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diff --git a/39543-h/39543-h.htm b/39543-h/39543-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1598552 --- /dev/null +++ b/39543-h/39543-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3170 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Holiday in Bed, and Other Sketches, by J. M. Barrie. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + + p.bold {text-align: center; font-weight: bold;} + p.bold2 {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: 150%;} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + h1 span, h2 span { display: block; text-align: center; } + #id1 { font-size: smaller } + + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + hr.smler { width: 10%; } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 5px; border-collapse:collapse; border: none; text-align: right;} + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + text-indent: 0px; + } /* page numbers */ + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smaller {font-size: smaller;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .tbrk {margin-bottom: 1em;} + .right {text-align: right;} + .left {text-align: left;} + .s3 {display: inline; margin-left: 3em;} + .s6 {display: inline; margin-left: 6em;} + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's A Holiday in Bed and Other Sketches, by J. M. Barrie + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Holiday in Bed and Other Sketches + +Author: J. M. Barrie + +Release Date: April 27, 2012 [EBook #39543] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOLIDAY IN BED, OTHER SKETCHES *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="center"><img src="images/frontis.jpg" alt="J. M. Barrie" /></div> + +<hr /> + +<h1><span><span class="smcap">A Holiday in Bed</span><br /><span class="smaller">And other Sketches.</span></span> +<br /><br /><span id="id1">BY</span> <span>J. M. BARRIE,</span></h1> + +<p class="center">AUTHOR OF<br />The Little Minister. A Window in Thrums.<br />Auld Licht Idylls, etc.</p> + +<p class="tbrk"> </p> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">With a Short Biographical Sketch of the Author</span></p> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p class="tbrk"> </p> + +<p class="center">NEW YORK PUBLISHING COMPANY,<br />NEW YORK.</p> + +<hr /> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyrighted 1892</span>,<br /> +NEW YORK PUBLISHING CO.</p> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p class="tbrk"> </p> + +<p class="center">PRESS AND BINDERY OF<br />HISTORICAL PUBLISHING CO.,<br />PHILADELPHIA, PA.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2><span>CONTENTS.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<table summary="CONTENTS"> + <tr> + <td></td> + <td><span class="smaller">PAGE.</span></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">James Matthew Barrie</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">A Holiday in Bed</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Life in a Country Manse</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Life in a Country Manse—A Wedding in a Smiddy</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">A Powerful Drug</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Every Man His own Doctor</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Gretna Green Revisited</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">My Favorite Authoress</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Captain of the School</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">It</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">To the Influenza</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_153">153</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Four-in-Hand Novelists</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Rules on Carving</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="left"><span class="smcap">On Running After a Hat</span>,</td> + <td><a href="#Page_179">179</a></td> + </tr> +</table> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>James Matthew Barrie was born at Kirriemuir, Forfarshire, on May 9, +1860. Kirriemuir, as soberly stated by the <i>Encyclopædia Britannica</i>, is +"a borough of barony and a market town of Forfarshire, Scotland, +beautifully situated on an eminence above the glen through which the +Gairie flows. It lies about five miles northwest of Forfar, and about +sixty-two miles north of Edinburgh. The special industry of the town is +linen weaving, for which large power-loom factories have recently been +built." Mr. Barrie has made his birthplace famous as Thrums, after +hesitating for a little between that name and Whins, which is the word +used in the earliest Auld Licht sketches.</p> + +<p>Only a part of Mr. Barrie's boyhood was spent in Kirriemuir. At an early +age he went to Dumfries, where his brother was inspector of schools. He +was a pupil in the Dumfries Academy. At that time Thomas Carlyle was a +not unfrequent visitor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> to the town, where his sister, Mrs. Aitken, and +his friend, the venerable poet editor Thomas Aird, were then living.</p> + +<p>Carlyle is the only author by whom Mr. Barrie thinks he has been +influenced. The Carlyle fever did not last very long, but was acute for +a time. He fervently defended his master against the innumerable critics +called into activity by Mr. Froude's biography. Apart from this, +Dumfries seems to have left no very definite mark on his mind. The only +one of his teachers who impressed him was Dr. Cranstoun, the +accomplished translator from the Latin poets, and he rather indirectly +than directly. In the Dumfries papers Mr. Barrie inaugurated his +literary career by contributing accounts of cricket matches and letters, +signed "Paterfamilias," urging the desirability of pupils having longer +holidays. He was the idlest of schoolboys, and seldom opened his books +except to draw pictures on them.</p> + +<p>At the age of eighteen, Mr. Barrie entered Edinburgh University. His +brother had studied in Aberdeen with another famous native of +Kirriemuir, Dr. Alexander Whyte, of Free St. George's, Edinburgh. At +Aberdeen you could live much<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> more cheaply, also it was easier there to +get a bursary, enough to keep soul and body together till an income +could be earned. The struggles and triumphs of Aberdeen students greatly +impressed Mr. Barrie, who has often repeated the story thus told in the +<i>Nottingham Journal</i>:—</p> + +<p>"I knew three undergraduates who lodged together in a dreary house at +the top of a dreary street, two of whom used to study until two in the +morning, while the third slept. When they shut up their books they woke +number three, who arose, dressed, and studied till breakfast time. Among +the many advantages of this arrangement, the chief was that, as they +were dreadfully poor, one bed did for the three. Two of them occupied it +at one time, and the third at another. Terrible privations? Frightful +destitution? Not a bit of it. The Millennium was in those days. If life +was at the top of a hundred steps, if students occasionally died of +hunger and hard work combined, if the midnight oil only burned to show a +ghastly face 'weary and worn,' if lodgings were cheap and dirty, and +dinners few and far between, life was still real and earnest, in many +cases it did not turn out an empty dream."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p><p>In 1882 he graduated, and was for some months in Edinburgh doing +nothing in particular. In the meantime he saw an advertisement asking +for a leader writer to an English provincial paper. The salary offered +was three guineas a week. He made application for this, and found +himself, in February, 1883, installed as leader writer to the +<i>Nottingham Journal</i>. He was not editor, the work of arranging the paper +being in other hands; but he was allowed to write as much as he pleased, +and practically what he pleased.</p> + +<p>During the last months of his stay in Nottingham, Mr. Barrie had begun +to send articles to the London papers. The first of these was published +by Mr. Stead, then editing the <i>Pall Mall Gazette</i>.</p> + +<p>In March, 1888, a much more important book, "Auld Licht Idyls," was +published. When Mr. Barrie came up to London he had letters of +introduction from Professor Masson to an eminent publisher, and to Mr. +John Morley. He took his "Auld Licht Idyls" to the publisher, and was +told that, although they were pleasant reading, they would never be +successful as a book. Mr. Morley, then editor of <i>Macmillan</i>, asked him +to send a list of subjects on which he was willing to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> write. The +request was complied with, but the subjects were returned by Mr. Morley +with the singularly uncharacteristic comment that they were not +sufficiently up to date. Mr. Morley, who has since read with great +admiration all Mr. Barrie's works, was much astonished at having this +brought to his remembrance the other day.</p> + +<p>"When a Man's Single" was published in September, 1888, dedicated to W. +Robertson Nicoll. The story was originally published in <i>The British +Weekly</i>, but, as his manner is, Mr. Barrie made great changes in +revising it for publication. It was well received, and was pronounced by +the <i>Daily News</i> as "Perhaps the best single volume novel of the year." +It is not at all autobiographical, though it gives the author's +impressions of journalistic life in Nottingham and London. Perhaps the +best parts of it are those devoted to Thrums, of which George Meredith +expressed special admiration.</p> + +<p>Mr. Barrie's greatest book, however, was yet to come. "A Window in +Thrums" was published in May, 1889. It contained articles contributed to +the <i>National Observer</i>, <i>The British Weekly</i>, and the <i>St. James's +Gazette</i>, along with new matter.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> It is not too much to say that it was +received with one burst of acclamation. It has been the most popular of +the author's works, and it is hard to conceive how he can surpass +certain parts of it. It has found admirers among all classes.</p> + +<p>"My Lady Nicotine," reprinted from the <i>St. James's Gazette</i>, was +published in April, 1890, and a second edition appeared in September, +1890, and although issued later than "A Window in Thrums," it is really +in point of time almost the first of the author's books.</p> + +<p>In January, 1891, Mr. Barrie commenced a story in <i>Good Words</i>, entitled +"The Little Minister," which has since been issued in book form, and is +acknowledged to be his best book.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>A HOLIDAY IN BED.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>Now is the time for a real holiday. Take it in bed, if you are wise.</p> + +<p>People have tried a holiday in bed before now, and found it a failure, +but that was because they were ignorant of the rules. They went to bed +with the open intention of staying there, say, three days, and found to +their surprise that each morning they wanted to get up. This was a novel +experience to them, they flung about restlessly, and probably shortened +their holiday. The proper thing is to take your holiday in bed with a +vague intention of getting up in another quarter of an hour. The real +pleasure of lying in bed after you are awake is largely due to the +feeling that you ought to get up. To take another quarter of an hour +then becomes a luxury. You are, in short, in the position of the man who +dined on larks. Had he seen the hundreds that were ready for him, all +set out on one monster dish, they would have turned his stomach; but +getting them two at a time, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> went on eating till all the larks were +exhausted. His feeling of uncertainty as to whether these might not be +his last two larks is your feeling that, perhaps, you will have to get +up in a quarter of an hour. Deceive yourself in this way, and your +holiday in bed will pass only too quickly.</p> + +<p>Sympathy is what all the world is craving for, and sympathy is what the +ordinary holiday-maker never gets. How can we be expected to sympathize +with you when we know you are off to Perthshire to fish? No; we say we +wish we were you, and forget that your holiday is sure to be a hollow +mockery; that your child will jam her finger in the railway carriage, +and scream to the end of the journey; that you will lose your luggage; +that the guard will notice your dog beneath the seat, and insist on its +being paid for; that you will be caught in a Scotch mist on the top of a +mountain, and be put on gruel for a fortnight; that your wife will fret +herself into a fever about the way the servant, who has been left at +home, is carrying on with her cousins, the milkman and the policeman; +and that you will be had up for trespassing. Yet, when you tell us you +are off to-morrow, we have never the sympathy to say, "Poor fellow, I +hope you'll pull<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> through somehow." If it is an exhibition you go to +gape at, we never picture you dragging your weary legs from one +department to another, and wondering why your back is so sore. Should it +be the seaside, we talk heartlessly to you about the "briny," though we +must know, if we would stop to think, that if there is one holiday more +miserable than all the others, it is that spent at the seaside, when you +wander the weary beach and fling pebbles at the sea, and wonder how long +it will be till dinner time. Were we to come down to see you, we would +probably find you, not on the beach, but moving slowly through the +village, looking in at the one milliner's window, or laboriously reading +what the one grocer's labels say on the subject of pale ale, compressed +beef, or vinegar. There was never an object that called aloud for +sympathy more than you do, but you get not a jot of it. You should take +the first train home and go to bed for three days.</p> + +<p>To enjoy your holiday in bed to the full, you should let it be vaguely +understood that there is something amiss with you. Don't go into +details, for they are not necessary; and, besides, you want to be dreamy +more or less, and the dreamy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> state is not consistent with a definite +ailment. The moment one takes to bed he gets sympathy. He may be +suffering from a tearing headache or a tooth that makes him cry out; but +if he goes about his business, or even flops in a chair, true sympathy +is denied him. Let him take to bed with one of those illnesses of which +he can say with accuracy that he is not quite certain what is the matter +with him, and his wife, for instance, will want to bathe his brow. She +must not be made too anxious. That would not only be cruel to her, but +it would wake you from the dreamy state. She must simply see that you +are "not yourself." Women have an idea that unless men are "not +themselves" they will not take to bed, and as a consequence your wife is +tenderly thoughtful of you. Every little while she will ask you if you +are feeling any better now, and you can reply, with the old regard for +truth, that you are "much about it." You may even (for your own +pleasure) talk of getting up now, when she will earnestly urge you to +stay in bed until you feel easier. You consent; indeed, you are ready to +do anything to please her.</p> + +<p>The ideal holiday in bed does not require the presence of a ministering +angel in the room all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> day. You frequently prefer to be alone, and point +out to your wife that you cannot have her trifling with her health for +your sake, and so she must go out for a walk. She is reluctant, but +finally goes, protesting that you are the most unselfish of men, and +only too good for her. This leaves a pleasant aroma behind it, for even +when lying in bed, we like to feel that we are uncommonly fine fellows. +After she has gone you get up cautiously, and, walking stealthily to the +wardrobe, produce from the pocket of your great coat a good novel. A +holiday in bed must be arranged for beforehand. With a gleam in your eye +you slip back to bed, double your pillow to make it higher, and begin to +read. You have only got to the fourth page, when you make a horrible +discovery—namely, that the book is not cut. An experienced +holiday-maker would have had it cut the night before, but this is your +first real holiday, or perhaps you have been thoughtless. In any case +you have now matter to think of. You are torn in two different ways. +There is your coat on the floor with a knife in it, but you cannot reach +the coat without getting up again. Ought you to get the knife or to give +up reading? Perhaps it takes a quarter of an hour to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> decide this +question, and you decide it by discovering a third course. Being a sort +of an invalid, you have certain privileges which would be denied you if +you were merely sitting in a chair in the agonies of neuralgia. One of +the glorious privileges of a holiday in bed is that you are entitled to +cut books with your fingers. So you cut the novel in this way, and read +on.</p> + +<p>Those who have never tried it may fancy that there is a lack of incident +in a holiday in bed. There could not be a more monstrous mistake. You +are in the middle of a chapter, when suddenly you hear a step upon the +stair. Your loving ears tell you that your wife has returned, and is +hastening to you. Now, what happens? The book disappears beneath the +pillow, and when she enters the room softly you are lying there with +your eyes shut. This is not merely incident; it is drama.</p> + +<p>What happens next depends on circumstances. She says in a low voice—</p> + +<p>"Are you feeling any easier now, John?"</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I believe he is sleeping."</p> + +<p>Then she steals from the room, and you begin to read again.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p><p>During a holiday in bed one never thinks, of course, of analyzing his +actions. If you had done so in this instance, you would have seen that +you pretended sleep because you had got to an exciting passage. You love +your wife, but, wife or no wife, you must see how the passage ends.</p> + +<p>Possibly the little scene plays differently, as thus—</p> + +<p>"John, are you feeling any easier now?"</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>"Are you asleep?"</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>"What a pity! I don't want to waken him, and yet the fowl will be +spoilt."</p> + +<p>"Is that you back, Marion?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear; I thought you were asleep."</p> + +<p>"No, only thinking."</p> + +<p>"You think too much, dear. I have cooked a chicken for you."</p> + +<p>"I have no appetite."</p> + +<p>"I'm so sorry, but I can give it to the children."</p> + +<p>"Oh, as it's cooked, you may as well bring it up."</p> + +<p>In that case the reason of your change of action is obvious. But why do +you not let your wife know that you have been reading? This is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> another +matter that you never reason about. Perhaps, it is because of your +craving for sympathy, and you fear that if you were seen enjoying a +novel the sympathy would go. Or, perhaps, it is that a holiday in bed is +never perfect without a secret. Monotony must be guarded against, and so +long as you keep the book to yourself your holiday in bed is a healthy +excitement. A stolen book (as we may call it) is like stolen fruit, +sweeter than what you can devour openly. The boy enjoys his stolen +apple, because at any moment he may have to slip it down the leg of his +trousers, and pretend that he has merely climbed the tree to enjoy the +scenery. You enjoy your book doubly because you feel that it is a +forbidden pleasure. Or, do you conceal the book from your wife lest she +should think that you are over-exerting yourself? She must not be made +anxious on your account. Ah, that is it.</p> + +<p>People who pretend (for it must be pretence) that they enjoy their +holiday in the country, explain that the hills or the sea gave them such +an appetite. I could never myself feel the delight of being able to +manage an extra herring for breakfast, but it should be pointed out that +neither mountains nor oceans give you such an appetite as a holiday in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +bed. What makes people eat more anywhere is that they have nothing else +to do, and in bed you have lots of time for meals. As for the quality of +the food supplied, there is no comparison. In the Highlands it is ham +and eggs all day till you sicken. At the seaside it is fish till the +bones stick in your mouth. But in bed—oh, there you get something worth +eating. You don't take three big meals a day, but twelve little ones, +and each time it is something different from the last. There are +delicacies for breakfast, for your four luncheons and your five dinners. +You explain to your wife that you have lost your appetite, and she +believes you, but at the same time she has the sense to hurry on your +dinner. At the clatter of dishes (for which you have been lying +listening) you raise your poor head, and say faintly:</p> + +<p>"Really, Marion, I can't touch food."</p> + +<p>"But this is nothing," she says, "only the wing of a partridge."</p> + +<p>You take a side glance at it, and see that there is also the other wing +and the body and two legs. Your alarm thus dispelled, you say—</p> + +<p>"I really can't."</p> + +<p>"But, dear, it is so beautifully cooked."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p><p>"Yes; but I have no appetite."</p> + +<p>"But try to take it, John, for my sake."</p> + +<p>Then for her sake you say she can leave it on the chair, and perhaps you +will just taste it. As soon as she has gone you devour that partridge, +and when she comes back she has the sense to say—</p> + +<p>"Why, you have scarcely eaten anything. What could you take for supper?"</p> + +<p>You say you can take nothing, but if she likes she can cook a large +sole, only you won't be able to touch it.</p> + +<p>"Poor dear!" she says, "your appetite has completely gone," and then she +rushes to the kitchen to cook the sole with her own hands. In +half-an-hour she steals into your room with it, and then you (who have +been wondering why she is such a time) start up protesting,</p> + +<p>"I hope, Marion, this is nothing for me."</p> + +<p>"Only the least little bit of a sole, dear."</p> + +<p>"But I told you I could eat nothing."</p> + +<p>"Well, this is nothing, it is so small."</p> + +<p>You look again, and see with relief that it is a large sole.</p> + +<p>"I would much rather that you took it away."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p><p>"But, dear——"</p> + +<p>"I tell you I have no appetite."</p> + +<p>"Of course I know that; but how can you hope to preserve your strength +if you eat so little? You have had nothing all day."</p> + +<p>You glance at her face to see if she is in earnest, for you can remember +three breakfasts, four luncheons, two dinners, and sandwiches between; +but evidently she is not jesting. Then you yield.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well, to keep my health up I may just put a fork into it."</p> + +<p>"Do, dear; it will do you good, though you have no caring for it."</p> + +<p>Take a holiday in bed, if only to discover what an angel your wife is.</p> + +<p>There is only one thing to guard against. Never call it a holiday. +Continue not to feel sure what is wrong with you, and to talk vaguely of +getting up presently. Your wife will suggest calling in the doctor, but +pooh-pooh him. Be firm on that point. The chances are that he won't +understand your case.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>Up here among the heather (or nearly so) we are, in the opinion of +tourists, a mere hamlet, though to ourselves we are at least a village. +Englishmen call us a "clachan"—though, truth to tell, we are not sure +what that is. Just as Gulliver could not see the Liliputians without +stooping, these tourists may be looking for the clachan when they are in +the middle of it, and knocking at one of its doors to ask how far they +have yet to go till they reach it. To be honest, we are only five houses +in a row (including the smiddy), with a Free Church Manse and a few +farms here and there on the hillsides.</p> + +<p>So far as the rest of the world is concerned, we are blotted out with +the first fall of snow. I suppose tourists scarcely give us a thought, +save when they are here. I have heard them admiring our glen in August, +and adding:</p> + +<p>"But what a place it must be in winter!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p><p>To this their friends reply, shivering:</p> + +<p>"A hard life, indeed!"</p> + +<p>And the conversation ends with the comment:</p> + +<p>"Don't call it life; it is merely existence."</p> + +<p>Well, it would be dull, no doubt, for tourists up here in January, say, +but I find the winter a pleasant change from summer. I am the minister, +and though my heart sank when I was "called," I rather enjoy the life +now. I am the man whom the tourists pity most.</p> + +<p>"The others drawl through their lives," these tourists say, "to the +manner born; but think of an educated man who has seen life spending his +winters in such a place!"</p> + +<p>"He can have no society."</p> + +<p>"Let us hope the poor fellow is married."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he is sure to be. But married or single, I am certain I would go +mad if I were in his shoes."</p> + +<p>Their comparison is thrown away. I am strong and hale. I enjoy the +biting air, and I seldom carry an umbrella. I should perhaps go mad if I +were in the Englishmen's shoes, glued to a stool all day, and feeling my +road home through fog at night. And there is many an educated man who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +envies me. Did not three times as many probationers apply for a hearing +when the church was vacant as could possibly be heard?</p> + +<p>But how did I occupy my time? the English gentlemen would say, if they +had not forgotten me. What do the people do in winter?</p> + +<p>No, I don't lie long in the mornings and doze on a sofa in the +afternoon, and go to bed at 9 o'clock. When I was at college, where +there is so much "life," I breakfasted frequently at ten; but here, +where time must (they say) hang heavy on my hands, I am up at seven. +Though I am not a married man, no one has said openly that I am insane. +Janet, my housekeeper and servant, has my breakfast of porridge and tea +and ham ready by half-past seven sharp. You see the mornings are keen, +and so, as I have no bed-room fire nor hot water, I dress much more +quickly than I dressed at college. Six minutes I give myself, then Janet +and I have prayers, and then follows my breakfast. What an appetite I +have! I am amazed to recall the student days, when I "could not look at +porridge," and thought a half-penny roll sufficient for two of us.</p> + +<p>Dreary pleasure, you say, breakfasting alone in a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> half-furnished house, +with the snow lying some feet deep outside and still monotonously +falling. Do I forget the sound of my own voice between Monday and +Saturday? I should think not. Nor do I forget Janet's voice. I have read +somewhere that the Scotch are a very taciturn race, but Janet is far +more Scotch than the haggis that is passed around at some London +dinners, and Janet is not a silent woman. The difficulty with some +servants is to get them to answer your summons, but my difficulty with +Janet is to get her back to the kitchen. Her favorite position is at the +door, which she keeps half open. One of her feet she twists round it, +and there she stands, half out of the room and half in it. She has a +good deal of gossip to tell me about those five houses that lie low, two +hundred yards from the manse, and it must be admitted that I listen. Why +not? If one is interested in people he must gossip about them. You, in +London, may not care in the least who your next door neighbor is, but +you gossip about your brothers and sisters and aunts. Well, my people +are as familiar to me as your brothers are to you, and, therefore, I +say, "Ah, indeed," when told that the smith is busy with the wheel of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +certain farmer's cart, and "Dear me, is that so?" when Janet explains +that William, the ploughman, has got Meggy, his wife, to cut his hair. +Meggy has cut my own hair. She puts a bowl on my head and clips away +everything that it does not cover. So I would miss Janet if she were +gone, and her tongue is as enlivening as a strong ticking clock. No +doubt there are times when, if I were not a minister, I might fling +something soft at her. She shows to least advantage when I have +visitors, and even in winter I have a man to dinner now and again. Then +I realize that Janet does not know her place. While we are dining she +hovers in the vicinity. If she is not pretending to put the room to +rights, she is in her fortified position at the door; and if she is not +at the door she is immediately behind it. Her passion is to help in the +conversation. As she brings in the potatoes she answers the last remark +my guest addressed to me, and if I am too quick for her she explains +away my answer, or modifies it, or signifies her approval of it. Then I +try to be dignified and to show Janet her place. If I catch her eye I +frown, but such opportunities are rare, for it is the guest on whom she +concentrates herself. She even tells him, in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> my presence, little things +about myself which I would prefer to keep to myself. The impression +conveyed by her is that I confide everything to her. When my guest +remarks that I am becoming a hardened bachelor, and I hint that it is +because the ladies do not give me a chance, Janet breaks in with—</p> + +<p>"Oh, deed it's a wonder he wasn't married long since, but the one he +wanted wouldn't have him, and the ones that want him he won't take. He's +an ill man to please."</p> + +<p>"Ah, Janet," the guest may say (for he enjoys her interference more than +I do), "you make him so comfortable that you spoil him."</p> + +<p>"Maybe," says Janet, "but it took me years to learn how to manage him."</p> + +<p>"Does he need to be managed?"</p> + +<p>"I never knew a man that didna."</p> + +<p>Then they get Janet to tell them all my little "tantrums" (as she calls +them), and she holds forth on my habit of mislaying my hat and then +blaming her, or on how I hate rice pudding, or on the way I have worn +the carpet by walking up and down the floor when I would be more +comfortable in a chair. Now and again I have wound myself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> up to the +point of reproving Janet when the guest had gone, but the result is that +she tells her select friends how "quick in the temper" I am. So Janet +must remain as she has grown and it is gratifying to me (though don't +let on) to know that she turns up her nose at every other minister who +preaches in my church. Janet is always afraid when I go off for a +holiday that the congregations in the big towns will "snap me up." It is +pleasant to feel that she has this opinion of me, though I know that the +large congregations do not share it.</p> + +<p>Who are my winter visitors? The chief of them is the doctor. We have no +doctor, of course, up here, and this one has to come twelve miles to us. +He is rather melancholy when we send for him; but he wastes no time in +coming, though he may not have had his clothes off for twenty-four +hours, and is well aware that we cannot pay big fees. Several times he +has had to remain with me all night, and once he was snowed up here for +a week. At times, too, he drives so far on his way to us and then has to +turn back because the gig sticks on the heavy roads. He is only a doctor +in a small country town, but I am elated when I see him, for he can tell +me whether the Government is still in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> power. Then I have the school +inspector once a year. The school inspector is always threatening to +change the date of inspection to summer, but he takes the town from +which the doctor comes in early spring, and finds it convenient to come +from there to here. Early spring is often winter with us, so that the +school inspector comes when there is usually snow on the ground or +threatening. The school is a mile away at another "clachan," but the +inspector dines with me, and so does the schoolmaster. On these +occasions the schoolmaster is not such good company as at other times, +for he is anxious about his passes, and explains (as I think) more than +is necessary that regular attendance is out of the question in a place +like this. The inspector's visit is the time of my great annual +political debate, for the doctor calls politics "fudge." The inspector +and I are on different sides, however, and we go at each other hammer +and tongs, while the schoolmaster signs to me with his foot not to anger +the inspector.</p> + +<p>Of course, outsiders will look incredulous when I assure them that a +good deal of time is passed in preparing my sermons. I have only one +Sabbath service, but two sermons, the one beginning as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> soon as the +other is finished. In such a little church, you will say they must be +easily pleased; but they are not. Some of them tramp long distances to +church in weather that would keep you, reader, in the house, though your +church is round the corner and there is pavement all the way to it. I +can preach old sermons? Indeed I cannot. Many of my hearers adjourn to +one of the five houses when the service is over, and there I am picked +pretty clean. They would detect an old sermon at once, and resent it. I +do not "talk" to them from the pulpit. I write my sermons in the manse, +and though I use "paper," the less I use it the better they are pleased.</p> + +<p>The visits of the doctor are pleasant to me in one sense, but painful in +others, for I need not say that when he is called I am required too. To +wade through miles of snow is no great hardship to those who are +accustomed to it; but the heavy heart comes when one of my people is +seriously ill. Up here we have few slight illnesses. The doctor cannot +be summoned to attend them, and we usually "fight away" until the malady +has a heavy hold. Then the doctor comes, and though we are so scattered, +his judgment is soon known all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> through the glens. When the tourists +come back in summer they will not see all the "natives" of the year +before.</p> + +<p>It is said by those who know nothing of our lives that we have no social +events worth speaking of, and no amusements. This is what ignorance +brings outsiders to. I had a marriage last week that was probably more +exciting than many of your grand affairs in London. And as for +amusements, you should see us gathered together in the smiddy, and +sometimes in the school-house. But I must break off here for the reason +that I have used up all my spare sermon paper—a serious matter. I shall +send the editor something about our social gatherings presently, for he +says he wants it. Janet, I may add, has discovered that this is not a +sermon and is very curious about it.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE.</span> <span class="smaller">A WEDDING IN A SMIDDY.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>I promised to take the world at large into my confidence on the subject +of our wedding at the smiddy. You in London, no doubt, dress more +gorgeously for marriages than we do—though we can present a fine show +of color—and you do not make your own wedding-cake, as Lizzie did. But +what is your excitement to ours? I suppose you have many scores of +marriages for our one, but you only know of those from the newspapers. +"At so-and-so, by the Rev. Mr. Such-a-one, John to Elizabeth, eldest +daughter of Thomas." That is all you know of the couple who were married +round the corner, and therefore, I say, a hundred such weddings are less +eventful in your community than one wedding in ours.</p> + +<p>Lizzie is off to Southampton with her husband. As the carriage drove off +behind two horses that could with difficulty pull it through the snow, +Janet suddenly appeared at my elbow and remarked:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p><p>"Well, well, she has him now, and may she have her joy of him."</p> + +<p>"Ah, Janet," I said, "you see you were wrong. You said he would never +come for her."</p> + +<p>"No, no," answered Janet. "I just said Lizzie made too sure about him, +seeing as he was at the other side of the world. These sailors are +scarce to be trusted."</p> + +<p>"But you see this one has turned up a trump."</p> + +<p>"That remains to be seen. Anybody that's single can marry a woman, but +it's no so easy to keep her comfortable."</p> + +<p>I suppose Janet is really glad that the sailor did turn up and claim +Lizzie, but she is annoyed in a way too. The fact is that Janet was +skeptical about the sailor. I never saw Janet reading anything but the +<i>Free Church Monthly</i>, yet she must have obtained her wide knowledge of +sailors from books. She considers them very bad characters, but is too +shrewd to give her reasons.</p> + +<p>"We all ken what sailors are," is her dark way of denouncing those who +go down to the sea in ships, and then she shakes her head and purses up +her mouth as if she could tell things about sailors that would make our +hair rise.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p><p>I think it was in Glasgow that Lizzie met the sailor—three years ago. +She had gone there to be a servant, but the size of the place (according +to her father) frightened her, and in a few months she was back at the +clachan. We were all quite excited to see her again in the church, and +the general impression was that Glasgow had "made her a deal more +lady-like." In Janet's opinion she was just a little too lady-like to be +natural.</p> + +<p>In a week's time there was a wild rumor through the glen that Lizzie was +to be married.</p> + +<p>"Not she," said Janet, uneasily.</p> + +<p>Soon, however, Janet had to admit that there was truth in the story, for +"the way Lizzie wandered up the road looking for the post showed she had +a man on her mind."</p> + +<p>Lizzie, I think, wanted to keep her wonderful secret to herself, but +that could not be done.</p> + +<p>"I canna sleep at nights for wondering who Lizzie is to get," Janet +admitted to me. So in order to preserve her health Janet studied the +affair, reflected on the kind of people Lizzie was likely to meet in +Glasgow, asked Lizzie to the manse to tea (with no result), and then +asked Lizzie's mother (victory). Lizzie was to be married to a sailor.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p><p>"I'm cheated," said Janet, "if she ever sets eyes on him again. Oh, we +all ken what sailors are."</p> + +<p>You must not think Janet too spiteful. Marriages were always too much +for her, but after the wedding is over she becomes good-natured again. +She is a strange mixture, and, I rather think, very romantic, despite +her cynical talk.</p> + +<p>Well, I confess now, that for a time I was somewhat afraid of Lizzie's +sailor myself. His letters became few in number, and often I saw Lizzie +with red eyes after the post had passed. She had too much work to do to +allow her to mope, but she became unhappy and showed a want of spirit +that alarmed her father, who liked to shout at his relatives and have +them shout back at him.</p> + +<p>"I wish she had never set eyes on that sailor," he said to me one day +when Lizzie was troubling him.</p> + +<p>"She could have had William Simpson," her mother said to Janet.</p> + +<p>"I question that," said Janet, in repeating the remark to me.</p> + +<p>But though all the clachan shook its head at the sailor, and repeated +Janet's aphorism about sailors<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> as a class, Lizzie refused to believe +her lover untrue.</p> + +<p>"The only way to get her to flare up at me," her father said, "is to say +a word against her lad. She will not stand that."</p> + +<p>And, after all, we were wrong and Lizzie was right. In the beginning of +the winter Janet walked into my study and parlor (she never knocks) and +said:</p> + +<p>"He's come!"</p> + +<p>"Who?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"The sailor. Lizzie's sailor. It's a perfect disgrace."</p> + +<p>"Hoots, Janet, it's the very reverse. I'm delighted; and so, I suppose, +are you in your heart."</p> + +<p>"I'm not grudging her the man if she wants him," said Janet, flinging up +her head, "but the disgrace is in the public way he marched past me with +his arm round her. It affronted me."</p> + +<p>Janet gave me the details. She had been to a farm for the milk and +passed Lizzie, who had wandered out to meet the post as usual.</p> + +<p>"I've no letter for ye, Lizzie," the post said, and Lizzie sighed.</p> + +<p>"No, my lass," the post continued, "but I've something better."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p><p>Lizzie was wondering what it could be, when a man jumped out from +behind a hedge, at the sight of whom Lizzie screamed with joy. It was +her sailor.</p> + +<p>"I would never have let on I was so fond of him," said Janet.</p> + +<p>"But did he not seem fond of her?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"That was the disgrace," said Janet. "He marched off to her father's +house with his arm around her; yes, passed me and a wheen other folk, +and looked as if he neither kent nor cared how public he was making +himself. She did not care either."</p> + +<p>I addressed some remarks to Janet on the subject of meddling with other +people's affairs, pointing out that she was now half an hour late with +my tea; but I, too, was interested to see the sailor. I shall never +forget what a change had come over Lizzie when I saw her next. The life +was back in her face, she bustled about the house as busy as a bee, and +her walk was springy.</p> + +<p>"This is him," she said to me, and then the sailor came forward and +grinned. He was usually grinning when I saw him, but he had an honest, +open face, if a very youthful one.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p><p>The sailor stayed on at the clachan till the marriage, and continued to +scandalize Janet by strutting "past the very manse gate" with his arm +round the happy Lizzie.</p> + +<p>"He has no notion of the solemnity of marriage," Janet informed me, "or +he would look less jolly. I would not like a man that joked about his +marriage."</p> + +<p>The sailor undoubtedly did joke. He seemed to look on the coming event +as the most comical affair in the world's history, and when he spoke of +it he slapped his knees and roared. But there was daily fresh evidence +that he was devoted to Lizzie.</p> + +<p>The wedding took place in the smiddy, because it is a big place, and all +the glen was invited. Lizzie would have had the company comparatively +select, but the sailor asked every one to come whom he fell in with, and +he had few refusals. He was wonderfully "flush" of money, too, and had +not Lizzie taken control of it, would have given it all away before the +marriage took place.</p> + +<p>"It's a mercy Lizzie kens the worth of a bawbee," her mother said, "for +he would scatter his siller among the very bairns as if it was corn and +he was feeding hens."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p><p>All the chairs in the five houses were not sufficient to seat the +guests, but the smith is a handy man, and he made forms by crossing +planks on tubs. The smiddy was an amazing sight, lit up with two big +lamps, and the bride, let me inform those who tend to scoff, was dressed +in white. As for the sailor, we have perhaps never had so showily +dressed a gentleman in our parts. For this occasion he discarded his +seafaring "rig out" (as he called it), and appeared resplendent in a +black frock coat (tight at the neck), a light blue waistcoat (richly +ornamented), and gray trousers with a green stripe. His boots were new +and so genteel that as the evening wore on he had to kick them off and +dance in his stocking soles.</p> + +<p>Janet tells me that Lizzie had gone through the ceremony in private with +her sailor a number of times, so that he might make no mistake. The +smith, asked to take my place at these rehearsals, declined on the +ground that he forgot how the knot was tied: but his wife had a better +memory, and I understand that she even mimicked me—for which I must +take her to task one of these days.</p> + +<p>However, despite all these precautions, the sailor was a little +demonstrative during the ceremony,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> and slipped his arm around the bride +"to steady her." Janet wonders that Lizzie did not fling his arm from +her, but Lizzie was too nervous now to know what her swain was about.</p> + +<p>Then came the supper and the songs and the speeches. The tourists who +picture us shivering, silent and depressed all through the winter should +have been in the smiddy that night.</p> + +<p>I proposed the health of the young couple, and when I called Lizzie by +her new name, "Mrs. Fairweather," the sailor flung back his head and +roared with glee till he choked, and Lizzie's first duty as a wife was +to hit him hard between the shoulder blades. When he was sufficiently +composed to reply, he rose to his feet and grinned round the room.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Fairweather," he cried in an ecstacy of delight, and again choked.</p> + +<p>The smith induced him to make another attempt, and this time he got as +far as "Ladies and gentlemen, me and my wife——" when the speech ended +prematurely in resounding chuckles. The last we saw of him, when the +carriage drove away, he was still grinning; but that, as he explained,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +was because "he had got Lizzie at last." "You'll be a good husband to +her, I hope," I said.</p> + +<p>"Will I not," he cried, and his arm went round his wife again.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>A POWERFUL DRUG.</span> <span class="smaller">(NO HOUSEHOLD SHOULD BE WITHOUT IT.)</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>All respectable chemists, Montgomery assures me, keep the cio-root. That +is the name of the drug, and Montgomery is the man who ought to write +its testimonials. This is a testimonial to the efficacy of the cio-root, +and I write it the more willingly, because, until the case of Montgomery +cropped up, I had no faith in patent medicines. Seeing, however, is, +they say, believing; and I have seen what the cio-root did for +Montgomery. I can well believe now that it can do anything, from +removing grease-spots to making your child cry out in the night.</p> + +<p>Montgomery, who was married years ago, is subject to headaches, and +formerly his only way of treating them was to lie in bed and read a +light novel. By the time the novel was finished, so, as a rule, was the +headache. This treatment rather interfered with his work, however, and +he tried various medicines which were guaranteed to cure<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> rapidly. None +of them had the least result, until one day, some two months ago, good +fortune made him run against an old friend in Chambers street. +Montgomery having a headache, mentioned it, and his friend asked him if +he had tried the cio-root. The name even was unfamiliar to Montgomery, +but his friend spoke so enthusiastically of it that the headachy man +took a note of it. He was told that it had never been known to fail, and +the particular merit of it was that it drove the headache away in five +minutes. The proper dose to take was half an inch of the root, which was +to be sucked and eventually swallowed. Montgomery tried several chemists +in vain, for they had not heard of it, but at last he got it on George +IV. Bridge. He had so often carried home in triumph a "certain cure," +which was subsequently flung out at the window in disgust, that his wife +shook her head at the cio-root, and advised him not to be too hopeful. +However, the cio-root surpassed the fondest expectations. It completely +cured Montgomery in less than the five minutes. Several times he tried +it, and always with the same triumphant result. Having at last got a +drug to make an idol of, it is not perhaps to be wondered at that +Montgomery<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> was full of gratitude. He kept a three pound tin of the +cio-root on his library-table, and the moment he felt a headache coming +on he said, "Excuse me for one moment," and bit off half an inch of cio-root.</p> + +<p>The headaches never had a chance. It was, therefore, natural, though +none the less annoying, that his one topic of conversation should become +the properties of this remarkable drug. You would drop in on him, +glowing over the prospect of a delightful two hours' wrangle over the +crofter question, but he pushed the subject away with a wave of his +hand, and begged to introduce to our notice the cio-root. Sitting there +smoking, his somewhat dull countenance would suddenly light up as his +eyes came to rest on the three-pound tin. He was always advising us to +try the cio-root, and when we said we did not have a headache he got +sulky. The first thing he asked us when we met was whether we had a +headache, and often he clipped off an inch or two of the cio-root and +gave it us in a piece of paper, so that a headache might not take us +unawares. I believe he rather enjoyed waking with a headache, for he +knew that it would not have a chance. If his wife had been a jealous<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +woman, she would not have liked the way he talked of the cio-root.</p> + +<p>Some of us did try the drug, either to please him or because we were +really curious about it. Whatever the reason, none of us, I think, were +prejudiced. We tested it on its merits, and came unanimously to the +conclusion that they were negative. The cio-root did us no harm. The +taste was what one may imagine to be the taste of the root of any rotten +tree dipped in tar, which was subsequently allowed to dry. As we were +all of one mind on the subject, we insisted with Montgomery that the +cio-root was a fraud. Frequently we had such altercations with him on +the subject that we parted in sneers, and ultimately we said that it +would be best not to goad him too far; so we arranged merely to chaff +him about his faith in the root, and never went farther than insisting, +in a pleasant way, that he was cured, not by the cio-root, but by his +believing in it. Montgomery rejected this theory with indignation, but +we stuck to it and never doubted it. Events, nevertheless, will show you +that Montgomery was right and that we were wrong.</p> + +<p>The triumph of cio-root came as recently as <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>yesterday. Montgomery, his +wife, and myself, had arranged to go into Glasgow for the day. I called +for them in the forenoon and had to wait, as Montgomery had gone along +to the office to see if there were any letters. He arrived soon after +me, saying that he had a headache, but saying it in a cheery way, for he +knew that the root was in the next room. He disappeared into the library +to nibble half an inch of the cio-root, and shortly afterwards we set +off. The headache had been dispelled as usual. In the train he and I had +another argument about the one great drug, and he ridiculed my notion +about its being faith that drove his headache away. I may hurry over the +next two hours, up to the time when we wandered into Buchanan street. +There Montgomery met a friend, to whom he introduced me. The gentleman +was in a hurry, so we only spoke for a moment, but after he had left us +he turned back.</p> + +<p>"Montgomery," he said, "do you remember that day I met you in Chambers +street, Edinburgh?"</p> + +<p>"I have good reason for remembering the occasion," said Montgomery, +meaning to begin the story of his wonderful cure; but his friend who had +to catch a 'bus, cut him short.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p><p>"I told you at that time," he said, "about a new drug called the +cio-root, which had a great reputation for curing headaches."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Montgomery; "I always wanted to thank you——"</p> + +<p>His friend, however, broke in again—</p> + +<p>"I have been troubled in my mind since then," he said, "because I was +told afterwards that I had made a mistake about the proper dose. If you +try the cio-root, don't take half an inch, as I recommended, but quarter +of an inch. Don't forget. It is of vital importance."</p> + +<p>Then he jumped into his 'bus, but I called after him, "What would be the +effect of half an inch?"</p> + +<p>"Certain death!" he shouted back, and was gone. I turned to look at +Montgomery and his wife. She let her umbrella fall and he had turned +white. "Of course, there is nothing to be alarmed about," I said, in a +reassuring way. "Montgomery has taken half an inch scores of times; you +say it always cured you."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," Montgomery answered; but his voice sounded hollow.</p> + +<p>Up to this point the snow had kept off, but now it began to fall in a +soaking drizzle. If you are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> superstitious you can take this as an omen. +For the rest of the day, certainly, we had a miserable time of it. I had +to do all the talking, and while I laughed and jested, I noticed that +Mrs. Montgomery was looking anxiously from time to time at her husband. +She was afraid to ask him if he felt unwell, and he kept up, not wanting +to alarm her. But he walked like a man who knew that he had come to his +last page. At my suggestion we went to the Enoch's Station Hotel to have +dinner. I had dinner, Mrs. Montgomery pretended to have dinner, but +Montgomery himself did not even make the pretense. He sat with his +elbows on the table and his face buried in his hands. At last he said +with a groan that he was feeling very ill. He looked so doleful that his +wife began to cry.</p> + +<p>Montgomery admitted that he blamed the cio-root for his sufferings. He +had taken an overdose of it, he said, tragically, and must abide the +consequences. I could have shaken him, for reasoning was quite flung +away on him. Of course, I repeated what I had said previously about an +overdose having done him no harm before, but he only shook his head +sadly. I said that his behavior now proved my contention that he only +believed in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> the cio-root because he was told that it had wonderful +properties; otherwise he would have laughed at what his friend had just +told him. Undoubtedly, I said, his sufferings to-day were purely +imaginary. Montgomery did not have sufficient spirits to argue with me, +but he murmured in a die-away voice that he had felt strange symptoms +ever since we set out from Edinburgh. Now, this was as absurd as +anything in Euclid, for he had been boasting of the wonderful cure the +drug had effected again most of the way between Edinburgh and Glasgow. +He insisted that he had a splitting headache, and that he was very sick. +In the end, as his wife was now in a frenzy, I sent out for a doctor. +The doctor came, said "yes" and "quite so" to himself, and pronounced +Montgomery feverish. That he was feverish by this time, I do not +question. He had worked himself into a fever. There was some talk of +putting him to bed in the hotel, but he insisted on going home. Though +he did not put it so plainly, he gave us to understand that he wanted to +die in his own bed.</p> + +<p>Never was there a more miserable trio than we in a railway carriage. We +got a compartment to ourselves, for though several passengers opened +the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> door to come in, they shrank back as soon as they saw Montgomery's +ghastly face. He lay in a corner of the carriage, with his head done up +in flannel, procured at the hotel. He had the rugs and my great coat +over his legs, but he shivered despite them, and when he spoke at all, +except to say that he was feeling worse every minute, it was to talk of +men cut off in their prime and widows left destitute. At Mrs. +Montgomery's wish, I telegraphed from a station at which the train +stopped to the family doctor in Edinburgh, asking him to meet us at the +house. He did so; indeed, he was on the steps to help Montgomery up +them. We took an arm of the invalid apiece, and dragged him into the library.</p> + +<p>It was a fortunate thing that we went into the library, for the first +thing Montgomery saw on the table was the half inch of cio-root which he +thought had killed him. He had forgotten to take it.</p> + +<p>In ten minutes he was all right. Just as we were sitting down to supper, +we heard a cat squalling outside. Montgomery flung a three-pound tin of +the cio-root at it.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>EVERY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>Statistics showing the number of persons who yearly meet their death in +our great cities by the fall of telegraph wires are published from time +to time. As our cities grow, and the need of telegraphic communication +is more generally felt, this danger will become even more conspicuous. +Persons who value their lives are earnestly advised not to walk under +telegraph wires.</p> + +<p>Is it generally realized that every day at least one fatal accident +occurs in our streets? So many of these take place at crossings that we +would strongly urge the public never to venture across a busy street +until all the vehicles have passed.</p> + +<p>We find prevalent among our readers an impression that country life is +comparatively safe. This mistake has cost Great Britain many lives. The +country is so full of hidden dangers that one may be said to risk his +health every time he ventures into it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p><p>We feel it our duty to remind holiday-makers that when in the country +in the open air, they should never sit down. Many a man, aye, and woman +too, has been done to death by neglecting this simple precaution. The +recklessness of the public, indeed, in such matters is incomprehensible. +The day is hot, they see an inviting grassy bank, and down they sit. +Need we repeat that despite the sun (which is ever treacherous) they +should continue walking at a smart pace? Yes, bitter experience has +taught us that we must repeat such warnings.</p> + +<p>When walking in the country holiday-makers should avoid over-heating +themselves. Nothing is so conducive to disease. We have no hesitation in +saying that nine-tenths of the colds that prove fatal are caught through +neglect of this simple rule.</p> + +<p>Beware of walking on grass. Though it may be dry to the touch, damp is +ever present, and cold caught in this way is always difficult to cure.</p> + +<p>Avoid high roads in the country. They are, for the most part, +unsheltered, and on hot days the sun beats upon them unmercifully. The +perspiration that ensues is the beginning of many a troublesome illness.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p><p>Country lanes are stuffy and unhealthy, owing to the sun not getting +free ingress into them. They should, therefore, be avoided by all who +value their health.</p> + +<p>In a magazine we observe an article extolling the pleasures of walking +in a wood. That walking in a wood may be pleasant we do not deny, but +for our own part we avoid woods. More draughty places could not well be +imagined and many a person who has walked in a wood has had cause to +repent it for the rest of his life.</p> + +<p>It is every doctor's experience that there is a large public which +breaks down in health simply because it does not take sufficient +exercise in the open air. Once more we would remind our readers that +every man, woman or child who does not spend at least two hours daily in +the open air is slowly committing suicide.</p> + +<p>How pitiful it is to hear a business man say, as business men so often +say, "Really I cannot take a holiday this summer; my business ties me so +to my desk, and, besides, I am feeling quite well. No, I shall send my +wife and children to the seaside, and content myself with a +Saturday-to-Monday now and again." We solemnly warn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> all such foolish +persons that they are digging their own graves. Change is absolutely +essential to health.</p> + +<p>Asked the other day why coughs were so prevalent in the autumn, we +replied without hesitation, "Because during the past month or two so +many persons have changed their beds." City people rush to the seaside +in their thousands, and here is the result. A change of beds is +dangerous to all, but perhaps chiefly to persons of middle age. We have +so often warned the public of this that we can only add now, "If they +continue to disregard our warning, their blood be on their own heads." +This we say not in anger, but in sorrow.</p> + +<p>A case has come to our knowledge of a penny causing death. It had passed +through the hands of a person suffering from infectious fever into those +of a child, who got it as change from a shop. The child took the fever +and died in about a fortnight. We would not have mentioned this case had +we not known it to be but an instance of what is happening daily. +Infection is frequently spread by money, and we would strongly urge no +one to take change (especially coppers), from another without seeing it +first dipped in warm water. Who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> can tell where the penny he gets in +change from the newspaper-boy has come from?</p> + +<p>If ladies, who are ever purchasing new clothes, were aware that disease +often lurks in these, they would be less anxious to enter dressmakers' +shops. The saleswoman who "fits" them may come daily from a home where +her sister lies sick of a fever, or the dress may have been made in some +East End den, where infection is rampant. Cases of the kind frequently +come to our knowledge, and we would warn the public against this danger +that is ever present among us.</p> + +<p>Must we again enter a protest against insufficient clothing? We never +take a walk along any of our fashionable thoroughfares without seeing +scores of persons, especially ladies, insufficiently clad. The same +spectacle, alas! may be witnessed in the East End, but for a different +reason. Fashionable ladies have a horror of seeming stout, and to retain +a slim appearance they will suffer agonies of cold. The world would be +appalled if it knew how many of these women die before their fortieth +year.</p> + +<p>We dress far too heavily. The fact is, that we would be a much healthier +people if we wore less clothing. Ladies especially wrap themselves up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +too much, with the result that their blood does not circulate freely. +Coats, ulsters, and other wraps, cause far more colds than they prevent.</p> + +<p>Why have our ladies not the smattering of scientific knowledge that +would tell them to vary the thickness of their clothing with the +weather? New garments, indeed, they do don for winter, but how many of +them put on extra flannels?</p> + +<p>We are far too frightened of the weather, treating it as our enemy when +it is ready to be our friend. With the first appearance of frost we fly +to extra flannel, and thus dangerously overheat ourselves.</p> + +<p>Though there has been a great improvement in this matter in recent +years, it would be idle to pretend that we are yet a cleanly nation. To +speak bluntly, we do not change our undergarments with sufficient +frequency. This may be owing to various reasons, but none of them is an +excuse. Frequent change of underclothing is a necessity for the +preservation of health, and woe to those who neglect this simple +precaution.</p> + +<p>Owing to the carelessness of servants and others it is not going too far +to say that four times in five undergarments are put on in a state of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>semi-dampness. What a fearful danger is here. We do not hesitate to say +that every time a person changes his linen he does it at his peril.</p> + +<p>This is such an age of bustle that comparatively few persons take time +to digest their food. They swallow it, and run. Yet they complain of not +being in good health. The wonder rather is that they do not fall dead in +the street, as, indeed, many of them do.</p> + +<p>How often have doctors been called in to patients whom they find +crouching by the fireside and complaining of indigestion! Too many +medical men pamper such patients, though it is their plain duty to tell +the truth. And what is the truth? Why, simply this, that after dinner +the patient is in the habit of spending his evening in an arm-chair, +when he ought to be out in the open air, walking off the effects of his +heavy meal.</p> + +<p>Those who work hard ought to eat plentifully, or they will find that +they are burning the candle at both ends. Surely no science is required +to prove this. Work is, so to speak, a furnace, and the brighter the +fire the more coals it ought to be fed with, or it will go out. Yet we +are a people who let our systems go down by disregarding this most +elementary and obvious rule of health.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p><p>If doctors could afford to be outspoken, they would twenty times a day +tell patients that they are simply suffering from over-eating +themselves. Every foreigner who visits this country is struck by this +propensity of ours to eat too much.</p> + +<p>Very heart-breaking are the statistics now to hand from America about +the increase in smoking. That this fatal habit is also growing in favor +in this country every man who uses his eyes must see. What will be the +end of it we shudder to think, but we warn those in high places that if +tobacco smoking is not checked, it will sap the very vitals of this +country. Why is it that nearly every young man one meets in the streets +is haggard and pale? No one will deny that it is due to tobacco. As for +the miserable wretch himself, his troubles will soon be over.</p> + +<p>We have felt it our duty from time to time to protest against what is +known as the anti-tobacco campaign. We are, we believe, under the mark +in saying that nine doctors in every ten smoke, which is sufficient +disproof of the absurd theory that the medical profession, as a whole, +are against smoking. As a disinfectant, we are aware that tobacco has +saved many lives. In these days of wear and tear,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> it is specially +useful as a sedative; indeed, many times a day, as we pass pale young +men in the streets, whose pallor is obviously due to over-excitement +about their businesses, we have thought of stopping them, and ordering a +pipe as the medicine they chiefly require.</p> + +<p>Even were it not a destroyer of health, smoking could be condemned for +the good and sufficient reason that it makes man selfish. It takes away +from his interest in conversation, gives him a liking for solitude, and +deprives the family circle of his presence.</p> + +<p>Not only is smoking excellent for the health, but it makes the smoker a +better man. It ties him down more to the domestic circle, and loosens +his tongue. In short, it makes him less selfish.</p> + +<p>No one will deny that smoking and drinking go together. The one provokes +a taste for the other, and many a man who has died a drunkard had +tobacco to thank for giving him the taste for drink.</p> + +<p>Every one is aware that heavy smokers are seldom heavy drinkers. When +asked, as we often are, for a cure for the drink madness, we have never +any hesitation in advising the application of tobacco in larger +quantities.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p><p>Finally, smoking stupefies the intellect.</p> + +<p>In conclusion, we would remind our readers that our deepest thinkers +have almost invariably been heavy smokers. Some of them have gone so far +as to say that they owe their intellects to their pipes.</p> + +<p>The clerical profession is so poorly paid that we would not advise any +parent to send his son into it. Poverty means insufficiency in many +ways, and that means physical disease.</p> + +<p>Not only is the medical profession overstocked (like all the others), +but medical work is terribly trying to the constitution. Doctors are a +short-lived race.</p> + +<p>The law is such a sedentary calling, that parents who care for their +sons' health should advise them against it.</p> + +<p>Most literary people die of starvation.</p> + +<p>Trades are very trying to the young; indeed, every one of them has its +dangers. Painters die from blood poisoning, for instance, and masons +from the inclemency of the weather. The commercial life on 'Change is so +exciting that for a man without a specially strong heart to venture into +it is to court death.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p><p>There is, perhaps, no such enemy to health as want of occupation. We +would entreat all young men, therefore, whether of private means or not, +to attach themselves to some healthy calling.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>GRETNA GREEN REVISITED.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>The one bumpy street of Springfield, despite its sparse crop of grass, +presents to this day a depressed appearance, a relic of the time when it +doubled up under a weight of thundering chariots. At the +well-remembered, notorious Queen's Head I stood in the gathering +gloaming, watching the road run yellow, until the last draggled hen had +spluttered through the pools to roost, and the mean row of whitewashed, +shrunken houses across the way had sunk into the sloppy ground, as they +have been doing slowly for half a century, or were carried away in a +rush of rain. Soaking weeds hung in lifeless bunches over the hedges of +spears that line the roads from Gretna; on sodden Canobie Lea, where +Lochinvar's steed would to-day have had to wade through yielding slush, +dirty piles of congealed snow were still reluctant to be gone; and +gnarled tree trunks, equally with palings that would have come out of +the ground with a sloppy gluck, showed a dank and cheerless green. +Yesterday the rooks<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> dinned the air, and the parish of Gretna witnessed +such a marrying and giving in marriage as might have flung it back fifty +years. Elsewhere such a solemn cawing round the pulpit on the tree tops +would denote a court of justice, but in the vicinity of Springfield, it +may be presumed, the thoughts of the very rooks run on matrimony.</p> + +<p>A little while ago Willum Lang, a postman's empty letter-bag on his +back, and a glittering drop trembling from his nose, picked his way +through the puddles, his lips pursed into a portentous frown, and his +grey head bowed professionally in contemplation of a pair of +knock-knee'd but serviceable shanks. A noteworthy man Willum, son of +Simon, son of David, grandson by marriage of Joseph Paisley, all famous +"blacksmiths" of Gretna Green. For nigh a century Springfield has marked +time by the Langs, and still finds "In David Lang's days" as forcible as +"when Plancus was consul." Willum's predecessors in office reserved +themselves for carriage runaways, and would shake the lids from their +coffins if they knew that Willum had to marry the once despised +"pedestrians." "Even Elliot," David Lang would say, "could join couples +who came on foot," and that, of course,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> was very hard on the poor +pedestrian, for greater contempt no man ever had for rival than David +for Elliot, unless, indeed, it was Elliot's for David. But those were +the great clattering days, when there were four famous marrying shops: +the two rival inns of Springfield, that washed their hands of each other +across the street, Mr. Linton's aristocratic quarters at Gretna Hall, +and the toll-bar on the right side of the Sark. A gentleman who had +requisitioned the services of the toll-keeper many years ago recently +made a journey across the border to shake his fist at the bar, and no +one in Gretna Green can at all guess why. Far-seeing Murray, the +sometime priest of Gretna Hall, informed me, succeeded Beattie at the +toll-house in 1843, and mighty convenient friends in need they both +proved for the couples who dashed across the border with foaming fathers +at their coaches' wheels. The stone bridge flashed fire to rushing +hoofs, the exulting pursuers, knowing that a half-mile brae still barred +the way to Springfield, saw themselves tearing romantic maidens from +adventurers' arms, when Beattie's lamp gleamed in the night, the horses +stopped as if an invisible sword had cleft them in twain, the maid was +whisked like a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>bundle of stolen goods into the toll-bar, and her father +flung himself in at the door in time to be introduced to his son-in-law. +Oh, Beattie knew how to do his work expeditiously, and fat he waxed on +the proceeds. In his later days marrying became the passion of his life, +and he never saw a man and a maid together without creeping up behind +them and beginning the marriage service. In Springfield there still are +men and women who have fled from him for their celibacy, marriage in +Scotland being such an easy matter that you never know when they may not +have you. In joining couples for the mere pleasure of the thing, Simon +brought high fees into disrepute, and was no favorite with the rest of +the priesthood. That half-mile nearer the border, Jardine admits, gave +the toll-bar a big advantage, but for runaways who could risk another +ten minutes, Gretna Hall was the place to be married at.</p> + +<p>Willum Lang's puckered face means business. He has been sent for by a +millworker from Langholm, who, having an hour to spare, thinks he may as +well drop in at the priest's and get spliced; or by an innocent visitor +wandering through the village in search of the mythical<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> smithy; or by a +lawyer who shakes his finger threateningly at Willum (and might as well +have stayed at home with his mother). From the most distant shores +letters reach him regarding Gretna marriages, and if Willum dislikes +monotony he must be getting rather sick of the stereotyped beginning "I +think your charges very extortionate." The stereotyped ending "but the +sum you asked for is enclosed," is another matter. It is generally about +midnight that the rustics of the county rattle Willum's door off its +snib and, bending over his bed, tell him to arise and marry them. His +hand is crossed with silver coin, for gone are the bridegrooms whose +gold dribbled in a glittering cascade from fat purses to a horny palm; +and then, with a sleepy neighbor, a cold hearth, and a rattling cynic of +a window for witnesses, he does the deed. Elsewhere I have used these +words to describe the scene:—"The room in which the Gretna Green +marriages have been celebrated for many years is a large rude kitchen, +but dimly lighted by a small 'bole' window of lumpy glass that faces an +ill-fitting back door. The draught generated between the two cuts the +spot where the couples stand, and must prove a godsend to flushed and +flurried <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>bridegrooms. A bed—wooden and solid, ornamented with divers +shaped and divers colored clothes dependent from its woodwork like linen +hung on a line to dry—fills a lordly space. The monster fireplace +retreats bashfully before it into the opposite wall, and a grimy cracked +ceiling looks on a bumpy stone floor, from which a cleanly man could eat +his porridge. One shabby wall is happily hid by the drawers in which +Lang keeps his books; and against the head of the bed an apoplectic Mrs. +Langtry in a blue dress and yellow stockings, reminding the public that +Simon Lang's teas are the best, shudders at her reflection in the +looking-glass that dangles opposite her from a string." The signboard +over a snuffy tavern that attempted to enter into rivalry with the +Queen's Head depicts the priest on his knees going through the church +marriage services, but the Langs have always kept their method of +performing the ceremony a secret between themselves and the interested +persons, and the artist in this case was doubtless drawing on his +imagination. The picture is discredited by the scene of the wedding +being made in a smithy, when it is notorious that the "blacksmith" has +cut the tobacco plug, and caught fish in the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>Solway, and worked at the +loom, the last, and the toll-bar, but never wielded Vulcan's hammer. The +popular term is thus a mystery, though a witness once explained, in a +trial, to Brougham, that Gretna marriages were a welding of heat. Now +the welding of heat is part of a blacksmith's functions.</p> + +<p>It is not for Willum Lang to censure the Langholm millworkers, without +whose patronage he would be as a priest superannuated, but if they could +be got to remember whom they are married to, it would greatly relieve +his mind. When standing before him they are given to wabbling unsteadily +on their feet, and to taking his inquiry whether the maiden on their +right is goodly in their sight for an offer of another "mutchkin:" and +next morning they sometimes mistake somebody else's maiden for their +own. When one of the youth of the neighborhood takes to him a helpmate +at Springfield his friend often whiles away the time by courting +another, and when they return to Langholm things are sometimes a littled +mixed up. The priest, knowing what is expected of him, is generally able +when appealed to, to "assign to each bridegroom his own;" but one +shudders to think what complications may arise when Willum's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> eyes and +memory go. These weddings are, of course, as legal as though Lang were +Archbishop of Canterbury, but the clergymen shake their heads, and +sometimes—as indeed was the case even in the great days—a second +marriage by a minister is not thought amiss.</p> + +<p>About the year 1826, the high road to Scotland ran away from +Springfield. Weeds soon afterwards sprouted in the street, and though +the place's reputation died hard, its back had been broken. Runaways +skurried by oblivious of its existence, and at a convenient point on the +new road shrewd John Linton dropped Gretna Hall. Springfield's +convenient situation had been its sole recommendation, and when it lost +that it was stranded. The first entry in the Langs' books dates back to +1771, when Joseph Paisley represented the priesthood, but the impetus to +Gretna marriages had been given by the passing of Lord Hardwicke's act, +a score of years before. Legend speaks of a Solway fisherman who taught +tobacconist Paisley the business. Prior to 1754, when the law put its +foot down on all unions not celebrated by ministers of the Church of +England, there had been no need to resort to Scotland, for the chaplains +of the fleet<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> were anticipating the priests of Gretna Green, and doing a +roaring trade. Broadly speaking, it was as easy between the Reformation +and 1745 to get married in the one country as in the other. The Marriage +Act changed all that. It did a real injustice to non-members of the +Established Church, and only cured the disease in one place to let it +break out in another. Lord Hardwicke might have been a local member of +Parliament, pushing a bill through the House "for the promotion of +Larceny and Rowdyism at Gretna Green." For the greater part of a +century, there was a whirling of coaches and a clattering of horses +across the border, after which came marriage in England before a +registrar, and an amendment of the Scotch law that required residence +north of the Sark, on the part of one of the parties, for twenty-one +days before the ceremony took place. After that the romance of Gretna +Green was as a tale that was told. The latter half of the last century, +and the first twenty years of this, were thus the palmy days of +Springfield, for after Gretna Hall hung out its signboard, the Langs +were oftener seen at the "big house" than in the double-windowed parlor +of the Queen's Head.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p><p>The present landlord of this hostelry, a lightsome host, troubled with +corns, who passes much of his time with a knife in one hand and his big +toe in the other, is nephew of that Beattie who saw his way to bed by +the gleam of post-boy's lamps, and spent his days unsnibbing the Queen's +Head door to let runaways in, and barring it to keep their pursuers out. +Much depends on habit, and Beattie slept most soundly to the drone of +the priest in his parlor, and the rub-a-dub of baffled parents on his +window-sills. His nephew, also a Beattie, brings his knife with him into +the immortal room, where peers of the realm have mated with country +wenches, and fine ladies have promised to obey their father's +stable-boys, and two lord chancellors of England with a hundred others +have blossomed into husbands, and one wedding was celebrated of which +neither Beattie nor the world takes any account. There are half a dozen +tongues in the inn—itself a corpse now that wearily awaits +interment—to show you where Lord Erskine gambolled in a tablecloth, +while David Lang united him in the bonds of matrimony with his +housekeeper, Sarah Buck. There is the table at which he composed some +Latin doggerel in honor of the event,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> and the doubtful signature on a +cracked pane of glass. A strange group they must have made—the gaping +landlord at the door, Mrs. Buck, the superstitious, with all her +children in her arms, David Lang rebuking the lord chancellor for posing +in the lady's bonnet, Erskine in his tablecloth skipping around the +low-roofed room in answer, and Christina Johnstone, the female witness, +thinking sadly that his lordship might have known better. Here, too, +Lord Eldon galloped one day with his "beloved Bessy;" and it is not +uninteresting to note that though he came into the world eighteen months +after Lord Erskine, he paid Gretna Green a business visit nearly fifty +years before him. Lang's books are a veritable magic-lantern, and the +Queen's Head the sheet on which he casts his figures. The slides change. +Joseph Paisley sees his shrewd assistant, David Lang, marry his +granddaughter, and dies characteristically across the way. David has his +day, and Simon, his son, succeeds him; and in the meantime many a +memorable figure glides shadow-like across the screen. The youth with +his heart in his mouth is Lord George Lambton. It is an Earl of +Westmoreland that plants his shoulders against the door, and tells<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> the +priest to hurry. The foot that drums on the floor is Lady Alicia +Parson's. A son of Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough makes way for his own +son; a daughter follows in the very footsteps of her father, only a few +hours between them. A daughter of Archdeacon Philpot arrives at four +o'clock in the morning, and her companion forgets to grease the +landlord's hand. The Hon. Charles Law just misses Lord Deerhurst. There +are ghosts in cocked hats, and naval and military uniform, in muslin, +broadcloth, tweed and velvet, gold lace and pigskin; swords flash, +pistols smoke, steaming horses bear bleeding riders out of sight, and a +thousand forms flit weird and shadowy through the stifling room.</p> + +<p>The dinner of the only surviving priest of Gretna Hall frizzled under +the deft knife of his spouse as he rubbed his hands recently over the +reminiscences of his youth. Willum Lang never officiated at the Hall. +Intelligent Jardine, full of years and honors, now enjoys his ease, not +without a priestly dignity, on a kitchen sofa, in his pocket edition of +a home at Springfield, and it is perhaps out of respect to his visitor +that he crowns his hoary head with a still whiter hat. His arms +outstretched to the fire,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> he looks, by the flashes of light, in his +ingle-nook a Shakespearian spirit crouching over an unholy pot, but his +genial laugh betrays him, and his comely wife does not scruple to recall +him to himself when he threatens to go off in an eternal chuckle. A +stalwart border-woman she, in short petticoats and delightful cap, such +as in the killing times of the past bred the Johnny Armstrongs and the +terrible moss-troopers of the border. A storehouse of old ballads, and a +Scotchwoman after Scott's own heart.</p> + +<p>The day that Gretna Hall became an inn, its landlord felt himself called +to the priesthood, and as long as he and his son remained above ground, +marriage was the heaviest item in their bills. But when Gretna knew them +no more, Jardine's chance had come. Even at Springfield the line has +always been drawn at female priests, and from the "big house" used to +come frequent messages to the shoemaker with its mistress's compliments +and would he step up at once. The old gentleman is a bit of a dandy in +his way, and it is pleasant to know that Nature herself gave him on +those occasions a hint when it was time to dress. The rush for him down +dark fields and across the Headless Cross was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> in a flurry of haste, but +in the still night the rumble of a distant coach had been borne to him +over the howes and meadows, and Jardine knew what that meant as well as +the marriage service. Sometimes the coaches came round by Springfield, +when the hall was full, and there was a tumbling out and in again by +trembling runaways at the rival inns. Even the taverns have run couples, +and up and down the sleety street horses pranced and panted in search of +an idle priest. Jardine remembers one such nightmare time when the +clatter of a pursuing vehicle came nearer and nearer, and a sweet young +lady in the Queen's Head flung up her hands to heaven. Crash went her +true lovers' fist through a pane of glass to awaken the street (which +always slept with one eye open) with the hoarse wail, "A hundred pounds +to the man that marries me!" But big as was the bribe, the speed of the +pursuers was greater, and the maiden's father looking in at the inn at +an inconvenient moment called her away to fulfill another engagement. +The Solway lies white from Gretna Hall like a sheet of mourning paper, +between edges of black trees and hills. The famous long, low room still +looks out on an ageing park, but they are only ghosts<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> that join hands +in it now, and it is a clinging to old days that makes the curious moon +peep beneath the blind. The priest and the unbidden witness still are, +but brides and bridegrooms come no more. To the days of his youth +Jardine had to fling back his memory to recall the gravel springing from +the wheels of Wakefield's flying chariot. The story is told in +Hutchinson's <i>Chronicles of Gretna Green</i>, the first volume of which +leads up to but does not broach the subject, and is common property at +Springfield. The adventurer's dupe was an affectionate school-girl on +whose feelings he worked by representing himself as the one friend who +could save her father from ruin and disgrace. The supposed bankrupt was +said to have taken flight to Scotland, and the girl of fifteen, jumping +into Wakefield's coach at Liverpool, started with him in pursuit. A more +graceless rascal never was, for at Carlisle the adventurer swore that he +had talked with Miss Turner's father in an hotel where he was lying +hidden from the sheriff's officers, and that the fugitive's wish was +that she should, without delay, accept Mr. Wakefield's hand. The poor +lassie, frantic with anxiety, was completely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> gulled, and on the eighth +of March, 1826, Wakefield's coach drew up at Gretna Hall. Too late came +the pursuit to stop the marriage, but the runaways were traced to +France, and the law soon had the husband of a week by the heels. He had +trusted, like all his brotherhood, to the lady's father making the best +of it; and so, perhaps, he did; for the adventurer's address for the +next three years was—Newgate, London.</p> + +<p>Spiders of both sexes kept their nets at Gretna Green, but a tragedy was +only enacted at the hall between a score of comedies; and they were +generally love-sick youths and maidens who interrupted the priest to ask +if that was not the "so—sound of wh—wheels on the gravel walk?" A +couple whom it would almost have been a satisfaction to marry without a +fee (for the mere example of the thing) was that which raced from the +south of England with the lady's father. When they reached the top of a +hill his arms were gesticulating at the bottom, and they never turned +one corner without seeing his steaming horse take another. Poor was the +fond lover (dark his prospects at Gretna Green in consequence) but brave +the maid, to whom her friends would insist on leaving money, which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> was +the cause of the whole to-do. The father, looking on the swain with +suspicious eye, took to dreaming of postillions, high-roads, blacksmiths +and Gretna Green. He would not suffer his daughter to move from his +sight, and even to dances he escorted her in his private carriage, +returning for her (for he was a busy man) at night. Quick of invention +were the infuriated lovers. Threading the mazes of a dance, the girl was +one evening snatched from her partner's arms by the announcement that +her father's carriage barred the way below. A hurried explanation of why +he had come so soon, a tripping down the stairs with trembling limbs +into a close coach, a maiden in white in her lover's arms, and hey-ho +for Gretna Green. Jardine is mellowed with a gentle cynicism, and +sometimes he breaks off in his reminiscences to wonder what people want +to be married for. The Springfield priest, he chuckles, is a blacksmith +at whom love cannot afford to laugh. Ay, friend Jardine, but what about +the blacksmith who laughs at love?</p> + +<p>Half a century ago Mr. McDiarmid, a Scotch journalist of repute, +loosened the tongue of a Springfield priest with a bowl of toddy. The +result was as if the sluice had been lifted bodily<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> from a dam, and +stories (like the whisky) flowed like water. One over-curious +<i>paterfamilias</i> there was who excused his visit to the village of +weddings on the ground that he wished to introduce to the priest a +daughter who might one day require his services. "And sure enough," old +Elliot, who entered into partnership with Simon Lang, crowed to his +toddy-ladle, "I had her back with a younger man in the matter of three +months!" There lives, too, in Springfield's memory the tale of the +father who bolted with an elderly spinster, and returning to England +passed his daughter and her lover on the way. Dark and wintry was the +night, the two coaches rattled by, and next morning four persons who had +gone wrong opened the eyes of astonishment.</p> + +<p>When David Lang was asked during Wakefield's trial how much he had been +paid for discharging the duties of priest, he replied pleasantly, "£20 +or £30, or perhaps £40; I cannot say to a few pounds." This was pretty +well, but there are authenticated cases in which £100 was paid. The +priests had no fixed fee, and charged according to circumstances. If +business was slack and the bridegroom not pressing, they lowered their +charges,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> but where the bribed post-boys told them of high rank, hot +pursuit, and heavy purses, they squeezed their dupes remorselessly. It +is told of Joseph Paisley that when on his death-bed he heard the +familiar rumble of coaches into the village, he shook death from him, +ordered the runaways to approach his presence, married three couples +from his bed, and gave up the ghost with three hundred pounds in his +palsied hands. Beattie at the toll-bar, on the other hand, did not scorn +silver fees, and as occasion warranted the priests have doubtless ranged +in their charges from half-a-crown and a glass of whisky to a hundred +pounds.</p> + +<p>Though the toll-bar only at rare intervals got wealthy pairs into its +clutches, Murray had not been long installed in office when pockets +crammed with fees made him waddle as heavily as a duck. Fifty marriages +a month was no uncommon occurrence at Gretna at that time, and it was +then that the mansion was built which still stands about a hundred yards +on the English side of the Sark. The toll-keeper, to whom it owes its +existence, erected it for a hotel that would rival Gretna Hall, and +prove irresistible to the couples who, on getting married on the Scotch +side, would have to pass it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> on their return journey. But the +alterations in the Marriage Laws marred the new hotel's chances, and +Murray found that he had over-reached himself. Perhaps one reason why he +no longer prospered was because he pursued a niggardly policy with the +postillions, ostlers, and other rapscallions who demanded a share of the +booty. The Langs knew what they were about far too well to quarrel with +the post-boys, and stories are still current in Springfield of these +faithful youths tumbling their employers into the road rather than take +them to a "blacksmith" with whom they did not deal.</p> + +<p>There is no hope for Gretna. Springfield was and is the great glory of +its inhabitants. Here ran the great wall of Adrian, the scene of many a +tough fight in the days of stone weapons and skin-clad Picts. The +Debatable Land, sung by Trouvere and Troubadour, is to-day but a sodden +moss, in which no King Arthur strides fearfully away from the "grim +lady" of the bogs; and moss-troopers, grim and gaunt and terrible, no +longer whirl with lighted firebrands into England. With a thousand stars +the placid moon lies long drawn out and drowned at the bottom of the +Solway, without a lovesick maid to shed a tear; the chariots<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> that once +rattled and flashed along the now silent road were turned into firewood +decades ago, and the runaways, from a Prince of Capua to a beggar-maid, +are rotten and forgotten.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>MY FAVORITE AUTHORESS.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>Just out of the four-mile radius—to give the cabby his chance—is a +sleepy lane, lent by the country to the town, and we have only to open a +little gate off it to find ourselves in an old-fashioned garden. The +house, with its many quaint windows, across which evergreens spread +their open fingers as a child makes believe to shroud his eyes, has a +literary look—at least, so it seems to me, but perhaps this is because +I know the authoress who is at this moment advancing down the walk to +meet me.</p> + +<p>She has hastily laid aside her hoop, and crosses the grass with the +dignity that becomes a woman of letters. Her hair falls over her +forehead in an attractive way, and she is just the proper height for an +authoress. The face, so open that one can watch the process of thinking +out a new novel in it, from start to finish, is at times a little +careworn, as if it found the world weighty, but at present there is a +gracious smile on it, and she greets me<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> heartily with one hand, while +the other strays to her neck, to make sure that her lace collar is lying +nicely. It would be idle to pretend that she is much more than eight +years old, "but then Maurice is only six."</p> + +<p>Like most literary people who put their friends into books, she is very +modest, and it never seems to strike her that I would come all this way +to see her.</p> + +<p>"Mamma is out," she says simply, "but she will be back soon; and papa is +at a meeting, but he will be back soon, too."</p> + +<p>I know what meeting her papa is at. He is crazed with admiration for +Stanley, and can speak of nothing but the Emin Relief Expedition. While +he is away proposing that Stanley should get the freedom of Hampstead, +now is my opportunity to interview the authoress.</p> + +<p>"Won't you come into the house?"</p> + +<p>I accompany the authoress to the house, while we chat pleasantly on +literary topics.</p> + +<p>"Oh, there is Maurice, silly boy!"</p> + +<p>Maurice is too busy shooting arrows into the next garden to pay much +attention to me; and the authoress smiles at him good-naturedly.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p><p>"I hope you'll stay to dinner," he says to me, "because then we'll have +two kinds of pudding."</p> + +<p>The authoress and I give each other a look which means that children +will be children, and then we go indoors.</p> + +<p>"Are you not going to play any more?" cries Maurice to the authoress.</p> + +<p>She blushes a little.</p> + +<p>"I was playing with him," she explains, "to keep him out of mischief +till mamma comes back."</p> + +<p>In the drawing-room we talk for a time of ordinary matters—of the +allowances one must make for a child like Maurice, for instance—and +gradually we drift to the subject of literature. I know literary people +sufficiently well to be aware that they will talk freely—almost too +freely—of their work if approached in the proper spirit.</p> + +<p>"Are you busy just now?" I ask, with assumed carelessness, and as if I +had not been preparing the question since I heard papa was out.</p> + +<p>She looks at me, suspiciously, as authors usually do when asked such a +question. They are not certain whether you are really sympathetic. +However, she reads honesty in my eyes.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p><p>"Oh, well, I am doing a little thing." (They always say this.)</p> + +<p>"A story or an article?"</p> + +<p>"A story."</p> + +<p>"I hope it will be good."</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I don't like it much." (This is another thing they say, +and then they wait for you to express incredulity.)</p> + +<p>"I have no doubt it will be a fine thing. Have you given it a name?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes; I always write the name. Sometimes I don't write any more."</p> + +<p>As she was in a confidential mood this seemed an excellent chance for +getting her views on some of the vexed literary questions of the day. +For instance, everybody seems to be more interested in hearing during +what hours of the day an author writes than in reading his book.</p> + +<p>"Do you work best in the early part of the day or at night?"</p> + +<p>"I write my stories just before tea."</p> + +<p>"That surprises me. Most writers, I have been told, get through a good +deal of work in the morning."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but I go to school as soon as breakfast is over."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p><p>"And you don't write at night?"</p> + +<p>"No; nurse always turns the gas down."</p> + +<p>I had read somewhere that among the novelist's greatest difficulties is +that of sustaining his own interest in a novel day by day until it is +finished.</p> + +<p>"Until your new work is completed do you fling your whole heart and soul +into it? I mean, do you work straight on at it, so to speak, until you +have finished the last chapter?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes."</p> + +<p>The novelists were lately reproved in a review for working too quickly, +and it was said that one wrote a whole novel in two months.</p> + +<p>"How long does it take you to write a novel?"</p> + +<p>"Do you mean a long novel?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"It takes me nearly an hour."</p> + +<p>"For a really long novel?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, in three volumes. I write in three exercise-books—a volume in +each."</p> + + +<p>"You write very quickly."</p> + +<p>"Of course, a volume doesn't fill a whole exercise-book. They are penny +exercise-books. I have a great many three-volume stories in the three +exercise-books."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p><p>"But are they really three-volume novels?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, for they are in chapters, and one of them has twenty chapters."</p> + +<p>"And how many chapters are there in a page?"</p> + +<p>"Not very many."</p> + +<p>Some authors admit that they take their characters from real life, while +others declare that they draw entirely upon their imagination.</p> + +<p>"Do you put real people into your novels?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Maurice and other people, but generally Maurice."</p> + +<p>"I have heard that some people are angry with authors for putting them +into books."</p> + +<p>"Sometimes Maurice is angry, but I can't always make him an +engine-driver, can I?"</p> + +<p>"No. I think it is quite unreasonable on his part to expect it. I +suppose he likes to be made an engine-driver?"</p> + +<p>"He is to be an engine-driver when he grows up, he says. He is a silly +boy, but I love him."</p> + +<p>"What else do you make him in your books?"</p> + +<p>"To-day I made him like Stanley, because I think that is what papa would +like him to be; and yesterday he was papa, and I was his coachman."</p> + +<p>"He would like that?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p><p>"No, he wanted me to be papa and him the coachman. Sometimes I make him +a pirate, and he likes that, and once I made him a girl."</p> + +<p>"He would be proud?"</p> + +<p>"That was the day he hit me. He is awfully angry if I make him a girl, +silly boy. Of course he doesn't understand."</p> + +<p>"Obviously not. But did you not punish him for being so cruel as to hit +you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I turned him into a cat, but he said he would rather be a cat than +a girl. You see he's not much more than a baby—though I was writing +books at his age."</p> + +<p>"Were you ever charged with plagiarism? I mean with copying your books +out of other people's books."</p> + +<p>"Yes, often."</p> + +<p>"I suppose that is the fate of all authors. I am told that literary +people write best in an old coat——."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I like to be nicely dressed when I am writing. Here is papa, and I +do believe he has another portrait of Stanley in his hand. Mamma will be +so annoyed."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>THE CAPTAIN OF THE SCHOOL.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>When Peterkin, who is twelve, wrote to us that there was a possibility +("but don't count on it," he said) of his bringing the captain of the +school home with him for a holiday, we had little conception what it +meant. The captain we only knew by report as the "man" who lifted +leg-balls over the pavilion and was said to have made a joke to the +head-master's wife. By-and-by we understood the distinction that was to +be conferred on us. Peterkin instructed his mother to send the captain a +formal invitation addressed "J. Rawlins, Esq." This was done, but in +such a way that Peterkin feared we might lose our distinguished visitor. +"You shouldn't have asked him for all the holidays," Peterkin wrote, "as +he has promised a heap of fellows." Then came a condescending note from +the captain, saying that if he could manage it he would give us a few +days. In this letter he referred to Peterkin as his young friend. +Peterkin wrote shortly afterwards asking his sister<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> Grizel to send him +her photograph. "If you haven't one," he added, "what is the color of +your eyes?" Grizel is eighteen, which is also, I believe, the age of J. +Rawlins. We concluded that the captain had been sounding Peterkin about +the attractions that our home could offer him; but Grizel neither sent +her brother a photograph nor any account of her personal appearance. "It +doesn't matter," Peterkin wrote back; "I told him you were dark." Grizel +is rather fair, but Peterkin had not noticed that.</p> + +<p>Up to the very last he was in an agony lest the captain should +disappoint him. "Don't tell anybody he is coming," he advised us, "for, +of course, there is no saying what may turn up." Nevertheless the +captain came and we sent the dog-cart to the station to meet him and +Peterkin. On all previous occasions one of us had gone to the station +with the cart; but Peterkin wrote asking us not to do so this time. +"Rawlins hates any fuss," he said.</p> + +<p>Somewhat to our relief, we found the captain more modest than it would +have been reasonable to expect. "This is Rawlins," was Peterkin's simple +introduction; but it could not have been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> done with more pride had the +guest been Mr. W. G. Grace himself. One thing I liked in Rawlins from +the first: his consideration for others. When Peterkin's mother and +sister embraced that boy on the doorstep, Rawlins pretended not to see. +Peterkin frowned, however, at this show of affection, and with a red +face looked at the captain to see how he took it. With much good taste, +Peterkin said nothing about this "fuss" on the doorstep, and I concluded +that he would let it slide. It has so far been a characteristic of that +boy that he can let anything which is disagreeable escape his memory. +This time, however, as I subsequently learned he had only bottled up his +wrath to pour it out upon his sister. Finding her alone in the course of +the day, he opened his mind by remarking that this was a nice sort of +thing she had done, making a fool of him before another fellow. Asked +boldly—for Grizel can be freezing on occasion not only to her own +brother, but to other people's brothers—what he meant, Peterkin +inquired hotly if she was going to pretend that she had not kissed him +in Rawlins' presence. Grizel replied that if Rawlins thought anything of +that he was a nasty boy; at which Peterkin echoed "boy" with a grim +laugh,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> and said he only hoped she would see the captain some day when +the ground suited his style of bowling. Grizel replied contemptuously +that the time would come when both Peterkin and his disagreeable friend +would be glad to be kissed; upon which her brother flung out of the +room, warmly protesting that she had no right to bring such charges +against fellows.</p> + +<p>Though Grizel was thus a little prejudiced against the captain, he had +not been a day in the house when we began to feel the honor that his +visit conferred on us. He was modest almost to the verge of shyness; but +it was the modesty that is worn by a man who knows he can afford it. +While Peterkin was there Rawlins had no need to boast, for Peterkin did +the boasting for him. When, however, the captain exerted himself to +talk, Peterkin was contented to retire into the shade and gaze at him. +He would look at all of us from his seat in the background, and note how +Rawlins was striking us. Peterkin's face as he gazed upon that of the +captain went far beyond the rapture of a lover singing to his mistress's +eyebrow. He fetched and carried for him, anticipated his wants as if +Rawlins were an invalid, and bore his rebukes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> meekly. When Rawlins +thought that Peterkin was speaking too much, he had merely to tell him +to shut up, when Peterkin instantly collapsed. We noticed one great +change in Peterkin. Formerly, when he came home for the holidays he had +strongly objected to making what he called drawing-room calls, but all +that was changed. Now he went from house to house, showing the captain +off. "This is Rawlins," remained his favorite form of introduction. He +is a boy who can never feel comfortable in a drawing-room, and so the +visits were generally of short duration. They had to go because they +were due in another house in a quarter of an hour, or he had promised to +let Jemmy Clinker, who is our local cobbler and a great cricketer, see +Rawlins. When a lady engaged the captain in conversation, Peterkin did +not scruple to sign to her not to bother him too much; and if they were +asked to call again, Peterkin said he couldn't promise. There was a +remarkable thing the captain could do to a walking stick, which Peterkin +wanted him to do everywhere. It consisted in lying flat on the floor and +then raising yourself in an extraordinary way by means of the stick. I +believe it is a very difficult<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> feat, and the only time I saw our guest +prevailed upon to perform it he looked rather apoplectic. Sometimes he +would not do it, apparently because he was not certain whether it was a +dignified proceeding. He found it very hard, nevertheless, to resist the +temptation, and it was the glory of Peterkin to see him yield to it. +From certain noises heard in Peterkin's bedroom it is believed that he +is practicing the feat himself.</p> + +<p>Peterkin, you must be told, is an affectionate boy, and almost +demonstrative to his relatives if no one is looking. He was consequently +very anxious to know what the captain thought of us all, and brought us +our testimonials as proudly as if they were medals awarded for saving +life at sea. It is pleasant to me to know that I am the kind of governor +Rawlins would have liked himself, had he required one. Peterkin's +mother, however, is the captain's favorite. She pretended to take the +young man's preference as a joke when her son informed her of it, but in +reality I am sure she felt greatly relieved. If Rawlins had objected to +us it would have put Peterkin in a very awkward position. As for Grizel, +the captain thinks her a very nice little girl, but "for choice," he +says<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> (according to Peterkin) "give him a bigger woman." Grizel was +greatly annoyed when he told her this, which much surprised him, for he +thought it quite as much as she had any right to expect. On the whole, +we were perhaps rather glad when Rawlins left, for it was somewhat +trying to live up to him. Peterkin's mother, too, has discovered that +her boy has become round-shouldered. It is believed that this is the +result of a habit he acquired when in Rawlins's company of leaning +forward to catch what people were saying about the captain.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>THOUGHTFUL BOYS MAKE THOUGHTFUL MEN.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>Urquhart is a boy who lives in fear that his friends and relations will +send him the wrong birthday presents. Before his birthday came round +this year, he dropped them pretty broad hints as to the kind of gift he +would prefer, supposing they meant to remember the occasion. He worked +his people differently, according to the relationship that existed +between him and them. Thus to his mother he simply wrote, "A fishing-rod +is what I want;" but to an uncle, from whom there was only the +possibility of the present, he said, "By the way, next Monday week is my +birthday, and my mother is going to send me a fishing-rod. Wouldn't it +be jolly rot if any other body sent me a fishing-rod?—Your affectionate +and studious nephew, Thomas Urquhart." To an elderly lady, with whom he +had once spent part of his summer holiday, he wrote, "By-the-bye" (he +always came to the point<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> with by-the-bye), "next Monday week is my +birthday. I am wondering if anybody will send me a cake like the ones +you bake so beautifully."</p> + +<p>That lady should, of course, figuratively have punched Urquhart's head, +but his communication charmed her. She did not, however, send him a +cake. He had a letter from her in a few days, in which, without +referring to his insinuating remarks about his birthday and her cakes, +she expressed a hope that he was working hard. Urquhart thought this +very promising, and sent a reply that undid him. "I am sweating," he +said, "no end; and I think there is no pleasure like perusing books. +When the other chaps go away to play, I stay at the school and peruse +books." After that Urquhart counted the old lady among his certainties, +and so she was, after a manner. On his birthday he received a gift from +her, and also a letter, in which she said that her original intention +had been to send him a cake. "But your nice letter," she went on, "in +which you say you are fond of reading, reminds me that you are getting +to be a big boy, so I send you a book instead," Urquhart anxiously undid +the brown paper in which the book was wrapped. It was a volume of mild<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +biographies, entitled, "Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men."</p> + +<p>From its first appearance among us, this book caused a certain amount of +ill-feeling. I learned by accident that Urquhart, on the strength of the +lady's letter, had stated for a fact to his comrades that she was going +to send him a cake. He had also taken Fleming Secundus to a +pastry-cook's in the vicinity of the school, and asked him to turn his +eyes upon a cake which had the place of honor in the centre of the +window. Secundus admitted with a sigh that it was a beauty. Without +comment Urquhart led him to our local confectioner's, and pointed out +another cake. Secundus again passed favorable criticism, the words he +used, I have reason to believe, being "Oh, Crikey!" By this time +Urquhart had exhausted the shops of an interesting kind in our +neighborhood, and he and his companion returned to the school. For a +time Urquhart said nothing, but at last he broke the silence. "You saw +yon two cakes?" he asked Secundus, who replied, with a smack of the +lips, in the affirmative. "Then let me tell you," said Urquhart, +solemnly, "that the two of them rolled together don't come within five +miles of the cake<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> I'm to get on my birthday." Tremendous news like this +spreads through a school like smoke, and Urquhart was courted as he had +never been before. One of the most pitiful cases of toadyism known to me +was witnessed that very day in the foot-ball field. I was playing in a +school match on the same side as Urquhart and a boy called Cocky Jones +by his associates because of his sublime impertinence to his master. +While Urquhart was playing his shoelace became loosened, and he stooped +to tie it. "I say, Urquhart," cried Cocky, "let me do that for you!" It +will thus be seen, taking one thing with another, that Urquhart's +confidence in the old lady had raised high hopes. "Is this the day +Urquhart gets his cake?" the "fellows" asked each other. Consider their +indignation when he got, instead, "Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men." +Secundus refused to speak to him; Williamson, Green, Robbins, Tosh and +others scowled as if he had stolen their cake; Cocky Jones kicked him +and bolted.</p> + +<p>The boy who felt the disappointment most was, however, Urquhart himself. +He has never been a shining light in his classes, but that day he +stumbled over the Latin grammar at every step.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> From nine to ten he was +quiet and sullen, like one felled by the blow. It is, I believe, +notorious that in a fair fight Cocky Jones could not stand up before +Urquhart for a moment; yet, when Cocky kicked, Urquhart did not pursue +him. Between ten and eleven, Urquhart had a cynical countenance, which +implied that his faith in humanity was gone. By twelve he looked fierce, +as if he meant to write his benefactress, and give her a piece of his +mind. I saw him during the dinner-hour in hot controversy with Green and +Tosh, who were evidently saying that he had deceived them. From this +time he was pugnacious, like one determined to have it out with +somebody, and as he can use his fists, this mood made his companions +more respectful. Fleming Secundus is his particular chum, and after the +first bitterness of disappointment, Secundus returned to his allegiance. +He offered to mark Cocky Jones' face, I fancy, for I saw him in full +pursuit of Cocky in the playground. Having made it up, he and Urquhart +then discussed the matter calmly in a corner. They had several schemes +before them. One was to send the book back, saying that Urquhart had +already a copy of it.</p> + +<p>"But, I haven't," said Urquhart.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p><p>"Williamson has read it, though," said Secundus, as if that was much +the same thing.</p> + +<p>"But though we did send it back," Urquhart remonstrated, "the chances +are that she would send me another book in its place."</p> + +<p>His faith, you see, had quite gone.</p> + +<p>"You could tell her you had got such a lot of books that you would +prefer a cake for a change?"</p> + +<p>Urquhart said that would be putting it too plain.</p> + +<p>"Well, then," said Secundus, "even though she did send you another book, +it would perhaps be a better one than that. Tell her to send 'The Boy +Crusoes.' I haven't read it."</p> + +<p>"I have, though," said Urquhart.</p> + +<p>"Well, she could send 'The Prairie Hunters.'"</p> + +<p>"She's not the kind," said Urquhart. "It's always these improving books +she buys."</p> + +<p>Ultimately the two boys agreed upon a line of action which was hardly +what the reader might expect. Urquhart wrote letters of thanks to all +those who had remembered his birthday, and to the old lady the letter +which passed through my hands read as follows:</p> + +<blockquote><p> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Miss</span> ——:</p> + +<p>I sit down to thank you very faithfully for your favor, namely, the +book entitled 'Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men.' It is a jolly +book, and I like it no end better than a cake, which would soon be +ate up, and then nothing to show for it. I am reading your +beautiful present regular, and hoping it will make me a thoughtful +boy so as I may be a thoughtful man, no more at present,</p> + +<p class="right">I am, Dear Miss ——,<span class="s6"> </span><br /> +Your very sincere friend,<span class="s3"> </span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Thomas Urquhart</span>."</p></blockquote> + +<p>Our boys generally end up their letters in some such way as that, it +being a method of making their epistles cover a little more paper. As I +feared, Urquhart's letter was merely diplomatic. He had not come round +to the opinion that after all a book was better than the cake, but he +had seen the point of Fleming's sudden suggestion, that the best plan +would be to "keep in" with his benefactress. Secundus had shown that if +Miss M—— was bothered about this year's present, she would be less +likely to send anything next year, and this sank into Urquhart's mind. +Hence the tone of his letter of thanks.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p><p>It remains to follow the inglorious career of this copy of "Thoughtful +Boys make Thoughtful Men." First, Urquhart was openly contemptuous of +it, and there seemed a probability of its only being used as a missile. +Soon, however, he dropped hints that it was a deeply interesting story, +following these hints up with the remark that he was open to offers. He +and Fleming Secundus had quite a tiff about it, though they are again +good friends. Secundus, it appears, had gone the length of saying that +it was worth a shilling, and had taken it to his bed to make sure of +this. Urquhart considered it as good as bought, but Secundus returned it +to him next day. Examination of the book roused the suspicions of +Urquhart, who charged Secundus with having read it by peeping between +the pages, which, to enhance its commercial value, had remained uncut. +This Secundus denied, but he had left the mark of his thumb on it. +Eventually the book was purchased by Cocky Jones, but not without a row. +Cocky went up to Urquhart one day and held out a shilling, saying that +he would give it for "Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men." The owner +wanted to take the shilling at once, and give up the book later in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +day, but Cocky insisted on its being put into his hands immediately. +That Jones should be anxious to become the possessor of an improving +book surprised Urquhart, but in his haste to make sure of the shilling, +he handed over "Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men." Within an hour of +the striking of this bargain a rumor reached Urquhart's ears that Cocky +had resold the work for one and sixpence. Inquiries were instituted, +which led to a discovery. At our school there is a youth called Dicky +Jenkinson, who, though not exactly a thoughtful boy, has occasional +aspirations in that direction. Being for the moment wealthy, Jenkinson +had remarked, in the presence of Cocky, that one and sixpence would not +be too much to give for Urquhart's copy of "Thoughtful Boys Make +Thoughtful Men." Feeling his way cautiously, Cocky asked whether he +meant that the book would be cheap at one and sixpence to anybody who +wanted it, or whether he (Dicky) was willing and able to expend that sum +on it. Thus brought to bay, Jenkinson solemnly declared that he meant to +make Urquhart an offer that very day. Cocky made off to think this +matter over, for he was aware that the book had been already offered to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +Fleming Secundus for a shilling. He saw that by taking prompt action he +might clear sixpence before bedtime. Unfortunately, he was not able to +buy the book from Urquhart, for he was destitute of means, and he knew +it would be mere folly to ask Urquhart for credit. In these painful +circumstances he took Robbins into his confidence. At first he merely +asked Robbins to lend him a shilling, and Robbins merely replied that he +would do no such thing. To show that the money would be returned +promptly, Cocky then made a clean breast of it, after which Robbins was +ready to lend him an ear. Robbins, however, stipulated that he should +get half of the spoils.</p> + +<p>Cocky, as has been seen, got the book from Urquhart, but when it came to +the point, Jenkinson was reluctant to part with the one and sixpence. In +this extremity Cocky appealed to Robbins, who at once got hold of Dicky +and threatened to slaughter him if he did not keep to his bargain. Thus +frightened, Jenkinson bought the book.</p> + +<p>On hearing of this, Urquhart considered that he had been swindled, and +set off in quest of Cocky. That boy was not to be found, however, until +his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> threepence had disappeared in tarts. I got to know of this affair +through Robbins' backing up of Cocky, and telling Urquhart that nobody +was afraid of him. A ring was immediately formed round Urquhart and +Robbins, which I had the pleasure of breaking up.</p> + +<p>Since I sat down to write the adventures of "Thoughtful Boys Make +Thoughtful Men," I have looked through the book. Jenkinson read several +chapters of it, and then offered it for next to nothing to anybody who +had a fancy for being thoughtful. As no bidder was forthcoming, he in +the end lost heart and presented it to the school library. A gentleman +who visited us lately, and looked through the library, picked it up, and +said that he was delighted to observe that the boys kept their books so +clean. Yet not so long ago he was a boy at our school himself.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>IT.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>As they were my friends, I don't care to say how it came about that I +had this strange and, I believe unique, experience. They considered it a +practical joke, though it nearly unhinged my reason. Suffice it that +last Wednesday, when I called on them at their new house, I was taken up +stairs and shown into a large room with a pictorial wall paper. There +was a pop-gun on the table and a horse with three legs on the floor. In +a moment it flashed through my mind that I must be in a nursery. I +started back, and then, with a sinking at the heart, I heard the key +turn in the lock. From the corner came a strange uncanny moan. Slowly I +forced my head round and looked, and a lump rose in my throat, and I +realized that I was alone with It.</p> + +<p>I cannot say how long I stood there motionless. As soon as I came to +myself I realized that my only chance was to keep quiet. I tried to +think. The probability was that they were not far away,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> and if they +heard nothing for a quarter of an hour or so they might open the door +and let me out. So I stood still, with my eyes riveted on the thing +where It lay. It did not cry out again, and I hoped against hope that It +had not seen me. As I became accustomed to the room I heard It breathing +quite like a human being. This reassured me to some extent, for I saw +that It must be asleep. The question was—Might not the sleep be +disturbed at any moment, and in that case, what should I do? I +remembered the story of the man who met a wild beast in the jungle and +subjugated it by the power of the human eye. I thought I would try that. +All the time I kept glaring at It's lair (for I could not distinguish +itself), and the two things mixed themselves up in my mind till I +thought I was trying the experiment at that moment. Next it struck me +that the whole thing was perhaps a mistake. The servant had merely shown +me into the wrong room. Yes; but why had the door been locked? After +all, was I sure that it was locked? I crept closer to the door, and with +my eyes still fixed on the corner, put my hand gently—oh, so +gently!—on the handle. Softly I turned it round. I felt like a burglar. +The door would not open. Losing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> all self-control, I shook it; and then +again came that unnatural cry. I stood as if turned to stone, still +clutching the door handle, lest It should squeak if I let It go. Then I +listened for the breathing. In a few moments I heard It. Before It had +horrified me; now It was like sweet music, and I resumed breathing +myself. I kept close to the wall, ready for anything; and then I had a +strange notion. As It was asleep, why should I not creep forward and +have a look at It? I yielded to this impulse.</p> + +<p>Of course I had often seen Them before, but always with some responsible +person present, and never such a young one. I thought It would be done +up in clothes, but no, It lay loose, and without much on. I saw Its +hands and arms, and It had hair. It was sound asleep to all appearances, +but there was a queer smile upon Its face that I did not like. It +crossed my mind that It might be only shamming, so I looked away and +then turned sharply around to catch It. The smile was still there, but +It moved one of Its hands in a suspicious way. The more I looked the +more uncomfortable did that smile make me. There was something saturnine +about It, and It kept it up too long. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> felt in my pocket hurriedly for +my watch, in case It should wake; but, with my usual ill-luck, I had +left it at the watchmaker's. If It had been older I should not have +minded so much, for I would have kept on asking what Its name was. But +this was such a very young one that It could not even have a name yet. +Presently I began to feel that It was lying too quietly. It is not Their +nature to be quiet for any length of time, and, for aught I knew, this +one might be ill. I believe I should have felt relieved if It had cried +out again. After thinking it over for some time I touched It to see if +It would move. It drew up one leg and pushed out a hand. Then I bit my +lips at my folly, for there was no saying what It might do next. I got +behind the curtain, and watched It anxiously through a chink. Except +that the smile became wickeder than ever, nothing happened. I was +wondering whether I should not risk pinching It, so as to make It scream +and bring somebody, when I heard an awful sound. Though I am only +twenty, I have had considerable experience of life, and I can safely say +that I never heard such a chuckle. It had wakened up and was laughing.</p> + +<p>I gazed at It from behind the curtain; Its eyes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> were wide open, and you +could see quite well that It was reflecting what It ought to do next. As +long as It did not come out I felt safe, for It could not see me. +Something funny seemed to strike It, and It laughed heartily. After a +time It tried to sit up. Fortunately Its head was so heavy that It +always lost its balance just as It seemed on the point of succeeding. +When It saw that It could not rise, It reflected again, and then all of +a sudden It put Its fist into Its mouth. I gazed in horror; soon only +the wrist was to be seen, and I saw that It would choke in another +minute. Just for a second I thought that I would let It do as It liked. +Then I cried out, "Don't do that!" and came out from behind the curtain. +Slowly It moved Its fist and there we were, looking at each other.</p> + +<p>I retreated to the door, but It followed me with Its eyes. It had not +had time to scream yet, and I glared at It to imply that I would stand +no nonsense. But, difficult though this may be to believe, It didn't +scream when It had the chance. It chuckled instead and made signs for me +to come nearer. This was even more alarming than my worst fears. I shook +my head and then my fist at It, but It only laughed the more. In the end +I got<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> so fearful that I went down on my hands and knees, to get out of +Its sight. Then It began to scream. However, I did not get up. When they +opened the door they say I was beneath the table, and no wonder. But I +certainly was astonished to discover that I had only been alone with It +for seven minutes.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>TO THE INFLUENZA.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>The time has come for you to leave this house. Seventeen days ago you +foisted yourself upon me, and since then we have been together night and +day. You were unwelcome and uninvited, and you made yourself intensely +disagreeable. We wrestled, you and I, but you attacked me unawares in +the back, and you threw me. Then, like the ungenerous foe that you are, +you struck me while I was down. However, your designs have failed. I +struggle to my feet and order you to withdraw. Nay, withdraw is too +polite a word. Your cab is at the door; get out. But, stop, a word with +you before you go.</p> + +<p>Most of your hosts, I fancy, run you out of their houses without first +saying what they think of you. Their one desire is to be rid of you. +Perhaps they are afraid to denounce you to your face. I want, however, +to tell you that I have been looking forward to this moment ever since +you put me to bed. I said little while I was there, but I thought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> a +good deal, and most of my thoughts were of you. You fancied yourself +invisible, but I saw you glaring at me, and I clenched my fists beneath +the blankets. I could paint your portrait. You are very tall and stout, +with a black beard, and a cruel, unsteady eye, and you have a way of +crackling your fingers while you exult in your power. I used to lie +watching you as you lolled in my cane-chair. At first it was empty, but +I felt that you were in it, and gradually you took shape. I could hear +your fingers crackling, and the chair creak as you moved in it. If I sat +up in fear, you disappeared, but as soon as I lay back, there you were +again. I know now that in a sense you were a creature of my imagination. +I have discovered something more. I know why you seemed tall and stout +and bearded, and why I heard your fingers crackling.</p> + +<p>Fever—one of your dastard weapons—was no doubt what set me drawing +portraits, but why did I see you a big man with a black beard? Because +long ago, when the world was young, I had a schoolmaster of that +appearance. He crackled his fingers too. I had forgotten him utterly. He +had gone from me with the love of climbing for crows' nests—which I +once thought would never die—but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> during some of these seventeen days +of thirty-six hours each I suppose I have been a boy again. Yet I had +many schoolmasters, all sure at first that they could make something of +me, all doleful when they found that I had conscientious scruples +against learning. Why do I merge you into him of the crackling fingers? +I know. It is because in mediæval times I hated him as I hate you. No +others have I loathed with any intensity, but he alone of my masters +refused to be reconciled to my favorite method of study, which +consisted, I remember (without shame) in glancing at my tasks, as I +hopped and skipped to school. Sometimes I hopped and skipped, but did +not arrive at school in time to take solid part in lessons, and this +grieved the soul of him who wanted to be my instructor. So we differed, +as Gladstonian and Conservative on the result of the Parnell Commission, +and my teacher, being in office, troubled me not a little. I confess I +hated him, and while I sat glumly in his room, whence the better boys +had retired, much solace I found in wondering how I would slay him, +supposing I had a loaded pistol, a sword, and a hatchet, and he had only +one life. I schemed to be a dark, morose pirate of fourteen, so that I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +might capture him, even at his black-board, and make him walk the plank. +I was Judge Lynch, and he was the man at the end of the rope. I charged +upon him on horseback, and cut him down. I challenged him to single +combat, and then I was Ivanhoe. I even found pleasure in conceiving +myself shouting "Crackle-fingers" after him, and then bolting round a +corner. You must see now why I pictured you heavy, and dark, and +bearded. You are the schoolmaster of my later years. I lay in bed and +gloried in the thought that presently I would be up, and fall upon you +like a body of cavalry.</p> + +<p>What did you think of my doctor? You need not answer, for I know that +you disliked him. You and I were foes, and I was getting the worst of it +when he walked in and separated the combatants. His entrance was +pleasant to me. He showed a contempt for you that perhaps he did not +feel, and he used to take your chair. There were days when I wondered at +his audacity in doing that, but I liked it, too, and by and by I may +tell him why I often asked him to sit there. He was your doctor as well +as mine, and every time he said that I was a little better, I knew he +meant that you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> were a little weaker. You knew it, too, for I saw you +scowling after he had gone. My doctor is also my friend, and so, when I +am well, I say things against him behind his back. Then I see his +weaknesses and smile comfortably at them with his other friends—whom I +also discuss with him. But while you had me down he was another man. He +became, as it were, a foot taller, and I felt that he alone of men had +anything to say that was worth listening to. Other friends came to look +curiously at me and talk of politics, or Stanley, or on other frivolous +topics, but he spoke of my case, which was the great affair. I was not, +in my own mind, a patient for whom he was merely doing his best; I was +entirely in his hands. I was a business, and it rested with him whether +I was to be wound up or carried on as usual. I daresay I tried to be +pleasant to him—which is not my way—took his prescriptions as if I +rather enjoyed them, and held his thermometer in my mouth as though it +were a new kind of pipe. This was diplomacy. I have no real pleasure in +being fed with a spoon, nor do I intend in the future to smoke +thermometers. But I knew that I must pander to my doctor's weakness if +he was to take my side against you.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> Now that I am able to snap my +fingers at you I am looking forward to sneering once more at him. Just +at this moment, however, I would prefer to lay a sword flat upon his +shoulders, and say gratefully, "Arise, Sir James." He has altered the +faces of the various visitors who whispered to each other in my +presence, and nodded at me and said aloud that I would soon be right +again, and then said something else on the other side of the door. He +has opened my windows and set the sparrows a-chirping again, and he has +turned on the sunshine. Lastly, he has enabled me to call your cab. I am +done. Get out.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>FOUR-IN-HAND NOVELISTS.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>The following is a word-puzzle. It narrates the adventures of a +four-in-hand novelist while trying to lose his reputation. Competitors +do not require to be told that a four-in-hand novelist is a writer of +fiction who keeps four serial tales running abreast in the magazines. +The names of specimen four-in-hand novelists will recur readily to every +one. The puzzle is to discover who this particular novelist is; the +description, as will be observed, answering to quite a number of them.</p> + +<p class="center">* * * * * *</p> + +<p>A few years ago, if any one in Fleet street had said that the day would +come when I would devote my time to trying to lose my reputation, I +would have smiled incredulously. That was before I had a reputation. To +be as statistical as time will allow—for before I go to bed I have +seven and a half yards of fiction to write—it took me fifteen years' +hard work to acquire a reputation. For two<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> years after that I worked as +diligently to retain it, not being quite certain whether it was really +there, and for the last five years I have done my best to get rid of it. +Mr. R. L. Stevenson has a story of a dynamiter who tried in vain to +leave an infernal machine anywhere. It was always returned to him as +soon as he dropped it, or just as he was making off. My reputation is as +difficult to lose. I have not given up the attempt yet, but I am already +of opinion that it is even harder to lose a reputation in letters than +to make one. My colleagues will bear me out in this.</p> + +<p>If I recollect aright—for I have published so much that my works are +now rather mixed up in my mind, and I have no time to verify +anything—the first place I thought to leave my reputation in was a +volume of pot-boilers, which I wrote many years ago for an obscure +publication. At that time I was working hard for a reputation elsewhere, +and these short stories were only scribbled off for a livelihood. My +publisher heard of them recently, and offered me a hundred pounds for +liberty to republish them in book form. I pointed out to him that they +were very poor stuff, but he said that that had nothing to do with it; I +had a reputation now,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> and they would sell. With certain misgivings—for +I was not hardened yet—I accepted my publisher's terms, and the book +was soon out. The first book I published, which was much the best thing +I ever wrote, was only reviewed by three journals, of which two were +provincial weeklies. They said it showed signs of haste, though every +sentence in it was a labor. I sent copies of it to six or seven +distinguished literary men—some of whom are four-in-hand now—and two +of them acknowledged receipt of it, though neither said he had read it. +My pot-boilers, however, had not been out many weeks before the first +edition was exhausted. The book was reviewed everywhere, and, in nine +cases out of ten, enthusiastically lauded. It showed a distinct advance +on all my previous efforts. They were model stories of their kind. They +showed a mature hand. The wit was sparkling. There were pages in the +book that no one could read without emotion. In the old days I was paid +for these stories at the rate of five shillings the thousand words; but +they would make a reputation in themselves now. It has been thus all +along. I drop my reputation into every book I write now, but there is no +getting rid of it. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> critics and the public return it to me, +remarking that it grows bigger.</p> + +<p>I tried to lose my reputation in several other books of the same kind, +and always with the same result. Barnacles are nothing to a literary +reputation. Then I tried driving four-in-hand. There are now only five +or six of us who are four-in-hand novelists, but there are also +four-in-hand essayists, four-in-hand critics, etc., and we all work on +the same principle. Every one of us is trying to shake himself free of +his reputation. We novelists have, perhaps, the best chance, for there +are so few writers of fiction who have a reputation to lose that all the +magazine editors come to us for a serial tale. Next year I expect to be +six-in-hand, for the provincial weeklies want me as well as the +magazines. Any mere outsider would say I was safe to get rid of my +reputation this year, for I am almost beating the record in the effort. +A novelist of repute, who did not want to lose his reputation, would not +think of writing more than one story at a time, and he would take twelve +months, at least, to do it. That is not my way. Hitherto, though I have +been a member of the literary four-in-hand club, I have always been some +way ahead with at least<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> two of my tales before they begin to appear in +serial form. You may give up the attempt to lose your reputation, +however, if you do not set about it more thoroughly than that; and the +four novels which I began in January in two English magazines, one +American magazine, and an illustrated paper, were all commenced in the +second week of December. (I had finished two novels in the last week of +November.) My original plan was to take them day about, doing about four +chapters of each a month; but to give my reputation a still better +chance of absconding, I now write them at any time. Now-a-days I would +never think of working out my plot beforehand. My thinking begins when I +take up my pen to write, and ends when I lay it down, or even before +that. In one of my stories this year I made my hero save the heroine +from a burning house. Had I done that in the old days they would have +ridiculed me, but now they say I reveal fresh talent in the delightful +way in which I re-tell a story that has no doubt been told before. The +beaten tracks, it is remarked, are the best to tread when the public has +such a charming guide as myself. My second novel opens with a shipwreck, +and I am nearly three chapters in getting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> my principal characters into +the boats. In my first books I used to guard carefully against the +introduction of material that did not advance the story, yet at that +time I was charged with "padding." In this story of the shipwreck there +is so much padding that I could blush—if I had not given all that +up—to think of it. Instead of confining myself to my own characters, I +describe all the passengers in the vessel—telling what they were like +in appearance, and what was their occupation, and what they were doing +there. Then, when the shipwreck comes, I drown them one by one. By one +means or another, I contrive to get six chapters out of that shipwreck, +which is followed by two chapters of agony in an open boat, which I +treat as if it were a novelty in fiction, and that, again, leads up to a +chapter on the uncertainty of life. Most flagrant padding of all is the +conversation. It always takes my characters at least two pages to say +anything. They approach the point in this fashion:</p> + +<p>Tom walked excitedly into the room, in which Peter was awaiting him. The +two men looked at each other.</p> + +<p>"You wanted to see me," Tom said at last.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p><p>"Yes," said Peter slowly, "I wanted to see you."</p> + +<p>Tom looked at the other uneasily.</p> + +<p>"Why did you want to see me?" he asked after a pause.</p> + +<p>"I shall tell you," replied Peter, pointing to a chair.</p> + +<p>Tom sat down, and seemed about to speak. But he changed his mind. Peter +looked at him curiously.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," Peter said at last, "you know my reasons for requesting an +interview with you here?"</p> + +<p>"I cannot say that I do," answered Tom.</p> + +<p>There was another pause, during which the ticking of the clock could be +distinctly heard.</p> + +<p>"You have no idea?" inquired Peter.</p> + +<p>"I have no idea," replied Tom.</p> + +<p>"Do you remember," asked the older man, a little nervously, "that when +old John Vansittart disappeared so suddenly from the Grange there were +some persons who believed that he had been foully murdered?"</p> + +<p>Tom passed his hand through his hair. "John Vansittart," he muttered to +himself.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span></p><p>"The affair," continued Peter, "was never cleared up."</p> + +<p>"It was never cleared up," said Tom. "But why," he added, "do you return +to this subject?"</p> + +<p>"You may well ask," said Peter, "why I return to it."</p> + +<p>And so on. There is so much of this kind of thing in my recent novels +that if all the lines of it were placed on end I daresay they would +reach round the world. Yet I am never charged with padding now. My +writing is said to be beautifully lucid. My shipwreck has made several +intelligent critics ask if I have ever been a sailor, though I don't +mind saying here, that like Douglas Jerrold, I only dote upon the sea +from the beach. I have been to Dover, but no further, and you will find +my shipwreck told (more briefly) in Marryatt. I dashed it off less than +two months ago, but for the life of me I could not say whether my ship +was scuttled, or went on fire, or sprang a leak. Henceforth I shall only +refer to it as the shipwreck, and my memory will do all that is required +of it if it prevents my mistaking the novel that contains the shipwreck. +Even if I did that, however, I know from experience that my reputation +would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> be as safe as the lives of my leading characters. I began my +third novel, meaning to make my hero something of a coward, but though I +worked him out after that patter for a time, I have changed my plan. He +is to be peculiarly heroic henceforth. This will not lose me my +reputation. It will be said of my hero that he is drawn with no ordinary +skill, and that the author sees the two-sideness of every man's +character. As for the fourth story, it is the second one over again, +with the shipwreck omitted. One night when I did not have a chapter to +write—a rare thing with me—I read over the first part of this fourth +tale—another rare thing—and found it so slip-shod as to be +ungrammatical. The second chapter is entirely taken up with a +disquisition on bald heads, but the humor of it will be said to increase +my reputation. Sometimes when I become despondent of ever losing my +reputation, I think of taking a whole year to write one novel in, just +to see what I really could do. I wonder whether the indulgent public +would notice any difference? Perhaps I could not write carefully now if +I tried. The small section of the public that guesses which of the +four-in-hand writers I am may think for a moment that this story of how +I tried in vain<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> to lose my reputation will help me toward the goal. +They are wrong, however. The public will stand anything from us now—or +they would get something better.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>RULES FOR CARVING.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p><i>Rule I.</i>—<i>It is not good form to climb onto the table.</i> There is no +doubt a great temptation to this. When you are struggling with a duck, +and he wobbles over just as you think you have him, you forget yourself. +The common plan is not to leap upon the table all at once. This is the +more usual process: The carver begins to carve sitting. By-and-by he is +on his feet, and his brow is contracted. His face approaches the fowl, +as if he wanted to inquire within about everything except that the duck +is reluctant to yield any of its portions. One of his feet climbs onto +his chair, then the other. His knees are now resting against the table, +and, in his excitement, he, so to speak, flings himself upon the fowl. +This brings us to</p> + +<p><i>Rule II.</i>—<i>Carving should not be made a matter of brute force.</i> It +ought from the outset to be kept in mind that you and the duck are not +pitted against each other in mortal combat. Never wrestle with any dish +whatever; in other words,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> keep your head, and if you find yourself +becoming excited, stop and count a hundred. This will calm you, when you +can begin again.</p> + +<p><i>Rule III.</i>—<i>It will not assist you to call the fowl names.</i> This rule +is most frequently broken by a gentleman carving for his own family +circle. If there are other persons present, he generally manages to +preserve a comparatively calm exterior, just as the felon on the +scaffold does; but in privacy he breaks out in a storm of invective. If +of a sarcastic turn of mind, he says that he has seen many a duck in his +day, but never a duck like this. It is double-jointed. It is so tough +that it might have come over to England with the Conqueror.</p> + +<p><i>Rule IV.</i>—<i>Don't boast when it is all over.</i> You must not call the +attention of the company to the fact that you have succeeded. Don't +exclaim exultingly, "I knew I would manage it," or "I never yet knew a +duck that I couldn't conquer somehow." Don't exclaim in a loud gratified +voice how you did it, nor demonstrate your way of doing it by pointing +to the <i>débris</i> with the carving knife. Don't even be mock-modest, and +tell everybody that carving is the simplest thing in the world. Don't +wipe your face repeatedly with your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> napkin, as if you were in a state +of perspiration, nor talk excitedly, as if your success had gone to your +head. Don't ask your neighbors what they think of your carving. Your +great object is to convince them that you look upon carving as the +merest bagatelle, as something that you do every day and rather enjoy.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> + +<h2><span>ON RUNNING AFTER A HAT.</span></h2> + +<hr class="smler" /> + +<p>Some don't run. They pretend to smile when they see their hat borne +along on the breeze, and glance at the laughing faces around in a way +implying, "Yes, it is funny, and I enjoy the joke, although the hat is +mine." Nobody believes you, but if this does you good, you should do it. +You don't attempt to catch your hat as it were on the wing. You walk +after it, smiling, as if you liked the joke the more you think of it, +and confident that the hat will come to rest presently. You are not the +sort of man to make a fuss over a hat. You won't give the hat the +satisfaction of thinking that it can annoy you. Strange though it may +seem, there are idiots who will join you in pursuit of the hat. One will +hook it with a stick, and almost get it, only not quite. Another will +manage to hit it hard with an umbrella. A third will get his foot into +it or on it. This does not improve the hat, but it shows that there is a +good deal of the milk of human kindness flowing in the street<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> as well +as water, and is perhaps pleasant to think of afterwards. Several times +you almost have the hat in your possession. It lies motionless, just +where it has dropped after coming in contact with a hansom. Were you to +make a sudden rush at it you could have it, but we have agreed that you +are not that sort of man. You walk forward, stoop, and——. One reads +how the explorer thinks he has shot a buffalo dead, and advances to put +his foot proudly on the carcass, how the buffalo then rises, and how the +explorer then rises also. I have never seen an explorer running after +his hat (though I should like to), but your experience is similar to his +with the buffalo. As your hand approaches the hat, the latter turns over +like a giant refreshed, and waddles out of your reach. Once more your +hand is within an inch of it, when it makes off again. There are ringing +cheers from the audience on the pavement, some of them meant for the +hat, and the others as an encouragement to you. Before you get your hat +you have begun to realize what deer-stalking is, and how important a +factor is the wind.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Holiday in Bed and Other Sketches, by +J. M. 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