"No," says SKURRIE, sternly. "Impossible. You'll upset all the
calculations if you do."
JANE says, meekly, that when one is travelling, and going to bed early,
it is not so difficult to get up very early, and, for her part, she
knows she shall be awake all night. Ah! so shall I, I feel, and already
the journey begins to weigh heavily on me, and I do not bless SKURRIE
and his plan. "But," I say aloud, knowing he has done it all for the
best, and that I cannot now recede, "go on."
He does so, at railroad pace:--"Heidelberg _dep_. 6. Mannheim _arr_.
7.5, _dep_. 7.15. Mayence _arr_. 8.22, in time for boat down the Rhine
8.55. Cologne _arr_. 4.30. And there you are."
"Yes," I rejoin, rather liking the idea of Cologne, "there we are--and
then?"
"Well, you'll have a longish morning at Cologne; rest, see Cathedral,
breakfast," and here he refers to his notes, "Cologne _dep_. 1.13 P.M.,
and Antwerp _arr_. 6.34."
"Change anywhere?" I inquire, helplessly. "Yes," he answers,
meditatively. "At this moment I forget where, but you've got examination
of baggage on the Belgian frontier, and you have two changes, I think.
However, it's all easy enough."
"I'm glad of that," I say, trying to cheer up a bit, only somehow I am
depressed: and Cousin JANE isn't much better, though she tries to put
everything in the pleasantest possible light, and remarks that at all
events "the travelling will soon be over."
SKURRIE continues reading off his paper and comparing the details with
my notes, "Sunday--Antwerp _dep_. 6.34 P.M. Rosendael _arr_.
7.45--yes--then Rosendael _dep_. 8.44, and catch the 10.10 P.M. boat at
Flushing. Queenborough _arr_. 5.50, fresh as a lark, and up to town by
7.55."
"But we don't want to go up to town, we want to go to Ramsgate."
"Ha!" he says slowly, giving this idea as just sprung upon him his full
consideration. "Ha!--let me see----" Then, as if by inspiration, he
continues quickly--"sacrifice your London tickets, book luggage for
Flushing, only then at Flushing re-book it for Queenborough, and once
you're there you catch an early train to Ramsgate, and you'll be there
nearly as soon as you would have arrived in London. Train just off. Wish
you _bon voyage_."
I thank him for all his trouble, and ask, with some astonishment, if he
is not going to accompany us?
"Can't--wish I could," returns SKURRIE, "but I've got to go off to
Petersburgh by night mail. Business. Should have been delighted to have
looked after you and seen you through, but you've got it all down and
can't make any mistake. _Au plaisir!_"
And he is off. So are we.
Oh, this journey!! Everything changes. My health, the scenery, the
weather, all becoming worse and worse. Poor Cousin JANE, too.
Oh, the changes of carriage! The rushing about from platform to
platform, carrying that confounded bag, and sticks, and umbrellas, and
small things, of which JANE--poor JANE!--has her share, and, but for her
sticking to every basket and package, I should, in despair, have
surrendered to chance, left them behind me somewhere, and should have
never seen them again. All aches and pains, and weariness! At last at
Bale, rattled over stones and bridge in a jolting omnibus, through
pouring rain to the hotel of "The Three Kings."
Our treatment in the _salle-a-manger_ of that Monarchical Hostelrie is
enough to make the most loyal turn republican. A willing head-waiter
with insubordinate assistants--and we are miserable.
Off early to Heidelberg. Delighted, at all events, to bid farewell to
the worthy Monarchs. This trip seemed to invigorate us, and if civility,
polite attention, good rooms, and an excellent _cuisine_ could make any
invalid temporarily better, then our short stay at the Prinz Karl
Hotel--a really perfectly managed establishment--ought to have revived
us both considerably. And so it did. A lovely drive to the heights among
the pine woods and in the purest air went for something, but alas the
knowledge that we had to rise at 5 A.M., to be off by six--it turned out
to be a 6.30 train--drove slumber from our eyes, and only by means of a
cold bath, the first thing on tumbling out of bed, could I brace myself
for the effort. Then on we went, taking SKURRIE'S pre-arranged tour.
Let the remainder be a blank.
When abroad I had bought a French one-volume novel which I had seen
praised in the _Figaro_. I will not give its name, nor that of its
author. If it indeed portrays persons really living in Paris, and if
these persons are not wholly exceptional (but, if so, why this novel,
which implies the contrary and denounces them?) then is the latest state
of Republican Paris worse than its former state in the days of the
_degringolade_ of the Empire, and Paris must undergo a fearful purgation
before she will once again possess _mens sana in corpore sano_. I read
this disgusting novel half-way through until its meaning became quite
clear to me, and then I proceeded by leaps and bounds, landing on dry
places and skipping over the filth in order to see how the author worked
out a moral and punished his infamous scoundrel of a chief personage.
No. Moral there was none, except an eloquent appeal to Paris to rise and
crush these reptiles and their brood. On the wretched night when
feverish, ill, and sleepless, I lay miserably in the saloon of the
Flemish steamer crossing to Queenborough, I opened the porthole above me
and threw this infernal book into the sea. After this I bore the
sufferings of that night with a lighter heart.
* * * * *
Suffice it that I arrived at home--and how glad I was to get
there--broken down, prostrate and only fit for bed----where with
railways running round and round my head, steamboats dashing and
thumping about my brain, the shrieks of German and Flemish porters
ringing in my ears, SKURRIE always forcing me to travel on, on, on,
against my will, I remained for about three weeks.
_Advice gratis to all Drinkers of Waters_.--"The story shows," as the
Moral to the fables of AESOP used to put it, that when you have finished
your cure, make straight by the easiest stages for the seaside at
home. Avoid all exertion: and ask your medical man before leaving to
tell you exactly what to eat, drink, and avoid, for the next three weeks
at least after the completion of your cure.
* * * * *
While ill, but when beginning to crave for some amusement or
distraction, I asked that my dear old BOZ'S _Sketches_ should be read to
me, to which in years gone by I had been indebted for many a hearty
laugh. Alas! what a disappointment! Except for a little descriptive bit
here and there, the fun of these _Sketches_ sounded as wearisome and
old-fashioned as the humours of the now forgotten "Adelphi screamers" in
which Messrs. WRIGHT and PAUL BEDFORD used to perform, and at which, as
a boy, I used to scream with delight, when the strong-minded mistress of
the house, speaking while the comic servant was laying the cloth for
dinner, would say of her husband, "When I see him I'll give him----"
"Pepper," says the comic servant, accidentally placing that condiment on
the table. "He shan't," resumes the irate lady, "come over me with
any----" "Butter," interrupts the comic servant, quite unconsciously, of
course, as he deposits a pat of Dorset on the table. And so on. Later
on, I tried THACKERAY'S _Esmond_. How tedious, how involved, and full of
repetitions! It is enlivened here and there by the introduction of such
real characters as _Dick Steele_, _Lord Mohun_, _Dean Atterbury_, and
others, and by the mysterious melodramatic appearances and
disappearances of _Father Holt_, a typical Jesuit of the "penny
dreadful" style of literature. But the work had lost whatever charm it
ever possessed for me, and, indeed, I had always considered it an
over-rated book, not by any means to be compared with _Vanity Fair_,
_Pendennis_, or even with _Barry Lyndon_, which last is repulsively
clever.
* * * * *
Then I asked for a book that I never yet could get through, and to which
I thought that now, with leisure and a craving for distraction, I might
take a liking. This was _Little Dorrit_. I tried hard, but it made my
head ache even more than _Esmond_ had done, and I laid it down, utterly
unable to comprehend the mystery which takes such an amount of dreary,
broken-up, tedious dialogue in the closing chapters to unravel.
* * * * *
I took down WASHINGTON IRVING'S _Sketch-book_, and read it with
delight. Fresh as ever! It did me good. So did CHARLES LAMB'S Essays.
And then guess what moved me to laughter, to tears, and to real
heartfelt gratitude that we should have had a writer who could leave us
such an immortal work? What? It is a gem. It is very small, but to my
mind, and not excepting any one of all he ever wrote, the most precious
in every way for its true humour, for its natural pathos, and for its
large-hearted Christian teaching, is _The Christmas Carol_, by CHARLES
DICKENS. Had this been his only book, it would have sufficed for his
imperishable fame.
* * * * *
And then what made me chuckle and laugh? Why, THACKERAY'S _Sultan Stork_,
which, somehow or other, I never remembered having read before this time
of convalescent leisure. It is THACKERAY in his most frolicsome humour,
and, therefore, THACKERAY at his best.
* * * * *