CHAPTER XVII.
SUNDAY—SUNDAY REASONS—A CHAMBER DIALOGUE.
unday Meditations.—When we first saw this place we called it The House of Good Intentions. It recurs to me forcibly at this moment, as I look over my note-book.
Under the heading of “Operanda,” or Works to be done, I find:—
- Continuation of Typical Developments. Vol. III.
- A Guide to Hertfordshire.
- A Lesser Dictionary of French words not generally found in other Lexicographical compilations.
- Theories on Dew. Practical utilitarian results.
- A Commentary on hitherto obscure portions of Shakespeare's plays, with a life of the Great Poet, gathered from obiter dicta, which nobody has, up to this time, noticed.
- “All Law founded upon Common Sense,” being a few steps towards the abolition of technicalities and antique repetitions in our legal proceedings.
- Pendant to the above, “Every man his own lawyer and somebody else's.”
- Studies in the Country. I thought I should have been able to write a good deal in this line while at the country-house. This was to include botany, farming, agriculture generally, with a resumption of what I took up years ago, as a Happy Thought, namely, “Inquiries into, and Observations upon, the Insect World.”
Nothing of all this have I done. Not a line. It is afternoon. We have most of us been to Church in the morning, except Boodels and Chilvern. Those who have not been, gave the following reasons for arriving at the same conclusion.
Boodels' reason. That he had a nasty headache, and should not get up. [This he sent down to say at breakfast.]
Milburd's reason. That the weather looked uncommonly like rain. That to get wet going to Church is a most dangerous thing, as you have to sit in your damp clothes.
My own statement on the subject. Milburd has puzzled me by saying it's going to rain. Is it? If it isn't, nothing I should enjoy more than going to Church. Wouldn't miss it on any account, except of course out of consideration for one's health.
Happy Thought.—I don't feel very well this morning, and damp feet might be followed by the most serious results.
Miss Adelaide and Miss Bella are going. Their chaperonship this morning devolves upon Mrs. Frimmely, as Madame and the Signor are Catholics, and have been to mass, early in the morning, at St. Romauldi's Missionary College, near here. Madame is very strict, and the Signor is not partial to early rising. The College Service being at half-past eight in the morning, they have to rise at seven on Sundays, and then there is a drive of four miles. The following dialogue is overheard:
Time, 7.15 A.M. Scene, Signor and Madame's room. Madame is up and dressing rapidly. The Signor is still under the bedclothes.
Madame (severely). Mr. Regniati.
The Signor (pretending extra sleepiness). My dear! (He won't open his eyes.)
Madame. It is exactly a quarter past seven.
The Signor (snuggling down into the pillow). I vill not be two me-neets. (Disappears under bedclothes.)
Madame (before the looking-glass, with her head bent well forward, her hands behind her back, lacing herself into determination). Get up, Mr. Regniati. (No sign of life in the bed.) Don't pretend to have gone to sleep again. (Not a movement.) I know you haven't. I shan't wait for you when I'm once dressed. It's twenty-five minutes. (Sharply.) Do you hear, Mr. Regniati?
The Signor (re-appearing as far as the tip of his nose. Both eyes blinking). My dear—oh! (as if in sudden agony. Then plaintively) I 'ave such a pain in my nose.
Madame (backhairing energetically). Fiddlesticks.
The Signor (in an injured tone). Oh! Vy you say zat? You know I do sof-far from my nose—and my head ache all . . .
Madame (coming to a dead stop in her toilette). Mr. Regniati, you eat and drink too much.
The Signor (as if horrified at lying under such an imputation, but showing no disposition to rise with the occasion). Oh! My Jo! (appealing to abstract justice in the bed-curtains.) Good-ness knows (he pronounces it ‘Good-ness-knows’) I eat no-sing at-all.
Madame (coming to the point). Mr. Regniati, I can't finish my dressing if you stop there.
The Signor (bestirring himself with as much dignity as is possible under the circumstances). I go. Vere is my leet-tel slip-pers? (Protesting) I shall catch my dets of cold. (He finds them.)
Madame. Now, Mr. Regniati, make haste, or we shall be late. (Shuts his dressing-room door on him.)
In about a quarter of an hour after this, the carriage is announced, and the Signor is hurried down stairs.
The Signor (complaining). Oh! I am so ongry. (Procrastinating.) Ve 'ave time to take som-sing to eat, be-fore zat ve . . .
Madame (cutting him short). Nonsense, Mr. Regniati. If you wanted to stuff, you should have got up earlier.
Mr. Regniati. Stoff! (Protests.) My Jo! I do not stoff! (Unhappily.) I 'ave no-sing in . . .
Madame (ascetically). A little abstinence will do you good. Come.
Exeunt Madame, attended by the Signor. Carriage drives off.
Mrs. Orby Frimmely, whose new things came down yesterday—latest Parisian mode—the two Misses Cherton, Miss Medford, Captain Byrton, Chilvern, Cazell, are the Church party.
Mr. Orby Frimmely, having been busy in the City all the week, is what he calls “taking it out” in bed on Sunday morning. He emphatically asserts his position (a horizontal one), and with religious fervour claims Sunday as a day of rest.
Being uncertain of the weather I remain at home with Milburd.
Milburd shifts the responsibility on to my shoulders by saying, “I'll go if you'll go.”
Hesitation.
Happy Thought. Wait and see what the weather is like.
At a quarter to eleven (service is at eleven) the weather is like nothing particular.
10.50. A gleam of sunshine. We watch it. The Signor, to whom the weather is of consequence, as he intends walking to the nearest farm on a visit of inspection to some rather fine pigs, remarks, “It vill 'old-up. Ven de sun shine now, it shine all day.”
Milburd doesn't think so. My opinion is that these rays are treacherous.
10.55. First appearance of genuine blue sky. Peal of bells stopped, and one only going now. The last call. More hesitation, I ask Milburd what he thinks of it. Milburd, in an arm-chair before fire and the “Field” newspaper in his hand, says “that he doesn't know what to make of it.” Further hesitation.
Eleven. Cessation of all bells. Sudden silence everywhere. Sky bright and blue. Sun out.
Happy Thought.—If we'd only known this we might have gone to church.
Milburd (from behind the “Field”). “Yes. It's too late now.”
The Signor has started with Jenkyns Soames (who is of some philosophic form of religion, in which long walks and gymnastics play leading parts), for the Piggeries.
Of Boodels nothing has been seen, or heard, since his first message.
Mr. Orby Frimmely, under the impression that the ladies have disappeared from the scene, descends in his lounging coat, and breakfasts alone. After this he lights a cigar, and makes himself useful in the conservatory.
Madame is walking in the garden, enjoying the winter sun's warmth, and reading.
From my room I can see her. She comes pacing majestically right underneath my window. Her book is the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.
I pause . . . .
Then . . . . My Pens! . . . . I write
CHAPTER XVIII.
MORE SUNDAY THOUGHTS—IN MY ROOM—A TELEGRAM—IMPOSSIBILITIES—INTERRUPTION.
appy Thought for Sunday.—Write down meditations. Like Marcus Aurelius did. Why not go in for Sunday Books? Telegraph to Popgood and Groolly (my publishers, who have been in treaty with me for two years about Typ. Developments), and say,
| From Me, HAPPY THOUGHT HALL, HERTFORDSHIRE. |
Messrs. POPGOOD & GROOLLY, THE WORKS, BOOKMAKERS' WALK, FINSBURY, E.C. |
Good notion for you. Sunday book. Nothing solemn. Lightly contemplative. Will you? Wire back.
Forgot it's Sunday, and no telegrams can be sent. Very absurd. Why shouldn't one want to send a telegram on Sunday equally as much as on Monday? Telegraphic people might arrange for holidays easily enough, by having small extra Sunday staff.
Happy Thought.—Will commence my Meditations. Head them Sunday Sayings. No, they're not sayings. Prefer alliterative title. Try Sunday Sighs. But they're not sighs. Try another, Sunday Sermons. No, they won't be sermons. Put down a lot of titles and see which I like. Sunday Songs. Sobs for Sunday. Sunday Solids. (This is something more like it.) Or a double title. Sunday Solids and Sunday Suctions. No; won't do.
Happy Thought.—Write the meditations first, see what they come out like, and then give them a name. This will, so to speak, “suit my book,” as to-morrow, with a name and everything cut and dried, I can write particulars to Popgood and Groolly.
For the nonce—(good word, by the way, “the nonce”)—only it's always given me the idea of sounding like a vague part of the body, where one could be hit or knocked down. I mean it would never surprise me to hear that some one had met a man and hit him on the nonce. Result fatal.
To resume:—
For the nonce, I will head them merely for my own personal information, “Sayings for Sunday.”
Happy Thought.—Good Hebdomadal Alliterative Series.
| Sayings for Sundays. | 1 Vol. |
| Mysteries for Mondays. | do. |
| Tales for Tuesdays. | do. |
| Wit for Wednesdays. | |
| Themes for Thursdays. | |
| Fun for Fridays. | |
| Sonnets for Saturdays. | |
And then, all, in a monthly volume, as Medleys for the Month. I distinctly see Popgood and Groolly's rapid and colossal fortune. Then there'd be a quarterly. Why not Quarterly Quips? No, this is not sufficiently general. [N.B. Joke by a man on a treadmill might be termed a Quip on a Crank.]
Happy Thought.—Quantity and Quality, a Quarterly Quintessence. Quips, Quiddities, Quibbles, and Quirks, by . . . dear me, I want to say “ready writers”—that's the style of nom de plume required.
Plume is suggestive. I have it.
Happy Thought.—“Quick Quills.” Popgood's advertisement will say, “The above Quarterly by Quick Quills.”
Now I'll begin.
Knock at the door. Mr. Orby Frimmely wants to know if I will stroll out with him and meet the Signor returning.
With pleasure. Leave the sayings for another Sunday.
We stroll.
CHAPTER XIX.
A WALK WITH SIGNOR REGNIATI.
THE PROSAIC GENTLEMAN.
Weather fine. We are out for a walk. Mr. Orby Frimmely, of the City, represents the Prosaic. I put myself down as the Poetic, and the Signor as the Enthusiastic. To us a small man in clerical black and Roman collar.
The Signor (saluting cleric). Ah, Father Cuthbert. 'Ow you do? (Introduces us.) You 'ave got beautiful flowers.
Father C. (alluding to the bunch in his hand). Flores martyrum. You have heard that we are ordered off for active service in China.
Self. China! (We see in our “mind's eye, Horatio” the fearful tortures recently practised upon Christians in China and are speechless.)
Frimmely (the Prosaic). Ah! You must take care what you're about there. (Surprise of the Reverend F. Cuthbert.) The Government won't protect you, you know (he says this as if the reverend gentleman was going to China to rob an orchard).
Father C. No. It will not. (Nobly.) We go to suffer and to preach the faith.
Signor. Oh, my Jo! I should not like to be eat. I 'ope you vill not go. Let us know before you start.
Father C. (cheerfully). It is certain. I'm afraid I shan't be at the College to see you next Sunday. Good-bye.
[Exit Father C.
We continue our walk.
Myself (the poetical). Ah! What a grand lot! What a high and holy calling. Here we are, striving for comfort, and perhaps for fame, there the missioner goes forth, to die, perhaps in torments, unknown to the world until the Day of Doom.
[I am impressed and silent.]
Signor. Oh, my Jo! I vould not go to be eat. (Nobly, and in true Christian spirit.) I vould say let me go, and I vill run a-vays.
Frimmely (the Prosaic). Martyr! . . . Well, I wouldn't mind being a martyr if I'd been brought up to it. I don't see why you should waste sentiment on Father Cuthbert or anybody else whose profession it is. (Repeating incisively) It's his profession, his business, to be uncomfortable, and, finis coronat opus, martyrdom signifies in his line, success. (We are silent and he continues further to instruct us.) You Catholics (to the Signor), you know, have colleges of Missioners in training; I've seen 'em. As in a Law College there would be portraits of Chief Justices and celebrated Q.C.'s in the costumes of their rank, so in a Missioners' College you have pictures of Celebrated Martyrs in the peculiar Costumes of their particular torments. It's a regular business, with you I mean, not so much with Protestants. We do it more comfortably. With us it's rather a question of a foreign appointment, with a good income.
The Signor. Vell—(considering). I am ongry. Let us go an' eat some-sing.
CHAPTER XX.
A SUNDAY CONVERSATION.
Miss Adelaide (warming her toes on the fender before sitting down to luncheon). Oh, how cold it was in Church.
Captain Byrton. Wasn't it. Upon my word if they expect people to go, they ought to keep the place warm.
Chilvern. It was so cold I couldn't go to sleep during the sermon (knives and forks at work).
Cazell. It wasn't such a very bad sermon. Pickles, please! Thanks.
Myself (showing some interest). Who preached?
Mrs. Frimmely. I don't know his name. He wasn't here last Sunday.
Boodels (whose headache has entirely disappeared). Ah, the Rector perhaps. There are two Churches here, and he has two Curates.
Miss Bella (frowningly). He preached in black.
Milburd. It is the Rector. It's what they call ‘Low Sunday’ here.
Chilvern. What's that?
Madame. Not Low Sunday with us; that is after Easter Day.
Medford (explaining). Ah yes, Boodels refers to the tone of their Churchmanship. The Rector is Broad Church, Mr. Marveloe, the senior Curate, is High Church, and Mr. Alpely, the junior Curate, is Low. This just suits the parishioners, and they take it turn and turn about at the two Churches, the Rector doing duty at both, accommodating himself to either view as the case may be. One Sunday they're high, another they're low, and the other Church is vice versâ.
Miss Adelaide. To-day it was the duett of parson and clerk.
Miss Bella. Oh, horrid! I'd rather stop at home than hear that. Why at S. Phillips at home we have vestments, and incense, and everything is done so well.
Miss Medford (quietly). Well, I'd just as soon go to one as another. May I trouble you for the salt, Signor Regniati?
Signor. My Jo! If zey do not preach I vould go—
Madame (severely). Mr. Regniati, hand the salt.
Mrs. Frimmely. What an absurd cloak that Mrs. Tringmer had.
Miss Bella. I suppose she thought it was quite the fashion.
Mrs. Frimmely. Who was that lady—Captain Byrton, do you know?—who came in rustling all up the Church, and so scented! as if she'd stepped out of a perfumer's.
Byrton. Don't know. Perhaps she has stepped out of a perfumer's, and is an advertisement.
Happy Thought (for a perfumer).—To send scented people about. Questions asked, e.g. Stranger (sniffing) goes up politely and inquires, “I beg a hundred pardons, but what scent—what delicious scent are you wearing?” Then the lady replies, “Don't mention it, Ma'am. It's (whatever the name is), and there's the card.” And gives her the perfumer's address.
Miss Adelaide. I thought Miss Vyner rather prettily dressed.
Mrs. Frimmely. Oh! but did you see her gloves! Such a fit!
Miss Bella. And such a colour!
Cazell. I wonder who that bald-headed man in front of me was? There was a collection, and he put a sovereign into the plate.
Chilvern. I'm always unlucky in that way. Whenever I go to Church there's always a collection.
Captain Byrton. Yes. You kept the man waiting at the pew door for at least two minutes, while you fumbled in all your pockets. Anyone have any cheese?
Chilvern. I knew I'd got a shilling somewhere—but it was a fourpenny-bit after all.
Miss Medford. How very disturbing it must be for the clergyman, when a child persists in crying at intervals all through the sermon.
Mrs. Frimmely. Yes, little things like that oughtn't to be brought to church; at least, not to sit out sermons.
Boodels (with some vague recollection of the baptismal service). But you forget, Mrs. Frimmely, godfathers and godmothers promise to bring children to hear sermons. That's one of the three things they vow in the child's name.
Mrs. Frimmely. Really? (seeing no help for it short of a second reformation, or disestablishment). Well it's a great pity.
Milburd (to Byrton). I see by the Field to-day, that Lysander is going up for the Derby.
Byrton. He's nowhere. Corkscrew's at a hundred to fifteen.
Mrs. Frimmely. I was right last year. Wasn't I? (To her husband.)
Frimmely. Yes: for once. (Mrs. Frimmely tosses her head.)
Soames (the Professor of Scientific Economy). Betting can be reduced to the certainty of a mathematical calculation.
Cazell (to him). I tell you what you ought to do, then.
Soames (innocently). What?
Cazell. Make your fortune. (A titter. Pause.)
Medford. I see by the Musical Times that we're to have the new prima donna, Stellafanti, at Covent Garden.
Madame. We heard her years ago at Naples. (Interest in her diminishes.)
Mrs. Frimmely. We must get up some theatricals here.
Misses Adelaide and Bella. Oh yes, do let's!
Miss Medford. I think they are such fun.
Medford. We could do something musical, easily.
The Signor (while the others talk about theatricals). My Jo! I should like to get a leettel shoot vile I am here.
Capt Byrton. Birds very wild. Have you had good sport?
Signor. My Jo! at Bad-ge-bee zere are—oh—'eaps of birds! but ven zey see me, zey go avays. I go out to shoot zem, an' I shoot no-sing.
Here the conversation becomes general, some are hot on theatricals and musical matters, others on sporting. Mr. Frimmely and the Professor are discussing finance. Miss Medford and Mrs. Regniati have got on an ecclesiastical topic.
—“We might play an opera, with a part for—”
—“The Archbishop of Canterbury, he is a friend of our rector's and says—”
—“My Jo! I 'ave such a pig! and I 'ave a bull that—”
—“With skates on! in a frost—”
—“Will win the Derby, I'll back him unless he's—”
—“Dressed as a brigand. Charming! or else as—”
—“A simple sum in arithmetic—”
—“With a red nose—”
—“In the organ-loft. But he objected to—”
—“Cold cream the only thing! put that on first, and then—”
—“You may get within a few yards of the birds, they won't hear you, and when they're—”
—“Paying ten per cent. for your money. Why not leave it—”
—“On the top of your head with a feather—”
—“Or go up in the pulpit before the sermon, as the rector did—”
—“In a transparency; it's easily managed by—”
—“Another tax on the Spanish coupons—”
—“And a bath every evening with—”
—“My prize pig—”
—“And three or four fireworks—”
Milburd (decisively). A capital effect! We'll do it!
[The ladies rise. Conversation finishes.]
CHAPTER XXI.
COMMENCEMENT OF MY SAYINGS FOR SUNDAYS.
First.—Of the bee. If the bee could talk, he would always be boasting of his business, and would do nothing.
Moral.—Learn then from the bee, the lesson of silent perseverance.
(I think this is the lesson to be learnt.)
Second.—The wasp's sting is in its tail. So is a tale-bearer's.
Moral.—Avoid wasps and tale-bearers.
(This would come among the quips. Still I think it would be a fair Sunday quip, for even a serious circle.)
Third.—Stand by Niagara Falls, and abuse them. The falls will go on the same as ever. Throw mud at them. None will stick. The power of pure water will wash it away.
Moral.—A spotless character is protected by its own integrity, and though men will try to defame it, yet it triumphs in the end.
(Don't care about this moral. Get something better out of it before to-morrow. It will do for “material.”)
Fourth.—We are born for the sake of one another.
Moral.—Find out for whom you were born, and stick to him, or her.
(Rather a frisky moral this. More for Mondays than Sundays, perhaps. Marcus Aurelius was a great man. One begins to appreciate the greatness of a maxim-maker or aphorist, when you try to do something in that line yourself.)
Fifth.—You yourself are often like those who offend you.
Moral.—When you detect the resemblance to yourself in others, treat them as you deserve to be treated. This may lead to difficulties.
(Something suggested here, by this last word.)
Sixth.—Difficulties were made to be surmounted.
Moral.—Go up Mount Ararat and down the other side.
Seventhly.—The sum of social Christianity: Love your neighbour, and hate your relations.
(This will do for Sunday. Irony for Sunday. Fun for Friday à propos of irony. Who ought to have been the best writer of irony? Steele.)
Eighthly.—In a woman's youth, coquetry is natural. It is the expression of amiable indecision. At thirty, it is a science.
(Somehow I think, I've slid away from Sunday literature.)
Ninthly.—A pretty woman well “made up” is an angel . . . with false wings.
(The mention of an angel, is something nearer to Sunday.)
Tenthly.—'Tis curious that when the Jews finish, the Christians begin. Their Sabbath is the last day of the week, our Sunday is the first.
(This is more like what I wanted. Only in the last three instances, there has been no moral.)
À propos of a moral.
Eleventhly.—A moral in a fable is like the hook in the bait.
Moral.—Take the bait . . . and leave the hook.
Twelfthly.—“The Devil,” said Voltaire, “is at the bottom of Christianity. Without the Devil Christianity would not be.”
Ah, but the Devil little thought this when he tempted Eve.
There is no particular moral to this. It does not require one.
Thirteenthly.—The bad man who attends to the convenances of religious observance, only puts polish on muddy boots.
Moral.—Clean your boots.
(Might add also, “take care of the puddles.” Popgood and Groolly will make a fortune of such a Sunday book as I am getting together. Only it will take some time to compile two hundred pages of maxims and morals.)
Fourteenthly.—Stars and pretty women at a ball don't show to advantage by daylight.
Moral.—Go to bed early.
Fifteenthly.—(A pendant). The Moon is pale from being up all night.
Sixteenthly.—Marrying for Love is like digging for gold. It is to be hoped the speculation will succeed.
Moral.—Love in haste: marry at leisure.
(Altogether, I fancy, I'm wandering from Sunday Meditations. I don't think these are the jottings of Marcus Aurelius.)
Seventeenthly.—Here is something specially for Sunday:—
If you can't pay creditors, love them. It may not be exactly fulfilling the law of your country, but the sentiment is sublime and thoroughly Christian.
(This is a moral in itself. Happy Thought.—Make a moral first and invent the fable. Good.)
Eighteenthly.—We are all so vain that we can't imagine eternal happiness too much for us. The reverse of the medal is unpalatable.
Moral.—Be 'umble.
Nineteenthly.—There are few men, if any, with whom it is possible to reason concerning either Love or Religion.
Moral.—Don't try.
Twentiethly.—Theological discussion generally comes in after dinner with the third bottle of wine.
Moral.—Get to the fourth as quickly as possible.
Twenty-onethly.—Life is a perpetual Epitaph.
Moral.—Better than most epitaphs, because it's short. If you've got to write one remember this.
The last is so melancholy that I can only sit down and think. At present this will do for my Sunday Meditations.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE PROGRAMME—THE FARCE.
For some days Milburd, Mrs. Orby Frimmely, Cazell, Chilvern, and the Medfords have been working hard at a new piece.
The order of the evening is dinner for a few, then theatricals to amuse the many, then refreshments, then a dance, and finally supper.
The Signor is in great force.
“My dear,” he says to his wife, “I shall do my lit-tel step. I shall valse.”
“Mr. Regniati,” returns Madame, severely, “you will do nothing of the sort.”
This rather damps his ardour; and the fact of being unable to consult his nephew on the best means of obtaining his chance of doing his “lit-tel steps,” still further depresses him.
He is perpetually looking into the theatre-room, and as often begging pardon, and being turned out.
The night arrives. I receive the guests as president, and I take the lady I don't want to in to dinner.
Madame rises at the proper moment; and after an hour, and the arrival of several carriages full, the gong summons us to the theatre.
Here Medford and myself hand round the programmes, and Miss Medford performs on the piano.
The programmes are in her writing too. Most neatly done.
This evening will be represented, for the first time on any stage, an entirely new and original Musical Farce, entitled
PENELOPE ANNE.
WRITTEN BY R. MILBURD, ESQ.
Dramatis Personæ.
| Don José John Boxos de Caballeros y Carvalhos y Regalias di Salamanca, generally known, and without familiarity mentioned, as “John Box” | S. Cazell. | ||
| Count Cornelius de Coxo, Land-Margrave of Somewhere, with a Palazzo in Venice, commonly known as “James Cox” | R. Milburd. | ||
| Karl, the German Waiter | T. Chilvern. | ||
| Mrs. Penelope Anne Knox | Mrs. Orby Frimmely. | ||
| Major-General Bouncer, B.L.H. | Captain Byrton. | ||
The Scene is laid in Aix-la-Chapelle, at the Hotel known as Die Schweine und die Pfeiffer.
Time.—There being no time like The Present, we choose the present time.
The Orchestra under the superintendence of Miss Catherine Medford.
Stage Manager, R. Milburd.
Prompter, George A. Medford.
The Curtain being drawn up:—
The scene represents a public room in the small Hotel above-mentioned, at Aix-la-Chapelle.
Doors R.H. and L.H. Also a door C. leading on to a garden.
Time, late in Autumn.
On the table are various papers, books, &c.
Enter Cox.
Everybody applauds him. The Signor says, aloud, “Oh 'ow good! eet is Deeck,” and looks about, proud of his penetration of his nephew's disguise, when Madame observes, “Mr. Regniati, if you can't be quiet, you'd better go out,” whereupon the Signor confines himself to smiling and nodding to different people among the audience, intimating thereby his intense satisfaction with everything that is taking place on the stage.
Cox is in full tourist style of the most recent fashion. Over this he wears a top-coat and round his throat a cache-nez. In one hand he holds a large glass of water.
He walks up and down on entering. Drinks a little. Takes off his coat, which he throws on the sofa. Then drinks again. Then walks. Then removes the cache-nez, which he throws on to coat, then he stands still and respires freely.
COX.
Phew! I'm only gradually cooling. This is the sixth day I've taken the waters of Aix-la-Chapelle . . . and I'm beginning to be so sulphurous all over, that, if anybody was to rub against me suddenly, I should ignite and go off with a bang. I've written to my friend Box an account of it. I haven't seen Box for some years; but as I particularly wish him to remain in England just now, I've commenced a correspondence with him. I've told him that the doctor's orders here are very simple . . . . “Herr Cox,” says he to me—Herr's German—I must explain that to Box, because, though Box is a good fellow, yet—he's—in fact—he's an ass. “Herr Cox,” says he, “you must drink a glass of sulphur wasser.” Wasser's German too; it didn't take long for my naturally fine intellect to discover that it meant water. But Box doesn't know it . . . for though he's an excellent fellow, he is—in fact he's an ignoramus. “Herr Cox,” says he to me, “you must take the sulphur wasser, and then walk about.” “What next, Herr Doctor?” says I. Note to Box. Herr Doctor doesn't mean that he's anything to do with a Hair-cutter. No, it's the respectful German for Mister—must explain that to Box, for though he's a tiptop chap, yet Box is—is—in fact, Box is a confounded idiot. “Herr Doctor,” says I, “what next?” “Well,” says he “when you've taken the sulphur water and walked about, then you must walk about and take the sulphur water.” Simple. The first glass . . . ugh! I shan't forget it. I never could have imagined, till that moment, what the taste of a summer beverage made of curious old eggs . . . a trifle over ripe . . . beaten up with a lucifer match, would be like . . . now I know. But I was not to be conquered. Glass number two was not so bad. Glass number three . . . . less unpalatable than glass number two—glass number four . . . um, between number three and number four a considerable time was allowed to elapse, as I found I had been going it too fast. But now my enfeebled health is gradually being renovated, and they tell me that when I leave this, I shall be “quite another man.” I don't know what other man I shall be. Yes I do. I am now a single man. I hope to leave here a double, I mean a married man. Cox, my boy, that's what you've come here for. Cox, my boy, that's why you want to keep, diplomatically, Box, my boy, in England, and in ignorance of your proceedings. Herr Cox, you're a sly dog. If I could give myself a dig in the ribs without any internal injury, I'd do it. I came here for the rheumatism. By the way I needn't have come here for that, as I'd got it pretty strongly. I caught it, without any sort of trouble. I bathed, at Margate, in the rain. Before I could reach my bathing machine, I was drenched through and through, I don't know where to, but long beyond the skin. The injury was more than skin deep. No amount of exterior scrubbings could cure me. Brandies and waters hot internally, every day for two months, produced more than the desired effect. I began to wander. I finished by travelling. And here I am. In six more lessons on the sulphur spring, I shall be quite the Cure. (Dances and sings.) “The Cure, the Cure, the Cure, &c.”
(Great applause: from the Signor especially.)