(_A PAGE FROM THE DIARY OF AN ENTHUSIAST IN SEARCH OF REST._)
["It is a good rule of practice to devote one portion of a
short vacation to the serious and necessary business of doing
nothing, and doing it very thoroughly too."--_Letter to the
Times._]
At last my time for rest has arrived. Musn't be idle, though. Dr.
MORTIMER GRANVILLE says it would be most injurious to my health. Must
hunt up precedents for leisure leading to no results. Let me see--why
not try the British Museum? Sure to find something useful there--and
useless, which will be more appropriate.
Take an omnibus. See one in the distance. Hail it. Conductor takes
no notice! Shout and hurry after it. Try to attract attention of the
driver. Failure. Capital commencement to my labours. Had my run for
nothing!
Victory! Stopped one partially occupied. No room outside. Enter
interior. Six passengers on one seat. Five on the other. The half
dozen regard me with contemptuous indifference. The five make no room.
Explain that I want a seat. Remark received in silence. Sit down on
knee of small boy. Mother (next him) expostulates--angrily. Chorus of
indignant beholders. Conductor is impertinent. Ask for his number,
he asks for my fare. Pay him. While this is going on, young woman has
entered omnibus, and taken vacant seat. Conductor counts places, says
there is no room. Can't carry me. Won't give back fare--has torn off
ticket. Says I must get out. Say I will report him. Impudent
again. Getting out drop ticket. Incident subsequently (to my later
satisfaction) leads to nothing!
Won't have anything more to do with the omnibuses. Enter hansom--old
man (the driver) smiles civilly when I say "British Museum." Now, I
must seriously rest. Go to sleep. Slumber until awakened by a jolt.
Look out. Find myself near the river. Strikes me that the Thames is
not close to the Museum. Appeal to cabman through the hole in the
roof. Difficulty in attracting his attention. Stop him at last. Ask
him why he did not take me to the Museum. He smiles and says he didn't
hear me--he is deaf! Very angry. He expostulates, civilly. He saw I
was asleep and didn't wish to disturb me! He has been driving up and
down the Thames Embankment for the last three hours--charge seven and
sixpence. Don't see my way out of the difficulty, except by payment.
He thanks me, and suggests that he shall now drive me to the Museum
for eighteen-pence. Very angry and refuse. He is hailed by someone
else, and is off to pick up his new fare. On consideration it seems to
me that my anger has led to nothing. Nothing--just what I wanted, but
not exactly at the right moment.
Rather hungry. Enter a restaurant. Crowded with gentlemen wearing
hats--who seem to be on intimate terms with the waiters. Get a bill of
fare which is thrust into my hands by an attendant loaded with dishes.
Let me see--what shall I have? "Lamb's head and peas." Have never
tried this dish. Might be good. Waiter (who seems to be revolving,
like the planetary system, in an orbit) reaches me, and I shout what
I want. He replies, "Sorry, Sir, just off," and vanishes. Look up
something else. "Liver and bacon." Not had it for years! Used to like
it. On reappearance of the planetary waiter, give my order. He nods
and vanishes. Wait patiently. Rather annoyed that my nearest neighbour
has used my part of the table for a dish containing broad beans. Glare
at him. No result. Planetary waiter has passed me twice--stop him
angrily the third time. He is less busy now--he pauses. He thrusts
bill of fare before me, and asks me "what I would please to want."
Explode and shout in tones of thunder, "Liver and bacon!" He
disappears, and comes back a few minutes later, saying, "Very sorry,
but when I first ordered it, liver and bacon _was_ on--now it's off.
Will I have a chop?" Reply angrily, "No." Same answer to "Steak,"
"Duck and green peas," "A cut off the beef joint," and "Irish stew."
Waiter asks (with forced civility), "What _will_ I have!" I return, as
I leave the restaurant, "Nothing!" On regaining the street (although
hungry) I am pleased to think that I am still obeying Dr. MORTIMER
GRANVILLE's directions!
No use trying cab or omnibus. Both failures. Why not walk? Good way
of wasting time, so begin to go northward, and in due course get to
Bloomsbury. Enter Museum. Umbrella seized. Approach Reading Room.
Civil attendant informs me that the Library is closed--taking stock,
or something! Then I have come all this way for nothing! Angry, but
inwardly contented. Doing nothing "very thoroughly!"
[Illustration]
Turn back. Why not go to a theatre? Certainly. Go to four in
succession, and find them all closed! Well, good way of wasting time,
Shall I visit one of the Exhibitions? Chelsea or Earl's Court? After
consideration, come to the conclusion that this would be worse than
doing nothing. Must draw the line somewhere!
After all, there is no place like home. Or shall I go to my Club? Yes.
Get there. Find it is being repaired, and that the members are taken
in somewhere else. Hate new scenes and new faces. Return to my first
idea, and make for my private address; but feel that it may be rather
dull, as my wife and the children are at the seaside. Still, somebody
can get me a little supper. At least, I hope so. Find my latch-key
is of no use, on account of the chain being up. Ring angrily, when
a charwoman in a bonnet appears, and explains that the servants,
not expecting me home so early, have gone to the play, having
locked up the larder. Charwoman agrees with me that it is
disgraceful--especially the locking up of the larder.
However, it can't be helped. Make up my mind to go to bed, and get
fast asleep, thoroughly tired out with the labours of a day spent
in doing absolutely nothing! Hope (in my dreams) that Dr. MORTIMER
GRANVILLE will be satisfied!
* * * * *
"OUR CHILDREN'S EARS."
Whether they'll be as long as those of Midas,
Or stand out salient from either side as
A close-cropped ARRY's, at right angles set
To his flat jowl, we cannot settle, yet;
But in one thing, at least, a score they'll chalk--
They will not hear the stuff their fathers talk!
* * * * *
DEFINITION.--"_La haute Cuisine_"--the kitchen on the top flat of a
ten-storey'd mansion.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN INSINUATING WHISPER.
'JUST LOOK, LAURA! WHAT A LOVELY LITTLE DOG THAT OLD GENTLEMAN'S GOT!
HOW I WISH HE WAS MINE!" 'SHALL OI _GIT_ 'IM FOR YER, LYDY?"]
* * * * *
"HAVE WE FORGOTTEN GORDON?"
[Lord TENNYSON, under this heading, writes appealing to
Englishmen for subscriptions to the funds of the "Gordon Boys'
Home" at Woking, which is in want of £40,000. Contributions
should be sent to the Treasurer, General Sir DIGHTON PROBYN,
V.C., Marlborough House, Pall Mall.]
Are we sleeping? "_Have_ we forgotten?" Like the thrust of an Arab spear
Comes that conscience-piercing-question from the Singer of Haslemere.
Have we indeed forgotten the hero we so be-sang,
When across the far south sand-wastes the news of his murder rang?
Forgotten? So it had seemed to him, as alone afar he lay,
With the Nile to watch for laggard friends, fierce foes to hold at bay;
Though the tired red lines toiled onward up the Cataracts, and we
Dreamed of the shout of the rescuing host _his_ eyes should never see.
When chivalrous BURNABY lay slain, with a smile in the face of death,
And for happy news from the hungry wastes men yearned with bated breath;
When WILSON pushed his eager way past torrent-swirl and crag,
Till they saw o'er GORDON's citadel wave high--the MAHDI's flag.
That shame was surely enough, enough, that sorrow had a sting
Our England should not court again. The Laureate's accents ring
With scorn suppressed, a scorn deserved indeed, if still our part
Is to forget a purpose high that was dear to GORDON's heart.
"This earth has borne no simpler, nobler man." So then sang he
Who sounds a keen reveille now. "Can you help us?" What say we?
Oh, out on words, that come like WOLSELEY's host too late--too late!
Do--_do_, in the simple silent way that made lost GORDON great.
Surely these Boys that GORDON loved in the Home with GORDON's name
Should speak to every English heart that cares for our England's fame;
And what be forty thousand pounds as an offering made to him
Who held so high that same bright fame some do their worst to dim!
Fit task for patriot poet, this! TYRTÆUS never stood
More worthily for heroic hearts or his home-land's highest good.
Give! give! and with free hands! His spirit's poor, his soul is hard,
Who heeds not our noblest Hero's appeal through the lips of our noblest Bard!
* * * * *
A REMINISCENCE AND A QUOTATION.--It is reported that two Gaiety
burlesque-writers are about to re-do _Black-Eye'd Susan_ "up to
date," of course, as is now the fashion. As the typical melodramatic
tragedian observes, "'Tis now some twenty-five years ago" that FRED
DEWAR strutted the first of his five hundred nights or so on the stage
as _Captain Crosstree_, that PATTY OLIVER sang with trilling effect
her "_Pretty Seeusan_," and that DANVERS, as _Dame Hatly_, danced like
a rag-doll in a fantoccini-show. To quote the Poet CRABBE, and to go
some way back in doing so,--
"I see no more within our borough's bound
The name of DANVERS!"
Which lines will be found in No. XVII. of the Poet's "Posthumous
Tales."
* * * * *