_June 6th_.--Rather gratifying to find that my service to the
Church--I don't mean Church Services--have at length been recognised.
Just received intimation of my appointment to Bishopric of
Richborough. How wild it _will_ make my dear old friend, Canon
STARBOTTLE, to be sure! Well--I must accept it as a _call_, I suppose!
_July_.--Had no idea being made a Bishop was such an expensive
business. No end of officials connected with Cathedral, all of whom
demand their fee. After spending at least £500 in this way, found
there was an additional fee of a hundred guineas for "induction into
the temporalities." As there are _no_ temporalities nowadays, this
is simply extortion. Remarked so to the Dean, who replied (nastily, I
think), "Oh, it's for the interest of the Church not to have _paupers_
for Prelates." I retorted at once, rather ably, that "I could not
conceive a better plan for bringing Prelates to pauperism than
the exaction of extortionate fees at Installation." Dean replied,
sneeringly, "Oh, if you don't value the honour, I suppose there's
still time for you to resign." Resign, yes; but should I get back my
five or six hundred pounds?
_Next year_.--Strange, how I seem to be singled out for preferment.
Am to be "translated," it seems, to diocese of Minchester. Can't very
well refuse, but really am only just getting over drain on my purse
last year owing to my accepting Bishopric _here_. And on inquiry,
find that fees at Minchester much heavier than anywhere else! Is this
really a call? Certainly a call on my pocket. And my family cost such
a tremendous lot. And then I've had to do up the Palace, left by my
predecessor in a perfectly _shocking_ state of disrepair!
_Later_.--My worst apprehensions were realised! Fee for Consecration
_huge_! Fee for Installation, _monstrous_! Fee for Investiture,
a perfect _swindle_! Isn't there a song beginning "Promotion is
vexation, Translation is as had?" Translation is _worse_! Shall
really have to consider whether there would be anything unepiscopal in
negotiating a little loan, or effecting a mortgage on the Palace.
_Year Later_.--Have been offered vacant Archbishopric! No, thanks!
Late Archbishop almost swamped by the fees, and _he_ was a rich man.
I am a poor man--thanks to recent preferments--and can't afford it. An
Archbishop in the Bankruptcy Court would _not_ look well. "His
Grace attributed his position to expenses connected with the various
Installation ceremonies, and offered a composition of one-and-sixpence
in the pound, which was unanimously declined by the creditors." When
_will_ they do away with gate-money in the Church?
* * * * *
Some _savants_ were the other day puzzling their heads to find a
convenient and familiar word for the illumination produced by the
electric spark. Surely it is _Edisunlight_.
* * * * *
"BEROOFEN!"
"Well," quoth the Baron DE BOOK-WORMS, as he sat down to dinner on a
Friday, a week ago, "I must say I have never, never been better in my
life! Why, dear me, it is quite a year since I was ill!"
"_Beroofen_!" exclaimed an Italian Countess of dazzling beauty, at
the same time rapping the table with one of the bejewelled forks which
form part of the Baron's second-best dinner-service.
"Why '_Beroofen_'?" asked the Baron.
"It is a spell against the consequences of boasting," the lady
explained. "My mother was a bit of a magician."
"And you, my dear Countess, are bewitching. Your health!" And,
pledging her, the Baron drank off a bumper of Pommery '80 _très sec_,
and laughed joyously at the notion of his rapping the table--all
"table-rapping" being a past superstition, or supperstition when
not at dinner,--and murmuring, "_Beroofen_!" And so he didn't do
it. "_Beroofen_" never passed his lips: the champagne did; but not
"_Beroofen_."
* * * * *
[Illustration]
"Ugh I--I feel so shivery-and-livery. Ugh!--so chilly. Here! Send for
Dr. ROBSON ROOSTEM PASHA!" cried the Baron, clapping his hands, and a
thousand ebon slaves bounded off to execute his commands. Had they not
done so, they themselves might have suffered the fate intended for the
commands, and have themselves been rapidly executed.
* * * * *
"You've got 'em," quoth Dr. ROBSON ROOSTEM PASHA.
"Not 'again'!" cried the Baron, surprised, never having had 'em
before.
"No: the _phenomena_," said the Eminent Medico.
"Have I?" murmured the Baron, and sank down into his uneasy chair.
It was an awful thing to have the Phenomena. It might have been the
measles in Greek. Anything but that! Anything but _that_! But Dr.
ROOSTEM explained that "_phenomena_" is not Greek for measles, though
perhaps Phenomenon might be Greek for "one measle;" but this would be
singular, very singular.
"I must tap you," continued the friend-in-need. "No--no--don't be
alarmed. When I say 'tap,' I mean _sound_ you."
Then he began the woodpecking business. In the character of Dr.
Woodpecker he tapped at the hollow oak chest, sounded the Baron's
heart of oak, pronounced him true to the core, whacked him, smacked
him, insisted upon his calling out "Ninety-nine," in various tones,
so that it sounded like a duet to the old words, without much of the
tune--
"I'm ninety-nine,
I'm ninety-nine!"
the remainder of which the Baron had never heard, even in his earliest
childhood.
So it was a quarter of an hour of inspiration, musical and poetic,
and, at its expiration, Dr. MARK TAPLEY, as the Baron declared he must
henceforth be called, announced that there was nothing for it but to
make the Baron a close prisoner in his own castle, where he would have
to live up to the mark, as if he were to be shown, a few months hence,
at a prize cattle-show, among other Barons of Beef.
"Champagne Charley is your name, so is Turtle soup, so is succulent
food, and plenty of it. Generally provision the fortress, and
withstand the assaults of the enemy. If a bacillus creeps in through a
loophole, knock him on the head with the best champagne at hand, and,
if you're not worse in a day or two, you'll be better in a week! _Au
revoir!_" _Exit_ Dr. MARK TAPLEY.
* * * * *
And so the Baron remained within, and sent for his books, and above
all _One of Our Conquerors_, by "The GEO. M.," who is the CARLYLE
of Novelists. The first volume was missing. In a few days it had
returned. The first chapters, however, seemed still wandering. But
the Baron was better, and could follow them slowly, though not without
effort, wondering whither he was being led. When he arrives at Chapter
VII., unless the novelist ceases to meander, the Baron will exclaim
with _Hamlet_, "Speak! I'll go no further!" Yet, 'tis marvellous
clever and entertaining withal.
* * * * *
Perhaps there will be a vacation after this attack of Miss Influenza
on the unfortunate Baron. Alas! for the present, it is _La Donna
Influenza_ who is "_One of Our Conquerors_!"
* * * * *
This morning, after a fortnight of it, the Baron was about to announce
that he was better, but at the outset he paused, corrected himself,
and, tapping the breakfast-table with his fork, he exclaimed,
"_Beroofen_!"
_Moral._--Be quite sure you're out of the wood, though maybe you were
never in it, and _even then_ don't congratulate yourself. "Mumm"'s the
word (so's "Pommery" also by the way, not forgetting "Greno," all such
being excellent Fizzic for the Epidemic), as to your state of health,
and don't forget the charm--"_Beroofen_!"
* * * * *