She simply got rid, sur-le-champ, of the live-stock, man and beast.

Then she disposed of the house and outbuildings.

The Signor went down, and sat, like Marius, or rather like a second Cincinnatus, when, on returning from the metropolis, he found that his farm had gone utterly to the bad.

After this, Signor Regniati went hard to work on Juno. A year's toil brought its reward. Madame his wife was pleased to sit as his model, and, ultimately, to purchase for him a small game preserve, and a shooting box in Bedfordshire, at an easy distance from town.

It was on his way to Budgeby Box that the Signor came to us at Happy-Thought Hall, and brought Madame; or rather, that Madame came and brought the Signor.

Milburd was now the Signor's constant companion. Madame trusted, she said, Mr. Regniati to his nephew. Mr. Regniati, she adds, is a child. "I expect no responsibility from him. I look to Richard for that. Richard must take care of his uncle, and go out shooting with him, as I will not have," she says, emphatically "I will not have Mr. Regniati going out with a gun, alone."

If Mr. Regniati is present when these remarks are made, he merely smiles, quite happily, stretches out his arms, and exclaims, in a tone of the slightest remonstrance possible, "Oh, my dear! I can shoot! I am quite safe."

"Yes," returns Madame, "and I mean you to keep so."

"I vas born for a sport-mans," Mr. Regniati observes to us.

I notice that he is fond of putting words into a sort of plural of his own invention.

"You're lucky, Mr. Regniati," observes his wife, "to find that out at all events. For my part I can't make out why you were ever born at all."

Again the Signor smiles, and says in cheerful remonstrance, "Oh my dear!" but he is too wise to continue a conversation which would only involve an argument, and perhaps, the loss of his "lee-tel shoot-box at Bod-ge-bee."

Dick, i.e. Milburd, benefits considerably by this arrangement. His aunt pays all the expenses (trusting Mr. Regniati with no money), as long as he and his uncle are together.

"Richard," she says, "is clever and careful. My husband is a schoolboy. I can only trust a schoolboy with a tutor."

We are at dinner when the Signor arrives.

He enters in a state of great excitement.

"Ah!" he exclaims, "'Ow do you do?" this to everyone generally. "Ah Deeck!" this to Milburd, reproachfully. "Vy you not meet me at ze Rail-vays?"

"You'd better go and dress yourself, Mr. Regniati," remarks Madame, drily, finishing her soup, "or you won't have any dinner."

"My dear!" he cries, "No din-ner! I am so 'ongry. I 'ave no-sing to eat since my break-fast."

"You should have been here before," says Madame.

"My Jo!" he exclaims, in a very high key, almost between laughing and crying. I find out that "My Jo," is his rendering of "By Jove!"—a very harmless oath—"My Jo! I could not!" Then he enters appealingly to us into an explanation. "Madame Regniati vas in ze car-ri-age, and she say to me, Mr. Regniati, she say, I did not see ze boxes-put-in,"—this is all one word.—"I say my dear eet ees all right. She say No you go see it, for I tinks not. Den I go. I say vere ees my box, but I see no-sing, no veres, den ven I try to find my car-ri-age again ze train goes off. I jomp into a carri-age and a man say you most not do zat, but I tomble in. I do not know vere de train goes to, but it vas not to come 'ere and ven I stop—My Jo!—dey ask-a-me for my tee-kets. 'I 'ave not zem,' I say, 'my vife 'as zem.' Zen zey say to me I most buy vun. My Jo! I say I can-not! I 'ave no money. I vant I say to go to Blackmeer. Oh zey say zat is on a-noser line, in a-noser contry. My Jo! I say to 'im vot shall I do? Zen I meet a gentle-mans who know me and he say——"

"Nonsense, Mr. Regniati. I believe you stopped at the refreshment-room in London——"

"Oh My Jo! my dear! I as-sure you," he commences, but Madame cuts him short.

"Go and dress, Mr. Regniati," she says, "and don't be long. Dick, show Mr. Regniati his room, and bring him down in five minutes. Don't let him chatter."

Milburd takes his uncle out, and we hear him repeating his story to his nephew, as he crosses the hall, and ascends the stairs.





CHAPTER XVII.

SUNDAY—SUNDAY REASONS—A CHAMBER DIALOGUE.

Sunday Meditations.—When we first saw this place we called it The House of Good Intentions. It recurs to me forcibly at this moment, as I look over my note-book.

Under the heading of "Operanda," or Works to be done, I find:—

(a) Continuation of Typical Developments. Vol. III.

(b) A Guide to Hertfordshire.

(c) A Lesser Dictionary of French words not generally found in other Lexicographical compilations.

(d) Theories on Dew. Practical utilitarian results.

(e) A Commentary on hitherto obscure portions of Shakespeare's plays, with a life of the Great Poet, gathered from obiter dicta, which nobody has, up to this time, noticed.

(f) "All Law founded upon Common Sense," being a few steps towards the abolition of technicalities and antique repetitions in our legal proceedings.

(g) Pendant to the above, "Every man his own lawyer and somebody else's."

(h) Studies in the Country. I thought I should have been able to write a good deal in this line while at the country-house. This was to include botany, farming, agriculture generally, with a resumption of what I took up years ago, as a Happy Thought, namely, "Inquiries into, and Observations upon, the Insect World."

Nothing of all this have I done. Not a line. It is afternoon. We have most of us been to Church in the morning, except Boodels and Chilvern. Those who have not been, gave the following reasons for arriving at the same conclusion.

Boodels' reason. That he had a nasty headache, and should not get up. [This he sent down to say at breakfast.]

Milburd's reason. That the weather looked uncommonly like rain. That to get wet going to Church is a most dangerous thing, as you have to sit in your damp clothes.

My own statement on the subject. Milburd has puzzled me by saying it's going to rain. Is it? If it isn't, nothing I should enjoy more than going to Church. Wouldn't miss it on any account, except of course out of consideration for one's health.

Happy Thought.—I don't feel very well this morning, and damp feet might be followed by the most serious results.

Miss Adelaide and Miss Bella are going. Their chaperonship this morning devolves upon Mrs. Frimmely, as Madame and the Signor are Catholics, and have been to mass, early in the morning, at St. Romauldi's Missionary College, near here. Madame is very strict, and the Signor is not partial to early rising. The College Service being at half-past eight in the morning, they have to rise at seven on Sundays, and then there is a drive of four miles. The following dialogue is overheard:

Time, 7.15 A.M. Scene, Signor and Madame's room. Madame is up and dressing rapidly. The Signor is still under the bedclothes.

Madame (severely). Mr. Regniati.

The Signor (pretending extra sleepiness). My dear! (He won't open his eyes.)

Madame. It is exactly a quarter past seven.

The Signor (snuggling down into the pillow). I vill not be two me-neets. (Disappears under bedclothes.)

Madame (before the looking-glass, with her head bent well forward, her hands behind her back, lacing herself into determination). Get up, Mr. Regniati. (No sign of life in the bed.) Don't pretend to have gone to sleep again. (Not a movement.) I know you haven't. I shan't wait for you when I'm once dressed. It's twenty-five minutes. (Sharply.) Do you hear, Mr. Regniati?

The Signor (re-appearing as far as the tip of his nose. Both eyes blinking). My dear—oh! (as if in sudden agony. Then plaintively) I 'ave such a pain in my nose.

Madame (backhairing energetically). Fiddlesticks.

The Signor (in an injured tone). Oh! Vy you say zat? You know I do sof-far from my nose—and my head ache all ...

Madame (coming to a dead stop in her toilette). Mr. Regniati, you eat and drink too much.

The Signor (as if horrified at lying under such an imputation, but showing no disposition to rise with the occasion). Oh! My Jo! (appealing to abstract justice in the bed-curtains.) Good-ness knows (he pronounces it 'Good-ness-knows') I eat no-sing at-all.

Madame (coming to the point). Mr. Regniati, I can't finish my dressing if you stop there.

The Signor (bestirring himself with as much dignity as is possible under the circumstances). I go. Vere is my leet-tel slip-pers? (Protesting) I shall catch my dets of cold. (He finds them.)

Madame. Now, Mr. Regniati, make haste, or we shall be late. (Shuts his dressing-room door on him.)

In about a quarter of an hour after this, the carriage is announced, and the Signor is hurried down stairs.

The Signor (complaining). Oh! I am so ongry. (Procrastinating.) Ve 'ave time to take som-sing to eat, be-fore zat ve ...

Madame (cutting him short). Nonsense, Mr. Regniati. If you wanted to stuff, you should have got up earlier.

Mr. Regniati. Stoff! (Protests.) My Jo! I do not stoff! (Unhappily.) I 'ave no-sing in ...

Madame (ascetically). A little abstinence will do you good. Come.

Exeunt Madame, attended by the Signor. Carriage drives off.

Mrs. Orby Frimmely, whose new things came down yesterday—latest Parisian mode—the two Misses Cherton, Miss Medford, Captain Byrton, Chilvern, Cazell, are the Church party.

Mr. Orby Frimmely, having been busy in the City all the week, is what he calls "taking it out" in bed on Sunday morning. He emphatically asserts his position (a horizontal one), and with religious fervour claims Sunday as a day of rest.

Being uncertain of the weather I remain at home with Milburd.

Milburd shifts the responsibility on to my shoulders by saying, "I'll go if you'll go."

Hesitation.

Happy Thought. Wait and see what the weather is like.

At a quarter to eleven (service is at eleven) the weather is like nothing particular.

10.50. A gleam of sunshine. We watch it. The Signor, to whom the weather is of consequence, as he intends walking to the nearest farm on a visit of inspection to some rather fine pigs, remarks, "It vill 'old-up. Ven de sun shine now, it shine all day."

Milburd doesn't think so. My opinion is that these rays are treacherous.

10.55. First appearance of genuine blue sky. Peal of bells stopped, and one only going now. The last call. More hesitation, I ask Milburd what he thinks of it. Milburd, in an arm-chair before fire and the "Field" newspaper in his hand, says "that he doesn't know what to make of it." Further hesitation.

Eleven. Cessation of all bells. Sudden silence everywhere. Sky bright and blue. Sun out.

Happy Thought.—If we'd only known this we might have gone to church.

Milburd (from behind the "Field"). "Yes. It's too late now."

The Signor has started with Jenkyns Soames (who is of some philosophic form of religion, in which long walks and gymnastics play leading parts), for the Piggeries.

Of Boodels nothing has been seen, or heard, since his first message.

Mr. Orby Frimmely, under the impression that the ladies have disappeared from the scene, descends in his lounging coat, and breakfasts alone. After this he lights a cigar, and makes himself useful in the conservatory.

Madame is walking in the garden, enjoying the winter sun's warmth, and reading.

From my room I can see her. She comes pacing majestically right underneath my window. Her book is the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.

I pause ....

Then .... My Pens!.... I write





CHAPTER XVIII.

MORE SUNDAY THOUGHTS—IN MY ROOM—A TELEGRAM—IMPOSSIBILITIES— INTERRUPTION.

Happy Thought for Sunday.—Write down meditations. Like Marcus Aurelius did. Why not go in for Sunday Books? Telegraph to Popgood and Groolly (my publishers, who have been in treaty with me for two years about Typ. Developments), and say,

FROM ME, Messrs. POPGOOD & GROOLLY, HAPPY THOUGHT HALL, THE WORKS, HERTFORDSHIRE. BOOKMAKERS' WALK, FINSBURY, E.C.

Good notion for you. Sunday book. Nothing solemn. Lightly contemplative. Will you? Wire back.

Forgot it's Sunday, and no telegrams can be sent. Very absurd. Why shouldn't one want to send a telegram on Sunday equally as much as on Monday? Telegraphic people might arrange for holidays easily enough, by having small extra Sunday staff.

Happy Thought.—Will commence my Meditations. Head them Sunday Sayings. No, they're not sayings. Prefer alliterative title. Try Sunday Sighs. But they're not sighs. Try another, Sunday Sermons. No, they won't be sermons. Put down a lot of titles and see which I like. Sunday Songs. Sobs for Sunday. Sunday Solids. (This is something more like it.) Or a double title. Sunday Solids and Sunday Suctions. No; won't do.

Happy Thought.—Write the meditations first, see what they come out like, and then give them a name. This will, so to speak, "suit my book," as to-morrow, with a name and everything cut and dried, I can write particulars to Popgood and Groolly.

For the nonce—(good word, by the way, "the nonce")—only it's always given me the idea of sounding like a vague part of the body, where one could be hit or knocked down. I mean it would never surprise me to hear that some one had met a man and hit him on the nonce. Result fatal.

"He was not found for some days after, but there is no doubt that he was killed by a blow on the nonce."

Extract from local paper.

To resume:—

For the nonce, I will head them merely for my own personal information, "Sayings for Sunday."

Happy Thought.—Good Hebdomadal Alliterative Series.

Sayings for Sundays. 1 Vol.

Mysteries for Mondays. do.

Tales for Tuesdays. do.

Wit for Wednesdays.

Themes for Thursdays.

Fun for Fridays.

Sonnets for Saturdays.

And then, all, in a monthly volume, as Medleys for the Month. I distinctly see Popgood and Groolly's rapid and colossal fortune. Then there'd be a quarterly. Why not Quarterly Quips? No, this is not sufficiently general. [N.B. Joke by a man on a treadmill might be termed a Quip on a Crank.]

Happy Thought.—Quantity and Quality, a Quarterly Quintessence. Quips, Quiddities, Quibbles, and Quirks, by ... dear me, I want to say "ready writers"—that's the style of nom de plume required.

Plume is suggestive. I have it.

Happy Thought.—"Quick Quills." Popgood's advertisement will say, "The above Quarterly by Quick Quills."

Now I'll begin.

Knock at the door. Mr. Orby Frimmely wants to know if I will stroll out with him and meet the Signor returning.

With pleasure. Leave the sayings for another Sunday.

We stroll.





CHAPTER XIX.

A WALK WITH SIGNOR REGNIATI.

THE PROSAIC GENTLEMAN.

Weather fine. We are out for a walk. Mr. Orby Frimmely, of the City, represents the Prosaic. I put myself down as the Poetic, and the Signor as the Enthusiastic. To us a small man in clerical black and Roman collar.

The Signor (saluting cleric). Ah, Father Cuthbert. 'Ow you do? (Introduces us.) You 'ave got beautiful flowers.

Father C. (alluding to the bunch in his hand). Flores martyrum. You have heard that we are ordered off for active service in China.

Self. China! (We see in our "mind's eye, Horatio" the fearful tortures recently practised upon Christians in China and are speechless.)

Frimmely (the Prosaic). Ah! You must take care what you're about there. (Surprise of the Reverend F. Cuthbert.) The Government won't protect you, you know (he says this as if the reverend gentleman was going to China to rob an orchard).

Father C. No. It will not. (Nobly.) We go to suffer and to preach the faith.

Signor. Oh, my Jo! I should not like to be eat. I 'ope you vill not go. Let us know before you start.

Father C. (cheerfully). It is certain. I'm afraid I shan't be at the College to see you next Sunday. Good-bye.

[Exit Father C.

We continue our walk.

Myself (the poetical). Ah! What a grand lot! What a high and holy calling. Here we are, striving for comfort, and perhaps for fame, there the missioner goes forth, to die, perhaps in torments, unknown to the world until the Day of Doom.

[I am impressed and silent.]

Signor. Oh, my Jo! I vould not go to be eat. (Nobly, and in true Christian spirit.) I vould say let me go, and I vill run a-vays.

Frimmely (the Prosaic). Martyr!... Well, I wouldn't mind being a martyr if I'd been brought up to it. I don't see why you should waste sentiment on Father Cuthbert or anybody else whose profession it is. (Repeating incisively) It's his profession, his business, to be uncomfortable, and, finis coronat opus, martyrdom signifies in his line, success. (We are silent and he continues further to instruct us.) You Catholics (to the Signor), you know, have colleges of Missioners in training; I've seen 'em. As in a Law College there would be portraits of Chief Justices and celebrated Q.C.'s in the costumes of their rank, so in a Missioners' College you have pictures of Celebrated Martyrs in the peculiar Costumes of their particular torments. It's a regular business, with you I mean, not so much with Protestants. We do it more comfortably. With us it's rather a question of a foreign appointment, with a good income.

The Signor. Vell—(considering). I am ongry. Let us go an' eat some-sing.





CHAPTER XX.

A SUNDAY CONVERSATION.

Miss Adelaide (warming her toes on the fender before sitting down to luncheon). Oh, how cold it was in Church.

Captain Byrton. Wasn't it. Upon my word if they expect people to go, they ought to keep the place warm.

Chilvern. It was so cold I couldn't go to sleep during the sermon (knives and forks at work).

Cazell. It wasn't such a very bad sermon. Pickles, please! Thanks.

Myself (showing some interest). Who preached?

Mrs. Frimmely. I don't know his name. He wasn't here last Sunday.

Boodels (whose headache has entirely disappeared). Ah, the Rector perhaps. There are two Churches here, and he has two Curates.

Miss Bella (frowningly). He preached in black.

Milburd. It is the Rector. It's what they call 'Low Sunday' here.

Chilvern. What's that?

Madame. Not Low Sunday with us; that is after Easter Day.

Medford (explaining). Ah yes, Boodels refers to the tone of their Churchmanship. The Rector is Broad Church, Mr. Marveloe, the senior Curate, is High Church, and Mr. Alpely, the junior Curate, is Low. This just suits the parishioners, and they take it turn and turn about at the two Churches, the Rector doing duty at both, accommodating himself to either view as the case may be. One Sunday they're high, another they're low, and the other Church is vice versa.

Miss Adelaide. To-day it was the duett of parson and clerk.

Miss Bella. Oh, horrid! I'd rather stop at home than hear that. Why at S. Phillips at home we have vestments, and incense, and everything is done so well.

Miss Medford (quietly). Well, I'd just as soon go to one as another. May I trouble you for the salt, Signor Regniati?

Signor. My Jo! If zey do not preach I vould go—

Madame (severely). Mr. Regniati, hand the salt.

Mrs. Frimmely. What an absurd cloak that Mrs. Tringmer had.

Miss Bella. I suppose she thought it was quite the fashion.

Mrs. Frimmely. Who was that lady—Captain Byrton, do you know?—who came in rustling all up the Church, and so scented! as if she'd stepped out of a perfumer's.

Byrton. Don't know. Perhaps she has stepped out of a perfumer's, and is an advertisement.

Happy Thought (for a perfumer).—To send scented people about. Questions asked, e.g. Stranger (sniffing) goes up politely and inquires, "I beg a hundred pardons, but what scent—what delicious scent are you wearing?" Then the lady replies, "Don't mention it, Ma'am. It's (whatever the name is), and there's the card." And gives her the perfumer's address.

Miss Adelaide. I thought Miss Vyner rather prettily dressed.

Mrs. Frimmely. Oh! but did you see her gloves! Such a fit!

Miss Bella. And such a colour!

Cazell. I wonder who that bald-headed man in front of me was? There was a collection, and he put a sovereign into the plate.

Chilvern. I'm always unlucky in that way. Whenever I go to Church there's always a collection.

Captain Byrton. Yes. You kept the man waiting at the pew door for at least two minutes, while you fumbled in all your pockets. Anyone have any cheese?

Chilvern. I knew I'd got a shilling somewhere—but it was a fourpenny-bit after all.

Miss Medford. How very disturbing it must be for the clergyman, when a child persists in crying at intervals all through the sermon.

Mrs. Frimmely. Yes, little things like that oughtn't to be brought to church; at least, not to sit out sermons.

Boodels (with some vague recollection of the baptismal service). But you forget, Mrs. Frimmely, godfathers and godmothers promise to bring children to hear sermons. That's one of the three things they vow in the child's name.

Mrs. Frimmely. Really? (seeing no help for it short of a second reformation, or disestablishment). Well it's a great pity.

Milburd (to Byrton). I see by the Field to-day, that Lysander is going up for the Derby.

Byrton. He's nowhere. Corkscrew's at a hundred to fifteen.

Mrs. Frimmely. I was right last year. Wasn't I? (To her husband.)

Frimmely. Yes: for once. (Mrs. Frimmely tosses her head.)

Soames (the Professor of Scientific Economy). Betting can be reduced to the certainty of a mathematical calculation.

Cazell (to him). I tell you what you ought to do, then.

Soames (innocently). What?

Cazell. Make your fortune. (A titter. Pause.)

Medford. I see by the Musical Times that we're to have the new prima donna, Stellafanti, at Covent Garden.

Madame. We heard her years ago at Naples. (Interest in her diminishes.)

Mrs. Frimmely. We must get up some theatricals here.

Misses Adelaide and Bella. Oh yes, do let's!

Miss Medford. I think they are such fun.

Medford. We could do something musical, easily.

The Signor (while the others talk about theatricals). My Jo! I should like to get a leettel shoot vile I am here.

Capt Byrton. Birds very wild. Have you had good sport?

Signor. My Jo! at Bad-ge-bee zere are—oh—'eaps of birds! but ven zey see me, zey go avays. I go out to shoot zem, an' I shoot no-sing.

Here the conversation becomes general, some are hot on theatricals and musical matters, others on sporting. Mr. Frimmely and the Professor are discussing finance. Miss Medford and Mrs. Regniati have got on an ecclesiastical topic.

—"We might play an opera, with a part for—"

—"The Archbishop of Canterbury, he is a friend of our rector's and says—"

—"My Jo! I 'ave such a pig! and I 'ave a bull that—"

—"With skates on! in a frost—"

—"Will win the Derby, I'll back him unless he's—"

—"Dressed as a brigand. Charming! or else as—"

—"A simple sum in arithmetic—"

—"With a red nose—"

—"In the organ-loft. But he objected to—"

—"Cold cream the only thing! put that on first, and then—"

—"You may get within a few yards of the birds, they won't hear you, and when they're—"

—"Paying ten per cent. for your money. Why not leave it—"

—"On the top of your head with a feather—"

—"Or go up in the pulpit before the sermon, as the rector did—"

—"In a transparency; it's easily managed by—"

—"Another tax on the Spanish coupons—"

—"And a bath every evening with—"

—"My prize pig—"

—"And three or four fireworks—"

Milburd (decisively). A capital effect! We'll do it!

[The ladies rise. Conversation finishes.]





CHAPTER XXI.

COMMENCEMENT OF MY SAYINGS FOR SUNDAYS.



First.—Of the bee. If the bee could talk, he would always be boasting of his business, and would do nothing.

Moral.—Learn then from the bee, the lesson of silent perseverance.

(I think this is the lesson to be learnt.)

Second.—The wasp's sting is in its tail. So is a tale-bearer's.

Moral.—Avoid wasps and tale-bearers.

(This would come among the quips. Still I think it would be a fair Sunday quip, for even a serious circle.)

Third.—Stand by Niagara Falls, and abuse them. The falls will go on the same as ever. Throw mud at them. None will stick. The power of pure water will wash it away.

Moral.—A spotless character is protected by its own integrity, and though men will try to defame it, yet it triumphs in the end.

(Don't care about this moral. Get something better out of it before to-morrow. It will do for "material.")

Fourth.—We are born for the sake of one another.

Moral.—Find out for whom you were born, and stick to him, or her.

(Rather a frisky moral this. More for Mondays than Sundays, perhaps. Marcus Aurelius was a great man. One begins to appreciate the greatness of a maxim-maker or aphorist, when you try to do something in that line yourself.)

Fifth.—You yourself are often like those who offend you.

Moral.—When you detect the resemblance to yourself in others, treat them as you deserve to be treated. This may lead to difficulties.

(Something suggested here, by this last word.)

Sixth.—Difficulties were made to be surmounted.

Moral.—Go up Mount Ararat and down the other side.

Seventhly.—The sum of social Christianity: Love your neighbour, and hate your relations.

(This will do for Sunday. Irony for Sunday. Fun for Friday a propos of irony. Who ought to have been the best writer of irony? Steele.)

Eighthly.—In a woman's youth, coquetry is natural. It is the expression of amiable indecision. At thirty, it is a science.

(Somehow I think, I've slid away from Sunday literature.)

Ninthly.—A pretty woman well "made up" is an angel ... with false wings.

(The mention of an angel, is something nearer to Sunday.)

Tenthly.—'Tis curious that when the Jews finish, the Christians begin. Their Sabbath is the last day of the week, our Sunday is the first.

(This is more like what I wanted. Only in the last three instances, there has been no moral.)

A propos of a moral.

Eleventhly.—A moral in a fable is like the hook in the bait.

Moral.—Take the bait ... and leave the hook.

Twelfthly.—"The Devil," said Voltaire, "is at the bottom of Christianity. Without the Devil Christianity would not be."

Ah, but the Devil little thought this when he tempted Eve.

There is no particular moral to this. It does not require one.

Thirteenthly.—The bad man who attends to the convenances of religious observance, only puts polish on muddy boots.

Moral.—Clean your boots.

(Might add also, "take care of the puddles." Popgood and Groolly will make a fortune of such a Sunday book as I am getting together. Only it will take some time to compile two hundred pages of maxims and morals.)

Fourteenthly.—Stars and pretty women at a ball don't show to advantage by daylight.

Moral.—Go to bed early.

Fifteenthly.—(A pendant). The Moon is pale from being up all night.

Moral.—Same as preceding.

Sixteenthly.—Marrying for Love is like digging for gold. It is to be hoped the speculation will succeed.

Moral.—Love in haste: marry at leisure.

(Altogether, I fancy, I'm wandering from Sunday Meditations. I don't think these are the jottings of Marcus Aurelius.)

Seventeenthly.—Here is something specially for Sunday:—

If you can't pay creditors, love them. It may not be exactly fulfilling the law of your country, but the sentiment is sublime and thoroughly Christian.

(This is a moral in itself. Happy Thought.—Make a moral first and invent the fable. Good.)

Eighteenthly.—We are all so vain that we can't imagine eternal happiness too much for us. The reverse of the medal is unpalatable.

Moral.—Be 'umble.

Nineteenthly.—There are few men, if any, with whom it is possible to reason concerning either Love or Religion.

Moral.—Don't try.

Twentiethly.—Theological discussion generally comes in after dinner with the third bottle of wine.

Moral.—Get to the fourth as quickly as possible.

Twenty-onethly.—Life is a perpetual Epitaph.

Moral.—Better than most epitaphs, because it's short. If you've got to write one remember this.

The last is so melancholy that I can only sit down and think. At present this will do for my Sunday Meditations.





CHAPTER XXII.

THE PROGRAMME—THE FARCE.

For some days Milburd, Mrs. Orby Frimmely, Cazell, Chilvern, and the Medfords have been working hard at a new piece.

The order of the evening is dinner for a few, then theatricals to amuse the many, then refreshments, then a dance, and finally supper.

The Signor is in great force.

"My dear," he says to his wife, "I shall do my lit-tel step. I shall valse."

"Mr. Regniati," returns Madame, severely, "you will do nothing of the sort."

This rather damps his ardour; and the fact of being unable to consult his nephew on the best means of obtaining his chance of doing his "lit-tel steps," still further depresses him.

He is perpetually looking into the theatre-room, and as often begging pardon, and being turned out.

The night arrives. I receive the guests as president, and I take the lady I don't want to in to dinner.

Dinner successful.

Madame rises at the proper moment; and after an hour, and the arrival of several carriages full, the gong summons us to the theatre.

Here Medford and myself hand round the programmes, and Miss Medford performs on the piano.

The programmes are in her writing too. Most neatly done.

This evening will be represented, for the first time on any stage, an entirely new and original Musical Farce, entitled

PENELOPE ANNE.

WRITTEN BY R. MILBURD, ESQ.

Dramatis Personae.

DON JOSE JOHN BOXOS DE CABALLEROS Y } CARVALHOS Y REGALIAS DI SALAMANCA, } S. CAZELL. generally known, and without familiarity } mentioned, as "JOHN BOX" }

COUNT CORNELIUS DE COXO, Land-Margrave } of Somewhere, with a Palazzo in Venice, } R. MILBURD. commonly known as "JAMES COX" }

KARL, the German Waiter T. CHILVERN.

MRS. PENELOPE ANNE KNOX MRS. ORBY FRIMMELY.

MAJOR-GENERAL BOUNCER, B.L.H. CAPTAIN BYRTON.

——————————-

The Scene is laid in Aix-la-Chapelle, at the Hotel known as Die Schweine und die Pfeiffer.

Time.—There being no time like The Present, we choose the present time.

The Orchestra under the superintendence of MISS CATHERINE MEDFORD.

Stage Manager, R. MILBURD.

Prompter, GEORGE A. MEDFORD.



PENELOPE ANNE.

The Curtain being drawn up:—

The scene represents a public room in the small Hotel above-mentioned, at Aix-la-Chapelle.

Doors R.H. and L.H. Also a door C. leading on to a garden.

Time, late in Autumn.

On the table are various papers, books, &c.

Enter COX.

Everybody applauds him. The Signor says, aloud, "Oh 'ow good! eet is Deeck," and looks about, proud of his penetration of his nephew's disguise, when Madame observes, "Mr. Regniati, if you can't be quiet, you'd better go out," whereupon the Signor confines himself to smiling and nodding to different people among the audience, intimating thereby his intense satisfaction with everything that is taking place on the stage.



COX is in full tourist style of the most recent fashion. Over this he wears a top-coat and round his throat a cache-nez. In one hand he holds a large glass of water.

He walks up and down on entering. Drinks a little. Takes off his coat, which he throws on the sofa. Then drinks again. Then walks. Then removes the cache-nez, which he throws on to coat, then he stands still and respires freely.

COX.

Phew! I'm only gradually cooling. This is the sixth day I've taken the waters of Aix-la-Chapelle ... and I'm beginning to be so sulphurous all over, that, if anybody was to rub against me suddenly, I should ignite and go off with a bang. I've written to my friend Box an account of it. I haven't seen Box for some years; but as I particularly wish him to remain in England just now, I've commenced a correspondence with him. I've told him that the doctor's orders here are very simple .... "Herr Cox," says he to me—Herr's German—I must explain that to Box, because, though Box is a good fellow, yet—he's—in fact—he's an ass. "Herr Cox," says he, "you must drink a glass of sulphur wasser." Wasser's German too; it didn't take long for my naturally fine intellect to discover that it meant water. But Box doesn't know it ... for though he's an excellent fellow, he is—in fact he's an ignoramus. "Herr Cox," says he to me, "you must take the sulphur wasser, and then walk about." "What next, Herr Doctor?" says I. Note to Box. Herr Doctor doesn't mean that he's anything to do with a Hair-cutter. No, it's the respectful German for Mister—must explain that to Box, for though he's a tiptop chap, yet Box is—is—in fact, Box is a confounded idiot. "Herr Doctor," says I, "what next?" "Well," says he "when you've taken the sulphur water and walked about, then you must walk about and take the sulphur water." Simple. The first glass ... ugh! I shan't forget it. I never could have imagined, till that moment, what the taste of a summer beverage made of curious old eggs ... a trifle over ripe ... beaten up with a lucifer match, would be like ... now I know. But I was not to be conquered. Glass number two was not so bad. Glass number three .... less unpalatable than glass number two—glass number four ... um, between number three and number four a considerable time was allowed to elapse, as I found I had been going it too fast. But now my enfeebled health is gradually being renovated, and they tell me that when I leave this, I shall be "quite another man." I don't know what other man I shall be. Yes I do. I am now a single man. I hope to leave here a double, I mean a married man. Cox, my boy, that's what you've come here for. Cox, my boy, that's why you want to keep, diplomatically, Box, my boy, in England, and in ignorance of your proceedings. Herr Cox, you're a sly dog. If I could give myself a dig in the ribs without any internal injury, I'd do it. I came here for the rheumatism. By the way I needn't have come here for that, as I'd got it pretty strongly. I caught it, without any sort of trouble. I bathed, at Margate, in the rain. Before I could reach my bathing machine, I was drenched through and through, I don't know where to, but long beyond the skin. The injury was more than skin deep. No amount of exterior scrubbings could cure me. Brandies and waters hot internally, every day for two months, produced more than the desired effect. I began to wander. I finished by travelling. And here I am. In six more lessons on the sulphur spring, I shall be quite the Cure. (Dances and sings.) "The Cure, the Cure, the Cure, &c."

(Great applause: from the Signor especially.)

Enter WAITER.

(More applause. An elderly lady with eye-glasses asks audibly if that isn't Captain Byrton?)

WAITER (putting newspaper on table).

Aachen Zeitung, Herr Cox.

(More applause for his German accent.)



COX.

Nein danky. I mean, no thank you. Nix—nein—don't want any.

WAITER.

Nein, Herr Cox, zis ees de baber—de daily baber at Aix. Beebels come.

[Exit.

(The Signor here observes aloud, "Eet is so like ven I——" Madame says, sternly, "Hush, Mr. Regniati," and he contents himself by finishing with a wink privately to me.)

COX.

Ja. Goot. I flatter myself I'm getting on with my German. Here's the arrival column .. English .. I look at this every day ... because ... um (reading it) ... "Mr. and Mrs. Bloater, from Yarmouth, and all the little Bloaters ... Major Bouncer" ... goodness gracious! how extraordinary!... Major Bouncer ... Oh it can't be the same, it must be one of his ancestors ... or his posterity ... "Major Bouncer of the Royal Banbury Light Horse" ... pooh! fancy Bouncer on a light horse!

Ride a cock horse To Banbury gorse To see Major Bouncer Upon a light horse; Rings on his fingers ....

Stop a minute ... Rings ... Ah! (reads) "accompanied by Mrs. Bouncer, also of the Banbury Light Horse." Of course, that settles it. It is not old Bouncer. Next, "Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, from Pinner." Ah! at last ... "Arrived at the Hotel, der Schwein und die Pfeife," that's here—"Mrs. Penelope Anne Knox." I only heard it the other day at Margate. There she sat. Radiant as ever. A widow for the second time. Originally widow of William Wiggins, of Margate and Ramsgate, and now widow of Nathaniel Knox, of the Docks, with a heap—a perfect heap—of money. Then my old passion returned. I determined to propose to her. I was about to do so, when on the very morning that I was going to throw myself at her feet, I caught this infernal rheumatism, which laid me on my back. When I recovered she was gone. "Where to?" says I. "Aix!" says they. My spirits mounted. I took a vast amount of pains to get to Aix, and here I am. I had heard of some property in Venice, which belonged to the Coxes some hundreds of years ago, and so I thought I'd join pleasure with business, and take Aix and Penelope Anne on the road. And now here she is. If Box had only known it, he'd have been after her. He's a first-rate fellow, is Box, but abominably mercenary and mean. He'd think nothing of proposing to Penelope Anne merely for her money. And I think nothing of a man who could do such a thing. So I've written to Box telling him to go to the North, and I'll come and stay with him for the shooting season. A little shooting Box in Scotland. Ha! ha! when I do go, it will be with Penelope Anne on my arm, as Mr. and Mrs. Cox. Let me see, when the hour strikes again, it will be time for my third tumbler—here it is—and the promenade. The Doctor says I must be punctual in drinking the water, so I'll put myself straight, and then, so to speak, lay myself out for the capture of Penelope Anne.

VERSES.

("Les Pompiers de Nanterre.")

I'm so very glad, Feel so very jolly, Like a little lad Who has come home to play. Now about I'll gad! Widow melancholy! She will be delighted When I my addresses pay.

Tzing la la la! Tzing la la la! I'm an artful dodger! Tzing la la la! Tzing la la la! Hey! for Victory!

[Exit out of room R.H.

(Immense applause. The Signor insisting upon joining in the chorus, which he thinks he knows. MILBURD sings it again and then makes his exit.)

Enter WAITER with portmanteau.

Applause. Then enter BOX as if from a long journey; he is wrapped up to the eyes, and above them. Questioning among audience, "Who's that?" WAITER points to room L.H. BOX inclines his head. Exit WAITER. BOX commences unbuttoning long foreign overcoat with hood. Then takes off hood, then takes off immense wrapper. When free of these he appears dressed in very foreign fashion.



Re-enter WAITER.

WAITER (puzzled).

'Ave you zeen a Herr mit ein long code, ... long tail?

BOX.

A what? A hare with a long tail?

WAITER.

Ah! ah! (laughing). You are him I zee (pointing to coat). Dat vas you dere. Zo ist goot.

BOX.

Oh, I see. Yes, that's me, I mean that was me, only now I've come out like the butterfly out of a grub. (Aside.) I forgot that this is Germany. (Aloud.) Ja.

WAITER.

Ach! der Herr sprech Deutsch?

(Great applause.)

BOX.

Yah. (Aside.) That's more like a nigger. (Aloud.) On second thoughts, nein.

WAITER.

Vill you your name in dese book write? (Presenting visitors' book.)

BOX.

I will. (Writes.) Don Jose John de Boxos Cazadores Regalias, Spain.

WAITER.

Dank you, milor!

[Exit WAITER C.

BOX.

We know what we are, but we never know what we shall be. I am not quite clear at present, by the way, what I am, let alone what I shall be. If anybody three months ago had said to me, "Box, my boy, you are a grandee of Spain" ... I should have said that he was a ... in point of fact I shouldn't have believed him. But still I am—that is, partially so—I'm gradually becoming one. At present I'm only half a grandee. Three months ago a friend, my legal adviser, a law stationer's senior clerk, near Chancery Lane, said to me, "Box, my boy, you've got Spanish blood in you." I said that I had suspected as much from my peculiar and extreme partiality for the vegetable called a Spanish onion, and I was going to a doctor, when my friend and legal adviser said to me, "Box, my boy, I don't mean that. I mean that your great grandmother was of Spanish extraction." I replied that I had heard that they had extracted my great grandmother from that quarter, "I came across some papers," continued my legal adviser, "which allude to her as Donna Isidora y Caballeros, Carvalhos y Cazadores y Regalias, Salamanca, Spain, who married John Box, trader, of Eliza Lane, St. Margaret's Wharf, Wapping. Date and all correct. Go," says he—I mean my legal adviser—"go to Spain, and claim your title, your estates, and your money, and I'll stand in with you, and take half the profits." I was struck by this remarkably handsome offer, and went down to Margate to cultivate a Spanish moustache and think about it. Whenever I want to think about anything deeply, I go down to Margate. Well, one morning as I was examining the progress of my moustache, after shaving my chin and letting out some of the blue blood of the Hidalgos in a most tremendous gash, judge of my astonishment, when, walking on the beach, in among the donkeys and the Ethiopian serenaders, I saw in widow's weeds, as majestic as ever, Penelope Anne! (Sings) "I saw her for a moment, but methinks I see her now, with the wreath of—something or other—upon her—something brow"——and then I lost sight of her. But my Spanish blood was up. The extraction from the sunny South boiled in my veins ... boiled over, when I learnt, on referring to the visitors' list, that Penelope Anne was the relict of the short-breath'd—I mean short-lived but virtuous—Knox, who had left her his entire fortune. All my long-stifled passion returned—the passion which the existence of a Wiggins, her first, had not quenched, which the ephemeral life of a Knox had not extinguished, a passion which I have felt for her before I knew that the blue ink—I mean the blue blood, of the Hidalgos danced in my veins, and while she was only a sweet village maiden eighteen years old, and known to all as Miss Penelope Anne, of Park Place, Pimlico! I determined to go out and throw myself at her feet, declare my passion, and take nothing for an answer except "Box ... John ... I'm yours truly, Penelope!" I couldn't present myself before her with a scrubbing-brush on my upper lip. So that afternoon I sacrificed Mars to Venus—I mean I shaved off my moustache for the sake of Penelope Anne. The next morning .... Toothache wasn't the name for what I suffered. Face-ache fails to describe my agonies. Neuralgia doesn't give the faintest idea of my tortures. The left side of my face looked exactly as if I was holding a large dumpling in my mouth, or a gigantic ribston-pippin which I couldn't swallow. Swallow! Not a bit of food passed these lips, except slops, beef-tea, and tea without the beef, for days. At the end of a week I was a shadow. Penelope Anne had gone. Where, no one knew. Somebody said they thought it was the Continent. I bought a map and looked out the Continent, but it wasn't in that. I suppose it was an old edition—there have been so many changes, and they're building everywhere—so I consulted my medical man and my legal adviser. The first said, "Get change of air. Go abroad!" The second said, "Seize the opportunity and go to Spain. And," he added, "come home by the Continent." That suited me down to the ground. I should get my title, my lands, and my money, meeting Penelope Anne on the Continent. As I was coming back I should be able to offer her the hand and heart of either Don Jose John de Boxos y Cazadores y Regalias y Caballeros y Carvalhos of Salamanca, Spain, or of plain John Box, of Barnsbury. So here I am. I haven't got the whole title yet, as the Spanish legal gentleman and I didn't hit it off exactly.... If I'd only known what he was talking about, it would have shortened the proceedings. However, as that remark applies to all legal business, I couldn't quarrel with a foreigner on that point. Besides, if you quarrel with a Spaniard, his southern blood can't stand it. He stabs you. He's sorry for it afterwards, but that's his noble nature. So I've adopted half the title, and the rest will be sent on to me if the suit is gained. But up to this moment I've not met Penelope Anne. I've had so much of the wines of Spain, that my medical man wrote and advised me to try the waters of Germany. So here I am. (Takes up paper). What's this? Comic Journal, um. "We are sorry to announce the death of ..." um, um. (reads) "Spain on the eve of a crisis." ... There were three while I was there. Nobody took any notice of them. What's this? "Hotel der Schwein and die Pfeife"—that's here—"Mrs. Penelope Anne Knox." .... Don Jose de Boxos, she's yours. You've only got to propose, and she's yours. Tell her you're a Spanish grandee, and offer her a position as Spanish grandshe. Don Boxos, you've only got to give yourself a brush up, and she's yours. (Taking up COX'S glass of water which he has left on table) I wish myself every possible success! To my future happiness! (drinks.) Ugh! (suddenly makes fearfully wry faces. The clock strikes. Re-enter COX, R.H.)

COX.

Punctual to the moment. (Seeing glass empty) Confound it, dash it—who's taken my sulphur wasser? I say who (sees BOX who is slowly recovering)—Have you—(starts) Can I believe my eyes?

BOX.

I don't know.

COX.

It must be—.

BOX.

If it must be, then in that case (opens his eyes and recognises COX). Ah!

COX.

Box!

BOX.

Cox!

[They are about to rush into each other's arms, when they think better of it, and shake hands rather coolly.

BOX.

How d'ye do?

COX.

How are you?

BOX.

Very well, sir.

COX.

Very well, sir! (Aside) I don't like the look of this.

BOX (aside).

I don't like the taste of that.

COX (aside).

What's Box here for?

BOX (aside).

Has Cox been trying to poison himself—and poisoned me?

COX (aside).

He mustn't stay here.

BOX (aside).

Cox must go. I don't think I feel as well as I did.

COX.

Ahem!

BOX.

Ahem!

COX.

I beg your pardon, you were going to say—

BOX.

On the contrary, I interrupted you—

COX.

No, you speak first. Seniores priores.

BOX.

In that case you have the preference. Why, I'm quite a chicken by the side of you.

COX.

Pooh, sir.

BOX.

Well, if you don't like "chicken" I'll say gosling.

COX.

Don't be absurd, sir. At what age were you born?

BOX.

What's that to you? I'm six years younger than you, whatever you are.

COX.

So am I. So you speak first.

BOX.

This is absurd. I'm only a visitor. You're a resident.

COX.

No I'm not. I'm only ong parsong.

BOX.

Ong Parsong? Why, you don't mean to say you've become a clergyman? Archbishop Cox, I congratulate you.

(Our two curates, who are among the audience, see the joke and laugh sweetly.)

COX.

Don't be a fool. Are you stopping here?

BOX.

Well, that depends. Are you?

COX.

Well—(shrugging his shoulders and stretching out his hands).

BOX.

Ah! (imitates action) That's exactly my case.

COX.

It's time for me to go out and take the waters. You've taken mine for me.

BOX.

If you don't feel any better after it than I do—What's the effect of the waters?

COX (aside).

I'll frighten him. (Aloud) If you're unaccustomed to them—poisonous.

BOX.

Good gracious! The first draught then is—

COX.

Fatal. Deadly.

BOX.

Then you don't have much chance of getting accustomed to it. You look very well.

COX.

Yes. I could have taken that glass with impunity. It was my eighteenth tumbler.

BOX.

Then I'm safe. I began with the eighteenth. Aha! I shall smoke a cigar and read the paper.

COX (aside).

The paper!

BOX.

Don't stop for me. (Aside) I wonder if he's seen the news.

COX (aside).

He mustn't know she's here. He's got it. (Seeing BOX reading the paper.) Would you allow me to look at the paper?

BOX.

There's nothing in it.

COX (coming up to table and putting his hand suddenly down on it).

Sir!

BOX (taking no notice).

Come in.

COX.

No, sir, I shall not come in. I'm going to come out, sir, and come out pretty strongly too. (Suddenly pathetic) Box, my boy—

BOX (the same).

Cox, my boy. (Turns and allows the smoke of his pipe to come under COX'S nose just as COX is attempting to take the paper.)

COX (sneezing).

Excuse my emotion (sneezes).

BOX.

It does honour to your head and heart—specially to your head. (Offers his pocket-handkerchief.)

COX.

Thank you. I can't forget that we were once brothers.

BOX.

We were.

COX.

We had no secrets from each other. At least you had none from me, had you?

BOX.

No, not unless you had any from me.

COX.

Then I will confide in you. I don't mind telling you—

BOX.

I have no objection to inform you—

COX.

That I am—

BOX.

So am I—

COX.

Here—

BOX.

Exactly my case—

COX.

To marry—

BOX.

Yes, to espouse—

COX.

Eh?

BOX.

It's the same thing.

COX.

Oh. To marry Penelope Anne.

BOX.

Penelope Anne! So am I!

COX.

You!

BOX.

I.

COX.

Then, Box, I'm sorry for you. You've no chance. Go.

BOX.

On the contrary, Cox, as there can't be the smallest possibility of your being accepted, it's for you to retire. Allez.

COX.

I shan't allez.

BOX.

No more shall I.

COX.

Mr. Box, since we last met, circumstances have changed. You no longer speak to a gentleman—

BOX.

You needn't explain that—

COX.

I say, to a gentleman connected with the Hatting interest. No, my family solicitor discovered that my great grandfather had been a Venetian Count, or a Margrave, or a Hargrave, or a something of that sort, and that therefore my proper title was Count Cox The Landgrave.

BOX.

The Landgrave—you might as well be a tombstone at once.

COX.

I am serious. I have come over to mix pleasure with business, and to offer to Penelope Anne the hand of The Landgrave, or of the Venetian Count. So yield to the aristocracy; and, Printer, withdraw.

BOX.

Excuse me, Cox, but since our parting I have discovered that in my veins flows the blue blood of the Hidalgos—

COX.

How many "goes"?

BOX.

Don't be profane—of the Hidalgos of Spain. I have already assumed half the title. The rest will be sent on to me in a few days, and I am here to offer to Penelope Anne the hand and coronet of Don Jose John de Boxos y Caballeros y Regalias de Salamanca. Fuego, as we say in Spain, Fuego.

COX.

Never, while I live, shall you marry Penelope Anne.

BOX.

Never, while I marry Penelope Anne, shall you live. I've Spanish blood in my veins. Pistols!

COX.

Swords!

BOX.

When?

COX.

Now. (Clock strikes). That's the second glass of water you have made me lose. You are ruining my health.

BOX.

Then let me shoot you at once. By the way, I haven't got a pistol.

COX.

Paltry evasion! There's a shooting gallery here where they let 'em out by the hour.

BOX.

How many hours shall we take 'em for?

COX.

Well—we've got to pay in advance.

BOX.

Well, you advance the money and I'll pay.

COX.

No. We'll borrow it from the waiter.

BOX.

Yes, and leave it to be paid by our executors out of the estate. Come.

BOTH.

DUETT.

("Suoni la tromba.")

Off to the tented field! Pistols! revolvers they shall be! Sooner than ever yield I'll fight for death or victoree!

BOX (aside).

Yes! he must be my target. Must the unhappy Cox.

COX (aside).

What will they say at Margate When I have shot poor Box.

BOTH.

Ah!

["Off to the tented," &c. They repeat the duett and are about to exit, when they stop at the door and return.

BOX.

Hem! I say, sir.

COX.

Well, sir?

BOX.

I intend to exterminate you.

COX.

I mean to blow you to atoms.

BOX.

But if we don't exterminate each other it will be rather awkward.

COX.

Yes. I shouldn't like to be wounded. It hurts.

BOX.

Besides, if we both came off without our noses, or with only two eyes between us, we should neither be able to marry Penelope Anne.

COX.

True. I have it.

BOX.

So have I.

COX.

The Lady shall decide.

BOX.

Just exactly what I was going to propose.

[A female voice heard without, singing a joedel.

[* This is MRS. FRIMMELY. She sings a Tyrolienne by Offenbach, and in French. Every one delighted. Being encored, she appears at the door, curtseys, retires and sings again, "without."]

COX.

'Tis she! What superb notes!

BOX.

It's a rich voice.

COX.

She's a rich widow.

BOTH.

She comes.

[PENELOPE ANNE appears C. in ultra Parisian watering-place toilette. They bring her down between them, each taking a hand.

BOTH.

Penelope Anne!

[Both kneel R. and L.C.



PENELOPE.

Mr. James Cox. Ah! (starts).

BOX.

You've frightened her. You're so ugly.

PENELOPE.

Mr. John Box. Oh! (faints, and falls into a chair placed C.)

COX.

You've killed her. You Gorilla.

BOX.

Gorilla—(they are about to fight, when she screams again). What shall we do?

COX (excitedly).

Cold key—Senna—no, I mean Salts.

BOX (more excitedly).

Pooh! Cold water .... with something in it.

COX.

Where's the sulphur water—throw it—

PENELOPE (shrieking).

Ah! (rising). How dare you! (calls). Husband!

BOX.

She said Husband. Dearest—

[PENELOPE slaps his face.

COX.

She means me. I knew it. Angel—

[PENELOPE repeats the slap on HIS face.

BOX.

You did say "Husband?" Surely you can't be blind to the fascination of Don Boxos de Regalias Salamanca—

COX.

When you said "Husband" you must have been dreaming of Count Cornelius Cox, Landgrave.

PENELOPE.

Gentlemen. Mr. Cox ... Mr. Box—if the truth must be told—

BOX.

It will be painful for Cox—but tell it, brave woman, tell it.

COX.

It will be harrowing for Box—but out with it, courageous Penelope, out with it.

PENELOPE.

Well—when—I said—"Husband"—I meant ...

COX.

Me—

PENELOPE.

No—

BOX.

Ha! ha! hooray! Me—

PENELOPE.

No ....

BOTH.

Then whom did you mean?

PENELOPE.

When I said "Husband" I meant—

MAJOR BOUNCER, suddenly entering.

BOUNCER.

Me. (Sings in military style) "Rataplan! Rataplan!"



(Immense applause. "Why that's Captain Byrton," exclaims the elderly lady, who, up to that moment, has been under the impression that he was playing the waiter.)

BOTH.

Him! You! Bouncer!

BOUNCER.

Major Bouncer, of the Banbury Light Horse, at your service. We were married this morning.

COX.

Stop! Virtuous but misguided Penelope. Bouncer is married already!

ALL.

Ah!

COX.

Behold! and tremble! Read it, Box (giving newspaper).

BOX (reads).

At the hotel So-and-so—um—Major and Mrs. Bouncer.

[PENELOPE and BOUNCER laugh.

COX.

They laugh! Horrible depravity.

BOUNCER.

Nonsense! Mrs. Bouncer mentioned there—

BOX.

Is not the Mrs. Bouncer we see here.

BOUNCER.

True. The Mrs. Bouncer here is Mrs. Penelope Bouncer, My Mrs. Bouncer; but the Mrs. Bouncer there is your old landlady, your Mrs. Bouncer, now, the Dowager Lady Bouncer.

BOX AND COX.

Good gracious!

BOX.

Has she any money?

COX.

Is she well off?

BOUNCER.

No. I support her entirely.

BOX.

Oh! Then bless you, Bouncer. Persevere. Go on supporting her.

COX.

I congratulate you, Bouncer. You may keep your Dowager to yourself.

PENELOPE.

And if you like to join us at the wedding-breakfast—

BOUNCER.

We shall be delighted—

PENELOPE.

Now, as always—

BOUNCER.

To see—

PENELOPE.

Two old friends.

BOUNCER.

Come, join hands. I'm an old soldier.

BOX.

You are.

BOUNCER.

I've stolen a march upon you.

COX.

You have.

BOUNCER.

But forgive and forget.

BOX.

I'll forget you with pleasure, but forgive—oh! Penelope Anne!

COX.

Well, I'll forgive you; but don't do it again.

BOUNCER.

I promise.

PENELOPE.

So do I.

BOX.

Do you? Then there's my hand, and when I've got my Castle in Spain you shall come and stop with me. (Aside) I'll have old Bouncer up before the Inquisition.

COX.

And when I've got my Palazzo di Coxo at Venice, you shall always find a knife and fork at your service. (Aside) I'll take him out for a walk by a canal and upset him.

[Enter WAITER with tray, which he puts down. Everything is placed ready for dejeuner a la fourchette.

WAITER.

Das Fruehstuck ist fertische.

(Applause.)

ALL.

Eh?

WAITER.

Break-a-fast.

[They sit.

BOX.

Permit me—

COX.

And me—

BOX.

To propose—

COX.

The health—

BOTH.

Of the Happy Pair. Major and Mrs. Bouncer. Hip! hip! hip! Hurrah!

BOX (singing).

It's a way we have in the army.

[They all join in chorus.

SOLOS AND CHORUS.

("Ha, ha!" "Les Dames de la Halle.")

BOX.

I drink the health of Madame Bouncer, And of the Major Bouncer, too!

SOPRANO ET TENOR.

Too too too too too too too!

BASSI.

Too too too too too too too!

COX.

Of his foes he is a trouncer, Equal to any Horse Guard Blue.

ALL.

Blue, &c. (as before).

BOX.

All our jealousy we smother From this happy bridal day.

COX.

We'll embrace him like a brother

BOX.

And a sister—if I may!

PENELOPE ANNE.

Ah!

BOX AND COX (together).

Viva, Viva Rataplan! Oh! Rataplan Penelope Anne, Oh! Rataplan Penelope-elope Anne, Anne, Anne!

CHORUS (including the WAITER, all at table standing up, glasses in hand convivially).

Viva, viva Rataplan! Oh! Rataplan Penelope Anne! Oh! Rataplan Penelope-elope Anne, Anne, Anne!

Tableau.—BOUNCER on chair, with dish-cover and carving-knife. WAITER at side, waving napkin. PENELOPE between COX and BOX in centre.

Curtain descends.





CHAPTER XXIII.

AFTER THE PERFORMANCE, CONVERSATION COMMENCES.

"Your wife played charmingly, Mr. Frimmely."

Mr. Frimmely smiles, and tries to look as if the merit of her acting was due entirely to his instruction.

Madame Regniati. I don't suppose you chose her dress for her.

Mr. Orby Frimmely (still as if he HAD done so, but allowed her the credit of it). No, no; Mrs. Frimmely has a great taste for theatricals.

Miss Adelaide Cherton (to Miss Medford). Oh, I am sure we ought to be so much obliged to you for playing.

Miss Ada. Oh, it was so good. I really wonder how you could manage to accompany them as you did.

Miss Medford (quite unaffectedly). I am so glad I was able to do it, as I've only been accustomed to play to my brother's singing, that is when he doesn't do it himself.

The Signor (delighted). Oh, my Jo! I 'ave not laugh so much for a long time.

Milburd (who has put on evening dress and joined us, is evidently immensely pleased.) No! (Diffidently.) It seemed to go very well.

Mrs. Frampton (a middle-aged lady, coming up to him). I really must congratulate you, Mr. Milburd. I'm a great play-goer, and I haven't seen anything at any one of the London theatres equal to it. You really ought to produce it in Town.

Milburd (foreseeing an extinguisher over Shakespeare). Do you think it good enough?

Mrs. Frampton. Good enough!—why—I was only saying to my daughter—(Julia—Mr. Milburd (introduction))—wasn't I, Julia?

Julia (rather stupidly, but still exhibiting caution). What, mamma?

Mrs. Frampton. Why about Mr. Milburd's capital little farce.

Julia (easily taking up her cue). Oh, yes! (ecstatically.) I was so delighted—and where did you get that wonderful dress?

Milburd (carelessly). Oh, I got it at the costumier's. I had it for another part some time ago.

Jovial Stout Gentleman (refreshing himself, and seeing Captain Byrton). Hallo! Old Bouncer. By Jove! Capital, sir! Capital!

Byrton (much pleased). Did you know me when I came on?

Jovial Stout Person. Know you? Ha! ha! (Skilfully evading the question, and pretending to quote.) "Rataplan, Ratalan!"—eh? Ha! ha!

[They drink.

Mrs. Orby Frimmely appears, gentlemen and ladies crowd about her.

"Oh, charming! Such an admirable costume. You really must let me have a sketch of it."

Mr. Muntson (an Elderly Beau, with a literary-club reputation). My dear Mrs. Frimmely, I've been saying to your husband, that the stage has positively suffered a loss in your not being ... as they say ... on the boards.

Mrs. Orby Frimmely (thinks that his opinion, at all events, is worth having, and says) I'm so glad you liked it.

Mr. Muntson (sees that he has created a most favourable impression and continues). It was delightful. All the vivacity of the French stage—of course you know the French stage well?—(Mrs. Frimmely nods. She has seen Schneider in "La Grande Duchesse," and takes in a French illustrated paper)—You have—you know the expression—vous avez du chic. (Mrs. Frimmely makes a little curtsey. Elderly Mr. Muntson thinks that Mr. Frimmely is quite out of the race now that he has stept in. He goes on.) We have no actresses now—and if you went on to the stage it would simply be a triumph.

Mrs. Frimmely (gradually becoming convinced as to what her vocation in life certainly ought to be). But this little part I played to-night ... it is nothing ... You can't judge from that.

Muntson. I can, perfectly. I have seen—let me see—I recollect Mrs. Humby and ...

[Here he begins to be tedious. Mrs. Frimmely wants to talk about herself, not about other people. She welcomes Boodels.

Boodels. We have to thank you—most sincerely—for the great treat you've given us.

Mr. Muntson. I've just been saying that it reminded me—

[Begins an anecdote.

Medford (in a corner with Myself; he gives me his private opinion). The piece would never have gone down without the music.

Myself (rather pooh-poohing it all). No ... of course not.

Having neither acted nor appeared in any way, except as representative host to do the honours, which, I find, did themselves easily, I am a little bitter. Nobody knew exactly who I was, nor seemed to take any interest in me at all, except old Mrs. Frampton, who thought I was a waiter, and asked me to order her carriage punctually.

Medford. Milburd is so obstinate. You know at first he wouldn't introduce those tunes.

Myself. (Who want to go and talk to Ada Cherton.) Wouldn't he?

Medford. No. (With the air of a genuine critic.) Milburd couldn't touch Cox. Not his line at all. Between ourselves, Chilvern was best as the Waiter.

Myself (decidedly). Oh, a long way. (This is because he was an unimportant character comparatively. With very little to do, that little he did as if it wasn't in a play at all, but merely a bit of fun with the audience.)

Cazell (who is enthusiastic about theatricals after his performance of Don Boxos,—comes up to Medford). I say! I tell you what we ought to do. We ought to get up a good big piece for all of us. (He sees himself in some particular character.)

Medford. Yes (reflectively), we might easily do—let me see—there's the Game of Speculation.

Myself. Ah, yes! I remember. Charles Mathews played in it (I add as a hit at Medford) admirably; and (to crush him with a final blow) inimitably!

Medford (tolerantly). Yes ... Charley (he never met this excellent comedian, of course; but this is Medford all over) has got some good "business" in the piece ... but (diffidently) I think I make some points which would rather astonish him. For instance, when, &c. &c.

[Here Medford begins telling us how he is far in advance of every professional actor. Luckily the Signor comes up, and changes the conversation. After a few minutes, Medford shows the Signor his conjuring-trick of the shilling in the glass.

The Signor (entering the drawing-room). O! my Jo! (Everyone turns expecting to hear some startling intelligence. Quite unaware of the excitement he has caused, the Signor continues in his usual high key—appealing to everyone.) O! have you seen de leet-tel shillings, and (smiling all over his face) ze glass; eet ees so clev-ver (without a pause), I nev-ver see so clev-ver ting-in my-life!

Madame (severely). What are you talking about, Mr. Regniati?

The Signor. O, my dear, eet ess Mees-ter-Med-for; he ees so clev-ver! he put ze shillings in ze glass, an' zen he go avays.

Milburd. Do it, Medford.

Medford (his chance at last—modestly). Oh, it's nothing. I dare say most of you have seen it. I'll do it, with pleasure. Will anybody lend me a shilling?

The Signor (delighted, exclaiming to everyone). O, eet ees so clev-ver! Dat leet-tel Medfor', he ees so clev-ver!

(Dat leet-tel Med-for' is half a head, at least, taller than the Signor.)

Medford (refusing a coin from Boodels). No. I must ask the ladies. Will any lady here, lend me a shilling?

Enter our Butler.

Our Butler. Sir Thomas Bobyns's carriage.

Lady Bobyns (to Boodels. She ought to address me, as president, but she doesn't). We really must be going; we've got ten miles to drive, you know; enjoyed themselves so much, &c, &c.



General disturbance in consequence of Lady Bobyns being an uncommonly fine woman, and not to be moved without a considerable amount of rustle.

The party now leaving, consists of Sir Thomas Bobyns, Lady Bobyns, and Miss Bobyns. Milburd and Cazell are most assiduous in their attentions to Miss Bobyns, in order that she may be 'quite warm' before she starts.



There is also a considerable amount of delay, in the hall, consequent upon the ceremony of packing up Sir Thomas for his long journey—a melancholy phrase—and Lady Bobyns' great fear lest her husband should take cold.

Sir Thomas looks something between the diver at the Polytechnic in his armour, an Esquimaux, an old Watchman, and a monk.

Here is the result.



They have gone. But other carriages are waiting at the door, and there is a general move. As the last person departs, we see Medford standing at a table in the drawing-room, with a tumbler and a shilling.





CHAPTER XXIV.

CHILVERN'S BALLAD—THE MORAL.

Chilvern has got a Ballad which Medford sets to music. It is illustrated by tableaux vivants, performed by Miss Adelaide Cherton, Cazell, and Milburd.



"Farewell," cries Corporal Tim. "Farewell," said Molly, to him; "You're going," says she, "I'm going," says he, "To fight in Tartary Crim." (Sadly.) "To fight in Tartary Crim!"

"I see," sobs Corporal Tim, "You're eyes with weeping are dim." "No, no," says she, "Don't stop for me, But go to Tartary Crim." (More sadly.) "Oh! go to Tartary Crim!"

"One word," says Corporal Tim; "I have a young friend called Jim, He'll act to you, Like a brother would do, While I'm in Tartary Crim." (Most sadly.) "While you're in Tartary Crim."

"The ship is off!" cried Tim. He raised his hat by the brim; He waved it about, While she sobbed out, "He's off to Tartary Crim." (Frantically.) "He's off to Tartary Crim."



Now this young man called Jim, Was strong and not too slim; He was a tar, On a man-of-war, Arrived from Tartary Crim. (Cheerfully.) Arrived from Tartary Crim.

Now this young man called Jim, He took a holiday whim; Says he, to Molly, "Oh, let's be jolly, While he's in Tartary Crim." (Jovially.) "While he's in Tartary Crim."



One day, said Jovial Jim, "I've got some news of Tim; His ship, three-decked, Was smashed and wrecked, On leaving Tartary Crim." (Dubiously.) "On leaving Tartary Crim."

"He's drowned! poor Corporal Tim!" Then Molly sang a hymn. "Now, Jim," says she, "You'll marry me, And bother Tartary Crim." (Decidedly.) "And bother Tartary Crim."

One night at home with Jim, Appeared a figure grim. Cries she, "'Tis T——!" "It is," says he; "I've come from Tartary Crim." (Spectrally.) "I've come from Tartary Crim."

"You didn't think," says Tim, "That corporals could swim But ghosts know how To swim—I'm now— (Spectrally.) My ghost!—from Tartary Crim."

And then they saw that Tim Had fins on every limb; His feet went squish— Cries Jim, "I wish I was in Tartary Crim." (Excitedly.) "Away to Tartary Crim!"

He took a jump, did Jim, Right on to a vessel's rim; She made a tack, And he never came back, To her or Tartary Crim. (With certainty.) To her or Tartary Crim.

The ghost of Corporal Tim Took Molly away with him, And plunged in the sea, And there they be, Two ghosts in Tartary Crim.

MORAL (sung by the ghost of MOLLY).

"Oh, when you hear that Tim Is drowned, don't marry Jim, Or else, like me, You'll have to be A ghost in Tartary Crim."





CHAPTER XXV.

IN AND OUT.—BEFORE THE FIRE.—MEDITATIONS.—SURPRISES.—HAPPY THOUGHTS.—AWAKENINGS.—SLUMBERS.—BELL-PULLS.—BOOTS.—VALET. DIFFICULTIES.—MRS. REGNIATI.—WHAT'S ON THE TAPIS?—MATCH-MAKING. —CUPID.



Captain Byrton is out hunting. The Signor and Milburd are out shooting. Mrs. Frimmely is out walking with Medford and Cazell. Miss Adelaide Cherton and her sister are in the garden with Chilvern and Boodels. Miss Medford is trying some new music. Madame is seated by the drawing-room fire, engaged upon some mysterious wool-work, which may eventuate in a cigar-case, slippers, a banner fire-screen, or a pair of fancy-pattern'd braces for the Signor. Jenkyns Soames is supposed to be in his room writing something on "Numbers," but whether in refutation of Dr. Colenso's later Pentateuchical views, or in support of his earlier Arithmetical treatises, nobody has inquired, and nobody, particularly, cares.

I am engaged very busily in thinking. It occurs to me that I will join Miss Medford in the morning-room. There are some days when one finds it very difficult to immediately follow thoughts with action. On such occasions time doesn't fly, but slides noiselessly down an inclined plane, and one is in a state of perpetual surprise.

Surprise the first.—You wake and are surprised to find it so early.

Happy Thought.—Go to sleep again.

You turn round, snuggle down, and snooze. A mere snooze until they call you. It being their duty to call you, let 'em do it manfully, and you'll do yours.

Second Surprise.—To awake again. Later than you had expected. Must get up.

Happy Thought.—No use getting up, though, until you've been properly called, and the hot water's there. Besides, you'll be the only one down. Employ the time, until the servant comes, in thinking. Think what you'll do to-day. Think what you'll do first. Put things in order in your mind, then when you get up you'll only have to do them one after the other, and there you are—or there you will be. Excellent plan, this. These arrangements being satisfactorily made mentally, you suddenly find yourself very warm, and then very wakeful, so much so that it is a

Third Surprise—on looking at your watch again—to find that it's an hour since you last consulted it. Odd. You must have been to sleep again. Very odd. And "it's too bad of them;" (of course) they've never called you.

Happy Thought.—Ring the bell for some one to come and call me.

If the bell is by the bed, this is simple. If it isn't, certain arrangements are as necessary as if you were going to make a journey. Inquiries, as it were, concerning the route from the bed to the bell-pull have to be made. This ascertained, and the exact line you have to travel being now clear before you, it is evident that you cannot be so venturesome as to attempt the excursion without your slippers and dressing-gown.

Here commence manoeuvres to obtain both articles, while incurring the smallest possible danger of catching the slightest possible cold, or chill.

Then after a series of gymnastic efforts, during which you have nearly begun your day out of bed on your head, you are successful. It is then requisite to pause and take breath. This cessation of energy affords an opportunity for the servant to appear with your hot water, without your inconveniencing yourself any further.

However he doesn't come, and so you get out. Here the freshening breeze which blows over the threshold, under the door, and across the carpet, causes you, for one second, to hesitate, and then foreseeing that the longer you stop out, en deshabille, the worse it would be, you take precautions for the future, inspired by a

Happy Thought.—"Cover the bed up carefully, so that it will be warm when I come back again." Aha! Then to the bell-pull.

Fourth Surprise.—Odd. You had never noticed before, that this, which you thought was the bell-rope, is nothing of the sort; being a cord attached to the old-fashioned catch on the door, and originally hung within reach of the bed, which was of course in exactly the opposite position to where it is now. Where is the bell? You cannot see the rope anywhere. Bother.

Happy Thought.—To trace the wire running round the room at the top.

You do trace it. It goes out at a hole and disappears. Trace it back again. It goes all round, and as there is no sign of a bell-rope, this article must be behind the bed.

It is. Struggle with heavy bedstead. Dust. There at last is the bell-rope. You pull it. You pull it again. You hear it ring. This is satisfactory.

Happy Thought.—Get into bed again. Do so. Warm. Arrange mentally for reprimanding the servant severely. Such a waste of time. Here you have been awake since, goodness knows when, and no hot water, no clothes, nothing! And you may add, you put 'em outside the door so carefully last night, on purpose that they shouldn't be forgotten.

Knock at door. "Come in." Door shaken.

Fifth Surprise.—Why doesn't he come in?——Door shaken again. Angrily, "Come in!"

Answer from outside, like the voice in a ventriloquist's entertainment, "I can't come in, sir; the door's locked."

Yourself (in bed).—"No, it isn't. Push it."

Answer from without, as before, "No, sir, you've let down the latch. If you pull the string, I can come in."

Nuisance. Out of bed again. Pull up latch-string. Into bed again. Less warm now.

Yourself (or myself, severely, from bed).—"You didn't call me this morning. And where are my things?"

Valet.—"They've been standing houtside, sir, this 'our and a 'arf. I knocked twice, sir, but the latch was down, and so I couldn't get in. 'Ot water, sir, 's cold as hice. Better bring you some fresh."

[Exit.

There's still an entr'acte between his bringing the hot water and my getting up.

Happy Thought.—Well, I dare say it's all the better for me that I've overslept myself a little this morning. If Nature sleeps, depend upon it Nature knows what she's about.

* * * * *

This is in fact how it has happened that all the others, except the three mentioned, are out of doors. They've breakfasted hours ago. I haven't.

* * * * *

Madame Regniati puts down her work, looks towards the window, through which we can see the garden-party, and then refers to me inquisitively. Presently she asks mysteriously,

"Do you see anything going on here?"

I can't help returning with, "Here, Madame Regniati! where?"

"Oh," she replies, in her short way, "you see it, I know you do. Even Mr. Regniati has noticed it to me. For my part," she adds, rubbing her nose with the tip of a long knitting-pin, "I think it's a case."

I begin to understand.

"Miss Adelaide——" I venture.



"Yes. And with whom, eh?" she asks, with her head a little on one side, and her thin lips compressed, as if she had got the information on the tip of her tongue, and was preventing its escape by sheer force.

"Well," I begin, thinking to myself it's very odd I haven't noticed it, "well, I should say"—really, I shouldn't say anything.

Madame nods at me. "Come," she says; "I know you've got penetration. You're an observer of character. You're a thinker. My nephew has told me you're writing a philosophical work. Now, I want you to lend me your sagacity, and confirm my suspicions."

Happy Thought.—Look sagacious. Smile in deprecation of too much sagacity. I feel that, being right as far as mentioning Miss Adelaide goes, my next guess will probably be wrong. Risk it.

I say, "Miss Adelaide and Cazell, eh?" (They are walking together.)

Madame shakes her head. I have gone down in her estimation, evidently.

Happy Thought.—To assume my own penetration. Say to Madame, "Ah, well, you'll see"—meaning, you'll find I'm right and you're wrong.

"No, no," she replies. "Mr. Cazell and Miss Bella, Mr. Chilvern and Miss Adelaide."

"H'm," I say, dubiously. Madame Regniati, classical, lover of high art as she is, is, when occasion offers, is simply a match-maker. I believe it's a feminine instinct.

"They've both got money," she adds. She has summed it all up, and arranged it.





CHAPTER XXVI.

AT DINNER.—WEIGHT.—WATCHING.—JOKES.—PROTEST.—AWKWARD SITUATION. —AN ANNOUNCEMENT.—INQUIRY.—ARRIVAL.—PRACTICAL JOKES.



This weighs on my mind. I can't help looking from one to the other—from Chilvern to Miss Adelaide, from Miss Bella to Cazell.

Milburd is more attentive to the latter than Chilvern, who seems to me to be making up to Miss Medford, if to anyone; while Byrton sits next to Miss Bella at dinner, and monopolizes her entirely.

Sly things are passing; I notice that. As President, I have to sit at the head of the table, and can't join in any of the fun. They have got a joke among them that I can't make out. The joke flies about, like an invisible shuttlecock, between Cazell, Miss Adelaide, Chilvern, Miss Bella, and Byrton.

Jenkyns Soames sits on my right, and will talk arithmetic and science to me.

The Medfords and the Frimmelys make another joke-party as it were, and I cannot understand what's going on.

Happy Thought.—Look as if I did. Smile, nod, say "I know." Milburd asks, almost rudely, "Do you? What is it?" As I don't, I merely smile again, and say "Yes" to Jenkyns Soames, who is giving me his reasons for supposing, by calculation, that vegetables have had a pre-adamite existence, and that even a turnip may have a glorious future before it, when man has disappeared from the face of the earth.

[I shall protest against my term of office being protracted beyond the five weeks, after Christmas, that I undertook to stop here. Three have expired. I begin to hate Jenkyns Soames.]

A servant brings in a card for Mr. Milburd.

Baron Booteljak.

"By Jove!" exclaims Milburd, "I am so glad. That's capital."

Everyone puzzled.

The Signor (after reading the card).—"O! eet ees a fonny name. I nev-ver 'ear soch an-name-bef-fore. Deeek! eet ees your non-sense."

Milburd returns. He has shown the new guest to his room. He will join us directly. He explains that sending in his card "Baron Booteljak" is "his fun." "Such an amusing chap," says Milburd; "he has cards of all sorts of names, printed to leave on his friends, and puzzle 'em. He tells me that he's brought down a box of practical jokes with him, all labelled, numbered, and ready for use."

This intelligence is not received with that warmth which Milburd evidently had thought it would have elicited.

Further discussion is stopped by the entrance of





CHAPTER XXVII.

FIFTH WEEK—DIFFICULTIES—HINTS—BOODELS' SECRET—ARRIVAL OF JIMMY LAYDER—A CHANGE—PRACTICAL JOKES—PLAYING THE FOOL—DRESSING UP— MORE JOKES—CHEMICAL LECTURE—EXPERIMENTS—RESULTS—OPEN WINDOWS— COLDS—DEPARTURES—SMALL BY DEGREES—BEAUTIFULLY LESS—THE SHILLING AND THE TUMBLER—BOODELS' LAST—TWO'S COMPANY—CONCLUSION.

Note. Fifth week of our being here.

Very happy generally, Miss Medford remarkably nice. Misses Adelaide and Bella are always out with Cazell, Milburd and Chilvern. We've given Jenkyns Soames several hints to go. He won't.

If I wasn't President—I should like to—but Byrton's always out with Miss Medford. I wonder that a girl with brains, as she evidently has, can be taken by a fellow, who really seems to think of nothing but riding, driving, and—

"Her," says Boodels, to whom I utter secretly my complaint. I admit the truth of this. Boodels informs me that he's going to be married. I congratulate him. When? When his house is done up. Do I know the lady? Yes. Anyone here?—Ah, he won't say, and begs me to consider this communication strictly confidential.

Jimmy Layder is becoming a nuisance. He is perpetually practically joking. Once and away it's very good fun—when he performs on somebody else, not me. He comes down-stairs quietly (this is one of his favourite tricks—so stupid, too!) and slaps you on the back suddenly, immediately afterwards begging your pardon, and explaining that he mistook you for somebody else.

Then the second day he was here, he changed all the boots. The third day I could not find a single thing in its place when I went to dress in a hurry. On my complaining to him, he pretends to be the Clown in the Pantomime (whom he emulates in everything—and really, most dangerously, with a genuine hot poker—so childish, and worse), and putting his hand on his heart he declares "on his honour he didn't do it." I know, that, when I turn, he sets them all (Miss Medford, too) laughing by making some grotesque face, and, if I face about suddenly, he is staring at nothing on the ceiling, or pretending to catch a fly. He puts oranges in boots, spoons and corkscrews in people's pockets—generally mine—and has an irritating trick of calling out "Hi!" and beckoning; then, when you come, he asks you what you want?

Happy Thought.—To speak to him quietly, alone. He listens. He owns that his exuberance of animal spirits often leads him away. [Happy Thought.—Wish they'd take him away altogether.] He says he thinks it's owing to the bracing air; adding, that I take a joke so well, he is sure I shan't be angry. I tell him that I don't speak on my own account, but for the sake of others. He promises he will be quiet and serious.

At night he keeps his word by coming down dressed like the proverbial methodist Mawworm. An enormous white tie, doubled. His hair combed sadly straight. A high black waistcoat, his trousers shortened, white stockings and shoes.

They encourage him by laughing. He addresses everyone as "My Christian Brother," or "Sister," and informs them that the Head of the Establishment has requested him to be serious.

He insists upon a serious evening, and tells us that Mr. Jenkyns Soames has consented to give a Chemical Lecture "with," he adds impressively, "experiments."

It appears that Layder and Milburd have undertaken to assist the Professor.

After dinner, Layder announces that he has an entertainment to commence with. He takes me on one side. We go into the library, which he has prepared as a sort of dressing-room.

Happy Thought.—Humour him, and then he'll play practical jokes on somebody else—not me.

He says, "Look here, you and I will dress up, and be the lecturer's servants." Very harmless and funny, seeing that the dresses (which he has brought with him) are a mantle spangled, two or three pairs of tights and Cavalier boots, and a cocked hat. He says he's got a charade, and Milburd will dress up too, and we'll have it before the Lecture.

He offers to do my face for me; and does it at once with burnt cork, red and white.

Then he goes to dress.

I am alone. It is a good idea enlisting under, as it were, his banner, then he won't annoy me. The fire's out here, and changing my dress at this time has made me cold.

Meditations by myself when in a costume something between a naval officer, a Spanish grandee, and Richard the Third.—What can be the fun of dressing up? It is so much more comfortable in your own things. And a charade's a bore. At least, it bores the audience, I'm sure. And if there are people acting who say all sorts of nonsense, and do anything, there's no art in it... Nine o'clock. I wish he'd brought a longer candle, and would be quicker in dressing. He's gone to his own room, perhaps, to dress, or is arranging the performance........ It's a melancholy thing to be in these clothes. I wonder if they were made for some great actor, or whether they were once the real thing? No, that's impossible..... I wish Miss Medford was going to take a part—perhaps she is.... unless that's her touch on the piano. The overture probably..... It's so cold in here, I must walk about..... The candle is burning down.

Happy Thought.—Ring and ask for another candle, and for Mr. Layder.

Maid servant enters ... gives a shriek and a start, and then—poor girl!.... faints.

There is no water at hand....

I don't like to touch her.

I've got an idea that people in that state bite, scratch, and kick, if touched.

Happy Thought.—Let ill alone.

I ring violently.

Enter Butler. Fortunately Madame Regniati's maid passes, with salts. The girl recovers consciousness. She revives and says I frightened her. I ask the butler to look for Mr. Layder.

Butler thinks they're all in the theatre-room hearing some lecture. 10 o'clock.

I wait a quarter of an hour.

It's too bad. I'll take these stupid things off.

Enter Boodels. "Hallo!" he cries. "What on earth are you got up like this for?"

I say, testily, "I don't know."

Boodels continues. "Miss Cherton's maid 's been complaining, and says you've been playing tricks on her. Come! Do take off those things."

Do! I don't want pressing. I have been for an hour and a half dressed up here, with my face painted like a Red Indian, and as cold as ice.

Layder enters. "Oh, my dear fellow, a thousand pardons. I quite forgot you were here; and we suddenly—I mean the ladies, suddenly altered the programme and wanted me to sing and do some nonsense, so I could not refuse."

Happy Thought.—(I'll vote against his invitation being renewed after this week). Say nothing.

I find that Jenkyns Soames, induced to put on a sort of Conjuror's dress, has been waiting to deliver his lecture the same time that I have; he is equally cold, but not cross, as he anticipates being a means of instruction to the party.



Milburd and Layder have arranged the Professor's glass bottles, glass jars, retorts, and all the other articles requisite for a Chemical Lecture.

He informs us, that, owing to his friend Mr. Layder's kindness, and to the accident of his having brought with him a few chemicals, he (the Professor) will be enabled to give us an amusing and instructive discourse.

"With experiments," adds Layder gravely, from his seat.

Happy Thought.—Get as far away from the lecturer as possible. Near the door.

The ladies being nervous, are re-assured by Milburd and Layder, who say (in answer to Madame Regniati,) that, "there is to be no firing," and further, that "there is no experiment on the table which can hurt the audience." This latter observation is added sotto voce, and is evidently not intended for the Professor's ears.

Jenkyns Soames commences he says with Hydrogen. (Hear! hear! from Milburd and Layder.)

"Hydrogen," he goes on, "is a most powerful refractor."

"O my Jo!" exclaims the Signor in the front row, which he evidently thinks is too near. "It vill go off, and 'urt some-bod-dy."

The Professor informs him, that Hydrogen mixed with Atmospheric air, in the proportion of two to five, will explode; but he does not mean to exhibit this peculiarity of Hydrogen. He shows us how the lime-light is obtained, and requests that the room may be darkened. Milburd and Layder, turn down the gas, and remove the candles.

This is done too suddenly for the Professor, who has some trouble in finding the right materials in the dark.

At last he has them. "I will now," he says, "show you the lime-light. A light of such steadiness and intensity, that it appears to us quite blinding in its power."

The immediate result is a fizz, a spark, and then we are in total darkness once more. The Professor tries again, another fizz, no spark.

Madame Regniati begs that the lights may be restored, and asks him to try something else.

Apologising for the lime-light (I see Milburd and Layder exchanging winks). The Professor passes on to Oxygen.

He shows us a jar of Oxygen. Experiments with an incandescent piece of wood. (Applause.)

Another with phosphorus, and another with charcoal. (Great applause, and nothing having happened, we feel ourselves in comparative safety. Madame observes, that she doesn't like anybody playing with fire.)

His next theme is "Inexplosive Gases."

Professor.—I will now proceed to mix two colourless bodies which, explosive in themselves, neutralize each other's qualities on combination. You will observe that the same process is used in pouring one gas out of one jar into another, as in pouring water, and it is equally harmless. Here, for instance, is an empty jar, and here is a glass jar full of water. I wish to pour the water from the glass jar into the earthen one. (Hear, hear! from Milburd.) I proceed to do so, and can assure you that the experiment with the gases, is not more harmless and simple than this, with the water.

He pours the water out of the glass jar into the earthenware one. In one second follows a series of sharp reports from inside the jar, which seems suddenly to have become filled with highly combustible crackers. The Professor drops the jar as if he had burnt his fingers, and the cracking and popping go on inside. Ladies rise frightened. Layder suddenly addresses them:

"There's no sort of danger," he says; "the jar won't burst. I dropped an explosive pellet into it some time ago, and it hasn't been taken out, that's all. The explosive pellets," he adds, modestly, "are my own invention, and chemically prepared, only to burn in water."

The cracking has ceased. Layder goes out, ostensibly to see if he can procure another jar.

In his absence the ladies observe that the 'cracking thing,' whatever it was, has left a nasty smell in the room.

The Professor, with a smile, thinks that he can obviate this unpleasantness. He has come across a fluid among the chemicals labelled "Parfum du Paradis." The direction upon it is simply, "Pour it out into a saucer, and everyone will be delighted at the refreshing and delicious odour which will instantaneously pervade even the largest apartment."

The Professor, after uncorking and putting his nose to it, pronounces his opinion that the liquid is inodorous, and must have been kept too long in bottle.

"However," says he, "I will follow the direction."

Forthwith he pours it out.

The next minute we are all cramming our handkerchiefs to our faces, and making for the door.

"Open the windows!" cries Medford, in a fit of coughing.

"O my"—cough—"Jo!" exclaims the Signor. "I shall be,"—cough and sneeze, "so ill,"—cough, "eet ees in my nose."



As for the Professor, being just over the horrible compound, he has nearly fainted.

* * * * *

The room is cleared.

Servants sent to open windows. Sneezing, coughing, and a suffocating, nauseating sensation, experienced by everyone except Layder, who now enters the drawing-room with a jar.

Happy Thought.—To speak with an air of authority as President, and tell him that it is really too bad of him to carry such a liquid about. He exculpates himself by saying that the Professor didn't know how to use it, and that he oughtn't to have taken the things out of his Practical Joke Box.

"His what box?" we ask.

"My practical joke box," he replies, quite calmly. "I've got a box full of practical jokes in chemicals. They're very amusing," he adds, "if used properly."

The horrid smell is gradually spreading itself throughout the lower part of the house. It is stealing into the drawing-room, it is getting into the morning-room, into the hall, into the passages.

"You can't get rid of it," Layder informs us, "for two or three days. But it's first-rate for killing all insects."

There is, we find, only one room in the house which the nuisance has not reached. The smoking-room. Here we all congregate. Everybody glum. Windows all over the place open.

* * * * *

Next morning.

Happy Thought.—Layder gone. Early.

He leaves us a note bequeathing us his box of Practical Jokes, and a paper of 'directions for use,' with 'hints for further practical jokes, being jottings for a manual with a practical joke for every day in the year.'

In consequence of the draughts last night, everyone has caught violent colds.

The Chertons won't leave their room. Madame Regniati doesn't come down until dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Frimmely pretend to have received a telegram, and say they must go to-morrow. Miss Medford accompanies them; her brother stays.

The Signor suddenly remembers that he must proceed to his leet-tel shoot-box at Bodge-bee.

Jenkyns Soames writes me a letter from his bedroom, commencing "Sir," and, considering himself insulted, leaves without saying good-bye to anybody.

* * * * *

Committee meeting. Complaints. Examination of accounts. Row in consequence. Amount divided into shares. Chilvern says he's sorry he's left his cheque-book in town.

Happy Thought.—Write it on a piece of paper or telegraph for it.

Chilvern genially says he's going up to town to-morrow, and will get it then. Will I pay for him now?

Cazell says to me, "I tell you what you ought to do as President. You ought to draw one cheque for the whole expenses, and we'll pay you back. That's the most simple way of doing it."

Put to the vote and the plan carried, with a minority of one (myself).

* * * * *

The party gradually broken up. This evening Adelaide Cherton and Madame appear with apologies for leaving us soon after dinner. The smell not nearly evaporated. Byrton and Milburd are gone to join the Signor for some sport. Medford offers to show us his trick with a shilling, and Milburd, being asked to sing, refuses. Boodels (who is melancholy, and in love), asks Medford to play a tune, but Medford says he'd rather not, because nobody will attend to his trick with a shilling, whereupon Chilvern sits down to what he calls "try something" on the piano. What he does try is our temper. Gradually we leave the room and meet to smoke.

THE END