_Notes from the Travel Diary of Toby, M.P._
_The Cottage, Burrow-in-the-Corner, Devon._
Went out for a walk just now; nothing remarkable in that; the wonder
came in when I got back. Present postal address given at head of this
note. The Cottage is there all right, but where the township, hamlet,
village, or whatever Burrow-in-the-Corner may be, is situated, haven't
the least idea, and I've tramped pretty well round the country. The
Cottage stands at four cross roads, on the top of a hill. Specks in
the distance, in the valley and on the hillsides, understood to be
farm-houses. Three miles off is Tipperton; it is approached from this
point by a steep hill: most convenient way of getting to bottom is to
lie down on top and roll; some people said to have become adepts in
practise; can even enjoy quiet sleep on the way, and pull up at the
very shop in High Street where they have business. So it is said; but
I rarely see any people about Burrow-in-the-Corner; so how can they
approach Tipperton in this or other way? The only persons that pass
The Cottage palings are men who stop to ask their way. The population
is sparse, and seems to fill up its time by losing itself. This should
have been a warning to me, but it wasn't.
The Cottage been standing here for at least two hundred years. Began
life as a smithy; only recently retired from business. The initials of
one of its tenants are "R. B." He has carved the letters on the front
door, with the date, 1813, following it. Fancy he must have been
pretty old then, for, two years later, he cuts his initials again
with date 1815; the writing quite shakey; possibly he had heard of
Waterloo, and his hand was tremulous with patriotic joy. On second
thought, that improbable. News of Waterloo not likely to have reached
Burrow-in-the-Corner within limit of twelve months.
The smithy still stands as "R. B." left it when his bellows blew their
last gasp. The Cottage itself transformed. The thatched roof remains;
also the whitewashed walls, the porch, the little windows embayed in
thick walls, which quite naturally form window-seats, where, if you
take care not to bang your head, you may sit at ease, and look out
over the swelling upland--rich red where it has just been ploughed;
for the most part green pastures trending down to the Exe, a silver
stream, rippling on to the sea, reckless of all it will pass through
before it joins it. We have a parlour, but prefer to sit in the
kitchen, a dainty room with gleaming dark-red sideboard; a kitchener,
polished to distraction, so that looking-glasses are superfluities; a
piano in recess by fireplace; a chimney-piece, on which gleam copper
pans, brass candlesticks, and pewter plates, with their initials and
ancient birth-dates polished almost out of sight; white-curtained
windows, bright with begonias and cyclamen; a low ceiling, supported
by a pragmatical beam, strictly conforming to the regulation that
forbids a straight line in the room.
Have discovered that kitchen is best place in house to dine in; only
drawback is that everything served so unexpectedly hot, new-comers
scald themselves. Soon grow used to it, and to get grilled mushrooms
served really hot is compensation for inconvenience. As for pancakes
(made with freshly-laid eggs), begin to think I never tasted the real
delicacy before. Your true pancake, as BRILLAT-SAVARIN omitted to say
in his well-known treatise, should be eaten to the music of the one
in the pan preparing to follow. When we go back to town, mean to ask
servants to sit in dining-room whilst we dine in kitchen.
When I speak of going back to town, of course I imply the certainty
of being able to find our way out of Burrow-in-the-Corner to nearest
railway station.
Seems a good deal to have four cross roads all to yourself at your
front door. The Cottage scarcely of sufficient importance to justify
such lavish accommodation. But in these parts the amount of arable
land wasted in roads and lanes is almost criminal. It was a Saturday
evening when I went out to find the post-office. Nothing seemed
plainer than instructions.
[Illustration: LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS.--No. 2. PHEASANT SHOOTING.]
"Go straight down the road facing you, and you'll come to a church.
Close by it is a house; letter-box inserted in side of house; box
painted red, you know."
Of course I knew; set off with a light heart and handful of letters.
A little way down high road, on right-hand side, lane suddenly opened
and delved downwards, its sinuous course embowered in trees; where
they failed, barricaded with hedges. High road seemed originally bent
upon taking this direction; changed its mind; turned abruptly to left.
Suppose a few traps driven down hill must occasionally have taken this
dip; feeble attempt to avoid too frequent recurrence of accident made
by setting posts on line of high road, and painting tops white. If,
after this, anyone on pitch-dark night mistakes road, only themselves
to blame. Other roads and lanes perplexingly branching out to right
and left at short intervals; kept on steadily till church came in
view; found the house; not difficult, as there was only one; also
discovered letter-box painted red. Twenty minutes to five was hour for
clearing box; barely that; posted letters. Turning away when observed
remark on letter-box, "Next collection Monday."
Pretty go, this; postman evidently been before his time; no sign of
him on wide expanse. Looking round perceived Elderly Gentleman sitting
in garden behind house; doubtless this was the householder; apparently
had anticipated Sunday by putting on best clothes; black frock coat,
getting brown about the seams; high collar, nearly covering black
stock; black waistcoat, which seemed to belong to other suit than the
coat; (was buttoned close up over stock, whilst coat, with generous
lapels folded back, buttoned low down); brown trousers, a little short
in leg; stout green umbrella under left arm. Elderly Gentleman was
sitting on rustic bench, with cup of cider at hand, and expression of
serene content on his wrinkled face. A quaintly-coloured cup, with two
handles close together, presumably with view to taking a good pull
at contents. "Bin my grandfather's," he said, looking at it with
affection, and incidentally half emptying it. There was a motto
roughly scrawled by the potter; Elderly Gentleman read it to me:
Erth I am et es most trew,
Disdain me not for so be yew.
Thus it was spelled, but no one born out of Devon could convey the
tremendous sound of the _u_ in the rhyming words. This peculiar to the
soil; even barndoor fowls have it; notice that gamecock at The
Cottage when it wakes me early in the morning, always shrilly pipes
"cock-a-doodle-_dew_!" Asked Elderly Gentleman if he lived here?
Born in the house, he said. Was he going for a walk? No, only sitting
about. Then why the umbrella? Ah! he always took it out of drawer with
his Sunday clothes, and put it under his arm, if he was only sitting
in the garden.
But that's another story, told me after we had caught the postman.
* * * * *
"THE ART OF 'SAVOY FARE.'"
Mr. D'OYLY CARTE is to be heartily congratulated on his brilliant
mounting of Messrs. GILLIVAN and SULBERT'S most recent production
entitled _Utopia (Limited)_. "Limited" it is in more senses than one.
As there was, according to the immortal _Cyrus Bantam, M.C._, when he
was giving his information to _Mr. Pickwick_, "nobody old or ugly in
Ba-ath," so there is on "the spindle side" no one old or ugly on the
stage of the Savoy Theatre. And this, too, with a difference, applies
to Sir ARTHUR'S music, in which if there be nothing particularly
new--and the old familiar friends receive the heartiest welcome--there
is at all events nothing dull, even though it may "hardly ever" rise
above mere commonplace. Occasionally there is a snatch of sweet melody
that brings to mind the composer's happiest inspirations, whether in
oratorio or burlesque.
As to dramatic plot--well, strictly speaking, there is none; and it
would be difficult to name a single telling "situation," in _Utopia
(Limited)_. The Monarch of Utopia wishes to introduce English customs
into his kingdom; there is a court party opposed to this innovation:
that's the essence of it. In the First Act the one hit, is the
introduction of _Captain Corcoran_ from _The Pinafore_ of years
ago, and the repetition of the once popular catch-phrase about "What
never?" and "Hardly ever," which, taken as applying to our most recent
tragical ironclad disaster, is thoroughly appreciated. Beyond this,
as far as dialogue and music go, in the First Act there is very little
anyone would care to "carry away with him" after a first visit. And
if that little were carried away the residuum would offer scant
attraction.
[Illustration: THE UNION OF ARTS. "Again we come to thee,
Savoy."--_Old Duet._]
As for the Second Act, with its Royal Drawing-room scene, its splendid
costumes, and its mimicry of Court etiquette, have we not witnessed a
similar spectacle on a larger scale in a Drury Lane Pantomime, not so
very many years ago? And was not that arranged by the same artistic
stage-manager, who is now, by a wise dispensation of theatrical
providence, in command at the Savoy, yclept Mr. CHARLES HARRIS? I
fancy the Drury Lane Pantomime had the best of it in point of broad
fun, as, if I remember right, HERBERT CAMPBELL was the Queen, and
HARRY NICHOLLS the King. Before this scene is the principal hit of
the Second Act, when the King, Mr. BARRINGTON,--to whom author and
composer are under considerable obligations for the success of
the piece, and without whose acting, dancing, and singing the
entertainment would fare indifferently well,--with his counsellors,
an admiral, a Lord Chamberlain, and so forth, place their chairs in
a row, and detaching from the back of each seat a musical instrument,
turn themselves into a St. James's ("Hall" not "Court") Christy
Minstrel Company, Unlimited, of which Mr. BARRINGTON, as the _Mr.
Johnson_, is the life and soul. Is this the remarkably original
creation of the united intellects of Messrs. GILBERT and SULLIVAN?
Have they ever heard of, or did either of them ever see a burlesque
entitled _Black Eye'd Susan_ at the Royalty, which ran a long way over
six hundred nights, and in later days was revived at the Opera
Comique and elsewhere? I will quote from the _Times_' notice of that
burlesque:--
"The court-martial arranged after the fashion of the
Christy's orchestra, every admiral being dressed in a colour
corresponding to his title, an actual 'nigger' figuring as
Admiral of the Black, is another odd device which keeps the
audience in a roar."
And it is this "odd device," with a Lord Chancellor, if I remember
right, or some legal luminary in black, for one of the "corner men,"
which is, after all is said, sung, and done, just the one thing (of
the two in the show) that brings down the house, and is applauded
to the echo as the outcome of the combined whimsical originality of
Messrs. GILBERT and SULLIVAN! Imitation being the sincerest flattery,
the author of _Black Eye'd Susan_ must be indeed gratified by this
tribute to his original success paid by the librettist and the
composer of _Utopia_, and having no further use for this particular
bit of humour, he will, no doubt, be willing to make a present of it,
free of charge, for nightly use, to the distinguished Savoyards as a
practical congratulation to the pair of them on their return to the
scene of some of their former triumphs.
Mr. BARRINGTON is the life and soul of the show; withdraw him, and
then there would be precious little left to draw, excepting, of
course, the _mise en scene_, due to Messrs. HARRIS and CARTE, if I may
put the HARRIS before the CARTE,--and to the Scenic Artist, CRAVEN.
Nor must I forget to mention the Electric Lightists, Messrs. LYONS and
KERR, which last is a queer combination of names, from the king of
the forest to the lowest of snappy dogs. Miss ROSINA BRANDRAM is, of
course, excellent in what she has to do, and Miss NANCY MCINTOSH is
equal to the occasion of her appearance. PERCY ANDERSON'S costumes are
gorgeous and artistic; and to the "Parisian Diamond Company" are due
the gems of the piece. The dances are by the ever fertile and agile
D'AUBAN, and everybody who has contributed to the success of the show
obtains honourable mention in the neat programme-card.
* * * * *
"Inquirer" writes: "I see an advertisement of a series called '_The
Aldine Poets_.' Exceptional bards I suppose, as I was always given
to understand that poets rarely eat anything. Will this series be
followed by '_The Allunch Poets_,' _The Allbreakfast Poets_,' and
'_The Allsup Poets'_? The last-mentioned, of course, will sing in
praise of ALLSUP'S Ale."
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
Missing or damaged punctuation has been repaired.