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 A VERY Mx\D WORLD 
 
NEW NOVELS AT THE LIBRARIES. 
 
 THE liASS THAT LOVED A SOLDIER. By G. M. 
 
 Fenn. 3 vols. 
 IN DURANCE VILE. By the Author of " Molly Bawn." 
 
 3 vols. 
 TOILERS OF BABYLON. By B. L. Farjeon. 3 vols. 
 MONICA. By H. Everett-Green, r. vols. 
 ONE FOR THE OTHER. By EsME Stuart. 3 vols. 
 THE CURSE OF KOSHIN. By the Hon. Lewis 
 
 WiNGriELD. 55. 
 
 GLORINDA. By Anna Bowman Dodd. 5^. 
 
 WARD & DOWNEY, Publishebs, London. 
 
A TEEY MAD WORLD: 
 
 OB, * 
 
 MYSELF AND MY NEIGHBOUR FAIR. 
 
 BY 
 
 FEANK HUDSON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE LAST HURDLE : A STORY OF SPORTING AND COURTING, 
 "THE ORIGIN OF PLUM PUDDING," &C. 
 
 IN TWO VOL UMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 WAED AND DOWNEY, 
 12,, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 1889. 
 [The Right of Dramatising any part of this Novel is reserved.} 
 
PRINTED BY 
 
 KEfiLV AND CO., MIDDLE MILL, KINQfiTON-ON-THAMBS 
 
 AND GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C. 
 

 V 
 
 '-0 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 C^ CHAP. 
 
 ^ I.- 
 
 ^ 
 
 II. 
 III. 
 
 P IV.—' 
 r • VI.—' 
 
 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 
 
 IX. 
 
 
 X. 
 
 
 XI. 
 
 V 
 
 XII 
 
 XIII. 
 
 t 
 
 XIV. 
 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 
 >s 
 
 XVII. 
 
 
 XV ill. 
 XIX. 
 
 
 XX 
 
 ^"^ 
 
 XXI 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 XXII 
 
 XXIII 
 
 The Madness of this World proved beyond a 
 
 Doubt ..... 1 
 
 Cases op Madness among the Lower Orders . 11 
 I Dine out ..... 18 
 
 The Butler and the Bluebottle . . .27 
 
 Exit Wilkins ..... 33 
 
 The Advantages op being Little . . .41 
 
 A Suggestion ..... 47 
 
 The G-ardener's Daughter . . .56 
 
 Nature will be Nature still . . 63 
 
 Civilized Savages . . . . .70 
 
 At the Opera ..... 77 
 
 That's the Way the Money goes . 85 
 
 Concerning Fritz .... 93 
 
 A Musical Afternoon .... 101 
 ■The Widow and I go to Church . . 108 
 
 Paul Joyce explains his Mission . . .115 
 
 Mrs. Coombes ..... 123 
 
 At the Theatre ..... 130 
 Those Yankees .... 138 
 
 -Very Low Comedy . . . .146 
 
 -Paul's Confession .... 155 
 
 -By the Sad Sea Waves .... 171 
 Mrs. Wilson Appears .... 178 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP, 
 
 -^^^^•— The Pleasures of English Travelling . 
 
 ^XV.— Back again in Brownlow 
 
 XXVI.— I Lunch with the Widow 
 
 XXVII, — Aunt Minerva 
 
 XXVIII. — A Sanguinary Subject . . 217 
 
 XXIX. — Tom Pierce arrives . . _ 228 
 
 XXX. — Tom meets his Aunt . . 237 
 
 XXXI.— Miss Minerva assists at a Matinee . 246 
 
 XXXII.— Vive L'Amour ... 258 
 
 XXXIII. — A Letter prom Paul . . 266 
 
 PAGE 
 
 186 
 193 
 201 
 209 
 
TO 
 
 M. H. 
 
 rts §ook is gcbicaleb. 
 
A YERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 Bool^ 1. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE MADNESS OF THIS WOHLD PROVED BEYOND 
 A DOUBT. 
 
 You have doubtless read and forgotten it, 
 but it is nevertheless quite true that in 
 ancient times a very large sect of philosophers 
 maintained that all men were mad. This 
 belief is still current amongst our greatest 
 madmen, by which I mean our greatest 
 thinkers of the present day. Professor Ball 
 (of Paris, I believe) declares there are mil- 
 lions of people on this planet suffering from 
 some form or another of insanity. But the 
 
 VOL. I. 1 
 
2 A VEEY MAD WORLD, 
 
 professor does not go far enough : the ancients 
 were nearer the truth. Now I am mad — 
 yes, I, Phihp Brownlow, J.P., aged forty, of 
 
 Brownlow House, shire, am as mad as a 
 
 March hare. But I am not a lunatic. And 
 
 here let me state once for all, that there 
 
 exists as great a difference between lunacy 
 
 and mere madness as there is between rabies 
 
 and mere distemper. Yes, I am mad, and 
 
 pride myself on the fact, for I like to be in 
 
 the fashion. Everybody with brains is mad. 
 
 Now Hodge, whose brains are in his horny 
 
 hands, is not mad. Were he so, he would 
 
 never work like a slave in my fields from 
 
 early morn till dewy eve for a few shillings 
 
 per week. No, becoming discontented with 
 
 his lot, he would trudge up to choking London 
 
 to seek his fortune, which he would not be 
 
 very long in finding in jail (if very mad), or 
 
 in the workhouse (if only middling mad). 
 
 But Hodge labours under the disadvantage of 
 
 being sane, and so he works hard, lives on 
 
.THE MADNESS OF THIS WORLD PKOVED. 3 
 
 bread and bacon, and dies of old age. , Poor 
 fellow ! He has no brains in his head to go 
 mad with. 
 
 Those who are blessed with a laro^e amount 
 of brains are very mad — a great deal madder 
 than I can ever hope to be, though I may 
 state, with, I trust, pardonable pride, that I 
 am akin to the Great Napoleon in the matter 
 of window counting, and to Dr. Johnson 
 (grand old madman !) in " step counting." 
 Indeed, in one point I beat those two illus- 
 trious madmen. There, I have said it ! My 
 pride has got the better of my modesty, and 
 out it must come. Napoleon only counted 
 the windows in houses ; / count the number 
 of panes in each window, and (if I enter tlie 
 house) the number of chairs, tables, pictures 
 and ornaments therein. But, alas ! I am very 
 far behind Napoleon in other points. I am 
 not mad enough to think I could conquer the 
 world. As to the great doctor, I have beaten 
 his " step counting " very often by counting 
 
 1-2 
 
4 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 every flagstone which I have stepped on from 
 the Marble Arch to Oxford Circus. One of 
 the stranofest facts in this mad world is that 
 the maddest people are the very people who 
 think themselves the sanest. Mayhap, you, 
 my dear mad brother, are one of that class ? 
 Don't think I wish to flatter — I say mayhap 
 you are. If so, don't you think yourself a 
 great deal wiser and more godly than your 
 neighbours ? Don't you firmly believe in your 
 heart of hearts that your children are brighter, 
 your house better managed, and yourself a 
 person of superior knowledge and discrimina- 
 tion ? You know you do : if you did not, 
 you would be a mere brainless sane-man. But 
 you have plenty of brains, my dear mad 
 brother, and that is the reason you are con- 
 stantly doing things which a costermonger's 
 jackass would deem very foolish. 
 
 In nothing do we exhibit our madness to 
 such an extent as in our pastimes and public 
 amusements. Many of us will, under a blazing 
 
THE MADNESS OF THIS WORLD PROVZD. 5 
 
 June sun, tire ourselves to deatli (besides run- 
 ning the risk of broken noses) by striking a hard 
 leather ball with a piece of wood, called a bat. 
 Is there the slightest particle of sanity in a foot- 
 ball match ? Were you ever in one ? If not, try 
 it. Let us take our ^reat town amusement — 
 the theatre. The theatre is a place wherein 
 certain men and women appear upon a plat- 
 form (called a stage) and for the space of 
 some three hours represent themselves to be 
 other people — such as kings, queens, knaves, 
 virtuous maidens, ladies of fashion, &c. ; and 
 they love, murder and die ; or plot, intrigue 
 and marry ; or sing, dance and make vulgar 
 jokes. When the business is finished, a green 
 curtain descends and hides them from your 
 view, you rise from your seat and make the 
 best of your way into the street, while the 
 people who represented themselves to be 
 other people, change their clothes, wash the 
 paint from their faces, and lo ! are them- 
 selves again. Now, I will take it that you, 
 
6 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 my dear mad brother, have been sitting in 
 that part of the theatre which is called the 
 stalls. You could have taken a seat in that 
 part called the pit if you liked. The pit 
 might be styled the " unreserved stalls," it 
 being only separated from the stalls proper 
 by a thin partition about four feet high. 
 To be sure, the pit seats are neither numbered 
 nor cushioned, and moreover are only about a 
 quarter the price of the seats in the stalls ; so 
 ■of course you could not think of sitting there. 
 No, delightful madman that you are, you 
 go to the stalls, where the lady in the next 
 seat to yours shudders at the sight of some 
 factory girls drinking beer from a bottle 
 in the gallery, as she removes her mantle, 
 displaying a tout ensemble in the matter of 
 bosom and neck the sight of which would 
 make that hapless sane-man Hodge blush 
 up to the roots of his carroty hair. Well, 
 the tiling called the " play " is over, and 
 the green curtain is very much in evidence. 
 
THE MADNESS OF THIS WORLD PROVED. 7 
 
 Why do you strike your hands together in 
 that rapid manner ? Oh ! you are pleased ! 
 I understand : the thing called a " play " 
 has pleased you. That is to say, a certain 
 number of men and women who have 
 appeared before you and who have pre- 
 tended to be other people, have caused 
 you pleasure, and so you make a crow- 
 clapper of your hands. Very good : and 
 that gentleman behind you in tlie pit, 
 what does he mean by imitating the voice 
 of an angry gander ? Oh ! he is not pleased 
 with the thing called a play, and so he 
 makes a noise like a gander. And you, 
 my dear mad brother, and that other mad 
 brother in the pit, both think yourselves 
 sane men ! Will you, when you reach home 
 to-night, and are pleased with your light 
 supper, clap your hands together for fully 
 sixty-five seconds ? Or will he from the pit 
 there, when he gets home and finds the baby 
 squalling, or the water turned off, or some 
 
8 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 such displeasing occurrence, will he, imitating 
 the gander, hiss for the same period ? 
 
 In my old college days I had a " chum " from 
 Ireland, and a madman after mine own heart. 
 The dear fellow thought himself a very Solo- 
 mon. I have known him to go miles out of 
 his way for the express purpose of procuring 
 what he called " real Irish whisky," and 
 which, in the goodness of his heart, he would 
 invite me to partake of. 
 
 " Ah," he would say, " it cost me a journey 
 to get this whisky, Phil, but it is well worth 
 any journey, for it is strong and well- 
 llavoured." 
 
 And then, into this strong, well-flavoured 
 whisky, which cost him such a journey, would 
 he pour a spoonful of rum, which took the 
 flavour away, hot water, which took its 
 strength away, sugar to sweeten it, and then 
 a bit of lemon to make it bitter again. 
 
 How often will those who are mad enough 
 to know better rave about the wisdom of 
 
THE MADNESS OF THIS WOELD PROVED. 9 
 
 certain people who have made a noise ip. the 
 world. They will cite Bacon. Well, Bacon 
 was the greatest philosopher who ever lived. 
 Was he sane ? Perish the thought ! Were 
 he a brainless sane-man do you think he would 
 stop his coach on a bleak morning in High- 
 gate, and Cjuit its warm interior to stuff a 
 chicken with snow, thereby catching a cold 
 which killed him ? And Izaak Walton, "the 
 gentle and the wise " — how about him ? Was 
 there anything very gentle in killing a harm- 
 less necessary cat for the mere purpose of 
 baiting a fishhook with part of its entrails? 
 W^as there anything very wise in the old man 
 leaving his warm bed at two o'clock on a 
 rainy morning to go fishing for a logger- 
 headed chub, which when caught he would 
 bestow upon the first red-cheeked milkmaid 
 who sang him a song by Kit Marlow ? Was 
 Byron sane when he started the Liberal 1 
 Was Yoltaire sane when he fancied himself 
 superior to Shakespeare ? or Walpole when 
 
10 A YEKY MAD WORLD. 
 
 he collected bits of old iron? or Frederic 
 the Great when he thought himself a poet ? 
 or Charles the First when he went to arrest 
 Pym and Hampden? or — but why continue 
 further ? Have I not said enough to show 
 that it is a mad world, my masters? And 
 the worst of it is that sane men have not 
 brains enough to mend it. 
 
CHAPTEB II. 
 
 CASES OF MADNESS AMONG THE LOWER ORDERS. 
 
 It is snowing like old Harry, but as I am 
 seated in my library with a good blazing 
 fire before me what do I care ? Let all the 
 birds, beasts and fishes throughout my broad 
 domain do what they can to keep themselves 
 
 comfortable. With this wish 
 
 The entrance of my housekeeper inter- 
 rupted me just now. She came to tell me 
 that Sally and Tom are going to be married, 
 and that, please, they have given a month's 
 warning. It's very odd — in fact it's most ex- 
 traordinary. It is the first time I have met 
 with the case of two people in the lower order 
 of life being gifted with madness. What are 
 we coming to when groom and housemaid 
 are endowed with brains ? Tom is a capital 
 
12 A VEKY MAD WORLD. 
 
 groom, and can doctor a horse as well as 
 any V.S. in tlie market ; I allow him thirty 
 pounds a year, with board, lodging and livery, 
 lie is young — not more than twenty-five, and 
 should he elect to remain in my service until 
 he was, say, fifty, just calculate what a nice 
 little sum he could save to open a little public 
 house with. Sally is about twenty, neat and 
 pretty. She receives twenty pounds a year 
 and " all found." Now these two young per- 
 sons are going to cast from them all these 
 advantages for the sake of matrimony. Once 
 married, as they are Avell aware, their careers 
 as domestic servants are ruined. How are 
 they going to exist ? How are all the little 
 Toms and Sallies — ex servants are extrava- 
 gant in that way — going to exist ? Do the 
 mad couple know or care ? Not they ; it is 
 only sane people who bother themselves about 
 such matters. 
 
 Talking of ni}^ housekeeper, she is an 
 Irishwoman. The fact is I have been greatly 
 
CASES OF MADNESS AMONJ THE LOWER ORDERS. 13 
 
 troubled in my time in the matter of house- 
 keepers. I think I had six, all told, ere I 
 secured Mrs. Murphy's services ; all were well 
 up to their duties, but were every one of 
 them a little shaky over their " r's." They 
 were a peg above those humble people who 
 are misers with their "h's," but they went 
 in very heavy with the " r's." One of them, 
 the youngest of the lot, was always talking 
 about her par, and the very next one I 
 engaged told me her mar was a real lady. 
 
 Now my cook the other morning in my 
 hearing called Tom " an impurent feller," but 
 I don't mind that. My cook and I seldom 
 engage in conversation of any length ; with 
 my housekeeper it is quite different, and I 
 will not endure one who cannot pronounce 
 her own language when speaking to me. 
 Hence Mrs. Murphy. She has a delicious 
 Dublin (county) brogue, which reminds me 
 of Mrs. Boucicault. Some connoisseurs pre- 
 fer the Cork brogue, others are charmed 
 
14 A VEEY MAD WOELD. 
 
 with the Limerick, while some are blessed 
 with ears to which even the Galway and 
 Antrim brogues are music. iJ^ow, having 
 travelled a great deal through that very mad 
 island, called Ireland, I flatter myself that I 
 am a bit of a judge of brogues, and I say 
 without fear or favour that the County Dub- 
 lin, County Waterford and County Louth 
 brogues are the pick of the basket. I wish 
 some great professor would, during a lucid 
 interval, explain how it comes that the purest 
 English is spoken in Dublin, and also why 
 the peasantry of Munster and Leinster speak 
 Ehzabethan English almost in its purity. 
 When the professor explains us all this, he 
 micfht then oive a lecture on the extraor- 
 dinary correctness of the pronunciation of 
 foreign words by the Irish peasants all over 
 the country from Dublin to Cork. 
 
 Well, about this housekeeper of mine — 
 she is awfully sane, though she once showed 
 symptoms of the highest order of intellect. 
 
CASES OF MADNESS AMONG THE LOWER ORDERS. 15 
 
 Yes. on one occasion slie acted like a «sen- 
 sible madwoman. Her only son, who is as 
 mad as mad can be — his late father was a 
 whisky-taster in the Customs — -took it into 
 his head to enlist. Upon hearing of this 
 Mrs. Murphy cried herself nearly blind, and 
 then informed my butler (of whom more 
 anon) that as her son had disgraced his 
 family by enlisting, she had resolved to dis- 
 own him. Meanwhile, Pat Murphy was 
 ordered off to the wars, and after helping 
 to shoot down a few blacks, returned to 
 Woolwich with his regiment. Immediately 
 after his arrival he wrote to his mother, 
 who after glancing over the letter put it 
 into the fire, and never answered it. A very 
 determined woman is Mrs. Murphy. Her 
 son was dead to her — he had disgraced his 
 family by donning a red coat. Three months 
 later another letter came from Pat, stating 
 that he had been made a corporal, and had 
 been awarded a medal, and containing his 
 
16 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 photograph with the corporal stripes on his arm 
 
 and the medal on his breast. Then did Mrs. 
 
 Murphy's interval of madness take place. 
 
 "What do you think, sur," she exclaimed 
 
 to me with pride and pleasure beaming all 
 
 over her face, " but me son Pat is a corporal, 
 
 a full corporal, with strips and all, and a 
 
 beautiful medal ; there is his likeness, sur, 
 
 which he sent me." She ended by asking 
 
 my permission to go to "Woolwich to see 
 
 him. I wonder what would become of Mrs. 
 
 Murphy if her son had been made a major, 
 
 or even a captain? Her madness would then 
 
 culminate in lunacy, and Colney Hatch would 
 
 be her portion. 
 
 Do you like dinner-parties ? I hate them. 
 One has to endure them, but in my private 
 opinion the people who give them ought all 
 to be hanged, drawn and quartered. I am 
 reluctantly compelled to make one at a 
 dinner-party to-morrow evening. The friends 
 who are responsible for the infernal thing 
 
CASES OF MADNESS AMONG THE LOWER ORDERS. 17 
 
 are near neighbours, Sir James Walls and 
 his moon-faced wife, Lady Walls — why will 
 people insist on giving the title " Lady " to 
 a baronet's wife ? " Dame " is the correct 
 title. Lady Walls is almost as mad as her 
 husband, and lost a stone and a half in 
 weight last season because she was not in- 
 vited to the State Ball. But she could well 
 afford it. 
 
 VOL. L 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 I DINE OUT. 
 
 A MISERABLE February evening : roads almost 
 impassable with snow, bitter wind blowing 
 from the north. Just the evening to sit 
 by one's warm fireside. This being so, and 
 for no other reason that I can think of, 
 these Walls invite us all to journey in the 
 cold from all parts of the county for the 
 express purpose of eating at their table. 
 Here we are then, men and women, cooped 
 up in this dining-room, having journeyed 
 thither in closed carriages over the snow- 
 blocked roads at the rate of three miles an 
 hour. Heaven help the poor women going 
 home to-night, for they are in full dinner 
 dress, which means little dress at all. Look 
 at that old hag, Mrs. Tatte-Snarlow, with 
 
I DINE OUT. 19 
 
 half the top part of her wrinkled bocl}^ bare, 
 and with a diamond necklace encircling her 
 scraggy neck, the vulgar old creature ! She 
 was a beauty in her youth. I well remember 
 her twenty-five years ago, just after her mar- 
 riage with Mr. Thomas Tatte, a barrister 
 in a very large way of business — he was 
 making upwards of twenty thousand a year, 
 and had purchased Brief Hall, an adjacent 
 property. Mrs. Tatte was the daughter of 
 the Eeverend Jacob Slow, who preached 
 soporific sermons in our parish church for 
 thirty years, and then died of the gout. 
 Strange as it appears, this clergyman had 
 only one child. Well, as none of the male 
 members of the county families made a bid, 
 Julia married the common barrister, and 
 became mistress of Brief Hall. She has 
 four gawky sons, and three sharp-nosed 
 daughters — there they were, gazing with 
 silent rapture on the handsome features of 
 young Cornhurst, who is heir to thirty 
 
 2—2 
 
20 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 thousand acres and an earldom. But why 
 Teitte-Snarlow ? I know there is a phase of 
 madness amongst the middle classes, which 
 consists of an absorbing desire to have as many 
 names as possible. But why Snarlow f that's 
 what bothers me. Must find out all about it. 
 Yes, here we are, men in white ties like 
 a lot of waiters or parsons, and swallow-tail 
 coats like Christy Minstrels, while the women 
 are resplendent in the latest dinner costumes. 
 And we are all feeding. That's what we are 
 all dressed to death for — for the purpose of 
 feeding. Think of it. Have you ever known 
 a gloomy cow, or a corpulent pig, write to 
 other cows or pigs, asking them to come a 
 distance of so many miles over snowy roads 
 for the express purpose of swallowing cut grass, 
 or mashed mangolds ? You know you never 
 have. All animals are dreadfully sane, save 
 those, like the dog, who dwell much amon^? 
 men. Such animals occasionally go mad, as 
 a matter of course. 
 
I DISE OUT. 21 
 
 A diminutive object attached to a larp-p 
 moustache is seated opposite me. He is our 
 M.F.H. Now, this creature has a rent-roll 
 of forty thousand per annum, most of which 
 he spends on race-horses, while the remainder 
 goes for sealskin jackets and diamond ear- 
 rings. Said jackets and ear-rings arc be- 
 stowed upon ladies whose love is extremely 
 catholic. Our M.F.H. is quite aware of the 
 fact. He is also aware that his racers never 
 win any races — indeed, many of the animals 
 he has never seen, his trainer being generally 
 the purchaser. The latter buys and sells his 
 patron's horses just as he pleases. Forty 
 thousand a year on worthless women and 
 useless horses ! And 3^et we give this man 
 the important post of master of our fox- 
 hounds. To be sure he pays all expenses, 
 but still the fact remains that he spends forty 
 thousand a year on worthless objects. 
 Watch how all the young ladies beam upon 
 him. Forty thousand a year, my dear, and 
 
22 A VEEY MAD WOULD. 
 
 only tliink of him buying those horrid 
 women in London, and we pure, well-bred 
 county girls dying to sell ourselves to him. 
 Of course, none of us would think of selling 
 ourselves in that ofF-hand careless fashion 
 affected by those horrid London women. No, 
 we must have a hoop of gold put on our 
 finger, and the clergyman must read some- 
 thing called a marriage service, and we must 
 shed copious tears when kissing mamma, and 
 all that sort of thing, you know. How lucky 
 for us none of those horrid London creatures 
 insisted on all that ceremony! 
 
 Ah ! you dear English girls, with your 
 native dignit}^ innocence and grace, there is 
 a lot of method in your madness. One of 
 you will capture our poor little M.F.H., 
 and then woe betide him if he is caught 
 investing in sealskin jackets. His moustache 
 won't save him. 
 
 Little Mrs. Wilson is on my right, her 
 wicked black ejes sparkling, and her face 
 
I DINE OUT. 23 
 
 all over dimples. Are you aware that 
 dimply women are scarce now-a-days ? They 
 are dying out like those flaxen-haired 
 beauties, that were 
 
 " Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks 
 In Vallombrosa " 
 
 some twenty years ago, and who are as 
 scarce now as the chough and ruff. They 
 were a dangerous breed. Dimply little 
 widows, like Mrs. Wilson here, were also 
 very much to the fore some years ago ; they 
 are — or were — a good-natured species. Little 
 Mrs. Wilson is very wealthy, and her estate 
 joins mine on the north side. 
 
 Look at that tall, beardless, creamy-faced 
 hobbledehoy of a fellow, with his pretty 
 little golden-haired wife sitting between him 
 and the M.F.H. He looks foolish enough 
 to be a sane man, but not so — he is very 
 mad. He is the Duke of Stanton (we call 
 him the Young Duke), and his pretty little 
 
24 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 wife hails from America. He does not care 
 a straw for lier, but being poor, for a duke, 
 lie sold his title to a Chicas^o heiress. Does 
 she care for the owner of the costly purchase ? 
 Not the ghost of a bit ; she is as free from 
 love as a frog from feathers — that is so far 
 as her husband is concerned. Her grace, 
 as I have stated, is a Chicago lady, and 
 the daughter of a very wealthy potted- 
 meat manufacturer. I presume that is the 
 reason she is a prominent member of our 
 local Primrose League, which numbers ten 
 members, all told ; they are all married 
 ladies. They have no families. Now will 
 you just think, you people who imagine 
 yourselves sane — ^just reflect on the pic- 
 ture of your wives meeting together in 
 a room, and then rising one after another 
 to gabble on what they know nothing 
 about. At present all our Primrose Dames 
 are more or less rabid on the Home 
 Eule question. Good heavens ! What do 
 
I DINE OUT. 2^ 
 
 cliildless wives, who leave their silent homes 
 to the care of servants, while they go abroad 
 making foolish speeches — what cZ^ they know 
 about Home Eule? 
 
 "Did you read my speech on Home Eule, 
 Mr. Brownlow ? " asked her grace the other 
 day. I had not, and said so. 
 
 "' Oh ! you should have done so," she went 
 on ; "it was very well reported in the 
 Morning Mail. They sent down a reporter 
 specially." 
 
 " Did they indeed ? That was very enter- 
 prising. By the way, was your grace ever 
 in Ireland?" 
 
 " Ireland ! " with a shudder. " No, thanks ; 
 I don't wish to run the chance of being shot 
 from behind a hedge." 
 
 "Have you ever read Irish history, 
 duchess ? " 
 
 " I never knew there was such a thing." 
 
 I thought not. 
 
 " Just fancy those horrid Irish wanting to 
 
26 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 manage their own affairs,'"' further remarked 
 her grace. " Did you ever hear of anything 
 so absurd, Mr. Brownlow ? As if we English 
 would think of allowing such a thing ! " 
 
 " We English might do worse," I said. 
 " You Americans have got on very well 
 without us." 
 
 " Oh ! you talk nonsense," she snapped, 
 with an angry flush — ^just because I called 
 her an American. Fancy the daughter of 
 a great republican jobber getting angry on 
 being called an American. 
 
 ^ * * * * 
 
 This confounded dinner is over, thank 
 lieaven! 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE BUTLER AND THE BLUEBOTTLE. 
 
 When Euskin escapes from the clouds, and 
 comes down among his brother madmen, he 
 speaks words of burning madness — ay, 
 words whose mighty truth could only eman- 
 ate from a madman of the highest order. 
 Note his giving the common house-fly as the 
 highest type of courage. The thing looks 
 ridiculous at first blush, does it not? "As 
 brave as a bluebottle " does not seem a very 
 high-sounding compliment, and yet what hero 
 ancient or modern was, or is, as brave as a 
 bluebottle? Why, my dear sir (or madam), 
 a healthy bluebottle has not even an idea 
 of fear. He fears nothing. If you succeed 
 in frightening a bluebottle, write to the 
 Times at once, and tell them how you did 
 
28 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 it. You are sure to be made a baronet at 
 least, and very probably be granted a pension 
 out of the Literary Fund. 
 
 Now, I take it that no one w^ill contradict 
 me when I state that the common bluebottle 
 fly is as mad as a March hare. This is one 
 ol the causes of his marvellous bravery. 
 But there is another cause, and I think I 
 have discovered it : the bluebottle has no liver 
 — at least, none that I could discover with 
 a powerful microscope. You have no idea 
 what effect the liver has on one's courage. 
 Another fact which proves, be3^ond a doubt, 
 the absence of liver in the bluebottle is his 
 superhuman digestive powers. He fears no 
 food of any description, and thinks nothing 
 of fourteen or fifteen different courses for 
 breakfast. Now as a sample. It is the 6tli 
 of March and a "pet day" — sun shining warm 
 and bright through my breakfast-room win- 
 dow, almost killing the fire in the grate. 
 Mr. Bluebottle has awakened from his slum- 
 
THE UUTLER AND THE ELUEBOTTLE. 29 
 
 ber, and the beautiful weather has tempted 
 him to come from his retreat — somewhere 
 near the top of the further window — and 
 partake of some breakfast. After buzzing 
 round my head for a spell, he lit on my 
 hand ; from thence he flew to the ham and 
 eggs, and had a good banquet there ; from 
 that to the sugar, where he gorged himself 
 for fully three minutes, and then he attacked 
 the butter, and from that to the jam dish ; 
 then back to my hand once more. I brush him 
 off, and with a buzz he settles on the cream- 
 jug, and has a good minute's draught — fancy 
 cream on the top of ham and eggs ! I have 
 long since given up the idea of either killing 
 him or frio^hteninsf him. Neither can be 
 done. The cream has only renewed his ap- 
 petite, and once more he attacks the ham. 
 So steady and still does he work, that one 
 would imagine him dead. Dead ! off he is 
 again to the sugar. After that he tries the 
 butter, jam, bread, and cream once more 
 
30 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 in succession. Bless my soul, what a glorious 
 stomach ! Is it any wonder he fears nothing 
 on the face of the earth ? 
 
 My reason for mentioning this fly is born 
 of the fact that he is a great source of 
 annoyance to my butler. I think I have 
 mentioned that my butler suffers from sane- 
 ness to a terrible extent ; the taint is, I 
 believe, hereditary; his father, whom I re- 
 member quite well, being also a martyr to 
 saneness. Well, my butler has had several 
 battles with my gormand bluebottle, but has 
 always come off second best. 
 
 " Drat that fly, sir ! " he exclaimed to me 
 one morning. " I can't hit him nohow, and 
 he takes delight in putting me out." 
 
 To the sane mind of my butler, a spade 
 is a spade, and a fly is a fly. I remember 
 one evening last August we had a Turner- 
 esque sunset — the whole west, 
 
 " Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 
 But one unclouded glow of living light." 
 
THE BUTLER AND THE BLUEBOTTLE. 31 
 
 Seen from my study window, the , effect 
 was unutterably glorious. My butler hap- 
 pening to enter as I stood by the window, 
 I cried, " Wilkins, is it not beautiful ? " 
 
 "Which, sir?" 
 
 "The sunset." 
 
 "Sunset, sir? Oh, yes, sir." And he 
 looked at me suspiciously. He thought I 
 was mad. He was correct. What is there 
 beautiful about a sunset ? Why should I 
 call it glorious ? It is all delusive reflec- 
 tion. Whether is a Turneresque sunset, all 
 pink and gold, or a scowling sky and a sea 
 white with rage, the more glorious? Ask 
 the petrel : he will vote for the scowling 
 sky, the howling wind and the boiling sea, 
 I'll go bail. I once witnessed a sudden 
 squall at sea, as I sat safe on a harbour 
 wall. The squall occurred at about the dis- 
 tance of a mile from the shore. I saw the 
 smiling sea — it was in August — suddenly 
 lashed to fury, and in its mad rage, I saw 
 
32 A YEKY MAD WORLD. 
 
 it gobble up a bridal party in a pleasure 
 boat, and just behind my back were rows 
 of unliired pleasure boats nodding to sleep 
 in the quiet harbour. That squall was a 
 glorious sight — seen from a distance. The 
 bridal party were too close to it. I wonder 
 how we would fare if we managed to get well 
 into the middle of a Turneresque sunset? 
 
 But to return to my butler and the blue- 
 bottle. The feud has been long and bitter 
 on one side, at least. But just now Wilkins 
 entered, and opening the top of one of the 
 windows, out flew his enemy. 
 
 "That bluebottle fly has flew out, sir," 
 he said with a smile of quiet satisfaction, 
 as he proceeded to open the top of the other 
 window, when in flew the bluebottle through 
 it. He had only gone out for a slight airing. 
 I never saw a man so " taken back " as my 
 butler was. He was actually struck speech- 
 less when that fly lit on his nose. There 
 is nothing like silencing your enemy's guns. 
 
CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 EXIT WILKINS. 
 
 Mr. John Carter called to see me to-day. 
 He is on a visit at the Eectory. Carter is 
 a composer — writes music for songs. He is 
 not clever enough — I mean he has not brains 
 enough to be quite as mad as the great 
 composers, but he is mad enough in all con- 
 science. Although his name is John Carter 
 he signs himself " Victor D'Alton." I won- 
 der if French song composers give themselves 
 English names. Can it really be that Eng- 
 lishmen, like some parvenu Irishmen, are 
 ashamed of their own names? Kemember 
 this; men of birth, members of old families, 
 are always proud of their names, especially 
 in Ireland and Scotland. It is the parvenus 
 of both countries who seek to change their 
 
 VOL. I. 3 
 
34 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 names. The O'Donnels, landed gentry, are 
 proud of that 0' as can well be ; but the 
 Donnels, wife and daughter of the late Dr. 
 O'Donnel, M.D., cut the 0' from their name. 
 This is the madness begot of ignorance and 
 low birth. I heard of a medical man in Cork 
 whose real name was Muldoon, but who 
 changed it to Maldon! Now, Muldoon hap- 
 pens to be one of the most aristocratic names 
 in Ireland. A county family with that name 
 would hold their heads very high indeed. 
 But this parvenu pill-maker preferred Mal- 
 don. Ah! well, all this is by the way. 
 
 As to this man Carter, he sat for nearly 
 an hour telling me his woes. And what do 
 you think these woes consisted of ? Listen : 
 
 " Would you believe it, Mr. Brownlow, 
 were I to tell you that I have been invited 
 down here under false pretences?" he ex- 
 claimed, with a mad glare in his sky-blue 
 eyes. "You know that the parson is one of 
 my oldest friends, in fact I may state that 
 
EXIT WILKINS. 35 
 
 I was liis wife's first sweetheart. Well, he 
 wrote to me last week inviting me down to 
 The Eectory, stating that the quietude of 
 a country house would enable me to get 
 through my new set of hymns — words by 
 Lady Gosling — in less than no time ; the 
 gaiety, and constant round of visitors 
 and visiting must distract you dreadfully, 
 he added. Well, Mr. Brownlow, I came. 
 Do you think I have been able to do any 
 work on those hymns since .^ No, sir, not 
 a damned note. On the very day after my 
 arrival I had just sat down in my room to 
 compose, when up came one of the servants — 
 ' Please, sir, there are visitors in the drawing- 
 room.' Down I had to go and listen to the 
 jabber of a gouty major and his two lanky 
 daughters for fully half-an-hour. When they 
 were gone I was at liberty to return to my 
 desk. I don't believe I was at work ten 
 minutes when up came the servant with a 
 request for my presence in the drawing-room 
 
 3—2 
 
36 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 once more. Down I had to trot to be in- 
 troduced to Mrs. and the Misses Jones, of 
 Mountjones. Mrs. and the Misses Jones 
 jabbered for half-an-hour on the eldest Miss 
 Jones's forthcoming marriage with some one 
 or other, and then they retired. Back to my 
 desk again, but only for a few minutes, for 
 Mrs. Snarlow Tatti, or Totti Snarlow, or 
 whatever the devil the woman's name is, 
 arrived with her daughters, and of course I 
 was summoned to their presence. Have you 
 ever seen Mrs. Barlow Snatti, or whatever 
 her name is ? Yes ? Then you know what 
 she is ? Fancy my being dragged down all 
 the way from London to be introduced to 
 a thing like that ! " 
 
 " Very annoying, certainly," I observed. 
 
 " Annoying ! I should think it was, and 
 by the Lord Harry I won't stand it. I'll 
 leave for London to-morrow." 
 
 And away he went. That man has a great 
 grievance. The impertinent presumption of 
 
EXIT WILKINS. 37 
 
 dragging your guest down to the drawing- 
 room every time a chance acquaintance calls 
 on you should be punished with imprisonment. 
 Parvenues think it is " good form " to act 
 thus, but they are quite wrong in this, as 
 they are in nearly every other question of 
 etiquette. The case stands thus : — A invites 
 B to his country house. B is averse to 
 strange faces, and besides has some literary 
 or musical work to do. A says to himself, 
 " I know B is coming down to my house 
 for the sake of quietude, I know he detests 
 strange faces, and has a horror of being in- 
 troduced to people, yet I will compel him, 
 when I get him here, to come into my 
 reception room every time any of my casual 
 acquaintances call. I will compel him to 
 talk to them and listen to their talk. It is 
 good form." 
 
 Is it? In Eoyal Charles's time it was 
 thought good form to seduce your neigh- 
 bour's wife or daughter. Indeed, there are 
 
38 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 some old-fashioned men who beheve in that 
 species of good form still. Talking of wives, 
 my groom and housemaid quitted my service 
 to go and get married yesterday. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ T^^ 'W 
 
 There is no time in a man's life so enjoy- 
 able as that period of half-an-hour with a 
 good cigar after a well-cooked and well- 
 served dinner. " That's it, Wilkins, stir up 
 the fire, the east-wind has set in for the year." 
 
 I really believe Wilkins to be the best 
 butler extant. The longer he remains with 
 me the better he gets — ^just like this port. 
 How softly he has closed the door behind 
 him, and how well he attended at table this 
 evening ; almost better than ever, I thought. 
 My butler must be getting on in years — 
 nearly fifty I should say, though his clean- 
 shaved face and placid life makes him ap- 
 pear much younger. Ah, what it is to be 
 sane, and without any care! Proud as I 
 am of mv madness, I sometimes wish I wa.s 
 
EXIT WILKINS. 39 
 
 as free from bother and worry as my, very 
 sane butler. That reminds me, I must see 
 if he has received his new livery from town. 
 
 7^ ^ Tli 7^ 'V 'V 
 
 I have actually rung the bell twice, and 
 no appearance of Wilkins. Enter Mrs. 
 Murphy, white as a sheet. 
 
 " Oh, sur, poor Wilkins ! " 
 
 "Well, what about him? I have rung 
 for him twice." 
 
 "Oh, sur, he'll never come again. He's 
 hung himself in his bedroom." 
 
 " What ? " I exclaim, starting to my feet. 
 
 "Hung himself, sur. Pray do come up 
 and look at him." 
 
 I hasten up to the man's room. Yes, he 
 has hanged himself sure enough. The cord 
 which bound the box containing his new 
 livery did the business. He drove a stout 
 " holdfast " into the wall, about eight feet 
 from the ground, and fastened one end of 
 the rope to it, making the fatal noose 
 
40 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 on the other. And so he hangs, the idiot! 
 And I took him for a brainless sane-man. 
 
 What can have what's this piece of paper 
 
 on the table? A half sheet of note-paper, 
 upon which is written in pencil, "I was 
 sweet on Sallie." 
 
 The confounded idiot! He was sweet on 
 SaUie, indeed ! He never let any one suspect 
 the existence of this deep madness. No 
 one knew of it, not even Sallie, the drivel- 
 ling idiot ! Had I known he intended doing 
 this I would have dismissed him on the 
 spot. Where am I to find such another 
 butler? Were it not that he is quite dead 
 I would get him six months' imprisonment. 
 He was sweet on Sallie ! And he accord- 
 ingly hangs himself in my house, and in 
 my livery. Fancy this man, whom I trusted 
 so well, playing me this dirty trick — dis- 
 gracing my house by a suicide. There will 
 be a horrible nuisance to-morrow in the 
 shape of an inquest. My poor carpets ! 
 
CHAPTEE YI. 
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING LITTLE. 
 
 Thank Heaven all that bother about Wilkms 
 is over, and his body safe out of the house. 
 Little Mrs. Wilson called on me yesterday 
 to ask my opinion on the best mode of 
 investing twenty thousand pounds, which 
 she has lying idle in the bank. What does 
 she take me for — a stock broker ? I told 
 her to consult her solicitor. Her private 
 income is about six tliousand a year ; she 
 has no family, and yet she is anxious to 
 make more money! Next she wanted to 
 know what colours I preferred. Crimson 
 and purple are my favourite colours, though 
 why she should want to know is a mystery. 
 Next, she asked me to go over and have 
 a look at her new conservatory, which she 
 
42 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 was sure I should like. After I had promised 
 to go, she thought of the late Wilkins. 
 
 "Poor man, just fancy him committing 
 suicide in that fashion," she exclaimed, try- 
 ing to look sorry. " So romantic, his loving 
 the housemaid. But why did he not tell the 
 girl ? " And the little widow's face became 
 dimply. " Women like being proposed to, 
 though they pretend they don't." And the 
 dimples became more dimply than ever. 
 
 " You must feel lonely at times in Virge- 
 mont ? " I remarked. 
 
 ' Oh, very," she replied. " I sometimes 
 think of having a companion. Don't you 
 feel lonely sometimes in this great house ? " 
 
 "Not often. I have my books." 
 
 " I hate books ! " she exclaimed, rising to go. 
 
 Well, as I promised to run over to 
 Yirgemont and look at the confounded con- 
 servatory, I suppose I had better keep my 
 promise, and have it over. 
 
 ^ * ^ * ^ 
 
THE ADVANTAGES OP BEING LITTLE. 43 
 
 Virgemont is certainly a charming place — 
 not so stately and old as my place, but 
 still beautiful after its own way. Little Mrs. 
 Wilson insisted on showing me all over the 
 house and gardens, while she kept asking 
 my opinion on one thing and another. 
 The conservatory is well built, and filled 
 with choice flowers. 
 
 " What is your favourite flower ? " she 
 asked me. 
 
 " The crimson rose," was my truthful 
 answer. And now let me state, once for all, 
 that in my private opinion the crimson 
 rose, for beauty, ; equals all other ' flowers 
 put together. 
 
 After luncheon I quitted Virgemont. 
 What a jolly little woman its mistress is ! 
 On my way home I suddenly came upon 
 our little M.F.H. — by the way, the little 
 creature's name is Towers — Walter Towers. 
 He was standing by a stile, talking to Susan 
 Hemming, his gardener's daughter. Susan 
 
44 . . A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 is the belle of the village — tall and hand- 
 some, with big black eyes and rich chest- 
 nut hair. She stands head and shoulders 
 over little Towers. On seeing me" the latter 
 joined me in my walk homewards. 
 
 " I was just asking that girl how her 
 father was," he said. "Poor man, he has 
 been confined to his house with rheumatism 
 for the last month." 
 
 " Sorry to hear that," I said. " He has 
 no one to look after him, has he ? " 
 
 " No one, except his daughter," answered 
 Towers, lighting a cigar. " I sometimes go 
 and sit with the old chap for a while." 
 
 "That's very kind of you." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 We parted at my gates. Wonder the 
 little chap is not captured. Never saw a 
 man escape so miraculously before. I be- 
 lieve every girl in the county has had a 
 shot at him, but all missed. Perhaps he's 
 too small to be hit. What a lot of us 
 
THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING LITTLE. 45 
 
 escape scot free in this world,' just because 
 we are too small to be hit by any of the 
 slings or arrows of outrageous fortune. 
 Which would you prefer being, an English 
 gardener, or a Eussian Czar ? But then, 
 why ask mad people such a question ? 
 When I was very young, and ere my brains 
 had become developed enough to make me 
 the madman I now have the honour of 
 being, I used to envy the life of the 
 domestic cat. I thought he, or she — but 
 especially he — had the most careless, happy, 
 well-fed and delightful an existence of any- 
 thing human or animal on the face of this 
 planet. And I am not quite sure that I 
 don't half believe it still. Just think of 
 the life of a well-fed cat in a comfortable 
 house? Even the newest fashion in lady's 
 lap dogs leads a miserable life in comparison. 
 Do you think that if Tom was a big 
 animal, like a cow or a horse, he would 
 have such a pleasant time of it? 
 
46 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 Little Mrs. Wilson sent me a bouquet of 
 crimson roses to-day. Good-natured little 
 creature ! She must have sent to London 
 for them. There is not a single crimson 
 rosebud in Yirgemont. Strange that the 
 little widow is not married. I have heard 
 of several proposals, none of which seem to 
 have been acceptable. Perhaps she is hard to 
 please ; though certainly the late Mr. Wilson 
 was not a wonder. But then, he was the 
 master of Yirgemont and six thousand a year. 
 
CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 A SUGGESTION. 
 
 If there is one madhouse more than another 
 which I am fond of visiting, it is the 
 House of Commons. Now, my dear mad 
 brother, just try to become sane for one 
 moment, and consider the delightful in- 
 sanity of a lot of men, chattering like a 
 flock of magpies in a pine wood, day after 
 day — or night after night — one side of the 
 House proving again and again, beyond a 
 doubt, that every word spoken on the other 
 side of the House is false, mischievous, 
 and calculated to ruin the country. Think 
 of the money, time, ease and comfort 
 parted with, for the sake of obtaining a 
 seat amongst these siUy chatterers ! Ee- 
 member this : no commercial man — I don't 
 
48 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 care what line of business lie is in — should 
 ever be tolerated in Parliament. Such a 
 man is sure to vote according to the interest 
 of his especial trade, rather than the interest 
 of his country. Never believe for one in- 
 stant that there is any patriotism about 
 business men. A Birmingham small arms 
 manufacturer will sell guns to his country's 
 greatest enemy, and will from his seat (if 
 he has one) in the House swell every war 
 measure with his vote. I don't think it 
 safe to allow so many professional people 
 into Parliament ; but they are not so dan- 
 gerous as the commercial member. We 
 county people enter Parliament as our 
 fathers did before us. We are born to it. 
 We have our country and its broad acres 
 at heart. I don't care what we are, 
 Liberal or Conservative, Whig or Tory, we 
 have only one desire — to see England great 
 and prosperous ; and to that end we fight 
 for her well-being in Parliament, while our 
 
. A SUGGESTION. 49 
 
 sons fight for her on land and sea, sword in 
 hand. It is not ive who chatter hke apes 
 and bray like asses. We seldom speak, but 
 we " vote solid." Success and long life to 
 the county party ! Free from all items of 
 commerce, we are consequently free from 
 all bias and jobbery. We enter Parliament 
 as leaders of our people. We are minor 
 kings, every one of us — our subjects are 
 our tenants. Parliament is our sole business. 
 Mind, we are madmen all the same ; but 
 what is our madness in comparison to 
 that of the shoddy people? People who 
 let their business go to the dogs, for the 
 sake of sticking " M.P." after their names ! 
 Mad they all are — but what is their mad- 
 ness compared to the madness of their 
 electors ? 
 
 I wish you loould just try, my dear mad 
 brother or sister, to fathom the awful depth 
 of idiotcy exhibited by the intelligent English- 
 men who returned for Slocum Podger, as 
 
 VOL. I. 4 
 
5P A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 menlber of the greatest legislative assemblyin 
 the world, Mr. Tallow, the eminent soap boiler. 
 What affinity is there between soap boiling 
 and law making ? None ; and that is the very 
 reason Mr. Tallow is elected by his fellow 
 madmen. I have always noticed that Mr. 
 Tallow, and his kind, announce themselves 
 as Conservative. We, the country party, dis- 
 like our political opinions being embraced by 
 Messrs. Tallow and Co., but there is no help 
 for it. Have you ever noticed w^hat Con- 
 servatism means as understood" by the lower 
 classes — your Conservative mechanic and 
 Conservative soap boiler ? Their idea of Con- 
 servatism is, " Down with Ireland." That's 
 the sum total of it. And they really believe 
 Conservatism to mean that, and nothing else. 
 Get into conversation with a " Conservative " 
 tinker, and before he speaks half-a-dozen 
 words he will mention something about 
 " them bloomin' hoirish." The lower middle 
 classes — at least, the Conservative portion of 
 
A SUGGESTION. 51 
 
 them — are just the same. It is only among 
 the upper classes that Conservatism has its 
 true meaning — a mad meaning of course — 
 but still, not so mad as the meaning held 
 by the lower classes. 
 
 The last time I sat in the House of 
 Commons a grand old madman spoke of 
 the Irish peasantry paying their rent with 
 the greatest punctuality, save and except 
 when they were starving. How all the Tal- 
 lows and their brother shoddy Conservatives 
 did laugh to be sure ! Ah ! Messrs. Shoddy 
 and Co.,1 wonder would you starve yourselves 
 to pay your debts ? No, no, no ! 1 know you 
 all. You would see your creditors to the 
 devil first. Good God! have I not seen a 
 whole family of Galway peasantry living on 
 seaweed'^ Think of that when you go home 
 to dinner, Messrs. Tallow and Co. Seaweed 
 for breakfast, seaweed for dinner, and sea- 
 weed for supper ; while every penny the poor 
 creatures could earn went to the landlord of 
 
 4-2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOIS 
 
52 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 their miserable mud hovel. A mad world, 
 is it not, my masters ? 
 
 The chief cause of all these remarks is her 
 Grace of Stanton. She has been making a 
 long speech, more or less through her nose, 
 at a recent Primrose meeting, the subject 
 being, of course, Ireland. It has always 
 been my private opinion that there should 
 ^be a stringent law against women meddling 
 in politics. If there is one thing in this 
 world which women know least about, it is 
 the politics of their own country. I re- 
 member reading of a Ladies' Land League 
 in Ireland; its members were mostly (as in 
 our Primrose League) old maids and childless 
 wives, besides being Eadicals to a man — no, 
 to a woman I mean. One is not surprised at 
 anything ladies may do when they become 
 Eadicals, and fail to become wives and 
 mothers ; and besides — what other amusement 
 is there for them in a coerced country ? If 
 they went to a dance they ran the chance of 
 
A SUGGESTION. 63 
 
 being batoned by police, as an unlawful 
 assembly, or of being shot in the legs — 
 women have legs — by moonlighters as a too 
 lawful assembly. The case is different here 
 in Enorland. The ladies who call themselves 
 Primrose dames are the wives and daughters 
 of Conservatives, and ought to know better — 
 at least, their husbands or fathers should 
 know better. I firmly believe that a law 
 should be passed — indeed I am convinced 
 that but for our madness, such a law would be 
 passed — for providing each married lady with 
 two children, boy and girl; for no matter 
 what you say, a wife minus children is sure 
 to nurture fads. Should these fads be 
 nurtuied in secret, there is mischief brewing. 
 Fads, secret or open, she will have, unless 
 she is sane. And how many sane women are 
 there in the world ? Touching this bill, I 
 would have a fund of children provided by 
 the state. There are thousands of children 
 going to w^'iste all over the country, and 
 
54 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 thousands of parents have more than they 
 *well know what to do with. Why, if the 
 'Government sent a properly worded circular 
 ' to all the curates in the three kingdoms, I'll 
 wager anything replies would come in by 
 return of post offering contributions to the 
 fund, to the amount of, at least, two thousand 
 assorted children. Those specimens, supplied 
 l3y the curates, should be presented to 
 well-to do Conservative wives. Another cir- 
 -cular to the British workmen would bring 
 in at least ten thousand children to the fund ; 
 those should be meted out to Eadical and 
 •Liberal wives Mark my words well, nor 
 think I am joking — if you want to keep 
 JEnglishwomen in their homes and away from 
 public platforms, and other forms of mischief, 
 •there is only one talisman required: it consists 
 of a specimen of that aggregate of phosphorus 
 and blubber called a baby. The worst of it 
 is that babies are rather brittle, and con- 
 sequently liable to danger while travelling ; 
 
A SUGGESTION. 65 
 
 therefore I would suggest that the govern- 
 ment should deal only in children from seven 
 to eight years of age. Yes, I know what you 
 are thinking — " Why, the man is mad ! " I 
 am proud to say I am. I, Philip Brownlow, 
 am as mad as a hatter ; and you, my dear 
 brothers and sisters, are all in the same con- 
 dition, only you have not studied j^ourselves 
 well enough to be aware of the fact. 
 
 
CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 THE gardener's DAUGHTER. 
 
 Little Mrs. Wilson called upon me yesterday 
 and wanted to know if I would advise lier to 
 sell Virgemont and leave England for France. 
 This was a puzzle to me. How do I know 
 wdietlier it would be advisable to live in 
 France or not ? However, I said, " If you 
 have a desire to live in France, by all means 
 do so : life is short, and this is the more 
 reason we should spend ^it how and where 
 we liked best." 
 
 I think that was very sound advice, and 
 yet the woman seemed annoyed, and snapped 
 out, " I dare say you would be glad to get 
 rid of me." 
 
 Now, is there any pleasing a woman ? 
 Here was this dimply creature in crimson 
 
THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 and black — rather becoming, by-the-way — 
 who had driven over for the express purpose 
 of asking my advice upon a subject of 
 which I knew nothing, and when I en- 
 deavoured to give her the best advice I 
 could, she exclaimed that I wanted to get 
 rid of her ! I am aware, of course, that she 
 is very mad ; but still she ought to possess 
 a shade of common-sense now and again. 
 However, after a few moments her good- 
 humour returned, and she asked me if I 
 would go over to Virgemont and see her 
 dog Dash, who was not at all well. This 
 staggered me for a moment. What will she 
 ask me to do next ? Takes me for a dog 
 doctor now! I promised to go, of course, 
 and then she rose to leave. What small 
 feet and ankles the little creature has ! I 
 caught sight of them— couldn't well help it 
 — as I assisted her into the carriage. Dark 
 crimson stockings. Pity the little woman 
 has no familv. True, she is not a Primrose 
 
58 A VERY MAD WOKLJJ. 
 
 Dame, or anj^thing of that sort. But trust 
 me, for all that she is up to some mischief. 
 I could see it in her eye. 
 
 I have been to-day to visit her dog Dash, 
 a Gordon setter. He is suffering from too 
 much food and too little exercise, but the 
 little widow said, " What exercise can I give 
 him? I cannot shoot partridges." She is 
 not going to France after all, she thinks. 
 I told her that should she be anxious to 
 dispose of Virgemont, I would be happy to 
 become its owner at twenty years' purchase. 
 I don't particularly want it, but goodness 
 knows what successful Stock Exchange 
 gambler or eminent brewer might get hold 
 of it if it went into the market. However, 
 little Mrs. Wilson thinks she will not sell it, 
 though, as she has told me several times, 
 " it is very lonely for her." 
 
 On my way homewards I wanted a light 
 for my cigar, so entered Hemming's. cottage 
 for the purpose of procuriug one. There sat 
 
THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 59 
 
 old Hemming by the fire, looking very ill, 
 poor old fellow. There also sat little Towers, 
 while Susan, with a very heightened colour, 
 busied herself doing nothing about the room. 
 What a magnificent specimen of womanhood 
 the girl is ! 
 
 I was certainly surprised — agreeably sur- 
 prised — at little Towers taking such an 
 interest in his gardener. I did not believe 
 it was in him to take an interest in any- 
 thing. 
 
 " Well, Hemming,' how are you to-day ? " 
 I asked, as Susan handed me a chair and 
 Towers looked at his watch. It was the 
 latter who answered : 
 
 " Oh, he feels much better to-day. We 
 will have him all right by next week." 
 
 " The maister he be very koind to I and 
 Susan, sir," said the old fellow, turning to 
 me, and making little Towers actually blush. 
 
 " Oh, you'll be all right presently," he said, 
 rising to go. " Susan will come up to the 
 
GO A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 House this evening and take back the things 
 the doctor said you should have. You won't 
 forget," he said, turning to the girL 
 
 " No, sir," she answered, rather quickly I 
 thought. 
 
 Expect she did not half like the idea of 
 taking anything home from the House. It 
 looked like 'cliarit}^ Towers was with me 
 part of the way home. 
 
 " You seem to take a great interest in 
 your gardener," I remarked. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " 
 
 " Well, yes ; honestly. Towers, I did not 
 think it was in you." 
 
 "Oh! thanks, very much," he observed 
 smiling. 
 
 " I had no idea you were such a man of 
 feeling." Why the little object should become 
 annoyed at this is more than I can under- 
 stand. 
 
 "I don't see why I should not look after 
 ray gardener without being chaffed for it ! ' 
 
THE GARDENEE'S DAUGHTER. Gl 
 
 he exclaimed. " There is nothing to be 
 ashamed of." 
 
 " No ; nothing," my dear boy. I am not 
 chaffing you, I assure you ; don't think so 
 for a moment. I merely said that I did not 
 think you had so much thought. And now 
 here are my gates. Good-evening." 
 
 Just fancy the little beggar losing his little 
 temper because I told hnn he was better than 
 I thought he was ! Madman that he is — wh}-, 
 he ought to have been highly complimented. 
 But little men are like little dogs — they often 
 snap at the hand that pats them. Hope the 
 little beggar will be captured by one of the 
 Tatte-Snarlow gang. 
 
 That reminds me : knowing that the widow 
 knows everything in connection with every- 
 body, I asked her the meaning of Snarlow. 
 
 '^ Oh ! doii!t you know ? " she asked in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "No, I don't." 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Tatte discovered that the late 
 
62 . A VEBY MAD WORLD. 
 
 Sir Alfred Snarlow was a distant connection' 
 of an aunt of her mother's, so she advertised 
 in the Times and Morning Post, stating that 
 she, Mrs. Tatte, of Briefiey Hall, so-and-so, 
 would for the future adopt the name of her 
 late relative— I think she called him a great- 
 uncle — Sir Anthony Snarlow, Bart.*' 
 So you see the mystery is solved. 
 
CHAPTEK IX. 
 
 NATURE WILL BE NATURE STILL. 
 
 As everybody is leaving for town — we are 
 now in April — I suppose I must do likewise. 
 I would much rather remain here and see the 
 trees burst their buds, but that would never 
 do. People would begin to think I could 
 not afford to go up for the season. No, no ! 
 much as I long for the country in May, I 
 must perforce hie me to London town. I am 
 not compelled to go, I don't want to go, but 
 I must go or my neighbours might think I 
 couldn't go. All this reasoning reminds me 
 of another peculiarity among the middle 
 classes — their terrible fear of what their neigh- 
 bours might say. I have heard of families 
 of well-to-do professional people living the 
 life of the damned. They dreaded to go out 
 
64 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 for a walk lest their next-door neighbour to 
 
 the right would think it strani:^e to see them 
 
 out walking. They feared to remain indoors 
 
 lest their neighbour to the left should wonder 
 
 what could keep them at home. The}^ were 
 
 continually buying new clothes so that their 
 
 neighbours opposite should not imagine they 
 
 did not follow the fashion. In fact, their 
 
 whole lives were not spent with any comfort 
 
 to themselves, but solely with a view to the 
 
 opinions of their neighbours. It is a curious 
 
 fact, and one which shows that nature still 
 
 insists, despite modern Radicalism, in keeping 
 
 every strata of society in its proper place — 
 
 that nothing will make the middle classes 
 
 understand this important fact : the upper 
 
 classes come and go as they please, and 
 
 never think for a moment of what their 
 
 neighbours may or may not choose to say. 
 
 Is there anything more funny than your 
 
 lower middle class, your girl or young man, 
 
 aping the lady or gentleman ? Some of our 
 
NATURE WILL BE NATURE STILL. 65 
 
 female post-office clerks offer a goocj study 
 in this line. They have got a government 
 situation, and have quite lost their little heads. 
 It never seems to occur to them that they 
 are public, not government, servants. They 
 appear to think the public rather a nuisance, 
 and as such, to be treated with the utmost 
 incivility. 
 
 " What do you want ? " asked one of these 
 creatures, looking up from her novel, in a 
 post office not a hundred miles from Nottiug 
 Hill Gate Station. 
 
 " I want two postage stamps, please," I 
 answered. 
 
 She " chucked " the stamps at me, and 
 throwing the twopence into a till, went on 
 with her, no doubt, very interesting novel. 
 Having stuck the stamps on a little parcel, 
 I requested her to take it, as it would not 
 go through the opening in the box outside. 
 Annoyed at being disturbed a second time, 
 she snatched my poor parcel and flung it into 
 
 VOL. L 6 
 
66 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 a corner. Had I reported her at liead-quar* 
 ters she would have been dismissed on the 
 spot. But I was merciful. Now this young 
 girl was better dressed than her poor 
 mother had ever been. She was better edu- 
 cated — thanks to the School Board — than 
 ever her father w^as, and she was heartily 
 ashamed of both parents, for was she not a 
 lady ? Ah ! you poor creatures, poor silly, 
 ignorant daughters of Eve, when will ye 
 understand the meaning of the word lady 1 
 When will ye perceive that to appear as ladies 
 ye must be polite and gentle to the hum- 
 blest ? when will you come to understand the 
 simple truth, that the greatest known sign 
 of high birth is courtesy to your inferiors ? 
 I do not speak of your superiors, because 
 it would be useless to try and persuade ye 
 that ye have any superiors. 
 
 I don't for one instant mean to insinuate 
 that all post office girls are boorish. There 
 are hundreds of civil, polite and pretty girls 
 
NATURE WILL BE NATURE STILL. 67 
 
 in the ranks, but they are all ladies by birth. 
 I remember a post office in Archer Street, 
 Baj^swater, which was, and is I presume, noted 
 for its pretty and courteous girls. 
 
 Truth to tell. Englishwomen, except when 
 of good birth, are terribly rude. As for the 
 men ! Eemember this : the Anglo-Saxon is a 
 savage brute at heart, and it takes at least 
 six generations of good breeding and high- 
 class education to make a gentleman of him. 
 Even then the savage will frequently break 
 forth. It takes ten generations to make a 
 well-bred gentlewoman, simply because the 
 education is not so high class on the female 
 side. 
 
 Now I want you to ponder well over this^ 
 for it will show you that nature's laws cannot 
 be altered. Nature says to Biddy Shoddy, 
 "Yes, you have got into a good position — 
 far better than your father ever dreamed of 
 — you dress well, are slim and refined in ap- 
 pearance, and do not drop your ' h's.' You 
 
68 A VERi' MAD WORLD. 
 
 might very well pass for a lady. But /, 
 nature, forbid it. You still retain the rude- 
 ness of your class. You think a lady could 
 not condescend to be civil to any one. The 
 instant prosperity comes to you, you straight- 
 way lose your head. No, no, Biddy, you 
 may change in station, voice, dress, and even 
 morals, but your rude nature still remains, 
 :and hence you never can be a lady. You 
 /have as little of the lady in your composi- 
 tion as the average 'government clerk' has 
 ^of the gentleman in him. What a satire on 
 the name of man some of those same govern- 
 ment clerks are ! Creatures without a second 
 idea, and mostly risen from the gutter. There 
 are gentlemen to be found among them of 
 course, but such gentlemen are so by birth. 
 One would imagine that these low-bred men, 
 who do all they can to ape the gentleman, 
 would study from the living model in the desk 
 beside them. But nature says, " No, no, Tom 
 Shoddy, your father was a government clerk 
 
NATUEE WILL BE NATURE STILL. 69 
 
 before you, and like you he worked in tlie 
 same office with a real gentleman for thirty 
 years, and yet he never thought of copying 
 his politeness and courtesy. Neither must 
 you, Tom. You must try to ape the gentleman 
 to your dying day without once adopting the 
 manner which would make you one." 
 
 TqC 'ffS ^V ^ '^ 
 
 Talking of going to town, I met old Hem- 
 ming yesterday ; he is out and about once 
 more, and informed me that his daughter 
 Susan has gone to London to a good situa- 
 tion, procured for her by " the maister." 
 
 " But you will miss her greatly," I said. 
 
 '• Yes, sir, that be true," answered the old 
 man with a sigh ; " but the maister said it 
 was for her good, and so I let her go. But 
 I miss her, sir, I miss her ; the cottage is so 
 lonesome without her." 
 
 Poor old fellow, he looked very feeble and 
 downcast as he trudged homeward. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 CIVILIZED SAVAGES. 
 
 London seems to be getting more vulgar 
 every year. We Anglo-Saxons are totally 
 destitute of taste ; witness our art shows (save 
 the mark !) and our appalling exhibitions. Yes, 
 we manage to vulgarize everything. Educa- 
 tion teaches us to admire beautiful objects 
 and sweet music, but the Italian and French- 
 man can admire such things without being 
 educated. The love of the beautiful is born 
 in them. Both are superior to us as civilized 
 men. We are the only European nation, save 
 perhaps the Russians, who still have a large 
 share of the savage in us, though in our mad- 
 ness we think ourselves the cream of the civi- 
 lized world. Yain boast ! Take a sample of 
 the Anglo-Saxon who has not been educated 
 
CIVILIZED SAVAGES. 71 
 
 up to the love of the beautiful. To jjidge of 
 a country you must not study its upper or 
 educated classes, you must study its "people." 
 We will accordingly take a sample of our 
 race from among the " people '' of its mighty 
 capital — mighty London — the Mecca of the 
 greatest madmen in the world. Now let us 
 pick one out at random ; he will do as a 
 sample of the whole, and will exhibit the 
 Anglo-Saxon character in its native purity, 
 unspoiled by education. Here he is — Henry 
 Smith, "'Arry," as he is affectionately called by 
 all who have the pleasure of his acquaintance. 
 Have a good look at 'Arry ; observe his fishy 
 eyes, trap-door mouth and monster teeth, 
 horribly unclean (what there are of them). 
 Note his large ill-shaped head, low forehead, 
 shovel feet and lobster hands. What are this 
 man's amusements ? His parents are well-to-do 
 greengrocers. He seldom helps them, except 
 on Saturday nights. How does he spend his 
 time? Smoking and swilling beer all day, 
 
72 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 save when he is engaged in dogging some 
 unprotected girl through the streets with a 
 view to " picking her up " and debauching 
 her. Every night sees him in some music 
 hall, where that awful voice of his swells the 
 chorus of some such ditty as : 
 
 " It's noice to be a masber ; 
 Oi bam tbe laaidy's dasber ; 
 Tbe gurls tbey croy 
 Wben Oi pass boy, 
 There goes tbe laaidy's masber." 
 
 (I have endeavoured to spell the words as 
 pronounced by 'Arry and his mates.) Has 
 he any idea of literature, science, or art ? 
 Ask him. As for the typical young girl in 
 'Arry's station, I will not shock you by giving 
 her portrait. She is, like the Turk, " un- 
 speakable." 
 
 I judge of the genius and character of 
 a people by their public statues. What do 
 the London statues speak to me of? War, 
 war, war! It is the Anglo-Saxon's nature 
 to fight, conquer and oppress whenever he 
 
CIVILIZED SAVAGES. 73 
 
 gjts the cliance. So we bravely go into 
 th3 land of the black man with a sword in 
 one hand and a Bible in the other, while 
 '• our Mr. Jenkins " follows in our wake 
 with samples of rum and whisky. All the 
 black men we don't succeed in killing, we 
 convert to Christianity, which seems to 
 bring with it an absorbing desire for ardent 
 spirits. Have you ever looked over a 
 volume of the Times? Any person doing 
 so will find from its truthful columns that 
 England's policy is one of " Aggression and 
 Eepression." Look over any number of 
 volumes, and the result will be the same. 
 
 The Daily Telegraph truly called the 
 Anglo-Saxon in a " state of nature " a " cruel 
 savage ; " but though cruel and savage, he 
 is not craft 3^ and cowardly until he becomes 
 civilized, or semi-civilized. (I have come to 
 the conclusion that you cannot wholly 
 civilize the Anglo-Saxon.) 
 
 Little Mrs. Wilson is stopping in the same 
 
74 A. VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 hotel with me — not with me in the same 
 hotel, please to understand. (Delightful lan- 
 guage, the English.) She arrived about three 
 days after me. (Positively divine language, 
 the English.) Strange coincidence that we 
 both should fi^ on the same hotel! She 
 came into my sitting-room to-day with grave 
 news. Lady de Jones, the wife of Sir 
 Thomas de Jones, the eminent physician, 
 has actually given birth to twins I If a 
 thunderbolt had fallen through the de Jones' 
 roof it could not have caused more con- 
 sternation. Twins are aivfully vulgar, it 
 appears. I never knew this before. But 
 little Mrs. Wilson knows all about these 
 things. The announcement of the birth will 
 not appear in any of the papers, and Sir 
 Thomas and Lady de Jones are immediately 
 going abroad. It appears that twins have 
 been out of fashion for close on twenty 
 years, and are not likely to become the 
 correct thing again until some duchess, at 
 
CIVILIZED SAVAGES. 75 
 
 least, introduces them once more.. Poor 
 little unfortunate de Joneses, Junior, how will 
 ye ever meet your mother's reproachful gaze ? 
 Better you had been still-born. Had you 
 been boys it would not have been quite so 
 bad, -though bad enough ; but you are both 
 girls, and Mrs. Wilson says girl twins are 
 beyond redemption. Mrs. Wilson says it 
 is feared that Sir Thomas will lose a lot of 
 his patients through the unfortunate affair. 
 Let us hope not. One misfortune at a time 
 is quite sufficient. So, my dear mad brother 
 or sister, when the season is over and Sir 
 T. and his good lady return home again 
 from the south of France, do not desert 
 your eminent physician. The twins were 
 not his fault. 
 
 Little Mrs. Wilson complains of having 
 no male friend to escort her to the theatre, 
 and declares that life is becomino^ a burthen 
 to her, as she cannot attend any place of 
 amusement. Fancy a woman getting tired 
 
76 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 of life because she cannot attend a theatre — 
 a woman of £5,000 a year ! A good-natured 
 little creature though — actually brought me 
 a bouquet of crimson roses this morning. I 
 have promised to take her to the opera to- 
 night. 
 
CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 AT THE OPERA. 
 
 The little mdow and myself are seated in 
 the third row of the stalls. The opera is 
 " Traviata," and the house is accordingly 
 crowded. Her Grace of Stanton is seated 
 in her box, looking very pretty in pink 
 and pearls. 
 
 " Do you like the duchess in pink ? " asks 
 my companion. " 1 don't. Americans never 
 know how to dress." 
 
 " Indeed ; how is that ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," answers the little 
 widow, opening an enormous fan formed 
 of crimson ostrich feathers. " I don't know 
 why, but they don't. The duchess does 
 not care for music." 
 
 " No ? " I say rather surprised. " Then 
 
78 A VEKY MAD WORLD. 
 
 why does she give so many musical At 
 Homes during the season ? " 
 
 " Oh, just because it is the thing," snaps 
 the Httle widow. " All duchesses go in for 
 private concerts, and besides, our duchess 
 is so fond of Signor Tontine's singing," and 
 the widow gives a dimply smile. 
 
 " Well, he has got a superb voice, as 
 tenors go now-a-days," I say. 
 
 " Yes, he's got a lovely voice, and lovelier 
 eyes," says Mrs. Wilson, and then adds 
 after a slight pause, " I think the duchess 
 admires the signor more as a friend than 
 as a mere singer," and the dimples play all 
 over her face. 
 
 " Oh, she admires him as a man more 
 than as a tenor, you mean to say ? " 
 
 "Yes, he is very handsome." 
 
 " And the duke — what does he think 
 about the matter ? " 
 
 " The duke ! oh, who cares ivhat he 
 thinks ? " exclaims the little widow, fan- 
 
AT THE OPERA. 79 
 
 ning herself furiously. "He is ,just as 
 badr 
 
 " As tlie duchess or the tenor ? " . 
 
 " Hush ! " she says. " I want to listen to 
 the music." 
 
 And the opera begins. Signor Tontine 
 is in splendid voice and receives tumultuous 
 applause. A handsome man is the signor 
 — no brains, though, I fear. 
 
 Have you read that book lately published, 
 which treats of opera singers ? If you have 
 not, pray do so at once ; it will give you 
 some idea of what operatic managers have 
 to put up with in this mad world. The 
 whims, ignorant presumption, and down- 
 right impertinence of our operatic stars, as 
 set forth in that book, are simply astounding. 
 The writer of the book says, very justly, 
 that the lower the origin of the singers, the 
 more impertinent and presuming they are. 
 'Twas ever thus. Mario appears to have 
 been the only thing approaching a gentleman 
 
80 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 — he was an Italian count — on the operatic 
 stage. As for the signoras, one prima donna 
 seemed to be just a little bit more igno- 
 rant and presuming than the other. All 
 mad, of course, but not half as mad as the 
 public who applauded them. Was it not 
 Frederick the Great who, on a prima 
 donna getting sulky and refusing to appear, 
 sent a cohort of guards to take her out of 
 her bed and m.ake her dress and appear ? 
 Great man, Frederick — mad as Daddy-long- 
 legs. 
 
 During the entracte I stand up and survey 
 the house through my glasses. 
 
 In one of the top boxes I catch sight of 
 Towers's moustache. He is talking to some 
 one concealed from view behind the silk 
 curtain. Ah ! now I see a bare arm en- 
 circled by a diamond bracelet. Wonder 
 who she is? Fancy bringing a lady to the 
 top tier ! He must know that ladies go to 
 the opera to be seen. Stay, though ; this 
 
AT THE OPEKA. 81 
 
 lady evidently prefers not being s^en, for 
 she keeps close behind the curtain. Ah ! 
 she has risen and gone to the back of 
 the box, where in the shade she can survey 
 part of the house. She thinks no one can 
 see her, but not so — / can spot her through 
 my glasses. So this is the " good situation,'* 
 my pretty Susan? What good wages you 
 must receive to be able to sport those 
 diamonds. Why, the old gardener would 
 scarcely know his daughter ! 
 
 Eesuming my seat I catch sight of Paul 
 Jo^^ce, who is sitting about two stalls to the 
 left. Paul is one of my oldest friends — a con- 
 summate madman. He is dark, melancholy- 
 eyed, and I should say about thirty-six years 
 old ; has a small estate in Wales and a large 
 one in Ireland ; from the latter he has re- 
 ceived no rent for the past three years. I 
 nod to him and he nods to me, and so the 
 second act commences. 
 
 "Do you see that funny-looking old man 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
82 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 seated behind the duchess ? " observes the 
 Uttle widow. 
 
 I look towards the box, and see a hatchet- 
 faced and ferrety-eyed old man in a colossal 
 shirt front, and the baldest head I ever saw. 
 
 "Who is he?" I ask. 
 
 " Few people know, but I do," says Mrs. 
 Wilson, becoming very dimply. " That old 
 man is her uncle. She never invites him to 
 her house, either here or in the country, be- 
 cause he is too awfully vulgar. But as he is 
 very rich, and a bachelor, she does not like 
 the idea of him leaving his wealth to charit- 
 able institutions." 
 
 "And so " 
 
 " And so, don't you see, she invites him to 
 her opera box, when she has no one else 
 there. It satisfies him." And the little 
 widow gives a merry little laugh. 
 
 Wonderful woman the little widow ; knows 
 every one's affairs. What a wife she would 
 make for a political man with aspirations ! 
 
AT THE OPERA 83 
 
 If she wouldn't succeed in making lier hus- 
 band Premier, it would be a puzzle to all 
 concerned. Can't make out how it is that 
 she is not married before this. Her first is 
 now dead close on two years. Yes, she will 
 be married before another twelve months. 
 A three-years' widow with five thousand per 
 annum is a moral impossibility. Very pretty 
 does the little]woman look to-night, and many 
 are the admiring glances bestowed upon her. 
 Happy thought : introduce Paul Joyce, though 
 I fear the die is cast as far as poor Paul is 
 concerned. Wonder has he ever seen her 
 since ? This little widow would soon make 
 him forget his sorrow — would soon wake him 
 up from his dreams. Paul is a devil to 
 dream. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 I never cared for this opera, and will be 
 
 glad when it is over. It is not the music, 
 
 but the questionable plot which makes it so 
 
 popular. Oh ! for one act of the glorious 
 
 6—2 
 
84 A VEKY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Don " — though by the way that plot is not 
 quite Sunday-schoolly. 
 
 " Do you like German operas ? " I say to 
 the widow. 
 
 " Why do you ask me ? Do you ? " 
 
 " Yes, very much." 
 
 " So do I," says the httle widow, dimpling. 
 
 A charming little creature ! 
 
 q)i lb 
 
CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 that's the way the money goes. 
 
 Do YOU still doubt my words as to the bar- 
 barian taste of the English people? Just 
 read this clipping from the Echo newspaper 
 It is headed " A Piccadilly Night scene." So 
 you will perceive that the occurrence has 
 taken place in the midst of the most fashion- 
 able portion of this great metropolis of the 
 world. I only give an extract from the 
 report. 
 
 This was the constable's story : — " At 
 twenty minutes after midnight a large crowd 
 of young men and women assembled near 
 the Criterion, in Piccadilly, and shouted and 
 holloaed at the top of their voices. The 
 prisoner was among them, and when advised to 
 go away remarked, ' It's all rot ; I am a 
 
S3 A VERY MAD WORLD 
 
 solicitor and shall stop here as long as I like.' 
 On again being told that he must go away, he 
 struck the constable with his stick and trod 
 upon his toe, causing him great pain. He 
 was arrested by another constable. There 
 had been a football match between Oxford 
 and Cambridge Universities, and a number of 
 people who had been to see it came out of 
 the Criterion and met another crowd coming 
 from a boxing competition at Her Majesty's 
 Theatre. The disturbance was so great that 
 the inspector at the station had to turn out 
 the constables who were off duty in order 
 to quell it." 
 
 There is a great deal more of the same 
 nature in the report, but I have given suffi- 
 cient for my purpose. Eemember this is only 
 one sample of a series. Such brawls occur 
 almost every other night in the neighbour- 
 hood of Piccadilly. Now just think of the 
 primary cause of this row. Our rival uni- 
 versities are having that refined and intel- 
 
THAT'S THE WAY THE MONEY GOES. 87' 
 
 lectual amusement — a football match. Our 
 chief operatic house is filled with a crowd 
 witnessing a boxing contest. The football 
 crowd and the boxing crowd meet outside 
 a restaurant and proceed to break each 
 other's skulls. This, oh, beloved madmen, 
 is England ! 
 
 Do you remember when slumming was 
 all the rao^e amon^r our madwomen ? All 
 the East end lanes and alleys were visited 
 by our dainty leaders of fashion. Ah ! 
 which end of London is the most brutal and 
 wicked ? Which end of London most needs 
 the influence of good women? That re- 
 minds me. Have you failed to notice the 
 almost constant appeals for help — monetary 
 help — on behalf of the East end which 
 appear in the papers ? If so, do not fail 
 again, for thereby hangs a tale. Do you 
 know the fearful amount of poverty and 
 starvation, not only in the East end of 
 London, but in the West end too, ay, and 
 
88 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 all over England. What becomes of all the 
 money we pay in taxes ? How is it that 
 some of it does not go to feed these starv- 
 ing inhabitants of "the wealthiest, noblest 
 and most civilized country in the world ? " 
 I will tell you, dear mad friend. Our money 
 is squandered, recklessly and criminally 
 squandered, by our Government. This Eng- 
 land could be properly managed for half 
 the money we pay its present mismanagers. 
 There is not a single public department which 
 is not disgracefully mismanaged, while we 
 pay double and treble for its mismanagement. 
 Just think over some of the items we pay — 
 we who cannot afford to help our starving 
 fellow-creatures. We give £400 a year to 
 the Pursebearer ; we know not what the 
 man is or what his duties are. We give to 
 our Clerk of Presentations (another mystery) 
 £1,000 a year. Then we have a gentleman 
 whose sole duty is " to carry the Great 
 Seal home," whatever that may mean ; we 
 
THAT'S THE WAY THE MONEY GOES. 89 
 
 give him £335 pounds per year. But hear 
 Mr. Jennings from his place in the House of 
 Commons : " When things are done on this 
 lavish scale we need not be surprised to 
 find the judges requiring 22 clerks, costing 
 over £8,000 per annum. The salaries of 
 masters ranging from £1,500 to over £2,000 
 — these being among the pleasantest things 
 which patronage has to bestow on the un- 
 deserving. Sir F. Pollock, a senior master, 
 said before a committee on the subject, that 
 there were no duties which a senior clerk 
 could not perform just as well as a master : 
 85 clerks attached to this office receive from 
 
 £250 to £700 a year Before the 
 
 committee of 1886, it was stated tliat one 
 clerk was employed in entering summonses 
 in a book, receiving £400 a year for work 
 that could be done by the merest copyist. 
 A little further down the list are entered five 
 clerks as 'redundant' since 1871. These 
 receive from £300 to £500 a year, but not 
 
90 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 one of them lias passed the threshold of his 
 office for the last seven years (laughter). 
 Why should the country be called upon to 
 pay men £400 and £500 a year to walk 
 about the streets doing nothing while there 
 are thousands of people who are obliged to 
 walk about the streets because they have 
 nothing to do? ... . The effect of the 
 present system is to put a premium on 
 incompetence The clerks in one de- 
 partment are supposed to work from eleven 
 o'clock to five, but Mr. Yizzard, in his evi- 
 dence before the Eoyal Commission, said 
 that some of them really went away at four 
 instead of ^ve — the ennui of the place was 
 so great that they could not stand it (laugh- 
 ter). Pressed by the Commissioners he added, 
 'If we have any private work to do we are 
 not always there at eleven o'clock.' That 
 was to say that they did their private work 
 first, and if they had any scrap of time left 
 they gave it to their public duties (laugh- 
 
THAT'S THE WAY THE MONEY GOES. 91 
 
 ter) The clerks in the Taxing De- 
 partment are paid £600 a year, work six 
 hours a day, and have six weeks' holiday 
 every summer In the Chancery divi- 
 sion there are 12 clerks at nearly £1,200 
 per annum each, 24 clerks at £600 per an- 
 num each, and a host of other officials from 
 registrars with £2,000 a year to clerks at 
 
 £300 The Probate, Divorce and 
 
 Admiralty Division is another haven of peace 
 and plenty (laughter). The Senior Registrar 
 of the Probate Registry pockets £1,600 a 
 year, besides a compound allowance of 
 £1,863 8s. 6d.. with some smaller sum, 
 making a grand total of £3,472 annually. 
 .... I cannot see why these shameful 
 amounts should be paid to officials whose 
 duties are notoriously light and easy. The 
 gentleman next below the one I have just 
 mentioned is the registrar of Admiralty 
 Registers, who pockets £2,134 for services of 
 the very slightest kind. The man who looks 
 
92 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 after the ushers in the Courts of Justice 
 draws £600 per annum, while the distin- 
 guished person who gives out the pens and 
 ink, and who is called Superintendent of 
 Stationery, receives £300 per annum. All 
 the charges in the estimates appear to be 
 based on the same prodigal scale.'' 
 
 In the foregoing speech — or rather extracts 
 from it — I have been careful to bracket the 
 " laughter," just to let 3^ou see how funny 
 this scandalous state of affairs seemed to be 
 to the inmates of our great Madhouse. Just 
 ponder over these amounts, and then remem- 
 ber that they only represent a small tithe 
 of the money squandered by our Govern- 
 ment, while we are taxed up to our eyes, 
 while our war-ships are without guns, our 
 infantry without swords, our cavalry without 
 horses and our poor without food. Notwith- 
 standing all this, many of us think ourselves 
 
CHAPTEE XIIT. 
 
 CONCERNING FRITZ. 
 
 I NOTICE that the rather sullen, impudent and 
 surly-looking young man who is Emperor of 
 Germany, is nothing if not national. His 
 latest decree is that all German actors and 
 actresses should banish all French words, or 
 even words based on the French, from their 
 professional vocabulary. Thus, scene^ ballet^ 
 repertoire^ and such words, have received 
 notice to quit. I wish the young Emperor 
 would in his intense nationalism prohibit his 
 subjects from leaving their country. But I 
 fear his Imperial Majesty is not quite so mad 
 as that, though the Germans are all very mad 
 indeed. I have come to the conclusion that 
 it is the fact of their being Germans which 
 makes them so mad. Who would be a German 
 
94 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 if he could possibly help it ? Have you ever 
 noticed how awfully offended people are at 
 being mistaken for Germans ? I know 
 Germans myself who in the most transparent 
 German accent unblushingly declare that they 
 are English bred and born. Why, even those 
 pasty-faced waiters in our public restaurants 
 tell you they are " Sweeze," by which they 
 mean to say that they are Swiss, though their 
 square German jaws and accent betrays them 
 at once. A curious fact about this same 
 accent : Certain Irish brogues are, to English 
 ears, undistinguishable from the German ac- 
 cent, and thereby hangs a tale. I once knew 
 a little fellow from South Dublin who had to 
 the full that peculiarly rough South Dublin 
 brogue. He had spent some time in London, 
 and always spoke of the Londoners with the 
 greatest contempt. I once asked him why he 
 disliked London and its people so much. " I'll 
 tell you the reason, sur," he answered. " They 
 always took me for a damned German ! " Of 
 
CONCERNINa FRITZ. 95 
 
 late one of our journalists spoke of, the Queen 
 of Spain as a German, whereupon the Spanish 
 Ambassador actually called upon him to deny 
 the assertion. We English are the most un- 
 popular people on the face of the earth. We 
 are objects of dislike and contempt from north 
 to south, and from east unto the west. But 
 if we are disliked by foreigners, the Germans 
 are absolutely hated. Witness them here in 
 England : Fritz comes over here, works for 
 starvation wages, and then sends for all his 
 family, including his sisters, his cousins, and 
 his aunts. All offer their services for starva- 
 tion wages, thus ousting their English rivals. 
 Worse still — their workmanship is far inferior 
 to that of English hands, but of course passes 
 for English work in the market at home and 
 abroad, and thus gives rise to the opinion 
 that " English work is deteriorating." In fact, 
 through these Germans our country is com- 
 pletely losing her trade in manufactured 
 articles. How intensely amusing is that man 
 
96 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 Bismarck's mad remark, " We Germans fear 
 nothing but God." As far as I can gather, the 
 Germans fear nothing so much as living in 
 their own country, for they quit it as fast as 
 they possibly can. I am not a lover of armed 
 strife, but I am fully convinced that the sooner 
 Germany goes to war with some state, the 
 better it will be for England — that is, if all 
 the Germans now among us are compelled to 
 return to the Fatherland and fight. 
 
 Now let us look calmly, and like dispassion- 
 ate madmen, at the root of all this German 
 pauperism — pauperism which drives these 
 square-faced, snub-nosed, hard-working crea- 
 tures away from their own country to the 
 German's paradise — London. We see a mag- 
 nificent country, famous for its literature, 
 science and art, ruled by a young soldier, 
 sprung from a race of mighty warriors, and 
 with an army said to be the largest and best 
 drilled in Europe. We perceive that every 
 man born in the land has per force to become 
 
CONCERNINa FRITZ. 97 
 
 a soldier, as if the good God of Heaven sent 
 him into the world for the express purpose of 
 sending some other soldier out of it. We per- 
 ceive that the young emperor's chief amuse- 
 ment is the constant reviewing those men who 
 are per force soldiers. What a nice box of 
 toys the young man has got to be sure ! And 
 what a nice price the nation pays for his 
 amusement ! God knows how many thousands 
 of pounds are squandered yearly in parades 
 for our young friend's amusement. 
 
 This great country is, as far as I can see, 
 from one end to the other, a mere nursery for 
 soldiers. In fact, Germany is one huge bar- 
 racks. All who can get out of its gates flee 
 for their lives to England and America. 
 "Where is the German Fatherland ? " is a line 
 in one of their songs. The question is easily 
 answered — the German Fatherland is any 
 place but at home. So hail the first shot of a 
 new Franco-German war, and let us be rid of 
 our square-faced friends ! 
 
 VOL. I. 7 
 
98 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 Don't you forget, my dear brothers, that 
 France is the greatest country in the world. 
 We English are rough and ready boors com- 
 pared to the French. What do we know about 
 art, music, or any other intellectual refine- 
 ment, after all ? You can take the French 
 at anything and everything — art, literature, 
 science, arms — and they remain supreme. 
 And in the matter of courtesy, refinement 
 and politeness, how much can they not teach 
 us ? People will tell you that French polite- 
 ness is only on the surface. Well, what of 
 that ? We don't want men's politeness hidden 
 from view — we want to see it, to feel it. Polite- 
 ness on the surface is just where it should be. 
 How often do we hear it said of one of our own 
 countrymen, " Yes, he appears rather brusque 
 and rude, but he is a good fellow when you 
 come to know him." When we come to know 
 him ! As if we care to cultivate an intimate 
 acquaintance with a man who is brusque and 
 rude ! No, give me the Frenchman with his 
 
CONCERNING- FEITZ. 99 
 
 politeness on the surface. Again I ask, what 
 do we know of art — or, to put it more pro- 
 perly, the fine arts? That we Anglo-Saxons 
 are the vulgarest people on the face of God's 
 beautiful earth, I think I have intimated be- 
 fore. As di people, our sense of beauty is nil. 
 If we try to worship the beautiful in art, we 
 become grotesque and let our hair grow long, 
 starve ourselves to look haggard, and sport 
 sunflowers — which never should be cut from 
 their stalks — and wild poppies. The sense of 
 beauty is not in us. What architects we are I 
 John Euskin has been for fifty long years try- 
 ing to teach us how to build a decent-looking 
 house, and up to this not one of us has 
 followed his teaching^. Not because we don't 
 want to do so, but because we cannot — 
 Buskin's sense of beauty is beyond us. What 
 a hideous city London is, take it for all in all ! 
 — And New York ! For a full sense of our 
 Anglo-Saxon taste, both here and in America, 
 you should visit both London and N"ew York, 
 
 7-2 
 
100 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 and then Paris. All these remarks are bred 
 of the information given me by the little 
 widow, to the effect that at the Duchess of 
 Stanton's musical afternoon, which takes place 
 to-morrow, a great German fiddler and a 
 greater French baritone will be on view. The 
 duchess gets hold of some capital lions. 
 
 <^-o 
 
CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 A MUSICAL AFTERNOON. 
 
 The Duchess of Stanton's musical At Home 
 is in full swing, and some fellow with a very- 
 bald head is thumping away at the piano. 
 Present : the duchess herself, looking very 
 pretty in a chaste white morning costume ; 
 little Mrs. Wilson, pert and dimply, gossiping 
 with a very broad bishop with immense 
 calves — she occasionally darts a glance out 
 of those wicked eyes in my direction (wants 
 me to notice the calves, I expect : wonderful 
 sense of humour in the little widow) ; — two 
 members of Parliament talking matters of 
 state in a corner — one all whiskers and watch- 
 chain, and the other all feet and nose : both 
 very . mad ; curly-headed, dapper young 
 artist — painted the duchess for last year's 
 
102 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 Academy sliow — spooning Miss Minton, the 
 new society actress ; four or five titled 
 nonentities looking very much pleased v^ith 
 themselves; Carton, the Zolaite novelist, taking 
 mental notes, as he fingers his fiery moustache ; 
 a bevy of the prettiest girls of the season, 
 quietly criticizing eadi other ; the bishop's 
 daughter with a very parroty nose — she is 
 nearly forty, Mrs. Wilson says — looking lan- 
 guidly towards Captain Spray of the Blues. No, 
 I don't think the captain will rise. Presently 
 I catch sight of Paul Joyce seated near the 
 piano. Must have a chat with Paul by- and- 
 by. Others present, " too numerous to men- 
 tion." Enter Signer Tontine. Ah ! he is not 
 so young as he looks when on the stage. 
 His face has that haggard appearance com- 
 mon to all theatrical people who have been 
 for any length of time on the boards. His 
 eyes are large and dark, but with a certain 
 sly expression lurking in the corner. Her 
 grace flushes just a tiny bit. Fancy a thing 
 
A MUSICAL AFTERNOON. 103 
 
 like that making a duchess flush ever so 
 little ! But see the bouquet of beautiful 
 English girls present — they don't deign to 
 bestow even a cursory glance at the famous 
 tenor. No, they are all ladies^ bless them, 
 with all their faults, and do not go in for 
 spooning greas}- Italian singers. No, they 
 appear perfectly unconscious of the great 
 signer's presence, as one and all they sit 
 gazing in silent rapture on the magnificent 
 form of Frank Felton, the champion amateur 
 boxer. But hush ! the signor sings. 
 
 Ah ! in this small room I can detect flaws 
 in the voice, not noticeable in the theatre. 
 Yes, his voice is going. Hurry up, signor! 
 Make hay while the sun shines, for soon you 
 will go unloved by even American duchesses. 
 After the signor has finished " La Donna e 
 Mobile," the great German fiddler — well, 
 violinist — enters ; a short, fat, heavy grey- 
 moustached man, with shining steel-coloured 
 hair brushed back from the forehead ; the 
 
104 A VEKY MAD WORLD. 
 
 hair on the back part of his head needs 
 the scissors badlv. He carries his fiddle 
 in a neat case. He loses no time in un- 
 cartinof it and starting^ with his great solo. 
 Yes, this German can play the fiddle — - 
 well, if you wish it, violin. Enter M. Privot, 
 a well-known society baritone ; a tall hand- 
 some man, quiet and surprisingly unassuming 
 for an amateur singer. 
 
 Every one seems glad to see him, and pre- 
 sently the duchess graciously asks him if he 
 will favour us with a song. He will be only 
 too delighted, if any one will condescend to 
 accompany him. "It is a new song," he 
 adds, unfolding the roll of music. No one 
 apparently is bold enough to venture, for the 
 first time, on the treacherous sea of a new 
 baritone song accompaniment, and " before 
 such a lot of people too." Suddenly the 
 German fiddler rises, and intimates that he 
 will be happy to accompany Monsieur Privot. 
 What a scene follows ! Monsieur Privot turns 
 
A MUSICAL AFTEENOON. 105 
 
 white, and his eyes flash like ,an angry 
 cat's. 
 
 " JSTo, I will go," he exclaims glaring at the 
 poor duchess ; " I cannot stop the longer. You 
 should not have invited me where this man 
 comes," and he points his long delicate finger 
 towards the fiddler. " You should not, 
 Madame la Duchesse ! It is insult ! " And he 
 rushes from the room leaving us all speech- 
 less with astonishment. 
 
 No, not all of us, the fiddler seems to take 
 it all as a matter of course. He smiles 
 blandly, and remarks : 
 
 " It is Sedan dat is the cause of all that, 
 ladies and gentlemen." 
 
 " How shockingly rude ! " remarks the 
 bishop, who wants to stretch his legs, but is 
 afraid to. 
 
 " I am very much surprised at Monsieur 
 Privot, and shall not insult him for the 
 future by asking him to honour my house 
 with his company," observes her grace with 
 
106 A VERY MAI) WORLJD. 
 
 well-acted dignity. " I regret, Professor 
 Pllantz, that you should have received any 
 discourtesy from any guest in my house," 
 she adds, " and beg to apologize for having 
 invited Monsieur Privot here." 
 
 " Oh, do not speak of it," says the Ger- 
 man smiling. '^ I do not at all mind vot 
 Frenchmen say." 
 
 It was certainly very bad form on the 
 part of the baritone, but think of the pa- 
 triotism ! Eemember this : the Celt never 
 ceases to be a patriot. You will perhaps 
 say that the French are not Celts, but you 
 will be wrong if you do. The French are 
 every bit as much Celts as the Irish or 
 Scotch. Now, a German who leaves his own 
 Fatherland for America or England, is in 
 five years a complete Yankee, or English- 
 man, as the case may be. Germany he 
 never wants to see again, nor does he take 
 the slightest interest in her politics, com- 
 merce, literature, science or art. Not so the 
 
A MUSICAL AFTERNOON. 107 
 
 Frenchman, or the Irishman, or the Scotch- 
 man. Whatever land they by force of cir- 
 cumstances are driven to always remains the 
 land of the stranger to them. Let them rise 
 to wealth and power, or sink to poverty 
 and obscurity, their native land is always 
 first in their hearts. All honour to Monsieur 
 Privot, then, and with all his bad form let 
 us echo his sentiments — vive la France! 
 
 Yes, one of the maddest blunders of this 
 mad England was her falling out with France 
 and truckling to Germany. 
 
CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 THE WIDOW AND I GO TO CHURCH. 
 
 That exceedingly stupid man the Duke of 
 Stanton has left England. Left his beautiful 
 castle in the country, his gorgeous mansion 
 in town, left his pleasant clubs, his life of ease, 
 his pretty young wife — and all for what? 
 Why, to go shoot bears — when he can find 
 them — in the Eocky Mountains. And this 
 eminent idiot would probably take an action 
 against me if I called him insane in print ! 
 
 Yesterday being Sunday, little Mrs. Wilson 
 asked me to escort her to Beaufort Street 
 Church. She apologized for troubling me, but 
 explained that it was not fashionable for 
 ladies to be seen alone in Beaufort Street 
 Church since the late curate ran away with 
 Miss Cuttle, an orphan lieiress, who always 
 
IHE WIDOW AND I GO TO CHURCH. 109 
 
 attended the churcli alone. It appears that 
 the curate was hampered with a wife and 
 five children, but they did not handicap liim 
 in the least in his flight with Miss Cuttle. He 
 did not allow them to do so. 
 
 The sermon was delivered by the rector, 
 who has not yet lost the Oxford drawl. He 
 sawed the air very much, but then he had 
 such beautiful Yandyck hands. He spoke for 
 nearly twenty minutes on the pomps and 
 vanities of this wicked world, and then 
 hastened away after a hurried benediction 
 to be in time for luncheon off sohd gold 
 plate, with his grace the Duke of Coal- 
 hurst. 
 
 Little Mrs. Wilson says he is a perfect duck 
 of a clergyman, and so good to the poor. It 
 appears he actually advertises in the daily 
 papers for assistance on behalf of the poor of 
 the parish, every Christmas. With the money 
 thus received he purchases several half- 
 pounds of one-and-sixpenny tea, one of which 
 
110 A VEEY MAD WORLD. 
 
 he bestows upon each poor person who has 
 not missed church once in the past twelve 
 months. A good, kind, thoughtful. Christian 
 gentleman. How the poor of this parish must 
 bless him. His wife, the dear soul, has also 
 a fund started, from which she is enabled to 
 bestow a two-pound bar of soap, wrapped up 
 in a temperance tract, to all who are for- 
 tunate enough to win the half-pound of 
 tea. 
 
 By-the-way, this Beaufort Street Church 
 is rather fashionable, and accordingly the 
 Duchess of Stanton has hired a very promi- 
 nent pew therein. She prayed yesterday in 
 company with Mrs. Coombss, the newest 
 society beauty. Mrs. Wilson informs me that 
 she believes that there really is a husband 
 to Mrs. Coombes somewhere or other, though 
 she has never met any one who has ever 
 seen him. For the rest, Mrs. Coombes is 
 very beautiful, dresses well, has a pretty wit, 
 makes a capital two-shilling cabinet carte-de- 
 
THE WIDOW AND I GO TO CHUKCII. Ill 
 
 visite, and is a tremendous draw. She ap- 
 pears to be at present in the service of her 
 Grace of Stanton, who thereby is sure of all 
 the best men in town at her entertainments. 
 A great woman at bazaars is Mrs. Coombes : 
 all the charity-organization mongers east 
 and west fight tooth and nail for her services. 
 You should behold her stall at one of their 
 bazaars, with " Mrs. Coombes, Universal 
 Provider," printed in gold letters on pink 
 silk over the top. Such a stall of choice and 
 tempting articles ! Universal provider she 
 is indeed, for her stall is filled with every- 
 thing pretty and useful, from a sealskin cigar- 
 case to the newest thing in walking-sticks. 
 Oh ! does she not look lovely as she sits 
 behind her wares in the soft dim light of a 
 large pink lamp ! I shall have more to say 
 about the beautiful Coombes presently. 
 
 Towers also patronized Beaufort Street 
 yesterday, it was only when he stood up that 
 I saw him ; when seated his head did not 
 
112 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 reach top tlie to of the pew. Wonder where 
 Susan was doing her devotions? 
 
 The Tatte-Snarlow gang were also in evi- 
 dence ; things are growing desperate with 
 the girls — even the youngest is beginning to 
 look fade. They kept their eyes on little 
 Towers — whenever he stood up and gave 
 them a chance. Hope one of them will 
 capture him. If so, old Hemming and his 
 daughter will be amply revenged. 
 
 On our way homeward, Mrs. Wilson said 
 she did not know what to think of Stanton 
 going away, and " leaving such a giddy 
 wife all alone in London." 
 
 " Oh ! I think the duchess will manage 
 to take care of herself," I said. "Yankee 
 women are not such foohsh creatures as 
 their English sisters." 
 
 " Do you think not ? " murmured the little 
 woman. " Then I suppose / am one of those 
 foolish EngUshwomen ? " 
 
 "I hope not," I answered. 
 
THE WIDOW AND I GO TO CHURCH. 113 
 
 "You are very kind," she snapped with 
 a jerk of her little head. 
 
 " Now pray don't get angry with me, Mrs. 
 Wilson," I said. " If you really wish to 
 know my opinion, I think you the most 
 sensible woman I have ever met." 
 
 I knew this would bring back the dimples, 
 which it did ; the little widow was all smiles 
 and dimples for the rest of the journey. Oh ! 
 if I only told her how awfully mad she was ! 
 
 Have promised to go to a confounded 
 dinner to be followed by a ball to-morrow 
 night. How I wish the season was well 
 over, and I at liberty to return to the 
 country. Think of the madness of leaving 
 our beautiful country houses, whilst the 
 country is looking its loveliest, and rushing 
 up to this broiling, overcrowded London for 
 the purpose of boring each other to death 
 at balls, receptions and dinners in stifling 
 rooms! Madness — is it not worse than 
 madness ? Think of the gorgeous beauty of 
 
 VOL, I. 8 
 
114 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 the woods and dales, the glorious summer 
 breeze, laden with the scent of millions of 
 flowers ; think of the beauty — but I forget, 
 we have no sense of beauty in England. 
 
 i^-> 
 
CHAPTER XVL 
 
 PAUL JOYCE EXPLAINS HIS MISSION. 
 
 Paul Joyce dined with me yesterday. His 
 madness has taken a new turn. He was 
 labouring under the delusion that he has a 
 mission — a very mad mission indeed. He 
 called it " Intellectual Monarchy." , His idea 
 is that our greatest men should constitute a 
 body from which they would elect by vote 
 one of their number as king, and that king 
 should be absolute monarch over us all until 
 he reached the age of seventy, when he should 
 retire, and another king be elected in his 
 place. 
 
 " It will be," exclaimed Paul, rising from 
 his seat and pacing up and down the room. 
 " It shall be, Phil ; but not during our time. 
 The next century — about the middle of it — 
 
 8-2 
 
116 A VERY MAD WORLD, 
 
 will see my dream fulfilled, provided I am 
 spared for a few 3^ears, so as to be able to 
 travel from country to country and teacli the 
 rising generation how to work the thing. 
 I mean to travel not only over England, but 
 even through France, Germany and Eussia. 
 I will sow the seed which will spring up 
 and blossom in the next century." 
 
 " Why not in this century ? '' I asked. 
 
 " Listen," he answered standing still be- 
 fore me. 
 
 " This is the fag end of the nineteenth 
 century. All its great work is done. It is 
 past bearing, and in fact is on its death-bed. 
 All its great people have been, and are gone. 
 No more great men will come until the new 
 century dawns. And what mighty men has 
 this dying nineteenth century not borne in 
 her time," and Paul began his walk again. 
 " Ah ! Phil, old boy, just think of the sixties ; 
 think of the race of giants who were on earth 
 then. If they had only thought of banding 
 
PAUL JOYCE EXPLAINS HLS :MISSI0X. 117 
 
 together and proclaiming themselves rulers of 
 the earth/' 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Who ? Thackeray, Dickens, Victor Hugo, 
 Carlyle, Dumas, Tyndall, Browning, Tenny- 
 son, Longfellow, Huxley, Euskin — these are 
 a few of the mighty race who lived in 
 the sixties. Some are among us still, Phil, 
 but the harvest is past and the summer has 
 gone with them, and their work is done. 
 What a band of immortal kings ! " he cried 
 in ecstasy, " what a royal brotherhood." 
 
 "But have we not great men still — other 
 than those you have named ? " I asked. 
 
 " Pigmies, Phil, pigmies," he answered, re- 
 suming his seat. " Dregs of the golden bum- 
 per. I tell you there will be no more great 
 men this side of nineteen hundred. It is the 
 law of nature." 
 
 " Well, how are you going to work ? What 
 is your programme ? " 
 
 " ril tell YOU ; the idea has been workini^ 
 
118 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 in my mind for the past three years. Now 
 ask yourself, Phil, has there ever been a king 
 or emperor who in mind — in intellect — could 
 compare with any of the band of immortals 
 I have just mentioned ? No. In olden times, 
 ere people learned better manners, they were 
 always attacking or being attacked. They 
 did not live in a period of Thought, they 
 lived in a period of Action. They could not- 
 read, they could not write, but each man 
 born of woman was taught to fight. His life, 
 his home, his liberty depended on his skill 
 with the bow and arrow. The bravest and 
 most skilful shot was elected leader of his 
 brothers when setting forth to attack, or 
 when defending their country from hostile 
 neighbours. As times grew milder, the sons 
 of these rough-and-ready leaders were created 
 kings, and as such were always ready in 
 times of war to lead their armies in person. 
 Those times are gone by now. We now pay 
 hired soldiers, whom we create generals and 
 
PAUL JOYCE EXPLAINS HIS MISSION. 119 
 
 the like, to lead our armies (also liired) fortli 
 to battle. Kings don't expose themselves 
 now. Such being the case, what do we want 
 with them ? Their occupation is gone." 
 
 " Oh ! you're a republican," I exclaimed. 
 
 " Nothing of the sort," he answered, rather 
 sharply. " I am anything but a republican. 
 I am fur a monarchy, but my monarch must 
 be a man of intellect. In fact I want our 
 greatest man to be king. You admit, I pre- 
 sume, that Ben Jonson was a greater man 
 than that tipsy mountebank, James the 
 First?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you will admit that Shakespeare and 
 Bacon were greater people than that she- 
 dragon Elizabeth ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I only cite those at random ; but if I 
 wished I could go through any reign, both 
 here and in other countries, and prove that 
 in each reign the real kings were private 
 
1-20 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 individuals." Here lie rose excitedly and 
 cried, '• Heavens ! Phil, just think of Shake- 
 speare having to walk backwards from the 
 presence of a drunken clown like James the 
 First ! Is it not enough to make your blood 
 boil ? " 
 
 "Well, you see, Paul, of course Shake- 
 speare was a demi-god in comparison to the 
 Scot, but at the same time he was only a 
 subject while the other was King of 
 England." 
 
 " Ah, good God, man ! that's the whole 
 matter," and Paul's great mad eyes flashed 
 fire. "Isn't that what I am endeavouring 
 to stop ? " 
 
 "Stop— how?" 
 
 " By lecturing. Does not your own sense 
 tell you that the people of a country should 
 be led by their greatest men ? Doesn't your 
 own sense tell you that there must be some- 
 thing radically wrong with a country which 
 allows its great Shakespeare to go untitled; 
 
PAUL JOYCE EXPLAINS HIS MISSION. l:il 
 
 while it bows to the yoke of a tipsy Scotch 
 buffoon ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes, my dear boy, but what is the 
 use of talking about such matters ? As I told 
 you, we are all mad, and we will never do 
 anything as it should be done in this world." 
 
 "Yes, we will, Phil, yes, we will, or at 
 least those who come after us will. As sure 
 as my name is Paul Joyce, the twentieth cen- 
 tury will see my dream of Intellectual Mon- 
 archy fulfilled." 
 
 " Never," I said laughing, *' it's all non- 
 sense." 
 
 " I say it will,'' exclaimed Paul. 
 
 " Never," I persisted. 
 
 " It shall by " Uncle Toby's immor- 
 tal oath may have been a very big one, 
 but I firmly believe that Phil's was bigger. 
 
 The dear old madman has promised to 
 come and stay with me for a while at Brown- 
 low. What a pity he did not marry that 
 Cfirl he was so much in love with lorn? vears 
 
122 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 ago. Disappointed lovers are as prone to 
 mischief as childless wives. I greatly fear 
 that Paul's mischief will turn out rather 
 serious for him, if he goes lecturing in 
 Eussia. 
 
 
CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 MRS. COOMBES. 
 
 At all bazaars, as I have previously intima- 
 ted, Mrs. Coombes' stall is the centre of at- 
 traction, principally of course on account of 
 Mrs. Coombes herself, but also for the sake 
 of the reall}^ useful and ornamental articles 
 she offers for sale. I was saying the other 
 day to Mrs. Wilson that Mrs. Coombes must 
 have a regular income of some fairish amount 
 or she never could purchase such charming" 
 and expensive articles to re-sell for charity. 
 At this the little widow laughed very heartily 
 indeed, and then lamented my ignorance. 
 
 " Why, don't you know how Mrs. Coombes 
 obtains all the goods for her bazaar stalls ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 "No; I understood she purchased them." 
 
124 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Oh, dear no," said the widow. " Mrs. 
 Coombes is nothing out of pocket by her 
 charity, I can assure you. Catch her ! " 
 
 " Well then, how is it done ? " I asked. 
 
 " By barefaced cheek ! " exclaimed the 
 widow. " Excuse me using a vulgar expres- 
 sion, but it is the only one applicable. Cheek 
 is Mrs. Coombes' magic power of converting 
 other people's property into her own." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, she calls upon all her friends and 
 acquaintances, no matter how slight the ac- 
 quaintance, and anything nice and portable 
 she sees in their rooms she insists on being 
 presented with for charitable purposes." 
 
 "The deuce she does!" 
 
 "Yes, she is advertised, along with the 
 Duchess of Stanton and others, to assist at 
 the forthcoming: Old Enijlish Fair in aid of 
 the funds of the Eoyal Home for Idiots. Pro- 
 bably you will receive a visit from her," and 
 the little widow smiled a wicked smile. 
 
MRS. COOMB ES. 125 
 
 Sure enough, yesterday morning, while at 
 my rather late breakfast, Mrs. Coombes 
 arrived unannounced. 
 
 " Now don't attempt to rise," she exclaimed 
 playfully. " Proceed with your breakfast. 
 I had no idea you were such a late mortal ; 
 and you men are always deriding us poor 
 women on our late hours." 
 
 "Well, the fact is, Mrs. Coombes " 
 
 "Now pray don't apologize," she inter- 
 rupted. " How can you be expected to 
 appear early during a busy season.^ I saw 
 you at Mrs. Belmont's last night." 
 
 " Yes, I was there, but came away rather 
 early." 
 
 " I don't blame you at all, Mr. Brownlow, 
 it was ghastly. The Belmonts never knew 
 how to entertain." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 " No ; why old Mr. Belmont (I mean the 
 present one's father) was only a captain in 
 the navy — a mere navy captain." 
 
126 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Dear me, you astonish me, Mrs. 
 Coombes." 
 
 " I'm sure I do," she rephed, gazing round 
 the room rapidly. "By the way, what are 
 you going to present me with for my stall 
 at the bazaar next week. I have called on 
 you specially, knowing you are a generous 
 man." And the beautiful eyes beamed upon 
 me. 
 
 "Well, really, Mrs. Coombes, were I at 
 Brownlow I could readily find something 
 suitable for a bazaar stall, but here I " 
 
 " Now, now, I won't take any excuses," 
 she exclaimed, rising and laughingly run- 
 ning from corner to corner of the room. At 
 length she discovered my beautiful Malacca 
 cane mounted in gold — it had only returned 
 from being mounted last week. 
 
 " Oh, this beautiful cane is the very thing! " 
 she cried in rapture. "You dear man, to 
 have such a nice offering for me. I will 
 hang it up. right in the centre of my stall." 
 
MRS. COOMBES. 1-7 
 
 " But, Mrs. Coombes " 
 
 " Now, not a word — I insist on having this 
 cane. Au revoir ; will see you at Lady 
 Bashfield's to-night, I expect," and she ran 
 off ere I could say another word. 
 
 Shortly afterwards Mrs. Wilson came in. 
 
 " What on earth made you so foolish as 
 to give that cane to Mrs. Coombes ? " she 
 cried. 
 
 " Well, if the truth must be told, Mrs. 
 Wilson, I did 7iot give the cane to Mrs. 
 Coombes. She took it." 
 
 "Yes, but why did you let her take it?" 
 And little Mrs. Wilson appeared actually to 
 be angry. But why — what did it matter to 
 her? 
 
 "I could not prevent her taking it," I 
 answered. " She didn't give me time. She 
 was gone with it ere I could say Jack 
 Eobinson. But how did you know anything 
 about it ? Did she call at your rooms ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the widow. 
 
128 A VERY MAD WORLD, 
 
 " And what did you give her ? " 
 "A bit of my mind," and the dimples 
 returned again. "Mrs. Coombes won't beg 
 anything for charity from me in a hurry. 
 What a madwoman she must be to think 
 people cannot see through it all." 
 
 The little widow was not aware of the 
 great truth she uttered just then. Mrs. 
 Coombes is very mad indeed. She thinks she 
 is one of the leaders of fashion and one of 
 the queens of society. Alas! it is not so. She 
 is made use of by people like the Duchess 
 of Stanton, who set her as a decoy duck to 
 make the men flock to their receptions. 
 She is used by charitymongers to wheedle 
 the money out of men's pockets at bazaars- 
 said method of gaining cash being rather 
 "too, too much" for thoroughbred women. 
 Yes, Mrs. Coombes has her uses, but she is 
 not treated as an equal, though she is in 
 blissful ignorance of the fact. Next season 
 she will have become forgotten, will have 
 
MRS. COOMBES. 129 
 
 been divorced from her now invisible hus- 
 band, and we will hear no more of her until 
 she appears on the stage as " Juliet " in a 
 matinee. Poor little society beauty! 
 
 Mafe^ 
 
 mm^' 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 AT THE THEATRE. 
 
 We went to the theatre last night — the 
 widow and I — to see the " highly success- 
 ful comic opera entitled ' Minetta.' " Shades 
 of Jacques Offenbach and Hortense Schneider, 
 what has comic opera come to ? When one 
 thinks of " La Grande Duchesse," even as per- 
 formed in English — when one thinks of its 
 mad, merry fun, its sparkling music and 
 its clever interpreters, one is forced to 
 wonder how the public put up with the 
 wretched vulgar productions, miscalled comic 
 operas, now offered them. I don't for one 
 moment suppose that any comic opera, or 
 rather opera-bouffe, will ever be written to 
 approach the "Grand Duchess," but still some- 
 thing within, say, a hundred miles of it ought 
 
AT THE THEATRE. 131 
 
 to have appeared ere this. Is the thinsf 
 dead ? Has the light of comic opera gone 
 out in France — it never has been in England 
 — but in France, the home of sparkling 
 music and brilliant comedy, are there no 
 more Offenbachs in it ? I fear not. Opera- 
 bouffe is as dead as the empire whose latter 
 days it electrified. Don't you believe those 
 awfully " cultured " people who tell you 
 that there is no music in Offenbach's operas. 
 Ask them what the " Sabre Song " is, if it 
 is not one of the greatest military strains 
 ever composed. Ask them what the " Love 
 Letter " chorus is, if not most original and 
 beautiful music. Any true lover of music 
 can pick out dozens of such gems from the 
 great Frenchman's works. Touching this 
 same chef-d'ceuvre^ " La Grande Duchesse," it 
 was the greatest satire ever penned against 
 the German nation, has never been forgiven 
 by that nation, and was the prime cause of 
 the Franco-Prussian war. You no doubt 
 
 9—2 
 
132 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 tliink it incredible that two nations should 
 go to war over a comic opera, but you forget 
 how mad we all are, French, English and 
 German alike. Why, have not we English 
 gone to war with poor ignorant blacks for 
 no cause at all ? 
 
 ■ As to " Minetta," " the highly successful 
 comic opera," its music was stale jingle, its 
 plot nil, as far as I could discern, its dialogue 
 weak where it was not dirt}^, and its ex- 
 .ponents unmitigated duffers. The female 
 performers had never been taught the prin- 
 ciples cf correct pronunciation, and conse- 
 ^auently I had not the smallest idea of what 
 they were saying. They chattered away, 
 but a lot of magpies chattering in a park 
 ishrubbery would have been equally as intel- 
 ligible. The men were a little better — that is 
 lo say, one could make out what they were 
 talking about. But they could not act. They 
 looked simply what they were, a lot of music- 
 hall singers out of their element. 
 
. AT THE THEATRE. 133 
 
 The widow having given m^ permission 
 to go out and enjoy a cigarette during the 
 second entrade, I adjourned to the saloon. 
 There I met Tom Pierce. Tom, I may state, 
 is a " society novelist," also dramatic critic 
 for a society journal, and aspiring dramatist. 
 
 " What do you think of the opera ? " he 
 asked. 
 '. " Can't make head or tail of it," I replied. 
 
 " Oh, I am not talking of the scrip, I mean 
 how do you like the music ? Xo one looks 
 for plot in comic operas now a days." 
 
 " I can't discover any music either," I said. 
 
 " Well, it's not the most original music 
 certainly," confessed Tom. " But no one 
 looks for original music in comic operas 
 nowadays. But just think of the way little 
 Carrie de Smythe sings ' Come kiss me who 
 dares.' That is enough to draw the town." 
 
 " Carrie de Smythe ! and you think she can 
 sing?" I cried in astonishment. "Why, she 
 can't talk, much less sing." . 
 
134 A VERY MAD WOKLD. 
 
 " Well, I admit slie is not a Patti." 
 
 " She hasn't the slightest idea of acting," I 
 went on. 
 
 " But, my dear bo}^, no one expects good 
 acting or singing in comic opera nowa- 
 days," exclaimed Tom. " All we want now 
 is to see a lot of fine women in tights, who 
 can rattle off catchy songs, and one or two 
 knock-about comedians. Comic opera is 
 quite a different thing to what it was in the 
 days of Julia Mathews." 
 
 " Indeed it is," I said, " a very different 
 thing. In fact all the comic element has 
 run out of it." 
 
 " Oh ! I don't know so much about that," 
 said Tom. "' Minetta' draws all London, and 
 will continue to do so probably until Christ- 
 mas. You cannot call a piece bad under 
 those circumstances. The composer tried his 
 hand at serious work, but starved on it. He 
 wrote ' Minetta,' and is making eighty 
 pounds a week." 
 
AT THE THEATRE. 135 
 
 "Yes, I suppose we must look at it in 
 that way. The drama's laws the drama's 
 patrons give. It is the same now as in 
 Pope's time; but still, 'Minetta' is not an 
 opera." 
 
 "I never said it was," replied Tom, and 
 then the electric bell sounded, and we re- 
 turned to our seats. 
 
 I wonder if Tom will ever have a play 
 produced ? He has been pestering managers 
 for fully ten years with his MS., but never 
 with success. Curious, what a number of 
 novelists there are who are ambitious of 
 dramatic honours. Yet how few of them 
 ever make any success as playwrights. Tom 
 may succeed yet. He has youth on his side, 
 and besides, is not wholly dependent upon 
 his pen. God help him if he was ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 Mrs. Wilson told me to-day that it has 
 come to her knowledge that a conspiracy 
 is being hatched by some of the wisest and 
 
136 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 fiercest mammas in London, for the capture 
 of little Towers. They have resolved that 
 he won't leave town unmarried. 
 - "You must warn him," said the widow. 
 
 " Why should I ? " I asked. ' 
 
 " Simply because it is so unfair." 
 
 " Unfair ! Surely little Towers can take 
 care of himself?" 
 
 " Oh ! you don't know what I mean at 
 all," said the widow. "I mean it is unfair 
 to our own county girls. They have the 
 riofht to him — or at least some one of them 
 has," and the little widow smiled. 
 
 " How would you hke ? " I stopped in 
 
 time I thought, but not so. 
 
 "What!" she cried, flushing with anger, 
 " do you for one moment suppose, Mr. 
 Brownlow, that I should ever think of mar- 
 rying Mr. Towers! Answer me?" and she 
 stamped her little foot. 
 
 " No, no, not at all, Mrs. Wilson," I has- 
 tened to say, " believe me, such a thought 
 
AT THE THEATRE. 137 
 
 never for a moment entered my head. As 
 for little Towers, he will do very well for 
 some silly girl with a craving for money, 
 but I trust such a charming woman as 
 
 yourself " 
 
 " There, that will do," she cried, all dim- 
 ples once more. " I don't wish to hear any 
 more. You are forgiven." 
 
 [-^-^^^ 
 
 H-y^ 
 
CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 THOSE YANKEES. 
 
 I HAVE alwaj^s been under the impression 
 that America will be a very fine country 
 when it is finished, provided it is not spoiled 
 in the making. And somehow or another I 
 incline to the belief that it will be so spoiled, 
 for the Yankee madness is very mad indeed. 
 Understand, I use the word Yankee because 
 the Yankees are the ijeople. The people of 
 America are all Yankees, which is saying 
 that they are all horribly vulgar, fearful 
 liars, and disgusting braggarts. The Amer- 
 ican ladies and gentlemen — the Southerners — 
 are the nicest creatures in the world. But 
 as I have before stated, you must judge of 
 a country by its people — its commonality — to 
 use a good old English expression, now 
 
THOSE YANKEES. 139 
 
 seldom uttered save by the Irish peasant. 
 For a long time I was under the impression 
 that the Yankee's brag anent his country 
 and its stupendous greatness and superiority 
 over every country on the face of the earth, 
 and England in particular, was only so much 
 " side," — that he only praised his country as 
 a matter of principle. But I have changed 
 my mind. They realh^ believe what they 
 say. I was convinced of this in the following 
 way. A troupe of Christy Minstrels came 
 over here from New York. Some music-hall 
 would have been the proper place for them, 
 but they elected to open at the most 
 famous theatre in the world — Drury Lane. 
 I cannot understand what the manager was 
 thinking about when he let them the house 
 in question, but anyhow, let it he did. Now, 
 as all the world knows, the Drury Lane 
 theatre has always been a fashionable house 
 when there is anything good on its stage. 
 As all the world knows, it was nothing less 
 
140 A VEEY MAD WOKLJD. 
 
 than sacrilege to allow a lot of men with 
 corked faces to appear on its honoured 
 boards. Well, when the Yankee agent in 
 advance arrived he called all the hands " in 
 front " together, and thus addressed them. 
 At least, the following was the purport of 
 his remarks. (The " hands " were the check- 
 takers, cloak-room attendants, and box- 
 keepers.) "Now, good people, I want you 
 all to be particular with the audiences which 
 will visit this house during the stay of the 
 
 Minstrels. You must be very ]3olite 
 
 and civil, because the people who will attend 
 will be sujjerior to those ivlio are in the habit 
 of attending here ! " And he believed every 
 word he said. He believed that these miser- 
 able black-faced Yankees would draw a more 
 fashionable audience than even Garrick, 
 Kean, Kemble, or any other " stars " ever 
 drew to Drury Lane ! Ah dear ! what a 
 dire failure they were, poor fellows ! And 
 the manager stated that the failure was due 
 
THOSE YANKEES. 141 
 
 to want of taste and refinement in the Lon- 
 doners. Yes, the Yankees are very mad 
 indeed. Funny to read their theatrical 
 papers when they treat of EngUsh actors and 
 actresses. The Yankee critics affect to be 
 very much disgusted with the "Enghsh 
 accent " on the stage. Fancy a lot of half- 
 educated scribblers, who talk with a twang 
 which puts one's teeth on edge, professing 
 to find great offence in the English accent ! 
 The question is, how should the English 
 language be spoken — with an English 
 accent or a Yankee one ? 
 
 But I think the greatest fun of all is their 
 " Society " papers. These papers are quite 
 as amusing as the " Society '' itself. Society ! 
 Well, there is a sort of Society — as we in 
 England understand the term — in the South, 
 where many of the old slave-holders still 
 dwell, but the so-called " society " which 
 these precious journals treat of is composed 
 of the most shoddy lot of men and women 
 
142 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 which it has been my misfortune to meet 
 withal. Now, some of our own cheap society 
 papers are open to ridicule occasionally, but 
 still, when they give us details of people, 
 those people are somebodies. The Yankee 
 " Society " journals give the most minute 
 particulars about nobodies. Here lies a 
 paper printed in New York. I take an item 
 of its " Society Gossip " at random : " Miss 
 Lillian Schaltz has returned from school 
 at Boston, and will remain with her 
 parents until the Fall." There is an impor- 
 tant bit of social gossip ! Here is another 
 gem : '' Mr. Jeff Goode, the eminent orange- 
 grower, is laid up with a bilious attack." 
 And yet another : " Mrs. John Washington 
 Dibbs, one of the Queens of New York 
 society, eats two eggs, a round of toast, and 
 drinks two large cups of coffee for her 
 breakfast." 
 
 The entire paper is made up of garbage of 
 this description. Shocking as it appears to 
 
THOSE YANKEES. 143 
 
 US, the Yankees think it the creme de la creme 
 of " society " gossip. And is not " one of 
 the Queens of New York society " distinctly 
 precious ! How greedy of praise they are 
 too ! I have noticed of late that in almost 
 every new play produced in London there is 
 an American character. This character is 
 always a cool, highly-polished, brave, cynical 
 and altogether "good" sort of fellow. "Why 
 is this thus ? " I asked Tom Pierce. " Don't 
 you know?" he replied. "Why, don't you 
 see, America has become a great market 
 for English dramatic ware, but no play will 
 be successful there unless it has an American 
 character in it. And the said character must 
 have most of the fat.'' 
 
 The Land of the Free ! And they want 
 to banish all the English actors from the 
 country ! The home of the brave ! And they 
 are afraid to allow an English teapot into 
 their port lest it should take a cent out of 
 some Yankee tinker's pocket. But what can 
 
144 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 you expect from a nation of wooden nutmeg 
 makers and patent "ironclad lemon squasher" 
 manufacturers ? What American would pur- 
 chase his own country's goods if he could get 
 those made in England? The land of the 
 free and the home of the brave ! Bah ! 
 
 Do you know what makes me incensed 
 against these poor mad Yankees ? Well, the 
 fact is this, the little widow has informed 
 me that the Duchess of Stanton's uncle — 
 the old creature we saw in her grace's box 
 — has at last turned Turk. He insisted on 
 being introduced to her grace's friends. 
 She refused, and told the old man not to 
 come near her for the future. The upshot 
 of all this is that, for pure spite, the old 
 boor has sent to America for another niece, 
 whom he has announced as his heiress, and, 
 worst of all, has actually taken a place 
 in our county ! The place in question 
 is called Beechley Wold, and is within 
 three miles of Brownlow and two miles 
 
THOSE YANKEES. 14d 
 
 of Stanton Castle. Fancy having this 
 man and his Yankee niece as neighbours ! 
 Certainly Peter Butts — that's the old beg- 
 gar's name— is not a Yankee, having been 
 born and bred in London, but he is a vul- 
 gar cockney, which is equally as bad. It 
 appears that his brother, her grace's father, 
 ran away to sea when fourteen, deserted his 
 ship at New York, and eventually found 
 himself in Chicago, where in due time he 
 grew wealthy and died, leaving all his money 
 to his only daughter, now her Grace of 
 Stanton. 
 
 "^^^; 
 
 VOL. I 10 
 
CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 VERY LOW COMEDY. 
 
 Tom Pierce, who is on the look-out for 
 " comic business " for a comedy he is at 
 work on, intends visiting the Caddington 
 Vestry Hall to-night, and has asked me if I 
 would like to accompany him. He says it 
 is delightful fun to hear and see the crea- 
 tures who are called vestrymen. I expect it 
 is, and have accordingly promised to go. 
 Tom was to call for me at seven. 
 
 Here he is. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Well, here we are in the Vestry Hall, 
 and in that part known as the " gallery," 
 from whence we can see the " whole show," 
 as Tom says. The gallery is filled with an 
 audience composed of local ratepayers, who 
 
VERY LOW COMEDY. 147 
 
 are joking and chaffing like a lot of coster- 
 mongers in tlie "top" of Old^Drury on a 
 Boxing Night. 
 
 " What's on to-night, Ted ? " asks a gentle- 
 man in a straw hat and no collar. 
 
 " Oh, a regular barney," answers Ted, who 
 is evidently an undertaker. " Yur see, Jack 
 Bung has come 'ome from his 'olidays, an' is 
 going to give it 'em all straight fur movin' a 
 resolution in 'is absence." 
 
 " Wot resolution ? " queries Straw-hat. 
 
 " Donno ; but you'll 'ear all about it now. 
 Here's 'em all." 
 
 And then we notice below us in the "hall" 
 the usual assortment of snub-nosed, bottle- 
 nosed, long-nosed, red-nosed, flat-nosed, and 
 fat-nosed gentry, who, by some mysterious 
 agency, are destined to become vestry- 
 men. When the bald-headed, hatchet-faced 
 chairman is seated, Mr. Jack Bung — all cuffs, 
 collars, and whiskers — rises to state his 
 grievance. 
 
 10 -2 
 
14S A VERY 3IAD WORLD. 
 
 " Sir,'' says Mr. Bung, poiuting his stumpy 
 forefinger at the chair as if he was going to 
 denounce it ; " it has come to my knowledge 
 that during my absence and 56>journ at Mar- 
 gate, a certain cUck of individuals in this 
 room— (cries of " Xame I " "Order!" and 
 laughter) — has been making abortive resolu- 
 tions against me. Now I say, Mr. Chair, 
 that these persons told lies." 
 
 Here a number of vestrymen rise excitedly 
 and jabber forth all together, wliile some of 
 us in the gallery call out, " Sit down, and 
 give the man a chance," and " Now then, 
 Tickell with the glass eye, sit down, or I'll 
 tell your wife you've been drinking." This 
 last sally causes a roar of laughter, while 
 Mr. Tickell glares through his glass eye up 
 at the gallery. When the Chair succeeds in 
 aainino: silence, a stout moon-faced man rises 
 and remarks : 
 
 " Wot I say is this, Mr. Chair. Mr. Bung 
 says he were at Margate when a certing reso- 
 
VERY LOW COMEDY. i4'J 
 
 lution was brought against him. Now, as I 
 'appens to know, Mr. Bung w^asn't at Margate 
 at all at the time, but in the private bar of 
 the Spotted Dog." 
 
 Great laughter in the gallery, mingled with 
 cries of "Good old Spot!" Meanwhile Mr. 
 Bung is gesticulating at an awful rate, and 
 is evidently denouncing some one, but not a 
 word can be heard, so great is the uproar. 
 
 Silence once more restored, Mr. Bunor 
 cries, " That is a deliberate, unadulterated, 
 cowardly lie ! " Terrible uproar, mingled 
 with cries of "Turn him out!" "Chair!" 
 " Apologise ! " After a spell, order once 
 more reigns, and Mr. Bung apologises to the 
 moon-faced man, who nods his head in re- 
 sponse. " As for Mr. Tickell," continues 
 Mr. Bung, " he has always been dead against 
 me " (Mr. Tickell here starts to his feet, but 
 is held out of order by the chair). " He has 
 before now been down upon me, yet I can 
 tell you, Mr. Cliair, that Mr. Tickell has 
 
150 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 rented his 'ouse since eighteen-seventy-two 
 at one hundred and twenty pounds, and 
 has only been rated at sixty pounds. What 
 do you think of that ? And this is the man 
 who is the soul of honour and honesty, and 
 the deacon of a chapel too ! " 
 
 Great laughter among us in the gallery and 
 considerable uproar downstairs. A flat-nosed 
 man rises to know " why Mr. Tickell's dea- 
 conship should be dragged in as a matter of 
 privilege ? " 
 
 Mr. Bung : I want to give you some 
 facts. 
 
 Flatnose (excitedly) : We don't want your 
 facts. 
 
 Mr. Bung {smiling) : I know you don't. 
 [Great laughter from gallery.) 
 
 Order being restored, a red-headed, goggle- 
 eyed man jumps up and cries excitedly : 
 
 " Fair play ! I demand fair play for Mr. 
 Bung." 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " exclaims Mr. Tickell, " why 
 
VERY LOW COMEDY. 151 
 
 don't you pat 'im on the back and say, 
 ' Wire in, Jack — wollop the bloomin' lot ! ' " 
 
 Great uproar downstairs and peals of 
 laughter from the gods. 
 
 " Is this man," continues Mr. Tickell, point- 
 ing to Mr. Bung, "to be allowed to dig up 
 the past career of members of this vestry? 
 Why, Bung forgot altogether to have his 
 house. No. 6, Brick Eow, assessed ! " 
 
 " Don't you lie — you liar ! " shouts Mr. 
 Bung, rising, while the air resounds with 
 laughter from the gallery and cries of 
 " Order ! " and " Silence ! " from the hall. 
 
 " It is not a lie ! " roars Mr. Tickell. " And 
 if you call me a liar again I'll break your 
 jawr ! " 
 
 Terrible excitement — two members holding 
 Mr. Bung's coat-tails to keep him from rush- 
 ing at Mr. Tickell, who is being held down 
 by three able-bodied men. Now a bull-dog- 
 faced man cries : " We have no confidence 
 in the chairman who allows this sort of thing 
 
152 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 to go on." Then thunders of disapproval 
 from all sides, mingled with cries of "Turn 
 him out!" "Don't insult the chair! " "Bravo, 
 Noddle ! " Meanwhile the unfortunate chair- 
 man, who by this time is fairly done up, rises 
 and says : 
 
 " I move that we proceed to the next 
 business." 
 
 Voice {from gallery) : Go home, you bloom- 
 in' josser! 
 
 Chairman {sternly) : I'm not speaking to 
 the gallery. 
 
 Mr. Tickell : Why don't you obey the 
 chair. Bung? 
 
 Bung : I don't care a button for you or 
 the chair. 
 
 Chairman {livid) : Mr. Bung says he doesn't 
 care a button for the chair ! 
 
 Bung: No more I don't. 
 
 Cheers and laughter from the gallery ; and 
 then a clean-shaven man, dressed in a rather 
 " sporty " style, rises and observes : 
 
VERY LOW COMEDY. 153 
 
 " I see we can get no business done. Let 
 US dry up and go home." 
 
 " Don't be a fool ! " cries Mr. Bung. 
 
 " I say, Bung has called Mouldy a fool ! " 
 exclaims Mr. Tickell, whereupon there is more 
 confusion, the gallery expressing its delight 
 by shouting, " Good old Bung ! " " Give it 
 ■*em 'ot ! " " Now then, glass-eye, shut up ! " 
 and other painful remarks. 
 
 Chairman {icith dignity) : I'll leave the 
 room {exit). 
 
 Voice {from gallery) : Bung, collar the 
 chair, old chap ! 
 
 Mr. Tickell {glaring at gallery) : Shut up. 
 
 The uproar is now so terrific that I tell 
 Tom I must leave. 
 
 " I can't stand any more of it," I say. 
 
 " Neither can I," he replies, and we both 
 make the best of our way into the street. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of that?'' he 
 asks, as the hansom hurries us away. " Nice 
 lot of people to have control as vestrymen, eh ? " 
 
154 A VEKY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Tom, is it not terrible 
 madness ? " 
 
 " Madness ! " he exclaims ; " is that what 
 you call it ? / call it humour — the humour 
 of the lower orders. A vestry meeting is 
 the lowest of low comedy, and ratepayers 
 would resent any departure from established 
 custom. They go to their vestry hall as you 
 or I go to a theatre — to be amused." 
 
 " And what was all the row about to- 
 night ! " 
 
 "Heaven alone knows." 
 
 "Why, don't the vestrymen know what 
 they were fighting about ? " 
 
 " Not they," he answers ; " if they did 
 there would not be half the fun." 
 
 •^1«- 
 
CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 Paul's confession. 
 
 Mad as myself, ay, a madder man than ever 
 I can hope to be, is Paul Joyce. I dmed 
 with him last night at his chambers in Caxton 
 Inn. After dinner he began on his Monarchy 
 of Intellect craze. 
 
 " You know, Phil, as well as I do, that if 
 the countries of Europe were all governed 
 by men of intellect there would be peace 
 all round. What is Europe now ? An armed 
 camp." 
 
 "I don't dispute that fact at all," I said. 
 
 " No ; well, do you for one moment believe 
 that the good God made these beautiful coun- 
 tries for the sole purpose of being utilised 
 as drilling-grounds for soldiers of the czar, 
 the emperor, or the king, as the case 
 
156 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 may be? No. Do you think that Jesus 
 of Nazareth died upon the Cross to save 
 mankind for the purpose of making us 
 fight each other to the death — to slay each 
 other, Phil, for the pleasure of kings and 
 emperors? — because that is what it amounts 
 to. Ah ! my dear fellow, these things want 
 looking into." 
 
 " Of course they do," I remarked. " And 
 now tell me what you have been doing this 
 year. I wanted to ask you when you dined 
 with me, but you were so full of your mis- 
 sion " 
 
 " Yes, that's the word," and Paul nodded 
 his head with approval. 
 
 " Well, now I want to hear about your- 
 self. How is it you have not married ? " 
 
 " Why are you not married ? " he answered 
 quickly. 
 
 "Well, I can scarcely answer that question. 
 I dont know why, unless that I never met 
 with any woman who has made me think of 
 
PAUL'S CONFESSION. 157 
 
 marriage. But you, Paul, you know you told 
 
 me six years ago you were in* love with 
 
 some woman." 
 
 "Ah ! for Heaven's sake don't talk of her ! " 
 
 he exclaimed, rising and walking up and down 
 
 the room — an old habit of his. 
 
 " I'm sorry I have mentioned the subject," 
 
 I said ; " but you know you used to tell me 
 
 all about it." 
 
 "Yes, yes, but it's all over now," and Paul 
 
 sat down again. " I have lost her — lost her 
 
 for ever ; and all my own fault, Phil, that's 
 the worst part of it ; thafs what drives me 
 mad when I think of it. My God ! what an 
 idiot I was ! Oh, what an idiot I was ! " 
 and the poor fellow actually trembled with 
 emotion. 
 
 " Well, there, we all have our troubles, 
 Paul — there is no man on this earth who 
 has not a thorn festering in his heart — not 
 a woman who has not some dark sorrow 
 hidden away from all." 
 
158 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Yes, you are right ; but think of what 
 my grief must be when I tell you that it 
 was all my own utter idiotcy which lost me 
 the only girl who could have made my life 
 worth living. Fancy my loving a woman — 
 and such a woman — for five years, yet never 
 telling her of my love ! " 
 
 " What ! " I exclaimed in astonishment. 
 
 " Fact, Phil.*' 
 
 "Well, my dear fellow, w^hat was your 
 idea?" 
 
 " Idea, Phil, idea f What was my mad- 
 ness, you mean. Away from her, I was in 
 misery •, with her, I affected a coolness — a 
 nonchalance^ that's the only word for it." 
 
 "Ah ! I expect you were shy and nervous," 
 I said, " and tried to hide it by an appearance 
 of coldness. I remember you wrote to me 
 once stating something of the sort." 
 
 " Yes ; " and then after a pause, " she grew 
 tired of my coolness at last, and " 
 
 " Married ? " 
 
PAUL'S CONFESSION. 159 
 
 " Left England for India with her brother. 
 I daresay she is married to gome happy 
 beggar by this time. And now, Phil, let 
 us talk of something else." 
 
 We were soon deep in the Monarchy of 
 Intellect again. What a blessing he has got 
 this madness to keep him alive. 
 
 On my way homeward I thought of that 
 letter he sent me, some years ago, and re- 
 membered that it was with one or two other 
 curious letters in a small pocket-book in my 
 desk. 
 
 It lies before me now. At the time it was 
 written, Paul was in far better spirits than 
 ever he will be again, yet I can trace a 
 touch of sadness in this " confession." 
 
 " Dear Phil, 
 
 " I want you to help me. Don't start, 
 this is not a begging letter. I simply want 
 your advice on a very delicate matter. The 
 fact is, I have been for a long time very 
 
130 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 much in love. Now, I want you to par- 
 ticularly understand that this is not a mere 
 case of spooneyism ; it is real, earnest, down- 
 right love, deep as a draw-well. She is an 
 angel — a kind-hearted, gentle angel — to 
 everybody but me. That's what's the matter. 
 I know she is not a flirt ; if she was one, 
 I could understand her. What is she like ? 
 Well, 
 
 " She's not very dark, and she's not very fair, 
 
 She's rather a sort of a blend ; 
 Her eyes they are hhie, and her free wavy hair 
 
 Is as brown as my briar with the bend. 
 She's not very tall — ^just ' as high as my heart,' 
 
 But she shouldn't be shorter or taller. 
 And now I have given a true life-like carte 
 
 Of my dear little — what-do-you-call-her. 
 
 The above, I may tell you, forms a portion 
 of a string of verses which I w^rote and sent 
 her, and which she was pleased to say were 
 ' rather good ; ' but she must have been in 
 good humour at the time, for when next I 
 saw her she informed me that she thought 
 my verses ' very impertinent,' and actually 
 
PAUL'S CONFESSION. 161 
 
 handed iliem back to me, with the remark 
 
 that she ' did not want them.' *But, curious 
 
 to relate, within a month from the time she 
 
 handed them to me, she wrote asking me 
 
 for them again. Well, Phil, you know what 
 
 the bad young man with the tenor voice 
 
 sings in the opera, ' La Donna I Mobile.' 
 
 Some fellow has written somewhere or other, 
 
 that the world has been rolling and rolling 
 
 for thousands of years, and that earth, air 
 
 and water have given up their secrets to man, 
 
 but that woman — remains as great a mystery 
 
 as ever. Now, I don't think Gentle Will ever 
 
 wrote a better bit than that, and he knew a 
 
 thing or two about the sex. 
 
 " I once thought that I did understand 
 
 HER ; but, goodness, what a mistake I made ! 
 
 She seemed always so glad to see me, wrote 
 
 to me so often, and sent me so many little 
 
 boxes of flowers, gathered by her own fair 
 
 hands, and — and all that sort of thing, don't 
 
 you know. So, I wrote her a long letter, 
 VOL. I. n 
 
162 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 telling her that I thought she cared for me, 
 and that I adored her. Good heavens ! what 
 a reply I received. Talk of rage, that little 
 angel was mad.* The idea of my ' daring 
 to think that she ever cared about me in 
 any way,' it would be ' excruciatingly funny 
 were it not so horribly impertinent,' &c. 
 Such a scorching, sneering, biting, bitter 
 letter no fellow ever received from woman 
 before. It drove me clean out of England. 
 I wandered from place to place for twelve 
 months, lonely and miserable. After all, my 
 dear Phil, was there anything very wrong 
 in my telHng her that I thought she cared 
 for me? Was it really impertinence? Do 
 men ever propose to women without having 
 some idea that they will be accepted ? 
 Should I have spoken to her alone in the 
 twilight with nobody by but ourselves, in- 
 stead of having written ? These are some of 
 the things I want to know. 
 
 * Of course she was — and is. P. B. 
 
. PAUL'S CONFESSION, 1(53 
 
 " Well, when twelve months had passed 
 I ventured to write to her, saying that I 
 hoped she was quite well (just as if nothing- 
 had occurred, you know), and that I thought 
 of returning to England and buying a farm 
 (I always had a mania* for farming, you 
 know) ; I told her of the sort of farm I should 
 go in for, and the county it should be in. 
 I don't know what made me bother her with 
 all this — do you ? After about a month 
 she wrote me a sneering letter, anent my 
 ridiculous ideas on farming, and stated that 
 if I really did want to go in for what 1 
 knew nothing about, it would be as well to 
 take a place in Ireland or Wales where land 
 was cheap. 
 
 " I don't know why all this should have 
 enraged me so,f but enrage me it did, and 
 I sat down and wrote her a blazing letter, 
 requesting her never to write to me again. 
 
 * Alas! farming is not his madness now. P, B. 
 t/do. P. B. 
 
 11—2 
 
164 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 Yes, Phil, I did that — and for the next six 
 months was the most miserable man on the 
 face of the earth. Fancy my requesting the 
 one woman on this earth who could make 
 me happy, never to write to me again ! 
 And she did not — until Christmas, when she 
 sent me a beautiful Christmas card, God bless 
 her ! with ' Best wishes ' and her initials in 
 her own handwriting on the back. Now, 
 what do you think of that? Peace on Earth, 
 and Goodwill unto Men — yes, I felt like that, 
 Phil, on that Christmas morning. How I 
 treasured that little bit of pasteboard — how 
 I carried it about in my inside pocket!* 
 What were all the masterpieces in all the 
 galleries in Europe compared to it ? 
 
 " I w^rote her such a long letter thanking 
 her ' ever so much ' for her kindness in 
 remembering me. But she never replied. 
 Yes, I felt that, Phil — felt it very much. 
 But I would not write again, and I did not 
 
 * Did he mean his stomach ? P. B. 
 
PAUL'S CONFESSION. 165 
 
 write again — that is, net until I was about 
 to return to England, when I wrote a few 
 lines and posted them to her. Three days 
 brought me an envelope with the well-known 
 handwriting, and which contained one of her 
 visiting- carets^ on the back of which was 
 written, 'If you are coming to London, of 
 course we shall be glad to see you.' It 
 was not very encouraging, but it made my 
 heart jump again. I returned to England, 
 and would you believe it, Phil, it was four 
 months ere I could muster up courage to 
 visit HER. Yes, a great over-grown five- 
 foot- tenner of a man, afraid of a little woman. 
 How mad* I was with myself. 
 
 "At length I wrote, stating that I would 
 call on such a day. Tlie season was over, 
 and they had gone down to the country. 
 Back came an answer from there, stating 
 that she was glad I was back again in Old 
 England, and giving me full directions as 
 
 * Mad you are, not with, but m vout'S ^If. P. B. 
 
166 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 to getting down to their place, wdiicli, slie 
 added, was ' looking lovely, especially the 
 garden.' Down I went. Phil, if you only 
 knew all the nice things, all the pretty 
 speeches I had prepared to whisper into her 
 shelly ear ! Did I whisper one of them ? 
 Not one. When I met her I was as nervous 
 as nervous could be, but I assumed an air 
 of extreme coolness. Now will you explain 
 this? * And after dinner we walked together 
 in* the garden, in the nice old-fashioned 
 country twilight, and instead of saying all 
 I had to say, I simply puffed away at a 
 ■cigarette, mad idiot that I was.f Here was 
 I beside the woman who for months past had 
 never been absent from my thoughts, and 
 I put on an air of boredom ! Suddenly she 
 suo^o^ested that it was time to return to the 
 house, and back we walked in silence. When 
 leaving to catch the last train for London, 
 I bid her good-bye in a ' happy to meet you, 
 
 * Certainly. You're mad. P. B. f Hear, hear I P. B. 
 
.PAUL'S CONFESSIOX. 167 
 
 I'm sure,' kind of way, though my heart 
 was thumping against my side like a ham- 
 mer. Ah! how pretty she looked as she 
 stood at the door. 
 
 *' In a week's time I sat down and wrote 
 some verses to her. They were good, Phil ; 
 I knew they were. I sent them to her saying 
 I would run down to see her again in a 
 couple of weeks — and I did. After dinner, 
 we sat in the twilight under a tree, on the 
 lawn — I smoking a cigarette, being too ner- 
 vous to do anything else. Suddenly, out 
 she brought those verses. I felt myself blush- 
 ing, and it made me angry. 
 
 " ' Ahem ! You know the verses,' she 
 asked. 'Yes, they are rather good, are 
 they not ? ' I replied quite coolly. 
 
 " ' They are good,' she continued, ' very 
 good, and the lady you mention in them is ' 
 
 " What was it she said then ? It might 
 have meant nothing, but this I know, it set 
 my heart bounding with joy. And yet it 
 
168 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 was such a peculiar expression, and said so 
 quickly that were I offered milUons of money 
 to remember it, I could not do so. What 
 answer did I make her? None. Good 
 heavens, Phil ! I sat so close to her that her 
 hair brushed my shoulders, and I never 
 
 even Oh, God, what an idiot I was. 
 
 In another moment she rose, and said with 
 a sharp tinge in her voice, that it was time 
 to return to the house. On leaving that 
 niofht, she handed me a little bunch of white 
 roses. The next day I wrote her a long 
 letter, telling her how much 1 loved her, and 
 asking her to make my miserable life happy. 
 Back came a short, curt note from her stating 
 that she had ' thought and hoped I would 
 have never alluded to that subject again,' and 
 that ' she would always remain my friend^ 
 but as for being anything further,' &c., &c. 
 
 "That letter regularly knocked me up for 
 a fortnight. Then came a long letter from 
 her askinc^ me when I ' intended comins^ down 
 
PAUL'S CONFESSION. 169 
 
 to see tliem all.' I wrote a short note stating 
 that I was too seedy to go at present. Back 
 carae a letter telling me that my reason was a 
 ' foolish one,' and that she never would ask 
 me to visit her again. To this I wrote a bitter 
 reply, for my heart was sore, Phil. Oh ! 
 what a letter I received then. Filled with such 
 sentences as ' ignorance and presumption,' 
 'vanity and impertinence,' &c. All this end- 
 ing with reference to my ' abhorrent ways 
 and thoughts,' and a request to refrain from 
 writing to her again. You may be sure I 
 did not write again. And, what do you think ? 
 — in a month's time came a large envelope 
 from her filled with rose leaves ! Not a 
 scrap of writing, save the address on the 
 envelope. Now what am I to do ? It is a 
 fortnight since I received it. Drop me a long 
 letter, Phil, telling me what I ought to do, 
 and what you think of the whole business. 
 " Yours as ever, 
 
 "Paul Joyce." 
 
170 A VERY MA1> WORLD. 
 
 I answered this letter on the day I received 
 it. I told him the woman loved him madly^ 
 as of course she did. Any man could see 
 that, who took the trouble of doing so. 
 Wonder did he try to take my advice, which 
 was to go in and win. 
 
CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. 
 
 I QUITE forgot to bid good-bye to little Mrs. 
 Wilson, on coming to Hastings. I hope the 
 little creature will not feel offended. Fact 
 is, I came away in a hurry. Getting weary 
 of continual dinners, balls and receptions, 
 and, in fact, feeling too indisposed to attend 
 any more, I called upon Dr. Jacob Saltt, 
 the eminent physician, and stated my case 
 as follows : 
 
 " Dr. Saltt, these are my symptoms — 
 drowsiness and disinclination to rise in the 
 morning before eleven ; sleeplessness at night ; 
 sense of fulness in the stomach after meals ; 
 dryness of tongue after smoking ; feverish 
 thirst in morning after late supper, and con- 
 stant longing for the sea." 
 
172 A VERY MAD WOULD. 
 
 " Let me feel your pulse, Mr. Brownlow," 
 said the doctor, pulling out his watch and 
 seizing my wrist. 
 
 He held me thus for fully a minute, as he 
 fixed his eyes on the second hand of his 
 watch. 
 
 "Have you ever had any illness before?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Several times." 
 
 " You have a wish for the sea ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 '' Well, then, my advice is that you leave 
 town for Hastings or St. Leonards as soon 
 as possible " 
 
 " Thanks ; o'ood morninof." 
 
 To write letters to all who expected my 
 company during the week did not take me 
 long A brief note to Tom Pierce, asking 
 him to put a paragraph in one or two of 
 the social journals announciiig my hasty 
 journey to the south coast by my "physician's 
 uro-ent advice," and off I started ; and here 
 
BY THE SAD SEA \YAVES. 173 
 
 I am. Never felt better in my life, but this 
 entre nous. 
 
 This is my first visit to Hastings, and with 
 the help of God it will be my last. The 
 place absolutely reeks with 'Arries and their 
 sisters, cousins and aunts. You could walk 
 for a mile over their bodies as they lie on 
 the shingle by the very muddy sea. Man, 
 woman and child lie there from ten 
 o'clock in the morning until one in the after- 
 noon, when they retire to gorge themselves 
 with roast pork and apple dumplings, washed 
 down by four-ale. After dinner, back they 
 go again to their shingly beds. And such 
 costumes ! The girls — mostly greasy Jew- 
 esses with tlie most awful noses — dressed in 
 white or blue " sailor costumes," with sailor 
 caps, dirty stockings and canvas shoes. 
 The men — poor half-starved, washed-out look- 
 ing fellows, with the longest necks and the 
 biggest mouths I have ever seen — all dressed 
 alike — and there are some thousands of them 
 
174 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 — in boating costumes (flannel trousers and 
 knitted guernsey jacket, surmounted by a 
 tennis coat, generally all wLite and blue 
 stripes, tennis sboes, and a straw hat with 
 flaring band). The joke of this is that none 
 of them ever enter a boat. 
 
 Besides the carpet of these canaille spread 
 along the beach, there is a very large army 
 of them always on the move up and down 
 the promenade. They amuse themselves by 
 firing stones at their friends below on the 
 beach, who return the compliment. Hence, 
 there is a continuous shower of stones to 
 be observed, and occasionally felt, all day 
 long. 
 
 " Where on earth do all these people come 
 from ? " I asked one of the waiters here 
 yesterday. 
 
 "Mostly from London, sir." 
 
 " They must ruin the place." 
 
 "That they do, sir. The summer season 
 in Hastings is done for. These 'cheap- 
 
BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. 175 
 
 trippers,' as we calls 'em here, have finished 
 it." 
 
 " Why, have they not always been with 
 you in the summer?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no, sir ; only this last three 
 years. These class of folks takes a long time 
 to find out a new holiday place, but they 
 find it out in the end." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "And then all the good people give it 
 the go-by. We 'ave our winter visitors still, 
 sir — all first-class ; but them who used to stay 
 here in the summer now go to Eastbourne." 
 
 Foreigners are always wondering at the 
 " exclusiveness " of the English. Let some 
 of them come here to Hastings and view 
 our 'Arries as they lie with their 'Arriets 
 in lines along the shingle, and I'll wager our 
 Enoflish exclusiveness will no lono^er be an 
 object of wonderment. 
 
 Why on earth did I come here ? Was it 
 because I was madder than usual? That 
 
176 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 must be the reason. To be sure, I had a 
 wish to escape any further balls and dinners, 
 and yet could not bring myself to quit town 
 ere any of the others from my county did 
 so. Still, why not have told old Saltt that 
 I had a craving for travel ? He might have 
 sent me to Paris ! But one never does what 
 one really ought to do. 
 
 I have been here but two days, and 
 already I am suffering from the most acute 
 attack of ennui. There is absolutely nothing 
 to do — no way to amuse oneself. As for 
 enjoying a walk on the promenade, or 
 through the shingle, that is out of the ques- 
 tion while 'Arry is abroad ; and as for 
 boating, who could think of boating, or 
 bathing, in that muddy water? I wonder 
 do the natives of Hastings know what a 
 real sea is like ? Have they the smallest 
 idea of the great green curling breakers, 
 bursting with a roar into sheets of foam, 
 which gallop up the beach at the rate of 
 
BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. 177 
 
 sixty miles an hour, and then gHde slowly 
 back again, leaving tiny pink shells glitter- 
 ing in the shining sand ? Ah ! for the real 
 strand and the real green sea, with sea-gulls 
 w^hite and grey floating on its bosom, and 
 seven miles of a yellow beach to thunder upon, 
 and with phantom schooners to be seen 
 by moonlight, all w^hite-winged, and fairy 
 barques to be seen in the dawn, with brilliant 
 rosy sails. And ever and ever, night and 
 day, the distant thunder of the mad, mad 
 waves. Hush ! can you not hear them now, 
 as they sound through twenty years of time ? 
 I never saw anything more like weak pea- 
 soup than the sea at Hastings. 
 
 m^^-r^^ 
 
 VOL. 1. 
 
CHAPTEE XXIII. 
 
 MRS. WILSON APPEARS. 
 
 My bedroom window looks out upon tlie gay 
 and festive beach — the " Sands " it is called 
 Jiere, Heaven alone knows why, for sand 
 proper on Hastings shore there is none, the 
 beach being entirely formed of gravel (or 
 •shingle), and mud. It is a sweltering noon, 
 yet there lie all the 'Arries and their girls 
 on the burning shingle, under the blazing 
 
 sun. And music ! 
 
 The "hall porter" is a regular linguist— 
 knowing all Continental languages, besides 
 several Hindoo aud Arabic dialects. It is 
 almost needless to say he is an Irishman. I 
 had full proof of this yesterday morning 
 while enjoying a cigar on the hotel steps. 
 One of those instruments of torture called 
 
MRS. WILSON APPEARS. 179 
 
 a piano-organ was being operated upon by 
 an impudent-looking and particularly greasy 
 Italian, while a brazen-faced girl in a short 
 red dress and gaudy head-gear stood by 
 leering at me. My friend the hall porter 
 appeared on the scene, and after giving the 
 pair a piece of his mind in choice Italian, 
 ordered them aw^ay. Cursing him in musical 
 Tuscan, they went their way, and then the 
 porter turned to me and remarked : 
 
 " This is the divil's own town for music, 
 sur." So saying, he retired. 
 
 He was right ; it is the very devil's town 
 for music. From my window here I can 
 count the following, ranged at intervals along 
 the promenade : — Three little girls playing 
 fiddles ; five niggers, with banjo, bones and 
 tambourine ; two " mysterious minstrels," 
 with an American organ on a donkey-cart ; 
 a blind harpist ; a ditto flautist ; two more 
 niggers ; three piano-organs ; and last of all 
 the Hastings Band, composed of about six- 
 
 12-2 
 
180 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 teen brass instruments — all going together! 
 It is the maddest town I have ever been in. 
 Mad, and yet how miserably dull ! I do 
 wish little Mrs. Wilson was here ; her prattle 
 would be a change for the better. Well, I 
 suppose I had better go down to the steps 
 again, and have another weed ; there seems 
 to be nothing else to do. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Wlio would have thought it? While sit- 
 ting smoking just now, the 'bus arrived from 
 the station, and out popped — Mrs. Wilson ! 
 
 '• You wretch ! " she exclaimed, while the 
 dimples played all over her face. " Fancy 
 coming down here to enjoy yourself all alone. 
 And never telling any one you were going."' 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Wilson," I cried, " I'm 
 delighted to see you." Which I was. 
 
 "I don't believe you are," she answered, 
 more dimply than ever, as she tripped into 
 the liotel, followed by her maid. 
 
MRS. AVILSOX APPEAK.=!. ISl 
 
 Thank goodness. I've now o-ot some one 
 to talk to, and listen to. The little widow 
 is delightful to listen to. I have promised 
 to show her the promenade and pier. 
 And here slie is, ready for the walk. Won- 
 derful taste in dressing ! She stands before 
 me, the best-dressed woman in Hastings. 
 
 " Here I am," she says. " And now please 
 take great care of me in this strange 
 place." 
 
 " Certainly," I exclaim, offering my arm. 
 " If any man dare even look at you, his life 
 shall pay the forfeit." 
 
 We stroll along the parade criticizing 
 the shops and people until we come to the 
 pier. Here we sit down on one of the seats 
 facing the sea. 
 
 " What a curious lot of people there are 
 here," says the widow. " They remind one 
 of the picture of Margate Sands." 
 
 "Yes," I say. "Hastings is now quite 
 as bad as Marc^ate in the summer time." 
 
182 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 ''Well, why did you come here?" queries 
 the widow. 
 
 " Ordered by my doctor. But lohy did 
 you come here ? " 
 
 ■ " Oh, I really don't know ; " and the little 
 widow is positively blushing and evidently 
 confused. 
 
 As sure as anything she has come down 
 here bent on some mischief. There is a man 
 in the question, I could swear. Who is 
 he ? Must keep my weather-eye open. 
 
 " By the way, Mr. Towers- has gone down," 
 she says, for the purpose of changing the 
 conversation, I presume. 
 
 " Has he ? Then he was not captured 
 after all?" 
 
 " No ; he escaped before the plot was 
 ripe," and the widow smiles a wicked smile. 
 " You know," she continues, " I don't think 
 Mr. Towers is quite such a fool as he looks." 
 
 " Oh, indeed he is not," I say. "He has 
 lots of brains." 
 
MRS. WILSON APPEARS, 183 
 
 "You know, I don't think he would be 
 such a bad match at all," and the widow 
 looks at me thoughtfully. 
 
 " I should think not," I answer. " Forty- 
 thousand a year and a lovely house is not 
 to be despised." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not thinking of the money," she 
 exclaims sharply, " nor of the lovely house, 
 as you call it." 
 
 " No ? " This I say in a tone of query. 
 
 " iV(9," she exclaims with a pettish look, " I 
 think Mr. Towers would be just as nice 
 without money." 
 
 " As nice a husband, do you mean ? " 
 
 "Yes," with a snap. 
 
 "Yes, if his wife had money," I say. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she exclaims with 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 "What do I mean, Mrs. Wilson? Why, 
 what I say. What on earth is there to get 
 angry about? You say " 
 
 " Oh, never mind what I said," she cries 
 
ISi A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 in a perfect blaze of anger. " Do for good- 
 ness' sake, let us change the conversation. 
 I did not come down here to be pestered 
 about Mr. Towers or Mr. Anybody Else." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Wilson, surely you will 
 own that it was not I who commenced " 
 
 Up she jumps from the seat. 
 
 " Since you persist in continuing the sub- 
 ject I will leave you," she says with flushed 
 face and flashing eyes, and then hurries away. 
 
 Was ever such a mad little woman heard 
 of before ? She actually begins a conversa- 
 tion about a man, and because I quite 
 agree with her in everything she says 
 concerninor him, she flies into a raf?e ! 
 
 As I walk back along the promenade, 
 I come upon her, seated, listening to a 
 band of niggers. She smiles when she 
 catches sight of me, and I immediately hasten 
 towards her. 
 
 " Well, I hope you have got over j^our 
 nasty temper," she says. 
 
MRS. WILSON APPEARS. 1^3 
 
 ^^ My nasty temper? Well, come, that's 
 
 " There, there, I forgive you," she inter- 
 rupts. " Sit down and Usten to the music''' 
 
 
CHAPTEE XXIY. 
 
 THE PLEASUEES OF ENGLISH TRAVELLING. 
 
 If Towers has returned to the country, the 
 ice is broken, so I am determined to start 
 this afternoon. I tell Mrs. Wilson. 
 
 " How curious," she exclaims, " I was 
 just coming to tell you of my intended de- 
 parture to-day." 
 
 " No ! why then we will travel together. 
 How jolly ! " 
 
 " Then you think I won't be a nuisance ? " 
 she asks dimpling. 
 
 "Nuisance! My dear Mrs. Wilson, your 
 companionship " 
 
 " Ahem, and my maid's," she observes 
 with a demure look. 
 
 " And your maid's, will afford me the ut- 
 most pleasure." 
 
THE PLEASURES OF ENGLISH TRAVELLING. 187 
 
 Thank Heaven, I can go back to dear 
 old Brownlow at last. And no one can say 
 I was the first to leave town. That's a blessed 
 thought. 
 
 By-and-by, the 'bus lands us at the rail- 
 way station — Mrs. Wilson, her maid and 
 myself. We have a good ten minutes to 
 spare, so we " pick and choose " our seats 
 in the train. 
 
 " Let us get as far away from the engine 
 as possible," says the widow, "in case of a 
 collision." 
 
 We are barely seated when in jumps Tom 
 Pierce. 
 
 " Why, where did you spring from ? " I 
 ask, and then introduce him to Mrs. Wilson. 
 
 " Oh, not from very far," he answers, look- 
 ing at me and then at the widow. " I came 
 down by the midday mail yesterday for the 
 purpose of writing a descriptive article on 
 Hastings for the Herald of Fashion. They are 
 doing the south coast watering-places in it." 
 
188 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 "You have certainly been very quick at 
 gaining your knowledge of the place," re- 
 marks the widow. 
 
 " Well, the fact is, Mrs. Wilson, my coming 
 down at all was a mere matter of form. I 
 have been here scores of times. All I wanted 
 was just one look round to see if there was 
 any change." 
 
 " And have you found any ? " 
 
 " No, except that there are even more 
 'Arries in evidence than was the case 
 last season." 
 
 Here, quite apropos, enters a "sporting" 
 'Arry with an elaborate travelling rug. 
 
 " Would think he was bound on a journey 
 to the North Pole," whispers the widow, 
 who is evidently very much annoyed at his 
 appearance. 
 
 'Arry, who sports a massive chain, a 
 diamond ring and a horse-shoe pin, places 
 the v\x^ on a seat, while he sinks into the 
 opposite one. His intention is evident. The 
 
THE PLEASUKES OF ENGLISH TRAVELLING. 189 
 
 seat with the rug is for the repose of his 
 feet. 
 
 The whole thing is very annoying. Here 
 we were all to ourselves, nice and private, 
 and now^ we will have to endure this un- 
 speakable boor, probably all the way to 
 town. 
 
 Tom, who hates this type of Englishmen 
 with a fierce hatred, remarks : 
 
 " Pardon me, sir, but do you require two 
 seats ? I mean, is it absolutely requisite that 
 your rug should occupy an entire seat all to 
 itself? Because I should very much like to 
 sit there." 
 
 " Oh, that 'ere rug belongs to a friend of 
 mine," answers 'Arry with a grin. How^ is it 
 these people never have two teeth together ? 
 
 " And is your friend travelling in this 
 train ? " inquires Tom. 
 
 " Yas ; he told me to secure a seat with 
 his rug. He will be here in a jiffy." 
 
 I know the man is telling lies, so does Tom. 
 
190 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Is there time to find another carriage ? " 
 asks Mrs. Wilson in a tone which ought to 
 have made 'Arry's blood run cold. 
 
 "If you ask me, I don't think there is, 
 miss,'' replies the latter. 
 
 He is right ; at this moment the guard's 
 whistle sounds, the engine gives a shriek 
 and a snort, and then off we go slowly. 
 
 " Why, your friend is late," cries Tom to 
 'Arry. 
 
 " Oh, 'e's all right," answers the man. 
 
 "But let him have his rug," and quick 
 as thought Tom seizes the rug and heaves 
 it out on to the platform. " There, now he 
 will have his rug for the next train." 
 
 " Why, damn it, sir, what have you done ?" 
 cries 'Arry choking with rage. 
 
 " Done ? " answers Tom, " why, what you 
 ought to thank me very much for. But for 
 my presence of mind you would have left 
 your friend rugless." 
 
 " Oh. that be hanged ! " cries 'Arry fuming. 
 
THE PLEASUKES OF ENGLISH TEAYELIJXG. 191 
 
 And then little Mrs. Wilson fairly laughs 
 outright, checking herself suddenly. 
 
 'Arry sees he has been " done," and sits 
 glaring at us until we arrive at Tunbridge 
 Wells, when he jumps out and enters the 
 next compartment. Wonderful man, Tom 
 Pierce. And now the widow has another 
 merry little laugh. 
 
 " That was capital," she declares. " I 
 never saw anything half so good. Now I 
 hope we will remain undisturbed for the 
 rest of the journey." 
 
 Alas, no ! enter fiend nuDiber two. He 
 is dressed in the latest fad of the tailors 
 and wears an eye-glass, which after screwing 
 into his left optic he fixes full on the widow, 
 who returns a well-bred stare, which quite 
 unnerves him, and his gaze wanders towards 
 the maid. Then he droj^s the glass, settles 
 himself well into his seat, cocks one leg 
 over the other, pulls out his scented hand- 
 kerchief, blows his nose and wipes his fore- 
 
192 A VERY MAD WOKLD. 
 
 head, replaces his handkerchief in his breast 
 pocket, being careful to allow a corner of 
 it to stick out in the approved fashion. 
 
 By this time the train is on its way to 
 London again, and Eye-glass surveys the 
 scenery for some minutes. Then he lies 
 back in his seat, and taking from his waist- 
 coat pocket a gold toothpick commences 
 excavations on his front grinders. This 
 being accomplished, he pulls forth a silver 
 cigar-case, and leaning over towards little 
 Mrs. Wilson, asks with a sweet simper : 
 
 " Do you object to smoking, miss ? " 
 
 " Can't say ; no gentleman has ever smoked 
 in my presence," answers the widow in a 
 tone that could freeze a gallon of paraffin 
 oil. 
 
 Eye-glass, looking awfully foolish, slowly 
 replaces cigar case in his pocket ; then pro- 
 duces a comic paper, which he pretends to 
 read for the rest of the journey to town. 
 
 Wonderful woman the widow ! 
 
CHAPTEK XXV. 
 
 BACK AGAIN IN BROWNLOW. 
 
 The autumn leaves are sport for the idle 
 winds, the nights grow cold, and the sun is 
 a laggard to rise and jmpatient to retire ; 
 the hoar-frost sparkles in millions of diamonds 
 on the tall pines and dwarf palms on the 
 lawn, and the beeches in the park look 
 tawny and tired of life. Blue, black and 
 brown are the stubbles on the hill-side with 
 pigeon, plover and starling, while silent as 
 death are the voiceless woods. 
 
 Summer is dead, and yet all her gifts are 
 not buried with her. Nay, down by the 
 river, lined with pollards, bulrushes and 
 flags, and owning many a lusty trout in 
 its secret pools, summer's children linger 
 still. On the further bank runs a strag- 
 
 VOL. I. 13 
 
194 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 gling sort of tliorn hedge, now and again 
 divided by an elder busli or a mountain 
 ash with its clusters of rubies flashing 
 'neath the great big copper sun ; the 
 white stems of the woodbines — its leaves 
 now a glorious crimson — twining in and 
 out among the haws, while the viburnums 
 sparkle royal red here and there, and creep- 
 ing through the underwood comes the pale 
 green arum. Nearer to the water still lie 
 patch and patch of more bright colours — 
 wild mint, yarrow, willow weed (where 
 the summer night moth has often paused), 
 purple loosestripe and a wandering mari- 
 gold, and there by a raft of lilies stands a 
 heron motionless — fit emblem of silence and 
 the tomb. For all this crimson glory is but 
 the hectic-dyed mantle of the Herald of 
 Death. Summer is dead, and her children 
 are following quickly. Look ! there falls a 
 brown shower from that sturdy elm. 
 
 And this beautiful Summer now buried 
 
BACK AGAIN IN BEOWNLOW. 195 
 
 in these dank sodden leaves, which we walk 
 so silently over — think of her coming down 
 from Heaven with her lap full of flowers 
 and her warm scented breath, to transform 
 our woods and fields into paradises, while 
 we fly from her presence, turn our backs 
 upon her glorious handiwork, and seek 
 the close stifling atmosphere of dining- 
 rooms and drawing-rooms in London. There 
 we remain feasting and fiddling until our 
 Heavenly visitor has gone and most of her 
 gifts have grown old and cold. Then do 
 we return to walk the sodden earth, which 
 two short months ago was alive with life 
 and colour. And still there are people who 
 won't believe that we are all mad! 
 
 I met old Hemming, the gardener, yes- 
 terday evening, as the bronze sun was dipping 
 down in the west. He was on his way 
 homeward, after a hard day's work in little 
 Towers's gardens. Feebler and feebler gets 
 the poor old chap. 
 
 13—2 
 
196 A VEKY MAD WOKLD. 
 
 " Well, Hemmiug, how goes it with you 
 now?" 
 
 " I be main tired o' nights, sir," he an- 
 swered, " and I miss Susan now that the 
 long darkness is coming. I most wish she 
 hadn't a gone to Lunnon. I be gettin' old, 
 sir," and he smiled faintly at me. 
 
 " Do you ever hear from your daughter ? " 
 
 " Most every week, sir. She is a good 
 girl, an' don't forget her faither. Why, sir, 
 she sends parcels of things nigh every Satur- 
 day." 
 
 " And does she say how she likes London ?" 
 
 " No, sir, no ; she never says nothing 
 about Lunnon, only she is quite well." 
 
 And then I left him. May he never know 
 where the money comes from which buys 
 those parcels. He has not long to live, poor 
 old boy — let him die in peace. 
 
 Little Mrs. Wilson drove over yesterday. 
 
 " Those people have come," she informed 
 me. 
 
BACK AGAIN IN BROWNLOW. 197 
 
 " What people ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Why, those relatives of the duchess — the 
 uncle and a new niece fresh from America. 
 The duchess is raging," and she smiled a 
 wicked smile. " It's rather awkward, you 
 know, having low relations when you are a 
 duchess." 
 
 " What's this the man's name is ? " I said, 
 for the idea of these people being near neigh- 
 bours was and is far from pleasant. 
 
 " The man's name is Butts," replied the 
 widow dimpling with fun. " Butts ; nice 
 name for the proprietor of Beechley Wold, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 " Charming ; why, Mrs. Wilson, it is enouirh 
 to make old Harry Beechley sit up in his 
 coffin. What is the girl like?" 
 
 " Haven't seen her yet, but her name is 
 Carrie Dixon. That's not so bad." 
 
 " Dixon — no ; thouirh the ' Carrie ' smacks 
 of the music hall. Will you recognize 
 them?" 
 
198 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. They may not 
 be so bad after all, and though a raw 
 Yankee, Miss Dixon may be presentable 
 enough." 
 
 "Quite so." 
 
 " Perhaps Miss Dixon might grace Brown- 
 low House yet," said the widow with a 
 merry laugh. " Who knows ? These Yankee 
 women are famous husband catchers." 
 
 "Do you think I am worth the catching, 
 Mrs. Wilson ? " 
 
 This question seemed to puzzle her a bit, 
 for she did not answer for a moment. Then 
 she said, " Oh, I don't know." 
 
 Then the conversation drifted into other 
 matters, and she left after extracting a 
 promise from me to tell her my candid 
 opinion of Miss Dixon, when I had the oppor- 
 tunity of forming one. 
 
 The following letter was brought per 
 mounted groom this afternoon : 
 
BACK AGAIN IN I3R0WNL0W. 199 
 
 " Woodbourn, September 30th. 
 " Dear Phil, 
 
 "I want you to come over and stay 
 with us until you have had enough of us. 
 Only came home last Monday. Shooting 
 better than ever. Have not seen you this 
 ever so long. Dad joins me in best wishes 
 and a request for the honour of your 
 company. Don't fail to come as soon as you 
 possibly can, if not sooner. 
 
 " Yours in haste, 
 
 " Sydney Barton." 
 
 Why, let me see, it must be nearly two 
 years since I saw Sydney. He was then very 
 mad, though not so mad as his father, but I 
 daresay he has improved since. He had left 
 college and was about starting on a tour — 
 a " grand tour " round Europe, and now he 
 is back from his travels. Dear old boy, I 
 certainly will go over to Woodbourn for a 
 while, thoui?h old Miss Barton is such a she- 
 
200 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 dragon. How that man, John Barton, can 
 stand such a woman for twenty-four hours is 
 a mystery ; but there, is he not, like us all, 
 mad? 
 
 Yes, go I will, for to tell the truth I 
 am beginning to feel deucedly dull and 
 lonely in this great gloomy house. Strange, 
 why this should be so ; I used to feel cheerful, 
 happy and comfortable enough. 
 
 Why, bless my soul, the widow forgot one 
 of her driving gloves. Here it lies, fairy-like 
 in size, and daintily-scented, with brown 
 velvet bands down the back. What a small 
 hand the little creature has got ! Must send 
 it to her this evening ; stay, perhaps it would 
 be more polite to take it myself in the 
 morning. 
 
CHAPTER XXYI. 
 
 I LUNCH WITH THE WIDOW. 
 
 The gossamer is sparkling in festoons along 
 the hedgerows, and the October sun shines 
 red and warm enough as I walk briskly along 
 the road. I have sent my traps on to Wood- 
 bourn per dog-cart, and am going thither on 
 foot myself. I intend taking Virgemont on 
 my way, for the purpose of returning the 
 widow her glove. 
 
 An hour's walk brings me to Virgemont 
 gates, and live minutes' walk up the drive 
 brings me to the house. There is the widow 
 on a ladder, with dainty morning dress 
 tucked up, as hammer in hand she is busy 
 nailing some trailing plant to the wall. So 
 busy is she that she does not hear my 
 approach until I speak : 
 
202 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Mrs. Wilson, you make a pretty picture." 
 
 She turns round all dimples. 
 
 " I thought you'd come," she exclaims. 
 
 "Oh, you did!" 
 
 " No, no," she says quickly. " What I 
 meant to say was, that I thought you would 
 bring me back my glove. Thank you very 
 much ; it was stupid of me to leave it. 
 Would you mind holding the ladder while 
 I get down ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 She is down the six steps in a jiffey. Won- 
 derful woman ! 
 
 " Now come along," she says ; " I want to 
 show you my new piano." 
 
 "Oh, you've got a new piano, then?" 
 
 " Yes, and such a beauty ; its tone is 
 simply exquisite. You're fond of music, are 
 you not ? " 
 " Very." 
 
 "I thought you were. Oh, who do you 
 think called to see me yesterday?" 
 
I LUNCH WITH THE WIDOW. 203 
 
 " I give it up." 
 
 " Now, can't you try and guess ? " she 
 persisted. 
 
 " Can't for the life of me, unless it was Mr. 
 Butts." 
 
 " No, it wasn't Mr. Butts ; it was Mr. Towers." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! " 
 
 " Yes ; and he has promised me a whole 
 heap of cuttings for the garden. Isn't it kind 
 of him ? " and the widow looks at me with 
 very open eyes. 
 
 " Very kind indeed ; but how comes it that 
 you have never asked me for any cuttings ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," she answers, and 
 then after a pause, " Don't you think Mr. 
 Towers nice-lookimr ? " 
 
 " Yes, he has what I would call a pretty 
 face — a ladylike sort of countenance." 
 
 The widow smiles a quiet smile, and says 
 nothing further until we enter the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " Why, you have had it newly decorated ! " 
 
204 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 I exclaim, for the whole room is aglow with 
 dark crimson ; curtains, carpet, chairs, lamps 
 and walls having all a goodly percentage 
 of my favourite colour. 
 
 " Do you admire my taste ? " she asks, 
 seating herself at the piano. 
 
 " Indeed I do," I answer. " The tout 
 ensemble is charming." 
 
 "Thank you," she says with a pleasant 
 smile, and then she begins one of Beethoven's 
 sonatas. Her playing is full of verve and finish, 
 and I sit perfectly delighted until she has 
 finished, when she twirls round on the music 
 stool and faces me. 
 
 " What do you think of the tone ? " 
 
 " Perfect, Mrs. Wilson, and your execution 
 is quite a musical treat." 
 
 " Honestly ? " 
 
 " Honestly, you play to my mind far 
 better than many professionals." 
 
 I stay and lunch with her, although I pro- 
 mised to be in time for luncheon at Woodbourn. 
 
I LUNCH WITH THE AVIDOW. 205 
 
 " And so you are going to remain some 
 time with Mr. Barton ? " she says. 
 
 " Yes. Sydney and I are very old friends, 
 and as we haven't seen each other for over 
 two years, I daresay we shall not grow tired 
 of each other for some weeks." 
 
 " Grow tired of each other," she ex- 
 claims. " You talk of us women being 
 fickle and changeable, yet you men actually 
 grow tired of each other in a few weeks." 
 And then she adds, after a slight pause and 
 with several dimples, " Though to be sure, 
 that's not at all wonderful when one comes 
 to think of it." 
 
 " Now, now, Mrs. Wilson, you must not 
 be so severe on us men. We are really 
 not a bad lot taken for all in all — when 
 you know us." 
 
 " Yes, when we know you. By the way, 
 when is Fanny Barton going to be married? 
 She must be twenty-five." 
 
 " Oh, no ; not twenty-five." 
 
206 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " How can you know, pray ? " she asked 
 sharply. 
 
 " Well, Sydney is only twenty-six, and there 
 is, I know, four years between Fanny and him." 
 
 ''You seem to know all about it," says 
 the widow. "You men are always talking 
 about women's ages." And she actually 
 seemed angry. 
 
 " Always talking about women's ages ! 
 My dear Mrs. Wilson, surely you know 
 better than that? I simply said that Fanny 
 Barton's age " 
 
 "Why, what on earth does it matter to 
 me what her age is ? " cried Mrs. Wilson, 
 flashing with anger. 
 
 " No, certainly not," I hasten to say. " I 
 only wished to set you right as to her age." 
 
 " Will you please say nothing further on 
 the matter," she exclaims, endeavouring to 
 speak calmly. 
 
 In another moment the storm has blown 
 over, and naught remains but laughing ripples. 
 
I LUNCH WITH THE WIDOW. 2U7 
 
 " Now, I'm going to apologize for being 
 such a rude, hasty hostess," she says. 
 "Indeed, I know I am horribly rude oc- 
 casionally, but, Mr. Brownlow, I am heartily 
 ashamed of myself the next minute. I 
 don't think rudeness is really natural to 
 me." 
 
 "I'm sure it's not." 
 
 " Thank you," she says, with a bow of 
 her little head. "I think my horrible fits 
 of rudeness proceed from discontentment." 
 
 "Discontentment?" I say in surprise. 
 " Why, surely you are not discontented, 
 Mrs. WHson?" 
 
 " Yes, I am," she answers sharply ; " aw- 
 fully discontented." 
 
 " How, and why, may I inquire ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; you see I sometimes 
 feel very lonely and miserable, all by myself 
 in this great house." 
 
 "Why don't you advertise for a com- 
 panion ? " I ask. 
 
208 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 " Oh, ridiculous nonsense," she exclaims, 
 flushing again. 
 
 "I don't see anything particularly non- 
 sensical in the notion," I say. 
 
 " Don't you ? Well, I do." 
 
 And now I rise to leave. It is three 
 o'clock, and it will take me a good hour 
 to get to Woodbourn. 
 
 "Let me have the waggonette brought 
 round," Mrs. Wilson urges. 
 
 "No, thanks, I prefer walking. Au revoir.^' 
 
 " Au revoir — oh, tell Fanny I shall drive 
 over to see her to-morrow." 
 
 "I shall." 
 
 Down the drive and out on to the road 
 I go. Looking back I can see the house, 
 on the rising ground, and the little widow 
 standing on the steps. Look! there she is, 
 waving her handkerchief. I raise my hat 
 and wave it. 
 
 A delightful little woman! 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 AUNT MINERVA* 
 
 The clock in the stables is chiminsf the 
 hour of four as I enter Wooclbourn gates. 
 The drive — or avenue, as it would be called 
 in Ireland — is lined each side by a low 
 thorn hedge clipped to a flat top, and sen- 
 tinelled now and again by a straight silver 
 birch, a mountain ash, a poplar, or a lilac 
 tree, all, alas ! almost leafless now. And 
 once or twice I notice the grey-green juniper 
 tree, while in and out, and here and there 
 through the bottom of the hedge, peeps 
 the last of the wild clematis, the briony, 
 and the purple-black berried nightshade, 
 with just one yellow haulbit, solitary and 
 depressed. Away out by the edge of the 
 pond to the right rises the sweet-sedge, 
 
 VOL. I. 14 
 
210 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 now turned sober buff, and looking very 
 melancholy in the setting sun. 
 
 " Why, what the deuce has kept you ? " 
 cries fair -haired Sydney as he meets me 
 in the hall ; '' your traps have been here 
 these three hours, and we waited lun- 
 cheon fully an hour for you, you lazy 
 beggar." 
 
 " You must forgive me, Syd. I had to 
 call at Virgemonte, and could not get away 
 sooner." 
 
 "And how is Uttle Mrs. Wilson? As 
 chatty and bright as ever ? " 
 
 " Just as ever." 
 
 By this time we are in the " Snuggery," 
 as S3^d calls his smoking-room. Snug it is 
 with its pretty Queen Anne fireplace, choice 
 collection of books, and gems of water- 
 colours, its odd-shaped easy-chairs and 
 ottomans. 
 
 " The governor and Fanny are out walk- 
 ing," Syd says as we sit opposite to each 
 
AUNT MINERVA. 211 
 
 other by the glowing fire. "We thought 
 you would not come until* night, when you 
 were not here ere this. And how are you 
 anyhow ? " 
 
 "All right, but rather lonely — at least, I 
 have been — but I expect Woodbourn will 
 soon revive me." 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 "And now, how have you been enjoying 
 yourself?" I ask. "Flirting and feasting 
 from Paris to Madrid, and from Eome to 
 Vienna ? " 
 
 " Yes," he says, " I've had a jolly time 
 of it, but am not sorry to get home to old 
 England once more. On my way through 
 London I called at your hotel, but found 
 you had gone to Hastings." 
 
 " How is your Aunt Minerva ? " This 
 query caused him to look serious for a 
 moment. 
 
 " She's as cross and as great a hypo- 
 chondriac as ever," he replies. " I tell you 
 
 14—2 
 
212 A VERY MAD WORLD, 
 
 honestly, Phil, Aunt Minerva is a con- 
 founded nuisance, and the skeleton in this 
 otherwise 'appy 'ome." 
 
 " How unfortunate," I say. 
 
 "You may well say that. As for my 
 father, she resjularlv worries his life out ; 
 nor can we keep a servant here for any 
 time. They give notice one after another, 
 stating as a reason that they ' cannot stand 
 Miss Minerva's temper.' I wish to goodness 
 the dad would assert himself." 
 
 " And does he not ? " 
 
 "Not he. You know him of old — a hot- 
 tempered, peppery old fellow, without the 
 'least firmness. Eesult, Aunt Minerva has 
 her own way in everything." 
 
 " You surprise me, Syd. I never imagined 
 you had to put up with quite so much as 
 that." 
 
 " Ah, my dear boy, that's not half of it, 
 but for goodness' sake let us talk of some- 
 thing else." 
 
AUNT 3IINERVA. 213 
 
 "Did you see your cousin Tom Pierce 
 while in London ? " I ask. 
 
 " Eather, why he is coming down here 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " He is ? By Jove ! that is rare good news," 
 I exclaim, for Tom is a prime favourite of 
 mine. 
 
 " Yes, he is on some dramatic craze, and 
 w^ants to revive the old pastoral drama, so I 
 persuaded him to come down here and pick 
 up rural characters and ideas." 
 
 " Has he ever been here before ? " 
 
 " Never ; it will be amusing to watch how 
 Aunt Minerva takes him, especially when she 
 hears that he is writing a jolay." 
 
 " Oh, she does not like playgoing then ?" 
 
 " She goes almost into hysterics at the 
 mention of theatres. It is her madness." 
 
 " Mad she certainly is, Syd, but which 
 way — for or against the theatre ? " 
 
 " Against it of course. She has never been 
 inside a theatre in her life." 
 
214 A YEKY MAD WORLD. 
 
 "Ah, that accounts for it." 
 
 "And Fanny, who is passionately fond of 
 the theatre, and a worshipper of Shakespeare, 
 has to read his works by stealth." 
 
 "Pleasant, Syd, very pleasant." 
 
 And now Mr. Barton and Fanny return 
 from their walk. John Barton is a white- 
 whiskered, white-headed and ruddy-cheeked 
 old chap, with steel-grey eyes, and, as Syd 
 says, a very peppery temper. Fanny is tall, 
 slight and graceful, with her poor mother's 
 Grecian nose and hazel eyes. Both father 
 and daughter are, like Syd, old friends, and 
 welcome me cordially. 
 
 "We should not have gone out, Phil, had 
 we known you were coming," Fanny says. 
 ^' But when you didn't put in an appearance 
 at luncheon, we thought you would not turn 
 up until night. Pray, what delayed you, sir? " 
 
 I explain my absence from the luncheon 
 board, and inform her of Mrs. Wilson's pro- 
 mised visit on the morrow. 
 
. AUNT MINEEVA. 215 
 
 " Oh, the dear little woman," she exclaims, 
 "she seems like sunshine in a shady place." 
 
 "Then you like her?" 
 
 "Who does not ?" she answers. 
 
 " Who is that, dear ? " asks her father. 
 
 " Mrs. Wilson of Virgemont, papa." 
 
 " Mrs. Wilson of Virgemont, indeed ! The 
 daughter of a pawnbroker." 
 
 It is a corkscrew- curled, wizen-faced, bony- 
 handed lady who speaks. She has just en- 
 tered, leaning on a stick, and stands glaring 
 at me. 
 
 " The daughter of a pawnbroker ! " cries 
 Mr. Barton. "Why, confound it, Minerva, 
 what are you talking about ? The daughter 
 of a stockbroker, you mean." 
 
 " Well, isn't it all the same ? " she asks in 
 a raspy voice. 
 
 " No, it's not all the same ; what the devil do 
 you mean by confounding one with the other, 
 you old " 
 
 " Hush, papa dear," says Fanny in a low 
 
216 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 voice, and then aloud, " aunt, don't you know 
 Philip Brpwnlow, or has he gone out of your 
 recollection ? " 
 
 I rise and advance towards her. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ; he hasn't grown out of 
 my recollection at all. How do you do? 
 Now I must leave this room ; the sickening 
 and disgusting odour of tobacco-smoke per- 
 vades the entire atmosphere." 
 
 Out she goes, and then calls Fanny to assist 
 her upstairs. Sydney, who is smoking a 
 cigarette, looks up at me with a " what-do- 
 you-think-of-that ? " expression in his eyes. 
 
 "You must excuse my sister's apparent 
 brusqueness," says Mr. Barton ; " you know 
 her of old, Phil." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind it a bit, Mr. Barton. I 
 know how irritable and strange perpetual ill- 
 ness causes people to be." 
 
 "Perpetual illness be hanged!" mutters Syd; 
 " come along and see your room, Phil." 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A SANGUINARY SUBJECT. 
 
 Thank Heaven, that raving maniac, Miss 
 Minerva Barton, never appears at dinner, 
 having her dinner, " generally some awful 
 mess of sago or arrowroot " (Syd), in her 
 own room. Consequently we four, Fanny, 
 Mr. Barton, Syd and myself, had a jolly little 
 dinner and a happy talk over times gone by. 
 And then Fanny played us some sweet music. 
 I wish Fanny was married. She would make 
 a man's home happy, I'm sure. I have been 
 told that she has refused several suitors. The 
 reason has also been whispered to me — said 
 suitors were all country gentlemen fonder of 
 foxhunting than music, art or the drama. 
 Now Fanny is mad on all three, and does 
 not care a straw about hunting or any 
 
218 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 other country amusements. May some popu- 
 lar author (there are none great now, Paul 
 Joyce is right), some successful dramatist or 
 fashionable painter, woo and w^in handsome 
 Fanny, who, by the way, inherits her grand- 
 mother's property in Essex. Site doesn't mind 
 the smell of tobacco-smoke a bit, and is now 
 in the billiard-room marking for Syd and I, 
 who are having a game, while Mr. Barton 
 sits smoking a long pipe with a cherry-stem 
 and a china bowl. 
 
 " Why do you say we are all mad, Phil ? " 
 she asks. 
 
 " All mad, who are all mad ? " queries her 
 father, looking from her to me. " Who are 
 all mad, Phil, eh ? " 
 
 " Every one," I answer. 
 
 "What, every one mad? Bosh!" 
 
 And I suppose he is about the maddest 
 man I have ever met. 
 
 " Do you still hold that idea, then ? " asks 
 Syd. 
 
A SANGUINARY SUBJECT. 219 
 
 "I do, indeed," I reply. "Every day makes 
 me a firmer believer. We are all as mad as 
 an army of liatters." 
 
 Fanny laughs outright at this, and the dear 
 old squire e3^es me suspiciously. He thinks 
 me mad perhaps, but that is because I say 
 something startling and strange to Imn. How 
 many mad things, to me^ have I heard him 
 say ! 
 
 " Then you believe that we have all a drop 
 of mad blood in us ? " Syd says. 
 
 " I believe that all our blood is mad," I 
 answer, " and furthermore, I believe that 
 we all have down deep in us a drop of the 
 animal." 
 
 " Calls us animals now, Fanny," remarks 
 Mr. Barton. " First, we're mad, now we are 
 animals ! Go on, Phil, try and make us some- 
 thing else." And the old fellow puffs away 
 good-humouredly, having, he thinks, said 
 som.ethinfij verv clever. 
 
 " Marker, call the play," says Syd. 
 
'220 A VERY MAD WORLD, 
 
 " Thirty-eight plays twenty-nine, sir," an- 
 swers Fanny prompt^. 
 
 " Of course we are all only a higher order 
 of animals," I say, whereupon the squire 
 groans in the most approved parliamentary 
 manner. 
 
 " I admit that," Sj^d says ; " but what do 
 you mean by the term ' drop of the animal ? '" 
 
 " Drop of the fiddlestick ! " exclaimed the 
 squire. 
 
 " No, papa ; let Phil explain," laughs Fanny. 
 
 " Explain ? " I say. " Certainly, and ere I 
 proceed with the ' one drop ' theory, I will 
 give an example of a common madness 
 amongst men. Now, Mr. Barton, you sa}^ 
 you are not mad ? " 
 
 " Decidedly I do." 
 
 " I say that you are — very mad." 
 
 Here all three laugh heartily, and the 
 squire says^ " Fll tell you one thing, Phil ; 
 you are as mad as a March hare." 
 
 " I know I am, and so are you." 
 
A SAXGUIXARY SUBJECT. 221 
 
 " Prove it," lie says. 
 
 " Certainly ; allow me," and I take the pipe 
 from his hand. "What is this?" 
 
 " A pipe, of course." 
 
 " That is, it is a cherrywood stem, affixed 
 to a china cup." 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 " What is this burning in it ? " 
 
 " Why, tobacco of course." 
 
 " And what is tobacco ? " 
 
 " Tobacco ! " exclaims Mr. Barton. " Why, 
 bless my soul, don't you know what tobacco 
 is? It is a weed, of course." 
 
 " And why have you placed this weed in 
 this china cup and then set it alight ? " 
 
 " Why, to smoke it, to be sure." 
 
 " What do you call smoking it ? " 
 
 " What do I call smoking it ? " and my host 
 gazes at me in astonishment. " Why, what 
 does anybody call smoking ? — drawing the 
 smoke through the stem of the pipe and then 
 puffing it out of your mouth, that's smoking." 
 
222 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 '^s it a food?" 
 
 " Food ; certainly not." 
 
 "Is it a drink?" 
 
 " Drink ; why, what are you talking about, 
 Phil?" 
 
 " What makes you smoke at all ? " I ask. 
 
 '•Oh! how the deuce do I know?" cries 
 the old chap hotly. 
 
 "Now, look here, Mr. Barton," I say. 
 " Here you sit, with a cherry-stick bored 
 through the centre, and affixed to a china 
 cup. In this cup you place a compound of 
 American or Indian weeds, mixed more or less 
 with saltpetre, and which physicians have 
 declared over and over again to be rank 
 poison to the system. This j^ou light with a 
 match, and forthwith commence sucking the 
 poisonous smoke — smoke so poisonous, in 
 fact, that a mouthful of it will sicken a non- 
 smoker almost to death, while nicotin is 
 certain death if swallowed in its purity. 
 Well, this smoke, as I have said, you suck 
 
A SANGUINARY SUBJECT. 223 
 
 through the stem, and then pufF out again. 
 And then you call yourself a sane man. Do 
 you think there is any sense in that ? *' 
 
 " By Jove, Phil ! " exclaims Syd. " I think 
 there is something in your theory, after all." 
 
 " You never explained it like that before, 
 Phil," Fanny says. " Now, papa, what have 
 you got to say ? " 
 
 " Why, everybody smokes," cries her father. 
 
 ''Quite so," I say. "And everybody is 
 mad." 
 
 While talking I have been also attending 
 to my game, and have won, beating Syd by 
 seven. We adjourn to the drawing-room and 
 there Fanny asks me to explain my " one 
 drop " theory. So, all seated round the fire- 
 place, I begin : 
 
 " My meaning of the term one drop of an 
 animal is this : I maintain that each of us 
 has something^ of the nature of one or 
 other animal. This drop never asserts itself 
 save in cases of the direst distress." 
 
224 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " How do you mean ? " asks Syd. 
 
 " We will suppose we know four wealthy 
 gentlemen — we will call them Brown, Jones, 
 Eobinson and Smith. Eemember, these men 
 have never known what it is to want for any- 
 thing ; nor have they ever known any serious 
 trouble. Eesult — they are jovial and good- 
 natured, loving husbands, kind fathers, truest 
 of friends, and all the rest of it. Now we will 
 suppose that by some extraordinary and sud- 
 den stroke of fortune, or rather ??izVfortune, 
 all four are bereft of all their wealth, all 
 their children, wives, homes, and are, in 
 point of fact, left penniless, starving, and with 
 ver}^ little clothing — crouching, say, in the 
 middle of some bare heath in pelting rain. 
 Now understand, these four men have now 
 no money, no friends, no food and no shelter, 
 nor have they the slightest idea of where to 
 look for any. Now watch Brown ; do you see 
 how the famished look in his eye slowly gives 
 place to one of fierceness ? Listen to him : 
 
A SANGUINARY SUBJECT. 225 
 
 ' Must I who have been accustomed to all 
 the luxury, and pleasure, and happiness in life 
 — must I die of cold and hunger? No, by 
 Heaven, no ! Where are all the friends whom 
 I have lavished my wealth upon ? Curse 
 them ! They leave me here to starve. Starve ? 
 No, I will not starve and die while others 
 have plenty. I am mad with hunger.' — See 
 him rise and prowl along in search of food. 
 The first man he meets he will attack and kill 
 for the purpose of securing any money his 
 victim may possess. Brown, you see, has a 
 drop of the wolf in him. Now look at Jones : 
 see the famished look give place to one of 
 determination as he rises and gazes boldly 
 around. Then he says, ' What ! am I going 
 to die of starvation on this heath while I have 
 hands to work with ? No ! I will trudsfe to 
 the next town and look for some work — I 
 don't care what it is ; I will sweep the streets, 
 or break stones, as long as I am paid for it. 
 I'm not going to give in.' — And away he goes 
 
 VOL. I. 15 
 
226 A VERY MAD AVORLD. 
 
 towards the town. Jones has a drop of the 
 lion in him. Now we come to Eobinson. Just 
 watch Eobinson — his famished look slowly 
 gives place, not to the look of fierceness 
 which we noticed in Brown, nor the bold 
 determined look of Jones, but to a cunning 
 look. 'I'm not going to stand this much 
 longer,' he mutters, as the cunning expression 
 deepens. ' Let me see — if I want to save 
 myself from starvation and death, I must get 
 some money forthwith. There's that old 
 glutton, Alderman Goggle, whom I have 
 often given a good dinner to. He won't know 
 me now — no, curse him ; but I think I can 
 copy his signature. Yes. Til get some 
 money.' — And off he goes and forges a 
 cheque. Eobinson has a drop of the fox in 
 him. Last of all comes poor Smith. His 
 famished look remains, but gradually be- 
 comes mixed with hopeless despair. ' Oh ! my 
 God ! ' he cries. ' Is this the end of all my 
 greatness ? Left to die on a wild heath, with- 
 
A SANGUINAKY SUBJECT. 227 
 
 out money, food or friends ; nowhere to go, 
 and no one to look to ; hopeless and weary. 
 Let me die.' — And he lies down and dies. 
 Smith had a drop of the sheep in him. 
 Eemember this : all those four men while in 
 prosperity would have been very much in- 
 sulted indeed if you hinted that they were 
 sheep, or wolves, or foxes. They were quite 
 ignorant of the fact themselves. And had 
 they not met with dire misfortune, we would 
 have been ignorant of the fact also." 
 
 " Then you believe that no man can be 
 fathomed until he is in misfortune and 
 trouble," says Syd. 
 
 " No man knows what he is himself, or 
 w^hat good or evil is in him, until he finds 
 himself reduced to poverty and starvation." 
 
 " Who's starving ? " asks Mr. Barton, start- 
 ing up. 
 
 He has been quietly sleeping during my 
 lecture ! 
 
 15—2 
 
CHAPTEE XXIX. 
 
 TOM PIERCE ARRIVES. 
 
 The Woodbourn preserves are among the 
 best stocked in the whole county, and Syd 
 and myself liave had splendid sport to-day. 
 Sport ! Yes, have we not slaughtered a lot 
 of poor devils of birds in cold blood (the air 
 was frosty), and have we not returned from 
 the fray terribly tired, and consequently 
 have we not enjoyed ourselves like English 
 madmen ? 
 
 " Why did you not say where you could 
 be found at two o'clock ? " Fanny asks. 
 ^' We could have sent a nice lunch to you 
 both." 
 
 "Never thought of it," answers Syd ; " we 
 had no intention of quitting the near grounds 
 and thought we could turn in here for 
 
TOM PIERCE ARRIVES. 229 
 
 luncheon. But by degrees we wandered 
 further and further, until we found ourselves, 
 keepers and all, three miles from anywhere." 
 
 " Little Mrs. Wilson was here in the morn- 
 ing," Fanny tells me. " How pretty she 
 looks in crimson." 
 
 "Oh! was she in crimson?" I exclaim. 
 " Yes, she does look rather well in that colour." 
 
 " Little Mr. Towers called while she was 
 here, and both remained to lunch," she 
 continues. 
 
 " Oh, indeed," I say ; " did they go away 
 together ? " 
 
 " Yes. Do you know, Phil, I think little 
 Mr. Towers is a bit gone there," she says 
 with a knowing smile. 
 
 " Oh, ridiculous ! " I exclaim. " Little 
 Towers ! a little fool ! What would he do 
 with such a wife ? " 
 
 "What would he do?" Here Fanny 
 broke into a merry laugh, and ran off to 
 dress for dinner, while I follow suit. 
 
230 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 But the idea of little Towers thinking 
 seriously of the widow! No, it's impossible 
 — he could not think seriously of anything. 
 Ah ! now I remember Mrs. Wilson asking 
 me if I did not think little Towers " nice- 
 looking." Can she really — well, why not? 
 Now that I come to think of it, Towers is just 
 about the sort of man she would marry. 
 And did she not get very angry in London 
 when I gave her a hint on the question ? 
 Yes, and he called to-day while she was 
 here? That was arranged between them of 
 course. 
 
 Oh, dear, what will I do for some pretty 
 little creature to talk scandal to me, and to 
 quarrel with me, and to make it all up 
 a^^ain, if little Mrs. Wilson marries? 
 
 Tom Pierce arrives in time for dinner. 
 He has never seen his uncle (his mother's 
 brother) before. In fact, the onl}^ one of 
 the family he had ever met previously is 
 Sydney. 
 
TOM PIERCE ARRIVES. 231 
 
 The old squire likes his nephew from the 
 first — there is a frank, honest and decidedly 
 humorous style about Tom, which seems 
 to carry him through everything, and to 
 make him a prime favourite with everybody. 
 
 I wonder how he will get on with his 
 Aunt Minerva? I hope I will see the meet- 
 ing between them ! How he does rattle away 
 to be sure ! Music, art, literature, and above 
 all, the drama, he dilates on with delightful 
 freshness and originality. 
 
 Fanny sits opposite to him, with an 
 amused and interested expression. At last 
 she has some one who can talk about plays 
 and theatres. 
 
 '• Sydney tells me you write plays your- 
 self," she says to him. 
 
 '^ Oh, yes, I write plays, fair cousin," he 
 answers ; " in fact I have written about thirty 
 plays." 
 
 " What's that you say ? " inquires his 
 nncle. "Written thirty plays." 
 
232 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 "Yes, uncle." 
 
 "Have I ever heard of them?" 
 
 "No," answers his nephew gravely, "you 
 see they are not so common as Shake- 
 speare's." 
 
 " You mean they have never been per- 
 formed at all, Tom," Fanny says. 
 
 " Quite correct," he replies. " The theatri- 
 cal world knows not its greatest men." 
 
 " I never hear of a new tragedy being 
 produced now a days. How is that, Tom, 
 eh ? " asks the squire. 
 
 " Why is there no new tragedy produced ? 
 The reason is very simple, my dear uncle — 
 many new comedies answer the same purpose. 
 Oh, I say, Phil ! you remember little Jenkins, 
 the low comedian ? " 
 
 " Yes. What about him ? " 
 
 "Well, he has written a play called 
 'Dynamite,' and has gone on tour with it, 
 or rather, he commenced his tour with it ; 
 but the first theatre he opened at he blew 
 
TOM PIEECE ARRIVES. 233 
 
 the roof off, besides knocking the orchestra 
 off their chairs ; fact." 
 
 " Bless my soul ! " exclaims the squire. 
 " How did he manage to do that ? " 
 ■ " Well, you see, uncle, in the play, which 
 Jenkins assured me there was millions in, 
 there was one great and entirely new and 
 novel scene — it was never seen on any stage 
 before, and it is more than remotely probable 
 it will never be played on any stage again — 
 for this scene represented the blowing up of 
 all the characters, save the hero and heroine, 
 by dynamite. ' You see,' said Jenkins to 
 me, ' in all other dramas, new and old, the 
 villains are either shot, drowned, stabbed or 
 arrested, if they don't take poison ; but in my 
 play I will have the villains — and they are 
 all villains in it but two — blown up into 
 smithereens by dynamite. I fancy that 
 will bring down the house,' he added, and 
 it did, or anyway it brought down the 
 roof." 
 
234 A VERY MAD WOPvLD. 
 
 " What has become of him ? " I ask. 
 
 " He had to run or the authorities would 
 have been down on him, and he is now in 
 the north playing Hamlet with a ghost show, 
 under an assumed name. Ah ! it will all 
 blow over in time, and then poor Jenkins 
 can venture back to town." 
 
 " What is this new actress like, this Miss 
 Fayncourt ? " Fanny asks. " She seems to 
 be all the rage now." 
 
 " Yes, and she deserves all the praise she 
 receives," answers Tom. " She is lovely to 
 look upon, charming to converse with, and 
 a splendid actress." 
 
 ■ "Fayncourt," says Syd. "Oh! I saw her 
 carte in the Strand windows ; she is certainly 
 a beautiful woman." 
 
 " I should think so ! " cries Tom. " And 
 can't she sit a horse ! You should have seen 
 her in the Eow last season. Follows the 
 hounds too, whenever she has time." 
 
 " Does she, by Jove ! " exclaims Sydney. 
 
TOM PIERCE ARRIVES. 235 
 
 " I should like to meet her in the field," and 
 he laughs. 
 
 " You may some day," says Tom. 
 
 " I don't think actresses make good wives 
 for country gentlemen," remarks the squire. 
 "No, no, I'm sure they don't. Too fond of 
 London tinsel and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " Eubbish ! " exclaims Tom, while Syd, 
 Fanny and I prepare for a storm. 
 
 " What's that you say ? " asks the squire 
 sharply. 
 
 " Eubbish ! " answers Tom calmly. " That's 
 what I say." 
 
 " Then what the deuce do you mean, sir ? " 
 exclaims his uncle in a fume. 
 
 " Oh ! he means he does not agree with 
 you, papa dear," Fanny says soothingly. 
 
 " Yes, uncle, that is just it," Tom adds. 
 " You and I agree to differ on the subject 
 of actresses." 
 
 "Very well, sir; but you know nothing 
 about the subject, nothing whatever," and 
 
236 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 the squire looked at Syd and myself for 
 applause. 
 
 "I don't pretend to know so much about 
 actresses as you do, uncle," Tom remarks, 
 " certainly not ; you have had more to do 
 with them I daresay." 
 
 "Why, what the devil do you mean, sir? " 
 cries the squire, almost choking ; but a burst 
 of laughter from us all soon brings him 
 back his good humour. 
 
 " I wish Aunt Minerva was here," whis- 
 pered Syd to me. 
 
 I am looking forward to some fun in this 
 delightful madhouse. 
 
 ^(kMhhr^' 
 
CHAPTEE XXX. 
 
 TOM MEETS HIS AUNT. 
 
 Off the morning-room is a small writing- 
 closet, the door of which is hung with one of 
 those Oriental reed curtains — those curious 
 arrangements which can be seen through, and 
 which render the objects seen quite vision- 
 ary. Well, here I sit writing in this ante- 
 room as the morning sun streams through the 
 painted window. It is this subdued painted 
 light which makes the outer room so bright 
 by contrast, and which accordingly allows of 
 my seeing every object there distinctly 
 through this reed curtain. 
 
 Presently I hear voices. Fanny and Tom 
 have entered and are sitting by one of the 
 windows. 
 
 " And so you are a real live author, Tom ? " 
 Fanny says. 
 
238 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Yes, I scorn to deceive you, madam, I 
 ham.'' 
 
 " Well, I'm glad that some of the family- 
 have brains," continues Fanny. " I'm sure we 
 Woodbourn Bartons are about as dull as a 
 funeral." 
 
 " Ah ! we must try and wake the echoes of 
 mirth — make the welkin ring," says Tom. 
 
 " And then poor Aunt Minerva is so peevish 
 and crotchety," Fanny tellshim. ''* You know 
 she is such an invalid." 
 
 " Indeed ! What's the matter with her ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know — general breakdown of 
 the constitution, I think." 
 
 " General break up, you mean," observes 
 Tom. 
 
 " Well, it's all the same, isn't it ? " 
 
 " I believe the old lady, my Aunt Minerva, 
 is not a lover of the muses ? " Tom remarks. 
 
 " Oh, for goodness' sake don't mention any- 
 thing about plays or theatres to her," cries 
 Fanny. " It is Hke shaking a red rag before 
 
TOM MEETS HIS AUXT. 239 
 
 a bull. And the worst of it is, she has made 
 papa nearly as bad as herself, and now when 
 in town he will never take me to the theatre. 
 Isn't it a shame ? " 
 
 " Shame ? " exclaims Tom. " That's not the 
 word for it — it's a scandal." 
 
 " By the way, Tom, you have never seen 
 Aunt Minerva yet?" 
 
 " No," answers Tom, " that is a pleasure 
 which is in store for mc." 
 
 Here the old lady in question is heard 
 calling " Fanny ! Fanny ! " 
 
 "Gracious, here she is," exclaims Fanny 
 laughing, and running out of the room. 
 
 Tom takes out a pocket-book and begins 
 writing — evidently making notes for his new 
 pastoral comedy. Enter Miss Minerva. She 
 does not observe Tom, who in his turn does 
 not hear or see her, being too busy with his 
 pencil. She sinks into a chair. 
 
 "Where is that girl?" she exclaims aloud. 
 "Am I never to have any one come to me 
 
240 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 when I require them ? Oh ! what a lot of 
 brutes they are. They would see me die 
 before any of them would stir hand or foot to 
 assist me." 
 
 All this uttered in a harsh, peevish, grating 
 voice is quite enough to make Tom aware of 
 his aunt's presence. He sits surveying her 
 — mentally " taking her bearings " for a 
 moment — then he gives a loud : 
 
 "Ahem ! " This makes the old lady jump 
 nearly out of her chair. 
 
 " A man ! " she exclaims, glaring at him in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Perfectly correct, my dear madam," ob- 
 serves Tom with a placid smile. " I am a 
 
 man." 
 
 " Who are you, man ? " asks Miss Minerva, 
 almost choking with indignation. 
 
 " Who am I ? " repeats Tom with well-acted 
 astonishment. "Ha! ha! ha! That's good — 
 that is good ! " and he leans back laughing. 
 This seems to rouse the old lady to fury. 
 
TOM MEETS HIS AUNT. 241 
 
 " Answer me, man ; who are you, and 
 where have you come from ? " she ex- 
 claims. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " cries Tom in bewilder- 
 ment. " And is there one civihzed being who 
 does not know me'^ Why, there is not a 
 devil " 
 
 " Sir ! " cries his aunt. 
 
 " A printer's devil, I mean," continues her 
 precious nephew. " Not the old boy — oh, 
 dear, no." 
 
 *' Once for all, sir, who and what are you ? " 
 cries Miss Minerva, gasping with rage. 
 
 " What am I ? A poet, a dramatist and 
 amateur actor." 
 
 " Ah ! " gasps Miss Minerva, " a play- 
 actor ; leave the house, man ; how dare you 
 enter here? Do you hear me? Leave the 
 house at once, or I shall call one of the ser- 
 vants. How dare you presume to enter 
 here ? " and she trembles with passion. 
 
 " Now look here, my dear madam," says 
 
 VOL. I. IG 
 
242 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 Tom, " I don't know who you are or what 
 you are, nor do I care the husk of a nut, 
 but I am a theatrical man, and I won't hear 
 the profession run down." 
 
 " Young man ! " screams Miss Minerva, 
 starting to her feet. 
 
 " Old woman ! " answers Tom, springing 
 to his feet. 
 
 At the words " old woman " Miss Minerva 
 gives a loud piercing scream and is about 
 to fall, when Tom runs and catches her. In 
 doing so he knocks her wig clean off, leaving 
 her bald head bare to the full light of day. 
 This sets her screaming louder than ever. In 
 an instant, Fanny, the squire and Sydney 
 appear on the scene. The squire stands 
 transfixed, with hair on end, at the sight ; 
 Sydney falls into a sofa laughing, while Fanny 
 goes to assist her aunt. 
 
 " Oh ! take me away to my room and let me 
 die," exclaims the latter, as Fanny re-wigs 
 her and takes her arm. " Turn that madman 
 
TOM MEETS HIS AUNT. 243 
 
 out of the house mstantl}^" and she quits the 
 room on Fanny's arm. 
 
 Tom, quite calm and cool, resumes his seat 
 by the window, and when the squire recovers 
 his speech he says : " What is the meaning of 
 this ? Tom- — Sydney — will somebody speak ? 
 Damn it, will somebody say something ? " 
 
 But Sydney sits with eyes full of fun gazing 
 at Tom, and Tom sits, cool and comfortable, 
 gazing at his uncle. The latter, after glaring 
 from one to the other, cries : 
 
 " Damn it, you look hke a pair of dumb 
 idiots! Will you please explain " 
 
 ''The meaning of the impressive tableau 
 which you witnessed on entering," Tom inter- 
 rupts. " Certainly, my dear uncle ; take a 
 chair. The fact is, my aunt and myself were 
 having a little pleasant tete-a-tete on things in 
 general. In the course of our conversation I 
 happened to mention something about theatres, 
 when to my horror she was immediately seized 
 with a sudden weakness. I ran to her assist- 
 
 16 -2 
 
244 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 ance, and in doing so had the misfortune to 
 disarrange her head-dress." 
 
 Sydney's laughter is infectious. I find my- 
 self laughing behind my curtains, and then 
 the squire breaks out into a hearty " Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " Well, upon my soul, it will do her good," 
 he cries, and just at this moment a servant 
 comes in to tell him that " Miss Minerva 
 wishes to see him." 
 
 " All right," he says, " say I will be there 
 presently. I suppose she wants to say good- 
 bye before she dies for the hundred and fifty- 
 fifth time," he says, and then leaves the room. 
 
 " I suppose she will order him to have 
 me hanged, drawn and quartered," remarks 
 Tom. " I say, Syd, wasn't that a grand 
 scene ? " 
 
 " I should think it was," 1 reply, walking 
 through the curtains. 
 
 " Oh, did you see it all ? " he asks. 
 « Every bit of it." 
 
TOM MEETS HIS AUNT. 245 
 
 " I'll put it in a comedy," lie continues. 
 " It will make a splendid curtain for a second 
 act." 
 
 And then we all three go for a gallop. 
 
 " Of course it was awfully rude to speak 
 to my aunt as I have done," whispered Tom 
 to me while waiting for the horses ; " but 
 she has put the squire up to boycotting 
 theatres, which is simply cruel to Fanny." 
 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 MISS MINEEVA ASSISTS AT A MATINEE. 
 
 Miss Minerva has not appeared downstairs 
 since her encounter with Tom yesterday 
 morning. Good ; a Httle of that elderly 
 spinster goes a very long way. 
 
 By the way, yesterday evening during 
 dinner I noticed that one of the servants 
 looked too short for his livery, or the livery 
 was too long for him. I also saw that he 
 was nervous and awkward and altogether 
 ignorant of the duties of a table attendant. 
 Later on Sydney told me that the man was 
 really a dog trainer whom he had picked 
 up in London and brought down to Wood- 
 bourn as a trainer of pointers and setters. 
 Delightful Miss Minerva had bullied one 
 of the footmen so that he left without 
 
MISS MINERVA ASSISTS AT A MATINEE. 247 
 
 giving any notice, and Ben Bantim — the 
 aforesaid trainer — was hastily put into his 
 livery. 
 
 "He is a capital dog trainer," continued 
 Syd, " but an awful failure as a footman." 
 
 " Yes," observed Tom, who was listening, 
 " I never saw a worse footman in a bad farce." 
 
 Breakfast is over, and I sit writing a letter 
 to Paul Joyce in the little writing room. 
 Through the reed curtain I can see Fanny 
 in the next room, as she sits by the fire 
 looking over a book. Presently enters to 
 her Ben Bantim with a coal scuttle. His 
 troubled woe-begone face is a study. 
 
 " Is the fire all right, miss ? " he asks. 
 
 " Yes, Ben ; have the night-keepers finished 
 their breakfasts yet ? " 
 
 (The squire has four men on the watch 
 for poachers all night, and after giving 
 them their breakfasts allows them to go 
 home and sleep, or do anything else the)^ 
 please until evening.) 
 
248 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " No, miss ; tliey's not done feedin' yet," 
 says Ben. " They're a-tuckin' in still." 
 
 " They are what ? " asks Fanny in be- 
 wilderment. 
 
 "A-tuckin' in, miss," continues Ben; "a 
 feedin' away like one o'clock. The mornin' 
 hair is a powerful doctor for the happetite. 
 Lor' bless you. Miss Fanny, when I was in 
 London, in the tyke line, I used to get hup 
 at five on a summer's mornin', and when 
 nine o'clock came, couldn't I put a pound 
 -of steak across my chest ! " 
 
 ^' A pound of steak across your chest ! *' 
 -echoes Fanny. " Why what in the world 
 do you mean by that ? *' 
 
 " Why, I means that I het it with gusto, miss.'' 
 
 " Oh," exclaims Fanny laughing, " I really 
 thought you were alhiding to a poultice." 
 
 " Why, miss," continues the footman's 
 understudy, " after taking hout the dorgs 
 from five till nine for a constitutional, I used 
 to be as 'ungry as a bloomin' 'unter." 
 
MISS MINERVA ASSISTS AT A MATINEE. 24'.* 
 
 " A blooming what^ Ben ? " 
 
 "hunter, miss," answers Ben, empha- 
 sizing the " h " as if his life depended 
 upon it. 
 
 " Ben, you must endeavour to avoid using 
 cockney expressions, at least while acting 
 as footman. Of course it does not matter 
 so much in the kennel." 
 
 " The kennels, miss ! " exclaims Ben. " Ah, 
 that's my proper place, miss ; I ain't in my 
 element as a flunky, and that's a fact. Put 
 me in the kennels with the tykes and I'm 
 all there. You might ask the boss — I mean 
 the master, miss — to turn me on to the tykes 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, you won't have to endure your 
 agony for very long," laughs Fanny. " We 
 expect to have a new footman by to-morrow. 
 Then, Ben, you are free to return to your 
 four-legged friends.'* 
 
 " An' a good job too, miss/' says Ben 
 as he retires. 
 
250 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 M}^ letter finislied, I go and sit by the 
 fire and have a chat with Fanny. 
 
 " Why where are Syd and Tom ? " I ask. 
 
 " Syd has gone to transact some business 
 with the steward," Fanny answers, " and as 
 for Tom, I expect he is too busy over his 
 note-book to think of any one." 
 
 This is said in a tone of pique. Ho, ho! 
 is that how the land lies ? 
 
 " Do you know, Phil, I would give the 
 world to be an actress," she continues with 
 a laugh. " How I should like to play Lady 
 Macbeth, and have columns of print all 
 about myself and my dresses, like Ellen 
 Terry." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; that would be something." 
 
 " Or I should be happy if I could even 
 play Juliet at a matinee^ like a professional 
 beauty. ' On Saturday next, at two o'clock, 
 Shakespeare's tragedy of '' Eomeo and Juliet." 
 Juliet, Miss Fanny Barton.' Fancy that an- 
 nouncement in blue type on pink paper 
 
MISS MINERVA ASSISTS AT A MATINEE. 251 
 
 hanging in the windows of all the cigar 
 shops and public houses in the neighbour- 
 hood of the Strand ! " and she laughs a 
 merr}^ laugh at the notion. '* I wonder 
 what papa would say ? " 
 
 " And your aunt ? " I query. 
 
 " Oh, Phil, I really believe she would have 
 a serious fit of some kind," and Fanny be- 
 comes quite grave at the thought. 
 
 Presently Tom enters and sits down be- 
 tween Fanny and me, as he rattles away 
 one humorous theatrical anecdote after 
 another. As I have stated before, his spirits 
 are infectious, and ere many moments he 
 has Fanny and myself — especially Fanny — 
 as lively and gay as himself. 
 
 Suddenly he asks Fanny : *' Do you know 
 the ' Pirate's Bride ? ' " 
 
 "• Yes," exclaims Fanny ; " do you ? " 
 
 " Backwards," he answers. " Suppose we 
 have a scene from it," and up he jumps. 
 "Phil will be the Audience." 
 
252 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 "Agreed!" cries Fanny, also jumping up. 
 " What scene shall we have ? " 
 
 " Oh, the second one, where Lorisimo 
 returns to seek his bride. But stop — 
 what will Lorisimo do for a cloak and 
 hat ? He must have a cloak and hat, you 
 know." 
 
 " I have it ! " Fanny says. " Put on your 
 dressing-gown and I'll run and get you Aunt 
 Minerva's old sun hat." 
 
 " The very thing," he cries, and away they 
 both run. Dear delightful mad creatures ! 
 
 Presently they return — Tom in a gorgeous 
 blue satin dressing-gown and Fanny with 
 an enormous straw hat, which she places on 
 his head, laughing merrily all the time. Tom 
 now looks as much unlike a pirate and as 
 much like a Chinese gentleman depicted on 
 a tea chest as it is possible to conceive. 
 
 " Now what about the Bride's father ? " 
 he asks. " The Bride must have a father." 
 
 " Won't Phil do ? " Fanny suggests. 
 
MISS MINERVA ASSISTS AT A MATINEE. 253 
 
 " Phil, no — he's the audience ; we can't 
 make the audience act." 
 
 At this moment Ben enters to have another 
 look at the fire. Seeing Tom in gorgeous 
 array, he stands staring at him open-mouthed. 
 
 " Here," says Tom to him ; " were you 
 ever on the boards ? " 
 
 '' Do you mean board-wages, sir ? " asks 
 Ben. 
 
 " Xo, no ; did you ever take part in a 
 piece ? " 
 
 " A piece of what, sir ? " queries Ben, evi- 
 dently mystified. 
 
 " Mr. Pierce means, have you ever acted 
 in a play, or ever seen one ? " Fanny ex- 
 plains. 
 
 " Oh, yes, miss, I saw the ' Forty Thieves ' 
 played." 
 
 " Very good, then you have some idea of 
 acting," Tom says, slipping some money into 
 the man's hand. " There's your salary in 
 advance. I want you to go behind that 
 
254 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 door, and when I cry ' Ha, lia ! ' you rusli 
 out and I kill you." 
 
 " Kill me ! " cries Ben, looking from Tom 
 to Fanny, and from her to Tom again. 
 
 " Yes, yes, but only in fun, you know,''* 
 says the Pirate. " Now to your post ; but 
 stay, you don't look fierce enough." Here 
 he goes into the writing-room and returns 
 with a piece of blotting-paper rolled up 
 and dipped in ink, with which he proceeds 
 to paint a black moustache on Ben. 
 
 " But, sir " the latter begins. 
 
 " Stop," cries Tom ; " don t move a muscle 
 or you'll spoil the effect. There, that's 
 lovely. Now to your post behind the door, 
 and remember the ' Ha, ha ! ' " 
 
 Ben goes behind the door, evidently not 
 half pleased with the whole arrangement, 
 and Tom " goes off," while Fanny, who had 
 already " gone off," now comes on — enters^ 
 to use the proper term. She is supposed 
 to be in great anxiety about her husband. 
 
MISS MINERVA ASSISTS AT A MATINEE. 255 
 
 and as near as I can follow lier this is 
 what she says (in very tragic tones) : 
 
 " Ah me^ the nights still grow apace, 
 Why tarries my Lorisimo ? 
 Where may he be ? Perchance 
 Beneath the ocean's flood 
 Full forty fathoms deep." 
 
 Here Tom stamps " outside " at an awful 
 rate, which causes the Bride to observe : 
 
 " Footsteps in the corridorj! 
 Should this be my father, 
 I must dissemble." 
 
 And so saying the Bride retires to the ap- 
 pointed corner, while the audience gives a 
 round of applause. Enter Lorisimo as if 
 he was walking on thistles in his bare feet. 
 I don't know whether he or Ben — who looks 
 at him from his post behind the door, just 
 as one would look upon the antics of a 
 harmless lunatic — is the funniest sight. This 
 is what Lorisimo says in a voice evidently 
 drawn from his boots : 
 
 " Methinks I heard a moan. 
 
 It might have been the music of the draughts — " 
 
256 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Winds," says Fanny, in a stage whisper 
 from her corner, and Lorisimo thus corrected 
 says : 
 
 " It might have been the music of the winds 
 Which sweep around the castle." 
 
 Here the Pirate bold begins walking on 
 thistles again, and the Bride coming for- 
 ward cries : 
 
 " Who goes there ? " 
 
 Whereupon Lorisimo stops his promenading 
 and cries : 
 
 " That voice ! " 
 
 Which causes the Bride to immediately ob- 
 serve : 
 
 " That form ! " 
 
 This seems to be quite enough for Lorisimo, 
 who exclaims forthwith: 
 
 " 'Tis she ! 
 Come to my arms, my beautiful bride ! '' 
 
 Thus saying, they rush into each other's 
 arms, and as they embrace their Aunt Minerva 
 
MISS MINERVA ASSISTS AT A MATINEE. 257 
 
 walks in ! With a scream of horror and 
 astonishment she falls into a chair. Out 
 rushes Fanny, while Ben, quite forgetful of 
 his fierce appearance, runs to Miss Minerva's 
 assistance. On seeing his inky face she 
 screams louder, and he bolts — and all this 
 time Tom, who has thrown off hat and 
 gown, is rolling about on the sofa with 
 laughter. 
 
 I — I follow Ben's example and bolt! 
 
 Q^^'MmU (^Xs 
 
 ^^lil?|^ 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
CHAPTEE XXXII. 
 
 VIVE V AMOUR, 
 
 By-and-by Tom and I are seated smoking 
 in the snugger}^, when the squire enters, 
 hair positively on end with fury. Catching 
 sight of Tom he exclaims, "Ah, just the 
 man I wanted, and you too, Phil — you are 
 both men of the world, men of brains — 
 now tell me what's to be done, eh ? What's 
 to be done, sir, damme, that's the ques- 
 tion?" 
 
 "What's the matter, uncle?" asks Tom. 
 
 " Am I master in my own house, or am 
 I not, eh ? Answer me that, sir ? " cries the 
 old fellow, pacing up and down the room. 
 
 " Of course you are, uncle," replies Tom, 
 winking at me. " An Englishman's house is 
 his castle." 
 
FIFE L' AMOUR. 269 
 
 " Eight, sir," exclaims the squire, stop- 
 ping and bringing his hand down with a 
 bang on the side table, " an Englishman's 
 house is his castle, and by the Lord Harry 
 I won't stand it any longer ! " 
 
 " I applaud your sentiments, my dear 
 uncle," says his worthy nephew. 
 
 " Would you believe it, Phil," he exclaims, 
 turning to me with a wild glare in his mad 
 eyes, " would you believe it if I were to 
 inform you that my sister, my confounded 
 sister, sir, is playing the very devil with 
 my naturally calm and peaceful temper ? *' 
 
 " Oh, shame, shame upon her ! " cries 
 Tom, with tremendous indignation in his 
 tones. 
 
 "Will you beheve it, Tom," cries the 
 squire, glaring more than ever, " when I 
 tell you that she has just been abusing me 
 like a pickpocket because I wouldn't order 
 you, her sister's and my sister's son, out of 
 the house?" 
 
 17—2 
 
260 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaims Tom, looking 
 quite astounded. 
 
 " Out of my own house ! " 
 
 " Merciful powers ! " cries Tom, looking 
 thunderstruck. 
 
 " You may well express astonishment, 
 Tom," exclaims the squire, " but never mind, 
 there Avill be an end to all this in the 
 future. I shall be master in my own house ! 
 I'll begin at once." 
 
 "Do, uncle." 
 
 " I will, Tom. I'll order dinner an hour 
 earlier than usual ! I'll let her see she can't 
 do as she likes." 
 
 And away he goes to issue the momen- 
 tous order to the cook. 
 
 " I think you have said that we are all 
 mad," remarks Tom. 
 
 " I have indeed," I reply. 
 
 " Then, upon my soul ! I believe you are 
 right," he exclaims. 
 
 '■ Why of course I am, my dear boy. Do 
 
PIFE 1/ AM OUR. 261 
 
 you for one moment think that if your 
 uncle, for instance, was a sane man, he 
 would tolerate this old lady interfering in 
 his domestic arrangements ? " 
 
 " Certainly not ! " cries Tom ; " Fanny is, 
 or should be, mistress of Woodbourn. As 
 for enduring Aunt Minerva's continual pre- 
 sence, why, I'd rather be doomed to write 
 jokes for a Scotch editor." 
 
 " I've long been of opinion that something 
 should be done for old maids," I say. 
 
 "How?" asks Tom. "Do you mean 
 in the way of providing husbands for 
 them?" 
 
 " Yes ; I think the government ought to 
 take the matter in hand, and have a list of 
 eligible and willing men — matrimonial volun- 
 teers — to bestow upon all spinsters who 
 should apply." 
 
 " It would never do, Phil ; it would be cer 
 tain to break down." 
 
 " Why ? " I ask. 
 
262 A VERY MAD WOELD. 
 
 " The demand would outrun the supply. 
 The list of men should be as long as Oxford 
 Street." 
 
 " Well, and so it could be if the govern- 
 ment acted at all in a generous spirit. Let 
 them give each man who marries a spinster 
 over forty years of age, a gold medal." 
 
 " And a pension," added Tom. 
 
 " Well, yes, where the spinster has not an 
 income. Besides, you forget, Tom, that there 
 are plenty of old maids who would not 
 marry at all." 
 
 " Oh, bosh ! " he exclaims. " Don't try 
 and make me believe that." 
 
 " I tell you there are ; they are a small 
 minority, it is true, but still they exist : 
 women who have loved and lost. And don't 
 you mind what shallow scribblers and 
 sceptics say about the non-existence of love. 
 It lives immortal, Tom, and its home is 
 woman's heart. That idle talk of drawing- 
 room noodles, about women being fickle, is 
 
FIFE L' AMOUR. 263 
 
 wrong, very wrong. Mind you, I don't say 
 that the tribe of girls brought to town every 
 May to be sold to the highest bidder, know 
 what love means. But they will some day, 
 and then God help their husbands! For I 
 tell you this, Tom — if a woman loves a man 
 she will let him know it. If he happens to 
 be her husband, so much the better — he 
 has a willing slave whose sole desire is to 
 please him ; but if the man is not her hus- 
 band, why, then so much the worse for her 
 husband. A woman in love will barter 
 everything for the possession of the man she 
 loves." 
 
 " But don't you think their love is apt to 
 cool?" 
 
 " Never, once loved, always loved, with 
 them. They may leave you because you 
 have grossly insulted or injured them ; they 
 may never speak to you, or even deign to 
 notice your presence again, but they love 
 you all the same. They cannot help it." 
 
264 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " I suppose you are right," says Tom : " In 
 fact, in the words of Moore : 
 
 " The heart that once truly loved, never forgets, 
 But as truly loves on to the close ; 
 As the sunflower turns to its god when he sets, 
 The same look which it turned when he rose.' 
 
 I don't think those are the correct words, but 
 they will do." 
 
 Presently we take a stroll towards the 
 stables, and when passing by the kennel door 
 overhear Ben talking to one of his fellow- 
 servants : 
 
 " Strike me merry ! Ted, there's that 
 young toff from London — him with the 
 straw-coloured hair — an' if he didn't get me 
 into a bloomin' row this niornin', may I be 
 poleaxed. What do you think! Him an 
 Miss Fanny was playactin', an' he cops me, 
 an' before I could say wayoh, he had me 
 bloomin' kisser all over ink — straight ! Then 
 he tells me to stop behind the door till he 
 says ' Ila, ha ! ' an' then, says he, ' run out. 
 
VIVE L' AM OUR. 265 
 
 an' I'll kill you.' 'Not much,' says I to meself ; 
 ' I'm not having any now.' ' Of course,' says 
 he, ' it's only in fun.' ' Eight you are, 
 cockey,' says I, an' goes behind the bloomin' 
 door. You should pipe his togs ! Strike me 
 handsome ! but they were saucy — oh, my ! 
 An' ain't he got a comic chivey chase? Well, 
 him an' Miss Fanny — good luck to her, shes 
 all right — begins doin' Irvin' an Terry all 
 over the shop, an' ends by havin' a coonoodle, 
 when who should turn up but the old Dutch 
 clock. Wayoh ! didn't we all make tracks ! " 
 
 " Eather graphic in his description of you," 
 I say to Tom, as we walk on. 
 
 "Yes, and also of my aunt — 'Old Dutch 
 Icock ' is good." 
 
CHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 A LETTER FROM PAUL. 
 
 I AM beginning to grow tired of bang- 
 bang-banging at fur and feathers, having 
 had over a week of it. Some fellows there 
 are who never grow tired of slaughter, but 
 I am not one of them. Enough is as good 
 as a feast, and a great deal better. But we 
 have had other amusements besides shooting 
 and billiards — namely, a dinner-party and a 
 Cinderella dance, both got up in honour of 
 Tom and myself — what madness ! Dinner- 
 parties I detest, dances I abhor, which must 
 be my excuse for describing neither. Tom 
 and Fanny are eternally gossiping in low 
 tones in the conservatory. That conservatory 
 will soon be worn out. The squire has 
 had several more rows with his sweet sister, 
 
A LiiTTER FROM PAUL. 267 
 
 and still he is not happy. The only people 
 in the whole house who are at all accountable 
 for their actions are Syd, myself and a 
 collie dog, and even we three are mad enough, 
 in all conscience ! 
 
 Little Mrs. Wilson drives over to lun- 
 cheon, brimful of gossip, the chief item of 
 which is the non- arrival of the Duchess of 
 Stanton from town. In fact, it appears her 
 grace has suddenly started for the Continent. 
 
 "Just fancy!" says the widow, "going 
 over to France or Italy — for no one seems 
 to know exactly where she has gone — while 
 the duke is away ! And, moreover, one 
 would imao^ine she would have been eaorer 
 to get back to the Castle, now that her 
 uncle and cousin are residino- so close to it." 
 And the little widow smiles. 
 
 " Have you seen these new arrivals yet ? " 
 asks Fanny ; " what is the gentleman's name ?" 
 
 " Butts ! " replies the widow : " nice name, 
 isn't it?" 
 
268 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " What's that, what's that ? " queries the 
 squire, looking towards the widow. " Butts, 
 did you say ? Butts I bless my soul, what an 
 extraordinary name ! " 
 
 " Do well for a farce," observes Tom. 
 
 " Yes," Syd says ; '' you should take a note 
 of it, Tom, and copyright it at once." 
 
 " But, have you called on Mr. Butts and 
 his niece yet, Mrs. Wilson ? " Fanny asks. 
 
 " No," she answers, tossing her little head, 
 " I am waiting for them to call upon me.'' 
 
 " By the way, did Towers send you those 
 cuttings, Mrs. Wilson?" I ask her. 
 
 " Oh ! indeed he did, and moreover, sent 
 his gardener to superintend their bedding, 
 though I think my gardener was mortally 
 offended. Now, was it not awfully kind of 
 Mr. Towers ? " and the widow looks across 
 the table at me, in that wide open-eyed way 
 which I have noticed before. 
 
 " Very," I say ; " but little Towers was 
 always a great lady's man. Do you remem- 
 
A LETTER FRO:\I PAUL. 269 
 
 ber our conversation in London concerning 
 him?" 
 
 The widow becomes very dimply indeed, 
 but does not reply. 
 
 When she is leaving, and while all the 
 others stand admiring the natty little phaeton 
 and pair of well-matched ponies, she turns 
 to me at the door and says : " And pray, 
 how much longer are you going to remain 
 here spooning Fanny ? " 
 
 " What ! " I exclaim in astonishment, 
 
 " Yes, you," she says looking straight into 
 my eyes. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Wilson, for goodness' sake 
 don't admit such an idea into your head — 
 it is unfair both to Fanny and myself." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me I am mistaken ? " 
 she asks sharply. 
 
 " Certainly I do. Now, had you spoken 
 so to Tom Pierce, you would have been 
 nearer the mark." 
 
270 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 " Well, don't let us quarrel," she says 
 smiling and dimpling ; " you know I was 
 only quizzing. Good-bye for the present." 
 
 In another moment she is driving down 
 the avenue. But, fancy her thinking me in 
 love with Fanny! 
 
 ^^ T^ ^tC *V <t* 
 
 The following letter has just reached me via 
 Brownlow House. It is from Paul Joyce, and 
 is dated from his chambers in Caxton's Inn. 
 
 "Dear Phil, 
 
 "It is a curious fact, and one I cannot 
 quite account for, but ever since the night 
 you dined with me and spoke of her I have 
 been perfectly miserable. I thought I had 
 forgotten all about her, but alas ! I woefully 
 deceived myself. Night after night do I sit 
 up until the small hours, thinking of the 
 past and of the hopeless mistakes I com- 
 mitted. What a lesson my life has been — 
 would be if printed and published ! Here 
 
A LETTER FROM PAUL. 271 
 
 is my wliole happiness wrecked through my 
 own folly — my own idiotic pride. No, not 
 pride — pride is a noble vice. My vice was 
 vanity. 0, good Heavens! if I could but 
 recall the past — bring back even one short 
 hour of my existence when she was by ! 
 But it is one of the unalterable rules of this 
 life, Phil, that man never knows how mo- 
 mentous the present is until it becomes the 
 irretrievable past. Too late ! too late ! Can 
 you not hear the funeral bell toll those words 
 every other day ? Morning, noon and night, 
 that bell is ringing in my ears. God help 
 me ! 
 
 " My ' mission ' has gone clean out of my 
 head for the time being, but I must pull 
 myself together. This won't do at all, 
 another month of it and I would shoot my- 
 self. I am going to run down and see you 
 soon. Write and say when. 
 
 " Your old friend, 
 
 " Paul Joyce." 
 
272 A VERY MAD WORLD. 
 
 Poor Paul ! He is in a very bad way. I 
 must write and tell him to come to Brown- 
 low as soon as he likes. What an inquisitive 
 ass I was to touch on the old scar that day. 
 We men are frequently as cruelly and reck- 
 lessly curious as the most womanly woman. 
 
 END OF VOLUME I.