LAZY THOUGHTS OF A LAZY GIRL. 

 (Sister of that "IDLE FELLOW. ")

 BY

 JENNY WREN. 

 NEW YORK HURST AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS

CONTENTS. 

 CHAPTER. 

 I. ON LOVE. 

 II. ON BILLS. 

 III. ON POLITICS. 

 IV. ON AFTERNOON TEA. 

 V. ON DRESS. 

 VI. ON CHRISTMAS. 

 VII. ON THE COUNTRY. 

 VIII. ON TOWN. 

 IX. ON CHILDREN AND DOGS. 

 X. ON CONCERTS. 

 XI. ON DANCING. 

 XII. ON WATERING PLACES. 

CHAPTER I. 

ON LOVE. 

 "Love is of man's life a thing apart; 'Tis woman's whole existence. "

So sings the poet, and so agrees the world. Humiliating as it is tomake the confession, it is undeniably true. "Men and Dress are allwomen think about, " cry the lords of creation in their unboundedvanity. And again, we must submit--and agree--to the truth of theaccusation; at any rate, in nine cases out of ten. Fortunately I am atenth case; at least, I consider myself so. I don't dispute the"dress" imputation. I am very fond of dress. Nearly as fond of it asthe twenty-year old youth, and saying that, I allow a good deal. Butvery few of my thoughts are given to the creature "man"! I do notthink him worth it. As my old nurse used to say, "I never 'ad noopinion of the sex!"

Do not conclude, however, that because of my statement that I am adisappointed, soured old maid, for I am nothing of the sort. I am onthe right side of twenty-five, and I have never been crossed in love;indeed, I have never even experienced the tender passion, and onlywrite from my observations of other people; thus taking a perfectlyneutral ground in speaking of it at all. 

One never hears that Adam fell in love with Eve, or that Eve waspassionately attached to Adam. But then, poor things, they had solittle choice--it was either that or nothing. Besides, there was noopposition to the match, so it was bound to be rather a tame affair. For my part, I pity Eve, for Adam was, I think, the very meanest ofmen. When he was turned out of the garden, what a wretch he must havefelt himself! and how he must have taunted his poor wife! Weak men arealways bullies. 

But "_revenons à nos moutons_, " I am wondering who was the firstperson to fall in love! Cain _might_ have done so with his mysteriouswife; history does not say. But certainly there is always someattraction in mystery, so such a thing is possible. I wonder whencethat extraordinary woman sprang!

Neither do we hear much of Noah's domestic experiences, but I shouldconclude on the whole that they were not happy. No man could beendured for forty days shut up in the house, no business to go to, nothing to do, always hanging about, his idle hands at some mischiefor other, and last, but not least, a diabolical temper, displayed atevery turn! Why, I cannot endure one for a week! My only wonder isthat the female population of the Ark did not rise up in a body andconsign their lords and masters to the floods. 

Poor men, they deserve a little of our pity too, perhaps; for if Mrs. Noah and her daughters-in-law at all resembled their effigies in theNoah's Arks of the present day, they were women to be avoided, _I_think. 

So that, after all, it must have been Jacob who set such a veryfoolish example; because we could not count Isaac, his being soextraordinary and isolated a case, when he fell in love with his ownwife!

Therefore I think we owe Jacob a great many grudges. He was theinventor of the tender passion, and since his time people have begunto follow his example long before they come to years of discretion, simply because their parents did so before them, and they think theyare not grown up, that they are not men, unless they have some loveaffair on hand. 

Some get married at once, some wait a long time, and some do not marryat all. These last are, I think, generally the happiest, for thisso-called love lasts for only a very short time, and neither husbandnor wife are long before they console themselves with someone else'saffection to make up for what is wanting on the part of the other. 

Of course I am speaking generally. As far as I can see, the majorityact thus, though I am glad to say that many and various are theexceptions. It was only the other day I came across our washerwomanand asked her how she and her husband got on together. He used to be adrunkard, and used her cruelly, but two years ago he took the pledge, and, what is more, he kept it. "Lor', mum, " she exclaimed fervently, "we draws nearer every day!" I am afraid not many husbands and wivescould say the same. 

People are so anxious to marry too. I cannot understand them, menespecially. They have their clubs, they are entirely independent, andcan go home as late as they please without being questioned as totheir whereabouts. And yet, as soon as they can, they saddlethemselves with a wife, who requires at least half the money--theyhave never found sufficient for themselves alone--besides a great dealof looking after!

Women, on the contrary, are different. They have to make someprovision for the future, so to speak. How do you like it, oh men! theidea that you, with your handsome personages and fascinating ways, areused only as a kind of insurance office? This is the case very often, however, though you may not know it!

Yet others pursue the god Hymen merely for the sake of being married. As soon as they leave the school-room, sometimes before, they begintheir search for a husband, and look out for him in the person ofevery man they meet. No matter who it is so long as they are marriedbefore So-and-So, and can triumph over all their friends. 

It must be said for men that they are falling off in the marryingline. This is not nearly such a proposing generation as the last. Thenthey married much younger and seemed to propose after a few days'acquaintance. No, this is a more cautious age altogether. Men lookround carefully before they make their choice. They sample it well, they watch it in the home circle, they watch it abroad, they watch itwith other men, and finally come to the conclusion that it is worthyto be allied to their noble selves, or they don't!

Another thing. Men of the present day are so direfully afraid of arefusal! So fearful are they, that rather than risk one, they give upmany chances of happiness. 

They expect that a girl should show her feeling toward them, beforethey come to the point. But you must remember that girls also have tobe cautious, and a few--I acknowledge it is only a few--would ratherdie than show they cared for a man who after all might only "love andride away. "

Not that I altogether blame man in this respect. I always admirepride, and am afraid I should not care for a refusal myself. I amintolerant of it even in the smallest matters!

It is curious how men run in grooves. The same style of man nearlyalways marries the opposite type of girl. I mean that theintellectual, the clever, invariably choose the insipid brainlessgirl. Pretty, she may be, but it is in a doll-like way, with not athought above her household. You would have imagined that such menwould require some help-meet, in the fullest sense of the word; with abrain almost as quick as their own. But such a choice occurs veryseldom. 

Again, why is it that little men always select the very tallest womenthey can find? You would think that a man would hesitate to show offhis meagre inches to such bad advantage. But these pigmies appear toenjoy the contrast. It is evidently quantity they admire, not quality. 

I daresay a good deal of what I have written sounds very cynical, butperhaps my experience has been unfortunate, therefore you must forgiveme: certainly it is sometimes very difficult to distinguish betweenthe real thing and its successful counterpart. 

Parents are greatly at fault in the issues of the matrimonial market. After all these centuries of experience you would give them credit formore tact than they possess. Any match they do not desire, they opposeat once, and thereby set alight all the contradictory elements in yournature. If Laban had been less obstinate, and had consented to analliance between Jacob and Rachel from the first, provided Leah wasleft behind to look after him, the latter would immediately have beenendowed with attractions innumerable to Jacob, tender eyes and all!

Nowhere is there such a fertile soil for love as opposition!

On the other hand, if parents wish to encourage a match, young peopleare thrown together as much as possible. However big the gathering, you are somehow always paired off with the eligible parti until yougrow to loathe the man, and would sooner become an "old maid" thanmarry him. 

Parents have a bad time altogether I am afraid. Their nice littleplans are so nearly always upset by their ungrateful children, andthen they have to be continually looking after their brood. I knew onemother who used to take her daughters on the pier and lose sight ofthem at once, as they paired off with their he-acquaintances. Do whatshe would she could not find them again, so many were the nooks andcrannies near at hand. Finally she had recourse to the Camera Obscura, and, with the help of the views set before her there, she found themissing girls! "We never can escape her now, " they told me in mournfultones, after her fatal discovery. 

Girls are degenerating sadly, it is said. They are getting toomasculine, too independent, too different from man's ideal--the modestlittle maid who sits at home and mends her husband's socks. 

I do not dispute the fact. They _are_ degenerating. Neither, though Idislike the ideal specimen, and have a contempt for her, do I stand upfor the other extreme. I have a horror of fast masculine girls, andagree with all that is said against them. Nevertheless, I do notconsider men have any right to complain, as they are the chief causeof the deterioration of our sex. 

Everyone knows that a girl thinks more of a man's opinion than that ofanyone else. If he applauds, then she is satisfied. She does notconsider it ignominy to be termed "a jolly good fellow!" She getspraise, and in a way admiration, when she caps his good stories, smokes, and drinks brandies and sodas. Unfortunately, she does nothear herself discussed when he is alone with his friends, or perhapsshe would be more cautious in her manners and conversation for thefuture, for this is not the kind of girl who is

 "Rich in the grace all women desire, Strong in the power that all men adore. "

CHAPTER II. 

ON BILLS. 

BILLS! BILLS! BILLS! Detestable sound! Obnoxious word! Why were suchthings ever invented? Why are they sent to destroy our peace of mind?

They always come, too, when you are expecting some interesting letter. You hurry to meet the postman, you get impatient at the length of timehe takes to separate his packets (I sometimes think these men findpleasure in tantalizing you, and keep you waiting on purpose), andwhen he at last presents you with your long-expected missive, behold, it turns to dust and ashes in your hand--metaphorically speaking, ofcourse. 

It is a pity such a metamorphosis does not occur in reality; for thewretched oblong envelope, with the sprawly, flourishy writing, sounmistakably suggests a bill, that you--well, I do not know what_you_ do on such an occasion; _my_ letter, which I have been soanxious to obtain, is flung to the other side of the room. 

How is it that bills mount up so quickly? You buy a little ribbon, afew pairs of gloves, some handkerchiefs--mere items in fact, and yetwhen quarter day comes round you are presented with a bill a yardlong, which as your next instalment of money is fully mortgaged, iscalculated to fill you with anything but extreme joy. 

Why are the paths leading to destruction always so much easier ofaccess than any other? It takes so much less time to run up a bill, itis so much simpler to say, "Will you please enter it to my account?"than to pay your money down. First the bill has to be added up, and, strange as it may seem, these shop people appear to take _hours_ overa simple addition sum. "Eight and elevenpence halfpenny if you please, ma'am. " Of course you have not enough silver, and so are obliged towait for change. Then someone has to be found to sign. Altogether ittakes quite five minutes longer paying ready money; and think, howfive minutes after each purchase would mount up in a day's shopping!I should say that, on an average you might call it two important hoursregularly thrown away. "And a good job, too, " perhaps our fathers, husbands, and brothers would say. But, then, you see, they arePhilistines and do not understand. 

But though we suffer somewhat at the hands of these shop people, Ithink in their turn they have to endure a great deal more from theircustomers. I have seen old ladies order nearly the whole shop out, turn over the articles, and having entirely exhausted the patience oftheir victims, say, "Yes--all very pretty--but I don't think I willbuy any to-day, thank you, " and they move off to other counters toenact the same scene over again. Selfish old things!

I was dreadfully hard up a short time ago, and of course my bills wereten times as big as usual. I had no money coming in, and could notconceive how I was to meet my debts. 

It is astonishing, when you come to try it, how few paths there areopen for poverty-stricken ladies to make a little money, especiallywhen your object is to keep your difficulties a secret from yourmankind. I tried every imaginable way without success. What is thegood of having an expensive education, of being taught French andGerman--neither of which languages, by the way, when brought to thetest, a girl can ever talk, or at any rate so as to be understood. What is the good of it all, I say, when you want to turn your hand tomaking a little money? I felt quite angry the other day when, our cookbeing ill, we had a woman in to take her place. Fifteen shillings aweek she made! She, who had had little or nothing spent on hereducation, could yet make more shillings in a week than I could pence!I began to wish I had been brought up as a scullery maid. 

I can paint rather well, but what are the advantages of art comparedto those of cookery? Many and many a shop I went into, carryingspecimens of my talent, and asking the owners if they would employ meto decorate their tambourines, bellows, &c. But no, they all had theirown especial artists, and were quite suited. It is such a dreadfullyhumiliating business. At the first place I could have slain the manfor his impertinence in declining, and I left the shop with a haughtymien and my head in the air. But I grew accustomed to it in time, andeven used to try a little persuasion, which, however, proved of noavail. One man offered to exhibit my wares (I felt quite like apeddler going his rounds), and through him I sold two tambourines. Then who so proud as I? though my profits only came to a fewshillings. However small, the first taste of success is alwaysexhilarating, though indeed my confidence did not last long, for thiswas my first and last experience of money-making in the painting line. 

I used to search the sale and exchange columns of the papers, andfound once that someone wanted music transposed. I wrote directlyoffering my services, and charging a shilling per piece or song. For awonder I was successful, for the person answered, asking for aspecimen of my skill, which she was pleased to say would do very well. 

How her letters used to amuse me! She must have been a ratherincapable singing mistress I think. Her letters though properly speltwere written in an uneducated hand, and she addressed me as if I werea servant. She used to give me very little time in which to transposeher songs, and insisted on their being finished when she wanted them. Sometimes I was quite tired out, for copying music is not a thing tobe done in a hurry. 

Somehow, our negotiations did not last long. Whether I grew careless, or she found others to do the work cheaper, I do not know, but shesuddenly withdrew her custom, and I have never heard from her since. 

My next venture was tale writing. Who has not tried this mostunsatisfactory method? It is a tremendously anxious time when yourfirst effort is sent out. What a lot of money you expect to obtain forit! You do not intend to be unprepared, so you spend every penny inyour mind beforehand. Then there is the honor and glory of it! Youwill hear everyone talking of the cleverly written tale and wonderingwho is the gifted author!

What made me more hopeful was the possession of a cousin, who was verysuccessful in this line. Indeed, she has reached the three-volumestage by now, and is beginning to be quite well known. I have lost myinterest in her, however, since she took me and my family off in oneof her books. It is such an easy thing to do. You only have to findout a person's peculiarities--and everyone has a peculiarity!--andoverdraw them a little. My sisters and I, I remember, figured asthree brainless, fast girls, which would only have amused us had sheleft the rest of the family alone. It is a foolish thing to do, forbesides nearly always giving offence it is not by any means anevidence of good taste. 

It is much more difficult to write a tale than some people think; youget in such hopeless tangles sometimes. People you kill off in thefirst chapter, you sadly need in the last. Then, when you arefinishing up, there are so many people to get rid of, that you areobliged to dispatch them in a bunch with an explosion, or somethingequally probable--three or four strangers as a rule, who have neverseen each other before, but who considerately assemble in one place tomeet their doom. Then the last pages will never fit in with the first. Your meek but lovely heroine at the beginning has been transformedinto a beautiful vixen as you near the end, and is quiteunrecognizable. The worst parts of all are the sensational ones. Youthink you have worked your hero up to a pitch of fiery eloquence, while his _fiancée_ is dying in agony close by, and when youcomplacently turn to read over the passage, you find his words implyno more sorrow than they would at the death of a relative from whom hehad expectations, or--a mother-in-law!

It is rather a difficult matter in a large family to keep your actionsa secret. Obtuse as most men are, with things going on right undertheir eyes, it is not easy to baffle them when once their curiosity isroused. And yet curiosity is always imputed exclusively to women!Though Eve _was_ the first to taste the apple, Adam had no intentionof being behindhand. I know a man who always manages to get down tobreakfast five minutes before the rest of his family, for the purposeof examining the correspondence all round. 

Fortunately I managed to escape from these inquisitive eyes, for I metthe postman myself when he brought back my first tale. It was returnedwith the Editor's "compliments and thanks, " coupled with the regretthat he could not make use of my contribution. 

I don't know that I ever felt such keen disappointment as when thattale came back from its first visit. I had hoped so much from it, andhad been so confident of its success. It depressed me for some time, and it was long before I ventured upon anything in the literary wayagain. But habit is second nature, they say, so after that and othertales had been the round of all the magazines and returned to theirancestral home, decidedly the worse for their outings (change of airevidently does not agree with MSS. ), they affected me no more than thereceipt of a tradesman's circular. In fact I grew quite to welcomethem as old friends, and no one would have been more astonished than Ihad they been converted into £ s. D. 

Apparently I am not cut out for literary work. I have not sufficientimagination, nor am I sceptical enough for this fanciful andscientific age. The world only cares for impossible adventures andmagic stories, or stories which undermine their religion or upset italtogether, and I am not clever enough for this. 

Of course, in my pecuniary need I did not neglect to employ a"chancellor of the exchequer, " as Miss. Mathers calls her; a "wardrobekeeper, " as she terms herself. Indeed, I employed two or three, and sohad plenty of opportunities of observing the type. 

These women certainly vary in the way they carry on business, but veryrarely do they vary in appearance. For the fattest, ugliest, oiliestold creatures to be found anywhere, commend me to a Chancellor! Ipause in astonishment sometimes, and wonder how they have the strengthto carry so much flesh about with them. 

The first one I engaged possessed a complexion of a glowing yellow, like unto the petals of an alamander. She carried on the business in atoo independent way altogether. She would take up my garments, lookthem over with a contemptuous sniff (what eloquence there is in asniff!), and then begin to talk of the "ilegant costoomes she 'ad 'adlately of Lady ----, of the 'ansome silks and furs purchased from theCountess of ----, " &c. It was cunningly and knowingly done. Immediately, as was intended, my productions began to lose value in myeyes, in contrast to her gorgeous descriptions. Finally she wouldstate her price, and by no art or persuasion would she give way apenny afterwards. 

I believe she was given to fits. Anyhow she fell very ill once whenshe came, and had to be given brandy to support her. I was afraid shewas going to die in the house, which would have been exceedinglyunpleasant, for it is a heinous breach of gentility to be found mixedup in any such transactions. We are so foolish, we have such littleminds, we try to hide our doings from our neighbors, who are all goingthrough the same experiences, and are equally desirous of concealingthem from us. If all our screens were taken away what a comedy oferrors would be disclosed. How surprised we should be to see everyonecommitting follies of which we have been so ashamed and so anxious tohide from the eyes of all!

After all the brandy had a most beneficial effect. I think it musthave flown to her head; for never before had she given such largeamounts. I was quite sorry to find her so well at her next advent. Hersniff was even more eloquent, and her prices had returned to theiroriginal low level. I regret now that I did not again try the brandy. 

Another woman I employed was even uglier than the first. She was sowholesomely ugly. A great red full moon represented her countenance, radiant with the color of the Eiffel Tower. She was altogether a moresatisfactory chancellor than the other. She always insisted on yourstating your own price to begin with. "Well, what d'yer think yerself, mum?" was her invariable ejaculation, and then, hearing your reply, would break in on whatever you said by "It ain't worth more than_'arf_ that to me, mum, " in the most aggrieved voice. I became used toher in time, and knowing she would halve whatever I said, used todemand double the worth of the thing. "What d'yer think yerself, mum?"You grow so tired of your opinion being thus asked. I wonder how manytimes she says it in a day! It is a cautious way of going about it, atany rate. If that woman ever appeared in a police court on a charge ofdishonesty, and the magistrate asked her what she had to say to thecharge, the answer would undoubtedly be, "Well, what d'yer thinkyerself, sir?"

Some of those bills are still unpaid. Quarter day is coming roundagain, so I expect there will be some more soon. Alas! I am an unluckybeing, born under an unlucky star. 

You may think it a strange notion, but I attribute all my ill-luck tospiders:

 "If you wish to live and thrive, Let a spider run alive. "

I am not superstitious as a rule, but I cannot help thinking that mywholesale massacre of this obnoxious insect has something to do withmy misfortunes by way of retribution. 

I hate spiders! Nearly everybody has a pet aversion of some sort. Ihave heard people shriek at the sight of a caterpillar, and turn palein the neighborhood of a toad. My great antipathy is a spider! Notthat I object to its treatment of flies--nasty little worries, theydeserve everything that happens to them. But it is the _appearance_ ofa spider that is so against it. There is a shifty expression about theeye, and such a leer on the upper lip. Money spinners are not soobjectionable. I can tolerate them. It is the big, almost tarantulas, from which I flee. Those creatures which start up suddenly, and runacross the room close by where you are sitting; creatures so largethat you can almost hear their footsteps as they pass. 

A man told me once he had found a spider in his room of such enormousdimensions that he had to open the door in order that it might getout!

Overdrawn, you say? Well, it sounds a little improbable certainly; notso much on account of the unusual size of the spider as for theextraordinary consideration on the part of the man. 

CHAPTER III. 

ON POLITICS. 

Perhaps you don't think me competent to talk about politics? "What dowomen know about such things?" asks the superior masculine mind. 

Well, they don't know so much as men, I admit, and I earnestly hopethey never will. A woman who is infected with politics is a positivepest, and should be removed at once. If I do not know anything aboutthem, at any rate I ought to, as I have been brought up in a ragingTory household, and so have been steeped in them from my youth up. 

There is such a sameness in politicians. Whatever their opinions, their language and feelings are all one. They are only directed atdifferent people. While one man is gloating over a Conservativevictory you hear a mutter from the Radical to the effect that "That_brute_ has got in for ----" Poor man, why, because he thinksdifferently to you, should he be a brute? But just the same words arespoken if the positions be reversed. It is only the mouths that changeplaces. 

I am afraid my views incline toward the Tory side. I cannot help it, Iwas bought over long ago. You _must_ feel an interest as to thesuccessful candidate when the result means either a tip all round or athundery atmosphere for the rest of the day. Men take an adverse pollas a personal affront and vent their feelings on their families. Thetipping was quite an understood thing when I was younger, now it isgiven up, and joy is shown in a less substantial way, I regret to say. Unfortunately the thunder storms are not events of the past as well. 

Politicians have such a narrow way of looking at things. The otherside can do nothing right while they themselves are absolutelyfaultless! If a Tory wishes to confer an opprobrious epithet on aperson he calls him a Radical, and _vice versâ_; the opposite factionis capable of any enormity? This reminds me of the old Scotchman whoon being asked his opinion of a man who had first murdered and thenmutilated his victim, answered in a shocked voice, "What do I think?Well, I think that a maun who'd do all that would whistle on theSawbuths!" "Such a man must be a Home Ruler, " my father would havesaid. 

In having a guest with opposite views at your dinner table, whatagonies do you not suffer? I have gone through those dreadful mealstrembling at every word that drops from the man's lips. Try as youmay, turn the conversation how you will, there is sure to be someallusion, some statement that sets on fire all the host's enthusiasm, and it does not take long before the poor guest is entirelyannihilated and subdued--unless indeed he is as hot on his side as theother is on his; then indeed all we can do is to sit and hear it out. To attempt to stem such a torrent would be the act of a lunatic. Weonly feel thankful that "pistols for two and coffee for one" is athing of the past. 

The General Elections are dreadful times; nothing but canvassing goeson night after night for weeks beforehand. Conversation is entirelyrestricted to the coming event--if you mention a word about anythingapart from it, you are considered absolutely profane, and are treatedas a pariah for the next few days. 

It is interesting, I admit, and the election day itself is positivelyexciting. You cannot help catching the malady at times. I rememberonce, when I was very little, and walking out with my governess, tearing down a Liberal bill, in spite of all she said to the contrary. True, it was on what she considered her own side, though I don't thinkshe knew enough to distinguish between the two; still her realannoyance was occasioned more by the look of the thing. That a pupilof hers should act in such a plebeian way, and in so public a place, certainly must have been somewhat provoking? Anyhow, she gave me a badmark for disobedience, which affected me but little, as when I relatedthe story to my father later on he rewarded me with a shilling for myprowess! Electioneering, you see, is not good for the morals!

How tired you get, too, of seeing the names of would-be members stuckup all over the place. My brothers used to follow the Liberalbill-sticker round, and as soon as he had turned his back pull theplacards down, or cover them up with their own. This was found out atlast, and the foe grew more cautious. 

Then the extravagant promises made by the candidates, which they neverreally intend to fulfil, and could not if they wished. It is like theman in Church who, while singing--

 "Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were an offering far too small, "

was rubbing his finger along the rim of a threepenny bit to make sureit was not a fourpenny!

On election days all mankind goes mad. Their excitement is so greatthat they would scarcely know it did they forego their dinner. Andthis, with men, proves an absorbing interest in the matter. Anythingplaced above dinner, in their opinion, must be important indeed. 

There is such a polite element abroad on polling day. Men are sorespectful and hurl such affectionate terms at one another. Even thedogs are upset, and strut about in quite a different manner than onordinary days, so puffed out with vanity are they, on account of theirdecorations. The members' wives and their friends are all taking partin the scene too, bringing voters along in their carriages, andshaking hands with everybody indiscriminately. I heard an old navvyprotesting once that "Lady ---- never troubled to shake 'ands with himany other time, but was generally that 'orty she'd step over you assoon as look at you. "

Poor old men are dragged out _nolens volens_ to add their mite to thepublic voice, and are sometimes so aged that they scarcely know whattheir opinions are. I hope I shall not live to be very old. It is aterrible thing when you make such a prolonged stay on this earth thatyou have to be helped off it. 

It is very curious too, how exceedingly disobliging old people are. Iknow a family who have never worn anything brighter than grey foryears. "In case we have to go into mourning soon--our poor old aunt, you know. It's so very sad!" and they squeeze a tear out fromsomewhere, but whether on account of their relative's illness, or herprolonged life, is open to opinion. The old lady is flourishing still, and the family is as soberly clothed as ever. When she has been deada few months what rainbows they will become, to make up for lost time!

"A disappointing man, " I have heard a dutiful nephew term his uncle. True, he (the uncle, I mean) is ninety-four, and therefore old enoughto know better than to rally so many times. But after all, he doesnothing, runs into no danger, is tended as carefully as a new-bornbaby; I should not at all wonder if he still continued "disappointing"and took a new lease of life for seven years. But I am digressing, andmust return to politics. 

I went to a Primrose meeting once and the experience was not so happyas to make me wish to try it again. 

It amused me, certainly. The conclusion I eventually arrived at, whenI left, was that the chief element in the Primrose League wasgratitude! This virtue seemed to be the point round which all thespeakers rallied. 

First the secretary rose, ran off a quantity of statistics, as to whathad been done by the great League, what it was going to do, and howmany converts had been induced to join, which was exceedinglyuninteresting, I think, but which elicited loud applause from the restof the audience. Then some resolution was passed, at which if youagreed you were begged "to signify the same in the usual way. " Afterwhich those who thought differently were asked to show their feelingsin the same fashion. I held my hand up here, but I suppose the rulingcouncillor did not expect any opposition, for he never even lookedround to see, but gabbled off by rote, "On the contrary? carriedunanimously!" and my amiable attempt at running counter to the restwas not even noticed!

Then the ruling councillor gave way to Mr. ---- (here a sickly smilewas directed at the great man), who had so very kindly come to speakto us this evening, who would, he felt sure, quite enchant us withhis--er--great eloquence (another leer to his right). 

The great man then came forward, and with a superior smile on hiscountenance waited until the applause which greeted his entrance hadceased, and then began. He commenced somewhat softly, detailing allthe advantages of the Primrose League: what it had done for England, the fear it arouses in the heart of the Liberal faction, how it willraise the country to a summit it never before has reached! No! andnever would have reached had it not been for this flourishing, thispowerful League! &c. , &c. , &c. His voice gradually grew louder andlouder until, with beating his hands on the table, stamping violentlyover the sins of the Radicals, and perspiring vehemently in theeffort, he presented anything but a pleasing spectacle. 

Of course animation like this brought down the house. The applausenearly deafened me, and I was quite glad when he drew near the end ofhis most tedious speech. He concluded by calming down very suddenly, returned to his original tones, and thanking his audience for hisexceedingly kind reception, retired to his seat looking, as Mr. Mantalini would say, a "dem'd damp, moist, unpleasant body. "

Then up rose the ruling councillor, and called us all to pass a voteof thanks to the "gifted orator. " Someone seconded it, and the greatman came forward again to thank us for thanking him. A sort of "Soglad, I'm glad, you're glad" business, it seemed to me. 

Then the ladies were thanked for being present: "Such great aids, andsuch an _important_ element in the League, " with a snigger, and whathe confidently hoped was a fascinating smile, but which made himresemble a very placid cow with the corners of its mouth turned up. Such a mouth, too! The poor man could have whispered in his own earhad he wished. Then someone returned thanks for the ladies. The rulingcouncillor was thanked, and thanked his thankers back again, and aftera few more people had exhibited their great faculty for gratitude themeeting broke up--the only moment at which I felt inclined to applaud. 

I do not wish to disparage my own "side" by the foregoing remarks, notcaring in any way to emulate Balaam. It is not only the members of thePrimrose League who are so anxious to praise each other. It is thecase at nearly every meeting you go to. It is a weakness of humannature. We know that if we laud our friend he will sing an eulogy onus the next minute, so it is only natural we should do it, after all. 

 "The fault is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. "

CHAPTER IV. 

ON AFTERNOON TEA. 

 "The Muses' friend, Tea, does our fancy aid, Repress the vapors which the head invade, And keeps the palace of the soul serene. "

How I do love tea! I don't deny it, it is as necessary to me assmoking is to men. 

I have heard a lady accused by her doctor of being a "tea-drunkard"!"Tea picks you up for a little time, " he said, "and you feel a greatdeal better after you have had a cup. But it is a stimulant, theeffect of which does not last very long, and all the while it isruining your nerves and constitution. I daresay it is difficult togive up--the poor man finds the same with his spirits. You are nobetter than he!"

It is rather a come down, is it not? Somehow, when you are drinkingtea, you feel so very temperate. Well, at least, the above reflectionmakes you sympathize with the inebriates, if it does nothing else;and I am afraid it does nothing else with me. In spite of the warning, I continue to take my favorite beverage as strong and as frequently asever, and so I suppose must look forward to a cranky nervous old age. 

It is curious to notice how men are invading our precincts now-a-days. They used to scoff at such a meal as afternoon tea, and now most ofthem take it as regularly as they stream out of the trains on Saturdayafternoons with pink papers under their arms--such elevatingliterature! Indeed there is quite a fuss if they have to go withoutit--the tea I mean, not the paper. 

It is strange too, because they dislike it so, if we trespass on theirpreserves, _e. G. _, their outcry on ladies smoking: which isexceedingly unfair, for we have no equivalent for the fragrant weed. Still I agree with the men in a way, for nothing looks worse than agirl smoking in public, though a cigarette now and then with a brotherdoes, I think, no harm, provided it does not grow into a habit. 

My brother once gave me a cigarette and bet me a shilling that I wouldnot smoke it through. It was so hard that if I had bent it, it wouldhave snapped in two. He had only just found it in a corner of acupboard where it had lain for years and years. But oh, the strengthof that cigarette! It took me hours to get through, for it would notdraw a bit. Nevertheless, with the incentive of a shilling to urge meon, I continued "faint but pursuing" and eventually won the bet. Iwould not do it again for ten times the amount. 

But I should be talking about tea, not smoking; and tea has otherbaneful influences besides destroying the digestion. I think thatafternoon tea is the time that breeds more gossip and scandal thanany other hour in the day. 

As Young exclaims:--

 "Tea! How I tremble at thy fatal stream! As Lethe dreadful to the love of fame. What devastations on thy bank are seen, What shades of mighty names that once have been! A hecatomb of characters supplies Thy painted alters' daily sacrifice!"

Acquaintances drop in. They have all the latest doings of theneighborhood at their fingers' ends, and in a quarter of an hour havepicked everyone of their most intimate friends to pieces, nor do theyleave them a shred of character. 

Why do we feel such a relish in running down our friends andrelations--the latter especially? _I_ quite enjoy it, though I shouldnever do so outside my own family; thus my words never come round totheir ears. It is a necessity to relieve your feelings occasionally, and your family is a good, safe receptacle. 

For those who have a taste for speaking spitefully of their neighbors, I can suggest an amusing game which was, I believe, started in Oxford. It is called Photograph whist, and is played by four. Two or threedozen photographs are dealt round, and each person plays one, he whoplays the ugliest portrait taking the trick. The more hideous thephotograph, the greater its value as a trump! I have played the gamewith a man who always keeps his brother to the end, and then bringshim out with enormous success, the said brother never failing toovertrump any other card in the pack! So you see it is a most amiablegame altogether. You must only be careful not to spread your doingsabroad, or no one will present you with their portraits ever again. 

There is no sin so bad as being found out. You can say anything aslong as you are not discovered to be the originator. But if your wordsagainst a person ever happen to get round to him or her (of courseadded to, and made almost unrecognizable in their progress) you makean enemy for life. At least, this is so as a rule. Personally, I nevercare what people say against me, so long as it is not true. But ifthey only keep to the truth, then it is aggravating. You cannot denyit! You cannot "tremble with indignation, and fling the words back intheir faces, " as the slandered heroine always does in the modernnovel. You must simply submit to the accusation. 

A man I know was saying all round the place a little while ago, thatmy sisters and I "were all good looking until we opened our mouths. "Of course we heard of it, and have never forgiven him for his "damningpraise. " But it is true. We always admit the fact. We know we show ourteeth too much when we laugh and talk. It was impossible to disclaimsuch a statement. If he had said that we squinted, not a syllablewould have been pronounced against him. Our eyes are all exceptionallygood, and would bear any detrimental remarks. But no, he kept to thetruth, and consequently has suffered ever since, for ways of revengehave been found which were thoroughly successful. He is the ugliestman I ever met too, and should therefore have been the last to offend. 

In spite of the tea you are invariably given on such occasions, Ithink calls--formal calls--are some of the most dreadful experiencesMrs. Grundy obliges you to undergo. I dislike them immensely, andalways get out of them if possible. I hope servants do not afterwardsrecord the expression of my countenance when they tell me theirmistress is "out. " It is radiant with an unholy joy!

These dreadful "at home" days, too, are so provoking. If you know adozen people in a neighborhood, you can only call on one at a time. They all have different days! This may seem slightly impossible; butit is not indeed. While one lady's house is open to visitors on thefirst and third Wednesdays in the month, another is on view on thesecond and fourth, and so on. Not two people agree!

Small talk, I think, is never so small as on these occasions. The poorweather is thorougly worn out, a few mutual friends are picked topieces, and of course there is a discussion about dress. Sometimes youhear some sad account of the lady's second cousin's daughter, and youhave immediately to clothe your countenance in a sober garb. You mustlook grieved, and all the while not caring one straw if the cousin'sdaughter has fits or gets insane, or anything else she cares to do. You have never heard of her before, and therefore have not theslightest interest in her eccentricities. I always feel so terriblyinclined to laugh, just because I ought to be doing the other thing. 

People are so fond of talking about their troubles and griefs. Thegreater the sorrow, the greater the discussion. They call up tears totheir eyes, as if the subject were too sacred to approach. But suchtears are kept for the purpose. They come at their bidding, and fallas naturally into their place as if the exhibition had been practicedbeforehand. It is a positive enjoyment to such people to detail theirgrievances. 

With the lower classes, this, so to speak, gloating over your lossesis even more apparent. One comparatively well-to-do woman I know, seems to have a monopoly of funerals. There is always some relationdead, and off she goes with an important air, draped from head to footin black; the picture of "loathed melancholy" outwardly; inwardly, glowing with pride; while all her neighbors stand outside their doors, literally consumed with jealousy at her good fortune! And then theterrible moment of her return, when you are obliged, whether you willor not, to listen to the whole account, the description, the progress, and finally the interment of "the corpse"! I hope, however dead I maybe one day, that I shall never be described as "a corpse"! There issomething so horrible in the word, I always think. It makes you evenmore dead than you are. It cuts you so absolutely off from the living. 

Then there are those tiresome people who talk of nothing but theirown families. The mother from whom you hear all the ailments of herchildren if they are young, all the conquests of her daughters if theyare old. The sisters, to prevent the accusation of vanity, do notpraise themselves, but arrive at the same end by lauding up eachother! These "mutual admiration" families, as Wilkie Collins so aptlyterms them, are families to be shunned. 

You do not very often come across men on these "at home" days. If theyare in the house, they wisely avoid the drawing-room; and if you everdo meet one, he is sure to be a very milk-and-water young man--one whodelights in small talk and small matters; or else a curate. 

I met one of the former class the other day. He was a dreadfulspecimen! A large head, a bland smile, a vacant stare, and an enormouscapacity for eating!

He came and sat by me when I first arrived; but when he made a slip ofthe tongue, and I brought it to his notice kindly, but firmly, he wentaway and sulked for the rest of the afternoon. 

He was talking about the recent muzzling order, and added, in quicklittle tones, "They are talking about muzzling cats, I see. "

"But cats do not bite, " I objected. 

"No, " in mild surprise at my ignorance; "but they scratch. "

"And do they intend to muzzle their paws?" I asked, smiling; adding asuggestion that two pairs of goloshes apiece would answer the purposeadmirably, besides having the combined advantage of keeping the poorthings from rheumatism!

But he did not smile. He saw nothing funny in what he had said. Hethought I was laughing at him, and so left me at the very firstopportunity, and went and sat by himself at the tea table. I could notvery well see what he was doing, for his back was turned; howbeit itwas a very eloquent back--a back which appeared absorbed in bread andbutter and cakes! He must have cleared the table, I should think, before he had finished!

It certainly is not nice to be caught up suddenly and made to appearfoolish. If you ever make a mistake, the best way is to confess it atonce, to tell the tale yourself. It sounds very different from yourlips than from those of your dearest friends. People laugh, but it isa laugh that lacks the sting it would have if someone else told it atyour expense. 

I remember making a woeful slip when I was taken over a cotton mill. The man who was conducting us pointed to what looked like a heap ofdirty wool, and explained that it was the raw material. "And is thatjust as it comes off the sheep's back?" I asked, unthinkingly. If athunderbolt had fallen in our midst the guide could not have been moreastonished. "Cotton, Miss!" he said, with grave surprise, "_Cotton_ isa plant!" I inquired for no further information in that cotton mill, but I told the story myself when I reached home, joining in thelaughter that followed as heartily as any of my audience. 

Curates are more the rule than the exception at the five o'clock meal. Somehow, you always connect the two. Afternoon tea without a curatesounds an anomaly, a something incomplete. 

I have had great experience in curates. Ours is a large parish, andmany clerical helps are needed. Large, small, nice, objectionable, ugly, handsome--I have met specimens of each and all, and have cometo the conclusion that the last kind is the worst. How rarely do youmeet a good-looking man who thinks of anything but his appearance. Itis strange, for the more lovely a woman is the less apparentlyconscious she is of her beauty. At any rate, she does not go aboutwith an expression which seems to say, "I am that which is 'a joyforever'--admire me!"

The "pale young curate" type is perhaps the most general. This poorthing is so depressingly shy--I say depressingly, because his shynessaffects his company. You try to draw him out. You ask question afterquestion, and have to supply the answers yourself, only obtaining, byway of reward, despairing upward glances, that are by no means anencouragement to proceed. 

The most fatal effect of this shyness, however, lies in the fact thathe dare not get up to go! He sits toying with his hat, he picks up hisumbrella three or four times, and lets it drop again; finally, starting up with a rush in the middle of a conversation, he hurriesout, shaking hands all round with everyone but his hostess!

Would it be a very heinous breach of etiquette, if after an hour and ahalf of this curate's company, one should suggest diffidently that itwas time to go?

In strong contrast, there is the bold, dashing man, who only comeswhen he knows all the daughters are at home, not so much because itgives him pleasure to see them, as because he would not deprive themof the pleasure of talking to him. He has a faith in himself thatremoves mountains; no lady's heart can beat regularly in his presence, according to his confident opinion. 

So on the whole I do not think afternoon tea is so nice abroad as itis at home. It is not so pleasant with many as with a chosen few. I amselfish, I am afraid, but I must confess I enjoy mine most with thesole company of a roaring fire, a very easy chair, and a novel!

CHAPTER V. 

ON DRESS. 

I do not know who was the originator of the remark, but it has oftenbeen said, and is generally admitted, that women do not dress toplease the men, but to outdo one another. 

I think just the same might be said of men in their turn. It is afterall this spirit of competition which helps to make the world go round. It is innate in man, and woman too, to always try to outrun eachother. 

With clothes it is undoubtedly the case. The ancient Briton must havevied with his neighbor in different designs with the woad plant. Anunusual curve, an uncommon pattern, caused, I daresay, as muchexcitement then as the fashions of our own day. 

I often wonder how they will manage some points in the histories forthe coming generation. In most of these books you see illustrationsand descriptions of the dress of the period, the costume of the reign. How, oh historians! can you show forth those of Victorian times? Fiftyyears have passed already! There were four seasons in each of thosefifty years! Two hundred illustrations must be shown in order to givea correct idea of the dress of the time! Perhaps it might be moresatisfactory to devote a volume exclusively to the subject. 

If only we did not run on so quickly! We seem to get faster everyyear. In a very little time, what we wear one day will be quite out ofdate the next! When we arrive at this climax, there will be a suddenconvulsion of nature, I should think, and we shall return once more tothe more simple garb of the aborigines. What an amount of trouble itwould save us! No worrying because the dressmaker has not sent ourgowns home in time! No sending them back to be altered! Nodressmaker's or tailor's bills; or at the least, very small ones; for"woad" could not ruin us _very_ much. 

So on the whole it would be well perhaps if this revolution did occur. Some such convulsion as geologists declare has already frequentlybefallen our earth; and, as they prophesy, is shortly coming again. 

I do not like talking to these scientific men. They make you feel soinfinitesimally small. They go back such a long, long way. They makeout that from the Creation (which by the way they do not admit, onlyconsidering it another great change in the world springing fromnatural causes), from the Creation until now, is the space of a momenton the great clock of time, is a mere "parenthesis in eternity. "

It is not nice to feel such a nonentity. What are our lives, ourlittle lives in comparison? We, who each consider ourselves the oneperson upon the earth, the hero or heroine in the great drama: all therest mere by-characters. We do not care to be considered of suchlittle consequence; only puppets appearing on the stage for one momentand taken off the next. We are like the clergyman in the small islandoff the North of Scotland, who prayed for the inhabitants "of GreatCumbray and Little Cumbray and the neighboring islands of GreatBritain and Ireland!" On our small piece of land, we yet considerourselves the centre of the universe. 

It is to be hoped if this revolution occurs, after all, that theclimate will change likewise. We should require something more besidesblue paint in most of our English winters!

Perhaps we take too much thought for what we shall put on. They saythat nothing but the prevailing and forthcoming fashions fill thefeminine mind. It is true sometimes, I daresay, and yet I always agreewith our immortal bard in thinking that "Self-love is not so vile athing as self-neglect. "

It is decidedly better to think too much than too little. It is a dutyto your country and your nation to look your best, no matter who islikely to see you. 

Of course it can be overdone, _e. G. _, the lady who insisted on herbonnet being trimmed on the right because that was the side presentedto the congregation! And she, I am afraid, is only a type of many. 

There is no reason why this should be the rule; yet nearly everyoneseems to bring out their new clothes on Sunday, and exhibit them inChurch. I suppose it is because they meet so many friends there, andwith laudable unselfishness wish them all equally to enjoy the sight. 

"What's the good of your going to church?" a man said to me once; "youonly go to show off your gown and look about to see who has a newbonnet and who has not! Now, when _I_ go, " he went on in a superiorway, "I don't notice a single thing anyone has on!"

"No, " I answered quietly, "but you could tell me exactly how manypretty girls were amongst the congregation, and describe theirfeatures accurately!" And he not only forbore to deny the accusation, but admitted it with pride! No girl, he assured me, with any pretenceto good looks, ever escaped _his_ notice. 

Which was the worse, I wonder; he or I? At least I did not glory in mymisdeeds. 

"_Il faut souffrir pour être belle_;" and I _have_ suffered sometimes. How often I used to burn myself when I first began to curl my hair!This is such an arduous task, too, with me, for my hair is, as my oldnurse used to call it, "like a yard o' pumpwater" (I never went to herwhen I wanted a compliment). It certainly is straight, and I find it amatter of great difficulty to give it the appearance of naturalcurls. But "practice makes perfect, " they say, so I still persevere, hoping that it may come right some day. I have to be so careful indamp and rainy weather. It is such a shock to look at yourself after aday's outing, to find your "fringe" hanging in straight lines all downyour forehead, an arrangement that is so particularly unbecoming. Youbegin to wonder at what time during the day it commenced to unbend, and if you have had that melancholy, damp appearance many hours. Perhaps it is as well that you did not know before, for it could nothave been rectified; you cannot bring a pair of tongs and aspirit-lamp out of your pocket and begin operations in public! Stillit is exceedingly aggravating if you think you have been making animpression, and you return home to confront such a dejected-lookingspectacle as you find in your mirror. 

I am wandering again. Let me get back to my subject--Dress. To insurea good fit you must have your gown so tight that it is impossible toraise your arms. You are obliged to walk about stiffly, with all theappearance of a trussed fowl. If you wish to put on your hat you mustfirst unbutton your bodice! It is particularly awkward, too, inChurch: you scarcely have the power to hold your book at seeingdistance. But what do such trifles matter? You look as if you had beenmelted and poured into your gown. What are a few discomforts, more orless, when you have procured an effect such as that?

I always like to look as tall as possible. Five feet four is not avery great height; so, to give the appearance of another inch I havemy skirts made as long as possible; that is to say, they just don'tsweep the pavement, and that is all. But, oh! the trouble of thatextra inch! Unfortunately I have no carriage, my present pecuniarycondition does not permit me the luxury of hansoms, and I always avoidan omnibus, where you have fat old men sitting nearly on the top ofyou, wet umbrellas streaming on to your boots, squalling babies, anddisputes with the conductor continuing most of the way--not to speakof the time you have to wait while so many roll by "full inside!" Soon muddy days, when I take my walks, the amount of distress I have toundergo on account of the length of my gown is inconceivable. I growweary with holding it up, and have to stop in the middle of the streetto change hands, and when you have an umbrella as well, and sometimesa small parcel besides, this performance is anything but a momentarymatter. You drop your gown, the umbrella changes hands, and the parcelgenerally falls in the mud! While picking it up, four impatient, wet, mackintoshed pedestrians knock against you, and go off utteringimprecations on your head. And when you are once again comfortablysettled, your satisfaction does not last long. Your left hand tires assoon as your right, and the scene has all to be acted over again. 

There is a great deal of "_savoir faire_" in holding up. Your gownmust be high enough to quite clear the ground, but then comes thedanger of holding it too high. There has been no license yet grantedfor the exhibition of ankles in the great metropolis either by Mrs. Grundy or the County Councils; therefore "holding up" becomes a verydelicate performance. 

Though we do not dress only to please the men, I always prefer theircriticisms on a costume to those of my own sex. You can never tell ifthe latter speak the truth. They may be jealous, and run it down fromspite; they may want to gain something from you, and so call yours "aperfection of a gown, and suits you admirably, my dear!" disliking itexceedingly in their inmost hearts. 

But a man never gives his approbation unless he really means what hesays, and he is not difficult to please as a rule. So long as thecostume is neat and well-fitting, he does not care about anythingelse. It is the _tout ensemble_ he thinks of, not the thousand and onedetails that go to make up the whole. 

I wonder why so many men dislike large hats! It is a pity, for theyare so very becoming to some faces, and give a picturesque effectaltogether. Perhaps this last is a reason for their disapproval. Theynever like their womankind to attract attention. 

The most unpardonable sin one woman can commit against another, is tocopy her clothes and bring the style out as her own idea. It isintensely irritating! If she admits she has copied or asks your leavebeforehand, it is a different matter. You are even gratified then, for "imitation is the sincerest flattery. " But to have your ideasstolen and brought out in such a way as to convey the impression thatyou are the imitator, to say the least, arouses murderous intentionsin your heart!

There are times, too, when you receive a shock to your vanity; timeswhen you are quite satisfied with your appearance, and find to yourdismay that everyone is not of the same opinion. 

I remember once when I was dining out and feeling very pleased with my_tout ensemble_, I was disillusioned in a way that not only upset myself-confidence, but my gravity at the same time. To heighten thegeneral effect, I had stuck a patch near my mouth. (Oh, the minds ofthe last century! From whose fertile brain did it emanate, I wonder, the fact that a piece of black plaster on the face, should be soeminently becoming!) Imagine my horror when the maid, an old servant Iknew very well, took me aside and whispered confidentially, "Oh, Miss!you've got _such_ a big smut on your chin!"

Clothes are altogether a great nuisance, I think. How tired you get ofthe regular routine of the morning toilet; always the same, never anyvariety. Why are we not born, like dogs, with nice cosy rugs all overus, so that we should just have to get out of bed in the morning, shake ourselves, and be ready at once to go down to breakfast and dothe business of the day?

"Ah well! God knows what's best for us all, " as an old charwoman saidto me, years ago, when she was remarking on how I had grown. I neversaw the application of the remark, and do not think I ever shall. Whether my growth was a subject to deplore, and she tried to comfortme, or not, I cannot say; but she was evidently proud of the remark, for she repeated it three times!

CHAPTER VI. 

ON CHRISTMAS. 

It is such a prickly time. Not only everything but everybody ispositively bristling with prickles. Go where you will, you cannotavoid these pointed, jagged edges. You come across them everywhere, and have to suffer accordingly. 

To begin with, there is the holly. Now you could not find anythinglovelier in the way of foliage than holly, only such a littlesuffices. At Christmas time you are literally saturated with it. Inevery house you enter, in everything you eat, at every step you take, nothing but holly, holly, holly. 

Then there are the Church decorations, begun generally a weekbeforehand. All the ladies of the place assemble in the vestry, attracted there by divers reasons. Some, by the desire to have afinger in every pie; some, because it is an opportunity to meet thecurates; and some, but a very few, from real love of the work. Icannot understand these latter, I must confess. It is the mostdisagreeable work I have ever undertaken. Such dirty work, too! Yourhands or your gloves grow perfectly black under the operation; and itis a curious thing, that when this stage is reached, your noseinvariably begins to itch, and you forget the condition of yourfingers, and--well, the result is anything but becoming! It is socomfortable, too, walking about the vestry, isn't it? The holly growsso affectionate to your ankles, and at every step squash goes a berry, and all its middle oozes out and sticks to the sole of your boot. Whenyou go home, you find you are at least an inch taller by reason of themany corpses of berries you have collected!

Yes, Christmas decorations are delightful altogether. And so theclergymen think, when they become excited in their sermons, and bringtheir fists down sharply on some charming arrangement of holly roundthe pulpit. They do not actually swear then, but their faces expresssufficiently all they would like to say; it rather spoils the effectof the discourse, especially if the text be on the virtue of patience. 

As I said before, everybody is prickly at Christmas time, especiallyone's relations. And so, to make the season as festive as possible, we, in our sensible way, collect as many of these cheerful, sociablebeings together as we can; and, in short, make a delightful familyparty. Holly? it is an insult to the tree to compare it in any way. No, I think the whole gathering resembles a hedgehog more thananything else. It is one _mass_ of prickles. Ah, these happy familyparties! Is there ever one member that agrees with another, I wonder?

There is the crabbed old maiden aunt, always on the defensive, neverwithout the idea that someone is waging war against her. Yet she hasto be treated civilly, and humored. Has she not that which some peopleterm "filthy lucre, " but never really think so? Have these old ladiesever had any youth? Have they ever danced and enjoyed themselves likeother people? What has made them so sour, so bitter? Is itdisappointment or regret? Poor old souls! In spite of their money, they never seem happy. They are to be pitied, I think, though they dotry to make themselves as disagreeable as possible. They are soindependent, too, they will not be interfered with. They knoweverything better than any one else. One old lady I used to knowdeclined altogether to have a lawyer, insisting on making her willherself. It was found afterwards, fortunately not too late, that shehad appointed herself her own executor!

Then there is the maternal grandmother; to whom, of course, the hostis openly rude. This wears you out more than anything, for you havealways to be ready to smooth over and soften every sentence that issaid. And she never helps you at all, either. If she can possibly puther foot in it, and unconsciously irritate her son-in-law more thanever, she does it. 

Then the uncle who spends his life in making the most villainous punsyou ever heard. Not a remark, not a word in any assembly, which thiswitty specimen of humanity does not at once garnish with a pun of thepoorest description. It generally has to be repeated twice, too, forit is never noticed the first time. The poor pun, indeed, has a mostmelancholy existence, for it is greeted with no other applause thanthat emanating from the author of its being, and stirs up a torrent ofabuse from the maiden aunt, who thinks the laughter is directed ather. 

Why were punsters ever invented, or family parties either? They areour thorns in the flesh, I suppose, and so must be endured. 

After dancing attendance upon these lively old people during the day, the least you expect is a good night's rest to support and invigorateyou for the battles on the following day. But no, at Christmas timeany repose is denied you. 

You are just off to sleep, forgetful of all troubles and strife, whenyou are rudely awakened and brought back to the present by the mostawful screechings under your window. Morpheus flies, he has a musicalear has that god, and when once, "Oh, come let us adore him, " with aconcertina accompaniment, both voices and instrument woefully out oftune; when once these harmonious strains have started, that good olddeity goes, to return no more that night. 

Where does the pleasure come in, I wonder? Certainly not to us fuminginside; and surely not to those poor deluded people squalling outside!It must be so cold, so raw; and they never get appreciated, theseso-called "waits"--oh, if they only would _not_ wait, but go awaysomewhere else, how much more satisfactory for us all!

No, Christmas is not a soothing time. It does not altogether improveyour temper. How glad I am when the festive season draws to a close, and the last petitioner for Christmas-boxes goes on his way rejoicing. To me it always realizes that period so often referred to by the lowerclasses, "a month o' Sundays. " So much church and so few posts!

It certainly is a little more interesting when the presents come in. There is a kind of excitement about them; and it is not until thefollowing day, when you find yourself with a dozen letters ofgratitude to indite, that you feel that perhaps, after all, you mighthave done without them. 

There is nothing so annoying as being obliged to write letters whenyou do not feel inclined. It is a great art, this letter writing, andvery few possess it. People often think they do, and they write forwriting's sake; but these letters are most wearying to read. Betweenevery line you seem to see the words, "Is not this a charming letter?"and in reality you are so bored it is all you can do to reach the end. Then those dreadful persons who "cross and recross" their epistles inevery direction! Paper is not so dear but that they could at leastafford a fly-leaf. They defeat their own ends, too, for their lettersare never legible, and they have to write again to explain theirmeaning, thus paying another penny away in postage. 

Why do we not make a stand against the old forms? Why should we alwaystread in the footmarks of our ancestors, instead of making tracks ofour own? "Dear Mr. So-and-So, " we write to a man almost a stranger tous. Imagine his surprise if we addressed him so to his face! And weend in just such a foolish and unreasonable way, "Yours obediently, faithfully, truly!" Where is the sense? Your signature should be quiteenough. You have to be so careful, too, in saying whether you areobedient, faithful, or affectionate to your correspondent. If you endtoo warmly, by mistake, the whole letter has to be written again. Itis not a thing you can scratch out or correct. It would look so verybad. 

People have different ideas of "Christmasing. " Some prefer to adopt anunsteady gait, and to spend the night in a ditch or a police-station;some have a taste for family parties; some like it better bythemselves, and some go right away and spend the time at a differentplace every year. These last are, I think, by far the most sensible. It is a mistake to have land-marks to remind you how time is runningon, how friends have left, how the loved ones have passed away. Thevacant place appears even more empty. The old happy times show outeven happier in contrast to the present. You cannot enjoy yourself orforget the past, for

 "A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. "

It is far better to go away somewhere to places which recall nosorrows or recollections and have no associations with the years goneby. 

He is growing such a foolish old man is Father Christmas. He rarelyvisits us now with hoary head, his garments sparkling with frost andsnow. He is tired of all that. He likes a change of fashion, likeeverybody else. He either comes so thickly enveloped in yellow fogthat you can scarcely distinguish the old man, or else he arrives sodrenched with rain and splashed up to the beard in mud that wescarcely like to open our doors to him. 

He is growing old, I suppose, and trembling on the brink of secondchildhood, so we must not blame him. But still he is not a very greatfavorite of mine, and I cannot refrain from echoing the complaint inone of the comic papers--"_Why doesn't he strike, like the rest?_"

CHAPTER VII. 

ON THE COUNTRY. 

At which season, I wonder, is the country most lovely, most enjoyable!Is it in the spring, with its richly-colored carpet, its young greenleaves, its delicious perfumes, its glorious freshness? Ah, why cannotwe, like the trees, put off our old sinful world-steeped habits, andyear by year bud out in purest innocence once again? The hedges, but aweek ago barren and bare, are now clothed in brightest apparel, thegreenest of cloaks thrown over them, lifting up their heads andsharing in the general rejoicing, in the glory of their annualresurrection. Is it in summer, with its myriads of blooms, and itsthousand thousand happy voices, the silent torpid river, basking inthe light of the sun, and responding only to the fishes as they frisknear the surface? Or is it in the autumn, with its many shades, withits long avenues on which nature has lavished whole tubes of burntsienna and vermilion; when you tread on gorgeous paths heavy withgolden leaves? Oh, why are we not as lovely in our autumn of life asnature is in hers? Why, when she decks herself in the gayest coloring, do we don our soberest garb? _We_ do not gain in splendor as we growolder. We lose our beauties and our charms one by one, till at last westand destitute. Oh, cruel Time to treat us so!

 "Time that doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in Beauty's brow. "

And yet "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. " While He takes fromus our youth He also takes away the inclination to be young. We pinefor the happy days of childhood; yet, if the power were given us, whowould wish himself back in the past? We feel we should always like tobe young, but should we not get very weary of the world, should we notwish for some kind of change?

Or is nature at her best when the year is dead and the earth puts onher spotless white shroud, when everything around has fallen asleep, and only robins are left to join in the wake?

Unanswerable question. There are too many opinions. Some preferwinter, some summer; some like the heat, some like the cold. Only inone thing do we agree, and that is, in our taste for variety, forchange. Much as we admire the country, lovely as it is, it would notsuit many to live there all the year round. The peace and quiet of ourwoodland scenes make us enjoy the town life all the more, while theunceasing turmoil of the season makes us hail with delight the idea ofonce more being

 "Far from the madding crowd. "

The very thought refreshes you. There is something exhilarating in ourjourney country-wards, long and tiring though it may be. Few peoplecare about a railway journey, and yet with one or two kindred spiritsI think it most enjoyable. 

Traveling alone in the midst of strangers, you do feel rathermelancholy. You try to read, and when you are tired of chasing thewords up and down the page, you look out of the window and admire thescenery as you flit past until your eyes ache to such an extent youare obliged to withdraw your gaze and be satisfied with the study ofhuman nature, as far as it can be procured from the inmates of yourcompartment. Finally you go to sleep, only to wake up after a fewminutes, to find the eyes of all your fellow passengers upon you, andthis serves to make you nervous and uncomfortable. You dare not closeyour eyes again. You feel sure it is the signal for everyone to turnin your direction, and you will not gratify them. 

Then comes luncheon time, when we all begin to grow fidgety, and takesurreptitious looks at our watches, and then glance round at ourcompanions to see if anyone is taking the first plunge. Hopelessquest! Nobody ever _will_ be the first to begin to eat in a railwaycarriage. Why is it, I wonder? Are they afraid none of the others willfollow suit, and they be left to eat all alone? It would be nervouswork, certainly. You would feel so dreadfully greedy, and yet if youoffered any of your fellow travelers even a sandwich, they would peekup their heads, give you an astonished look, and decline shortly butwith decision. You are made to feel you have insulted them, and yetthey had such a hungry expression! Rarely indeed, though, do youundergo such an experience. You only have to rise, and reach down yourbasket, and behold! the next moment all the carriage is feeding. Weare nothing but sheep after all. One leads the way, and we all follow. 

When you have once made a start, eating on a railway journey is easyenough work; it is when you grow thirsty that the difficulty comes in. You pour the sherry, claret, whatever you have (some take milk in agreen bottle--not a very tempting beverage to look at!) on to thefloor, over your gown, on your neighbor's foot (thereby eliciting amost unholy frown from the recipient of your bounty), anywhere, indeed, except in your glass. Even if you are fortunate enough tocatch a few drops, it is another Herculæan effort to take it to yourmouth. No, drinking in the train, while it is in motion, requiresyears of practice. 

Then again, your fellow passengers are not always all that can bedesired. Often they are neither pleasant in themselves nor interestingas a study. I traveled with an awful old lady the other day. She hadsix small packages with her in the carriage, besides her hand-bag andumbrellas and half the contents of an extra luggage van. Thelong-suffering porter who had looked after her boxes and finally puther in the train, was crimson with his exertions. The generous lady, having searched several pockets before finding the necessary coin, bestowed on him a threepenny piece for his trouble! "Thank yer, mum, "he went off muttering grimly, "I'll bore a 'ole in the middle and 'angit round my neck. "

This good dame never ceased to worry all through the journey. Shepulled her things from under the seat and put them up in the rack, andthen reversed their locality. At each station she called franticallyto the guard to know where she was and if she ought to change. Finally, when we reached our destination, it was proved that she hadtaken her ticket to one place and had her luggage labelled to another;and there she was, standing on the platform gesticulating violently, while the train was steaming off with her belongings. What happened Ido not know, for I was hurried off by my friends; but I should thinkit would be long before she and her luggage met again. 

Fortunately she never knew how near she was to her death. If ever Ihad murderous intentions in my heart, it was on that journey north. 

You do not feel very affectionate toward the country on a wet day. Indeed, it is a most mournful affair altogether, unless you have aparticularly merry house party. There is absolutely nothing to do. Theheavens weep at such inopportune moments too. There is sure to be somelarge picnic, some delightful gathering on the "tapis, " when theychoose to exhibit their griefs. And they never notice how unwelcomesuch a display of feelings is, but go on weeping, weeping, weeping allday long, until at last you catch the malady yourself, and are obligedperforce to mingle a few of your own tears with theirs. 

No, there is simply nothing to be done, and Satan has quite adifficulty to find enough work for all the idle hands. Some can beperfectly happy in spending all their time in solving the intricaciesof those many wonderful puzzles which have appeared lately as a sortof antidote to the mischief generally supposed to be perpetrated bythe aforesaid gentleman. Unfortunately, an entirely contrary effect isproduced on me. They did not look far enough ahead when they made me. They could not conceive the wonderful minds of this time, and so didnot endow me with a sufficient quantity of patience. If they couldhave imagined those marvelous little tin saucers, with shot running inand out of horse-shoes, &c. , with _me_ in the perspective, well, Ithink they would have gone about their work more carefully, andperhaps brought about a happier result. As it is, the puzzles arealways swept away now at my approach. I have smashed so many. 

It is base ingratitude, too, on my part, to bring them to so speedy anend; for what I owe to those dear little things I am powerless toexpress. Those entertaining people who sit speechless, and only answeryes and no with an eternal smile on their faces: give them a puzzle. There is no further effort to amuse them required on your part. Theyare at once absorbed in "shot. " Their only idea is to successfully getthem into their places. They never do; but being good thorough-goingcharacters will never give up the attempt. 

You meet several of these people in the country, but they never getvery friendly. You shock them too much with your "London manners. "They vote you "fast, " and turn aside, fearful of contamination fortheir daughters. 

Oh, the dreariness, the heaviness of a country dinner party! It seemsto last four times as long as any other--parish, horses, or crops theonly topic of conversation. How can you be interested in old JaneSmith's rheumatism when you have never heard of her before; in theswelling of a favorite mare's hock, when you did not know it possessedsuch a thing. People's views grow so dreadfully narrow, shut up intheir small parish. Their stock of conversation is so very small. Itis wise to find out your dinner partner at once, and avoid that man asyou would a disease until the meal is announced. If not, if youaccidentally get in his neighborhood, and he talks to you, all hisconversation is at once exhausted, and you are obliged to hear it overagain at table, or submit to an interesting silence. 

Dinner parties anywhere are, I think, a mistake. It is a wicked wasteof time to spend nearly three hours over eating and drinking. And yourequire such a very interesting "taker-in" to make it bearable at all. 

The river is the nicest way of spending a holiday, in my opinion; youare so free and untrammeled. Mrs. Grundy even waives some of her lawson the river. The smaller the cottage, the more primitive the place, the more enjoyable it is. You can spend your time on the water, andwhen you are tired of that, you can hire a pony and trap and drivethrough some of the loveliest bits of English scenery, to your heart'scontent. 

Only be careful before engaging your pony to find out its previousoccupations. It is a necessary caution, I assure you. It once took menearly an hour to drive out of one of the smallest villagesimaginable. And why? Because my pony had formerly belonged to thebutcher, and insisted on first going his rounds! I coaxed, Ipersuaded, I lashed him, but it was all of no avail. On he trotteduntil he reached the familiar doors of his late customers, and then hestopped and _would_ not go on for at least five minutes. One placewas worse than any. I could not get him away for over aquarter-of-an-hour. This rather mystified me until I was told laterthat the butcher was on "walking out" terms with the cook residingthere!

CHAPTER VIII. 

ON TOWN. 

There is not much difference of opinion as to when Town is at itsbest. Perhaps a few misanthropists, wrapped up in their little selvesand their narrow thoughts, would shut themselves up during the season, in order to escape the pain of witnessing us all in our ungodlycareer. Shallow butterflies they call us. And what do they know aboutour lives? They judge from appearances; and because we wear a cheerfulexpression, shutting down our cares and struggles in our inmosthearts, and not burdening other people with them, we are calledshallow and worldly. No, you good and godly people, what do you knowabout us? You are no more capable of judging than the ephemera, whichlives but for a day, and so must consider the world all sunshine, alllight. How can it imagine the night which closes round later on, whenneither it nor any of its ancestors have ever lived to see it?

You ought to be punished for your ignorant mutterings. You complain ofthe well-dressed happy throng. You should be turned out in the streetsin August and September, and if the utter destitution does not shortlyturn your brains back in the right direction I am afraid your case ishopeless. 

Does any place come up to London I wonder? Having never been out ofEngland I cannot give an opinion. Unfortunately I have not the gift, like some people, of either imagining or describing places I havenever seen--descriptions generally gleaned from other books andcompiled under one authorship as original compositions. Why cannotthey be content with laying their English stories in English scenery:places they know well and can write about. Some save up their money inorder to go abroad and visit one particular place, so as to bring newscenes into their new books. But ah, how weary you get of this oneplace! It is brought into at least three of their next novels. Everything, past, present and future seems to happen there. Your oneprayer, as you lay down the book, is to the effect that they may soonbe able to save up a little more and visit another spot. 

There is so much going on in May, June, and July, that it is adifficulty to get through all your engagements and yet see everythingthere is to be seen. Then there is the Park. Two or three hours of theday must at least be spent in the Park. There we all come out to showourselves and to look at others. There the equestrians canter up anddown the Row. Such equestrians too! If foreigners take their ideas ofEnglish riding from the Row, they must form a high opinion of ourhorsemanship. 

There are the loungers flocking around their friends or walking up anddown in the hope of admiration. And they get it too, for who couldhelp admiring such master-pieces of a tailor's skill? Are these reallythe descendants of that Adam whose posterity had all to earn theirbread by the sweat of their brow? These automatons, whose onlybusiness in life seems to be to look after pretty women andthemselves? Men are supposed to be bread winners, but they have avery easy time of it, I think, though they generally try to makethemselves out so overworked. Go into that great centre of business, the City, and you find everyone of these busy men out and about, always apparently in a great hurry, never seeming to arrive at anydestination, running about and hustling each other, occasionallymeeting an acquaintance, which proves a good opportunity for one tostand the other a "drink. " A funny way men have of showing theiraffection, have they not? "Ah! how de do, old fellow? Come and have adrink, " is their invariable salutation to an intimate friend. Afterall it is better than the mutual kissing on the part of women, whichis the more emphatic the more they dislike one another. Men are lessdemonstrative and therefore more sincere in their friendships. Anyhowthere cannot be many at work in their offices, or where could thisidle crowd come from?

In spite of their haste, though, they generally find time to stare atany woman who crosses their path. Why should not a woman go to theCity? She has as much right there as man, and yet if she is in theleast degree superior to the flower girls (?) who surround the RoyalExchange, she is looked on as a freak of nature, a positive curiosity, and is followed by every pair of male eyes within reach!

Mrs. Grundy is inclined to rather overdo her season, I think. There isso much she might leave undone, so many things that "never would bemissed. " Imagine the gratitude that would be displayed to anyone whowould put down and demolish those dreadful crushes, so called "athomes, " where nobody ever is at home; where you have neither space norair from the moment you arrive until the glad time comes fordeparting. Does anyone enjoy them, I wonder! Does anybody like beingliterally baked with heat, which I am sure must exceed even that atMexico; where one of the inhabitants of that delightful climate, whenhe died and went to perdition, found the contrast so striking that hewas obliged to send home for his greatcoat!

Still, I suppose such entertainments will continue to exist. They area good deal cheaper than balls or dinners, and you can "knock off"ever so many people at the same time. 

It is well, at any rate, to consider economy in some matters in thesewofully extravagant days. When the shops are decked out in theirgayest colors to lure us on to destruction, why is it that "just thevery thing you want" is placed so conspicuously in the front of thewindow, put cunningly near a mirror too, so that you see it all theway round, and it appears doubly precious?

How convenient it is, by the way, when they have mirrors in the shopwindows. You can look to see if your hat is straight, or your veilnicely arranged, without being credited with vanity. You are supposedto be admiring the bonnets displayed to view, not yourself. Girls makea great mistake when they take little surreptitious glances at anymirror they come across. The action is always noticed and condemned;while if they, instead, went up boldly, ostensibly to smooth theirhair or alter a pin, it would be taken as a matter of course. 

It so soon grows into a habit, this always looking about for yourreflection, and one that is very difficult to get out of. Not that themen are at all behind us in this respect. There are not many of ourlittle follies that the lords of creation do not take up andcultivate. You see them at dinner, addressing nearly all theirconversation opposite--where hangs a mirror. At dances they areadmiring and smiling at their reflections the whole evening, findingfar more satisfaction in gazing there than at their partner, eventhough she be the loveliest in the land. 

But to return to my subject. (I seem to be always wandering away. ) Youneed never be idle in town. A wet day even makes no difference, when aplace teems with picture galleries, as London does. They are such goodplaces to meet your friends. You always see someone you know. Youmight as well be there as anywhere else. Of course you do not look atthe pictures. You glance at the few you have heard talked about, justso as to say you have seen them. But you do not go to a picturegallery to look at _pictures_! "We always go the wrong way round. Youavoid the crowd like that, you know, " I have heard people say. "_Avoid_ the crowd!" It is the crowd they want to see! There is lesschance of missing your friends if you go in the opposite direction!There is one real advantage though in beginning at the other end. Youdon't have the same people following you all the time, nor have tolisten to ignorant remarks. "Who's that? She don't look very happy, tobe sure, " I once heard one woman ask of another as they were goinground. "That? why that's Adam and Eve, o' course, and the serpent inthe distance. I never 'eard of anyone else who went about withouttheir clothes on, though why they put chains on her I can't think: itsays nothing about 'em in the Bible. "

I glanced at the picture. It was "Andromeda!" And they talk of thestrides education has been making of late years!

CHAPTER IX. 

ON CHILDREN AND DOGS. 

Are you very shocked that I should couple these two subjects? Aninsult to the children, do you say? Well, do you know, I am afraid Iconsider it an insult to the dogs. I am not fond of children, and Ilove dogs. A man may be a superior animal to a dog, but a puppy isdecidedly more intelligent than a baby. What can you find morehelpless, more utterly incapable, than a baby? Look at a puppy incomparison. At a month old it is trotting about, and growing quiteindependent; more sensible altogether than a child aged a year. 

I am afraid I shock people often by my opinions, but they are reallygenuine. I am always more interested in the canine race than in theblossoms of humanity. Very likely it is the behavior of each thatmakes me so. Children never take to me, nor come near me if they canhelp it. I do not understand them, or know what to talk to them about. On the other hand, dogs will come to me at once, and, what is more, keep to me. I have never been growled at in my life, and I have comeacross a good many dogs, too. 

"You were a baby yourself once!" How often has this been said to mewhen I have aired the above opinions. It is put before me as anunanswerable argument, a sort of annihilating finale to theconversation. Yet I really don't see what it has to do with thematter. I suppose I was a baby once. At least they say so. Whichprotestation, by the way, rather leaves it open to doubt, for "ondits" like weather forecasts are nice reliable institutions if you dobut follow the opposite of what they tell you. Still, as there is morethan one witness to the effect, I will give in and admit it; I was ababy. 

But the admission makes me no fonder of the species. If anything itmakes me admire them the less; for if I at all resembled thephotographs that were taken of me--"before my eyes were open, " I wasgoing to say; at any rate before I could stand--I wonder a stone wasnot put round my neck, and they did not drown me in the first bucketof water they came across. 

It is said that ugly babies grow up the best looking, and _viceversa_. This is a pleasant and comforting thought for the ugly baby. It can bear a little depreciation now, because it can look forward tothe time when it will far outdo its successful rival. And the prettybaby's glory is soon over. It becomes only a memory which ratherirritates than soothes. For after all, retrospection is not sopleasant as anticipation. 

The above remark was said before a child about four years old, theother day. She must have been listening intently, and having taken inthe sense she inwardly digested it; for the next time she quarrelledwith her sister, she broke in spitefully, "You must have been thebeautifullest baby that ever was born. "

Children should never be seen until they are over two. Until then theyare neither pretty nor entertaining. But at this age they begin to sayfunny things, and so are interesting. "You only care for them whenthey amuse you!" cried a young mother once, indignant at myselfishness. I suppose it is a selfish way of looking at it; but ifmodern children were brought up as we were brought up I should notobject to them in the least. We were always kept strictly in thenursery, only appearing down-stairs on the rarest occasions: and whenwe arrived there we behaved properly--we were seen and not heard. Wedid not run noisily up and down the room, taking up the wholeconversation of the party. We did not try to make the mostdisagreeable personal remarks; or if we did we were sent up-stairs atonce, and not laughed at for our "sharpness. "

There are no children, now-a-days; they are mimic men and women. Theydine late, they stay up until the small hours, and are altogether asobjectionable a faction as can be. They respect their father andmother not a whit. It was only two or three days ago I heard a childof five allude to her father as "the fat old governor, " and simply getlaughed at for her remark, no one joining more heartily than the saidparent himself. Of course, with such applause, the child repeats itagain and again. 

They have such dreadfully sharp eyes, too, these children. Not adefect escapes their notice. You tremble to hear what will come outnext. They ask Mr. Jones what makes his nose so red. They want to knowwhy Mrs. Smith puts flour on her face. In spite of a thick veil, theydiscover at once that Miss. Blank has a moustache, and inquire of herwith interest if she is a man!

There are some nice children, of course--there are exceptions to everyrule--and if they are pretty I cannot help admiring them. It isfortunate that I have never had anything to do with children. If Iwere a governess I should be so dreadfully unjust, I should alwaysfavor the pretty ones. I love beauty in any form. There are girls Icould sit and look at all day, if they would let me. Only they aremost of them so self-conscious; they expect to be admired, and when Isee girls laying themselves out for admiration, however beautiful theymay be, however strong my inclination to gaze, I will not gratifytheir vanity. For it is certainly true, that though we prefer thepraise of men, we do not disdain any like offering from our own sex. 

That is the best of very young children. They do not notice you, theyare not yet awake to the power of their charms, so that you are ableto look your full. I say "very" young, because it is a knowledge thatcomes to them only too soon, and a little of this knowledge is, at anyrate, "a dangerous thing. "

Children sometimes set you thinking more than any philosopher who everexisted. Their ideas are so fresh, so unsophisticated, so original. The atmosphere of the great unknown still seems to cling to theirsouls. They are not yet tainted with the world's impure air. They askyou questions impossible to answer, but which you are obliged to parryin an underhand manner, so as not to expose your ignorance. They solveproblems and reach conclusions after a way of their own, which, at anyrate, have plenty of reason about them. I remember being very muchstruck by a little boy's idea once when his mother was remarking onthe strange appearance of a man who, while his whiskers were black asebony, possessed hair of a snowy white. "But why, mother, should itseem funny?" broke in the child. "Aren't his whiskers twenty yearsyounger than his hair?"

Dogs certainly cannot talk or say quaint things, but they can donearly everything else. At any rate they can understand you anddistinguish between the words, as the following instance proves. 

We have family prayers at home, and have had them ever since we werequite little things. What an ordeal they used to be too! We used to bewatched so strictly, and the moment our eyes wavered from our books, attention would at once be drawn to the culprits and cover them withconfusion. Woe be to him, too, who forgot to turn over the leaf of hisbook with the rest! It is such an unkind thing to do to print all thebooks alike. If you forget and turn over later, you are at oncedetected. Being sharp children, however, we used to make this ourfirst care, so that whatever we were doing--laughing, pinching, winking, our pages all went over together, so we _sounded_ attentive. 

Our little dog was even more cunning than ourselves. He was neverpermitted, on any plea, to lie before the fire. "It enlarged hisliver, " his master said. Now this decree is a great deprivation todogs. They like warmth and comfort just as much as we do; indeed, they love the fire to such an extent that if all the terrors of Hadeswere put before them, they would by no means have a salutary effect. The dogs would try to be as naughty as possible in the hopes ofgetting there. 

But this particular little animal was made of most obstinatematerials, and had no intention of being baulked; so directly we kneltdown for prayers, he scrambled from under the table, and stretched hisfull length before the fire. He knew he would not be spoken to untilwe had finished, and felt quite safe until we all joined in the Lord'sPrayer at the end, when he would immediately decamp, and thus escapeany scolding for his disobedience. It was more especially clever ofhim because we all joined in the Confession as well, but he never tookany notice of that, and always put off his departure until the lastminute. 

We had this dog twelve years altogether, and a sad night it was, indeed, when he had a fit and died. The breakfast-table next morningpresented a most distressing spectacle. We were all positivelyswimming in tears. The whole family was upset at his death; and when, later on in the day, he was wrapped up in a fish basket and buried inthe garden, next door to a favorite rabbit--on whose grave a cabbagehad been planted, most unkindly reminding him of the sweets of life hehad left behind--we all lifted up our voices and wept again. 

I often wonder if we shall meet our faithful dumb friends hereafter!Sages say no; but I cannot believe they are so entirely blotted out, and like to think they have some happy sugary existence somewhere, andthat we shall see them again some day. 

Dogs are very human after all; they have a great many of our virtuesand nearly all our vices. I expect it is this that endears them to us, for "One touch of nature makes all the world kin. " They are just ascontradictory, as disappointing, as ourselves. Why will they alwaysshow off to such bad advantage? After spending weeks in teaching them, and fortunes on pieces of sugar, why, before an audience, will theyinsist on ringing the bell when they are told to shut the door? andwhen you ask them to sit up and beg, _why_ do they die for the Queen?

A little while ago we used to have grand steeplechases with our dogs. We put up fences and water jumps, all of which--with the aid of sugaragain--they were able to master in time. I think they used to getquite excited themselves at last. Our old gardener, who used to watchthe races with great interest, told me once that he "'ad seen one ofthe little dawgs a'jumpin' backwards and forwards over that 'ere bitof wood (the highest and most perilous jump), and a'practisin' byhisself!" He _was_ a very clever "little dawg, " but I don't think heever reached such a pitch of intelligence as to practice "by hisself. "

We had to fill up the fences down to the ground, or, to savethemselves the trouble of getting over, they would run under orscramble through in some extraordinary fashion, which in the end tookmuch the most time and pains. Humanity again! Lazy people always takethe most trouble!

When I was a little girl I had every morning to learn and repeat to mygoverness three verses from a French Bible. I thought I had hit uponan easy way of getting over this, and of reducing the quantity I hadto commit to memory; so I chose the cxxxvi. Psalm, in which you willfind, if you care to look it up (I have just had to do the same tofind out the number, not being by any means a living concordance tothe Psalms!)--you will find that half of each verse is composed of thewords, "For His mercy endureth for ever. " Ingenuity wasted! Troubleincreased! Not one whit the better off was I. Until that Psalm wasfinished I had to learn six verses instead of three. I retiredanything but satisfied, and heartily wishing I had left that Psalmalone. It was very mean of my governess all the same. She shouldbetter have appreciated the craftiness of her pupil. But, poor things, they have to be very sharp and always on the look-out, or the childrenwill take them in; they will not let any opportunity escape them, and, indeed, I pity anyone who has the care of these unraveled Sphinxes, these uncut Gordian knots. 

CHAPTER X. 

ON CONCERTS. 

I am not thinking about the Albert Hall Concerts, where the highest inthe musical world go time after time, always singing the same songs. 

Neither am I thinking of "Monday Pops, " and purely classical concerts, to which at least half the audience listens with closed eyes andthoughts somewhere in dreamland. They like to be thought musical; theyknow they ought to appreciate _such_ renderings of _such_compositions; and after all, when they describe "the treat they had!such a perfect touch, my dear! and the execution!!--" no one knowsthey have never heard a note, so what does their inattention matter. They have been seen there, and that is all they care about. 

No, my thoughts take a much lower range. They are intent on onlyamateur productions, from penny readings upwards, to thosesuperintended by the _élite_ of the neighborhood, when the seats risein price to five shillings each. 

They are such nice cheery entertainments, so much life, such a greatdeal of energy about them! You are called on by four separate peopleto take tickets. In desperation you have to yield at last; payingextra for having your seat reserved, or else you must starthalf-an-hour beforehand, and scramble in with the crowd. There isgenerally a series of them too, and you are obliged to go to them all. They are so considerate, these concert-makers, they would not allowyou to miss one for worlds. 

There is a great deal of novelty and variety about the artiststhemselves. All the musical members in the neighborhood are routedout, and each is persuaded to contribute to the public pleasure--bythe way, there is never very much persuasion needed. It is such atreat to listen to people you know, and whom you have heard performdozens and dozens of times before in every drawing-room in the place. At least, you know what to expect. You recognize each song, eachpiece. You wait in suspense until Miss. Brown has passed her highA--always half a tone too flat. You take it as a matter of course thatMr. Black--the first violinist in the place--after tuning up for tenminutes, will break a string directly he begins to play. I should havethought he would be pretty well used to it by now, but he never getsin tune again for the rest of the evening. You would be quitedisappointed if Mrs. Green ever concluded her most finished andspirited pianoforte solo on the right chord. 

These concerts always begin with a pianoforte solo, and the performersought to feel very flattered at the way in which they are received. We, the audience, regard them no more than we do the mounted policemenin the Lord Mayor's Show. They are not part of the procession. Theyare only meant to clear the way and let us know that the concert isgoing to begin, and then we must leave off our chatter. Naturally, wemake the most of our time, and try to get all our talking done atonce. In fact, we are so taken up with what we are saying that weactually forget to applaud when the performance is over. 

After the introduction in this form, the chief moving spirit of theentertainment comes forward, and, after bowing right and left, stammers out (the chief moving spirit is never a good speaker) that hemuch regrets that, on account of Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith, and Miss. Blankhaving been prevented by illness from turning up, he is afraid therewill be a little change in the programme. Now as Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith, and Miss. Blank are down for seven things between them there is likelyto be a very great change in the programme. Why is it that peoplenever know they cannot come until the last moment, I wonder? Perhapsthey think that the more often they disappoint the more they emulatethe "stars" in the musical world. Only the force of example, you see. And, after all, what does it matter? The other performers are mostkind and sympathetic, and ready to help all they can. They aredelighted to sing four times each instead of twice. Selfish people!they have no consideration for the audience, they only think of theirown enjoyment!

There is the youth who looks as if he were going to favor us with asweet treble. Lo, and behold! he opens his mouth, and out comes aloud double bass voice that seems to spring somewhere from the regionof his boots. It is not a pretty sound by any means. 

There is the smiling, simpering girl who comes forward gorgeouslyarrayed in light blue satin. She chooses a song, all trills and littlescales, running up and down, shaking at last upon a high note fornearly two minutes, and then coming down with a rush. This brings downthe house. We applaud lustily; we begin the encoring business here, which, having once started, we do not intend to give up again. We liketo get as much as we can for our money, we Britons. She keeps uswaiting some time, too--taking a little refreshment in between, perhaps--and then comes back beaming with smiles and, under theimpression that she is a second Patti, shrieks out in plaintive tones, "Home, sweet home!" A cat might as well try to emulate a thrush! Andwe never find it "sweet" either. Never do you dislike "Home" more thanwhen you hear it sung thus. 

There is the sentimental man, who gets into position while theintroduction to his song is being played. He sticks his finger downhis collar (the object of which I can never understand), pulls bothcuffs out, stretches out his music a yard or two in front of him andgazes above the audience with a hungry yearning look. His is always alove song, an unhappy love song, that should bring tears to our eyes, only we are so taken up with his expression, and the fear that he isgoing to die or have a fit, that we have no time for weeping. True toour instincts, he is greeted with deafening applause, and coming back, he generously treats us to the last verse over again. 

Everyone is not so fortunate in receiving an encore, though. Itdepends on how well they are known, not on their desserts. The newcomer in the neighborhood tries her hardest and does her best, but as we have never seen her before we scarcely take the trouble toapplaud her, which must be rather disappointing, especially when hermother is sitting among the audience with the encore song on her lap, ready to hand it up. 

The best exhibition of all is made by the flutist. He is the only onewho plays that instrument for miles round, and so the swagger withwhich he steps on to the platform is perhaps excusable. 

How anyone _can_ play it I do not know. It is such a singularlyunbecoming instrument. But the wretched owner never seems to think so. When he once commences he gives us a good dose of it. We begin tothink he is going on all night. Suddenly there comes a pause, andapplause is started at once, we being only too delighted to make alittle noise on our own account. But no--it is a mistake, a delusion, after all. The pause was only an interval between an Andante and aScherzo; and, with a bland smile at his ovation, on he goes again foranother quarter of an hour. We--the audience--are disappointed, wefeel we have been tricked, and we therefore sulk for a season. But theScherzo is so long, it gives us time to get over our ill-humor, thoughwe are mutually resolved that we will not have him back again. Vainhope! From the far end of the room comes thundering applause, whichnever dies away until the talented flutist appears on the platformagain. We find out afterwards that he treats the whole of hisestablishment to the cheap seats; so, of course, poor things, wecannot blame them. They are only earning their wages. Perhaps they arepresented with an extra shilling each when their master returns home. 

It is a curious thing how we all like applauding and making a noise. If you notice, at organ recitals in the Church we feel quiteuncomfortable. We think we ought to do something at the conclusion ofthe pieces; so, as we may not clap our hands, we all give a littlerustle and cough. This is to show our approbation. _Every_one coughs. It is astonishing how many people have bad colds. For my part I thinkit is a pity applause is not allowed. It is infinitely preferable tothe coughing at any rate. 

Of course the comic singer goes down best. He is called back three, sometimes four times. The schoolboys behind grow excited, and greethim with a whistle that would do credit to the "gods. " This is toomuch for decently-clad minds, anything so profane as that whistle. Theclergyman, who is in the chair (the proceeds are always to be devotedto some charitable object), rises and insists "that if that mostobjectionable noise does not cease, the boys will have to be turnedout. "

Where the "objectionable" comes in I cannot think. The boys are veryclever to be able to do it. I have often tried it, and cannot succeed, and so conclude it must be a difficult accomplishment. They stickabout four fingers in their mouths, and thereby make quite a differentsound to any ordinary whistle. However, it is no wonder the chairmandiscourages it. When he was reading a few minutes before, reading outsome dry little tale with a moral, in which the humorous parts werethe heaviest, no encore whistle was accorded him. He was clappedloudly, of course--is he not one of the chief men in the parish? Butno one wished to hear him read again, so we stopped our applause justin time to prevent him from re-appearing. 

We go home glad at heart, and two mornings later read an account ofthe evening's performance in the local paper. 

We find there a few statements which agree with our own feelings. They say that "Mr. Jones sang in a pure and cultured manner, anddeserves special attention for his sweet tenor voice and therefinement of the sentiment in his songs" (whatever that may mean!)"Mr. Smith played two violin solos with remarkable precision of touchand with the greatest ease;" while "Miss. Blank, with a good contralto, was all that could be desired in both her songs!" They were none ofthem there, but that does not matter. They were praised up more thananyone else, which must be very discouraging to those who _did_perform. But on account of their non-appearance alone we feel theydeserve some approbation, and so do not grudge it them. It is of noconsequence to a newspaper reporter who is there and who is not. Hetakes the programme, ticks off the names, and writes his remarks andcriticisms just as he likes. It would be wiser, all the same, on hispart, if he found out the absentees, for otherwise his little hintsrather lose their effect. 

He writes that this one wants a little "animation, " that one "singsout of tune. " Miss So-and-So plays the piano "with faultlessmanipulation, the only drawback being a slight preponderance ofpedal, " and so on. He generally has as good an ear for music as aparish priest who only knew two tunes: one of which was "God save theQueen, " and the other wasn't. And once, when a brass band was playinga selection outside the vicarage, he went on to his balcony, hat inhand, and waved it vigorously as he commenced to sing the first lineof "God save the Queen. "

Well, it does not matter after all. The only object is to appearlearned, and to use long words. If the artists do not like beingignorantly criticized they must forbear to appear in public, a resultwhich would incline us to go and shake hands with the reporters allround in the exuberance of our gratitude. 

CHAPTER XI. 

ON DANCING. 

I was looking through a "Querist Album" the other day; one of thosedreadful confession books in which you are required to answer the mostabsurd questions. Dreadful indeed they are to write in, but notaltogether uninteresting to peruse, though the interest comes not somuch in the answers themselves as in the manner in which they arewritten. 

Some go in for it seriously, and describe their inmost feelings on thepages; some take a witty strain, and put down the most ridiculousthings they can think of; while others write just what comes first. 

Some are such hypocrites, too. Here is a man who describes his wife ashis ideal woman; and when we know that he scarcely ever addresses acivil word to the poor little woman, his admission is, to say theleast of it, amusing. 

"Have you ever been in love? and if so, how often?" This is one of thequestions. The answers to it are of doubtful veracity. All the singleladies reply "Never!" underlining the word three times. "Yes, onlyonce, " is the statement of the married ones. According to the QueristAlbum, "The course of true love _always_ runs smooth. " No one seems tobe attacked by Cupid but they must immediately marry the object oftheir choice, and "all goes merrily as a marriage bell. " The men, onthe contrary, like to appear somewhat inflammable. It is generally themasculine writers who adopt the sprightly key. Twenty--forty--thousandsof times they admit falling in love. Such one-sided affairs they musthave been, too; for the girls, according to their own confessions, neverreciprocated any attachment until their rightful lords and masters appearedon the scene. I am afraid we must be a very hard-hearted race!

But it is the question relating to your idea of "the greatest earthlyhappiness" that struck me most. "Never being called in the morning, "was one lazy person's reply. "To write M. P. After my name, " was theambition of another. "Married life, " wrote the bride on the completionof her honeymoon. Ah, little bride, you have been married some yearsnow. Are your ideas still the same, I wonder? "A good partner, a goodfloor, and good music, " said a fourth, and it is this one that has myentire sympathy. I agree with her. It is my idea also of "the greatestearthly happiness. " I do not require much, you see. These are not verydifficult things to procure now-a-days; and yet I am often tauntedwith my love of dancing. If I express disapproval of a man, "I supposehe can't dance, " they say with a sneer. 

Now though that accomplishment is a necessity in a ball-room, I do_not_ consider it indispensable in a husband. Unfortunately you cannotdance through life. I wish you could for many reasons. A continualchange of partners, for instance, would it not be refreshing? Youwould scarcely have time to grow tired of them. And how much morepolite our husbands would be if they thought we were only fleetingjoys! What am I saying? I am shocking everyone I am afraid; thelittle matron who advocates married life, the newly-made brides whoseideal men are realized in their husbands--I am shocking them all! Ihumbly plead forgiveness. You see, I am not married myself. I can onlygive my impressions as a looker-on, and, as Thackeray says, "One isbound to speak the truth as far as one knows it, and a deal ofdisagreeable matter must come out in the course of such anundertaking. "

But dancing _is_ indispensable in a ball-room. If a man cannot dancehe should stay away, and not make an object of himself. Unfortunately, so many think they excel in the art when they have not the least ideaof it. Again, with girls, dancing (in a ball-room only, of course)comes before charm of manner, before wit, even before beauty. I knowgirls, absolutely plain, with not a word to say for themselves, whodance every dance, while the walls of the room are lined with prettyfaces, and dismal-looking enough they are too, which is very foolishof them. They should have too much pride to show their discomfiture. 

Men have so much the best of it at dances--so everybody says. I amafraid I do not agree. I would not change our positions for anything. After all, a girl can nearly always dance with anyone she likes, andpick and choose as well as the men--provided, of course, that she isan adept on the "light fantastic toe" herself. 

And think, on the other hand, what men go through! Reverse the orderof things, as you are supposed to do at leap year dances--whichsystem, however, is never properly carried out. But suppose you go upto a man and ask him for a dance, and he tells you with a smile that"he is very sorry, but really he has not one left. " Suppose that thenext minute you see him give three to another girl, would you speak tothat man ever again? _Never!_ And yet this is what they constantlyendure and, what is more, forgive. 

After all, if you analyze it, what an absurd thing dancing is. Closeyour ears to the music and look around you when a ball is at itsheight. What motive, you foolishly wonder, could induce all thesepeople--who are supposed to possess an average amount of brains--toassemble together to clasp each other round the waist, twirl roundand round up and down the room, suddenly stop, and hurry one afteranother outside the dancing hall, seeking dark corners, secretretreats, anywhere away from the eyes of other men? "Ah, what a madworld it is, my masters!"

How our grandmothers exclaim at the present mode of dancing!--they whoused to consider round dances almost improper. How the programmes mustastonish them, too; those engagement cards that did not exist fiftyyears ago, and in their infancy were quite content to bear only two orthree names on their paper countenances. But now times have changed, and as they grow older they become most greedy little cards. They arenot only not content with being scribbled all over, but require twonames on the top of one another, and thus causing dissensions toensue. 

There is a great deal of art in making up a programme. It is a mistaketo be full up before you arrive. Someone may come whom you did notexpect, and then you have no dance to give him. Arrangement of aprogramme requires two or three seasons' practice. There are the dutydances to be got through first; put them up early, so that they shallbe soon over, and then you have the good ones at the end to lookforward to. 

Everyone has duty dances. There are your father's constituents, clients, patients, someone you are obliged to ingratiate, and theseare generally the worst dancers in the room! One is so fat he shakesthe hall as he walks, and yet is just as eager to join the giddythrong, and alas! to take you with him! Another resembles the littletin soldiers which schoolboys have such an affection for, in that hehas been gifted with large flat stands, twice the length of himself, instead of feet. And oh, _how_ he kicks! Then there is thecomplimentary man, a creature who never opens his mouth without makingor implying a compliment. Does he ever find anyone whom this systempleases, I wonder! The only antidote I can find is to take no notice, and pretend not to understand that the pretty speeches are directed atyou. This discourages him after a time. 

It is amusing to get hold of a man's programme, and find out how youare represented there. They do not put down names, but describecostumes, hoping thus to find their partners easier, but in realityplunging themselves into most hopeless perplexities. They scribbledown "pearl necklace, " and find later that there are at least sixteenin the room, and so are worse off than if they had written the name. 

Some describe the personal appearance, but this is a very risky thingto do. A man the other day wrote down his partner as "Miss blue dress, with the nose, " and subsequently dropped his programme, which, ofcourse, was picked up by the lady mentioned. Now I do not know why youshould dislike being told that you have a nose--you would feel verymuch worse without one--but when your nasal organ takes up double itsshare of room in your face, and is, moreover, prettily tinted withscarlet, which you try to conceal under a little pearl powder, andonly succeed in making it purple--well, perhaps you would not like tobe told you have a nose. At any rate, this lady did not, and hers verymuch resembled this description, I believe. But she was a wise woman. Not a word did she say on the subject, and he went home happilyunconscious of her fatal discovery, until a few days later hereceived his programme back as a Christmas card, with "Miss blue dresswith the nose's compliments. " How very comfortable he must have feltwhen he met her next!

What a great many different styles of dancing there are! You have tochange your step with nearly every partner. The girl should alwayssuit hers to the man's, he has quite enough to do with the steering. You require about five good partners altogether, and can then spend anenjoyable evening. A different man for every dance is tiring. Younever get beyond the theatres and the weather; you have not time tosay much more, and grow quite weary of the same style of conversation. I always think I must be a most uninteresting partner when I am askedwhat theatres I have been to lately, or what is my opinion of theAcademy, &c. , &c. I never begin this kind of talk myself except as alast resource, when I can get nothing else out of a man. Someone says, I forget who, that "a woman can always know in what opinion she isheld by the conversation addressed to her, " and is it not true? Thefoolish compliments paid to the pretty, but silly little _débutante_;the small talk to the fools; the sparring with the witty; the _risqué_tales enjoyed by those of a more rapid style. Men find out first whatare our tastes, and then dish up their conversation accordingly, andthey do not often make mistakes. 

Some girls dance with one man the whole evening. How weary they mustget of each other! Engaged people invariably pass the eveningtogether, and sometimes do not dance at all, but sit out in somesecluded corner. They have to endure one another for years to come, Iwonder they do not get as much variety as possible now. At any rate, they might just as well stop at home. 

Like everything else, dancing is hurrying along, and growing fasterevery year. The _deux-temps_, they say is coming back. May the day befar ahead when that step reigns once more! Perhaps before then I shallbe converted into a chaperone, and shall sit watching others dance, not being able to do so myself; or, perhaps worse, not being _asked_myself. I am afraid I should not make a nice chaperone. I should lookvery cross, and should hurry away as early as possible. Ah, sad indeedwill the day be when I give up dancing, when only the remembrance ofmy past enjoyments will be brought back to me through the scent ofgardenias and tube-roses, dear dissipated-smelling flowers!

CHAPTER XII. 

ON WATERING PLACES. 

What a great deal of trouble and time it takes to choose awatering-place! And yet there are many and various kinds of resorts, some for one season, some for another. 

If you could be carried sufficiently high above the earth so as tohave a bird's-eye view of the whole of Great Britain, what a strangesight it would present during the months of August and September! Thecounty would appear surrounded with a human fringe, the outer edgemore resembling a disturbed ants' hill than anything else. I don'tsuppose we should appear more significant than ants at that distance. 

There are those places teeming with shop-keepers and children, whenyou can scarcely see the beach so covered is it with those who aremaking the most of their one holiday in the year. 

There is the primitive little village, discovered by few, which iswelcomed by the city man who wants rest and entire seclusion frombusiness matters and the world for a month or two. And oh, whatlanguage he uses! and how annoyed he is to find absolutely nothing todo--one post a day, and, worst of all, no newspaper until late in theafternoon! And this is the man who wishes to be shut out from theworld and from his acquaintances! There is no pier, there are noamusements. The esplanade is composed of nothing more than a plank ofwood, on which, in walking you have to observe much caution in orderto keep your balance; and sometimes the butcher from the neighboringvillage forgets to call! In desperation, the unfortunate creature digssand-castles with his children, and, after a few days of hisbanishment, grows quite excited as the waves wash up and underminetheir foundations. He picks acquaintance with anybody he comes across, be he peer or peasant--anything to make the time pass a little quickeruntil he can return to the stir of his business life again. 

Someone remarks somewhere that "a man works one-half of his life inorder that he may rest the other. " I wonder if those who aresuccessful ever appreciate their rest when they get it! I wonder if itcomes up to their expectations! if the goal toward which they havebeen looking almost since they began to exist is worth the trouble andenergy spent on it! Ah, I am afraid they very rarely find it so! Theyhave become so immured in their busy lives, that it is difficult togrow accustomed to any other. Unless one is brought up to it, the_Dolce far niente_ is not an existence we enjoy. We are made the wrongway about somehow. We ought to be born old and gradually grow youngeras the years roll on. Still, I daresay there would be something tocomplain of even then, and perhaps it would not be very dignified togo off the stage as a baby!

To go to the opposite extreme, there are the fashionable water-places;little Londons, or rather little imitations of London; for beside thatgreat capital itself they are like pieces of glass to a diamond. Andyet fashion and folly are all here, sunning themselves by the seainstead of in the park; driving up and down in the same way, inequally charming toilets. But still there seems to be somethinglacking, something wanting. They are too small, these towns; you sosoon know everyone by sight, and grow tired both of them and theircostumes. There is a good deal of stir and life about all the same. There are bands, niggers, clairvoyantes, fire-eaters; plenty indeedfor you to see and hear when you are weary of strutting up and downand nodding to your friends. And yet, in spite of all, you grow tiredof "London by the sea, " after a few weeks, even in that dead season ofthe year--November. 

Have you ever visited one of these places in the midst of a tennisweek, when the grand tournaments take place? Lawn tennis is adelightful recreation for a time, provided you have a good partner andgood antagonists, and you are playing under a moderately warm sun; butwhen you hear, see, and play nothing else for a week, when theconversation is "tennis, " when no one appears without a racquet in hishand, when all you have to listen to are criticisms on the courts andballs, grumblings against the handicapping, imprecations on"bisques"--well, you begin to hate the very name, and wish you couldinjure the man who invented it. You grow tired of watching the samething day after day, the men who spend their lives in tossing ballsacross to each other, the sea of faces; turning backwards and forwardsat each stroke with the regulation of a pendulum. 

Yes, it takes a long time to decide on a watering place, and when atlast you do make up your mind you have to change it again very soonbecause you find all your "sisters, cousins, and aunts" have chosenthe same resort; and really you have quite enough of your relations intown without their following you wherever you go. You require a littlevariety when you go away. An old lady I used to know always kept it aprofound secret where she intended spending her summer holiday, "otherwise, my dear, " she said, "I should have the whole family at myheels!" A most disagreeable old lady she was; and I know for a factthat her relatives always avoided her when possible (she was notblessed with very great possessions!) so that her caution was quiteunnecessary. Oh, vanity of vanities, how little we know of the world'strue opinion of us!

When you have fixed on your locality, there is even a greaterdifficulty to go through. You have to choose your residence; and thistakes up even more thought and time. 

There are the lodging-houses, monotonous in their similarity. The samegilt-edged mirrors protected from the dust by green perforated paper;the same jar of wax flowers, standing on a mat which is composed offloral designs in Berlin wool--designs to which you can give any nameyou like--"You pays your money and you takes your choice. " Theyrepresent anything, the whole concern hiding its modest head under aglass case; the same shavings in the grate, with long trails of rosesgently slumbering on the top; yes, and the same voluble landlady, thewhole of whose private concerns you are in possession of five minutesafter you have taken the apartments. 

There is the boarding-house, advertised as "Directly facing the sea;"and when you have engaged your rooms, and arrive with all yourluggage, you find the establishment is at the far end of a sidestreet; and "Directly facing the sea" is interpreted by the fact thatby hanging half-way out of the sitting-room widow, and screwing yourhead round violently to the left, you can see the place where thatwatery monarch ought to be. 

"A boarding-house is so much nicer than an hotel, because you get toknow the people so much easier, " I heard a girl remark once. This ismy chief objection to a boarding-house. Because you are staying underthe same roof, all the inhabitants consider they have a right toaddress you, and, what is more, they will not be repulsed, which, asmost of them by no means move in the best society, is not at allpalatable. The women you can tolerate, but the men are not to beendured. You are always coming across them, too. On whatever drive, excursion, or trip you take you invariably meet "boarding-houseites, "who are only too ready to recognize you. You can never get away fromthem; there is only the public drawing-room, and there they come inand out, talking to you, interrupting you, or else causing your earsto ache by their attempts at music. (?)

The meals are somewhat amusing, as you can watch all yourfellow-boarders without being disturbed. They cannot talk and eat atthe same time, and so philosophically devote all their energies totheir dinner. 

There is the girl who scrapes up acquaintances with everybody. She hashad the good luck to be placed near a man, and the demure way in whichshe prattles and smiles at him convinces you that she is trying tomake the best use of her time. Sometimes he is absent, and then thesmiles give way to the gloomiest expression. Finally, on the arrivalof new-comers, when there is a sort of general post all round, she isplaced at the farthest extreme to her late partner, and oh! thewistful little glances she passes up the table to the gourmand who, oblivious to all but his dinner, scarcely notices her departure. 

There are the three old maids, intent on capturing a husband. Theyhave come here as a last resource. But with the usual fickleness offortune, they seem to be more shunned by the male sex than attractedto it. 

There is the newly-married couple, looking very conscious and silly, as if they were the only people in the world who had ever committedmatrimony. 

There is one old lady grumbling, and objecting to the back of achicken. Poor birds, they have only two wings each, and really cannotprovide everybody with them! There is another furious, because onasking for a favorite dish, that is down in the _menu_, is told that"it is all served!" The best things always are, unless you manage toget into the good graces of the waiter or waitress. 

Young men and maidens, old men and children, all here, offering plentyof material for students of human nature!

Hotel life is very different. Even if you find the _parvenu_ and_nouveau riche_ as equally objectionable as the boarding-housespecies, at least they do not force their acquaintance uponyou. The _table d'hote_ is much more entertaining, and you arealtogether more independent. Characters you come across occasionallythat are most interesting to study. There are the girls who are takingthe round of hotels by their mothers, in the hopes of getting them"off. " There are the men who astonish everybody by their generosityand apparent display of riches, and finally decamp without payingtheir bill. 

A man was telling me the other day of a certain "black sheep" who hadrun into difficulty; how his family after a great deal of troublemanaged to raise £200 between them, and sent him off to America withthe money to start afresh in a new country. In a month's time he wasback again, penniless as ever, and cursing his luck and bad fortune. It was only by accident they discovered the bills of the best hotelsin New York in his pocket, and found that he had been living like aprince while his £200 lasted, nor had tried at all to obtain anyoccupation. 

With such consummate cheek, a man ought to get on in the world, Ithink, for after all it is self-confidence and "bluffing" that seemsto succeed most. However down in the world you are, however bad your"hand, " you only have to "bluff" a little to make it all right. Thereare many foolish people in the world ready to be your dupes, andluckily they never think of asking to "see" you. Even the best of ustry it on a little; we strive to hide our skeletons under the cloak ofcheerfulness, and entirely disguise our real feelings--

 "Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we; For, such as we are made of, such we be. "

THE END.