morning." 
 
 My Uncles — Uncle Jack and Uncle Gil (abbreviated) — being- 
 tired of sand-digging, are commencing stone-throwing. Their 
 immediate object is an old gentleman who is gazing at the sea. 
 Uncle Jack's intention (he is four years old) is no doubt admirable, 
 but his capabilities are limited. It might be called a game of 
 " Anybody's head." This time very near mine. I awake from a 
 reverie to the fact that stone-throwing is dangerous. I speak 
 severely. They laugh. 
 
 Sappy Thought. — Here's my Aunt Jane and the nurse. 
 
 My Uncles are given in charge. 
 
 My Aunt Jane has something to say on the subject of Health ; 
 hei's. On this she prefers consulting me to going to a Doctor. 
 My other Aunt consults me on legal questious, this one on medical. 
 
 She is aware that I once went to Aix-la-Chapelle for rheumatism, 
 and that, more or less, ever since, I've been studying pulling my- 
 self together and picking myself up ; with one exceptional time 
 when my whole object was to pull myself down. 
 
 My Aunt Jane is a martyr to neuralgia, she describes it as Rheu- 
 matic Neuralgia. She is of an impulsive, Avarm-hearted disposi- 
 tion, and, generally speaking, would rather like talking than not. 
 
 Happy Thought. — She is " generally speaking." 
 
 She has a queer way of getting her words entangled before they
 
 254 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 come out, leaving it to the hearer to unravel them and arrange 
 them in a coherent sentence. In a Pagan country she would have 
 been an Oracle. 
 
 Happy Thought. — My Sphinxian Aunt. 
 
 Having thought over her style of conversation — or her absence 
 of style — I see that it is not a Mrs. Malaproprian nor a Mrs. Rams- 
 bothamian style, but one peculiarly her own, and, on analysis, I 
 should say it arose out of an economical desire to save time by 
 thinking of sentence Number Two, while in the middle of sentence 
 Number One. 
 
 She addresses me, speaking rather hurriedly, and occasionally 
 stopping with a kind of gasp, and a surprised look, her mouth 
 open, as if the supply of words had (as it were) been suddenly cut 
 off at the main, " I've been suffering all the morning with face- 
 ache, but whether it's my toothjaw " (one word this) "or what, I 
 don't know, but I'm really afraid that I've got some irreme- 
 
 ■dibiddle disease which " hei*e she gasps. Supply cut off. 
 
 I take advantage of this to ask what she really means by 
 •" irremedibiddle." 
 
 " You know very well what the word means, I'm sure, or ought 
 to," she replies, a little hurt. 
 
 " If you mean, Aunt, irremediable " 
 
 [Happy Thought that flashes across me. Que (liable ! irreme- 
 diable ! To arrange this afterwards as a French joke, and put it 
 down to Talleyrand or Moliere.] 
 
 "if you mean ' irremediable,' " I continue, for the Happy 
 
 Thought is only a mental flash which does not interrupt the 
 sentence, " I understand." 
 
 " Of course," she replies, " I said irremediable, and I know it's 
 a correct word, though you always find fault with what I say, be- 
 cause when I was thinking about what a cureness was which 
 
 couldn't be " here she corrects herself of her own accord — " I 
 
 mean an illness was which couldn't be cured, I thought there was 
 one word for it, and so I looked out irremediable and found it in 
 Dixon's Johnsonary." 
 
 "Johnson's Dictionary, Aunt," I say. 
 
 " I said so," she returns with some dignity ; " and if I didn't, you
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 255 
 
 know what I mean well enough, and needn't take me up for every 
 little mistake." 
 
 She has decided that she has " Rheumatism all over her, and is 
 not quite sure that it isn't what the Doctors call ' imperceptible 
 gout,' which results," she adds, " in goodness knows what, and all 
 sorts of things." 
 
 What does she propose as a cure ? She answers, readily, that 
 she would trust herself implicitly to me if I would take her where 
 I went myself some years ago, to Aix-la-Chapelle. She has 
 evidently made up her mind to this. I reply, that I will "turn it 
 over." While she goes down to my two Uncles on the sands, I 
 meditate. 
 
 Process of " Turning it over." — This year I have determined 
 to take up farming and gardening, or gardening and farming, 
 scientifically and (I think I foresee it in the future) profitably. 
 Besides, in Vol. II., Typical Developments, I shall soon come 
 to Letter F., naturally, u Farming ;" with a note at bottom of 
 page, "See, also, G. Gardening," and I shall want to write about 
 it. My friend and adviser, Englemore, has strongly recommended 
 me ' agricultural pursuits as a first-rate thing. As he is coming- 
 down to-morrow (unless he telegraphs, which, when once you've 
 started him at what he calls " wiring," he generally does three or 
 four times a day), I can consult him as to when I ought to begin 
 my " farming and gardening operations." ... I am dropping off 
 into a drowsy state when somehow, in connection with my Aunt's 
 notion about Aix-la-Chapelle, there occurs to me suddenly a 
 
 Happy Thought. — German Gardening. 
 
 Odd that, quite coincidentally, the two words fall naturally 
 under " G " in Typical Developments, Vol. II. (if I get as far in 
 Vol. II. : it might be Vol. X. before I reached " G " ; but, anyhow, 
 I should be prepared with material. [Note. — Hitherto, I've gene- 
 rally collected " Material " in rnems and notes, on odd slips of 
 paper, for months, and then either been unable to remember the 
 circumstances to which they relate, or have lost them altogether, or 
 later intelligence has rendered them valueless.]) Also, as another 
 really very curious coincidence, under the letter "F" "Farming 
 in France."
 
 256 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 .Happy Thought. — French Farming. Or, if any difficulty about 
 Farming, why not Floriculture 1 This alphabetically brings us. 
 back to " E," when I commence with " English E. . . ." Think 
 of some word initialled with " E," and meaning Gardening. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Dixon's Johnsonary. Look it out. "Eagle — ■ 
 Eardrops — Earth." This is nearer but not the thing, " English 
 Earth "— continue with Dixon's Johnsonary — " Ear-trumpet — 
 Easter — Eaves." Eaves is suggestive of country and poetry, but, 
 on the whole, is not sufficiently comprehensive. 
 
 Try again. " Echo — Eddy — Eelspout — E florescence." Here we 
 are. 
 
 Happy Thought. — English Efflorescence ! The series would be 
 (1) English Efflorescence. (2) French Farming. (3) German 
 Gardening. Telegraph this to Popgood and Groolly. Really an 
 idea. With illustrations. Coloured. Pigs look well in pictures, 
 coloured. Query, who'll do 'em? 
 
 My Aunt, who has dismissed Uncles Jack and Gil to their 
 dinner — [we see them in the distance staggering about very 
 unsteadily, Uncle Jack being in perpetual difficulties with an elastic 
 hat-string which won't keep his hat on his head for more than two 
 minutes in anything like a breeze, and Uncle Gil who " gives " a 
 little at the knees and has an undecided style of progression] — 
 asks me if I've decided, because if so we ought to go as soon as 
 possible in order to make Hay while the shine suns— or rather, sun 
 shines, she means. Strange coincidence again, that she should 
 have used the expression " make hay." 
 
 " At all events," she says, with a letter in her hand, " I've just 
 heard that the Glymphyns have gone there : young Mr. Glymphyn 
 is a martyr, I'm told, to Dipthatical Sytherea in one of the two 
 if not both, and he can't put one leg to the ground without the 
 other, so they hope to cure him." 
 
 " Cure him of what 1 " I ask. 
 
 "Sciatica," she answers. "I said so before, only you really 
 never do seem to attend to me." 
 
 I can't quite make up my mind. I tell her the reason. "At 
 all events," she says, " you might take me over, and leave me at 
 the Glymphyns, who would be delighted to see me, and take the 
 most possible care, and if Charlotte Glymphyn, though she's
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 257 
 
 mottled and serried now, and her name is Borrowdaile, I fancy it 
 
 ■will be pleasant if " here comes the gasp, and the stream is 
 
 dried up. 
 
 The Glymphyns to me are not an inducement. Besides, if I go 
 again to Germany, it will be simply and solely in the interests of 
 the letter " G " — ■" German Gardening " — consequently I don't 
 want to be mixed up with nothing but English, nor do I want to 
 live in a town. No ; in a farm or German Gardener's house. 
 Conversations with German Gardener's Daughter. 
 
 Happy Thought. — " G " stands for Gretchen. 
 
 I know my Aunt's object. She is always trying to make me 
 what she calls " go about more." I fancy, from what she says, 
 that she has " somebody in her eye." On this subject we have a 
 difference of opinion. We agree to talk it over to-night. After 
 that I shall consult Englemore. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Give it till to-morrow. 
 
 To this my Aunt replies with something about " Procrastion " 
 being "the thief of time." I suggest " Procrastination. : ' She 
 returns that that is what she said, and adds her usual reference, 
 which is, that if I don't believe there is such a word, I had better 
 consult Dixon's Johnsonarv.
 
 258 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANOTHER DAY AT LITTLE SHRIMPTON EXGLEMORE THE WIRER — 
 
 SXYLB APPEARANCE HIS METHOD — CONSULTATION — JOEY 
 
 COMPLAINT — ON FARMING — IDEAS MECHI — TO AIX. 
 
 my 
 Engle- 
 
 E EXPECT 
 
 old friend 
 more down here. 
 We are advertised 
 of his intention by 
 two telegrams on 
 Saturday, and a 
 letter received this 
 day. Englemore 
 is so addicted to 
 telegraphing, that 
 lis epistolary 
 style has consider- 
 
 ~^/\ tf > ably suffered by a 
 jerky habit of ex- 
 pressing himself, 
 which he has ac- 
 quired during a 
 lone: course of what 
 he calls " wiring." 
 His first tele- 
 gram (for example) 
 is "Come morrow 
 if there wire." 
 
 This means, " I 
 intend to come 
 down to Little Shrimpton to-morrow ; will you be there 1 If so, 
 send an answer by telegram." 
 
 Englemore's letter received this morning. He abbreviates and
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 259 
 
 initialises. " D. B." for instance with him means " Dear Boy." 
 Here it is : 
 
 D. B. How r u ? a ? Met P. yesdy. Asked about L. s. d. 
 No go. Saw T. Your bus. right. All on meeting. With you to day. 
 
 Yours E. 
 
 There never was a man who was more the Complete Incomplete 
 Letter- writer than E., I mean, Englemore. 
 
 He has, too, a conversational method all his own. He is fond 
 of prefixing " Mr." to anything and everything, and alluding to 
 himself as " Your little Englemore." He is about six feet, and 
 has a military bearing. His business, I believe, is that of an 
 accountant (whatever that may be), but he seems to be every- 
 body's adviser, and a general rule exists among his friends " When 
 in doubt consult Englemore." 
 
 He arrives. In a white dustcoat, as natty and bright as if he 
 were going to escort a party of Ladies to Ascot or Goodwood. 
 Whatever the time of the year, however dull the day, he has 
 always a bright flower in his button-hole ; and whatever the 
 weather, and wherever he has come from, his boots are always 
 brilliant, his hat carefully brushed and glossy, and his gloves 
 apparently brand new and fitting perfectly. Winter is, rather 
 than not, his time of year for white waistcoats. 
 
 Happy Thought. — One Englemore doesn't make a summer. 
 
 My Aunt is much taken with him, and never having met him 
 before, behaves like all Englemore's friends do, and wishes at once 
 to consult him. Her Rheumatic Neuralgia is the subject. 
 
 " Well," says Englemore, briskly, " I don't care about Mister 
 
 Rheumatism. The Colonel, here " this is another peculiarity 
 
 of Englemore's ; he gives everyone a title of some sort, but chiefly 
 military, when talking of them, or to them. In this instance, by 
 "Colonel" he means me. It's a little puzzling at first, but my 
 Aunt, obtaining the key from me, listens to him with perfect 
 
 equanimity "the Colonel, here, remembers my being bedded 
 
 by it for ever so long. In came Mister Mustard-plaster, and did 
 the trick." 
 
 ' You don't mecorember — I mean recollect," asks my Aunt, 
 interrupting him quickly, "if that was for Neuralism or — 
 
 ' Well," replies Englemore, understanding her as easily as she 
 
 s 2
 
 260 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 does him. " I fancy Mister Neuralgia was on in that scene some- 
 how. My name was diet for weeks." Then suddenly turning to 
 her, " Do you beef, or banting 1 " 
 
 Another peculiarity of Englemore's is his use of substantives as 
 verbs. To "beef" is with him, to eat much meat. To "banting" 
 is to be generally abstemious. My Aunt answers that she has not 
 as yet adopted any system in particular, but that, on the whole, 
 taking one day with another, she may look upon herself as 
 " beefing." 
 
 " Quite right, too," he observes. "Never banting, now. Not 
 good enough for me. But I think you're quite right, about Mr. 
 Sulphur-waters. I don't French or German myself. The Colonel " 
 (me again) "here parleys, and he knows all the moves." 
 
 " I'm told," says my Aunt, " by others besides my nephew, that 
 the system of baths and regimen is very venerating, or, at all 
 events, predessing." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Evidently "enervating" and "depressing." 
 Repeat the words properly. 
 
 My Aunt turns upon me, rather shortly, with, " Well, I said so." 
 
 "But," says Englemore, cheerfully, "You take the Captain" 
 (me, under a new title) " with you, and he'll do Joey for you, and 
 make you beam." 
 
 My Aunt nods her head, smilingly. I am convinced that she 
 has only a very vague idea of Englemore's meaning. I have a 
 glimmering of it. Should like to go. 
 
 After a silence, she says, " You'll forgive, Mr. Englemore, my 
 obtusity, but what did you say my nephew could do 1 " 
 
 " Do Joey, Ma'am. Funniments. You've seen Punch and 
 Judy — Punch with a stick, Joey the Clown round the corner." 
 
 Happy Thought. — When dull, "do Joey." 
 
 "You mean, he'll amuse me?" asks my Aunt, evincing con- 
 siderable intelligence. 
 
 " Quite so. Should like to come, too," he says, considering the 
 matter ; "but just now coin is not my name. Your little Engle- 
 more's complaint is tick dollaroo." 
 
 I see my Aunt's mind is made up. She says, " You can take 
 me over, and leave me with the Glymphyns, who are staying at
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 261 
 
 Aix, and then you can see the German Farms — which is what my 
 nephew is interested in just now, Mr. Englemore." 
 
 " Ah, yes, capital chap, Mister Pig," he replies promptly, giving 
 his summary of all farming. 
 
 I tell him that I intend taking up the subject, practically and 
 scientifically, with a view, in fact, to letter F in Typical Develop- 
 ments. 
 
 "Ah, yes," he says, "heaps of coin out of that. Go in for 
 Mister Hothouse. Grapes three guineas a pound ; not good 
 enough for your little Englemore. Write The Englishman's 
 Chicken-House Guide, or Out of the Pie/stye into the Poultry. 
 Mister Cockadoodle pays. So does Tommy Turnip. Thousands." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Make thousands out of Tommy Turnip. 
 
 Might (while I think of it) arrange for a small farm before I 
 leave. I suppose farms are to be let furnished ; furniture being 
 pigs, cows, cocks and hens, and — and — what else 1 Odd, I can't 
 think of anything else. The nurse and my two little Uncles can 
 stay there. Then I'll leave my Aunt at Aix, examine German 
 farming system, return here, and introduce new plans and better 
 systems in farming all over the country. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Astonish Mechi. Introduce sulphur-baths 
 for cows. Also douche and vapour. Still, the sole object of my 
 farming must not be merely to astonish Mechi. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Introduce sulphur-baths at the Zoological 
 Gardens. Put the Leopard into one. Advertise, " Can the 
 Leopard change his spots? Yes, by taking sulphur-baths. 
 Admission, 2s. 6d." 
 
 Arrangements. Leave Englemore to see about farm in my 
 absence. Take Aunt to Aix. Read up subject in meantime. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Many years since I was in Aix. Old friends. 
 Never been there during the season. Novelty. 
 
 My Aunt alludes to her friends, the Glymphyns, being there, 
 and the Mompisons too. Do I remember Agatha and Janita 
 Mompison 1 I do. I know what my Aunt means. No. I devote 
 myself to Science — specially Farming. A Farming Hermit. 
 Good name, by the way, for a novel — The Recluse of Rosedale Farm. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Write it.
 
 262 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 NOVEL REVIEWS — FURNISHING — NURSERY RHYME TRAINING UP 
 
 ENGLEMORE — NAMES MY AUNT LETTERS FROM GLYMPHYNS — ■ 
 
 QUORTESFUE BO-PEEP LITTLE UNCLES— POETRY — SERMONS IN 
 
 STONES PEBBLES — THE KOO BEAGLE — REFER TO DIXON. 
 
 w 
 
 'RITE a Novel, I said. 
 Suppose it written, ad- 
 vertised, printed, bound, 
 published, copies sent to news- 
 papers, reviewed, and again 
 advertised with Opinions of 
 the Press. Suppose myself 
 reading the latter. 
 
 Advertisement : — " This day 
 is published," &c, " The Re- 
 cluse of Rosedale Farm. Thirty 
 Thousandth Edition. Popgood 
 and Groolly." 
 
 Opinions of the Press : — 
 " This is perhaps the most 
 charming novel of the season. 
 There is a grace, a lightness, 
 and yet such a depth and," 
 &c, &c. — Morning Paper. 
 
 " If every novel of the pre- 
 sent day was only half as good 
 as The Recluse of Rosedale 
 Far?n, the ground on which 
 our objections are founded would be cut from under our feet." — 
 The Collective Review. 
 
 . "Mr. Thingummy has done the literary State good service in 
 this new work. In the character of Grace Whatsliemavie, the demi- 
 monde is drawn by a master-hand." — Piccadilly Gazette. 
 
 Cz?
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 263 
 
 " The strictest Materfaniilias need not be afraid of placing The 
 Recluse in the hands of her daughters. There is not a word, not 
 an expression, not a description, but breathes the true spirit of 
 poetry, piety, Christian charity, and virtue." — The Churchwoman 's 
 Mirror. 
 
 " We congratulate the author upon the latest work which has 
 fallen from his pen. The Recluse of Rosedale Farm will place him 
 in the first rank of our most distinguished novelists." — Dumpshire 
 Clironicle. 
 
 " Bustling, lively, racy of the soil." — Sporting Standard. 
 
 " True to life, outspoken, and though perhaps more suitable to 
 the study than the drawing-room, yet neither Dowager nor Demoi- 
 selle will take much harm, while they will learn a great deal, from 
 its perusal." — Colosseum. 
 
 " This romance, or novel, supplies a genuine want. The Recluse 
 of Rosedale Farm, we have no hesitation in saying, is a work that 
 will live. The Rabbi's Sermon is admirable, while, indeed, the 
 entire picture of village life, at its purest, is one which may make 
 us justly proud of our country." — Jewish Journal. 
 
 " No more scathing diatribe against the Hebraic usurers of the 
 present day has ever been penned than the chapter in which is 
 described the interview between Geoffrey and old Shi Lock Kerr. 
 The character of the Jew is entirely new, and, as far as our 
 memory serves us, perfectly original. His despair, when Jessie 
 Kerr, having robbed him of his treasures, elopes with Lord Renzo, 
 is almost too intense." — Happy Dispatch.^ 
 
 Englemore is furnishing a house in town. On this subject he 
 consults my Aunt, reciprocating her confidence in him. My Aunt 
 slily supposes he is going to be married. Englemore admits that 
 he is giving a look round. This interests my Aunt. So does the 
 subject of furniture. She strongly recommends stained floors, and 
 carpet in the middle. This idea seems to take Englemore's fancy. 
 My Aunt promises to give him, before he leaves, the name of the 
 man who stained the floor of the house that her friend Mr. John 
 Skimpsher built, where it answered admirably. 
 
 Happy Thought (to myselj). — This is the house that Skimpshire 
 built ; this is the Floor of the House, &c. ; this is the Man who 
 stained, &.c. ; this is the Address of the Man who, &c. Nursery
 
 264 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 rhymes adapted to everyday use. This worked out might be a 
 playful education for children. Instead of teaching them nonsense, 
 teach them sense, but, so to speak, nonsensically. 
 
 Englemore " ti'ains up " to town, and leaves us, being very busy 
 about his new house, where to-morrow, he tells us, "he's got Mister 
 Carpenter coming." I remind him of what I want him to do for 
 me, and he promises to "keep his eye open for Farm." 
 
 I give him I say carte blanche to do what he likes in my absence. 
 He replies, " All right, Colonel," and we seem to understand each 
 other perfectly. There is an air of business about this off-hand 
 way of settling a matter which is very assuring. On considera- 
 tion, after he has gone, it occurs to me that he scarcely required 
 any carte blanche from me to do what he liked. Hope he won't 
 think it all a joke, or that I'm, as he calls it, " doing Joey." How- 
 ever, we did seem to understand one another. 
 
 Happy Thought. — In order that any matter of business should 
 be perfectly intelligible, nothing should ever be "understood." 
 Make this into what Englemore would call Mister Epigram, and 
 put it down to Home Tooke. 
 
 Will write and explain. I do so. By way of answer I receive 
 a telegram. " Yes. Agreed. What you said. Right." Before 
 I have time to find out what on earth he means, another telegram 
 arrives. It is "Ask who stains floors. Where." 
 
 My Aunt, to whom I show this, suddenly remembers having 
 forgotten to give Mr. Dangerfield (she seldom gets a name 
 correctly, and never on a short acquaintance) — ''Englemore," I 
 say. Well, she supposes I know whom she means, and she forgot 
 to give him his address. " The stainerer who's an upholster," she 
 informs me rapidly, " lives at — dear me ! let me see — a street near 
 what was the Chinition — I mean the Chinese Exhibition, years 
 ago. Number Thirty-one, I think it is ; but I'll look it out, and 
 your friend, Mr. — Mr. — Appleton " 
 
 Happy Thought. — Nod " Yes." 
 
 My Aunt means Englemore, but why shouldn't he be "Apple- 
 ton," to save discussion ? 
 
 " Yes, he has only to go to him, and mention my name. He 
 will find him a most respectaby eldable person."
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 265 
 
 Happy Thought. — Respectaby eldable person. Evidently stand- 
 ing for "respectable elderly person." The words sound like a 
 quotation from what might be called the Drunken Dictionary. 
 
 Next Day. — Aunt receives letter from the Glymphyns. 
 
 She tells me that " I must write and say the exact day when 
 I'm coming, as Janita Glymphyn tells me that, in that case, she 
 has seen some lodgings which Captain Quortesfue will take for 
 me. 
 
 Captain who 1 Think whom my Aunt means, as it annoys her 
 to suggest a " proper name." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Found it out. "Quortesfue," means For- 
 tesque. Captain Fortescue. 
 
 All clear. Make arrangements for little Uncles Jack and Gil at 
 Little Shrimpton ; then, day after to-morrow, depart. 
 
 Happjy Thought (musically). — Partant pour le Soufre-ia (i, a, 
 to fill up " Mister Metre "). 
 
 My Aunt would rather be left alone to pack without my assist- 
 ance, or anvbody's. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Leave her alone. Suggestion of Little Bo- 
 Peep, — 
 
 Let her alone, 
 
 She'll, going from home, 
 
 Leave lots of things behind her. 
 
 On thinking over this Nursery Rhyme, it occurs to me that 
 there must be something radically wrong with an educational 
 system which commences by teaching the infant mind that 
 " alone " rhymes with " home." How many gushing poets have 
 been lost to the world bv this ! 
 
 Hap//// Thought. — hots, T hope. 
 
 I go out and sit on the beach, watching my little Uncles. 
 
 They are never tired of digging in the sand, apparently with the 
 idea of ultimately making a new basin for the sea to wash itself in, 
 nor do they ever weary of varying the amusement with an occa- 
 sional quarter of an hour devoted to stone-throwing. 
 
 Beach Thoughts. — There are few stronger temptations presented
 
 266 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 to the human mind than that of stone-throwing. Moral of above 
 for inward application. 
 
 Children can't resist it. The smaller the child, the larger the 
 stone. This is experimental stone-throwing. The Boy [who is 
 " father to the man " — and why not if my Uncles are about thirty 
 years or so younger than their nephew] — the Boy delights in dis- 
 tance. Distance lends enchantment to the stone. He likes to 
 show how far he can make a stone go. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Another moral for inward application : Teach 
 him how far he can make a shilling go, and reduce his pocket- 
 money. 
 
 Beach Thoughts (same subject continued). — The Youth does fancy 
 tricks with stones. Chiefly Ducks and Drakes. [Evident inward 
 application again. ] 
 
 Happy Thought. — Youth must have its fling. 
 
 Old man sits quietly down and throws small stones at intervals 
 into the sea. The older the man the smaller the pebble. 
 Sad and Poetic Inspiration. — 
 
 Morals mingle 
 With the shingle. 
 
 Also, subject for a classical cartoon, The Fleeting Hours playing 
 upon the Sands of Time. 
 
 Nurse comes to remove Uncles Jack and Gil. They remon- 
 strate, having one more hole to make. Uncle Gil has in his pail 
 a choice collection of small green crabs. Nurse empties the pail, 
 and that is the result of his morning's work. He is a little down- 
 cast at first, as I fancy he has regarded them with the eye of an 
 epicure. Uncle Gil tries to watch them all at once crawling off in 
 different directions. I am sure that there passes through his mind 
 a vague hope that they will all meet again (he and the same crabs) 
 in happier times, when perhaps they will have grown bigger and 
 we can have them for tea. Gil is a quiet boy, with a roving eye. 
 When perfectly still, and smiling to himself, I have no doubt that 
 his mind is arranging (on the theory of " Unconscious Cere- 
 bration ") some deep scheme for the future. He is only five years 
 old, and my theory to account for his reserved demeanour is, that
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 2&? 
 
 the greatness of his mental operations stagger him. He is deep 
 in plots and conspiracies. An infant Maehiavelli. Uncle Jack is 
 noisy and active. I ascertain that it was Uncle Jack who collected 
 the crabs, but it was Uncle Gil who offered his pail for their 
 reception, and who ultimately was walking off with them when 
 Justice (represented by the Nurse) interfered. 
 
 Adieux to little Uncles. Aunt and boxes ready. My Aunt is 
 perpetually reassuring herself of the wisdom of the step she is now 
 taking for getting rid of the " Rheumalgic Neuralism " (vide Dixon's 
 Johnsonary. 
 
 "Charlotte — Mrs. — dear me — you know who was Miss — dear me 
 — Miss Glymphyn, of course, though it really is dreadful to forget 
 names like this, and I can't help being afraid that the Rheumery 
 weakens the memory — but what I was saying was, that in the 
 letter this morning she says her mother, who's laid up there, can 
 recommend me to a Doctor who's a thorough lecebrity." 
 
 " A — a — what, Aunt, is he 1 " ( Wanted Dixon's Johnsonary.) 
 " I say," she replies, slowly, " that the doctor to whom they go 
 is a thorough celebrity. You'll like the Glymphyns, I'm sure ; 
 Janita's a very pretty girl, and very sensible, too ; and they're all 
 so musical, so's young Mr. Glymphyn, who's a great student of 
 Historal Natury — I mean" (she corrects herself in a marked 
 manner, as much as to convey to me that, she knows, thank you, 
 when she makes a mistake) — " I mean, of course, Natural History ' ; 
 and I dare say that's why they've made Captain Quortesfue's ac- 
 quaintance, who, I told you, was there, and as she writes, Janita 
 says to me in her letter she must finish her letter as they're 
 making such a noise with practising duetts between the piano and 
 koo beagle." 
 
 [Hapjiy Thought.- — u Koo Beagle^ evidently " Key Bugle" vide 
 Dixon's Johnsonary.]
 
 268 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 UP TO TOWN — STILL ON FARMING NOTES BY THE WAY — ANIMAL 
 
 VEGETABLE TELFORD— MORE ON FARMS — QUESTION ANSWER 
 
 PLATFORMS — DIXON'S AGAIN THE GIPSY — THE FIRST JOKE 
 
 MORE FARMING. 
 
 G 
 
 OING up to town by 
 train, a really Happy 
 
 Thought occurs to me, 
 suggested by a conversation 
 which I can't help overhear- 
 ing. The conversation is about 
 farming. The conversers (or 
 "verconsers" according to 
 Dixon's Johnscnary) are two 
 agriculturists. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Gentle- 
 men-formers. Be a Gentle- 
 man, and be a Farmer. 
 Equal 'parts judiciously 
 mixed. Must listen ; occa- 
 sionally pick up, and then 
 note down. This repeated 
 often must be valuable. 
 
 What I gather from their 
 conversation (which is difficult 
 to catch, as they talk toivards the window, occasionally look- 
 ing out). That is a capital thing to roll a meadow. Always give 
 
 top dressings to [What it is I can't hear, but can fill this up 
 
 another time.] That hay won't be so dear this year as last. That 
 you " give it 'em green " in the summer. " 'Em " refers, I suppose, 
 to horses, and "green" to grass. That some people don't "give 
 it 'em green." Hay is now three fifteen to four ten. I wonder if 
 this is by the peck or the bushel. One agriculturist observes, that 
 " he finds it best in certain cases to give his animal roots." 
 
 Query. — What animal ? What roots 1 What certain occasions ?
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 26',) 
 
 The other gentleman-farmer agrees with him. Yes ; certainly 
 roots. Is he (his friend) well off for roots 1 Yes, it appears he 
 is tolerably well, but won't want 'em now. The other one sup- 
 poses that he won't. The train stops — it is going to stop very 
 often, as my Aunt Jane dislikes express travelling — and a stout 
 gentleman in a light suit gets in with a friend. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Telford (in the light suit). The very man I 
 want to see. 
 
 Curious chance ! Quite a coincidence ! He is a great hand at 
 farming, agriculture, horticulture, and chicken-culture. I intro- 
 duce him to my Aunt. He introduces his friend, and we are 
 supposed now to know each other. At the same moment the 
 gentleman-farmers descend. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Consult Telford. Tell him my plans. Going 
 to see a German Farm. 
 
 "Aha!" he laughs at once. I know. Seen 'em in toys. 
 German trees with Christmas things on 'em." And this notion 
 amuses him immensely. His friend smiles, as an acquaintance. 
 Aunt Jane is amused. Telford has such a remarkably jolly laugh, 
 that to hear him is enough to set other people off without know- 
 ing the joke. He shakes a good deal in laughing, and from a 
 twinkle in his eye one is apt to fancy that he knows another joke 
 worth two of the one he's apparently enjoying now. 
 
 "And what are you doing here?" This is my question. On 
 consideration, indiscreet, because if he doesn't wish to tell me 
 "what he is doing here," he must either be rude, and retort with 
 "What that's to you 1 " or must tell a lie. 
 
 Happy Thought. — To add immediately playfully, " I won't press 
 the question." 
 
 This again (on consideration) is indiscreet. It conveys (I see 
 it does) to my Aunt the idea that she is in a carriage with a Don 
 Juan weighing about sixteen stone, or a Cupid of about forty-five 
 unable to get a pair of wings to carry him. 
 
 Telford replies that he has come to this part to look after a pony. 
 
 1 never yet met him, and I've known him some time, when he 
 wasn't going somewhere to look after a pony, or when he hadn't 
 "just heai-d of something to suit him."
 
 270 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Happy Thought. — A Pony. Does he think it would suit me I 
 His natural reply is the question, "Do you want one?" I may 
 safely say " Yes " to this, because I always want one, and never 
 had one. Besides, with Telford and his friend (who are both very 
 much sporting-men) it puts one on the same platform for the 
 time being to want a pony. And being on the same platform one 
 can converse. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Always get on the same platform with 
 another fellow, if possible. 
 
 Telford looks me over, and turning to his friend says, " he 
 knows the very thing to suit me." 
 
 Happy Thought. — To look perfectly delighted. Think (to 
 myself). — Must get out of this again somehow. Perhaps I might 
 be saddled with a pony — (paddled with a soney, vide Dixon's 
 Johnsonary) before I knew where I was, so to speak. When I've 
 got the farm I shall want one. 
 
 " I'll tell you who told me about him," says Telford, turning to 
 his friend, and referring to the pony. 
 
 "Who?" asks his friend. 
 
 " Ned. the Gipsy," replies Telford. 
 
 I watch with interest the effect of this information on his 
 friend. I rather expect him (I don't know why) to pooh-pooh 
 Ned the Gipsy. 
 
 " Um ! " returns his friend, thinking it over, " I saw the Gipsy 
 with the pony at Twigham Meeting. He wanted me to have it." 
 Here he suddenly breaks off, as if the subject were an unpleasant 
 one to revert to. It leaves me in a reverie as to whether he did 
 have it or not. I should like to ask him. I feel that it's an 
 unfinished tale. The tale of a pony unfinished. Wonder, by the 
 way, who invented this jeu de mots on "tale" and "tail " How it 
 must have set the table in a roar when first said. I should like 
 to hear the history of The First Joke. Date 3 a.d. "a.d." here 
 means Ante-Deluge. There were some very queer words then, 
 suitable for jeu de mots. 
 
 Happy Thought.— For a proverb, There are good and bad jokes 
 in all languages. A sort of Proverb. Joke-Explorers might make
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 271 
 
 voyages, like Dr. Livingstone, in search of a joke, or like Diogenes, 
 with a lantern, in quest of a good honest joke. Happy Title for 
 Tales of Adventure, The Joke Catchers. 
 
 Ch. I. How they heard of a joke. Ch. II. How they set out 
 to catch that joke. Ch. III. How they heard two Joke-Crackers 
 in the distance. Ch. IV. How they came on the Joke-Crackers' 
 tracks — (good phrase this for Dixon's Johnsonary. Ask my Aunt 
 to try it, and see what she makes of it). Ch. V. How they came 
 on an extinct Volcano, which had busted itself with laughter. 
 Ch. VI. How they lost their way in the Pun-jab, where the Pun- 
 jabberers dwell. Ch. VII. How they couldn't see the joke. 
 Ch. VIII. How several weeks passed, and yet they couldn't see 
 the joke. Ch. IX. How at last one of their party made a shot at 
 the joke. Ch. X. How the joke fell flat. Ch. XI. How one of 
 their party decided that it was no joke. Ch. XII. How, at all 
 events, they all said they'd heard of a much better joke than that. 
 Ch. XIII. How they set out again. Ch. XIV. How they did not 
 catch that joke, Brave Boy ! But being taken by the Punjabberers 
 and Joke-Crackers were cruelly sold. Ch. XV. How they could 
 only escape by coming across a very bi'oad joke, and a very 
 dangerous joke. Ch. XVI. How they came to a kingdom where 
 their motto was, Pro aris et Jocis for our Altars and Jokes. 
 Ch. XVII. How they were introduced to the Best Joke that ever 
 was made. Ch. XVIII. How they laughed at it, and wouldn't 
 listen to the Worst Joke. Ch. XIX. How the Worst Joke being 
 irritated, fought the Best Joke. Ch. XX. How the Worst took 
 Best. Ch. XXI. How the Worst retaliated upon the Joke- 
 Explorers, and ordered the Joke-Crackers to tickle their fancies 
 and the Word-Twisters to torment their ears, until at length the 
 tears poured down the cheeks of the Joke-Explorers. Ch. XXII. 
 How, finally, they died o' laughing 
 
 All this out of a Pony's tail ! 
 
 One hour in the train passed. One more. 
 
 Telford says, after a pause, " He'll go in harness, quiet to ride 
 and drive, and up to weight." 
 
 " The very thing I should like," I saj', with a mental reserva- 
 tion to the effect, " and the very thing I don't mean to have."
 
 272 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 My Aunt interposes, " You can't possibly wan't a pony," I am 
 a little hurt at this. 
 
 " Why not 1 " I ask. 
 
 " Well," she says, " I've never seen you ride." 
 
 Telford and his friend smile. I protest (because it really is 
 annoying) against my Aunt's insinuation. " I've not ridden for 
 two years, but I used to hunt regularly." 
 
 "Ah ! " says Telford, interested. " What hounds used you to 
 go with 1 " 
 
 Happy Thought. — None in particular. Sometimes Leicestershire, 
 sometimes Dorsetshh-e ; also Hertfordshire, and — and — many 
 other packs. I revert mentally and especially to the Brighton 
 Harriers. In talking to thoroughly sporting and hunting men 
 like Telford, its best not — (I've found this out by experience) — it's 
 best not to boast much about runs with the Brighton Harriers. 
 There's so little peril " by flood and field " connected with the 
 B.H. The most you can say is to a friend who's been out with 
 them, " That was a nasty hill you came down, when you got off 
 and walked," or " That was a stiff bit of country up that hill 
 where I was obliged to dismount." Also, "There was some 
 awkward ruts in that last ploughed field ; " and then with enthu- 
 siasm, "It was a splendid burst across those turnips! !" And, 
 cunningly, "I think that ditch (2 feet by 1) or that furze bush 
 (2 feet high) choked off a few of them." 
 
 " Well," says my Aunt, with something of irony in her tone 
 which doesn't suit her, " I'm sure I wouldn't have said so if I 
 hadn't thought it. But I've never seen you on horseback, and 
 really wasn't aware until you told me now that you were even a 
 tolerant equestable." 
 
 Explanation wanted. Telford and friend look at me and smile. 
 "You mean," I say to her, "that you did not think that I was 
 even a tolerable Equestrian." 
 
 "I said so," returns my Aunt. {Vide Dixon's Johnsonary as 
 usual.)
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 273 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WE JOURNEY UP TO TOWN AND DISCUSS POULTRY, EGGS, AND 
 - AGRICULTURAL SUBJECTS — PIGS — PRIZES — PARLIAMENT — LABOUR 
 
 — ADVERTISING CHICKENS AGAIN — ON TO COWS — CRIPPLES 
 
 NOTES AND MEMS MADE ON THIS OCCASION. 
 
 W ! 
 
 E DROP the 
 
 Pony, and come 
 to farming operations 
 generally. Telford 
 and his friend know 
 a good deal about 
 poultry. 
 
 Happy Thought. — ■ 
 Draw 'em out. 
 
 Telford's friend will 
 have nothing but 
 Cochins. Telford him- 
 self says, " No, have 
 Dorkings and 
 Spanish." Telford 
 wants us to guess how 
 
 many 
 
 eggs 
 
 he 
 
 had 
 
 from 
 
 November 
 
 to 
 
 February. I 
 
 am 
 
 in- 
 
 clined 
 
 to say, 
 
 thou 
 
 ght- 
 
 fully, " Well, let me see " — as if I were making a stupendous 
 calculation — "six a day." Telford's friend asks, "How many 
 hensl" I note this question as being naturally the common- 
 sense one to put to a man who wants you to guess about eggs. 
 I wonder how it is that I didn't at once think of this question. 
 T was simply occupying myself with the vaguest probabilities 
 without any data to go upon. Telford's friend, having obtained 
 his data, which means fifty hens, expresses his guarded opinion 
 that Telford ought to have had a good lot of eggs. Telford replu s 
 that, as a matter of fact, he had, and informs us that they nuin- 
 
 T
 
 274 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 bered over two thousand. " Put 'em at twopence apiece," says 
 he, knowingly, "and that's money." 
 
 My Aunt chimes in, in a hurry, " I'm sure you must find it 
 very amusing, and I dare say where you cannot always calocate 
 on such a very returnable remark — I mean," she says, with a 
 sudden gasp, " a very remarkable return of eggs, the mere looking 
 after and attending to the chickens, as we used to do at home, 
 Avhere we always kept Dorkshires and Fowl-door Barns, as I told 
 my nephew, and I believe they're the best after all," — gasp to 
 recover her sentence — " on the whole I should say that, after all, 
 it's far more repusing than mofitable." [Evidently, " more 
 amusing than profitable," vide Dixon's Johnsonary.] 
 
 Telford's friend now informs us that he has sold eggs at four- 
 pence apiece. We all say, " Indeed ! " 
 
 Mental Calculation. — Sixty eggs at fourpence equal a pound. 
 If this could be done every day, evidently there would be " a for- 
 tune," as Englemore would put it, " out of Mister Chicken." 
 
 Happy Thought. — To ask Telford's friend, can he do this (this 
 meaning sixty eggs at fourpence apiece) regularly. 
 
 He adds, decidedly, " no, nothing like it. And then," he 
 adds, "you must deduct for their food." 
 
 Their food? I always had an idea that it cost nothing to 
 keep poultry ; that, in fact, you gave them anything, — chiefly, 
 perhaps, pepper. 
 
 " Lots of oyster-shells," says Telford. 
 
 " Greens," sa}-s Telford's friend 
 
 " Yes," rejoins Telford, " and nettles." 
 
 Make useful notes for the future out of this. I can speak with 
 some authority as to fowls, as I once kept seven in a chicken- 
 house at the Cottage (given up now some years since) where, I 
 remind Telford, with the air of a man who's reared prize fowls, he 
 may remember to have seen them. 
 
 "Yes," says Telford, in his brusque and hearty way, "I 
 recollect." 
 
 " I had some good ones there," I say, knowingly. This is for 
 the benefit of Telford's friend, who is inclined to be supercilious 
 in poultry matters.
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 275 
 
 I rather hope that Telford will have forgotten all about them, 
 and corroborate my estimate of their worth. 
 
 " "Well," says Telford, shutting one eye, and, as it were, putting 
 himself back three 3-ears for the sake of recalling the event of his 
 visit, "well — urn — " this doubtfully ; he evidently has put him- 
 self back, and is once more by the side of my Fowl-house, " um — 
 yes. You had one old Cochin " 
 
 " Very fine old Hen she was," I say, in my character of The 
 Prize Poultry Rearer. 
 
 Happy Thought {in theatrical form.) — My character for this 
 occasion only, solely for The Benefit of Telford's Friend. 
 
 "Yes," replies Telford, "that was a fine old Hen. I gave her 
 to you. But she was too old, and the others were a measly lot." 
 A measly lot ! If I had expected this I wouldn't have asked his 
 opinion. He continues : "I recollect telling you then that they'd 
 have done much better as Mulligatawny than as fowls." 
 
 Telford's friend laughs, my Aunt smiles, and Telford laughs as 
 he repeats, "Horrid measly lot." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Treat what he says as a joke. Then Telford's 
 friend will think that they weren't " a measly lot," after all. 
 
 But, additional mem, for future Farming use ; note it down as 
 " P. M. M. — Poultry— Measles— Mulligatawny." 
 
 As we've not got much more time in the train, I ask Telford 
 and his friend, if they've, both or either, ever kept pigs. 
 
 Yes, both. " Then," to come to the point, " what w T ould you 
 say about Pigs ? " 
 
 "In what w r ay," asks Telford, "for sale, for fattening, or foi 
 breeding ? " 
 
 Evidently more ways than one of keeping a pig. 
 
 Happy Thought — For Sale. Undoubtedly keep a pig for sale. 
 You can't make money out of him unless you do sell him. 
 
 Telford's friend here interposes. He says, " There's only one 
 
 way to make pigs pay. Buy 'em young, very cheap, keep 'em 
 
 until they want something to eat, and then sell 'em. I can buy 
 
 mine at four shillings, and sell 'em at fifteen, and you've spent 
 
 nothing on their feed." 
 
 T 2
 
 276 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " But," I ask, diffidently, " they must be very thin 1 " I was 
 going to say " very hungry," only I don't like to accuse Telford's 
 friend of cruelty to animals, point blank ; besides, it may not be 
 considered as cruelty in farming operations. 
 
 "No," he says, then adds, as if explaining away any doubt we 
 might have had on the subject, " they're not prize pigs, of course." 
 As this appears to be satisfactory to Telford and his friend, I 
 merely reply that " of course, they're not expected to be Prize Pigs," 
 to which Telford's friend returns, " No, of course not." And so the 
 subject drops. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Our conversation in the way of taking up and 
 dropping subjects is quite like a Parliamentary report. Some one 
 gets up and asks, in clear type (indicative of importance of person 
 or subject), whether the — whoever it is — is ready to explain what- 
 ever it is. Whereupon up gets the — whoever it is — and does not 
 explain it to anybody's satisfaction. Then, when you'd expect a 
 hot controversy on a question involving so many weighty interests, 
 you find nothing more said, but merely the words, " The subject 
 was then dropped ; " and in a jerky manner, up comes the heading 
 of another matter altogether — "Mines," perhaps — and up gets 
 some one who " wants to know," and is cheerfully answered by 
 some one who doesn't know, and then that subject is dropped. 
 
 So we suddenly take up the topic of Labour. Telford's friend, 
 who lives in the south-west of England, supposes that Telford, who 
 lives in the South Midland, finds labour dear. This, I apprehend, 
 is a really vital question. 
 
 Telford does find labour dear. I should like to know — always 
 for information — how many men are necessary where Pigs and 
 Poultry are kept. (This sounds like an Advertisement — " Wanted, 
 by a Young Man under Twenty-two, a Place under a Butler, where 
 a Pig is kept " — or something of that sort. Forget exact instance. 
 It merely flashes across me while I put the question.) Telford says 
 it all depends upon the size. Of the place he means, not the pigs. 
 
 I say, of course naturally ; and, as a premiss to go upon, say 
 six pigs and fifty chickens, with cows to match. 
 
 " Two men," says Telford's friend, " would do all you (meaning 
 me) want." He means all that the Pigs, &c, want. I nod.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARB EX. 277 
 
 " Now," says he, " I'll give you a wrinkle/' We listen atten- 
 tively. " When you want labour cheap, don't get the regular 
 fellows. You'll have to give them just what every one else does, 
 p'raps more. But you get Cripples." Here he winks at us 
 knowingly. 
 
 " Cripples ! " exclaims my Aunt, 
 
 "Yes,"' continues Telford's friend. " Get a fellow whom no one 
 will have, because he's got a game leg or one arm, or weak in the 
 eyes. Farmers won't have him, because he's only half a man. 
 He'll be only too glad to come to you. Half a man, half a man's 
 price. You'll find that, just to show what he can do, he'll work 
 double the amount of a sound 'un. Of course," he says, reflectively, 
 "if they're weak-backed 'uns, the extra steam they put on floors 
 'em, and they go off the hooks early ; but," he adds, in a reassur- 
 ing tone, seeing that this last piece of information has made us a 
 bit gloomy, " but you soon get another. They'd rather come to 
 you than go to the Workhouse ; and the Workhouse, if it had got 
 'em, would give you something to take 'em. It's a capital plan." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Motto for Telford's Friend's Farm, " Go it, ye 
 ( 'ripples ! " 
 
 Notes on Farming gathered from conversation overheard or joined 
 in during trawrjourney : — 
 
 1. That you give horses green hay in summer. [Query when 
 it's " green hay " isn't it grass ? When does grass become hay 1 
 Is all cut grass hay 1 if so, mown grass is at once hay. Must find 
 a Dixon's Farmonary — I mean a Farmer's Dictionary, and look it 
 all out. Give my mind to this subject and the result, as " Your 
 little Englemore " puts it, will be, in time, thousands out of 
 Mister Turnips and Colonel Pigs.] 
 
 2. That in certain cases you give your animal roots. Mem. to 
 find out which animal, and what roots. 
 
 3. Roll your meadow. [Find out why, when, with what, and 
 how much for labour. How many cripples to roll a meadow ?] 
 
 4. Poultry. Give them nettles, pepper, and oyster-shells. [The 
 result would be probably curried eggs. But go into this more 
 fully.] When liens get old, or measly, make 'em into Mulliga- 
 tawny. The worse the lien, the better the Mulligatawny. To
 
 278 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 induce them to lay, give 'em chalk eggs. [Can't understand the 
 principle of this. Must master the principle with a view to scien- 
 tific farming. Telford's friend didn't know " why," but so it was. 
 The only other use of chalk eggs that I've hitherto known has 
 been to encourage Divers. You threw in a chalk egg and a Diver 
 went in for it. Six chalk eggs for threepence. A chalk egg is a 
 
 sort of doll to a Hen. And yet when one comes to reflect but 
 
 it is evident that as yet I have not mastered the principle.] 
 
 5. Pigs. Buy a pig for four shillings, give him nothing to eat 
 (this is most inexpensive), and sell him for fifteen. Evidently 
 profitable. But how to escape, ultimately, Prosecution for Pig 
 Persecution by the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals ! 
 
 I remember a book which might be of some use to me — Our 
 Farm of Four Acres, and what we made of it, or a name something- 
 like it. 
 
 Happy Thought. — If I began farm-keeping now, I might in a 
 few months' time publish a book entitled Our Farm of Four Acres, 
 and the Jolly Mess we made by it. 
 
 6. As to labour. Happy Thought.- — Cripples. 
 
 Arrived. London. Tickets and Terminus. My Aunt refers 
 to her watch and her appetite. "Two o'clock. That's very 
 fortunate," she remarks, " because we can stop at the refreshment- 
 rooms and have our luncheon. I really am quite up-set for the 
 rest of the day," she explains to Telford, "unless I follow out my 
 invariable plan, and always have my puncheon lucktually." [" My 
 luncheon punctually," vide Dixon's Johnsonary, as usual.]
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 279 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ENGLEMORE AGAIN — OX FURNISHING DIFFICULTIES CHANGING 
 
 STATE — COMMISSION HIS POEM NOOKING NEW GRAMMAR — ■ 
 
 ENGLEMORE'S VERBS DRIVE TO ST. KATHERINE's WHARF — 
 
 MILBURD MRS. MILBURD " OFF " SAYS THE STRANGER. 
 
 UR "little" Englemore 
 calls on ns with infor- 
 mation. " I've got," he 
 says, " Mister Berth for 
 you. Best Cabin. One 
 for the Colonel, and one 
 for you, Ma'am." My 
 Aunt thanks him, and 
 requests further parti- 
 culars, which he pro- 
 ceeds to give, in his 
 own way, " Baron 
 Xosey, Sunday at 
 Twelve. Be there rather 
 before, say eleven-thirty, 
 because of Mister Lug- 
 gage. Horrid bore, 
 Peter Portmanteau." 
 
 I tell him that I 
 quite remember all these 
 details, having been by 
 the Baron several 
 times. Upon this 
 
 Englemore remarks to 
 my Aunt, " Then 
 you're Little All-right, Ma'am. The Colonel knows the ropes. 
 Wish I was going with you. Why can't he 1 Why 1 " he answers, 
 " because, first of all, there's Mister Business in Town. Then 
 there's Freddy Furniture in New House. Just finished. Man
 
 280 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 stained floors. Gas laid on. Kitchen stove gone mad. Went 
 home the other evening, found Mrs. Cook, swimming about. 
 Hobby Boiler burst ; no dinner for your little Engelmore, and 
 jolly mess everywhere." 
 
 My Aunt condoles with him. "She knows," she says, "by 
 experience the nuisance of furnishing and bursters boiling." She 
 means boilers bursting, of course, and, " said so." But, she sup- 
 poses, slily, " that Mr. Englemore is only preparing to renounce 
 the bachelor state." 
 
 "Ah," says Englemore, blushing slightly, " don't know yet. We 
 shall see. Settle up for Freddy Furniture, and settle down after- 
 wards." Then turning to me, "I'll be on the look-out for Colonel 
 Farm. I'm going into the Midlands for a week's fishing. Going 
 to see Major Trout. Catch him at home. Then you'll be back 
 before Gregory Grouse and Master Oyster turn up. If you see 
 anything in the w r ay of furniture while you're away, don't forget 
 your Little Englemore." 
 
 On his saying good-bye to us we once more allude, pleasantly, to 
 his intended (evidently intended) marriage. My Aunt, who is not 
 to be put off the scent of a genuine match by any pretence of his 
 as to fishing, observes that she supposes he is to bring home a 
 bride from the Midlands? "Aha!" he returns to my Aunt, 
 "You know too much for me, Ma'am. Talking of that, I was 
 trying to write a song, you know," this to me. I nod, but don't 
 know; however, that's of no importance. " 'A Hieland lass my 
 love was born.' I made it ' A Midland lass my love was born,' only 
 I couldn't get any farther. Mr. Poetry is not my name. Don't 
 know how it's done. Good-bye. I'll have my eye on something 
 for you. I know sort of thing. A Nook, that's what you want. 
 You'd nook all day if you had one. Do Mister Shepherd : pastoral 
 symphony : crook and nook. Good-bye. Love to Mister Germany." 
 I notice that he has at once made a verb of " nook." In Engle- 
 more's grammar 
 
 Hapi^y Thought. — Grammar of the Future, by Your Little 
 Englemore. — In such a Grammar, "to Nook" would signify "to 
 remain in a secluded spot in the country," and would be conju- 
 gated " I nook, Thou nookest, He nooks, &c." Imperative — 
 " Nook ! " i.e. " Go and remain in a secluded spot in the country,"
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 281 
 
 which might gradually come to mean, " Go to Jericho, or Bath, or 
 Coventry." Imperfect — " I was nooking," i.e. " When I was living 
 (or used to live) in a secluded spot in the country," &c. But 
 what a saving of words! Then, at dinner — "Will you mutton 1 ? 
 Do you cucumber 1 " or, while one is about it, with a new grammar 
 of the future, why not " Cucumberez-vous ? " or " Cucumber-you ! " 
 " You'll beer, I suppose ? " 
 
 "I'll wire," continues Englemore, "if Mister Farm turns up. 
 By the way, if you see Sammy Sideboaixl, or Major Armchair 
 anywhere, wire price, as, at present, my name's Mister Furniture. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 And so he leaves us, having probably, as my Aunt suggests^ 
 been running on about his furniture, Major trout, and his noocluded 
 Slooks ("secluded Nooks," vide my Aunt's Dixon's Johnsonaiy), in 
 order to avoid any further questioning about his marriage. 
 
 Aunt, under the impression that St. Katherine's Wharf is at 
 least ten miles from any known centre, determines upon starting 
 early. Usual sombre drive through the urbs mortuorum, with the 
 shutters up on Sunday morning. City looking as if it had been 
 hard at work over-night trying to scrub itself clean, and couldn't 
 for its very life get the dirt out of its ruts and wrinkles. Lines of 
 hard-featured respectabilities going to church ; Paterfamilias look- 
 ing devotionally uncomfortable in his clean, starched collars. If 
 it wasn't for Materfamilias and the girls, who require his presence 
 as a background to their Sunday finery, he would have preferred 
 stopping at home, in his shirt-sleeves to "tot" up his accounts. 
 
 Now Ave leave Eastern Christianity, and, penetrating farther 
 into the Oriental quarter, we come into a Parochial Palestine ! 
 Here, on one side are the names of Mister Moses, S. Isaacs, and 
 Jacob Marx, faced, on the other, by Solomons, Cohen, and Aaron 
 Levi. Genuine good old D'Israelic titles, ungenteelised as yet by 
 substituting an "a" for an " o," or a "y" for an " i." It seems 
 as if a whole colony of German Jews had landed here, and, having 
 been thoroughly knocked up by the voyage, never cared to unsettle 
 themselves again. 
 
 St. Kutherine's Wharf, intended for the arrival and departure of 
 passengers. St. Katherine's Wharf offers the smallest amount of 
 accommodation possible. Abroad, whether at a small station, or
 
 282 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 on a quay, or at any place specially intended for passenger traffic, 
 the traveller, generally, will find comfort, and even elegance. But, 
 in England — generally not. 
 
 " Well, thank Heaven," says my Aunt, piously, " that it doesn't 
 rain, and we can stand on the wharf amonar the liio-gaffe." 
 
 The Baron is not yet ready to receive us — he is being washed 
 and tidied. 
 
 My Aunt occupies herself in asking me if I don't think every 
 fresh arrival on the wharf is a foreigner. She founds her remarks 
 on the supposition that most of the voyageurs must inevitably be 
 foreigners ; or, if they are not now, she has some sort of idea they 
 will become foreigners during the voyage, and appear as some- 
 thing quite different (as in a Pantomime) when we shall land in 
 Antwerp. 
 
 "That's a German, I'm sure," says she, pointing to a stout man 
 in spectacles, with a young lady, rather pretty, in a costume of 
 many colours. 
 
 Happy Thought. — To call her " Josephine," on account of the 
 costume of many colours. 
 
 The pair are standing near us. My Aunt is commencing some 
 remarks on the young lady's high-heeled boots, and other pecu- 
 liarities of what she considers foreign toilette, when Mister German 
 turns to me, and says, with an accent (from the North of England), 
 " Can you tell me, Zur, when this Baron Osy'M be ready to take us 
 aboard ? " 
 
 I give him my opinion. Pretty girl his— daughter ? or niece? 
 
 Happy Thought. — As a co-voyageur, to speak to her sans fagon y 
 "Is she a good sailor ? " She is shy and simpers. 
 
 " She doesn't know," she says, simpering. " She's never yet 
 been to sea," simpering. Northern accent. 
 
 Happy Thought (Tennysonian). — "Northern Farmer" and his 
 daughter. " Property, Property," &c. Perhaps he's going to 
 examine German Agriculture. Pick up a lot from him on the 
 voyage. Always picking up. 
 
 Happy Thought [Musical). — " Where are you going to, my 
 pretty maid 1 " Keep this to myself.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 283 
 
 The Baron is almost ready to receive vis. There is a good deal 
 of shouting in an unknown tongue by two dapper gentlemen in 
 smart naval uniforms, a considerable amount of gesticulation, con- 
 fused noises of chains, cranes, planks, engines, and plunging of 
 horses objecting to being embarked on board the gallant Osy. 
 
 Ancient porters, who look as if they couldn't carry a band-box, 
 stagger away under the weight of my Aunt's trunks, and a burly 
 fellow with a badge — in Englemore's grammar of the future, "A 
 Badger " — insists upon relieving me of my hand-bag. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Keep my eye on him. 
 
 Six porters stagger in, and against us, with boxes, portmanteaus, 
 and bags ; then a maid-servant with rugs, bundle of parasols and 
 sticks ; then a sharp-looking, funny little man, looking as if he'd 
 been taken directly off a German bon-bon box, carrying a plaid, a 
 small bag, and another bundle of sticks, umbrellas and parasols. 
 " Dis vay, Sir ! " he is saying to a lady and gentleman following 
 him. Two porters deposit a large portmanteau almost on my 
 Aunt's toes preparatory to heaving it up again and carrying it on 
 board. The name attracts my attention. 
 
 " Milburd," in large letters. 
 
 My Aunt takes my arm. I turn and see, no doubt about it, 
 Milburd with a lady on his arm. We recognise one another. He 
 asks me if I know the Duchess 1 The who 1 I say looking towards 
 the lady on his arm. " Now, then, Sir, this way," shouts some- 
 body. More directions in unknown tongue. 
 
 " Now, Sir ! " says gruffly, just behind me, a voice which appa- 
 rently proceeds from a huge box on two legs. My Aunt pulls me 
 to what I believe is called "the gangway." The Northern Farmer 
 has his northern elbow in my ribs ; he is tugging at his daughter 
 (or niece), my Aunt is tugging at me, Milburd is tugging at the 
 Duchess, boxes in front of us, boxes behind us, boxes threatening 
 our heads and toes, a vague fear pervading every one that the 
 Baron will get tired and suddenly steam off without us, and so we 
 all crowd on to one another, hustle, crush, fight, struggle, and fume, 
 until we suddenly find ourselves on board. 
 
 " This way, Sir ! " remonstrates some official belonging to the 
 Baron, and we arc on board. More crush. People hurrying below
 
 284 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 (they call it "down-stairs") and demanding beds and accommo- 
 dation. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Got our berths. We shall be Mister Com- 
 fortable. Polite and cool steward at table taking down names in 
 a book, and apportioning berths to those who haven't previously 
 engaged them. Milburd is explaining, jocosely as usual, " You 
 needn't give us the state cabin, as Her Royal Highness " — 
 
 " Name, Sir 1 " asks the Steward in the most business-like way. 
 People about, thinking that Milburd is only wasting time, don't 
 laugh, I am glad to say. He answers, " Mr. and Mrs. Milburd and 
 Friend." 
 
 Milburd married ! !
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 285 
 
 CHAPTER TIL 
 
 THE VOYAGE COMMENCES — ANXIETY POCKETS— PUNS BASCOE 
 
 NAME — MILBURD's FUN ENGLEMORE AGAIN AXWORTH 
 
 WHAT'S IN A NAME 1 — ALL FOR SHORE — LAST WORDS — GOING, 
 GOING, GONE ! 
 
 WW 
 
 fRIOR to starting and on hoard the Baron. — My Aunt's one 
 anxiety is as to her luggage. " Will it be searched 1" that's 
 what's she wants to know. She is positive that it will be searched, 
 and hopes that I have the keys all ready. Keys 1 of course I have 
 them safely in my . . . for the first time it strikes me that I have 
 not them safely in my . . . Good Gracious ! . . . I really do 
 believe ..." Lost them ! " exclaims my Aunt. " No," I return.
 
 280 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " I won't say lost them exactly " . . . this is breaking it to her 
 gently — "but I" — here I allow gleams of hope to play, over my 
 countenance as I try different pockets ; gleams becoming less 
 vivid, and I experience a blank which seems, somehow, suddenly, 
 to wipe out the past, and leave me hopeless for the future. This 
 is after the Last Pocket. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Perhaps a hole in pocket and got into Lining. 
 Gleams of Hope again. We both brighten up. We see, so to 
 speak, a hole in my pocket through which to creep out of our 
 difficulty. . . . No. No Hole. The Sun of Hope sets, and we 
 (my Aunt and myself) are enveloped in the dark night of despair. 
 
 " What I shall do I don't know," says my Aunt, " for they were 
 all patent springs that you can't open without a particular sort of 
 key that's only made in one place, and I don't know where that 
 is, and better than any of the Lockmar Brah's that they used to 
 talk so much about ; I mean, you know, those that they used to 
 offer a hundred pounds to anyone to open with any key at all, 
 and they never would — and . . ."gasp, then she continues — "I 
 haven't got anything in the conservation book about open locking 
 breaks and dialogue with a Blackian Belgesmith." (Dixon's John- 
 sonary in full force, my Aunt being excited, and having an 
 audience among whom, as the reporters say, " we notice Mr. and 
 Airs. Milburd, Mister and Miss Northern Farmer, the Steward, 
 the Under Steward, &c, &c." Of course she means that in her 
 " conversation book " there is nothing about breaking open locks, 
 nor is there any dialogue with a Belgian Blacksmith.) 
 
 The Baron is on the point of starting. The only thought that 
 occurs to me at this moment, is, that quay and key have the same 
 pronunciation, and that, on commencing a steamboat voyage, it 
 is usual to leave the quays behind you. Half a mind to say it. 
 Half a mind not to. It might be put down to the philosophy of 
 taking things easily, or it might be put down to heartlessness, as 
 it's my Aunt's keys, not mine, that are lost, and I've lost them. 
 
 Happy Thought. — When in doubt hold your tongue. 
 
 " Anybody here," shouts a stentorian voice, the property of an 
 official, " of the name of Bascoe 1 " 
 
 As a rule (I don't know why, but must consider it in Typ.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 287 
 
 Devel. under P. Publicity), no one likes to acknowledge his name 
 when called upon in this way. It seems to suggest detectives, 
 suspicion, bank robbery, flying the country under the name of 
 Smith, and then it occurs to me that, on admitting that one's 
 name is Bascoe (it's my Aunt's name, not mine, but I have to 
 answer for her), there's a chance of a policeman stepping forward, 
 and saying, "Then, Bascoe," (without the "Mister") "you must 
 come along o' me." Of course it would be all a mistake, but no 
 one would believe my explanation, and the real Bascoe (whoever 
 he was), having kept silence, would escape. 
 
 "Is there," repeats the stentorian voice, almost imploringly, 
 " Is there anyone here, name o' Bascoe?" 
 
 All eyes seem directed towards us, as much as to say, " Come, 
 you know they mean you two. Give yourselves up. Don't let 
 the whole ship be stopped because you won't answer. Come — ■ 
 out with it ! We're not going to sea with a Jonah." 
 
 Milburd forces our hand, so to speak, by saying to me, " Now 
 then, you'd better own it at once. You'll get off with seven 
 year3 ; and, after all, what's that ! " 
 
 I smile and laugh. If I don't do this, the passengers will 
 imagine that I really am a criminal, who refuses, very naturally 
 as a criminal, to give himself up. My Aunt whispers hurriedly, 
 *' It's Cuxoms." [This is subsequently explained. She meant, — 
 only being excited she got it all into a word, " It's the Customs 
 about the boxes," her impression being that the official thought 
 we were sneaking oft* without having had our luggage searched.] 
 
 I acknowledge, defiantly, that " my Aunt's — that is " (I feel 
 very warm, and ready if necessary to resist with violence) — "That 
 is — that we answer to the name of Bascoe." [Reminds me of the 
 Advertisement for stray Terrier Dog — Lost — answers to the name 
 of Bascoe, &c] 
 
 "This way, then, Sir," returns the official, sharply. 
 
 Uncommonly like what I expected. 
 
 Happy Thoui/ht. — Turn it off*. Say smilingly, " Very mys- 
 terious," so as to anticipate Milburd, who I feel sure, will " im- 
 prove the occasion " in my absence. My Aunt and I ascend cabin- 
 steps.
 
 288 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " Hallo ! " says a voice we recognise with a pleasurable sense of 
 relief, "just caught Mister Steamboat. Found Colonel Bunch-of- 
 keys in my pocket just now. Couldn't wire, 'cos it's not good 
 enough for Mr. Sunday." 
 
 He means that there is no telegraphing on Sunday. This I 
 explain to my Aunt, who immediately replies that she perfectly 
 understands Mr. Axworth. [She means Englemore — But as we're 
 starting in two minutes, why not, Axworth ?] My Aunt makes 
 this reply somewhat tartly. 
 
 Happy Thought. — " Tartly " is the word. But how did tartly 
 come by its signification. A Tart is a sweet — no, on second 
 thoughts a Tart always wants sugar. [Complication of Adjectives 
 and Nouns. Ch. xiv. Book 6, Typ. Devel.] 
 
 " So," continues Englemore, " In two twos my name's Mister 
 Hansom to follow. Thought you'd be in a deuce of a way when 
 you found yourself far away from your native land, and couldn't 
 get at Tommy Toothbrush, or Neddy Nightgown." 
 
 My Aunt gravely admits that the fact of these two celebrities 
 being untegatable (" un-get-at-able " according to Dixon's Johnson- 
 ary) was causing her a great deal of anxiety. 
 
 "All for shore ! " shouts Somebody Else with a voice (very fine 
 voices about here), a bell rings, and a third of the people, who up 
 to this time 1 had taken for passengers, suddenly appear as if, 
 being panic-stricken by some unexpected and startling intelligence 
 (as for example " There's a leak ! " or "she must sink after the 
 first two miles !" or "Safe to blow up before she gets to Green- 
 wich ! "), they are rushing from the ship. 
 
 " Good-bye !" says Englemore. "Wish you a merry Tripmas 
 and a happy New There. Love to the little Buoy at the Nore. 
 By the way " 
 
 " Now, Sir ! " says a nautical official to him, for Englemore is 
 actually detaining the Baron. 
 
 " All right, don't wait for me," says Englemore, and then to me, 
 seriously but hurriedly, with one hand on the gang-way rail, " Let 
 me see — I was goiug to say — something of the greatest import- 
 ance," — and he has forgotten it — no, he remembers it — " I saw P. 
 He says Yes, Good, But when?" They are beginning to move the
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 289 
 
 gangway. The bell sounds violently. We are in motion. Engle- 
 more dashes aci*oss the gangway. Safe on the quay, he calls out, 
 " Wire on arrival. Say when I can have five minutes with you. 
 Don't forget Colonel Sideboard." 
 
 We are moving slowly off. " Mister Dinner Service too, if you 
 see him," he shouts, as a last reminder. I nod, and wave my hand. 
 We are slowly drifting away, and steam-power commencing. 
 Englemore has evidently remembered something very important 
 at the last moment. He shouts, " I quite forgot to . . ." Baron, 
 Osi/s engines render the remainder of this inaudible, but he is 
 evidently continuing. I shake my head and put my hand to my 
 ear, implying that I can't hear a word he's saying. The steam is 
 quiet for a second, and I just catch his last words, " Write .... 
 or . . . ivire," and we are fairly started.
 
 290 
 
 UITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ABOARD THE BARON — MY AUNT ABOARD — MRS. MILBURD DIXON IN 
 
 FORCE — NORTHERN FARMER — CAPTAIN THE GRINNER — CONVER- 
 SATION NOTIONS — DINNER. 
 
 ANY ladies disappear at 
 once. My Aunt does this 
 immediately, and has got 
 hold of the Stewardess in 
 a corner. My Aunt's gene- 
 ral notion of steamboat 
 travelling is, either that 
 you must go to bed at once, 
 directly you get on board, 
 or never. That, in fact, 
 once on deck, always on 
 deck, or, once in bed, always 
 in bed. Milburd, who has 
 made great friends with my 
 Aunt in five minutes, pre- 
 vails upon her, as the river 
 is beautifully calm and the 
 day warm, to come on deck ; 
 and, as he puts it, " keep 
 company with his Missus." 
 He means sit with his wife, 
 to whom we have been introduced. " I shall never be able to go 
 down again, I'm sure," my Aunt says, seating herself with her face 
 to the wind, as if to be kept fresh by the breeze. Mrs. Milburd is, 
 as my Aunt describes her afterwards, "a plumping little charm " 
 —meaning a charming little plump person. " Very pretty, with 
 dimpley lovels— I should say " -she corrects herself "with a look at 
 me, as much as to imply that she is perfectly aware of her mistake, 
 and doesn't recpiire my assistance — " Very pretty, with lovely 
 dimples in her hands, beautiful teeth, and I am sure, though I
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEX. 291 
 
 don't often admire people, she has the laughiest pretty possible." 
 ("Prettiest laugh," of course. Vide Dixon's Johnsonary.) I 
 admit all the praise, and only regret that his wife encourages 
 Milburd's nonsense by laughing at him. I thought marriage 
 would have sobered him. It hasn't a bit. On the contrary he's 
 now got an audience which he can " command," and invariably 
 "carry with him." My Aunt asks Mrs. Milburd, by way of com- 
 mencing an appropriate subject, if she's a good sailor. Milburd, 
 who generally replies for her if he can, says that "His Missus has 
 been priming herself for the voyage for three days beforehand, 
 
 and that the amount of chops and stout, and " here she stops 
 
 him laughingly, and owns to not being a good sailor. Then my 
 Aunt tells her what a very bad sailor she is ; and how it comes 
 about that she is so ; and under what circumstances she is worse 
 at some times than at others. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Join in it, and tell them what a bad sailor / 
 am. Better to prepare them, because if one isn't ill after all, you 
 get a reputation for being a capital sailor, for modesty in not 
 boasting of it, and for sympathy with the sufferings of others. At 
 this point Milburd (at whom his wife laughs, admiringly, directly 
 he opens his mouth) suggests various remedies ; among others, 
 that (of course) of staying on shore, and finally of keeping your 
 head under water, in a pail, for twenty minutes. My Aunt tells 
 me apart that Mr. Milburd is really very funny. " He reminds 
 me," she says, "of a Mr. — dear me, what was his name 1 He 
 propertied it for change some time afterwards, and went to France. 
 Oh yes, of course, Jones — Mr. Jones. He was very droll, but I'm 
 not quite sure that I don't prefer Mr. Ackworth," (she means 
 Milburd) "Mr. Ackworth's fun to Mr. Jokes's jones after all." 
 (.Jokes's jones, i.e., Jones's jokes. Vide Dixon's Johnsonary.) 
 
 Happy Thought. — Get out of hearing of this conversation. Why 
 can't people, on board a steamboat, find some other subject besides 
 sea-sickness 1 It's just exactly the place where they oughtn't to 
 talk about it. Go and converse with the Captain. The Northern 
 Farmer is with him. He is asking, " Does he (the Captain) think 
 it'll be a l);ul night." The Captain doesn't. On the contrary, a 
 viiy good night. It's a stupid question, because even if the. 
 Captain does think it'll be a bad night, one can't go back now. 
 
 u 2
 
 292 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 I notice a man, or rather a man notices me, as I am attracted 
 towards him by his perpetual grin. Whenever he sees me [and he 
 sees me every three minutes regularly, because he is walking up 
 and down the deck and grinning whenever he catches my eye as 
 he passes me] this grin seems to say " I know you. I recollect 
 your doing something or other, in past years, that / shan't forget 
 in a hurry." I think I remember his face. But not his grin. 
 
 Happy Thought.— Now find out who he is. Process. I'll speak 
 to the Captain : he'll speak to the Captain : common subject of 
 conversation : then I'll speak to him : he'll speak to me. Then 
 
 I'll say to him, " I fancy I recollect your face at " and leave 
 
 him to fill in the blank. 
 
 Mister Grinner asks the Captain, gruftiy, " "When shall we be at 
 Antwerp 1 " 
 
 I set him down at once as a rude, unpolished man. He has not 
 been a quarter of an hour on the Osy, and he walks up to the 
 Captain, who is, as it were, by an agreeable fiction, his host, for 
 the time, and asks, "When shall we be at Antwerp?" which really 
 means, " Look here, I'm tired of this : why don't you get on and 
 go faster 1 When shall we be off this ship, and get rid of you, 
 eli ? " 
 
 Happy Thought. — Soften it down. The Captain is a foreigner, 
 and peculiarly courteous, so I feel that I should like to show him 
 that the Grinner, as a boor, is an exceptional Englishman. Say 
 jocularly, " 0, we shan't be at Antwerp till seven or eight to-morrow 
 morning— and," heartily, for the sake of the Captain, " I'm glad 
 of it, for a pleasanter way of spending a good many hours " — being 
 uncertain as to the number of hours the ship is advertised to per- 
 form the voyage in, I don't like to make my inuendo (still on 
 account of the Captain) as to what time we ought to take, so 
 merely say "a good many hours " — " than on board a fine ship 
 (compliment to the Captain) on a lovely day, I don't know." The 
 Grinner simply grins broader than before at me, as if the recollec- 
 tion of the circumstances in which he'd seen me in days gone by, 
 was too much for him, and, shoving his hands into his overcoat 
 pockets, he resumes his marching up and down without another 
 word. Most irritating.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 293 
 
 The Captain, who, by the way, has informed the Grimier that 
 by seven a.m. we shall be at Antwerp, is now occupied in looking 
 through an opera-glass. 
 
 Happy Thought. — To talk to him on general subjects. Why not 
 talk to a Captain on general subjects 1 Why be professional with 
 a Professional 1 You don't always talk about teeth to a Dentist. 
 Evidently it would be bad taste. By this rule, i.e., of never 
 talking professionally with a professional, one would become deeply 
 intei'ested in Agriculture when talking to a Naval Captain, about 
 the Ballet with a Bishop, and about Shipping with a Soldier. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Sink the shop. In this case, sink the ship* 
 Wonder whether, when on shore, he's fond of farming. Perhaps 
 so ; " In his cottage near the sea." Might get something out of 
 him about Peter Pigg and Tommy Turnips. 
 
 To lead up to the subject by asking him how he gets his vege- 
 tables on board, or, if he's fond of the sea. The latter seems, con- 
 sidering his position, a little rude, so I am prepared to substitute, 
 " I suppose you stop on shore a good deal 1 " which, on considera- 
 tion, appears to be ruder than the other. Why not plunge in at 
 once, and say, " Well, skipper, how about Turnips 1 " 
 
 I open the conversation with, " Aren't you rather tired of going 
 this voyage every week 1 " He regards me for one second, and 
 then, resuming his opera-glasses, replies simply, that he is not 
 rather tired of it, and turns to speak, in Flemish, I fancy, to the 
 Lieutenant. Now 1 want a question to follow. Several people 
 come up to talk to the Captain. There seems to be a sort of idea, 
 prevalent amongst all the steamboat-passengers, that if you make 
 friends with the Captain, it (whatever it is) will be all right. 
 There are some men who always know the Proprietors of Hotels, 
 the Drivers of Coaches, and the Captains of Ships, and pride 
 themselves on the knowledge. I don't remark that they get 
 better treated than anybody else. Milburd, for instance, always 
 knows everyone, or says he does. "Been talking to the First 
 i Ifficer ?" he asks me. L reply " No, to the Captain."—" Well," lie 
 answers, "he is the First Officer." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Lucky I didn't address him as the Skipper.
 
 294 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Questions which everyone asks the Captain : — 
 
 1. What time shall we arrive at Antwerp ? (Answer uncertain.) 
 
 2. Does he (the Captain) think we shall have a calm passage 1 
 (Answer dependent upon whether before or after dinner or 
 supper.) 
 
 3. When shall we be at sea ? Also when do we dine ? A matter 
 of the deepest importance to those about to dine. The latter 
 question was put most earnestly by my Aunt. On the answer 
 being given, the questioner refers to his watch. 
 
 [Happy Thought. — Dine at two. Not at sea till eight. Ques- 
 tioner decides to dine and dine well.]
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 295 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 STEWARD — CHANGE OF COSTUME — ENGINES — BOILERS FUNNY MAN — 
 
 DANGEROUS PROXIMITY LORD MAYOR'S FOOL THE JOHNSON ARY 
 
 AGAIN. 
 
 T 
 
 H E Steward now 
 comes round to 
 ask who'll dine. I 
 notice that a Steward 
 is always on excellent 
 terms with a Captain, 
 and a Captain with 
 the Steward. On con- 
 sideration I see that 
 a Captain can pretty 
 well ruin a Steward, 
 and a Steward can 
 make a Captain very 
 uncomfortable. Ifthe 
 Steward profits by the 
 number of people who 
 sit down to dinner 
 and tea in the cabin, 
 the Captain has only 
 got to say that he is 
 sure it'll be a bad 
 passage, and hardly 
 any one will either 
 dine or sup. Cer- 
 tainly not sup. If 
 \foe Captain, mali- 
 ciously, did this, then 
 the Steward would, spitefully, give him lukewarm dinners, tough 
 meat, bad fish, sour wine, and watered grog. So the management 
 of a well-regulated family vessel reduces itself to — Happy Thoaykt
 
 296 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 (by the Captain). — Be polite to the Steward, and tell everyone that 
 it's sure to be a fine passage. 
 
 Happy Thought (by the Steward). — Be very civil to the Captain. 
 Reserve tit-bits, and private store of grog. 
 
 More Questions invariably pat to the Captain by Passengers :— 
 
 Has he (the Captain) had bad weather lately, or good? Have 
 there been many passengers 1 Will there be many passengers ? 
 
 At what time shall we be in the Scheldt ? 
 
 (This is a question by a sociable person.) Will he (the Captain) 
 .take anything? if so, what? 
 
 People are now beginning to appear in all sorts of caps and easy 
 hats, and are trying to look, generally, as unlike themselves on 
 shore as possible. We are ceasing to be strangers to one another, 
 and feel a growing desire to be politely inquiring, civilly com- 
 municative, and, later on, specially if it's a fine night, quite 
 confidential. 
 
 The Northern Farmer is explaining the river to his daughter. 
 Other people are retailing " what the Captain says " to those 
 who didn't hear him. Milburd inquires, " Does the Pilot come on 
 board at Gravesend ? " 
 
 I understand, from the Captain's answer, that he does. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Do more softening down with the Captain, 
 because Milburd's manner is really calculated to convey the idea 
 that he knows more of steamboat management than the Captain. 
 I say, sympathetically, "Yours is a very arduous and responsible 
 position, Captain." 
 
 Milburd cuts in with, " Well, I think 3'ou've an uncommonly 
 jolly berth of it. There and back, twice a week, board and 
 lodging. You get a pilot for the Thames — he's responsible for 
 that ; you get another for the sea — he's responsible for that ; and 
 another beggar comes on at the mouth of the Scheldt, and he's 
 responsible for you up to Antwerp. I don't see what they want a 
 First Officer at all for ? " 
 
 The Captain smiles. Milburd continues, in an off-hand manner, 
 " By the way, I've just been down in the engine-room, talking to 
 the old boy there, and I see you don't use Mervyn's Patent. 
 That's odd, eh 1 "
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABLE N. 297 
 
 The Captain shrugs his shoulders indifferently, and jiresently 
 says that this patent has been superseded. "By what? "asks 
 Milburd, really inquisitorially. " By Benker's Double-Action," 
 replies the Captain, decidedly. Milburn turns to me, pooh- 
 poohing the use of Benker's Patent. " Why," he says to me, as 
 if I was the referee who had to decide between Mervyn's Patent 
 and Benker's Double-Action, "that was dropped years ago. You 
 can't," still explaining to me, and at the Captain, which I don't 
 like, " use the same leverage, nor work at anything like the same 
 rate. I suppose," he says, in a tone of cross-examination, most 
 irritating, it must be, to a man on his own vessel, " you don't do 
 four hundred and twenty in the hour 1 " 
 
 The Captain laughs. "Four hundred and twenty 1" he repeats. 
 "More like six hundred and thirty." Milburd being evidently 
 unprepared for this, is staggered, and for the moment silent. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Glad of it. " What on earth should you 
 know of engineering?" I say to him, just to expose him before 
 the Captain. 
 
 " Why," he answers, " I ought to, considering I was at Buste 
 and Byler's studying engineering for two years." ! indeed, I 
 was not aware of this. Milburd now wants to know whether the 
 Captain uses the cylindrical expander movement 1 No, the Com- 
 pany has not adopted it. " Good Heavens ! " says Milburd, turning 
 to me again as judicial referee, "it's a perfect wonder the boiler 
 hasn't burst over and over again." He goes on to explain to me 
 that with or without the invention (I don't know which) you 
 can't ease off at half the pace. This the Captain denies. He 
 says, "See my men ease off in one minute." 
 
 Milburd doubts it, and smiles incredulously towards me. I 
 wish he wouldn't, as it must make the Captain think that 
 J've been prompting him to ask all this on my account. The 
 < iaptain, in consequence, begins to eye me askance. A Bell. 
 
 Happy Tlwught. — Mister Dinner. 
 
 At Dinner. — My Aunt next to the Milburds. Don't like sitting 
 too near a funny man, because it is as nervous work as holding a 
 Roman candle, or a squib, when you never can tell how soon the 
 pop's coming, and whether it won't hurt you considerably when it,
 
 298 QUITE AT ROME. 
 
 does come. There's only one thing perfectly certain, that the audience 
 will be amused, and the firework will be immensely pleased with 
 himself, and will consider himself the most brilliant thing of the 
 sort ever seen. A quiet and reserved manner, and an evinced 
 desire to speak seriously on weighty topics, are no defence against 
 the onslaughts of a Funny Man and Practical Joker. The two 
 descriptions, by the way, sound like the advertisement of a new 
 sort of business, " Licensed Funny Man and General Practical 
 Joker." It really is a pity that the official Court Jester and Lord 
 Mayor's Fool should have been abolished. There would be at 
 once the utilisation of jocosity. Of course in these days, following 
 the fashion of the times, the appointment to such an office would 
 not be by private patronage and interest, but by public competi- 
 tive examination. 
 
 Nappy Thought. — Have the Examination Day every First of 
 April. 
 
 Foolery would then be a study. The Fool of the Family would 
 stand a fair chance of a good berth. Great noblemen \ised to keep 
 private fools as well as private secretaries. The offices were 
 gradually merged into one. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Reserve this idea for a sarcastic repartee to 
 come down on Milburd heavily when he's making a joke at my 
 expense. Shall say to him before company, " It's a pity the 
 office of Lord Mayor's Fool is abolished, as you would have filled 
 the situation admirably, Milburd." 
 
 I don't see (at present) what reply he could make to this. 
 But, won't his wife hate me for it ? Won't the people about say 
 "it was rather rude"? Wouldn't it be better to put up with 
 Milburd patiently rather than put him down forcibly? If this 
 sarcasm about the Lord Mayor's Fool won't settle him nothing 
 ever will, and I should never have the chance again. The highest 
 praise that Milburd can give one is, after he's been peculiarly 
 what he calls funny, and what / call rude, to slap you on the 
 back and say, good-humouredly, " You don't mind chaff, do you, 
 old fellow ? " when you at once feel that it's childish to admit that 
 you do not only mind but detest it, and that you are now writhing 
 mentally from his dosing you with it. He will say before several
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEX. 
 
 299 
 
 persons, alluding to me, that "he likes a fellow who can take a 
 joke good-naturedly like you can, old boy." Then he gives you a 
 dig in the ribs which positively hurts, and you must either laugh 
 or kick him. I should like to do the latter — so I believe would 
 many others — but we only smile. 
 
 Hcqypy Thought. — Keep out of his way. 1 beg my Aunt, sotto 
 voce, not to encourage Milburd, as she is really doing nothing now 
 but listening to his nonsense and laughing. " Well, my dear," 
 she answers, a little nettled, "he's very amusing, and you know 
 that there are in societ} T witty people who are considered as 
 liverpridged persons," (Dixon's Johnsonary for "privileged per- 
 sons "). Here she gets hurried, and lets all she has to say come 
 out with a rush. " Why, I perfectly recomember my father telling 
 me how he had heard stories about such people as Silly Cobber and 
 Hookadore Theer — and — and— " gasp, and sudden finish — " they 
 were always saving cizzvwittums." (This, translated bv Dixon's 
 Johnsonary, means, " I recollect my father, &c. how he remem- 
 bered, etc., Colley Cibber and Theodore Hook, &c.," and "witti- 
 cisms.") 

 
 300 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FARMING ON BOARD — PICKING UP — PUTTING DOWN HAPPY 
 
 THOUGHTS — SALMON — PUZZLES — CIIRISTCHURCH NEW FOREST 
 
 SALMON BAGS SPORTSMAN'S DIARY TO CORN AND CROPS 
 
 INVITATION — NORTHERN FARMER DREAM OF FUTURE SUR- 
 PRISE MORNING A CARD — AWAKING. 
 
 THE Northern Farmer 
 opposite me at dinner. 
 Now's the time to lead up 
 to farming, and find out 
 something more about 
 what Englemore calls 
 " Mister Turnips." Some- 
 how the conversation be- 
 coming unmanageable, 
 turns on " paper." North- 
 ern Farmer knows all 
 about it. He says they 
 make paper of grass now. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Set 
 up a County Paper, offices, 
 machinery, and all com- 
 plete, in a Grass County. 
 
 Conversation, becoming 
 more unmanageable than 
 before, darts about the table like a ball in a Racquet Court, and is 
 caught and sent forward and sent back, and hit on the rebound, 
 and then dropped ; when some one brings up a fresh ball, and on 
 we go again. Suddenly, a propos of the second course, the 
 Northern Farmer, in the midst of a lull, asks me loudly, and so 
 pointedly as almost to make me blush, I can't in the least tell 
 why, " What Salmon do you get in London ? " 
 
 I don't think I've ever been so much discomposed and startled 
 
 What Salmon do I get in London ? 
 
 by a question as by this.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 301 
 
 [On subsequent analysis I come to the conclusion that I was taken 
 by surprise, and lost my presence of mind, because — First. I 
 didn't expect a Farmer to be interested in fish. Secondly. The 
 subject previously, up to that fifteen seconds of silence, had not 
 been fish or anything like it. Thirdly. The question presumed 
 that my residence was in London, and I should have had to 
 explain, publicly, that it wasn't. Fourthly. That his way of 
 saying " you — in London " sounded insulting, as if he took me by 
 my dress and style for a genuine Cockney. Fifthly. I have never 
 personally got {i.e. bought) Salmon in London.] 
 
 Happy Thought — (on recovering my self-possession). — To reply, 
 " 0, Groves's, Bond Street," which I feel is an evasion. 
 
 My Aunt, who has got Salmon in London, replies, on her own 
 account, " Savern Senimon— I mean Severn Salmon." Of course, 
 Salmon from the Severn ; quite a familiar name now I hear it, but 
 very odd that it wouldn't come when called for by the Northern 
 Farmer. " 0," says the latter, as rather surprised, " not Christ- 
 church Salmon 1 " 
 
 Happy Thought. — Reply with certainty, " No, not Christchurch 
 Salmon." Feel quite at home now. Remember Christchurch 
 described as a lovely place. Turn the conversation by saying, 
 "A lovely place — Christchurch," and everybody appears to be 
 listening for a description of it from me. Milburd, across my Aunt, 
 asks, "Ever been there?" It occurs to me suddenly that I have 
 seen it as a station on the South-Western. Till now I thought of 
 it only as a college at Oxford, but I had never heard of its being 
 specially famous for salmon. 
 
 Happy Thought.— To reply, "Yes — that is — I've passed through 
 it." Better drop the subject. 
 
 Milburd asks if it isn't in the New Forest. I leave this for 
 some one else to answer. On second thoughts, how about Salmon 
 in a Forest ? The Northern Farmer has been joking, perhaps, and 
 playing into Milburd's hands. If there are Salmon in a Forest, 
 then a Sportsman's Diary in the New Forest would be interesting, 
 specially if kept by Englemore — thus : — 
 
 August 12th. — Two guns. Bagged four brace of Colonel Cock 
 Salmon. Winged Mister Mackerel. Major Sprats rather wild ; 
 couldn't get near 'em.
 
 302 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 August 13th. — Two barrels. Potted Shrimps. Peppered little 
 Tommy Lobster just as he was going to earth. Came on a fine 
 covey of Red Herrings. Bagged five brace. Kicked up Mister 
 Crab, and let him have it hot. 
 
 And so on. 
 
 While I have been helping myself to potatoes, the conversation 
 has turned on horses, then to artists who paint horses. Well- 
 informed man, the Northern Farmer. Knows all about sheep 
 and animals generally. Also about sheep and animal painters. 
 Milburd asks if " he's seen Potter's Bull in Holland ? " " Meaning 
 Paul Potter's ? Yes he has," he answers, which has the effect of 
 taking Milburd down a bit. Northern Farmer now speaks of a 
 farm (his own, I suppose) at Kendal. By easy steps we get on to 
 corn, hay, and oats. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Farmer's Scientific Catechism. Elementary 
 Questions, "What is Corn? What is Hay? What are Oats?" 
 &c. Perhaps this plan is pursued at an Agricultural College. It 
 strikes me for the first time that if I want to go in for this sort of 
 thing regularly, and not only p>our me distraire, I ought to enter 
 at an Agricultural College. 
 
 Happy Thought. — To find out all about it. Will write to 
 Englemore and ask him to inquire for me while he's in the country. 
 Englemore will probably write back to say that there are lectures 
 by Professor Parsnip and Doctor Carrots. Instead of a " Bachelor '^ 
 as a degree, it must be a" Husbandman." The academical dress 
 would be, I suppose, Gowns and Gaiters. To be " ploughed for 
 smalls " would be praise instead of expressing a failure. Think it 
 out, and resume subsequently. Write to Englemore. 
 
 After Dinner. — Still at table. Northern Farmer, becoming 
 hearty (he calls* it "'arty"), says in a broad dialect, that if I'm 
 coming his way he'd be glad to see me. Certainly. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Get to dates. When? Song, " Would you 
 but name the Day." He'll be home again in a month from now. 
 Good. I'll tell him plainly and openly why I want to " cultivate " 
 (agricultural term) him. I inform him that I consider him a 
 professor. [By the way, his daughter is sitting by his side all the 
 time, smiling, but silent. Pretty.] "No, no," he says, "not a 
 professor."
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 303 
 
 "Yours,"' I insist upon it — meaning by "yours" "your occupa- 
 tion, "—"yours is a Profession, not a business, or a trade. In 
 fact," I say, " there's science and art in it." I confide to him that 
 "I intend learning his profession," meaning farming, only I don't 
 name it, as I take for granted he understands me, which lie 
 evidently does, as he replies that he doesn't suppose I'd care much 
 about it. As he is going to Brussels with his daughter, where she 
 will be at school for some time, we shall not see one another after 
 Antwerp ; therefore, while we think of it, if he'd give me his card, 
 or write his address, I would do myself the pleasure, etc., etc., 
 when I come to the North, etc., &c, which I certainly shall, as I 
 intend " going in for the thing regularly ; " the thing meaning, as 
 before, farming. 
 
 Happy Thought {while he is looking in his pocket-booh for card). — 
 Imagine his address — it will be "Sunnyside Farm" — " Rosedale 
 Dairy " — Homely wife — buxom maidservants — - well-educated 
 daughter — honeysuckles — cows — new milk — up with the lark — 
 down with the plough — home to oat-meal porridge — practical 
 work in fields — top-dressings, etc., etc. I see it all in my mind's 
 eye. 
 
 He can't find the card now, but will look in his bag. During 
 the evening I talk on the subject with Milburd, who, however, 
 retires early. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Perfectly calm. Go to bed. My Aunt says 
 she feels quite well, she thinks, but a little feverish, and Mr. 
 Milburd has told her that the best thing to take is a sodler of 
 tumby and brander ; " or," as the Steward is passing she addresses 
 him hastily, " will you be good enough to bring me a wice of 
 glassed water, if you please." [Translation, per Dixon's Johnsonary 
 — "A sodler," etc., a tumbler of brandy and soda ; and "Will you 
 bring me a wice," etc., a glass of iced water.] 
 
 ****** 
 
 Antwerp. — Morning. Having to attend to my Aunt, I don't see 
 much of Northern Farmer. He is just leaving the boat as I hail 
 him. "Ah!" he exclaims, hurriedly. "Good-bye, Sir. 'Ere's 
 the card." The daughter smiles upon me as I reply, " Good-bye 
 Sir. You shall hear from me, depend upon it."
 
 304 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 I explain to my Aunt that this acquaintance will be useful to 
 me, and I proceed to examine the card. It is 
 
 Me. 
 
 PETER 
 
 CHOPP, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Upholsterer, 
 
 
 22 
 
 East Ticktox 
 
 Street. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Manchester. 
 
 I I 
 
 Clearly then I've been calling upholstering a Profession, and 
 offering to learn the business, and go to him as an apprentice. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Chopp's gone to Brussels. We're off in the 
 opposite direction.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 305 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ANTWERP — EN ROUTE — AUNTS ANXIETIES CONVERSATIONS FANNY 
 
 LINDA GLYMPHYNS RECOMEMBRANCES — MEDITATIONS JOHN- 
 
 SONARY FRANCAIS MOMPISON's BERTHA — GLOVES. 
 
 O MY Aunt, who 
 has found a letter 
 for her at the Hotel 
 St. Antoine, 'won't 
 stop at Antwerp, 
 because, as she tells 
 me, Captain Quor 
 tesfue (Dixon's John 
 sonary, as before) 
 has been to take 
 lodgings for her at 
 Aix, and will meet 
 us at the Station to- 
 day. 
 
 She is very sorry 
 not to be able to 
 stay here, as "I 
 recollect," she says 
 to me, " having seen, 
 years ago, in a book 
 when I was a child — and they did give us some really good and 
 instructive children's books then, such as Whatshisname's — you 
 know — Tralliver's Guvels, and that about the two boys — dear me, 
 what was it? — 0, I merember, of course it was Fortnum and 
 .Mason " — gasp, and sufficient pause for me to suggest, 
 "You mean Sandford and Morton, Aunt." 
 
 " Yes. I mid Sandford and Merton, didn't 1 1 At all events, 
 you know what I meant. And it was there, because I remember 
 to have seen pictures of the antiquities here, some churches and 
 other buildings which existed long before those which in our
 
 300 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 country came over with Collum the Winkerer." [Note for Dixon's 
 J. "William the Conqueror."] 
 
 During the journey (vid Maestricht to Aix-la-ChapeUe) she is- 
 constantly asking me, " Now, are we in Beljany or in Cergium ? " 
 She insists upon inquiring of various railway officials at every 
 Station, " Do we change here 1 " and is very much startled at the 
 apparition of the Guard's face at the window while the train is in 
 motion. For a minute, having heard of such things in some 
 foreign countries, she fancies the train is in the hands of brigands, 
 who are demanding " Your money or your life ! " at all the 
 carriage-windows. 
 
 She now produces a Conversation Book in several languages,, 
 which she sets to work to study. Suddenly she asks me if I 
 "merember Miss Glymphyn— not Charlotte, who married, but 
 Miss Ethel — and her sisters Finny and Landa?" No, I don't. 
 Of course, I am aware she means Fanny and Linda, but I don't 
 know them even by their own proper names. Somehow, I don't 
 care about them. I have a sort of recollection of having met the 
 Glymphyns a long time ago, and finding them three young ladies 
 with a very decided opinion on everything. They didn't care 
 about anything in particular, and rather disliked everybody. I 
 remember telling their father, or uncle, a story which, up to that 
 moment, I had always considered highly amusing, but which was 
 received by them with such marked coldness and such surprised 
 glances from one to the other, that, although their father, or 
 uncle, smiled in feeble deprecation of my having ventured upon 
 such a subject, I felt (I remember it as vividly as if it were only 
 the day before yesterday) I should like to have been rolled up in 
 a blanket and taken away out of the front-door. I at once relapsed 
 into silence and mental cynicism. I debated with myself, after 
 dinner, whether I should retire early, or stay till they liked me. 
 
 Happy Thought (on that occasion). — I remember the hideous 
 fiend of a Bottle Imp, in the play of that name, saying to the 
 trembling German maiden, " You must learn to love me." Same 
 idea now. * * * Old Glymphyn, I remember now, detained me 
 down-stairs with the wine, as if I should be all the better for 
 keeping when I went up into the drawing-room, and then gave me 
 a very strong cigar and some liqueur ; and while we were engaged
 
 HOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 307 
 
 on these v the servant entered to say that " Mrs. and the young 
 ladies, as the gentlemen hadn't come up, had gone to bed." I can 
 perfectly realise what their impression about me must have been 
 next morning. I was added to their list of the Odious, and I'll 
 be bound that that wretched old Glymphyn apologised for his own 
 absence from the drawing-room by laying the entire blame on my 
 shoulders, if he didn't absolutely receive the thanks of the ladies 
 for delaying me from joining them up-stairs. So altogether (now 
 I come to think of it) I do not care about the Glymphyns. 
 
 My Aunt looks up from her Conversation Book (in three 
 languages) to inform me that the Glymphyns are very musical. 
 " Linda," she says, " is really quite talented in that way, and I 
 believe has studied under the best masters ; one was a German 
 who used to perform on two instruments, he played, if I merember, 
 on the guano — I mean the guitar and the piano — equally well." 
 
 After a few minutes' further study of the threedanguaged Con- 
 versation Book, my Aunt, who is beginning to show signs of 
 fatigue, says that, " if I don't mind she'll take off her boots, as 
 she's heard that to bootle without trats is so very foothening and 
 sereshing ; " and, before I've a word to say on the subject, they 
 are off. So is her travelling hat as well. 
 
 Happy Thought. — We've a coupe all to ourselves. 
 
 If we hadn't, what would foreigners think? And if they ex- 
 pressed what they thought, and I understood them, wouldn't I be 
 bound to quarrel with them ? But to quarrel abroad is to be 
 engaged, before you know where you are, in a duel. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Not to understand what they say. 
 
 Meditating upon the subject, it would sound well in England to 
 hear that I'd been called out and went. That I'd fallen in a duel. 
 Then would come the question in a Club smoking-room probably, 
 "What did he fight about?" Then the question would be, "My 
 dear fellow, what do men fight about? Some woman, I suppose." 
 Then the well-informed man, who always knows all about it what- 
 ever it is, breaks in upon the conversation with, " You were talk- 
 ing about poor old " then he'd call me by my Christian name 
 
 (and I'm supposing myself dead, and buried in some retired Con- 
 tinental churchyard) ; " well," he'd go on, " poor old fellow, he 
 was a stupid ass to go out and fight with a Prussian, all about his 
 
 x 2
 
 308 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Aunt, too ! — I'll tell you how it was — " then he'd recount it in 
 s ich a quaint style, bringing out all the humorous points in detail, 
 that at last the funniest stock story of the Club-room would be, 
 How Old So-and-So (myself) went out, and fought for his Aunt, 
 and fall in a duel. 
 
 " I hope," says my Aunt, presently, " that Captain Quortesfue 
 has taken lodgings where they speak French or English, as I shall 
 never be able to get on in German. French," she says, with pride, 
 " will do perfectly." 
 
 Happy Thought.— My Aunt's French. Pamcais vans farlez, 
 (Dixon's French Johnsonary for Travellers.) 
 
 She is very much troubled too about the coinage. It flashes 
 across her in the train while she is studying the tables at the end 
 of Bradshaw, and in the Conversation Book. Bank-notes, she 
 supposes, will go everywhere. I reply, " Yes, certainly ; and go 
 pretty quickly, too." 
 
 At the next Station my Aunt startles me with an exclamation, 
 and seizes her boots so energetically, that, at first, I imagine 
 either that she is going to hurl them at the Guard's head, on its 
 appearing for the sixth time at our window, or that we are at Aix 
 sooner than we had expected. On my inquiring the reason for 
 this preparation on her part, she only looks out of the window and 
 telegraphs to some one (not with her boots, thank goodness, as 
 she has now put them on) whom I can't see, calling out, " Here ! 
 we've one seat, if you're alone." Then, drawing her head in, and 
 turning to me, she says, "It's Mrs. Mompison." 
 
 Happy Thought.— Bertha Mompison, the youngest, I think. I 
 have not seen her for — well— let me see— a long time. When 
 last we met at Boodels' little place by the seaside which he called 
 The Crook, we — that is Bertha and myself — were rather together 
 than not. It recurs to me now (while Mrs. M. is settling herself 
 in our coupe, and she takes so much settling, that I wish these 
 seats were divided into three arm-chairs) that Miss Bertha and I 
 had a very pleasant drive together, after a pic-nic, in the autumn. 
 That, somehow, we had lost our party at that picnic and were 
 obliged to take the only remaining trap, which was a pony-chaise, 
 left at the inn, without a servant. That, somehow [It always is
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 309 
 
 " somehow " in these cases, and explanation is impossible], I 
 remember driving a good deal with the right hand, and not using 
 the whip, being very careful not to tire the pony, and going very 
 gently up-hill. But when we got back to Boodels' little place, 
 where all the party were at supper, it occurred to me 
 
 Happy Thought. — To let Miss Bertha go in first and face it. 
 She was perfectly equal" to the occasion, and commenced by 
 attacking them for deserting her. Then I came in — when I say 
 " came " in, I mean, as far as I can recollect, that I rather sidled 
 in — and sat down unobtrusively. 
 
 Happy Thought (on this memorable occasion). — Keep quiet at 
 first. Also be excessively polite and pleasant to every one, not on 
 any account sitting near Miss Bertha, * * * I remember all this 
 perfectly * * * and I remember (during that Boodels' week by 
 the sea) somebody coming, suddenly, into the drawing-room where 
 we were (Bertha and I again), and stupidly begging our pardon 
 and going away, when Miss Bertha wouldn't on any account hear 
 of it, and intimated that she particularly wanted this Noodle's 
 opinion on a song, referring to another opinion, which I was 
 supposed to have already given on the same subject ; whereupon 
 1 looked as musical as possible, and said, "Yes, certainly," and was 
 very glad when the Noodle was despatched, as he soon was, to see 
 if Mrs. Somebody or other was in the garden or the conservatory, 
 or had gone down to the beach. * * * And also I remember how, 
 at the breaking tip of Boodels' party, we told each other where we 
 were likely to be the next week, and the week after that, and how 
 we haven't met again, or heard of one another (at least as far as 
 I know), for a year or more. I venture, now, to inquire after 
 Miss Bertha. Mrs. Mompison says she is at Aix, where she, Mrs. 
 Mompison, is staying for the benefit of her health. As her family 
 are unaware of her sudden return by this train, her daughters 
 will not be at the Aix Station to meet her. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Glad of it. Shouldn't like to meet Miss 
 Bertha, after so long an absence, when I'm begrimed with dust, 
 and my hands feel as if they had been washed in weak gum, and 
 had then been brushed lightly over with road-dust and coal-dust 
 mixed. 
 
 Happy Thought (in travelling always). — Old Gloves.
 
 310 
 
 QUITE AT HOME 
 
 CHAPTEK XII. 
 
 MRS. MOMPISON CONVERSATION ROWENA — MYSTERY INVISIBLE 
 
 GIRL ILLNESSES TORTURES — AIX-LA-CHAPELLE — NOUS VOICI 
 
 APPEARANCE OF CAPTAIN FORTESCUE. 
 
 M 
 
 rightly, is short. Will she, too, expand ? 
 her mother ? 
 
 RS. MOMPI- 
 SON, now with 
 us in our coupe, is a 
 stout, elderly lady, 
 rather squat in figure, 
 as if she'd been kept 
 in a low room in early 
 life, so that what 
 would have been her 
 height had expanded 
 itself into breadth 
 ("for in Nature no- 
 thing is lost," vide 
 Typica I Developments, 
 Vol. xviii., Art. 2, 
 p. 6, under "N." 
 Nature). 
 
 By the way, her 
 
 youngest daughter, 
 
 Bertha, if I remember 
 
 and — ahem ! — take after 
 
 Happy Thought (about Miss Bertha). — "Short and sweet." 
 
 In less than five minutes I find out that it only requires a 
 simple question on any subject, to draw from her an explanation, 
 in, apparently, several pages of close talking. She has a wonder- 
 fid memory for the events of her early life, which seem to find 
 their reproduction in later events happening to various people. 
 If you say to Mrs. Mompison, "My watch is rather slow," 
 " Ah ! " she says at once, so sympathetically that it really makes
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 311 
 
 you like her at first, and encourage her to tell you something, " 1 
 remember when we were first married, Mr. Mompison — we iised 
 then to live in Russell Square — in those days, you know, Russell 
 Square was considered quite the fashionable quarter, and we had 
 a very nice house there, which your Aunt will recollect." Here 
 she interests her; but though Mrs. Mompison is asthmatic, and 
 obliged to pull up at the commas and semicolons, yet the rest is 
 never sufficiently long to allow anyone else to cut in and start a 
 fresh subject. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Epigrammatic description of Mrs. Mompison, 
 short-breathed and long-winded. 
 
 She tells us a long story about a watch, given her at that time, 
 and by which she's never been able to tell the correct time, though 
 she's had it for nearly forty years ; and this narrative includes 
 several other anecdotes out of the dh'ect line, and to be found in 
 the bye-ways of Mrs. Mompison's history. Most of these lesser 
 stories are about her daughter Rowena, whom I have never met. 
 
 [Stibsequent Xote, introduced here. — After meeting the Glymphyns, 
 .and others, who knew the Mompisons most intimately, I find that 
 no one has seen Miss Rowena since she was a child, and that, of 
 her, at that time, their recollection is imperfect. But there's 
 nothing which Rowena, apparently, hasn't suffered, nothing she 
 hasn't done, no place she hasn't visited, no failing to which she is 
 not subject, no virtue which she does not practise, no accomplish- 
 ment of which she does not know, at least, something; and there's 
 no jeu de mot, however new, which Rowena, according to her 
 mother, hasn't uttered, years ago, in another form. Most of Mrs. 
 Mompison's longest stories — and they are none of them short ones 
 — are hung upon "my daughter Rowena." If there's no positive 
 opportunity for a history, we get Rowena in little social anecdotes. 
 It is enough to observe, for example, in order to give yourself, or 
 someone else, a chance of saying something, that "the interior of 
 Mid Africa is a charming spot." If you're well posted up in the 
 matter, and know that others are not, you foresee a brilliant dis- 
 course all to yourself — only you haven't counted upon .Mrs. 
 Mompison's Rowena. "Ah!" says Mrs. Mompison (she invariably 
 commences with a mild sigh, as if your inquiry, or remark, had
 
 312 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 awakened painful recollections, which is a Happy Thought on her 
 part, as it gives her time to get together her materials and her 
 hreath for the effort, and then her plaintive tone and looks 
 deprecate all interruption which might appear rude and unseemly) 
 "Ah!" she says, "it must be very beautiful. I don't know it 
 myself" (here yon see a chance for breaking in with what you do 
 know about it, personally, only that she goes calmly on) — " but 
 my daughter Eowena stayed with some friends, the Cloudies of 
 Invernesshire, very rich people they were at one time, but David 
 
 Cloudie speculated in silk, or well, I forget what — but he was- 
 
 obliged to economise and live abroad, and Rowena visited them in 
 Africa, where she stopped at a place with a most extraordinary 
 name." Here you are about to suggest a name, or do suggest it, 
 but not another w T ord will Mrs. Mompison let you get in before 
 she's on again, with "Yes, I daresay that was it; because Rowena, 
 when writing to me, and that's some years ago now," etc., &c. If 
 you tell Mrs. Mompison that you've fallen down-stairs and dis- 
 located your collar-bone, you are immediately informed that this 
 is nothing new to Rowena. You've had the chicken-pox very 
 badly, so has Rowena, far worse. Your sister has so exquisite a 
 voice that she is thinking of really going on the Italian Operatic 
 Stage : well, Rowena absolutely engaged herself, but Alboni 
 begged her not to come out, until she had retired, and so Rowena 
 gave in, and didn't. Have you an excellent memory ? You may 
 have, Mrs. Mompison admits, but nothing to Rowena's. Do you 
 happen to possess so quick an ear for music that you can hum 
 correctly a tune after only once hearing it 1 Mrs. Mompison quite 
 believes you, because Rowena can play the airs of an entire Opera r 
 or even an Oratorio, which she has only heard once for the first 
 time the evening before. In fact, try what you will, Rowena beats 
 you at evei-ything.] 
 
 We are boxed up with Mrs. Mompison for an hour. In conver- 
 sation, Mrs. Mompison first, my Aunt a very bad second, and 
 myself nowhere. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Torture of the Middle Ages — to be jawed to 
 death. 
 
 She will explain everything to us — her own complaints, Rowena's-
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GAUD EN. 313 
 
 complaints (who has had all my Aunt's sufferings multiplied, it 
 seems by ten, and is far better on the whole than could have been 
 possibly expected), Mr. Mompison's complaints, the remedies which 
 don't succeed, the remedies which she hopes will succeed, and 
 so on. 
 
 My Aunt asks if she has found the waters of Aix beneficial. 
 Mrs. Mompison can't simply answer Yes or No, or tell us that she 
 hasn't been there long enough to make up her mind on the 
 subject ; not a bit of it. She at once commences shaking her 
 head sadly, and sighing as if all her family had been poisoned by 
 the sulphur springs. " Ah ! " she says, " I've tried them for some 
 time, and I'm bound to say that, to a certain extent, and in certain 
 cases, I've known them do perhaps some good, but not perma- 
 nently, because Rowena," she turns to me, and I incline my 
 head 
 
 Soppy Thought. — Be attentive and polite to Miss Bertha's 
 mother. 
 
 " Because," she continues, " my daughter Rowena went 
 
 there for a fortnight, or two months — let me see, which was it 1 — 
 in the spring or autumn ; but it doesn't much matter, and she was 
 suffering dreadfully at the time from pain in her neck, and from a 
 sort of nervous depression of the larynx, I think, which prevented 
 her from ever getting any sleep after six in the morning, so she 
 always went to bed at nine, and took a nap in the afternoon ; and 
 as for her eating, Rowena used to say to me after breakfast, or 
 luncheon, or dinner, that she never could understand what had 
 become of her appetite." 
 
 My Aunt, getting a chance for herself, rushes in hurriedly on 
 her own account, to tell Mrs. Mompison why she is going to Aix. 
 " I'm going," she says, " to try the sulphur waters and nervanism 
 for the galves, which I hear is the demery now for all complaints 
 arising from debilical hysterity— " gasp, and here she becomes 
 so hopelessly entangled in the meshes of Dixon's Johnsonary, that 
 Mrs. Mompison, who has been taking in, carefully, a good supply 
 <>f breath, enough for a five minutes' narrative without an inter- 
 ruption, at once seizes the opportunity, and says, "Ah! yes ! that's 
 what poor Rowena — my daughter Rowena — suffered from, fear- 
 fully. No one can know," this is a sort of home thrust at my
 
 314 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Aunt, " no one can know what that poor child went through." I 
 feel, while she goes on talking, that I could tell her, if I liked, 
 what I'd gone through with other illnesses, and, as it were, beaten 
 Rowena all to nothing. I'm sure my Aunt is dying to back her 
 complaints and sufferings against Rowena's. 
 
 Happy Thought {on the first opportunity). — To say, Well, we all 
 ought to be very thankful that we haven't lost legs or arms. " I 
 knew," I go on, "a poor fellow once," &c, then I tell them a 
 piteous tale, by way of depreciating Rowena's sufferings, which 
 almost brings tears to my own eyes, and a slight pause follows its 
 termination. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Checkmate to Rowena. 
 
 Not a bit. Mrs. Mompison begins, " Ah! yes, that's very dread- 
 ful, very dreadful indeed, but it's almost worse where a young girl, 
 full of life and health, as Rowena — my daughter Rowena — was 
 when she was out hunting with Lord Diddlecot's hounds in 
 Leicestershire — she was a beautiful rider, and led the field when- 
 ever she was out — and her horse, which her father had given her, 
 and bought for three hundred guineas of Sir George Lamley — it 
 was a trained hunter, and from some cause or another, it fell at a 
 five-barred gate, and poor Rowena was thrown violently into 
 the field, hitting her right arm and her left knee so badly 
 that " 
 
 Arx-la-Chapelle. — Tickets ! 
 
 Happy Thought. — Good-bye for the present, Mrs. Mompison. 
 " I dai*esay," says my Aunt, " we shall see something of you while 
 we're here." 
 
 Note. — See something : limit the pleasure to seeing : and when 
 seen, if possible to be avoided ; except for the sake of Bertha 
 Mompison, whom I — yes, certainly — whom I do wish to meet 
 again. 
 
 At this moment up comes Captain Fortescue ; and Aunt in a 
 flurry calls him Mr. Timberry on the spot. She doesn't remember 
 his name until we've been with him five minutes, and then she 
 makes ample amends by addressing him as Captain Quortesfue, 
 which nothing will convince her is not his correct designation.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN, 
 
 315 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ENNUYE FORTESCUE'S DISMALS EXPLANATION — LODGINGS AT 
 
 AACHEN VIEWS — LANDLADY MILBURD — CONVERSATION LOOK 
 
 —TRYING TIME HINTS FOR FRENCH SPEAKING — AN AGREE- 
 MENT — A DREAM TREMENDOUS DISCOVERY FIRST APPEARANCE 
 
 OF A BONSER ! 
 
 APTAIN FORTES- 
 QUE, who receives us at 
 the Station, is weary of every- 
 thing generally. He is a 
 lively person to meet on one's 
 arrival. "Wretchedly dull 
 place, this," he informs my 
 Aunt, making a wry face on 
 saying this, as if he'd just 
 swallowed a nasty dose. 
 "Wretchedly dull. Nothing 
 to do. I'm sick of it. 'Pon 
 my soul, it's enough to give 
 one a suicidal mania in a fort- 
 night." Then, with a pitying 
 air to us, " Going to stop here 
 any time ? " 
 
 I hasten to explain that 1 
 shall only remain to see my 
 Aunt comfortably settled (of 
 which there is, according to Captain Fortescue's account, a cheer- 
 ful prospect), and then I shall return home at once. 
 
 " Ah ! " he returns, still pityingly, which is most irritating, 
 " that's exactly what I used to say when / first came. I intended 
 lo stay ten days, and I've been here ten weeks." To my Aunt, 
 •" You'll go in for some regular course, I suppose?" She replies, 
 
 rather nervously, " Yes, 1 believe T am ordered valnagism and " 
 
 " Yes," interrupts Fortescue, smiling as placidly as a Lotos-cater, 
 "they ordered me galvanism to pick me up, but they first knocked
 
 310 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 me down. It's very provoking. I ought to be in England, at 
 Mosshire, now." 
 
 Haj-ipy Thought. — Then, my dear Captain Fortescue, why don't 
 you go ! 
 
 He smiles, compassionately. " My dear fellow, you won't talk 
 so easily about going, after you've been here a week or so. I 
 ought to have joined this week." 
 
 " flood gracious ! " exclaims my Aunt, involuntarily frightened 
 out of herself by this last expression of his, which she connects in 
 her own mind, evidently, with some surgical operation, " You don't 
 mean — that is — joined !— you haven't been " 
 
 "No, no," he replies languidly, " not so bad as that. I meant 
 joined my regiment." 
 
 " Dear ! " says my Aunt, much relieved by this explanation. " I 
 really thought you'd been obliged to sunbergo — I mean submit to 
 some painful gersical soperation, and that it hadn't been mendei'ly 
 propered." 
 
 Captain Fortesque now takes us to see the lodgings which he 
 has engaged conditionally. "They're not particularly bright," he 
 admits (and they are not), " but they're in an excellent situation, 
 near everything and everybody, if that's any advantage," he adds, 
 with a gloomy and sarcastic smile. He informs us, in the same 
 despairing tone, that " the lodgings are the same all over Aachen r 
 and that these happen to be the cheapest he's seen." 
 
 I don't believe (from subsequent events) that he ever troubled 
 himself until the morning of our arrival, and that then he simpty 
 lounged into the first place where he saw " Apartments " in the 
 window, and took them conditionally upon our being satisfied 
 when we came. 
 
 The sitting-room has an old piece of carpet, showing a foot's 
 breadth of stained floor all round. There is a piece of furniture 
 with a marble top to it, and one small drawer underneath. There 
 is a venerable sofa, which my Aunt feels, she afterwards says, 
 inclined to dust before sitting down on it. There is another 
 wonderful piece of furniture, which looks like a cabinet piano of an 
 ancient date, but is an escritoire intended to make you say, 
 " Dear me ! a writing desk !" when you open it. In front there is 
 a fairish view, to which we turn, as quite a relief, from the dingy
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 317 
 
 paper, the dull patchwork over the beds in the bedrooms (mine is 
 a mere closet), and the generally depressing effect of everything in 
 the lodging, and with our heads out of window, we say with affected 
 cheerfulness, that we think this'll do ; and it turns out afterwards 
 that we both mean, though out of politeness we don't say so, 
 " We do wish Captain Quortesfue hadn't taken these lodgings, for 
 of all the gloomy holes we were ever in, this is the worst." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Not going to stop at Aachen. Off the day 
 after to-morrow, after my Aunt's settled. 
 
 Milburd, who is passing through, and has left his wife at the 
 hotel, comes up-stairs to see "how we're getting on." 
 
 Fortescue Kays, languidly, " They've only been here an hour ; 
 you can't expect them to have anything the matter with them, 
 yet. Give 'em a day, poor things !" His view of visitors to Aix 
 being that any healthy person visiting this sulphurous spot, know- 
 ingly, deserves all he gets, and, in his opinion, he'll probably get 
 a good deal. 
 
 Always in a worn and languid manner, as if the world were 
 coming to an end to-morrow, and nothing could make any 
 difference to anybody, he wishes lis good-bye for the present, as 
 he sees that one of the young persons connected with the shop 
 below (the landlady, he imagines), is coming up-stairs. (" She 
 talks French," he says : " so that'll be all right "—will it?) He 
 delicately hints that we should probably like to be alone with her, 
 and so drags himself downstairs as if he'd just come out of a 
 torture chamber, and would expire at the foot of the staircase. 
 
 Milburd doesn't offer to move. On the contrary, "Here's some 
 fun," he exclaims ; and seizing upon the Conversation Book (wish 
 I hadn't left it out ; it exposes a weak point) he says, " Now then, 
 let's see where it is. Where's ' How to Hire a Lodging ' — Dialogue 
 with a Landlady. Here's a game ! " I don't think my Aunt is 
 best pleased with this levity, and, on the whole, it occurs to me 
 that she is not best pleased with anything she's seen up to the 
 present moment, Quortesfue included. 
 
 " I say ! " says Milburd ; " you're over a milliner's shop. There'll 
 be all the (what he calls) gals waiting on you. I say " — 
 
 Happy Thought (to myself). — Practise my German.
 
 :U8 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 His further remarks are cut short by the entrance of a very 
 quiet and lady-like young woman (one of the numerous "Young- 
 Persons " in the shop below, whom I now remember having over- 
 heard giggling at us behind the glass-door with a muslin blind 
 over it), who salutes my Aunt, Milburd, and myself. 
 
 In what language shall I address her 1 Is this the one who 
 speaks French, and with whom, therefore, " it will be all right 1" 
 Hate to talk in a foreign language before two English people, 
 specially when one's an elderly relative who may correct you 
 with authority, and the other's a practical joker, who will pick up 
 every mistake you make, and will pretend to roar with laughing 
 at your pronunciation, or your idioms, whatever you say. 
 
 We are all silent. 
 
 I feel that I could get on, if I was alone, well enough, and 
 perhaps in about five minutes be complimented by Mademoiselle- 
 on my French ; but before Milburd and my Aunt I can't find a 
 word to say. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Let my Aunt begin, and see how she does it. 
 
 "You tell her," says my Aunt, impatiently, "that we'll take- 
 the rooms as Captain Quorterrage — I mean Captain Quortesfue- 
 arranged." 
 
 Milburd pretends to look this out in the Conversation Book r 
 and informs me, as "something to go on with," that "Mademoi- 
 selle" is "Meess," that " sivvoo play" is "eef you ple-ase," and 
 that " Plum-pud-dang " is the same in all languages. These in- 
 structions he finishes with " Go on Milor Rosbif, fire avays ! " 
 
 Happy Thought. — Ignore him. Smile, deprecating tomfoolery. 
 
 Our landlady, the nice, quiet, modest young person (not at all 
 Milburd's notion of " one of the gals "), is still waiting for me, or 
 somebody, to speak first. 
 
 I say boldly, " Le Capitaine Fortesque, vous connaissez ce Mon- 
 sieur que je veux dire " 
 
 She replies, " Parfaitement, Monsieur," which gives me time ; 
 and I continue. 
 
 " Eh bien ! " 
 
 Happy Thought. — Always try to get in "Eh bien" " alors,"
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 319 
 
 " bien entendu " and " n'est-ce pas" whenever possible ; because, if 
 you can't command an entire language, it's a great thing to have 
 a small effective force at your disposal for manoeuvres. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Travelling proverb, "A little knowledge is a 
 very useful thing." 
 
 I continue, " Eh Lien alors I " —(by the way, musn't waste my 
 regiments recklessly) — "si vous avez compris de Monsieur le 
 Capital tie que nous allons prendre " 
 
 " That's rum French," says Milburd, in an audible aside. 
 
 I beg him with, I am aware, a little irritation of manner, not to- 
 play the fool, adding, that if she understands me, that's sufficient, 
 to which my Aunt assents, saying, " Of course ! only do make her 
 understand ! " which rather upsets me, as I resume, abandoning 
 my original sentence, and going to the point thus : — " En href " 
 — which I remember in several modern books — "En href, nous' 
 prendrons, — je veux dire (with a glance at Milburd) nous prenons, 
 les appartements par la semaine, et on commence, maintenant, 
 dujourd'hui. C'est bien entendu, n'est-ce pas ? " 
 
 She returns, quietly, "Je vous comprends parfaitement, et je 
 dirai a ma sceur ainee tout ce que vous m'avez dit. Bon jour, 
 Madame! Bon jour, Messieurs!" And she withdraws. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Why, being gone, I am a man again. 
 
 My Aunt is dissatisfied. " Why didn't I," she wants to know, 
 "ask about the price?" Milburd insists that I ought to have 
 put all the questions in the Conversation Book. I answer my 
 Aunt that Fortescue will tell us all about price when we meet 
 him. 
 
 Milburd wishes me to come to dinner with him and Mrs. Mil- 
 burd at a restaurant, While it is preparing, I show my Aunt the 
 Cathedral and the Flisa Fountain. At every other step I am 
 obliged to explain that it's not the drains, but the sulphur which 
 she smells. I tell her that I recollect all about it, and after 
 dinner she feels a little better. 
 
 Very tired, and retire early : after inspection — ahem ! — and 
 with considerable misgiving. I remark that the quiet young 
 persons (the " gals ") below arc still giggling. I can't see, but I
 
 320 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 can hear shouts of laughter. Are they so pleased at our having 
 taken the lodgings ? 
 
 Notes of the Night, made soon after dawn. — My Dream. I 
 seemed to he in some church which I knew thoroughly well, yet 
 I'd never seen it before. Somebody, only showing half his body 
 out from behind a pillar, said that High Mass was going on, and 
 at that moment I saw the clergy in their vestments walking 
 along, accompanied by a master of the ceremonies in a sort of 
 gold chasuble and a tall black chimney-pot hat, which he wouldn't 
 /somehow I felt this, for he didn't say so) — which he wouldn't 
 take off on any account. Then, all at once, from out of a door in 
 a wall, which seemed to have no connection with any part of the 
 church, but was put up like a screen on the right, came a very 
 long, thin monk in a surplice, who denounced every one, as t 
 imagined from his action, though he never said anything, and yet 
 he was certainly vociferating with all his might ; and my Aunt 
 who was standing up close to four people who were kneeling and 
 somehow doing it by facing both ways at once, said to me crossly, 
 " You don't mean to say you've brought me here for this ! " 
 Upon which I remonstrated with her, without speaking, however, 
 which was the remarkable part of it, and the tall monk, waving 
 his arm, disappeared through the door in the wall just as another 
 priest in a black biretta began to pump the handle of the organ 
 in the loft just above us, and to preach, at the same time, against 
 Mary, Queen of Scots ; and whenever he stuck for a word, a man 
 in a grey dress prompted him. "And then," he said, "that 
 scamp of a Scotchman ! " whereupon I looked up, and he at once 
 withdrew the expression, saying, distinctly, that he didn't mean 
 me. This seemed to satisfy everyone (there were five people 
 present) ; when, on looking up towards where the altar should 
 have been, but wasn't, I saw another priest at least twenty feet 
 high, who turned round, smiling and bowing (he'd a head exactly 
 like that of the great Daniel O'Connell, the Liberator), and he 
 was stooping down to lift up a little deacon who was facing us, 
 and chuckling while he was giving us a blessing. Then the organ 
 began to play and I awoke. 
 
 Think I hear my Aunt stirring. So rise. Every one up and 
 about in Aachen. Out to look at Water Drinkers. Same old
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 321 
 
 routine, same smell, almost same people. Pretty Miss Elisa, alas I 
 has vanished from the fountain. I visit the kindly Miss Catherine 
 (it isn't Catherine, but something very like it) and while laying in 
 a small store of cigars (at one gro apiece, and a little one or two in 
 on taking a quantity), I learn that poor Elisa will never more 
 hand waters from this, or any other fountain, on earth. " She 
 was a very pretty girl, and as good as she was pretty," says Miss 
 Catherine, with an emphasis that implies a history, and I feel that 
 nothing more can be said. 
 
 It relieves us both, after a pause, to interchange the tittle-tattle 
 of the present season, and to discuss the merits of the newest 
 fashion in cigar-holders. 
 
 " And where are you lodging % " asks Miss Catherine, who is 
 only too pleased to advise and recommend. 
 
 Happy TViowr//^.— Whenever going again, send to Miss C. 
 Ought to have thought of this before. 
 
 I answer, oh, at Fraulein Frowster's. 
 
 "Ah ! so ! " says Miss Catherine, and smiles. I don't like that 
 smile. She doesn't offer an opinion on the matter. I wish she 
 would. Somebody else enters, and I leave. 
 
 I don't like the peculiar way in which she said that " So." I 
 don't like her smiling and only saying, " So." 
 
 Back to lodgings. Gaily salute the Fraulein Frowster, whom I 
 see in the shop. She bows to me civilly, and nicely enough. 
 
 I enter the sitting-room. My Aunt is there before me. A frown 
 is on her brow. In her hand is the lid of, I fancy, a pomatum- 
 pot. I wish her good morning. She does not return the courtesy, 
 but asks me in a tone, at once grave and indignant, " Where is 
 your German Pockshonary 1 " 
 
 What? Oh, of course, my Pocket German Dictionary. Here r 
 naturally, in my pocket. 
 
 "Then," says nvy Aunt, holding out the pomatum-pot lid, on 
 which I now notice, for the first time, a large round brownish 
 black spot, as of the remains of a squashed insect ; " then, if you 
 please, tell me what is the German for — for — That 1 " 
 
 Further inspection unnecessary. Miss Catherine's ominous 
 smile. Ah ' I open the dictionary, and far on, under " B," I 
 find it. 
 
 Y
 
 322 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " What is it 1 " asks my Aunt, tragically. 
 
 [This is my pronunciation of the word in the Anglo-French- 
 German Dictionary — " die Wanze — punaise."'] 
 
 " Wanser" I reply. 
 
 "Then," she returns, with calm desperation, "I've killed five 
 Warners this morning. Here's one ! " and she indicates the defunct 
 on the pomatum-pot lid with the air of a Lady Macbeth, pointing 
 at the " little damned spot." Then she adds, having already for- 
 gotten the word, " That's a Bonser if ever there was one." 
 
 She is right, it is. 
 
 
 ^%-^^"
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 323 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 DIE WANZE — BONSER PUNAISE JOAN— SWARMS RINGING UP — ■ 
 
 GRETCHEN ZIMMERMADCHEN AUNT ROW TEN LITTLE 
 
 WANSERS WO 1ST A SONG — A MESSAGE — GERMAN PROGRESS 
 
 — CASPAR TO THE RESCUE. 
 
 THEN, that," says my 
 Aunt, reflectively, "is a 
 Bonser." 
 
 I regret to say that, read- 
 ing Wanze for Bonser, the 
 fact admits no possibility of 
 doubt. " Let me see," says 
 my Aunt, still with an air 
 of meditation over the lifeless 
 body, " what is the French 
 for Wanser ? " She is evi- 
 dently preparing to encounter 
 them in all languages. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Never 
 met with them in French. 
 Up to this time I had always 
 been under the impression 
 that they were peculiar to 
 English lodging houses. 
 
 I refer to the Dictionary. 
 " The German Wanser," I 
 presently inform my Aunt, 
 " is, in French, La l'unaise," 
 
 My Aunt is immensely astonished. " Why, goodness me ! " she 
 exclaims, " that's what they called Joke of Arn— wasn't it ? " 
 "Called whom, Aunt?" 
 
 " Joan of Arc," she replies ; " they always called her Joan La 
 Punaise. Now what could be the reason of that ? " 
 
 Happy Thought {admitting the supposition that she ivas so called). 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 — Because her name was a bug-bear to the English. I suggest 
 that La Pucelle is what my Aunt means. 
 
 "Ah yes," she returns, instantly, "but it's easy to get such 
 words mixed, for really Pusaine and Panelh are very much alike." 
 
 As regards this present specimen, I want to know if my Aunt 
 thinks "there are many more where that came from?" 
 
 She simply answers " Swarms." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Look out " Swarm." Result, Der Schivarm. 
 
 "That's enough," my Aunt says. "Now ring the bell for the 
 servant." 
 
 This process is a remarkably primitive one. There is on the 
 table a small bell, which emits, on being shaken violently, a pro- 
 portionately feeble tinkle. Regarded in the light of an amusement, 
 it might beguile a spare five minutes ; but for any such practical 
 purpose as summoning a domestic from a depth of two flights of 
 stairs, and through a thickness of two doors, it is perhaps a trifle 
 ineffective. 
 
 On some office-doors I remember having seen a brass-plate with 
 the instruction " Ring and enter " engraved on it. Ringing 
 seemed as superfluous as in the present case, where the direction 
 should be, " Ring, and then shout as loudly as you can for the 
 servant." I ring to begin with, but what am I to shout ? What 
 is the servant's name 1 
 
 Happy Thought. — Being in Germany, try Gretchen. 
 
 Subsequently, after experimentalising three times, alter it to 
 "Marie!" Voice from below answers to this, and it is evident 
 that a spirit has been summoned from the vasty — or in this 
 instance, judging of the place from the appearance of the person — 
 the nasty deep, and is coming when I do call. 
 
 "Give it her well," says my Aunt, "and say that we shall leave 
 this afternoon." 
 
 " But we can't speak German to her," I object. 
 
 My Aunt is equal to the emergency. "Tell her, then," she 
 says, "to send Miss Whatshername here — the Frauselle or the 
 Madelein, or whatever they call the Young Person who keeps the 
 house. Captain Quortesfue said that it was most likely she was a 
 Belman and not a Gerjian, and only talked French, and I'm sure
 
 HOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 325 
 
 Tier sister spoke very well yesterday. You'd better ring, or call 
 again." 
 
 I do so. My Aunt is keeping her wrath up to boiling-point by 
 looking daggers at the miserable Wanser, which she has nailed, as 
 it were, to the pomatum-pot lid, like a bad penny to a counter. 
 
 Happy Thought [after calling again). — Look out the subject in 
 Conversation Book. Retire with it into bedroom, and let mv Aunt 
 (Commence the attack. 
 
 The Zimmermadchen, however, appears sooner than I had 
 ■expected. She is a slipsloppy maiden fresh from the boot polish 
 ■or the black-lead, with which cheerful colour she has been smearing 
 her face, perhaps with a sort of savage Indian's idea of frightening 
 the enemy. The enemy being ourselves, the Lodgers. She is, as 
 my Aunt afterwards says, exactly like that of a Flemish barmaid 
 in any old picture of " boors drinking." "She is," she adds, "the 
 perfect sick family of one of those figures." (It occurs to me 
 afterwards, on referring for " sick family" to Dixon's Johnsonary, 
 that my Aunt meant fac simile.) Her stockings are wrinkled all 
 about her heels, which have, apparently, outgrown her slippers. 
 She is altogether so much like an over-boiled pudding in a cloth, 
 that she seems to be merely kept together by pins of prodigious 
 strength, stuck in at those points of her di'ess which are most 
 likely to yield to interior pressure. If one of these pins weie 
 to give way suddenly, the result would be too dreadful to 
 contemplate. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Don't contemplate it. 
 
 As to her hair, it's done up with one twist behind like the small 
 top of a cottage loaf. With her half silly, half cunning expres- 
 sion, she reminds my Aunt of the Goosted Tuff at the Zoological 
 Gardens. 
 
 The Madchen is evidently either an old performer in this Act of 
 the Drama of the Wanser, or she is an imbecile. The former for 
 choice. ^ At first she pretends, much to my Aunt's disgust, not to be 
 able to perceive the impounded insect ; but incapable of sustaining 
 this assumption of character for more than five minutes, she 
 admits, in pantomime, that she can see it, and looking up into my 
 Aunt's face with an ingeniously simple giin, she asks, quite with
 
 326 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 the air of one profoundly desirous of being instructed by our 
 superior wisdom, " Was ist das? " 
 
 " Was ist das ? " retorts my Aunt, speaking excellent German in 
 her imitative indignation. " You conknowsey well enough. Das 
 ist Wanaiser, Bonser ! And what's mair," she adds, warming with 
 her subject, and finding that her mastery over the German 
 language exceeds her fondest expectations, " dere ist sch warms of 
 deser Bonsers in mein zimmer." 
 
 Happy Thought. — To make the matter clearer to the Madchen, 
 who at present appears inclined to do nothing but grin, as much 
 as to say, "Well, you are two funny people!" Annoying 
 this : so I say, " Ja, so, schwarms Warners in mein Zimmer" (I am 
 obliged to say "mein" which is not true, as I don't recollect the 
 German for the possessive " her," unless it's "hern," which I don't 
 like to try), then on my fingers, " JSin, Zwei, Drei" and so on up 
 to ten : meaning Wansers. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Recollect (while I am doing this) an absurd 
 song about Ten Little Niggers, whose number was perpetually 
 being reduced. Adapted in my mind to present occasion — Ten 
 Little Wansers. 
 
 Ten little Wansers 
 In de Zimmer, mein, 
 One squashed on the pomatum-pot lid — 
 Then there were nine. 
 One little, two little, three little, four little, five little 
 
 Wanser B . . oys. 
 &c. 
 
 The Zimmermadchen is more amused than ever, though I don't 
 sing her this verse, but on the contrary preserve an austere front. 
 " Fin, zwei, drei," she repeats, and positively shakes her head with 
 laughter, as much as to say, " 0, go along with you do ; you are 
 so funny." 
 
 " Idiot," says my Aunt, highly irritated. " That's her artful- 
 ness. She knows, as well as possible, what we've been saying to 
 her." 
 
 My Aunt's fixed belief, with regard to all foreigners, is that they 
 all thoroughly understand you, but pretend not, just to annoy an
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 327 
 
 Englishman and give themselves time to think over their plan, 
 whatever it may be. 
 
 " Don't tell me," she says, pettishly, " that they don't know what 
 I'm saying. They do. That girl does. Pretending not to know 
 a Bonser when she sees it ! Bah ! I wouldn't believe her on her 
 oath. Tell her to go downstairs and send lip someone who isn't 
 quite such a fool, or such a knave." 
 
 This is difficult to render in German — I mean in my German. 
 
 Happy Thought. — To ask for the Landlady. 
 
 " Vo ist die " — so far I fancy I'm grammatical, though I am a 
 little uncertain as to die — " Vo ist die " — I stick at " Landladv." I 
 
 t/ 
 
 can only think of Landwehr. Madchen grins. " Idiot ! " my 
 Aunt again mutters. I reconstruct my sentence with a new idea, 
 " Vo ist die, Fraulein Frowster?" 
 
 In answer the Madchen has a great deal to say to both of us, 
 which, delivered with the utmost volubility, is of an apparently 
 explanatory character. I fancy that she is giving a lecture on 
 Wansers, containing arguments, based upon facts within her own 
 experience, which are all favourable towards our not giving up the 
 lodgings. 
 
 " They're all alike," says my Aunt, when the Madchen pauses to 
 take breath. " I know as well as possible what she's been 
 saying, though I couldn't quite follow all she said." 
 
 Happy Thought. — To say generally, " I couldn't quite follow," 
 when one really hasn't understood a single word. 
 
 My Aunt continues, " I'll be bound she's been saying that she's 
 never seen anything of the sort in the lodgings before xoe came, 
 and that if there are Bonsers here, we must have brought them 
 ourselves. The idea of our going about swarmelling with travels 
 of Bonsers, like the man with the Illustrious Fleas. Horrid ! " 
 
 Does she really think the Maid has been saying this, I ask. 
 
 " Certainly," returns my Aunt ; " that's what they'd say ia 
 England." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Patriotic Song, What will they say in. 
 England / Reply to this, by my Aunt, That's what they'd say in. 
 England. 
 
 " Do tell her," says my Aunt, impatiently, " to send Frowlein 
 Froster here, and get rid of her."
 
 328 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Happy German Thought. — " Die Fraulein Frowster nach here 
 kommen machen," by which I intend to convey " Make Miss 
 Frowster come here." 
 
 " Ja, Herr," she answers. Exit, grinning. 
 
 " I wonder what she's going to say or do," my Aunt answers. 
 
 So do I. By the way, there's one difficulty that strikes me. It 
 is, what is our legal position in Germany with regard to the Land- 
 lady and the lodgings 1 
 
 Have we taken the rooms by the month, or week, or day, or 
 what 1 Is it possible to take them for less than a month in Ger- 
 many 1 What arrangement did Fortescue make ? He never told 
 us. If we go away on the first day, can they sue us for a month's 
 rent ? If sued, in what Court, and who is the best solicitor to go 
 to 1 A German solicitor, who only speaks his own language, won't 
 do. Suppose Fortescue, as our agent, to have made a contract 
 for a month, do Wanseis invalidate it 1 Then, if there is a law- 
 suit, isn't the practice in Germany regulated by the Court-Martial 
 sjjirit, and isn't the loser, in addition to paying his loss, punished 
 with imprisonment in a fortress 1 ? "A German might be," says 
 my Aunt, " but not an English person who claimed protection 
 under the Flatfish Brig." 
 
 I suppose she's right (taking " Flatfish Brig " to mean 
 u British Flag"), but there seems to be a difficulty about it 
 somewhere. 
 
 Happy Thought. — In answer to my Aunt's despairing " "What 
 can we do 1 " it suddenly occurs to me that my old and trusted 
 friend Dr. Caspar will come and settle the matter, in his own 
 language. I volunteer to go out and fetch him. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Caspar has settled it with a high hand, judging by his manner 
 and tone. 
 
 The Young Person quailed before him, and the grinning 
 Miidchen became dumb and glum. From Caspar's way of " giving 
 it them," I can judge how a Prussian Officer could make requisi- 
 tions when he wished to present the victims with a bit of his 
 mind. My Aunt said afterwards "that she really felt for the 
 unhappy people in the shop, and it was only by thinking of the
 
 BO VXD ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 329 
 
 Bonsers that she could keep herself from begging Dr. Caspar not 
 to scold them so severely." 
 
 "We won't try any more lodgings, but move over to the Grand 
 Monarque, to which hotel I wish we had gone on our arrival. 
 
 Note and advice to travellers. — Dr. Caspar, whether as a friend 
 or a physician, is one of the kindliest men in Aachen. His gouty 
 subjects bless him. " May he live long and prosper," as Rip Van 
 Winkle says. 
 
 S>~ J&
 
 330 
 
 Q UITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HOTEL DU GRAND MOXARQUE LOBSTER GERMAN FARM IN VIEW 
 
 RULES — GUIDE — LES ENTOMOLOGUES — LETTERS PAPERS. 
 
 OMFORTABLY 
 
 housed in Hotel. 
 " No Bonsers here," says- 
 my Aunt, who has not yet 
 entirely recovered her se- 
 renity. " I thought they 
 were in those lodgings 
 when I first looked at the 
 lobster in the bed." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Ke- 
 
 member the game of words 
 played with ivory letters, 
 "Bolster" and "Lobster" 
 composed of the same let- 
 ters. New phrase of 
 Dixon's Johnsonary. 
 
 ^j^^V^/ VtW^ftP^S?^^^^ Happy Thought. — What 
 
 J ^-'~ ' ^ is the difference between a 
 
 bolster and a lobster 1 — One you can sleep on, the other you can't. 
 Put this down as a brusque saying of Abernethy's. 
 
 Happy Thought. — The beauty of going to a well-ordered hotel 
 like Madame Dremel's Grand Monarque, is, that everybody 
 appears to have expected you for the last month, and to have got 
 everything ready for you, whatever it was. Within an hour, we 
 are installed, with a reasonable " arrangement," and with ten 
 times the comfort of Lodgings. 
 
 My Aunt wishes me to show her all the town before I leave, 
 [Mem. By the way, must n't forget that my object, while here, is to 
 see a German Farm.] Having told my Aunt that I remember my 
 way about the place perfectly, and the names of all the principal
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 331 
 
 streets and churches, I rehearse by myself, and find that some- 
 how most of it appears new to me. Odd. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Buy a Guide Book, in French, for practice'/ 
 (On analysis of motives for this proceeding, I fancy I detect 
 obstinacy and false pride. Being in Germany, why study French 1 
 why insist on speaking French ? When in France, though, one 
 can come out with a few words of German, and apologise for bad 
 ness of French accent. By the way, dangerous just now to speak 
 French in Germany, or German in France. Might be arrested.) 
 
 Happy Thought. — When one wants to be understood in a 
 foreign land, speak English. When in the presence of natives 
 adopt the language of the country for secrets. 
 
 My Aunt at once picks out a page in the Guide Book, prefacing 
 her showing it to me with the remark, " How odd that I should 
 just have fit my punger on this particular place. Look ! " I take 
 the book and read as follows: "La Ville d'Aix-la-Chapelle est une 
 des plus animees de la province rhenane." " That," she observes, 
 " must mean Bonsers, for I don't see much animation about." I 
 continue : " La plupart des rues sont larges et bien bdties " 
 
 "Ah ! " she interrupts, " they daren't say anything about what 
 they are pleased to call the pavement. Why, I'm soot-foore already, 
 and a pair of boots won't last three days, I'm certain. Go on." 
 
 I proceed : " Les Entomologues sont etonne's de I' immense variete 
 d'insectes." 
 
 "Ah ! I should think so indeed," says my Aunt, with a sniff of 
 indignation. "That ontolomogue evidently had a lodging, and 
 was etonne'd by Bonsers. Yes, that's all I wanted you to notice, 
 except that they call one of their favourite places near here the 
 Lousberg. Ugh ! Disgusting ! But then," she adds, with an air 
 of resignation, "1 sulphose the suppur has something to do with 
 it, and as I've come fur rheumatism 1 must take what I can get, 
 and be rid of it as pock as (passible." 
 
 The objection to the Guide des Etranyers which 1 have pur- 
 chased, is, apart from its being of very little use at the present 
 day, having been written more than fourteen years ago, that it is 
 the work of one Dr. Joseph Midler, evidently the German for Joe 
 Miller.
 
 332 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Joe Miller's Guide Books. All information 
 wrong. 
 
 Arrival of Letters. — News of little Uncles Jack and Gil. Very 
 happy and don't miss us. One from Englemore. He writes, in 
 his usual telegraphic and abbreviated style — quite the Incomplete 
 Letter Writer : — 
 
 " This'll find you at P. O. Reste. Can't come self, -wish could, but 
 under circs, not poss. No £ s. d. Frecbly Furniture collars the lot. 
 Don't forget Major Sideboard. If you see him, I'm on. R. M. D. and 
 cheque. I Shropshired t'other day. Saw Colonel Farm. Do for you 
 if terms suit. 100 per an. premium 5. Mr. Fish on premises ; Major 
 Fox six miles off. Wire if yes. Town dull. B. Duke'd and chopped 
 yesterday. Five minutes with you when back. Johnny German all 
 right ? Seedy to-day ; ate too many fizgigs for sup. last night. Must 
 dry up now. 
 
 "Your little 
 
 "ENGLEMORE." 
 
 I gather from this, on reading it carefully over two or three 
 times, that Englemore's still furnishing his house, that he's been 
 to Shropshire to see a farm for me, that circumstances (circs.) 
 prevent his joining us here, that somebody whose initial is B. took 
 a chop with Englemore at his rooms in Duke Street, and that, 
 finally, he is not particularly well, in consequence of having par- 
 taken too freely of certain fancy dishes. Also that if I purchase a 
 sideboard here for him he will send me Ready Money Down 
 (R. M. D.). Must write and ask further particulars about Colonel 
 Farm. 
 
 Another letter, forwarded under cover. Directed to me with 
 name misspelled. Hate my name misspelled. No Tradesman 
 ought to be paid who misspells one's name. Direction looking as 
 if it had been written with a thin skewer dipped in thick ink, 
 under the guidance of a person with a wandering eye. From 
 external evidences, a bill. Like the name of Smith, I've heard of 
 such things before. Shall I open it, or not 1 Very foolish of the 
 servant (in charge of the house and the Uncles) to send such a 
 thing as this on to me. 
 
 If I don't open it, I can always say " I haven't seen it," and
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 333 
 
 (in reply to stern application) " It must have come while I was 
 abroad." 
 
 Happy Thought. — " Under circs.," remain abroad. 
 
 Decide upon opening it. 
 
 "Sir, — Will you Oblidge me on Wensday morning nex with A 
 check for Bill delvd. £15 13s. (ijd. I will Call on you and Oblidge, 
 
 " Yr. Repfly., 
 
 " Thomas Casker." 
 
 Happy Thought. — I am several hundred miles away from Caskcr's- 
 neighbourhood. How surprised he has been by this time when 
 he called and " oblidged " ! Dare say he didn't believe the servant 
 who told him I wasn't at home. Can fancy what Casker's face 
 would be (I don't know Casker by sight) when, in answer to his 
 further inquiry as to when I should be at home, the servant told 
 him, " Don't know, p'r'aps not for months." 
 
 Poor Casker. He'd be quite sorry he called and was oblidged 
 — to do without his " check for Bill delvd." 
 
 The use of the French Guide has evidently struck my Aunt as 
 a valuable hint. " I shall," she says, " read nothing but French 
 while I am here. I must take up French History from the time- 
 of Forty the Loueenth. I wish you'd ask them if they take in 
 the Beldependance Inge, and I'll have it every morning. 
 
 Milburd seizes this opportunity to address the waiter thus : 
 " Kellner, quand vow pouvez come across the hide'pendance JJe/ge,- 
 voulez-vous bringen sie it here bitter ? " 
 
 The Kellner replies, very distinctly, " Yes, Sir," and exit. Sub- 
 sequently he returns with the journal in question. 
 
 Milburd having retired to consider whether he shall take his 
 sulphur bath, or not — this hesitation being apparently part of his- 
 own treatment of himself — I am writing letters, and my Aunt is 
 becoming deeply interested in her French study. " Good gracious!" 
 she exclaims, presently, " Well, I thought he'd have been a man 
 of more sense." 
 
 " Whom do you mean 1 " 
 
 In a tone implying that she is annoyed at my being inattentive 
 to what she has not been saying, she replies, " The Wimperor"
 
 334 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Elliam." Then she continues, " Would anyone imagine that he 
 could be a spiritualist ! " 
 
 What makes her think so 1 I ask. 
 
 " Why," she says, emphatically, " it's in the paper among the 
 Jfouvelles d'A llemagne. " 
 
 She hands me the Tndependance, and I read, " // y aura tine 
 grande soiree. On croit que L'Empereur y fera une apparition." 
 
 " There ! " she exclaims, triumphantly, " ' Apparition ! ' There's 
 going to be a soiree, which, I suppose, is the same as a seance, 
 where they sit round the table, and then the Apparor is to make 
 an Empersition appear." 
 
 I point out, delicately, her mistake. 
 
 " Well," she says, dubiously, " you may be right." In a few 
 days she will pretend that the mistake was mine. On some points 
 my Aunt is a little trying. I resume my correspondence. Pre- 
 sently she interrupts me with, " At all events I am right here. 
 And," she adds, with a complacent air, " I'm very glad to hear 
 of their having any religion at all." 
 
 '• Who 1 The Germans S " I inquire. 
 
 " No," she replies — " at least I mean the Germans on the stage, 
 the performers who dance — dear me ! " — (she is at a loss for a 
 word, but finds it unexpectedly) — " I mean girly bals, of course." 
 
 How have the German ballet-girls been distinguishing them- 
 selves, I want to know. That is, I don't want to know, as I really 
 should prefer being allowed to continue my letter-writing in peace ; 
 but as this information is inevitable some time or another, I may 
 as well take it now, and have done with it. 
 
 " She indicates this paragraph : " Les Coryphees du parti Catho- 
 liques se sont re'unis," &c. 
 
 I confess that I do not see anything about the religion of the 
 ballet-girls in this sentence. 
 
 "My dear," says my Aunt, in a tone expressive of pity for my 
 ignorance, " Aren't the ballet-girls ahvays called Coryphees ? I'm 
 sure it was so at the Opera-House when I went regularly, and 
 heard Balache, Jenny Lini, and Tambourind. 1 do know some- 
 thing sometimes of what I'm talking about." 
 
 Happy Thought, — Drop subject till calmer times ensue.
 
 MOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 335 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 X l'hOtEL DU GRAND MONARQUE — MOMPISONS — GERMANS — MILBURD 
 
 WATERS DOCTORING CHEMISTS PATIENTS THE GRAND 
 
 'monarch's CARRIAGE. 
 
 Y LETTERS 
 
 finished, we descend 
 to the court-yard of 
 the Grand Monarque, 
 intending to go out 
 and call on the Mom- 
 pisons. To myself I 
 acknowledge that I 
 am a trifle anxious 
 about seeing Bertha. 
 
 Happy Tho ugh t. — 
 Dissemble before my 
 Aunt. Say carelessly, 
 " Let me see ! How- 
 many Mompisons are 
 there ? I forget their 
 names." 
 
 Aunt falls into 
 trap. Somehow, when 
 she comes to speak 
 of Bertha, I like to hear her mentioned, and ask questions about her. 
 In the court-yard we come upon Milburd and his wife, who, with 
 Captain Fortcscue, and a natty little German gentleman in very 
 tight trousers, very square-toed boots, and the usual eye-glasses, are 
 seated listlessly at one of the small tables. We are introduced to 
 the German. He is Herr Kopfen, and is immediately enthusias- 
 tically polite to my Aunt. 
 
 The waiter is pouring out a fizzing beverage for Milburd. 
 Fortescue is regarding the operation despondently. 
 
 My Aunt inquires of Mrs. Milburd if this is part of the medical 
 course which her husband is supposed to be undergoing.
 
 336 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 I suggest that brandy-and-soda, at half-past eleven a.m. is not 
 a good thing. 
 
 "It's a very good thing," replies Milburd. "It's nature's 
 restorer." 
 
 "But," I put it to him, " if you're here for health" (at which 
 notion Fortescue laughs sarcastically) " you ought to go in 
 regularly for the waters." 
 
 " I tell him so," says Mrs. Milburd, "but he won't." 
 
 " My dear fellow," returns Milburd, "the waters are all hum- 
 bug. Old Thingummy the Doctor says go. Some of the medical 
 men believe in 'em, and some don't." 
 
 My Aunt, who has been listening intently, suddenly breaks in 
 upon the conversation in a frightened manner — " But, Mr. 
 Milburd, you don't mean to say that, having come all this way 
 from England, the waters are no good for rheumalgia ! Why, my 
 nephew" (turning towards me reproachfully) "told me that three 
 years ago he was cured here." 
 
 " Very likely," says Fortescue, regarding us with melancholy 
 compassion ; " but it makes you woi'se afterwards." 
 
 I deny it warmly. I feel that my Aunt has come here at her own 
 request, it is true, but to a certain extent through my representa- 
 tions, and that now my, as it were, professional opinion is at stake. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Adopt the safe system in betting, and 
 "hedge." Say that, of course, a great deal must depend on the 
 constitution of the individual ; a great deal, also, on diet ; much, 
 too, on change of life, change of air, regularity, and so forth. 
 
 Happy Thought. — What a capital Doctor I should have made,, 
 as far as giving advice is concerned. With a knowledge of three 
 medicines, and with a place to send patients to when troublesome, 
 one might get on capitally for years without being found out. 
 
 Medical Happy Thought (as a ride). — Let the Patient prescribe 
 for himself, unconsciously. My idea of being a Doctor is this : — 
 Rule, Talk to Patient, humour him or her, prescribe one out of 
 the three medicines with which you are acquainted. I've often 
 noticed a smile on a chemist's face when I've given him a pre- 
 scription, written by some celebrated man, to be made up. He 
 reads the first two or three items, and at once knows who has
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 337 
 
 ordered it^ Then he smiles, as much as to say, " Here's the old 
 prescription again." Become confidential with the same chemist 
 years afterwards, and he'll probably tell you, smiling as usual, 
 " 0, yes, I know that prescription. It's old Snooks's " (for 
 example). " It's a very good one. Can't do any harm.'" Very 
 good. No injurious results, but Patient not any better. Patient, 
 being fidgety, harks back to Doctor again. Doctor (e.g., myself) 
 coquettes with the second fee, but, being pressed, takes it, and 
 orders another visit in a week's time, after presenting Patient 
 with prescription " No. 2 in the books." Chemist again. Same 
 smile. Same confidential communication years afterwards, D.V., 
 i.e., Doctore volente. 
 
 Another week. Patient back again. Myself still as Doctor. 
 Yes, has been better, but thinks that he now feels it (whatever it 
 is) rather more on the left side than the right. Loss of appetite 
 after meals, despondency in the rain, low spirits when in pecu- 
 niary difficulties, nervous irritability in a four-wheeler when going 
 to catch a train, and so forth. Doctor meditates. Question to 
 him is, shall I give him No. 3 or repeat No. 2. If Doctor's hands 
 are very full, out comes prescription No. 3 ; if business is slack, 
 No. 2 is repeated. Same business with fee as before. Call again 
 in, ten days. Patient calls again. "Doesn't," he says, "know 
 what it is, but he gets so tired when he walks, and so hot, that 
 he's always obliged to take a cab. Can't sleep at night, though 
 intolerably drowsy immediately after dinner, and in the middle 
 of the day. Forgot to mention last time that his right foot 
 appeared to be a little swollen, and that one of his ears has a 
 peculiar tingling in it." Account received with gravity. Ques- 
 tions asked, which, being founded on the patient's recent informa- 
 tion, only lead to a recapitulation of symptoms. Useless, but 
 something must be done for the money. Deliberation in Doctor's 
 mind as to whether it's any use keeping this idiot here, or not. 
 Decision, send him away. If the Doctor has purchased some 
 house property at a rising sea-side place, he will order all his 
 patients to visit this particular spot. Patients go there, get well, 
 recommend it to others. Crowds make it fashionable, and the 
 value of Doctor's property in that place is trebled, at least If 
 the Doctor has not got any special interest in any particular place 
 
 z
 
 338 QUITE AT ROME. 
 
 in England, then the farther away he can send his troublesome 
 patient the better for both of them. In this case the Doctor 
 appears to be considering the matter deeply, then he frowns, then 
 he says abruptly, " Now, I'll tell you what is the only thing for 
 you to do." Patient aghast. Then the Doctor advises immediate 
 recourse to some thermal springs on the Continent. Patient looks 
 a bit frightened, but promises to be off next day. Being slow in 
 producing his fee, it is evident to the Doctor's quick mind that he 
 is reluctant to part with it. Doctor [myself still in practice] at 
 once positively refuses to take it. Patient doesn't press it. Exit 
 Patient. Doctor, alone, is satisfied that he has seen the last of 
 him for some time to come. Patient goes away, takes baths, 
 changes air and diet, becomes so fresh that he returns to England 
 full of the praise of the Doctor (I am supposing myself to be the 
 Doctor) who advised him to go there. In return, he tells everyone, 
 no matter what may be the matter with them, to go to his Medical 
 Adviser. Fortune made for Medical adviser out of three draughts, 
 and letting Patient prescribe for himself. 
 
 By the way, mustn't broach these opinions to my Aunt, who has 
 come here to be cured of rheumatism and neuralgia by baths and 
 galvanism. Odd that it never occurred to her that galvanism in 
 England would be the same as galvanism in Germany. But no T 
 to be able to say " I was obliged to go abroad for my health," 
 gives a sort of importance to an invalid, and if it does not enlist 
 sympathy, it secures at least a certain respect. 
 
 Happy Thought.— Under the "circs." hold Mister Tongue. 
 It doesn't seem to me that Milburd's system will be of any 
 great benefit to him. Being here, he says he's going in for the 
 whole thing. His idea of this course is to rise rather later than 
 is his custom in England, and, after having had a cup of chocolate 
 while dressing, a process that occupies him generally a consider- 
 able portion of the morning, he takes, at twelve o'clock, a light 
 and airy repast, called a dejeuner a la fourchette, consisting of 
 about fourteen courses, including a dessert with cheese. It is 
 evident, as he argues, that he can't do the sulphur bath imme- 
 diately after this, and as to drinking the sulphur water, that he is 
 assured by his Doctor, he says, is all nonsense. The newspapers, 
 a few pipes, and a drink of what he terms " fizzical force," engage
 
 HOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 339 
 
 his attention for an hour and a half after the above-mentioned 
 meal, at the expiration of which time it occurs to him that a 
 drive would he a nice thing for his wife. This amiable lady at 
 once accedes to the proposition, and the Monarque is commanded 
 to. furnish its guests with a carriage and pair, which order the 
 Monarque executes in truly Royal Continental style. The car- 
 riage looks as if it were spick and span new, the brass harness 
 gleams in the sun, as does also the Coachman's patent varnished 
 hat with its doubly polished cockade on the right side, the whole 
 thing being made of the same material I fancy, as the Prussian 
 soldier's helmet, only, of course without the brass spike on the 
 top, which would not look well sticking out of the crown of the 
 hat, although it might prevent people sitting on it when left, by 
 accident, on a chair. As to the Coachman's collars and stocks, 
 they are simply wonderful for shape, whiteness, and supernatural 
 stiffness. I should say that the entire framework, concealed 
 from view by linen, is of the strongest steel. Out of Aix, where 
 unfortunately the equipage is familiar to the inhabitants, the 
 whole turn-out might be taken for something Ducal, especially 
 when drawn, as it often is, by four horses. Milburd invites us to 
 join them. My Aunt, who I think is rather captivated by the 
 shininess of the foreign turn-out, accepts with pleasure, observing 
 to me that we can call on the Mompisons when we return. Very 
 well. I should like to see, in fact I think I am longing to meet 
 once again, Bertha Mompison, and yet I am not sorry for the 
 postponement. Evidently nervousness. 
 
 We seat ourselves in the carriage ; then, amid the admiring 
 glances of the spectators (strangers who don't know who we are), 
 and the obsequiousness of the waiters, with a great jingling of the 
 brass harness, a rattling over the courtyard stones, and a sound- 
 ing smack of the whip, we start for our drive. 
 
 z '2
 
 340 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 SERENE TRANSPARENCIES PIPE FLASK THE REGIMENT MILBURD S 
 
 PARAPHERNALIA SWIZZLE-HAUSEN — FLIEGEN AND WANZEN 
 
 WINKS AND WITTICISMS BERNART's LOCAL BERTHA MILBURD's 
 
 GERMAN — SOLDIER WAITERS GERMAN CAPTAIN FLIRTATION 
 
 VEXATION. 
 
 FEEL, on going out for a 
 drive in the carriage of the 
 Grand Monarque with the 
 Milburds and my Aunt, 
 that as far as the ladies are 
 concerned, we might pass 
 for Serene Transparencies ; 
 also, that as far as I am 
 concerned, I am perfectly 
 ready to take off my hat 
 with the suavity of an 
 Excellency, but Milburd 
 will come out in what he 
 calls " a comfortable hat," 
 which is of limp material, and 
 of no particular shape, its 
 merit being that it is equally 
 adapted either for the head 
 or the coat-tail pocket. 
 Added to this, Milburd, 
 who, in keeping with his peculiar views of combining the 
 medicinal course with the Customs of the Country, has taken 
 to smoking violently all day, persists in lighting up a shabby 
 old wooden pipe, which he puffs during our Royal Progress 
 through the town (much to my Aunt's repressed disgust), only 
 removing it to place to his lips a small flask, " frequent applica- 
 tions being, he says, an absolutely necessary part of his medicinal 
 treatment."
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 341 
 
 He carries with him a Conversation Book so as " to talk to the 
 Coachman in his own native tongue," a pocket compass (" Always 
 like to know where I'm going," he explains), a Guide Book with 
 maps, "which," as he informs us, "is the Duchess's department; 
 she's told off to Geography, having been brought up at school 
 where she learnt the use of the Globes," and such an array of 
 wraps, waterproofs, sticks, and umbrellas, as gives us the appear- 
 ance of travelling about with a "job lot" in order to dispose of 
 them at a sacrifice. 
 
 " Gracious ! " exclaims my Aunt, on seeing all these para- 
 phernalia. "I wonder he doesn't carry guns and swords and have 
 a boat to follow him in case he comes to a river. It's quite an 
 Arpict Exhibition." 
 
 [It is hardly necessary to refer to " Dixon's J." to find that my 
 Aunt means an " Arctic Expedition."] 
 
 He now addresses himself to the Coachman. While in Germany 
 he thinks it necessary in order to make himself intelligible, not to 
 learn the language of the country, but to intersperse his English 
 with finishing touches of German, which serve the intelligent 
 foreigners as landmarks to his meaning. 
 
 " Kutscher ! " says he, with a wink at me indicating apparently, 
 that he considers this word a surprising triumph over the diffi- 
 culties of the language, " Wir wollen to go nach the first Sivizzle- 
 haw." 
 
 The Coachman, who has evidently been out with him before, 
 touches his hat, and Milburd continues — 
 
 " Look here, I don't want to be out more than Eine Stunde and 
 eine halbe, then back to the Grossen Monarchen — Grand Monarque. 
 All right. Ja void. So" 
 
 Swizzle-hatis, he explains to us, is his own particular German 
 for a place of Refreshment. Bather a happy name, "Swizzle- 
 house." 
 
 During our drive, which is through rather pretty scenery, we 
 are struck by the number and variety of the small flies and insects 
 which investigate us as strangers for a second or two at a time, 
 and then fly off to give their less adventurous companions the 
 results of their observations. 
 
 " Ugh ! " says my Aunt, shuddering, "Bonsers ! "
 
 342 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " No," says Milburd, who has heard our melancholy story, 
 " these are simple Fliegen, they're not Wanzen" 
 
 My Aunt wants to be back in good time, as she has promised 
 to meet the Mompisons and the Glymphyns, Captain Fortescue 
 having undertaken to escort the entire party to a festive place 
 called B ("mart's Local. " Here," the enthusiastic Herr Kopfen has 
 informed them, "it will be a beautiful sight! you must go, 
 my dear Madam. There is fireworks, and a gross balloon, and 
 music ! " 
 
 In fact, the party has evidently been got together under the 
 direction of Herr Kopfen, who prides himself on his English 
 proclivities, and the number of his acquaintances among our 
 countrymen. 
 
 "Here's a programme," says Milburd, reading it out to us. 
 " Grosses Gartenfest bei festlicher Decoirirung unci brdlanter 
 Belevchtung des Gartens. Grosses Garten Concert. That means a 
 Grocer's Garden Concert, very nice too ; then Aufsteigen eines 
 grossen Ballons — Hooray ! — and Grosses brillantes Feuerwerk xmd 
 bengalische Beleuchtung des Gartens. Quite a Cremorne ! Here's 
 Fine Lerclte ! " 
 
 " What, Mr. Milburd ? " asks my Aunt. 
 
 Milburd explains. " Lerche, German for lark. Here's Fine 
 Lerche ! " Translation evident. 
 
 This view of it rather startles my Aunt, who doubts whether 
 Ladies can go. 
 
 " 0, of course ! Quite the correct card ! " exclaims Milburd. 
 " We'll all go, and say '0!' to the Feueriverk." Here he winks 
 knowingly at me. Milburd, I fancy, attaches a great amount 
 of importance to a wink. Winks serve him, I notice, instead of 
 witticisms. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Subject for essay, The Theory and Practice of 
 Winking. 
 
 Herr Kopfen, having promised to meet us punctually at half- 
 past seven, does not make his appearance. 
 
 " Just like him," observes Captain Fortescue, always languid 
 and desponding. " It's German all over. He said he'd do every- 
 thing for us. I dare say he's met some other people he likes
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 343 
 
 better, and has gone with them." Then to the Ladies, " It doesn't 
 matter. I know the way." 
 
 " I suppose," says Mrs. Milburd, " this will be quite a 
 fete ? " 
 
 "A tea-garden affair," says Fortescue, sarcastically. " That's 
 their idea of liveliness. Tea and squibs." 
 
 Over pavement like that of a London mews (the best streets in 
 Aachen are little better in this respect), with a gutter and an 
 odour on either side, we arrived at Bernards Local. We pay 
 fifteen groschen apiece, and receive the comforting intelligence 
 that the tickets would have been ten sgr. each, had we taken 
 them before six o'clock. 
 
 In the distance we hear a band. 
 
 Happy Thought (but a little disturbing). — Shall once again meet 
 Bertha Mompison here. Wonder if she remembers. Wonder if 
 
 she really "We met, 'twas in a crowd " (at Bernards Local), 
 
 ■' and I thought she would shun me" 
 
 " Why ! " exclaims my Aunt, standing stock still, with her 
 hand out like a pointer, " it is a Tea-Garden ! " 
 
 Nothing more nor less. 
 
 Note this (for Typ. Dev., under G., Germany or Garden, and 
 T. Tea). From a military point of view, Germany is one vast 
 barrack. From a pleasure-seeker's point of view, it is a Tea 
 Garden. 
 
 Happy Thought (as descriptive of Germany). — A Barrack in a 
 Tea-Garden. 
 
 Milburd, directly we are seated at one of the thousand little 
 wooden four-legged tables, calls out loudly, " Kellner, bringen sie 
 mir some Kalbscotelets for drie persons" — this he explains on his 
 fingers — " some Ilheinivein — — um — yes — and some Blumenkohls. 
 Quick as you can, as I'm quite fertig." Presently he isn't satisfied 
 with the table, and calls out, " Kellner, let's have another Tische, 
 if there's one free." Attention is being drawn to us. Mrs. Mil- 
 burd says, " don't be so silly," to him, but laughs. 
 
 My Aunt is looking about for the Mompisons, and so am I.
 
 344 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Happy Thought — To tell Milburd not to go on like this, as 
 every one of these waiters is either a private soldier or an officer 
 in the Prussian service, perhaps the latter, and if so he'll call him 
 out. 
 
 Captain Fortescue corroborates me unexpectedly. " The Ober- 
 kellner," he says, "is decorated." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Make an excuse to get away. Say I'll look 
 for another Tische, and go to do it. 
 
 Why is it that Milburd, who would be well-behaved enough at 
 any place of amusement in England, seems here to consider him- 
 self at liberty to act more like a bold buccaneer than a civilised 
 Englishman '! The garden is not a large one, and, indeed, with 
 the exception of a few dull flowers and a couple of miserable-look- 
 ing trees, it has as much right to be called a garden as has Leicester 
 Square in its present condition. There is a stage at the end of 
 the Garten, and the whole place is overlooked by the backs of 
 very second-rate-looking houses. 
 
 By standing in a corner I can see all round Bernarfs Local, 
 which is now becoming crowded. 
 
 Seated at a table not far from me are Mrs. Mompison and her 
 daughters, with our German acquaintance Kopfen. I rather 
 think Kopfen is a Baron, a Brewer, and, of course, more or less 
 a Soldier. 
 
 He is sitting next the elder Miss Mompison. A Prussian officer 
 is sitting next Bertha. Intuitively I hate him. He is in uniform, 
 the everlasting uniform, without which I do believe they are not 
 allowed to sleep, except by special permission from the Crown 
 Prince. On my approach he brings his pince-nez to the front, and 
 inspects me superciliously in a military fashion, as if to see whether 
 I'd come on parade without the proper number of buttons, or with 
 a shoe-string untied. 
 
 Kopfen jumps up, he is delighted to see me, as an old and dear 
 friend, he welcomes me to the table, implores me to be seated, all 
 this with great empressement, as if this present company were his 
 party. His friend Captain Hermann rises stiffly to be introduced. 
 He salutes me with his right hand to his cap, his left by his sword, 
 jerking his head out forwards and his coat-tails out backwards,
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 
 
 345 
 
 like a mechanical figure that doesn't work easily. This being 
 done, I am allowed to salute Mrs. Mompison and her daughters. 
 The next difficulty will be to get near Bertha, with whom Captain 
 Hermann is conversing in so low a tone as to suggest flirting on 
 both sides. Flirting ! Bah ! With a German officer too ! I 
 wonder Mrs. Mompison allows it. 
 
 Bertha gives me one glance. It penetrates me. Evidently she 
 
 has not forgotten 
 
 but why this German Officer 1 
 
 ***&& 
 
 iV
 
 346 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 FIREWORKS — GROSS BALLOON TEUTONIC FLIRTATION CUT IN — ■ 
 
 FANCY SUIT CUT OUT BRIGHT DREAM — SENSITIVENESS — KOP- 
 
 FEN OFF STUDENTS AGATHA JEALOUSY DUELLING 
 
 CIVILIANS VANISHING — THE COLD UNIFORM NEW PROVERB 
 
 FINISH OF AMUSEMENT. 
 
 A L 
 
 L the Brilliant fire- 
 works, which the pro- 
 gramme had so magni- 
 ficently promised us, turn 
 out to consist of a few 
 coloui'ed fires, three or 
 four rockets, something else 
 in the Catherine-wheel line 
 by way of a finish, and, I 
 think, two extra gas jets in 
 the gardens. 
 
 The balloon of which 
 such anticipations had been 
 formed — Milburd, indeed, 
 frightening his wife by in- 
 forming her that he was 
 intending to try what a 
 terrific ascent was like, — 
 the balloon I myself dis- 
 cover, hanging like a crino- 
 line outside a shop, on a hook in a side wall. It is simply a toy 
 fire-balloon of tissue paper, with the usual tow on a bit of wire 
 underneath, to be steeped in spirits of wine and ignited, that's all. 
 
 At the Mompisons' table. — Kopfen is talking to Agatha : Captain 
 Hermann to Bertha. I am, I feel, as the fifth person at a rubber. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Ready to cut in. 
 
 The difficulty is to know when to cut in. I don't like to join 
 the conversation without being invited. I should have thought
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 347 
 
 that Bertha would have put aside the Prussian officer and have 
 exclaimed, " 0, I'm so glad you've come," and have motioned me 
 to a chair by her side. But she doesn't. I don't exactly see my 
 way. The last time I sat by Bertha I was full of convei sation, in 
 much the same tone as that which this Captain Thingummy is 
 employing. Sometimes I notice them both glancing furtively at 
 me, and smiling. What at ? It flashes across me that they are 
 laughing at my costume. Hang it, why 1 Let me consider. As 
 I can't join in their conversation, I may as well occupy my time 
 in considering. 
 
 Happy Tlwught. — Think it out. 
 
 Thinking it out. — It has been a warm day, but begins now in 
 the evening, to be a trifle chilly. I feel this when it is too late. 
 My present suit is, it suddenly occurs to me, rather out of charac- 
 ter with even an al fresco evening gathering like the present. It 
 is a remarkably light attire, of one pattern up and down, and all 
 round, which seemed to be the very thing when the stuff" first 
 caught my eye at the tailor's, and I was struck by the 
 
 Happy Thought. — Order an entire suit of it. 
 
 It seemed to me also the Very Thing (this sort of pattern gene- 
 rally does seem " the very thing " if you stroll into your tailor's 
 on a bright day in early summer) for the sea-side. And so it was, 
 that is, for any sea-side where there was nobody except myself 
 and my Aunt ; and, now I come to think of it (and I can't help 
 coming to think of it in these Gardens, on account of its startling 
 contrast to the surrounding dark-coloured frock-coats), I've only 
 worn it in solitude — never in company. 
 
 It was Milburd, after I'd been finding fault with his shabby hat, 
 who said, " My dear fellow, the best of this place is, that you can 
 wear anything." It was Milburd to whom I showed this suit, and 
 who expressed unbounded admiration of it, advising me to put it 
 on by all means, as it was the Very Thing (he too thought it was 
 "the very thing,") for Aix. Up to a certain point I feel it is the 
 very thing ; that is, if 1 could only show myself like a flash of 
 lightning in the street, for a second or two, and then disappear. 
 1 feel that five minutes of me, in this dress, is too much for any- 
 one. I want (if it were possible) to be seen like a vision, like, in
 
 348 . QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 fact, something lightly immaterial, and not as a light material, 
 and then pass away, not to be forgotten, but to dwell in the 
 memory of mankind — always, I mean, as associated with this 
 costume. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Like some bright dream. 
 
 When my Aunt saw me in it this afternoon she didn't make any 
 remark, but then she'd seen it before at the sea-side. If she con- 
 sidered it ridiculous, why didn't she say so ? Milburd had said he 
 liked it, and in fact was going to order a lot of suits like it on his 
 return to England. I agreed with him, my good taste being 
 flattered by his approval ; but it now occurs to me that — and if 
 so, it's Milburd all over — he meant it for a joke, in return for what 
 I'd said about his hat. 
 
 I don't know whether "thinking it out" has made me nervously 
 sensitive, but everyone seems to shun me. Mrs. Mompison, even 
 old Mrs. Mompison, when I came up to her at first, turned away 
 from me, to talk to my Aunt, as soon as she could ; Kopfen, who 
 expressed himself so delighted to see me, hasn't spoken to me 
 again, and as for the Prussian Officer, with Bertha, his manner 
 has been, from the commencement, simply intolerable. Upon my 
 word, I'd much rather that they'd all cry out at once, " Look 
 here ! We don't like your dress ! " than snub me in this way with- 
 out telling me the reason. To come out in a light suit is not a 
 crime, but — confound Milburd ! — it's treated as though it were. I 
 would retire, but that to quit the field now, is to yield the ground 
 to the Prussian officer. No ; I won't stir. 
 
 Suddenly Kopfen remembers an engagement : so does his 
 friend. They make some arrangements for meeting again to- 
 morrow, and rise to bow extravagantly, salute jerkily, and then 
 they walk off with the air of conquerors, irresistible among the fair 
 sex. We are in the land of duels, and I feel that if I could only 
 be certain of running the Prussian officer through the third breast- 
 button of his uniform, or of putting a bullet into the same place, I 
 would invite him to meet me over the border in Holland, and 
 leave him quivering on a daisy. The air of Germany makes me 
 bloodthirsty. I don't feel like this in England. No. Evidently 
 it's seeing so many swords and uniforms all over the place, not to
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 349 
 
 mention the Students of the Polytechnic here, most of whom 
 swagger about exhibiting hideously scarred faces, the consequences 
 of constantly recurring hand-to-hand encounters with swords. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Cross over to Bertha. Preserve a cold 
 demeanour. 
 
 She asks me why I didn't come and speak to her before, as she 
 was so bored by having to talk German to Captain Hermann. 
 "He's a very handsome man," observes Miss Agatha. Bertha 
 admits, not, as I think, warmly (or is this to deceive me ?), that he 
 is rather good-looking. I treat the question superciliously. I say 
 that I didn't notice him particularly. I can't repress my bitter- 
 ness ; I wish I could, but it will come out, and I say, with 
 asperity, " I don't like these Prussian officers." 
 
 I feel that I've played my cards in the worst possible style. 
 The ladies are quite astonished at my dislike, as they have found 
 them (the officers) so very agreeable, and really far more intelli- 
 gent and amusing than any English officers. 
 
 Happy Thought. — I see a way to escape the effects of my hasty 
 expression. I sacrifice the English officers, and say, " 0, English ! 
 I wasn't thinking of them.'" 
 
 " Well," says Miss Bertha. " I like them very much too. A 
 garrison town is very good fun." 
 
 This conversation is out of my line. It depreciates me as a 
 Civilian. There's a smack of frivolity about her manner now that 
 I don't like. It is not what I had expected. Agatha joins the 
 conversation which is being carried on by Mrs. Mompison and my 
 Aunt, and is all about Rowena, on the one part, and neuralgia and 
 galvanism on the other. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Opportunity. Seize it. Say, in low tone 
 (same tone as Prussian Captain — hang him !), " Do you remember 
 the last time we met at Boodels' 1 " 
 
 " I thought you had forgotten all about that," Miss Bertha 
 returns, not in a very low tone, but looking up and laughing. 
 
 Laughing ! It is at this supreme moment that I should like to 
 rise from my seat and be six feet high, with a long cloak, a pale 
 face, black moustache, and long black hair. I should like to
 
 350 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 thrill her through and through with my piercing glance. I shoxild 
 like to say, "Miss (or Bertha) you have trifled with a heart ! " and 
 then somehow vanish, for to walk away, or even stride away, after 
 this, would be commonplace. Then I should like her to lead a 
 life of regret. 
 
 All this, however, I keep to myself, and simply return with 
 meaning, and in a tone just a trifle lower (beating the Prussian 
 officer by three bass notes), " No, I have not forgotten." 
 
 She does not reply to this, and somehow, though I feel that I 
 am meaning a great deal, I can't find anything fresh to talk about, 
 and this subject really does seem exhausted. There is a slight 
 pause. I then ask, " Are you staying long here 1 " 
 
 Happy Thought. — To relieve this of being a commonplace by 
 throwing expression into it. 
 
 She doesn't know. Hopes it will be some time, as she enjoys it. 
 I do not, and say so. 
 
 I try a return of tenderness, to see if this will touch a sympa- 
 thising chord. I say, " I heard you were here, and I've been 
 anxiously expecting to see you since our arrival. I am so glad to 
 meet you again." She replies, leaning back in her chair (not for- 
 ward or bending her head, as she had been doing with the Prussian 
 Captain — hang him !), " Yes, we have been here about a month or 
 so already." Presently she says, smiling, "Don't you find your 
 dress rather cold ? " At last ! I knew it ! I am boring them. 
 She doesn't like me — in this Suit. She evidently wishes me to go 
 away. 
 
 "I suppose, Miss Bertha," I say, sarcastically, "you prefer a 
 uniform." 
 
 " I think," she returns, quietly, " that it is very becoming." 
 Which clearly means that mine isn't. 
 
 I observe, carelessly, as though the subject were really beneath 
 consideration, " Dress here is of very little importance." I should 
 like to add something about " As long as the heart," &c, but I feel 
 that it won't do in this costume. Yet what is a Love worth that 
 mixes me up with the colour of my cloth ? 
 
 Happy Thought (for a New Social Proverb). — Cut your friend 
 according to the colour of his cloth. 
 
 Mrs. Mompison rises. So do the young ladies. " I would offer
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 351 
 
 to escort you," I say, still bitterly, " only you wouldn't like walking 
 with me through the garden in this costume." Bertha doesn't say 
 Yes or No, she only laughs, and Miss Agatha settles the question 
 by inclining herself in a stately manner towards me, and taking her 
 sister's arm. Mrs. Mompison says, with decision, "Don't let us 
 hurry you away ; we'll see your Aunt to the hotel ; " and even 
 my Aunt seems pleased to be rid of me. 
 
 They leave the Garden. Bah ! there's an end of the illusion. 
 I had expected great things from meeting Bertha again — I had 
 expected great things from this Grosses Garten\Concert, with its 
 grossen Ballons (the impostors), and its bengalische Behuchtung des 
 Gartens (the humbugs). I should like to insult somebody, and 
 dash in among the glasses. Where's Milburd 1
 
 352 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 LONDON LETTER NOOKING BACK TO GARDEN VEGETABLES — GERMAN 
 
 FARM — PIGS — COWS — MAIDEN CALVES AGRICULTURE COB-PIG 
 
 DE RETOUR. 
 
 HIS morning, by- 
 first 'post, a Letter 
 from Englemore : — 
 
 "Dear Colonel, 
 
 " Seen Mister 
 Nook. Al. Place for 
 Mr. Pigs, &c. Got 
 refusal. £ s. d. easy. 
 Jump at it. Wire 
 back. How about 
 Major Sideboard ? No 
 go ? Never mind. On 
 to old china. Small 
 cup fifty guineas, not 
 good enough for 
 " Your little 
 
 Englemore." 
 
 This decides me, 
 Evidently the nook 
 must be seen to be 
 appreciated, and 
 must be seen at 
 once. If appreciated 
 to be taken. Nook 
 sounds well. Rural retreat, old house, gables, panels, date 
 sixteen hundred, small pond with gold fish, of same date pro- 
 bably, swimming about in it. Well wooded, old out-buildings, 
 &c. See it all in an impulsive sort of Englemoreish sort of way. 
 I feel that I must, as he says, jump at it. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Telegraph back in same style. 
 "Jumping at it. Back directly"
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GAMDJSN. 353 
 
 Leave -my Aunt to go through her course of galvanism (she'll be 
 '•'jumping at it" too), sulphur, and baths. 
 
 Don't want to see the Mompisons again. Bertha has evidently 
 no heart. 
 
 Happy Thought (Agricultural). — No Heart, like a neglected 
 lettuce, or cabbage ; but am not clear which. Shall know soon, 
 when I begin gardening in earnest. 
 
 Kopfen, on my last day here, drives me out to see a farm. He 
 says that he knows the owner, and that it's a private farm. I find 
 afterwards that it's a regular show place, and open to all-comers 
 for a small charge. There's nothing remarkable about it except it's 
 untidiness. As I see no farm labourers about, no " peasants " in 
 costumes as there would have been on a stage for instance, the want 
 of anything like order is perhaps accounted for. A slatternly maid 
 takes us over the place. First of all into a large stable. " Here," 
 she says, "are the Pigs." This is evidently meant as a surprise 
 for the visitor, who has naturally expected to see horses. They 
 are gigantic pigs, too, of a quick, irritable, and suspicious tempera- 
 ment. Nothing lazy about them ; no indolence here : and 
 generally I should say uncompromising as to pork. 
 
 The Maiden does not like my stopping to inspect, and stands at 
 the door of the piggery, as much as to say, "Come along. Here'll 
 be another party here presently." In truth there is not much to 
 stop for. The piggery isn't sweet, and we pass out. Across the 
 yard into an enormous cow-house. All the cows here just the 
 same as any other cows, anywhere else. Note. Must get up Cows 
 with a view to keeping — one at all events. On consideration, 
 when on the subject of cows, one can't well keep less than one. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Unless it's a Calf. 
 
 The Chickens are what my farming friend Telford would call a 
 " measly lot." They are all over the place, in a desultory sort of 
 way. 
 
 Well, what next ? What are we going to see now ? I ask 
 
 Kopfen. He's surprised. What can I want to see, when, in fact, 
 
 -that's all. All ? Is this the Farm? This is the Farm. Well, 
 
 hut how about the Granaries, the Dairy, the Haystacks, the Horses, 
 
 t'.ic implements of agriculture, the I pause, at a loss for the 
 
 A A
 
 354 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 names of the things I want to see. I suppose I mean the ploughs, 
 the harrows, the threshing-machines, but I am not quite sure. 
 The Maid in answer to Kopfen, who repeats my question to her, 
 simply answers that there is nothing more, and is evidently quite 
 astonished that we're not highly delighted and perfectly satisfied. 
 She hints, too, that she will be much obliged by our dismissing her 
 as soon as possible, as there's another lot of sight-seers just driven 
 into the court-yard. We settle with her for twenty groschen, 
 which is a sum exceeding by one clear half what she is accustomed 
 to, a generosity on our part so startling, that she reciprocates it 
 by smilingly informing us that we can " walk about the grounds 
 as much as we like," to eke out, as it were, the extra ten groschen. 
 
 Having thus relieved her mind of the idea of being under any 
 obligation to us, she retires, and we stroll into the meadows, where 
 there is the ruin of some old castle. 
 
 As Kopfen doesn't know any particulars of its history, and as, 
 without a history, there is nothing particularly interesting about 
 it, we return to our fly and drive back. 
 
 What have I learnt from seeing the German Farm 1 That's the 
 question for me, and I ask it myself again. I don't know, except 
 that Pigs can be kept in stables ; and that, under these circum- 
 stances, which I should consider decidedly unfavourable to pigs, as 
 pigs, they increase, not in breadth and pig-like qualities, but, by 
 degrees, in height. 
 
 Hajipy Thought. — Not growing by degrees of latitude, but of 
 longitude, and altitude. 
 
 If one stopped here long enough to watch the process, perhaps 
 they would, under the stable confinement, develop into horses. 
 
 Happy Thought— Send this to Darwin. See what he thinks of 
 it. Perhaps he won't think of it, or has thought of it, and rejected 
 it as a theory. 
 
 A sort of a cob-pig, of fourteen hands, would not this be a 
 variety? Wonder how the pigs like it? This is an important 
 question, if there is anything in the desire of acting so as to 
 " please the pigs." 
 
 In some farmyards I've seen cocks, hens, and pigs, mixed up 
 together, Avandering about in company, the pigs turning up their
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 355 
 
 noses with a disdainful grunt at some choice morsels, which, after- 
 wards, the chicken would peck at with pleasure. 
 
 Happy Thought. — In this mixture of Poultry and Pigs, one sees 
 the first germ of the idea of Eggs and Bacon. 
 
 I bid farewell to Kopfen and my Aunt, who is glad that the 
 weather has settled into something like warmth, as she detests the 
 German feather-beds, which " are not," she says, " half so comfort- 
 able as a good Blatney winket." 
 
 Meeting Mrs. Mompison and Quortesfue, I politely ask them if 
 I can do anything for them in England. AVhen I hear them 
 thank me very much, and when I see them reflecting deeply on 
 what they do want done for them in England, I wish I hadn't 
 volunteered the services. While they are thinking over it, so am 
 I, — how to get out of it. Nothing I hate more than having to 
 execute commissions. 
 
 Mrs. Mompison commences. The narration of " what she 
 wants me to do for her, if I kindly will," occupies about a quarter 
 of an hour. It is a sort of brief to begin with, with instructions 
 for Counsel. The object is a lost trunk with, she is afraid, her 
 wrong address on it, or the address of where they were, before 
 they went to Ramsgate, some months ago. The lines on which 
 this trunk has been carried, and the complications in which it 
 has been involved, are materials for a novel in three volumes. 
 Will I, she asks, kindly call and inquire of the people (this is a 
 trifle vague) — the people at the London and North Western, or, 
 if not there, at St. Pancras Station, whence it might have been 
 sent on to Charing Cross. At all events if I'd only kindly find 
 out how it has been delayed (because it's got, she says, three of 
 our dresses in it), and just direct it on to them at Aachen, she 
 would be so much obliged. 0, and by the way (another commis- 
 sion) she left a parasol (which I'm supposed to know) to be 
 repaired at the man's in Bond Street, and if it's finished it would 
 be no trouble just to put it into the box and send it. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Not to ask how box is to be opened. See (so 
 to speak) in the closed box, an opening out of the difficulty. 
 
 She has some other little matters, with which, however, she 
 will not trouble me, because it will really be imposing too much 
 on my good-nature. Unluckily, I smile, and look as pleased as 
 
 a a 2
 
 356 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 possible, which encourages her to confide in me so much farther 
 as to request, that, if I am passing by Portland Place, would I be 
 so very kind just to look in and see how they're getting on with 
 the house, and ask if they've tuned the piano since they've been 
 away, or not. 
 
 I promise and vow, and she thanks me as heartily as if it were 
 all done. Hope she'll take the will for the deed. Rather think 
 she'll have to. Fortescue wants me to go to his Club, and ask 
 about some letters, and to him I reply (having had a dose of com- 
 missions by this time) that I will, if I've time. 
 
 Happy Thought.— -Shan't have time. Once at a distance can 
 write and apologise. 
 
 It rains as I quit Aachen : it generally does rain at Aachen, 
 and does it thoroughly too, perhaps providentially, to keep the 
 sulphur cool. Music is going on in the garden of the Ktirhaus, 
 and waiters are carrying umbrellas and coffee to the visitors 
 under the alcoves. There is to be a grand illumination in those 
 gardens to-night, and at least three extra gas-lights have been 
 added to the attractions. As I drive to the Station, I see Poly- 
 technic students, with scarred faces, in small caps (how they keep 
 them on their heads is a perfect wonder), swaggering, with small 
 ivory-knobbed canes, about the place. They affect tight breeches 
 and high riding-boots : their chief object, apparently, is to deceive 
 the public into the idea that they've just come off horseback. I 
 never saw, to my knowledge, a student on horseback. Perhaps 
 they keep one among them by subscription, and mount him out- 
 side the town for practice. Officers are swaggering too ; anyone 
 in any sort of uniform, swaggering. Policemen swaggeriug, until 
 there's a sign of a row, when they carefully absent themselves. 
 Two drunken men are hugging one another in the middle of the 
 road (not an uncommon thing in Aachen either), and just manage 
 to struggle into safety — there evidently being a diffei-ence of 
 opinion between them, up to the last moment, as to whether they 
 shall have themselves run over, or not. The majority — the bigger 
 man settles it, and they choose the gutter. 
 
 Nearer the Station. There's a handsomely proportioned 
 church : it is usually more or less full, and often crowded. They
 
 ROUXD ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 357 
 
 are a devotional people ; and in order to make the churches like 
 a home to the worshippers, they are fitted up with spittoons and 
 sawdust. "The Germans," says my friend Fortescue in his easy- 
 going, gloomy way, " se divisent en deux parties; ceux qui crachent, 
 et ceux qui ne crachent pas. Only," he adds, " the latter I've never 
 met." I rebuke him for this sweeping allegation by commencing 
 a review of Continental manners and customs, and am about to 
 ask him what, on this particular point, he has to say to America, 
 when the train surprises us — by its punctuality — and in another 
 four minutes I am off. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Germany, farewell ! Belgium again. 
 
 More Happy Thoughts. — England. Now, then, for Mister Pigs!
 
 358 
 
 Q.UITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ON FOR FARMING — AND GARDENING VIEWING THE NOOK ENGLE- 
 
 MORE AND I — ECONOMY — PIG'S-WASH — WHITEWASH — CHICKENS 
 
 — PIGGORY — CHICKORY PLUMS APPLES — FRUIT VEGETABLES 
 
 — FISH-POND — STAKE IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 RIVE to Engle- 
 
 more's. Find 
 him at lun- 
 cheon. "Will 
 I pick ? " he 
 asks. " No 
 fizgigs — only 
 MisterChop." 
 There being 
 very little 
 time to spare, 
 1 " decline, 
 with thanks;" 
 and when he 
 has chopped 
 ^ ^^% and changed, 
 
 he is ready for the train. 
 
 We find the " Nook " about twelve miles out of town. Small 
 house ; about four acres of ground. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Just the thing to begin with. "Farm of 
 four acres, and what we did with it." 
 
 Englemore is as delighted with it as if he were the proprietor. 
 He points out to me all its beauties. Nothing damps his ardour. 
 He has hit upon it, and it is simply in his eyes the thing. 
 
 To commence with : we get our first view of my future property 
 from over the top of a small gate. We search for a bell. In 
 vain. No bell. "Rather a nuisance," I observe, "having no 
 bell."
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 359 
 
 Englemore won't allow it for a moment. " Nonsense ! " he 
 cries : " nothing of the sort. Who wants Mr. Bell in the country 1 
 Cockney idea, bell. Might as well have Neddy Knocker at once. 
 Try t'other side of the water." 
 
 By this last expression I find he means the stable entrance. 
 Here there is a bell, and, in answer to it, an old woman welcomes 
 us with a sniff, and a curtsey. 
 
 Englemore introduces me : " This is the gentleman who's come 
 to see the place," he says. The old woman appears agitated, 
 fumbles with the corner of her apron, behind which she presently 
 coughs — this evidently being her notion of company manners — 
 and shuts the gate after us. 
 
 "Stables," says Englemore, pointing everything out to me — 
 
 " Outhouses — barn-buildings — garden " Here he describes a 
 
 segment of a circumference with his umbrella. " There you are 
 — all round you ! " 
 
 I can't deny that it is all round me. Still, I feel that, in spite 
 of his enthusiasm, I ought not to do anything of this sort 
 hurriedly. 
 
 " The cottages," says the old woman, curtseying again, " go 
 with the place. There are four on 'em." Here she puts up the 
 corner of her apron again, and coughs to herself, confidentially. 
 
 " By Jove ! " exclaims Englemore, ''I didn't know that. Cottages 
 with the place ! " — (Here he winks at me, as much as to say, 
 " Here's a bargain for you ! ") — "You can turn 'em into bakeries 
 — make your own bread — Mr. Household Troops — and a Dairy — 
 your own Cow — milk and cream on the premises, and think what 
 you'll save in butter ! " 
 
 Happy Thought. — 1 do begin to think what I should save in 
 butter. 
 
 As, in the course of an otherwise eventful life, I have never 
 bought any butter for myself, 1 haven't any notion of how much at 
 present 1 spend in butter. 1 reply to Englemore, " Well, I suppose 
 one would save by keeping a cow." 
 
 " Of course ! " he returns ; " and pigs, too. Here," he says, 
 walking briskly on, " is the place for Mr. Pig. Plenty of room ; 
 not in good order; but a nail, and a tile or two, soon do it."
 
 360 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Happy Thought. — To be practical, and ask him where d'you buy 
 pigs ? 
 
 "Oh! anywhere," lie answers. I am convinced that he has 
 never bought one in his life. He continues, " Go to a fair, or a 
 farmer ; buy 'em cheap at a fair. Then you'll save," here he 
 checks everything off on the fingers of his left hand with his right, 
 while his umbrella is under his arm, "you'll save in bacon, Colonel 
 Pork, and — and— pigs' feet,— don't forget pigs' feet— your little 
 Englemore's on for dinner on that occasion, — and then," in a 
 triumphant burst, " think of the pigs'-wash ! ! " 
 
 "How do you mean, pigs'-wash ?" I inquire, wishing him to be 
 more matter-of-fact, and less romantic, on such a subject. 
 
 " Why don't you see, here's four acres, Mister Turnips, carrots, 
 potatoes, and all the Royal family all about, eh?" 
 
 Certainly I admit that, taking the Royal family as vegetables, 
 there is room and to spare. 
 
 "Good," he goes on, satisfied with being correct so far, "you 
 can't eat 'em all — no waste — where does it go ? — in comes Mr. 
 Pigswash. Then there's the washings from the house every day — 
 no waste — Mr. Pigswash round the corner again." 
 
 " I see. Everything you don't want, or can't eat, or that gets 
 too much for you, somehow is made into pigs'-wash." 
 
 "Quite," he continues, "and no extra charge. To keep a pig 
 costs literally nothing, in the country." He says this as if I had 
 been arguing strongly for a pig, in lodgings, in London. " Look 
 here," he exclaims, from another part of the garden, where there's 
 evidently the remains of an old aviary, to which he has rapidly 
 walked, " here's your place for chickens ! Hens and chicks ! first 
 rate ! pigs there, chicks here : piggory in one corner, chickory in 
 the other ! " 
 
 At this discovery he is greatly elated. It's as much as to say 
 that up to that moment I had been bothered as to the place for 
 my chickens, but that now it is clear as possible. 
 
 Ho does not allow me time to think over anything, but in 
 another minute he is drawing my attention to some fruit trees at 
 the lower end of the garden. 
 
 "Here you are," he says, "Mister Apples and Plums — fancy 
 little Master Plum Tart, and Dicky Dumpling ! You'll never yamt
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEX. 361 
 
 to buy fruit, and you could sell a heap here. There's money in 
 this orchard. Why," he says, thoughtfully, and casting a 
 scrutinising glance all round, " with care you ought to make this 
 place pay your rent, and do a good thing besides. It's a big thing, 
 Colonel. You'd have here enough to supply Covent Garden." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Supply Covent Garden. Fortune. Englemore 
 says of course it would work into £. s. d. considerably. In his 
 opinion I should " coin money " here, and, according to him, 
 nothing that I am to keep will cost me anything. 
 
 "Colonel Pig," he puts it, "pays himself. Orchard pays Captain 
 Gardener and talented assistants. Your grass makes hay while 
 the sun shines, for Peter Pony ; so all you've got to do is to buy a 
 few oats and some straw, and the stable pays you back in manure 
 for garden. Well, your vegetables you'll eat and sell, and every- 
 thing you don't want goes to little Peter Piggy, as per usual. 
 What you don't vise of your eggs, butter, cream, and milk you sell, 
 and the fruit will balance all x's." 
 
 "X's," is Englemore's abbreviation of " expenses." " Let two of 
 your cottages, just to lighten the rent, and if you make your others 
 into dairy and laundry, — you might" — here a bright thought 
 strikes him — " by Jove ! you might take hi Mr. WUliamW ashing /" 
 
 Happy Thought. — Washing and Pigs'-washing. 
 
 He at once promises me his custom weekly, if I'll send up for 
 the things. He will also, he says, buy vegetables, and bacon : the 
 same condition as before to be observed, namely, that I must send 
 up for orders. How 1 Nothing more simple — merely a pony and 
 cart ; the outlay a mere trifle, and it would pay enormously. 
 
 How many different sorts of business I am to undertake, accord- 
 ing to his view of the matter, it is difficult to say, but there is 
 nothing apparently that won't exactly fit into Farming and 
 Gardening generally. 
 
 I am pleased with it, though I should like to look at it again. 
 Englemore shakes his head. "Can't do that," he says, "Mister 
 Landlord must know to-morrow." 
 
 There is a pond, too. With this Englemore is enchanted. 
 " Water on the premises," he exclaims. " No danger of fire ! Just
 
 302 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 have it laid on up to the house. And there are wells in the 
 garden, old Mrs. Sniffer (meaning the dame who received us) said 
 so. Then there's a pump; I dare say this supplies it. And,'' 
 catching sight of something bright flitting about in the water. 
 " Colonel Gold-fish ! This is first-rate. Here you are, in the 
 summer — under the shade of trees — eat your own apples — your 
 own strawberries and cream — watch your own gold-fish. I think 
 that's good enough for you, eh 1 " 
 
 Really, from his hearty and excessively pleased manner, it does 
 strike me, for the first time, that the gold-fish in the pond have 
 settled the question. If I had any wavering before as to taking 
 the house, the presence of the gold-fish has decided me. I have 
 always had a weakness for gold-fish. Fancy a gold-fish river, and 
 a Chinese Mandarin, or Japanese Warrior throwing a fly ! I some- 
 how feel that whatever may now befall me, at all events, with gold- 
 fish, I shall lie virtuous and happy. 
 
 As far as I know myself, I have taken the place, that is, in my 
 own mind. But to save appearances, and not to jump at it too 
 much, which might make Mister Landlord tack on something extra 
 somewhere in the lease, I defer my decision for a day. 
 
 '" You'd better Nook while vou can," savs Enolemore. I am of 
 his opinion, but reserve my ultimatum. 
 
 Htqipy Thought. — Shall be a Landed Proprietor. With Tenants, 
 too. The Cottagers are Tenants. Wonder if they pay regularly, 
 or if they don't pay at all, and if this is the reason of getting rid 
 of the house. 
 
 If they don't pay, must evict them. Consequence of eviction 
 will be that I shall be shot at from behind a hedge, cursed as the 
 Wicked Squire, and the house burnt down. No, must make 
 friends with Tenants. On the whole decide to take it as it 
 stands. 
 
 It suddenly occurs to me that we have been so occupied with 
 the garden, that we've not seen the house at all. 
 
 Englemore dismisses this objection at once with — " You can 
 see what that is from the outside. It'll want doing up a bit 
 — that's all. Pail of whitewash, and box of paints will do the 
 trick. Make landlord do that"
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 363 
 
 Arrived in town. To dine at Englemore's Club. The first 
 thing he does is to ask his other guest, " I say, George, you know 
 about Nook I " 
 
 George intimates that he is up in the subject; and Englemore 
 goes on in such an enthusiastic manner as works his friend up to 
 the highest pitch of excitement. In fact, George can't sit down 
 to his dinner until he knows all about it. 
 
 Englemore goes on — " Well, we've Nooked, haven't we, 
 Colonel ! " He addresses me ; and I corroborate his narrative so 
 far with a nod, and he's on again : " Pretty place ! — 0, pretty 
 place ! " (Here he shakes his head, so as to impress George with 
 the idea that however he might have joked at other times, this, at 
 all events, was too important a matter for anything but the most 
 serious earnest.) " Pretty place. Just what yoiid like : " as if I 
 wanted to part with the property at once, and had asked him to 
 praise it up to his friend : — he continues, " beautiful trees, 
 splendid garden — no end of fruit " — (there really wasn't a goose- 
 berry-bush in the place) — " Peter Pigstyes and Major Stables all 
 about ; and he's got Colonel Gold-fish, Sir, in a pond — the real 
 thing ; none of your sixpenny box of toys with a magnet, — no, not 
 a bit of it ! No Soho Bazaar. Genuine wagglers, aren't they, 
 Colonel?" 
 
 I corroborate his account again, but feel called upon to explain 
 that the estate is not a park ; that the garden has really to be 
 made ; that the whole place is in a very tumble-down condition. 
 
 " Yes, it wants a little figging up, but that's all." And so we 
 go on with dinner and conversation : myself in the character of a 
 large Landed Proprietor (all through Englemore's representation) 
 with a stake in the country.
 
 364 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 FARM COTTAGE NOOK'D— DOG QUEER CHARACTERS — CARPENTER 
 
 RINGING IN MASONS GARDENER — STABLEMAN PIG-HEADED 
 
 SWINEHERD — FOWLERS LARKS NOAH'S ARK DARWINISM 
 
 FARMACOPEIA. 
 
 RIGHTLY Happy 
 
 Th ought. — Country 
 Farm Cottage settled. 
 I am now Mister 
 Landed Proprietor. 
 Four acres all my 
 own. Intend to have 
 board up with 
 "Beware of the Dog." 
 By the. way I must 
 
 get a dog. 
 
 Ought to 
 
 have very savage 
 one. Englemore says 
 when he hears this, 
 k ' Yes, get a sort of 
 Mister Pincher." 
 Notice to Burglars — 
 No Admittance. 
 
 It's a very lonely 
 spot. No habitation 
 within a mile, or more, except a pot-house. Old woman who 
 keeps the house tells me that they always lock up early in the 
 winter. Why? Oh! she replies, " some queer characters about 
 then." " Queer characters," sounds as if the lanes were filled with 
 Guy Fawkeses. 
 
 I don't like this account of the place. Nothing was said on 
 this subject before I took it. It was not so mentioned in the bond, 
 I mean lease. The Landlord and his Solicitor — a Solicitor always 
 appears when there's anything to sign — met me and my Solicitor
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 305 
 
 — and we" really could have met one another without any legal 
 assistance, being neither of us inclined to take the other at a dis- 
 advantage — and when I observed that Xook Farm was in rather a 
 lonely situation, Englemore, also present as amicus curia', said, 
 " So much the better — not overlooked. Don't you see? Any 
 little games in the garden, and no one to look out of Mister 
 Second-floor Back and say, Hallo, Tommy ! " 
 
 I admitted then, as did the Landlord and the two Solicitors, that 
 this absence of an inquisitive and objectionable neighbour (as any- 
 one would be who called out to you, " Hallo, Tommy ! " from an 
 upper storey) was certainly an advantage. 
 
 " Exactly," said Englemore, triumphantly ; "then there you are." 
 
 There was, evidently, nothing further to be said on the subject. 
 The Landlord undertook all repairs, which accounts for my finding 
 a carpenter in the house rattling door-handles, and working locks 
 backwards and forwards, apparently trying to find out how little 
 work he could do in the house without absolutely nullifying his 
 contract with the Landlord. 
 
 I believe now, with my experience, that this crafty artificer took 
 this opportunity of laying the foundation for many of my subse- 
 quent inconveniences. I write this after the event, and retro- 
 spectively. He had got, as the list for repairs worded it, " to 
 make good " a lot of things, such as window-frames, sashes and 
 fastenings, rollers for blinds, bells, locks, all stipulated for in 
 detail, " to be done and finished in a proper and workmanlike 
 manner." What he " made good " I have never been exactly able 
 to discover. My impression is that when he caught my eye, on 
 any visit of inspection to see how things were getting on, he 
 assumed " a proper and workmanlike manner," as stated in the 
 agreement: in fact, when I was looking on he was "making it 
 good," and when I wasn't, he was " making it bad." 
 
 How he must have smiled in his shirt-sleeve (having on no 
 coat — a garment which he only adopted out-of-doors in unpro- 
 fessional intervals) when, on taking possession, I expressed my 
 unbounded delight and satisfaction with all the window-blinds, 
 frames, sashes, and fastenings as aforesaid. How pleased I was 
 (and he too — the villain !) when I found that I could lock and 
 unlock a door (having expected difficulties in this line), and with
 
 36G QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 what a knowing air I remarked, that the bells seemed to go a 
 trifle stiffly at first, "but," said Slyboots, the Carpenter, "they'll 
 work easier in time ; " and how I rang 'em all in turn, one after 
 the other, as a " ringing in the new tenant " — which I fancy is 
 some sort of ancient ceremony, as the name has quite a familiar 
 sound, unless I am thinking of a Curate "reading himself in " — 
 and perhaps I am. However, when Slyboots, the Carpenter, saw 
 me so intent on the renovations, didn't he distract my attention 
 by calling upon me to notice how he had repaired a skirting-board 
 here, and another there, and how the front door could be bolted 
 easily, and how he had made the back-door, which had previously 
 caused much vexation and annoyance, now quite a pleasure to 
 open and shut, — didn't he, I say, dilate upon all these improve- 
 ments until I felt inclined to weep on his shoulder, and say, " You 
 really have done too much — too much — I didn't expect it of you 
 — bless you." — Bah ! I do wish my Aunt had been at home. She 
 would have had no romantic notions on the subject, but would 
 have insisted upon examining everything, and wouldn't have let 
 that Carpenter go until she'd worried him into "making good" 
 everything, all round. He would have met his match. 
 
 Then there are, I notice on my visit, plasterers and masons all 
 in league against me, but apparently setting to work with a will. 
 They are all "making good," but not making better, which is, in 
 reason, the spirit, though not the letter, of the Landlord's contract. 
 
 Next important matter is a Gardener and Stable-man. The 
 query occurs, if I keep Mr. Pig, who's to look after him 1 The 
 Gardener, or the Stable-man 1 In a book on farming I recollect 
 seeing that there is a regular Pig-man kept, just as there is a Cow- 
 herd for cows. 
 
 A propos of pigs, what a very obstinate person the "pig-headed 
 Lady " must have been. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Swine-herd. Advertise for a Swine-herd : — 
 " Wanted, in a Gentleman's family, a Swine-herd, who will have 
 no objection to milking a cow." That's to say, " to save x's," as 
 Englemore would phrase it, a Swine-herd who doesn't mind being a 
 Cow-herd. Must keep two pigs at least ; with power to add to 
 their number.
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 367 
 
 This consideration leads to others. On whom are the various 
 duties to fall ? 
 
 For instance, Pigs ? Well, to the Swine-herd. Cows 1 To the 
 Cow-herd. Poultry to the Poulterer. Or, let me see — isn't it a 
 Poultry -woman who looks after fowls ? Fowls to the Fowler. [I 
 suppose, though, that those costermongery looking sort of fellows 
 who go out in the neighbourhood of London, with nets and cages 
 for larks, are Fowlers. But larks are not fowls. Perhaps they 
 used to be in old days. Mem. Ask Darwin.] I remember the 
 title of some book which would be very serviceable just now ; I 
 fancy it was The Little Poultry Woman's Guide ; only, I'm afraid it 
 rather treated it as fun for children, and looked upon the poultry 
 hutch as an amusing accessory to the doll's house. 
 
 Happy Thought. — The mention of Fowlers and Larks, a 'propos 
 of farming, reminds me, suddenly, that, years ago, the faithful 
 Herr von Joel used to give imitations of a farmyard, in which he 
 certaiuly did introduce a lark (it was his chef (Toeuvre, in fact, and 
 concluded the entertainment), which was very much applauded by 
 the country gentlemen who frequented Evans's in those good old 
 days. So that, as those country gentlemen must have known what 
 was correct in a farm-yard, isn't it likely that the Fowler who 
 kept the poultry was also the man they employed to catch larks ? 
 (Don't see my way clearly in this, but more on this subject under 
 "F., Farming, Fowling," in Typical Developments, Vol. XV., p. 22, 
 Ch. VI. when I've leisure.) 
 
 Must write to Telford and two other country friends who farm, 
 to know what is absolutely necessary. Pigs : say two to begin 
 with. Poultry : two to begin with. Cows : well, here again, two 
 to begin with. Stop ! 
 
 Happy Thought. — Why not two of everything to begin with? 
 
 On consideration, this sounds like copying Noah's Ark ; and 
 my Aunt, being strict on these points, mightn't like it when I 
 tell her. 
 
 One thing is positively recpiisite — to make a list — to begin with. 
 Two lists to begin with ? Yes ; one, and a copy. Good. Alpha- 
 betically ; taking everything in order, and so see exactly what I 
 want.
 
 368 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Commence List; heading it "Things Wanted for Nook Farm 
 and. Dairy. Alphabetically taken." Commence with (of course) 
 "A." What does "A" stand for? Animals. Yes, true; but 
 when I write animals it will include all the other letters of the 
 alphabet at once. What can I put under " A " ? 
 
 Happy Thought. — Ass. Must have a Donkey for cart . . . and 
 generally so useful. Donkey will carry two baskets for little 
 Uncles Jack and Gill, when they arrive, to ride about in. (N.B. 
 Must send for J. and G. at once.) If I put Donkey under "A," 
 what shall I have when I come to " D " 1 No, on consideration, 
 keep Donkey for " D," and try something else for "A." Let's see 
 ... it must come in time ; and these things aren't to be done in 
 a hurry. 
 
 "A." Apes. No, not on a farm. (Might ask Darwin, though, 
 whether there's any chance of their becoming Cows if fed properly.) 
 
 Happy Thought. — "A " for Aviary, and naturally enough " B " 
 for Birds. There you are. By the way, though, what Birds 1 . . . 
 " B " also stands for Bull. Dangerous thing to keep a Bull. 
 
 List so far. A for Aviary. B, Birds and Bull (with a query to 
 Bull). C, evidently Cocks. It's quite a pity that "H" in this 
 instance doesn't come next to " C." Better bracket them together. 
 C. and H. Cocks and Hens. Now go back to D. D, Donkey. 
 E, Eagles (?). No. Pass over E. F, Fowls. C and H though 
 would be included under F. Begin again. A, Aviary. B, Birds. 
 C (refer to F). D, Donkey. E (uncertain). F (refer to C and 
 H). G, Gooseberry bushes, Greengages, Grass, &c. H (refer to 
 F and C) — Cocks and Hens ; also Hothouses ; also Horses. Quite 
 foi'got Horses till this minute. "I," Implements. Must fill this 
 list out ; thinking it over carefully. At present I don't see any- 
 thing until P, which stands for Pigs, Potatoes, Parsley, Pheasants, 
 Plums, Pickles, Pears, Peacocks, Peas, &c, &c. Odd ! Every- 
 thing suddenly appears to begin with " P." Such a run on this 
 letter. Shall end by spelling Farm — Pharm. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Compile a book on Farming to be called The 
 Modern Pluirmacopceia .... So much to begin with.
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 
 
 369 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 N00KING PROVERB — NURSERY — GUTCH S ARRANGEMENT —PACKET 
 
 ENGLEMORE's LETTER — BUNG ay's LIST — IDEAS VEGETABLES - 
 
 FAIRIES — PARSNIP. 
 
 JVT 
 
 Happy Thought. — Household proverb, 
 the Dining-room will take care of itself. 
 
 EM. Have sent 
 for little Uncles 
 
 Jack and Gill to 
 come to the Nook. 
 They are coming : like 
 Christmas, and the 
 Campbells, oh dear ! oh 
 dear ! 
 
 While Nooking I have 
 lodged in town, and 
 have run down every 
 day to the Nook to see 
 how things are getting 
 on. Things don't get 
 on very much. To expe- 
 dite matters, I take on 
 the old woman pro tern. 
 till I get servants, and 
 furnish my bedroom. 
 
 Furnish a Bed-room, 
 
 No Gardener as yet. No Pony, no Pig, in fact, at present, 
 nothing under the letter P. Happening to pass a Nurseryman's 
 within three miles of the Nook, it occurs to me that I might hire 
 a Gardener from this establishment. It chances that Mr. Gutch, 
 the head man, is on the spot, at tea. I tell him that I want some 
 Gardener — which sounds, after saying it, as if I'd gone to a grocer's 
 and asked for some currants, and I seem naturally to expect the 
 reply, "Some Gardener? Yes; how much?" — But Mr. Gutch 
 doesn't take this view of it. He only eyes two geraniums in pots, 
 
 B B
 
 370 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 and rubs his unshaved chin with his right hand meditatively. 
 Presently, he observes that he supposes I want some men to put 
 my garden in order. I reply to this " Yes," and really it suddenly 
 appears to me that I've been making quite a fuss about nothing. 
 Mr. Gutch, still rubbing his chin, and consulting the wishes of the 
 two geraniums — he evidently understands the language of flowers 
 — wishes to know what sized garden mine may be ? I am tempted, 
 I own it, to magnify this to Gutch by mentioning the acreage of 
 the entire estate. I do not, however, and limit my reply to about 
 two acres, whereupon Mr. Gutch thinks that it would be better if 
 his foreman came over to see it. Agreed. To-morrow. Time 
 fixed. Business done. Exit myself. Gutch takes up the two 
 geraniums fondly and carries them off with him to tea. End of 
 scene between me and the Nursery Gardener. 
 
 On returning to Nook I find a packet containing two books, and 
 a sort of invoice from Englemore : — 
 
 " Here you are : Two books, ' The Flower Garden, and How to Flower 
 it;' ' The Kitchen Garden, and how to Kitchen it.' Also Bungay's 
 List : Sammy Seeds and how to sow him. I know an Amateur farmer 
 and stockbroker all in one. Bulls on change, Cows in the Country. 
 Introduce him ? Wire back to 
 
 " Your Little 
 
 "ENGLEMORE." 
 
 Will drive into the books on my return. Bungay's List looks 
 attractive on the outside, there being a coat-of-arms — Bungay's 
 perhaps — and the pictures of two Exhibition medals, gained by 
 Bungay for turnips, or something in that line. 
 
 I notice at a cursory and superficial glance that the List is 
 illustrated, and that Bungay has treated his plants and vegetables 
 as if they were his children, giving them all his name. For 
 instance, under the letter A. (for Bungay goes in on my plan, I am 
 glad to see, of alphabetical order, which, as he is a great professional 
 Gardener, and I'm only beginning, is flattering to my instincts,) he 
 begins with — 
 
 Asparagus. — Bungay's Improved Purple-Topped (Prize, 1860). 
 BExVNS. — The Bungay ; The Ornamental Bungay's Own ; The Improved 
 
 Wanderer (Bungay). 
 Beet. — Bungay's Giant Egyptian Blue ; Bungay's Miniature Turnip ; 
 
 King of the Bungay's (Prize, 1862. Birmingham).
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 371 
 
 Broccoli.— Bungay's Chinese Hybrid. 
 
 Cucumber. — Bungay's Mammoth Snowball ; The Hero (Bungay) ; 
 
 Quooly Snu Bungay's Milky Chinese ; Swiss Bungay's Early 
 
 Scarlet. 
 Cabbage. — Bungay's Incomparable Nosebag ; Bungay's Prolific Climax 
 
 (Prize, 1861. London). 
 
 Some great subjects, evidently beggaring verbal description, 
 require pictorial explanation, as I notice is the case with Bungay's 
 Speckled Negro, which occupies a whole page, representing beans 
 all a-growing and a-blowing. Then the Purple-Podded Wonder 
 (some relation, I fancy, to the Negro just mentioned) is described, 
 under a picture of itself, as "a very heavy cropper." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Mem. for the hunting-field. Instead of 
 saying to a fellow who has come head first over a nnsty place, 
 " You've come a very heavy cropper," a man with a taste for 
 gardening would sa}', " Hallo ! You've come quite a Purple- 
 podded Wonder, eh 1 " 
 
 " Bungay's Champion " next described on his list, is, odd to say, 
 " a Runner." Sounds more like a Coward than a Champion. 
 Bungay is a man of exuberant fancy, and you might almost 
 imagine he'd compiled his list as a Christmas book for children, 
 so full is it of Heroes (Peas), Champions (Broccoli), Dwarfs 
 (Parsnips), Giants (Cucumbers), Mammoths (Turnips), Kings (of 
 Potatoes), Queens (of Marrows), Princes (of Spanish Onions), 
 Princesses (Beet), Emperors (Leeks), Golden Globes (Tomatoes), 
 the Niagara Squash Pumpkins for Cinderella, Romantic Russian 
 (Radish), and Long-Podded Negroes. 
 
 Happy Thought.— Write a Vegetable Christmas Fairy Book for 
 Vegetarian Children. 
 
 Among the Flowers I have, I see, a surprising choice. Here's 
 the Warscewiczii (uncommonly like the rvic.e iversy), the Aquilegia 
 Caryophylloides, the Chamepena diacantha (known in English as 
 " Bungay's Fishbone Thistle "), the Major Convolvulus, which 
 reminds me of Eirglemore, who would, however, have probably 
 called it " Colonel ; " and finally, as I haven't time at present to 
 note any others, the Heracleum giganteum, or " Bungay's Cow 
 Parsnip," "effective" (he adds, in italics) "m shrubberies." I 
 
 I! b 2
 
 372 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 should think so. Rather. A strange creature, which is some- 
 thing between a Cow and a Parsnip would be effective in a 
 shrubbery : and a jolly mess he'd make of it. Which part of it 
 would be a Cow, and which Parsnip 1 Important question, on 
 account of the milk. 
 
 The above I've noted while training up to town. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Proverb for Stokers, — Train up to town in 
 the way you should go, and then there won't be an accident. 
 
 Meet Englemore just stepping into a cab. He's in a hurry. 
 Off for Mister Furniture. Why this impetuosity, I ask ; is it 
 true he is going to be married 1 He winks and laughs knowingly 
 as he replies on the step of the Hansom, and confidentially, as it 
 were, between me and the cabman, " Little Tommy Wedding, eh? 
 Cake for two, Colonel. You'll see. All right,"— to Cabman, 
 " drive on." Then hurriedly out of window, as if he'd remembered 
 something most important at the last moment, and emphasising 
 it with his umbrella, " Five minutes with you . . . Mr. Farmer, 
 and ..." the rest is lost. 
 
 Let me see. Next point is to advertise for Gardener.
 
 MOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 373 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ADVERTISING — TELFORD — HENS — PIGS COW POXY DOG PRECE- 
 DENTS — MORE ADVERTISEMENTS MY AUNT'S PLAN — SETTLING IT 
 
 DUTCHMAN WATCH AND WAIT — ALL ALIVE — ENTERING THE 
 
 LISTS — GUTCH, LE VOICI ! 
 
 ,APPY THOUGHT. 
 
 In advertising for Gar- 
 dener, think him out 
 well first, so that there 
 shall be no mistake 
 afterwards. The ques- 
 tion is, what do I want 
 him to do, or, rather, 
 first and foremost, 
 what am I going to 
 have for him to do 1 
 : ..r:'V-rfr^. To save "x's," I should 
 wish a man to combine 
 certain offices. 
 
 Telford writes to ask 
 me would I like some 
 Hens % Yes, certainly. 
 Pundley, Telford's farm- 
 ing friend, can give me 
 a Duck or two, and can sell me a Pig. Pundley lives in the south 
 of Cornwall, twelve miles from any railway station. If I'll have 
 the pig and ducks he wants to know will I come and fetch 'em, or 
 how. 
 
 Suppose I close with Pundley's offer, then with Cow, I've got 
 Ducks, Hens, and Pigs. That's what I shall have for a Gardener 
 to do. As the lodging-house keepers say, he'll have to do for 
 two Ducks (or more), Hens uncertain, and a Pig. 
 
 The question is, how to word this properly in an advertisement. 
 "Wanted, a Gardener, who has no objection to a Pig." That, I 
 think, is the regular, and really the pleasantest way of putting
 
 374 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 it : then, to vary it a little, add, " And who can get on with a 
 Cow." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Title for a song, " Who can get on with a 
 Cow ? " 
 
 In enumerating the above animals, I've quite forgotten the Pony. 
 By the way, must purchase Pony. Also, no farmyard complete 
 without a Dog. Begins to sound as if I were setting up a Noah's 
 Ark. 
 
 Note. Odd. The other day, when making an alphabetical list 
 of what I should require, I found that with quite a rush every- 
 thing came suddenly under the letter " P ; " now there's a run 
 upon "D" — as, for instance, Dog, Ducks, Donkey. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Look in paper for how to word properly an 
 advertisement. Search out precedents. 
 
 Look down column. Where are the Gardeners who want 
 Employers, or where are the Employers who want Gardeners. 
 
 The first I come across is, " To Master Bread and Biscuit 
 Bakers." Reminding me of Englemore at once. Master Bread 
 and Biscuit. On again. Where are Gardeners' advertisements 1 
 Next ? No. A /Single-handed Nurse, &c. By the way, not much 
 use where there are twins. 
 
 Now then Gardener, where are you? . . . The next that 
 catches my eye is, "A Valet who only requires a nominal salary.'' 
 This sets me thinking. Substitute Gardener for Valet, and 
 wouldn't that suit my pocket 1 " Only a Nominal Salary." Might 
 be foui-pence a year. Still if proposal comes from him, he can't 
 complain. I'll read this advertisement on to the end. It con- 
 tinues as a reason for the nominal salary, " not having been out 
 before." Now would this do for a Gardener? Let me suppose 
 that I should find this form : — 
 
 " A Gardener who only requires a nominal salary, never having 
 attended to a Garden in his life, and utterly ignorant of Pigs and 
 Cows, wishes for a situation. Good references." 
 
 Now what should I do ? He'd be cheap, that's certain, as far as 
 wages go. But his references 1 What character could they give 
 him, except to corroborate his own statement that he "never had 
 attended to a garden," and that he was, as he stated, utterly
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 375 
 
 ignorant "of pigs, and knew just as little about cows. Such a 
 reference would be unsatisfactory ; and, after all, if they only said 
 he didn't drink and was honest, wouldn't it be tantamount to 
 describing him as a moral and sober idiot ? 
 
 On the other hand, I remember my Aunt, who is really an 
 experienced person, distinctly saying, that in choosing servants, 
 she would rather have one at low wages (a Cook for example) 
 whom she herself could teach, and who would do what she (my 
 Aunt) told her, without attempting to instruct her, than an elderly 
 scientific professed or Plain Cook, whose only thought was, out of 
 her materials at hand to make as little as possible for the dining- 
 room, and as much as possible for her own private purse. 
 
 Then how did my Aunt instrnct her % Why by supervision, and 
 out of a good cookery-book. Now, I ask myself seriously, what's 
 the use of my having learned to read and write, and of having gone 
 through the grades of ;i superior education, if I can't study, clay by 
 day, the gardening work, so as to instruct a Gardener, and then see 
 him carry out my orders under my own eye % True, I shall have 
 to devote my time to it at first — but at first only ; and, after 
 awhile, I shall from my own personal experience, be able to publish 
 a useful volume on Farming (the Pharmacopoeia before mentioned 
 in these Notes), and Gardening, with an essay on Pigs, Poultry, 
 Peas, &c. 
 
 On the whole, I am inclined to advertise as follows, compounding 
 my advertisement out of what I see wanted, so that thus I may 
 get a thoroughly useful man, whom I could form myself. Besides, 
 Gutch's gardeners will start the affair, just putting things straight. 
 
 My Advertisement, as planned : — 
 
 " Wanted, — A tlwrough out-of-door Servant, not less than tiventy- 
 five years of age, with good personal character and references, 
 single, active, and English " 
 
 1 mention this to exclude foreigners; and yet, when I think of 
 it, the Dutch are great Gardeners. 
 
 Happy Thought. Might, with a Dutch gardener, win a prize in 
 Dutch Tulips. Imitate the Bungay style, and cull it the (iiant 
 Emperor Nook Conquering Hero Tulip, or Imperator Victor 
 Nookensif.
 
 376 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Continue advertisement, thus: Single — -(it wouldn't do to have a 
 Double-Dutchman) — active, English, or Dutch. Height no object. 
 
 No, on second thoughts, omit this, or limit it, say, to six feet 
 one. Over six feet one no giant need apply. I can't say height 
 no object when, if he were seven feet, he would be an object — and 
 a tremendous object. 
 
 Happy Thought. — But then I coxild exhibit him. Place him 
 among the tulips, and call him the Geant Jardinier Hollandais au 
 Com — au coin looks as if he'd been placed in a corner for punish- 
 ment, but it really means the Nook. Translation of the whole, 
 The Giant Dutch Gardener in the Nook. Or, if only four feet 
 high, Homunculus Horticulturisticus Nookensis. 
 
 Advertisement continued. — " Middle Height. One who requires a 
 nominal salary only much preferred. If he has never been out before, 
 he will be instructed on the premises, he must hioiv something " 
 
 I don't want him to be an absolute fool — 
 
 " of Pigs, Poultry {including Duels), and a Pony, and must 
 
 not object to a Cow." 
 
 The Cow may object to him, if he doesn't know his business; 
 when he comes to milk ; but that's his look-out, and he'll have to 
 look out pretty sharply too, because a Cow kicks sideways, I 
 believe. 
 
 " Apply, Nook Farm Dairy, or to X., at the Minerva Club, 
 between Two and Four." 
 
 " X.," at the Minerva Club, is myself; and I send the Messenger 
 down to the newspaper with this advertisement. Anxious to see 
 what comes of it. Watch and Wait : Motto. 
 
 On first opportunity must be introduced to Englemore's stock- 
 broker who farms. 
 
 While watching and waiting, I run down to the Nook, to see 
 how things generally are getting on, and to meet Mr. Gutch on 
 the subject of preparations for Garden. 
 
 The world of Nurserymen and Seedsmen seems to have awoke 
 to the fact of my being about to start a Garden. I am inundated 
 with Season Catalogues (Cagmer's), Bodger's Annual, Mumpkin's 
 Spring List, Wuggum & Co.'s Seed and Vegetable List, The Royid 
 Bucks Nursery Garden Book, issued by Hullaby and Sons, with 
 form of order enclosed — so thoughtful this of Hullaby and Sons ! —
 
 BOUND ABOUT M Y QABDEN. 
 
 377 
 
 and, finally, Bungay over again, who has sprouted out so wonder- 
 fully into all sorts of Lists, Guides, Prospectuses, and illustrated 
 Garden Books, that I am inclined to think he is somehow connected 
 with the printing interest. If not, the cost alone to Bungay of 
 employing Vegetable Authors for the literary part of his (Bungay's) 
 publications, and of fruit, vegetable, and flower artists for the 
 illustrations, must be something enormous. Evidently, a man 
 whose specialite is vegetables, is required, and yet what draughts- 
 man's while can it be worth to injure his health by sitting out all 
 day copying peculiar parsnips and odd carrots, besides seriously 
 damaging his constitution by changing the atmosphere, suddenly, 
 from out-of-doors chill and damp, to the tropical climate of a 
 hothouse, where he would sketch Bungay's Early Glory (Straw- 
 berry) or his Golden Intermediate (Grape). 
 
 This leads me into the subject of Fruit. It strikes me that 
 Gardening is certainly an occupation, and with Farming is clearly 
 uncommonly like a business. 0, here's Mr. Gutch !
 
 378 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 THE FOREMAN SAD OBSERVATION ADVICE — PROPOSITION — ONLY A 
 
 CLOD — DISGUST— SCUTCH AND GUTCH BUSHES — TREES — WON- 
 DERFUL NAMES NEW FLOWERS — OFF AGAIN. 
 
 AS MR. GUTCH is unable to come himself, he has sent 
 his Foreman, or Head Gai'dener. 
 
 He is of a despondent turn, and appears to view any difficulty as 
 almost insurmountable. Occasionally he omits his aspirates, and 
 occasionally reinserts them, in their wrong places, so as to do justice 
 to the letter "H " in his conversation. 
 
 The moment he sees the Nook,he looks round as if he were taking 
 in the whole four acres at a glance, and shakes his bead without 
 saying a word. He has such a melancholy air that I almost expect 
 he will shed tears, beg me not to speak to him, and walk out of 
 the front gate, with his handkerchief up to his eyes, distractedly.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 379 
 
 He Joesn't go so far as this, however. He simply observes, 
 " It's in a bad state, Sir," which is, I admit at once, true ; adding, 
 hopefully, that " I'm sure we can make something of it," 
 
 To this lie replies, " To do any good with it will be a difficult 
 job. Why," he goes on, " I suppose this place hain't been touched 
 not by no one for a matter of two year or more." 
 
 I believe him to be right, in everything, except grammar and 
 aspirates. 
 
 " Now," he asks me, after looking round again, and rubbing his 
 chin, and sniffing, " what are you going to make of this, Sir?" 
 
 That, I tell him, is precisely what I was about to ask him. 
 
 " Flower and Kitchen, I s'pose," he says, eyeing the extent of 
 ground, and communing with himself. 
 
 " Certainly," I answer; " with pigs and a cow." 
 
 We walk on a little. He seems too oppressed by the utter 
 hopelessness of the situation to say a word. Can't make out 
 what he expected to find here. If the place had been perfect, I 
 shouldn't have appealed to Gutch, and Cutch wouldn't have had 
 to send his Foreman. 
 
 He walks on silently. Presently he stops, and takes up a lump 
 of earth. 
 
 " It'll be a long time afore we can do anything with this,'" he 
 says, as if he had been called upon to cook and eat it. 
 
 If left to myself, of course it would be a very long time before I 
 could make anything of this clod of earth. However, in order to 
 draw him out, and hear what he has got to say on the subject 
 (because if he's got nothing to say on the subject, I'd better give 
 up the house, grounds, and the whole scheme at once), I preten 
 also to take a desponding view of the clod, and we both shake our 
 heads over it. 
 
 " Heavy clay ! " he goes on. " No doing nothing with it for a 
 
 long time. 'Tain'tlike a light soil, or a rich loamy soil " Here 
 
 he weighs it on his hand, surveying it with ineffable disgust, and 
 then, appealing to me, says, " Look 'ere, Sir ! What are you to do 
 with that ? It's 'artbreaking work, it is !" 
 
 And he throws down the clod, as if reproaching me with having 
 chosen such a Heaven-forsaken spot, and having trifled with his 
 professional feelings as a Gardener in bringing him to sec it.
 
 380 yUITE AT HOME. 
 
 "Isn't it good for growing things in?" I ask vaguely, and 
 diffidently. The truth is, that I begin to wish I'd never gone in 
 for the Nook, or, rather, that, at all events, Englemore hadn't 
 been so hasty in the matter. 
 
 " Well," says Mr. Gutch's Head Gardener, putting his wide- 
 awake hat on one side of his head, and scratching the other side 
 deliberately with his right hand, — " well, we might work it so as 
 it may come pretty right and do fairly " — this is a great admis- 
 sion for him, and I quite brighten up again : after all, the Nook's 
 a nice place ; " only o' course it'll be four men's time, at least, to 
 break up the earth." Here he stoops down and brings up another 
 lump, with what appears to me to be straw sticking in it. Holding 
 this up for my inspection, he says, " Why it'll be a goodish time 
 afore we get this Scutch out. I see," he goes on, with another 
 comprehensive look round and about, " the Scutch is everywhere. 
 You don't get that out easily." 
 
 This last observation he makes with a knowing look at me, 
 which, in itself, is rather flattering to my experience of horticul- 
 ture, as it implies that I am perfectly well acquainted with the 
 difficulties of dealing with Scutch (of which I have never heard till 
 this minute, and which sounds at first like Smutch), and that 
 in consequence as he, the Head Gardener, wouldn't think of 
 deceiving me, so I mustn't dream of trying to humbug him. 
 
 " Digging," he proceeds, " and plenty of manuring. It'll stand 
 a deal o' that when the Scutch is once out, or else it'll lose 'art." 
 
 I should be sorry, I say, if it did that, and it shall have any 
 amount of manure that may be necessary. 
 
 " Half-a-dozen cartloads," says Mr. Gutch's Foreman. 
 
 " Certainly ; as much as you like," I reply, heartily, in a spirit, 
 as it were, of the true old English Country Gentleman's hospitality. 
 Let Gutch's Foreman make himself quite at home. 
 
 " We'll get rid of the Smutch," I say decidedly. It's the first 
 time I've tried the word, and I pronounce it boldly. 
 
 " The Scutch, Sir 1 " he inquires. 
 
 " Yes," I reply ; and then, as if to be quite certain we mean the 
 same, I point to it in the clod, and ask, " what do you call it ? " 
 
 " Scutch," he answers ; " but they 'a hother names for it in 
 different counties. P'r'aps, Sir, you've 'eard it called somethin' else."
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 381 
 
 Very possibly : certainly never Scutch. 
 Happy Thought (2 :>oe ^ ca 0- — 
 
 But Mr. Gutch 
 
 Will stop the Scutch. 
 
 Happy Thought (practical and prosaic). — Four men will do it 
 all. How much 1 
 
 The Foreman can't exactly say, but Mr. Gutch will write to me 
 on the subject. I shall then want some bushes, he supposes. 
 
 " Yes, of course, bushes," I answer. 1 thought bushes grew, 
 and took years to do it. I had no idea until this moment, that 
 you could buy your bushes ready made, and stick 'em in. 
 
 " And trees," he goes on. 
 
 " Well," I reply, doubtfully, not liking him to think that I shall 
 yield to every one of his suggestions, " I don't know." 
 
 Happy Thought. — What trees ! 
 
 The Foreman replies, "Well, mainly, young 'uns has'll look 
 well. Fruit-trees for the wall, hand in the front, by the walk 
 there, you can't do better than 'ave a Aoak, a /*ash, or a /ielm." 
 
 Is he going to make a pai'k of it 1 I really don't think he 
 understands that I only want this place to be a small Farm- 
 garden or Garden-farm. 
 
 "Then," he continues, "you'll have the front laid out in flower- 
 beds, o' course." 
 
 Now he has mentioned it, I see, for the first time, that this 
 must have all along been my original design. 
 
 " You'll want a few 'ardy plants for bedding out, and quick 
 climbers and some roses, o' course." 
 
 Happiy Thought. — Beds of roses. By all means. There are 
 various sorts of roses, I believe ; what does he recommend 1 
 
 "Well," he returns slowly, "there's the Glory of Die John, a 
 wery nice 'un ; then there's Sellin Forester as 'ucl come in well ; 
 and Madame Bosankctt is a good 'un to creep. Buddy Nige would 
 look well, a John Chirping, a President Lincoln, and a Raindy 
 Botes. You can't do better, too, for making a show, than a 
 Hollibo, a Rolison, and a Tirer 'Ammyrick." 
 
 " All roses 1 " I ask.
 
 382 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 "All the best sorts as is growd," he replies. "Then there's 
 Werbeeners. You'd like Werbeeners ? " 
 
 "Certainly," I answer. "Verbenas, by all means." He really 
 seems to forget that I'm arranging for a small Garden-farm, not a 
 Botanical Show-place. 
 
 " For Werbeeners," he continues, "there's Charles Squedgeley 
 with a cherry centre, and Mr. Pinto, and Miss Pinto, pale flesh and 
 nearly white she is, but they're more for exhibiting. Then, 
 s'pose you 'ad a goodish few Sinnuariers. There's Renton's Miss 
 Jones, white and rosy, and Lord Wezzlemore, yellow, profusely 
 covered with small reddish-brown spots — no, that there's a Calso- 
 larier, though — and there'd be a place for a lean-to house by the 
 wall yonder." 
 
 Happy Thought. — A " lean-to house " must be a sort of Tower 
 of Pisa on the Premises. 
 
 I really don't understand what Gutch's Foreman thinks I want 
 to make of the place. He has partially recovered from his de- 
 spondency, and notes down that I shall require four men, plants, 
 bushes, and trees. Will I have a flower list, in which I can mark 
 anything that may strike my fancy? I thank him, and accept. 
 He is off. 
 
 When he's gone, I examine the catalogue, and am quite taken 
 at first with the long names. I mark off in pencil the Philoden- 
 drammedonensis Bijiinnatifinicatifldum, which sounds like something 
 between an antediluvian monster and the chorus of a comic sons: : 
 then a Sericotelinelladocalyx floribifolia splendensis, which must be 
 quite a firework of a flower, with pop-bang to finish with. 
 
 Happy Thought. — A flower with a pop-bang shoot. 
 
 Under Azaleas, I select Baron Bagwig, fine form, with scarlet 
 spot ; Duke of Cambridge, rosy carmine ; Martha Spry, richly 
 spotted with crimson on the top lobe ; The Inimitable Sambo (one 
 i >f Bungay's, I find), covered with small crimson red specks, and of 
 a profuse flowering habit ; and, as something satisfactory to finish 
 with, Lady Candlish (Improved). 
 
 Up to town, to find answers from Gardeners addressed to "X." 
 at Minerva Club.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 383 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 GARDENERS ON VIEW — -THE CLUB — -DIFFICULTIES EXGLEMORES 
 
 LETTER— THE COMMITTEE'S REMONSTRANCE — THE DEPUTATION 
 
 SOLO AND CHORUS OLD MEMBER — ADJOURNMENT MOVED 
 
 ROOMS — JUKE STREET — INTERVIEWS — EXAMINATION CONTINUING. 
 
 HOPE 
 
 to meet 
 
 Englemore at the Mi- 
 nerva Club. 
 
 Arrive at Club. An- 
 noyed at finding the 
 steps thronged by a 
 crowd of respectable- 
 looking artisans. At 
 least, some appear to 
 be artisans in their 
 Sunday best, with a 
 variety of neat things 
 in hats, and others pre- 
 sent a sort of groom- 
 out-of-place appear- 
 ance, specially about 
 the trousers, which are 
 clearly perquisites of the 
 past adapted to strait- 
 ened circumstances. 
 Happy Thought. — Evidently something to do with the Strikes. 
 
 Perhaps a Deputation to call on one of the members. If so, shall 
 
 complain of it to the Committee as a nuisance. 
 
 In the hall, more of the deputation, without their hats. Tall 
 and healthy, tall and unhealthy, short and thin, short and fat- 
 in fact, all sorts and sizes, with ;i hungry, restless look about them, 
 and an indescribable awkwardness of hands and feet, as if the dis- 
 appearance of both would be an intense relief to them. 
 
 " Any letters ? " I ask the Hall-Porter. 
 
 -«»»^ ~^*s
 
 3 84 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 "One, Sir," he answers, and presents me with what I knew at 
 once to be a trifle from Englemore. He says : — 
 
 " Saw your advertisement. Good. Have pushed it about. "Wired 
 country friends to send up to * X., Minerva Club.' Personal interview 
 saves trouble. Hatfuls of Gardeners. Pick and try. Look here. 
 Going to have Mister Housewarming. Theatricals. Peter Playacting. 
 Put you down for part. Larks. Got Major Sideboard at last. Quite 
 a G. B. for L. s. d. down. Took off Daniel Discount ten. That's good 
 enough for your 
 
 '•' Little Englemore. 
 
 "P.S. Heard of Mister Pig just suit you. At least he won't suit 
 anybody else, so you might get him cheap. Wire ' Yes,' if pig or not. 
 
 P.P.S. Hope you'll like the Jolly Gardeners sent to order. Love to 
 < X., Minerva.' " 
 
 At first I don't quite understand. Another second clears up the 
 difficulty. I must ask about answers to advertisement. 
 
 " Any letters addressed to ' X.' here ? " 
 
 The Hall-Porter draws a deep sigh. " 0," he says, " it's for you, 
 Sir, is it ? " Whereupon he produces a packet of about fifty, and 
 as he does so, I notice the simultaneous shuffling of the members 
 of the deputation in the hall. There is a confused murmur which 
 sounds like "It's him ! " in a variety of undertones. 
 
 The Hall-Porter continues : " Yes, Sir, besides these here " 
 (meaning the letters), "there's been all these men waiting for you 
 yesterday, Sir, and to-day." 
 
 "What, these for me?" The deputation!! I look round. 
 They are all bowing and scraping ; and the others outside, having 
 guessed instinctively the cause of the commotion, are now coming 
 up the steps, and entering the Club. 
 
 " There 'ave been complaints made by the members, Sir, last 
 night, and I was to band you this from the Committee, Sir. 
 (Here he produces an official-looking document. It contains a 
 warning — a reproof — and necessitates an explanation.) 
 
 Other members coming in, pass ill-natured remarks. What am 
 I to do 1 The men are all bending and smirking. A very tall 
 one, with a deep voice, " presumes that he is speaking to Mr. X."
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 385 
 
 Happy Thought. — Like Stanley finding Livingstone. " Mr. X., 
 I presume 1 " 
 
 I am obliged to admit that his presumption is correct. Dr. 
 Livingstone restrained himself, and did not rush into Mr. Stanley's 
 arms. I, too, restrain myself. I don't at the instant exactly see 
 what to say. Hall-Porter looking on. Members in the distance 
 watching, with a view to reporting the whole proceeding to the 
 Committee. 
 
 " Yes," I say, " I am ' X.' Why ? " 
 
 Epigrammatic, but, on reconsideration, unbusiness-like. The 
 applicants smile — all except the gloomy tall man (six feet two, and 
 I won't have him, I settle that at once), who, in answer to my 
 question why he hadn't written instead of coming in this manner, 
 says, " I thought as a personal happlication were better as savin' 
 time on both parties which might be himportant to hall." The 
 same idea has occurred to all of them, for they all nod, and more 
 or less express themselves like a chorus in an opera, with the long- 
 man and myself doing the two solos. The long man continues, 
 gravely, " I come 'ere yesterday, d'reckly as I see your hadvertise- 
 ment." Chorus gesticulate again, just as if they were singing, 
 " And so say all of us," without the previous portion of the tune 
 which celebrates the joviality of the individual. 
 
 " I've honly left my present place, account of the family going 
 abroad and 'aving no more use for a gard'ner." Chorus evidently 
 don't believe in him a bit, The tall Gardener goes on again with 
 further particulars. I am not listening to him, but thinking how 
 I shall get rid of them all. I hear him saying, " I'm a married 
 man, and my wife can cook or make herself otherwise useful in 
 a house," and I am on the point of dismissing him to begin with, 
 when the oldest member of the Club enters the hall, and wishes to 
 know what all this disturbance is 1 
 
 The Hall-Porter looks appealingly to me. I beg to offer an ex- 
 planation. The irascible old man won't be pacified. " It's a mob, 
 Sir ! " he says, and I feel that I agree with him. I show him how 
 the mistake arose on their part from the unfortunate wording of 
 my advertisement. 
 
 " It's too bad, Sir ; 'pon my word, it's too bad," the old member 
 blurts out. " And if this sort of thing's allowed, we shan't be 
 
 c c
 
 386 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 able to keep an umbrella in the Club," whereupon he steams off 
 through a glass door, and puffs himself into the writing-room, 
 where he allows some of his heat to evaporate in an effervescing 
 draught of a letter to the Committee. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Tell the frozen-out Gardeners to meet me in 
 St. James's Park. On consideration, this might be taken for a 
 Republican Demonstration. 
 
 Hall-Porter asks, if I couldn't get some gentleman's rooms to 
 see 'em in ? 
 
 Happy Thought. — Of course. Englemore's ! His old lodgings. 
 Through the tall man, whom I treat as the spokesman, I request 
 the applicants to walk round to Juke Street. They reply through 
 him that they don't know where Juke Street is, and exhibit in- 
 credulity as to my intention of ever seeing them again. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Direct Club Commissionnaire to guide them. 
 Intrust him with half a sovereign to be divided among them in 
 liquor at the nearest tavern. 
 
 Exeunt Omnes. — Thank Heaven ! 
 
 If Englemore sent most of these fellows up, or got his friends 
 to do so, I must have a row with him ; at all events he shall have 
 the benefit of them in his rooms, if possible. 
 
 It is possible. Mrs. Dumper, Englemore's landlady, knows me, 
 but though " Mr. Englemore is giving up, yet she is doubtful 
 
 whether " In fact, she is hesitating, though she has not seen 
 
 my crowd, who are still in the public-house, and I have only 
 requested to be allowed the use of his sitting-room, just for half an 
 hour, merely to see some gardeners who have called about my 
 place. She is not in the least interested, and demurs. 
 
 Happy Thought. — I say to Mrs. Dumper, " I fancy that Mr. 
 Englemore's rooms Mould suit me ; because I shan't live in the 
 country altogether." 
 
 "Well, Sir," she says, seeing her way to a tenant, "you can 
 look at 'em now, and if you like to use them for 'arf an 'our or so 
 there won't be any great 'arm done, I dessay." 
 
 I take my seat at Englemore's table, after calling to the Com- 
 missionnaire to bring the men up here. Quite Magisterial.
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 387 
 
 The gloomy man, who has been making himself gloomier than 
 ever with beer, I dismiss at once. He is so utterly taken by sur- 
 prise that he has nothing to say for himself; and every one else's 
 interests being dead against him, nobody has anything to say for 
 him, and so there's an end of him. He's a weight off my mind. 
 I'm sorry he hasn't obtained the situation, but he has incumbrances, 
 and holds such views on pigs, poultry, and a cow, as are utterly 
 irreconcileable with mine. 
 
 Number Two. — Is an unhealthy-looking person with weak knees. 
 He says he understands glass. Whatever else he doesn't under- 
 stand, one thing he sticks to, and that is — Glass. I tell him I 
 haven't got any glass, that I don't intend to have any glass, and 
 that — to put it forcibly — I hate glass. At this last blow, he 
 .staggers from the room and disappeai's. With him go three others 
 who had come there solely on the strength of their knowledge of 
 Glass. 
 
 Number Three. — Muddy-faced, short man ; groomy style in 
 gaiters. His eyes seem inclined to blink. He bobs at me with 
 his front lock, and attempting to focus his gaze on the top button 
 of my waistcoat, awaits my questioning. 
 
 " What can you do ? " 
 
 Directly I have spoken, his eyes begin to wander. Perhaps he 
 is trying to recall all his accomplishments. 
 
 " Well, Sir," he presently answers, with rather a silly kind of 
 laugh, " a good deal depends on what you may want." 
 
 I admit that a good deal does depend on it. Referring to my 
 notes of what to ask applicants, I find briefly, " to inquire (a) 
 Can he Pig ? (6) ditto Cow, (c) Ducks, (d) Poultry, (e) Farm ? " 
 Also, N.B. and special, "Can he Pony?" 
 
 " Single-handed ?" he asks, fixing his gaze on the button where 
 he had previously been so successful. 
 
 " I don't quite understand," I say. 
 
 His eye wanders, and he speaks very carefully, as if weighing 
 every word, and finding them all uncommonly heavy. 
 
 " My meaning is — as do you — keep another man — or " here 
 
 vagueness seems to seize him suddenly, but he tries my top button 
 again, and finishes with — "or all this — for — one?" Then he 
 frowns. 
 
 c c 2
 
 388 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " For one," I answer. 
 
 He won't let that top button out of his sight for an instant now 
 
 " With — occashnal 'elp 1 " he asks ; then adds, while allowing 
 his features to relax into what he intends to be a persuasive smile, 
 " You'd have occashnal 'elp, I s'pose, Sir. Cos you see, Sir," he 
 goes on, his tone becoming almost pathetic, " a pig, a cow, a pony, 
 and what not besides,, is more than one man's time singl'anded." 
 
 On deliberation, I concede a boy now and then. He shakes his 
 head over it. " Very sorry, but he don't think as it'll do, and he 
 don't think as I'll get anyone, who ain't not quite starving, for 
 such work as this." 
 
 He is suddenly changing his manner to impertinence. It breaks 
 upon me all at once — he is drunk and impertinent. 
 
 This decides me. He may withdraw. He lingers. He ought, 
 he says, to have his expenses for coming up on such a fool's errand. 
 1 can't hear of such a thing. 
 
 " Can't hear 1 " he suddenly exclaims, becoming quite violent 
 and offensive, " Who's you, to send for poor 'ard-workin' men up 'ere, 
 trepannin' them up for nothing? Darn you an' your pigs and 
 your cows ! Why, I'd be above offrin' a respekable man such a 
 place as yourn, and if there's law in this land, I'll " 
 
 Here a decent-looking woman rushes into the room, and seizes 
 him. "John," she says, "you're spoilin' your chances ; don't be a 
 fool." He looks sullenly at her, as if he'd like to argue this point. 
 But she continues to me : "He took something next door, being a 
 temperans gen' ally, as went against him, and he ain't quite hisself 
 just now." 
 
 Fortunately, she is able, with the assistance of a friend or two 
 outside, to get him away before he is less and less himself, as he is 
 every moment becoming, and so rapidly that who he'll be when he 
 reaches the front door, and gets out into the cold air, it will be 
 difficult to determine. 
 
 Examination continues.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN, 
 
 389 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 STILL IN JUKE STREET FIXING A GARDENER OBLIGING THE DUKE 
 
 THE MIKADO— JAPANESE IDEA FOR SHILLING MANUALS 
 
 GOOSEBERRIES RATS — BEES— BEDDING OUT. 
 
 F 
 
 IXAMINATION for 
 
 place of Gardener 
 finished. I fix on one 
 man. He has no objection 
 to anything. Pigs he's at 
 home with, he says, and 
 Cows are rather a pleasure 
 to him than a trouble. 
 Flowers he understands as 
 well, he tells me, as he 
 does fruit and vegetables. 
 Stable-work and pony are 
 a mere joke to this handy 
 person, on his own show- 
 ing. Evidently the very 
 man for me. Before sett- 
 ling finally, he looks up 
 with a chirrupy sort of a 
 smile, — he is a fair-haired 
 man, by the way, with a 
 fresh countrified looking face, reminding me, on the whole, of the 
 description in the old song, of the Flaxen-headed Ploughboy. 
 
 Happy Thought. — 
 
 The Flaxen-headed Ploughboy 
 
 Comes whistling o'er the Lea ; 
 To those who don't like whistling 
 
 A nuisance he must be. 
 
 However, he looks up with this particularly chirrupy sort of 
 smile, and says : —
 
 390 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " If you wanted a married person, Sir, " 
 
 " You're not married, though 1 " I ask. 
 
 " No, Sir ; but if it so chanced as you did want a married man, 
 I could come married." 
 
 I never knew a servant so accommodating. I really feel that it 
 won't do to presume upon this willingness to too great an extent. 
 I reply, therefore, that I should prefer him single, not having any- 
 thing for a wife to do ; unless, perhaps, my Aunt, when she 
 arrives, could find her some employment. 
 
 He touches his hat, and observes respectfully, — 
 
 "As you please, Sir; it's all one to me. My object is to make 
 all things comfortable for all parties, and give satisfaction." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Ask for his character. 
 
 He will give me the address of his last place, and, if I will have 
 the goodness to write to the Duke of Shetland, I shall find that 
 His Grace will be able to speak of him in terms which, he trusts, 
 will corroborate his own account ; and, should this not be suffi- 
 cient, an application to His Serene Highness The Mikado will 
 establish his claims to being a first-rate professional Gardener in 
 all sorts of fancy lines. 
 
 At first it strikes me that he is joking. This is so improbable, 
 and he is so serious withal, and so pleasant and cheerful about it, 
 that in an off-hand manner, as if correspondence with Mikados and 
 Dukes was among my daily routine of letter-writing, I signify 
 that, if I find after a month's trial he should suit me, I would then 
 write to his former employers for testimonials. 
 
 Happy Thought. — In order to avoid mistakes, I ask him, as he 
 is withdrawing, whether he really means the Mikado, or has made 
 a mistake in the name 1 
 
 He draws himself up with some dignity, and replies, " I am not 
 likely, Sir, to have made any mistake. The Mikado has done 
 more for me than any other nobleman or gentleman living, and I 
 
 am bound to say, Sir " (here he is absolutely becoming affected 
 
 almost to tears) — " I am bound to say, Sir, that, but for him and 
 the Duke of Shetland, who gave me the first cuttings of the Hor- 
 tensis floreahis, I should never have known an hour's happiness."
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 391 
 
 He tk»es not appear at all inclined to stop at this point, but has 
 evidently much more to say, which I nip in the bud, 
 
 Happy Thought. — Gardening simile appropriate. That this 
 should occur to me is a cheering sign, as it shows that my mind is 
 gradually being given to the subject. Can't do anything with any 
 subject, no matter how trifling, unless you give your mind to it. 
 
 I nip him in the bud, and he bows himself out. I fancy I hear 
 him sobbing on the stairs. If so, he must be as tender as one of 
 his own young plants. Odd about the Mikado ! Perhaps he got 
 into his service on purpose to learn something about Japanese 
 Gardening ; and that is what he has been alluding to as fancy- 
 work. Might bear of some operations in Japanese Stocks at 
 9 per cent, But this is not to the point. Now to other business. 
 
 Mem. — Aunt returns from Aix day after to-morrow, thoroughly 
 galvanised. 
 
 Mem. — Little Uncles, Jack and Gill, from the sea-side with 
 Nurse. 
 
 Mem. — The Nook, Nookside, sufficiently furnished for habitation. 
 
 Mem. — Gutch's men at work on Nook ground. 
 
 Mem. — Cow, Pig, Pony, still unbought. Do it all in a lump. 
 Queer sort of lump — a Cow, a Pig, and a Pony. 
 
 Write to Englemore. Inform him of my having settled with 
 Gardener. Tell him that, " under the circs," I haven't time for 
 theatricals, or would be very happy to join him in his house- 
 warming, and will he at once introduce me to the Gardening and 
 Farming Stockbroker whom he mentioned ? 
 
 Letter sent by hand. 
 
 Happy Thought. — While waiting for answer, go to bookseller's 
 and buy Shilling Manuals on farms, flowers, &c. ; The Little 
 Flower Gardener, Every Man his Own Seedsman, Hints for Horti- 
 culturists, The Little Poultry ■woman's Guide, also The Economical 
 Vegetable Booh. 
 
 Happy Thought. — "The Economical." Hope this'll keep the 
 Mikado's young man in check. 
 
 Anecdotes of the Rat. — Perhaps hardly necessary — and yet, in
 
 392 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 an old place — not in the house, of course (for if they are in, I'm 
 out, that's all), but in the stable there might be rats. 
 
 Gossips on Gooseberries, including a treatise on fruit-growing 
 generally and the cultivation of the Grape. I must have a work 
 on Pigs. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Write one (after experience) myself. Title, 
 Kill and Cure: being a Scientific treatise on Pigs. A Baconian 
 Essay. 
 
 I hit upon one work then which I decide to buy, before all 
 others : The Bee, its Habits, &c. 
 
 Happy Thought. — This is a brilliant idea. It strikes me as 
 Englemore, by way of answering my letter, comes himself in a cab. 
 I say, impetuously, to him, " Look here. I've settled what I'll do. 
 I'll keep Bees." 
 
 "First-rate thing — Mr. Bee," is his reply. "Put him under 
 little Harry Hive, and then run away as hard as you can." 
 
 "I shall buy a book on the subject." 
 
 "That's it," he returns, at once quite taking the idea, but in his 
 own way. "Book for Bee, B for Book. The Bee and how to 
 avoid Him, I know. Once get accustomed to them and they mean 
 £, s. d. Getting accustomed to 'em is rather a bore tho'," he goes 
 on, as if he knew something about it ; " because you have to live 
 with your head in a bag for a week and your hands in mufflers, 
 something between the diver at the Polytechnic and a prize-fighter 
 with boxing-gloves ; because when they don't know you Mister 
 Bee will sting Colonel Stranger all over. The Honey's good 
 enough for your little Englemore, without Mister Bee." 
 
 This rather discourages me. Now about his Gardening Stock- 
 broker. Can I see him, and get some hints ? 
 
 "All right, Colonel," he replies. " He's gone home, and you're 
 to come. Pack up Captain Carpet-bag and little Tommy Tooth- 
 brush, that's all." 
 
 I see, we're to stay the night, eh 1 Englemore winks slyly and 
 answers, "All among the barley. Twenty miles away. Train 
 down. Daniel Dinner, Peter Port. If you're waking call me
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 393 
 
 early, Mother dear, without a headache. Major Ozone on the 
 premises." 
 
 I accept, make ready, and am off with him. 
 
 Happy Thought (still in the Gardening vein). — I'm going to be 
 " bedded out."
 
 394 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVII. 
 
 MICKLETOn's SHAY CHEZ MICKLETON THE PROFESSOR CHICKA- 
 BIDDIES COUNTRY AND TOWN — NOTIONS THINKING IT OUT 
 
 CUCKOO BRIEF DESCRIPTION RIDDLE. 
 
 DOG-CART at the Station 
 to receive us. Foggy drive. 
 We arrive at Mr. Mickle- 
 ton's house, which is out of 
 the fog, and up a hill. Mickle- 
 ton (Englemore's friend) 
 beams on us from the hall- 
 door. It quite warms me to 
 see him : he is so round and 
 jolly. He has gaiters on, 
 having apparently only just 
 this minute come in from 
 farming. 
 
 " Welcome to Walnut 
 House ! " cries our host r 
 heartily. 
 
 We descend ; and the intro- 
 duction takes place in Engle- 
 more's own peculiar style. 
 " Professor Mickleton." He 
 is only plain Mister, of course. 
 Then, turning to me, " The Colonel. He wants to learn all the 
 little fakements of farming, and all round my garden in twenty 
 minutes. Eh, Professor ? " 
 
 Mr. Mickleton replies, smiling, " It's rather late now, Engle- 
 more." 
 
 I interpose, politely, that I wouldn't on any account think of 
 trying to see the farm at this hour. Too late, and too dark. 
 
 "Don't know that," says Englemore, thoughtfully. "Might 
 have little Tommy Torchlight out with us, eh ? New idea. Good 
 picture for Illustrated : ' Torchlight Visit of the Eoyal Party to
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GAB DEN. 395 
 
 Professor Mickleton's Farm.' Also article, ' All among the Pigs.' 
 What time's Mister Grub 1 " 
 
 " Three quarters of an hour from now," answers our host ; and 
 forthwith invites us into the drawing-room. 
 
 Here we are introduced to Mrs. Mickleton, who is sewing 
 something or other of a fluffy character. 
 
 She expresses her pleasure at seeing us, and subsides, without 
 another word, into her knitting, or whatever it is. 
 
 "All Chickabiddies straight?" inquires Englemore, who has at 
 once established himself on the hearth-rug. 
 
 " The children 1 " asks Mrs. Mickleton, looking up for a second. 
 
 Englemore nods. 
 
 " Quite well, thank you," she answers, resuming her work. 
 
 I don't see, as yet, my way towards interesting Mrs. Mickleton 
 in a conversation. 
 
 Hap}')}/ Thought. — Weather and children. Effect of climate on 
 youth. 
 
 " I suppose," I say, " you find this place agree with them 
 wonderfully 1 " 
 
 I don't know the reason for my supposing anything of the kind, 
 as I've only been here ten minutes, and haven't seen anything at 
 all of the place itself. Still, it is the Country, and not London : 
 at least, this I imagine to be the basis of my observation. 
 
 Mrs. Mickleton is obliged to desist in her work, I find, every 
 other second minute, in consequence of the fluffy stuff rubbing off 
 and flying to her nose, which she is forced to rub irritably. 
 
 " Tbis place ?" she returns, after a second's friction of the point 
 of her nose with her right forefinger, and then speaking very 
 slowly. " This place ? No, indeed ; I wonder we manage to keep 
 alive here at all. My husband's away all day. There's no society. 
 As you may imagine, it's very dull." 
 
 Between each of her sentences she does two or three stitches, 
 and then, just as I feel that she is expecting me to start some 
 topic, or agree with her, or, at all events, say something, she 
 resumes her discourse. Her method is : take up discourse, drop 
 stitch ; take up stitch, drop discourse. Simple. She has finished 
 now, and 1 observe that, of course, if there is no one here, it must 
 be very dull.
 
 396 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Mrs. Robinson Crusoe without a Friday. 
 
 " The garden," I say, " must be a great pleasure." 
 
 "Yes, if you understand it." Stitches. " I don't." Stitches. 
 
 Happy Thought. — If a stitch in time saves nine, and if she is 
 always in time, what a heap of labour she must economise during 
 the year. (Think this out.) 
 
 She continues. " Mr. Mickleton doesn't understand it, though 
 he pretends he does." Stitches. 
 
 " Then the Professor is Mister Van Umbug," says Englemore, 
 laughing it off, with a wink at me. 
 
 It occurs to me that Mrs. Mickleton must know more of her 
 own husband than Englemore ; and supposing she is right, of 
 what vise will he be to me % Why am I down here ? Ah, I for- 
 got ; his line is farming. 
 
 "Mr. Mickleton is very much interested in farming, is he not 1 ?" 
 I inquire, rather nervously. 
 
 She smiles, and has a difficulty with the fluff again, before she 
 replies : 
 
 "Well, it quite depends upon the humour he's in. He has a 
 sort of sloppy, muddley place, that he calls his farm." Stitches. 
 " When he comes down early on Saturday, he walks about there 
 in thick boots and gaiters, and talks a great deal of nonsense, I 
 believe." Stitches. "On Sundays he always makes a fuss about 
 being obliged to inspect the farm." Stitches. " But it's only an 
 excuse for not going to church." 
 
 Here a sudden click and a whirr somewhere above my head 
 startle me, and a sharp cuckoo note is repeated six times. Just 
 as I have found out the situation of the clock, a little door over 
 the face shuts with a snap, and the Cuckoo, much to my disap- 
 pointment, has vanished. 
 
 It may be childish, but, on the instant, I feel that, henceforth, 
 my one object in this house is no longer to consult Mickleton on 
 farming, but to see that Cuckoo when he re-appears to tell us the 
 hour. It occurs to me, as quite a sporting sensation, that I 
 should almost like to take the time exactly from the clock-face, 
 and be underneath with a bow and arrow, or drawing-room pistol, 
 to have a shot at him when he next ventures out.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 397 
 
 Happy Thought. — Adopt the idea for Hurlingham instead of 
 real live pigeons. All the amusement, double the fun, and none 
 of the cruelty. 
 
 "Chirpy Chap, eh?" Englemore remarks, alluding to the 
 Cuckoo, " shouldn't care about him in a bed-room. Should make 
 him touch the harp gently, my pretty Louise, or shut him up 
 altogether. Hallo, Professor, time for Sammy Soapsuds, eh 1 " 
 
 "Yes," replies Mickleton, understanding Englemore to mean 
 that it is time to prepare for dinner — (he himself has taken off his 
 gaiters and has been putting himself to rights), — " no dress, 
 unless you prefer it. I shan't. I say," he exclaims, as if some- 
 thing very brilliant had occurred to him, " I've got such a riddle 
 for you." 
 
 "My name's Mister Give-it-up," replies Englemore, easily. 
 
 I ask, not being in the least interested, what it is. 
 
 Mickleton chuckling over it as if in anticipation of our roars of 
 laughter and delight when we hear it, says, 
 
 " Well, I made it myself the other day, and I asked Bagster — 
 you know," to Englemore. "Sam Bagster, our clergyman here " 
 
 Englemoi*e nods, and by way of describing him to me, says, 
 
 " Mister White Choker, wall eyed. Little off his chump. Go 
 
 on." 
 
 " He's all right now," Mickleton tells him. 
 
 "Glad of it," returns Englemore; "but what's Colonel Conun- 
 drum?" 
 
 Mickleton, who appears to have suddenly forgotten it, rubs his 
 head. 
 
 "Ah yes, of course. Well, it's this. Why" — here he breaks 
 off to implore me to tell if I've heard it before. I assure him I 
 haven't. 
 
 " 1 know it as far as you've gone at present," observes Engle- 
 more, " Go a-head ! " 
 
 Mickleton goes a-head. " Why is a Duck," here he looks sus- 
 piciously at me, as much as to say, " Now you have heard this 
 before, only out of politeness you won't tell me so" — "Why is a 
 Duck like a Charlatan Doctor 1 " 
 
 "The answer begins with 'Because,'" says Englemore; "I'll 
 swear to that."
 
 398 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " Ah, you know it ! " cries Mickleton. But we assure him that 
 we do not. Will he relieve our anxiety, and tell us ? 
 
 He will, with the greatest pleasure. 
 
 " The answer is," he says, " because they both quack." Then he 
 roars with laughter. We only ripple, to begin with, and should 
 drop the subject, but for his boisterously appealing to us, "Good, 
 eh 1 Isn't it 1 You've never heard it before ? " 
 
 Happy Tho ugh t. — Never. 
 
 We all laugh. So heartily ; but Mickleton heartier than either 
 of us. , He tells us again, "that he made it himself." 
 
 We say, did he, really 1 and, of course, laugh again. 
 
 We, still laughing, and repeating to ourselves, " Yes, Quack, 
 very good ! " take our chamber candlesticks, thinking we are going 
 to escape. 
 
 But 
 
 
 -£- «*£
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 399 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE RIDDLEMAKBR AT HOME NOTHING ABOUT GARDENING TAKEN 
 
 IN TIRED — THE PROFESSOR PUTTING FOOT IN IT — TAKING 
 
 FOOT OUT OF IT — BOYS MARIANA ALL ABOUT IT LAST 
 
 CHANCE GONE. 
 
 AS WE are about to leave the 
 room, Mickleton stops us. 
 " Look here ! " he says, chuck- 
 ling again, and more than ever, " I've 
 got another. Only tell me if you've 
 heard it before." 
 
 We promise him 
 and stand in attentive 
 attitudes. (Wonder if 
 he's got many of these. 
 " I don't think you 
 have heard it," he goes 
 on ; " because I made 
 it myself." 
 
 Happy Thought. — 
 !Z^ Hope he doesn't make 
 many things himself. 
 ^ Wine, for instance. I 
 remember home-made 
 wine, once. 
 ' This is it. ' When does an Alderman go on four legs V" 
 " When he rides," suggests Englemore. 
 
 " No, that's not it ! " chuckles Mickleton, delighted at his first 
 failure. 
 
 " I can't guess," I reply. 
 " 0, you can." 
 
 " No, indeed, I can't. I never could." 
 
 " Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " he laughs heartily. " I asked lots of fellows 
 in the City, and they couldn't make it out at all. Old Bumpter 
 bothered himself over it for half an hour or more, and as to
 
 400 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Magendie I thought he'd have gone into fits when he heard the 
 answer. Ha! Ha! Ha!" 
 
 " What is it ? " asks Englernore. 
 
 We are both getting hungry, and I've just stopped a yawn. 
 
 " I'll tell you," replies Mickleton, winking rather to himself than 
 at either of us, " An Alderman goes on four legs when he becomes 
 a Mare. Eh ? Good ? isn't it 1 " 
 
 "Ah, I see," says Englernore. "Lord Mayor." "Capital." 
 " Capital," I echo. Then both keeping up a laugh, we once more 
 attempt the door, Englernore observing that he's afraid we shall be 
 late. 
 
 The Cuckoo coming out at that instant, is of the same opinion. 
 He only rushes out for one second, or less, to cry " Cuckoo" at the 
 half-hour, and jumps in again, banging the door after him, as if 
 he'd got private and important business to attend to within at 
 which he musn't be disturbed on any account. He was too quick 
 for me, and I haven't seen him, as yet. 
 
 " Half-past six," I say, moving towards the door. 
 
 " Plenty of time," observes our host, " we're never very punctual. 
 By the way," here he stops us once more, "talking of riddles," — ■ 
 we weren't, but that is of no consequence to him — " I made one the 
 other day as I was going up in the train." 
 
 We can't help ourselves. Englernore can only murmur sadly, 
 " Colonel Conundrum," and yield. I never saw a man so suddenly 
 and completely depressed as Englernore after these two riddles, 
 and in the pi-esence of a third. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Look at my watch aud slightly yawn. 
 No good. Mickleton must tell us this. If we've heard it will we 
 say so 1 " Why is a Charity-boy " 
 
 Brilliantly Happy Thought. — Yes, we have heard it. Very old 
 one. 
 
 " No, no, it's not the one I mean," he says. 
 
 " Quite the same," returns Englernore, turning the door-handle. 
 Mickleton goes on, — 
 
 " When is a Charity -boy like a blue-bottle 1 " 
 
 " Give it up, Massa Bones," says Englernore, in despair. 
 
 Do / give it up ? Certainly. Certainly. What is it ?
 
 ROUND ABOUT 21 V GARDEN. 401 
 
 " Well," says Mickleton, amazingly delighted at his third success, 
 " the answer is, when he's buzzy. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " He roars at it. 
 
 We are a bit sulky. Englemore observes that it's not so good 
 as the others. I agree with him. 
 
 '" No !" exclaims Mickleton. " Then I've got a better. It's a 
 first-rate one. I met little Pinker at Birch's the other day, and 
 asked him. He said it was the best thing he'd ever heard. Look 
 here. ' When is the President of the United States ' ' 
 
 Here the door is pushed open from the outside. Mrs. Mickleton 
 enters in full dress. 
 
 "What, James ! not gone to dress yet 1 ? It really is too bad. 
 The dinner will be spoilt, and I shall be kept waiting." 
 
 Here a bell rings loudly. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Leave the Riddlemaker to explain. We go to 
 our rooms. 
 
 I've come down here to learn about Gardening and Farming, 
 and he's not said a word on those subjects at present, Englemore 
 calls him Professor. Of what ? Conundrum-making ? 
 
 Happy Thought. — Dinner. 
 
 We have a very pleasant dinner. Mickleton introduces different 
 wines to us of rare excellence. 
 
 Remembering that I have come to learn a great deal from him 
 about farming, I try to turn the conversation in this direction. 
 
 It appears that if there is a subject which both Mickleton and 
 his wife carefully avoid, it is farming. As for horticulture, Mrs. 
 Mickleton informs me that " she has become quite tired of flowers." 
 Speaking, I think, at her husband, who, while pretending to be 
 completely absorbed in giving Englemore the remarkable history 
 of a dinner claret, is clearly uncomfortable, she goes on to say, 
 
 " The fact is, I have been so long down here without seeing any- 
 thing except flowers, or anybody except the gardener, that I have 
 become utterly weary of them." 
 
 With a secret feeling that I am siding with my hostess against 
 my host, but that he, as a man of the world, will understand this 
 politeness, I reply, "Well, yes, I suppose that it must be a trifle 
 dull." 
 
 d n
 
 402 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 " Very dull," she returns emphatically. " It's all very well for 
 you gentlemen who have got your Clubs and your business in 
 town, to come down for a day noio and then," (such a look at 
 Mickleton, who smiles feebly at Englemore), "and say you enjoy 
 the country so much. But it would be a very different thing if you 
 were obliged to stay here, all alone, from one year's end to the 
 other." 
 
 " 0, well 1 " exclaims Mickleton, jovially, " we'll take a house in 
 town for the season, next year, and you'll enjoy this place all the 
 more when you return." 
 
 "My dear James," replies Mrs. Mickleton, with a sarcastic 
 smile, " you've said that every year as long as I can remember, 
 but you've never done it." 
 
 Mickleton tries to laugh it off, and I see that by showing myself 
 interested in farming and gardening, I have evidently put my foot 
 in it. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Take my foot out of it. Change the topic at 
 once. Ask Mickleton if he's going up to town to-morrow. He 
 frowns at me rapidly, and shakes his head. I've put my other foot 
 in it. It seems that I've got both feet in it, as Mrs. Mickleton 
 takes the reply into her own mouth. 
 
 " Of course he'll go up early to-morrow." 
 
 " Business," I hint, faintly, in order to do Mickleton a friendly 
 turn. 
 
 "There can't be much business going on, as my husband is 
 always complaining of what's not being done in the City ; but if 
 he makes a new Conundrum, or thinks of a good story, he's not 
 happy till he has gone up to the office and told it to all the people 
 who call themselves his friends." 
 
 "My dear!" interposes Mickleton, evidently wishing to restrain 
 his wife's remarks before us and in the presence of the footman. 
 However, as a large stand with an enormous bush occupies the 
 centre of the table, he is hidden from her as completely as I am 
 from Englemore, whose eye I only manage to catch through the 
 leaves, or by dodging a little on one side. 
 
 It's quite true, my dear," she continues. "And then, Mr. 
 Englemore, just before dinner I often receive a telegram to say he
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 403 
 
 won't oe down that evening, in consequence of having to meet 
 somebody who is of the greatest importance to him." 
 
 " Well," says the unfortunate Conundrum-maker, li l do have 
 to meet people who are of great business importance to me, at 
 dinner." 
 
 We (his Guests) smile. 
 
 I say, " Of course you have," and smile. Englemore winks 
 privately at Mickleton, but is detected by Mrs. Mickleton, when he 
 laughs, and observes that " Boys will be boys," which, though 
 meant kindly, does not exercise a soothing influence on our 
 hostess. 
 
 " Boys, indeed," she says. " I should think so. From what 
 I've heard, they're a nice set of boys, too, on the Stock Exchange. 
 And when he stops in town, as he's always doing — on business — he 
 comes back with a lot of Conundrums, as if his trade was to make 
 Christmas crackers, and then he drives all over the country asking 
 these. But it's very dull for me down here, as you may imagine." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Mariana in the Moated Grange. 
 
 Luckily, at this moment, Englemore changes- the conversation 
 by asking Mrs. Mickleton if she'll assist him at his House- Warming, 
 when he proposes having Theatricals and a Ball. 
 
 Mariana of the Moated Grange jumps at the idea. So does 
 Mickleton. So do I. Anything to get rid of the unpleasant 
 subject. We all go in heartily for Englemore's scheme. 
 
 Mickleton, seeing his wife in so excellent a frame of mind, won't 
 hear of her quitting the room, as she is the only lady, and it would 
 be dull for her in the drawing-room. She stops with us. 
 
 Consequence of this is that the only topics interesting to me are 
 tabooed, and I have come down here for — nothing. 
 
 It's late in the year. The Gardeners from Gutch's are, I suppose, 
 hard at work at the Nook. I should like to ask Mickleton, who, 
 I still believe dues farm (or why should he have received us dressed 
 in a shooting- coat, clodhopping boots, and gaiters?), what one ought 
 to do in the garden at this time — viz., just the end of the year. 
 
 Will catch him in the morning. I decide upon this to myself 
 while they are discussing the house-warming. 
 
 Mickleton asks ten Conundrums — his wife encouraging him 
 now— before we take our candles for bed. 
 
 D D 2
 
 404 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Mickleton comes up to see that I'm "all comfortable." 
 Opportunity not to be lost. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Seriously, before going to bed, I ask him, 
 " You know all about gardening. What would you do in a small 
 garden at this time of year, with only one gardener and a help 1 " 
 
 He pauses to consider. He looks at the floor. Then he looks 
 up, shakes his head knowingly, and replies, " I know ; I've heard 
 it before. It's like the ship weighing anchor, and drawing four 
 feet of water, and what's the name of the Captain 1 Smith, eh 1 " 
 
 He thinks it's a riddle. I am about to disabuse him of this 
 notion, when Englemore looks in, and says, 
 
 " Hallo ! Colonel Conundrum out again 1 " Whereupon he and 
 Mickleton both laugh heartily, the latter observing, jocularly, 
 something about an old bird not being caught so easily; and then 
 they both say " Good-night ! " and retire. 
 
 Evidently I shan't get much gardening information out of 
 Colonel Conundrum. What a habit for a man to get into ! 
 
 A Truly Happy Thought.- — This being such peculiarly un- 
 seasonable weather for going down to The Nook to see how 
 Gutch's men and the new Gardener are getting on — accept Engle- 
 more's invitation to stay in town for a night or two, as he says he 
 particularly wants to consult me (and the Mickletons) on his 
 forthcoming theatricals and fancy ball. 
 
 Note. — Received telegram from my galvanised Aunt. Be home 
 day after to-morrow. Our party, little Uncles and Nurse, &c, 
 to be moved at once to The Nook. As I shan't be up in 
 Town again for some time, more reason to take advantage of 
 it now.
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 405 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 RETURN OF MY AUNT THE NOOK AFTER THE LATE RAINS — a 
 
 SURPRISE THE END IN VIEW. 
 
 HEN I see the front garden from over the 
 gate I hardly know The Nook again. It is as much changed for 
 the better as a slovenly man who has had his hair cut. 
 
 My Aunt has arrived. She has been ganlavised for the Neu- 
 ralgia, and is quite well again ; which, however, she says, she has 
 no doubt would have been the result if she'd undergone the treat 
 samement at home. She is at first a little annoyed with me about 
 the Glymphyns, because she had predetermined a match; and, 
 secondly, she is astonished at my not having met her at the 
 Station. These matters are, subsequently, duly explained. 
 
 Little Uncle Jack and Gill are also here. When we appear at 
 the front gate, they are playing at horses on the gravel-path, 
 which seems to be, 1 point out to Englemore, nicely dry in spite
 
 406 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 of the rain. They are affectionate children. On seeing me, they 
 run away, crying. "They think you're 'Bogie,'" Englemore 
 remarks. They've gone indoors to summon my Aunt. 
 
 The old -woman left in charge of the house comes to the front 
 door. She recognises me, and sniffs. She prepares for my recep- 
 tion by giving her face a rub round with the corner of her apron, 
 and then she opens the gate, stands behind it nervously, and 
 curtseys. 
 
 "Mrs. Bascoe in?" I ask. It may be remembered, but it pro- 
 bably is not, that my Aunt's name is Bascoe. 
 
 " Yes, sir," says the old woman. ' : The lady come as the clay 
 befare yezzerday. She ain't been altogether well since comin', she 
 uin't. Werry damp it is for them as ain't used to't." 
 
 "Damp." 
 
 " Your name must be Mister Drainage," says Englemore, survey- 
 ing the lawn. " The ground here's like a greasy sponge. Not 
 nice, Colonel Greasy Sponge, eh 1 " 
 
 " What's to be done? " I ask, for I see that the cottage is in a 
 similar position to what the Ark must have been in after the first 
 half-inch of water had subsided. 
 
 " When I came," says my Aunt, after the first salutations and 
 congratulations are over, "you had to walk through one big puddle 
 to the front door, and you couldn't put your foot out of the French 
 windows " 
 
 " Without putting your foot in it," suggests Englemore. 
 
 My Aunt nods, and continues — " The revandah was a perfectly 
 swopeless homp." 
 
 "Sammy Swamp," says Englemore, translating the phrase in his 
 own fashion. " Your Aunt's right. Look at it now." 
 
 I do look at it, and in another second it occurs to me that the 
 masons and builders left here some time since to put everything 
 in order, have achieved a triumph of constructive skill by sloping 
 the pavement of the verandah from the garden down to the house I ! 
 
 "Mister Cellar below, eh 1 " asked Englemore. 
 
 " Yes, but nothing in it." 
 
 " Plenty of water by now. Little Tommy Temperature in- 
 creases ; William Water ditto. Steam up. General Damp — 
 everywhere. No dry goods store." He shakes his head ruefully.
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 407 
 
 My Aunt puts her baud to her side, in anticipation of rheumatic 
 effects. 
 
 I turn to him, and on him. rather savacrelv, " Hantr it, Engle- 
 more, you recommended the place. You said ' Nook : " 
 
 ■ " And you Nooked. Good boy. But your little Englemore 
 didn't know about Colonel Clay-soil, and he didn't give orders ot 
 Mister Builder." 
 
 I admit this. I remark that the garden, considering all things, 
 looks promising. 
 
 He cheers me up on this score. " Very promising. It'll be 
 Little All-right if you give it time. Builder must put this square, 
 or no £ s. d. Touch up the cellar. Dry your eyes. Ring up 
 again, and go on with the next performance." 
 
 He is right. If drained properly, and so forth, I am sure there 
 can't be a healthier spot than The Nook. 
 
 " The bloom is on the rye as far as the children go," says 
 Englemore. 
 
 My Aunt replies, " Yes, I'm glad to see them with such cheesy 
 rokes." 
 
 We are recovering our good-humour. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Make the best of a good job ; for it is a good 
 job done, excepting the builder, who must have been a perfect 
 fool. Talking of perfect fools, how's my new Gardener getting 
 on ? " Not that he's a perfect fool," I say pleasantly, smiling : 
 "on the contraiy, he appeared to be a very intelligent " 
 
 " Did he ! " my Aunt says, dubiously. " Well, I can't make him 
 out myself. Nor anyone else, I should say. He's got odd ways of 
 going on." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Perhaps he has begun his "fancy gardening," 
 and my Aunt doesn't understand it. 
 
 " At times, — I don't wish to frighten you, or myself, or any- 
 body," she says, with great consideration, whereat Englemore nods 
 approvingly, — " but at times I think he's queer." 
 
 " At odd times," suggests Englemore. 
 
 But as my Aunt looks uncommonly serious, Englemore frowns 
 at me, as if / had made an inopportune joke. 
 
 " Queer?" I repeat, and look at Englemore, who, unseen by my
 
 408 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 Aunt, goes through a pantomimic performance of lifting up his 
 hand to his mouth, pretending to take a draught, and then touch- 
 ing his forehead significantly. 
 
 " You mean that he drinks ? " I say to Englemore. 
 
 " Liquor's his name," he returns, nodding affirmatively. 
 
 " He frightened that old rag-doll of a woman whom you've put 
 to keep house here," my Aunt continues ; " and, though I don't 
 understand much about gardening myself, yet it doesn't seem to 
 me that he's going on right." 
 
 The Rag-Doll meets us in the passage, and corroborates this 
 statement. " Nuffin ain't been right since he come, and Gutch's 
 men left, I railly don't think as he's safe with a pick, or a 'oe, 
 and childern about." 
 
 I inquire as to his habits. She has seen him at meals. 
 
 " No, Sir, he don't drink, leastways not nuffin to speak on, but 
 he's strange. His second day hei'e he dashed in among them 
 salary beds quite like a mad person." 
 
 " Good gracious ! I hope he's not a luniac ! " my Aunt exclaims. 
 
 " I ain't not so sure o' that, Mum," says the Rag-Doll, sniffing 
 and retiring, first behind her apron, which she holds up to her 
 face, and sniffs over its corner at us ; then, under that cover, she 
 backs down the passage, and goes sideways into the kitchen. 
 
 All my Gardener's information concerning the Mikado, Japanese 
 Gardening, and the Duke of Shetland, flashes across me. I do not 
 feel comfortable as I enter the Kitchen Garden. 
 
 " Hallo ! " exclaims Englemore ; and we all three stand in utter 
 amazement at the scene before us. 
 
 Hcqjpy Thought. — Fancy Gardening certainty. 
 
 One part of the place looks as if it had been devastated by a 
 fearful storm, while another seems to have suffered from some 
 eccentric convulsion of nature, which has sent the roots up in the 
 air and fixed the tops downwards in the earth. This is the case 
 with the cabbages. The new currant-bushes are tied on to the 
 tops of the highest trees, looking very like those Dutch brooms 
 which a landsman often notices with wonder at the mast-heads of 
 fishing smacks. The celery beds are completely dug up, looking 
 like a troubled sea in dirty weather, with the exception of one
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 
 
 400 
 
 small patch in the centre, where we observe a stone jar standing, 
 labelled legibly Mixed Pickles. Garden tools, all brand new, which 
 he has bought on his own account, are, we see, planted out in a 
 row, like young trees, and carefully propped up. An empty milk- 
 pail is by the strawberry-beds, which have been filled with young- 
 plants. At the end of the garden, by the wall, we now catch 
 sight of a smoking bonfire, which is just beginning to blaze. The 
 Fancy Gardener is at present invisible. 
 
 " Mad as a hatter ! " Englemore says, emphatically. 
 
 Evidentlv. But what an awful state of things. 
 
 We walk down the Kitchen Garden path in some trepidation. 
 A mad Gardener might be waiting behind a bush, or a hedge, 
 
 with some instrument, and jump out suddenly Ah ! there he 
 
 is. Now.
 
 410 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE NOOK— DE LUXATICO IXQUIRENDO — FURTHER 
 INFORMATION TO LET FINISH. 
 
 E SEE the Gardener 
 approaching. Up the 
 kitchen garden walk : 
 dancing. A flower- 
 pot is on his head, 
 which drops off, and a 
 whip is in his hand. His 
 hair anyhow ; he hasn't 
 got as far as straws. 
 
 " He's a raming nia- 
 viac ! " exclaims my 
 Aunt, and with great 
 presence of mind begins 
 to retreat slowly towards 
 "// the house, keeping her 
 thumb on the spring of 
 her sunshade ; having a 
 vague idea that to put 
 it up suddenly is a 
 staggerer for a lunatic. 
 I hope she won't do it, 
 as it might make him 
 worse. 
 
 "Colonel Cut," says 
 Englemore, briefly. 
 I beg him to be calm, 
 
 and pretend not to notice anything extraordinary in the Gardener's 
 
 manner. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Pretend. 
 
 We go to work to pretend. My Aunt retreating. I say to the 
 man, " How are you getting on ? " 
 
 " Well," he replies briskly. " The Mikado himself couldn't wish 
 
 cT~
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 411 
 
 for mare, except glass with care. Here's a treat for his Royal 
 Highness ! " 
 
 He lifts up a flower-pot, and shows us, planted underneath, an 
 upright stick with a red herring fastened to it by a bit of red 
 riband. 
 
 "That's my idea," he says, with pride. "That's ornamental 
 and fancy gardening. I'm burning Guy Fawkes at the end there." 
 Then he adds, mysteriously, " Not a word to the Duke." 
 
 Pointing to the garden implements all planted in a row, he asks, 
 " What do you think of that 1 " 
 
 Englemore replies, nervously, " Capital ! couldn't be better." 
 
 " You don't think so," returns the Gardener, suspiciously. 
 
 Happy Thought. — To go on pretending. I feign an interest in 
 this plantation. What is its object ? Is it Japanese 1 I ask. 
 
 " Do you know who the Mikado is 1 " he asks. 
 
 Englemore, regaining courage, suggests, " Japanese Tommy 1 " 
 
 " Tommy ! " shouts the mad Gardener (for there is no doubt 
 about it any longer). " You aint a Fortyfold Jersey Blue, are 
 you?" 
 
 Englemore nervously twitches my sleeve, and wants me to come 
 away. No, I must keep my eye on him. 
 
 Happy Thought.- — Detain him in conversation while some one 
 goes for a Policemen. Who ? Englemore might stay with him, 
 while / go and fetch a Constable. How to communicate this to 
 Englemore 1 Await opportunity. 
 
 "These will grow and be fruitful. Hush ! Don't you hear the 
 seeds coming up. Why, if you want to know all about gardening, 
 you must stand on your head and listen. Can you stand on your 
 head ? " 
 
 " No ; but then vou see I'm not a Gardener." 
 
 " I can. So can celery sauce." 
 
 Happy Thought. — Here's an opportunity. While he's on his 
 head secure his legs. 
 
 He does not, however, alter his position. He continues, 
 cunningly, "1 don't, and I won't, because of my hair. Turnips, 
 carrots, and The White Incomparable can do what they like — -1 say
 
 412 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 nothing ; it's not my business, having been His Majesty's faithful 
 
 servant for years But " — here he creeps up to me cautiously 
 
 and whispers — "who's the Emerald Ringleader, with orchids in 
 his eyes, who's hiding in the ivy 1 " 
 
 Englemore says, briskly, " We'll have him out. I'll go and 
 collar him." 
 
 The man stops him, taking Englemore by the arm. Englemore 
 looks at me helplessly. The Gardener holds him fast. 
 
 "Don't!" he whispers hurriedly. "Don't do it! He's an 
 Odontoglossos Pelargonium ? If he's disturbed he'll shoot me." 
 
 " No he won't," says Englemore, soothingly. 
 
 11 He will/" cries the unfortuate lunatic emphatically, 
 
 " The Mikado has sent him for the turnip-juice. He's got a 
 pistol ! " 
 
 " Has he ! " says Englemore, more nervously than ever, and not 
 liking to contradict him again. 
 
 "Has he ? " the Gardener exclaims, ironically. " Why you know 
 he has ! You're a Gladiolus Gandavensis. But they've only put 
 grapes in it. I've got a bullet in mine ! " 
 
 Good heavens ! 
 
 Happy Thought. — I ask him, as calmly as I can, t;> show me the 
 weapon. 
 
 He releases Englemore (who takes this opportunity of getting 
 near the kitchen-door), and fumbles in a breast pocket of his 
 waistcoat. 
 
 " With a flowering stock," he murmurs to himself. " I always 
 keep 'em by me. I've written a letter about 'em, and I thought 
 you'd kindly give it to the Duke for me." 
 
 He is wandering again, and I begin to think the pistol is a myth, 
 I assure him that I will take every care of his letter if he will 
 intrust it to me. Or — — 
 
 Happy Thought. — He can, I suggest, himself take it to the post- 
 office in the village. 
 
 Once out, he shan't come in again. Only couldn't I be indicted 
 for turning a madman out loose on the road 1 To lock him up 
 would be best. But where ? His room is in a small cottage 
 on the premises next the stable. If he could only be enticed in 
 there ?
 
 ROUND ABOUT MY GARDEN. 413 
 
 Happy Thought. — " Where's your coat ? " I ask him. 
 
 He shakes his head and smiles. " I burnt it, so as to put 'em 
 off the scent. Chickweed and cinders is what we must come to at 
 the last." He suddenly bestirs himself. " Earth up celery ! Right 
 shoulders forward ! Dress vines, top, dibble, and dust-pans ! " 
 Then he adds, with a wink of inexpressible slyness, " train up 
 your Gloxinias in silk stockings, and you'll soon seen who's the 
 chumpy Radish." Then suddenly, " You'll excuse me for a moment, 
 but there's a friend of mine at the bottom of the pond, and I must 
 just go and see him. It's after hours, you know." He bows with 
 the utmost politeness, and walks away hurriedly. 
 
 Now what am I to do ? 
 
 Sappy Thought. — Go in-doors, and keep him out. 
 
 So much is certain to begin with. And so much I do. The 
 Rag-Doll housekeeper says, "I didn't like to tell you afore " 
 
 This is so odd. Servants never do like to acquaint you with 
 anything unpleasant — (specially in the way of breakages, when 
 after being dumb for months they are quite surprised to find that 
 only one out of your two dozen choice pet glasses remains unin- 
 jured — the fractures having, of course, happened " afore they came 
 to the place ") — until you know all about it yourself, when you 
 find that they have known it for ever so long, generally, " since 
 they first corned." 
 
 She says, " I didn't like to tell you afore," — sniff, and corner of 
 apron used — " but the young man as seemed strange, as I said, 
 Sir," — sniff, apron, curtsey — " but he keeps on a saying as there's 
 some pusson with a long name 'id in the hivy, which he has a loaded 
 firearms to go to look after him with." 
 
 " Have you seen it ? " 
 
 "No, not azackly ; " — sniff — "leastways, I've heard it as he 
 was shootin' them spurrows." 
 
 " A gun 1 " asks Englemore. 
 
 "No, Sir," answers the Rag-Doll ; "which it ain't nor azackly 
 a gun, nor yet a pistol, nor blomblebuss, but them new things as 
 goes round 'a round and off ever so many times at once ; an' I 
 think as the young man said as it were a garden name, convovolus, 
 or such like."
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 <14 
 
 " Revolver ! " exclaims my Aunt, who has a good ear for verbal 
 mistakes. 
 
 " Werry likely, Mum." Sniff. " I knowd it were sumfin o' that. 
 Look, Mum, if he ain't at it now." 
 
 From the window we see him. He is half hidden behind an 
 apple-tree, but we catch a glimpse of one arm with a pistol in its 
 hand, changing its aim every second. 
 
 We lock all the doors. 
 
 " You see," says Englemore, " it isn't safe for Major Madman to 
 be about. Colonel Constable ought to be dn in this scene." 
 
 " Heavens ! " exclaims my Aunt, " you see if one of us go out, 
 he might shoot, thinking it was his enemy coming out of the ivy. 
 I wish we had never come down here." 
 
 Decided. Aunt, little Uncles, and Nurse, to go to town at once. 
 Englemore to see them from the front gate down to the railway, 
 and to call in on his way for police. 
 
 The whole kitchen garden is in utter disorder. The " Luniac " 
 is now engaged in breaking a few glass frames with a rake, 
 occasionally stopping to draw his pistol, and present it at some 
 imaginary foe. 
 
 If the police won't come, and if it's illegal to take up a mad 
 servant, then, what shall we do when the night comes on, and we 
 can't see where he is 1 
 
 I watch him from the first-floor window. 
 
 He has got a ladder. He is coming towards the house. 
 
 Happy Thought. — Get behind a curtain. Musn't let him see me. 
 
 He stops. He fixes the ladder so that the top comes within a 
 foot of my window. I see it shaking, and he is coming up. I 
 know that his pistol is in his pocket. In his left hand he holds a 
 string with a large Spanish onion tied to it. 
 
 "Creepers up here," I hear him saying, "because of the cats." 
 He balances himself on the ladder, swinging the onion to ami fro. 
 Presently it conies, like a stone from a sling, against the window, 
 smashing a pane to atoms. " Oh my coniferous Geranium ! " I 
 hear him saying, and am conscious of the revolver being pointed 
 tow T ards the broken glass. 
 
 Suddenly he turns on the ladder, roars with laughter, throws 
 the pistol at something or somebody below, and slides down like a
 
 BOUND ABOUT MY GABDEN. 415 
 
 schoolboy on bannisters. 1 venture to look out. Two respectable 
 looking men have got him by the arms ; they are talking 
 amicably, and Englemore, from below, is making signs for me not 
 to interrupt. Presently the unhappy man and his two keepers 
 disappear. Englemore comes up and explains. 
 
 " He is quite off his nut. Been little Master Out-of-the-Way 
 for three weeks. Met Colonel Keeper in the village. From in- 
 formation received, he came up here and nobbled him." 
 
 I announce my intention of shutting up The Nook till the 
 spring time. Perhaps altogether. 
 
 "You see," I say to Englemore, "To keep up a place like 
 this " 
 
 "Mister Farm of Four Acres," he observes, parenthetically. 
 " Yes, Colonel ; go ahead." 
 
 " Well — I mean it's very expensive, unless it's ready made to 
 hand." 
 
 "Yes. Turnips on Tap, Pig in the Pound, Greasy Grass and 
 Swan Swum over the Swamp. Daniel Drainage, Dicky Dirt, and 
 the great Dismal Damp. I know. Rheumatics murder sleep. 
 No door-mat to-night." 
 
 " You agree with me that I'd better give it up for the present?" 
 I ask. 
 
 " Well," begins Englemore, with a certain amount of hesitation. 
 And then he sa} T s, with decision, " The fact is, I think your name 
 had better be Walker. Let it while you can. You may have 
 some difficulty." 
 
 " In letting The Nook 1 What \— rent too high 1 " 
 
 " No. But I've only just heard, here, that it has the reputation 
 of being " He hesitates. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Haunted. Your own private Ghost on the premises. Dircks 
 and Pepper. How's your poor Goblin ? " 
 
 " That decides me. We go. My Aunt couldn't live in a " 
 
 " In a 'Aunted house," says Englemore, adding "Mister Shak- 
 speare," by way of giving his authority for the pun. 
 
 " I don't believe in ghosts," I say, stoutly. 
 
 Englemore winks. " Give a ghest a bad name, and there you
 
 416 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 are. There wouldn't be the ghost of a chance of letting The Nook 
 if it smelt of spirits." 
 
 He is probably right. And so we decide. The Nook is To Let. 
 
 In the spring-time I may be on the look-out for some new Rural 
 Retreat, where the absence of Mister Drainage is not a drawback. 
 Any more difficulties with Gardeners would turn my hair grey. 
 For the present my name is London. Perhaps, one of these fine 
 days — I mean on any day when a ray may induce us to believe 
 once more in the Solar System — I may find the Paradise which 
 shall be all my fancy painted. 
 
 Till then, Farewell. 
 
 
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