Part 17 (2/2)
One of the travellers, on being asked to contribute his item to the fund of anecdotes, said that instead of telling a tale, he would give a recitation. Before doing so, he sneezed artificially six times, and then recited a poem on
_Influenza._
Influenza has come like the wolf on the fold, And the duke and the ditcher are down with the cold.
The doctor is smiling, for business is here, And the c.h.i.n.k of the guinea resounds in his ear.
No household is spared: both the villa and cot Their quota of swollen-nosed patients have got.
The clerk of the weather is gloating on high At the lords of creation that bed-ridden lie.
Each chamber resounds with the echo of sneezing, With deep-laboured coughing and bronchial wheezing.
While, loading the table, the victim can spy Lotions, tonics, and ointments confusedly lie.
The druggist (douce man) is thanking his stars For this nice epidemic of paying catarrhs, He's making his hay, though no suns.h.i.+ne is seen, And his till gleams with silver where copper has been.
A WORD IN SEASON.
This dismal piece of verse effectually cleared the smoking-room, and filled me with a great sorrow, since I had just recollected three or four stories of my own. I now take the liberty of laying these before the ingenuous reader. If he says they are dull, let me tell him (i.) that he has no perception of humour, and (ii.) that occasional dulness is the inalienable privilege of every free-born Briton. Many a spry wight thinks it his duty to be _continuously funny and monotonously merry_. Let a quiet and demure dulness be the foil of your side-splitting sallies. Learn to keep the peace, yea for hours at a time. If you are in a mixed company, cultivate the dictum of ”give and take.” Be not for ever doling out your sc.r.a.ps of mirth to the dyspeptic stomachs of your a.s.sociates. A wise reciprocity and interplay of merriment is the best rule--a fair share among the entire party. Burns himself, sparkling talker as he was, is recorded to have been at times sunk in gloom and shadow. But anon emerging from his moodiness, he would utter such words as set the table in a roar. And now for these masterpieces of humour.
A NAIRN CRITIC.
Why is it that publishers, aye, and even booksellers, are so often out of sympathy with the poets? I spoke once to a bookseller in Nairn about a local poet's volume that was lying on the counter. ”Do you personally know this bard?” I asked. ”Ay, that I do,” was the reply; ”he's an eccentric wee chap. I've many a laugh at him as he goes along the street, muttering to himself and picking his teeth with a fountain-pen.
Eccentric! bless my soul, how could a poet be anything but eccentric?
Besides, he's bound to be a liar: for if he can't get the end of a line to come right with truth for a rhyme, he has got to make it _clink with a whopper_. Why, man, it's a great worry for an honest man like me to speak the truth in plain prose. If I were to send out my bills in metre to my customers, there would be a rise of temperature soon in the town of Nairn. No, no: the only thing that can be done with a poet's ma.n.u.script is to take it to the head of the garden, sprinkle it with paraffin, and apply a vesta.”
”A GRAND DAY FOR IT.”
While one of the great six-day battles of the Eastern war was going on, a country doctor, by some mistake in delivery, did not get his _Herald_ to breakfast one morning. Anxious to get the news, he bolted his meal and sallied forth to hear the latest from the seat of war. He saw a wrinkled old churl tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the roadside hedge with a bill-hook, and humming a tune like the gravedigger in _Hamlet_, Act v. ”Any news of the war?” gasped the doctor. ”Eh?” said the old man, without discontinuing his work. ”Are you not aware,” said the doctor, ”that there is a great battle raging in Manchuria?” ”No,” said the man, ”I know nothing about it, and care less.” ”What!” shouted the doctor. ”You care nothing about it? Why, man, the Russians and j.a.panese are at this moment _fighting for the hegemony of all Eastern Asia_.” ”Lord, do you say so?” replied the old c.o.c.k, lopping unconcernedly at his hedge; ”well, all I can say is, that _they're gettin' a grand day for it_.”
A PRO-BOER.
On one occasion, in the West Highlands, I availed myself of a lugsail ferry to cross an arm of the sea and so avoid a long detour by land. The boat was old, the sail was thick with big-st.i.tched patches, and the ferryman was an elder. I had much edifying talk with him, and at last gliding from the Declaratory Act, of which he did not approve, I asked him if he had any family. ”Yes,” he replied, ”I have two sons. One of them is a polissman in Glasgow, a nice lad, a very nice lad: he sends me ten s.h.i.+llings every month; oh! an excellent lad is he indeed. But my other son is a disgrace to me; he is bad, very bad. He is a drunkard and a card-player and a Sabbath-breaker, and what's a thousand times worse than all that, he's a _Pro-Boer_.” This instance of patriotism in a remote Highland nook was very refres.h.i.+ng for me to hear, and I gave the anti-Krugerite elder a substantial fare for his trouble in ferrying me over the loch. He invoked the blessing of Heaven on me, and I hope his prayer will be answered.
”FALLS OF BRUAR, ONLY, PLEASE!”
Some years ago, I had occasion to spend a day at Blair Athol, where I was dosed with nothing but kindness by a genial son of the famous Clan Macdonald. He put his trap and driver at my disposal, in order that I might, with comfort and expedition, go and view the Falls of Bruar, immortalised in one of Burns's cleverest poems. No sooner had we set off than the driver began to calumniate Burns in unmeasured language, and to throw withering scorn on the Falls, which, he declared, were utterly unworthy of being visited by any sane man. ”If you want to see real falls,” said he, ”I'll take you to the Falls of Tummel, which could knock those of Bruar into a c.o.c.ked hat!” (such was the curious metaphor he employed). I told him he could take me to both if there was time, but Bruar I must see. He landed me at the Tummel, and drove on recklessly himself a mile further to see his sweetheart. The desire to pay a visit to his Bonnie Jean was the sole cause of his gibes at the poet. Back he came in an hour, chanting merrily, and we drove to Bruar. I found the varlet had lied most expansively: the Falls are gloriously fine, and worth walking a good many miles to see. On the homeward road, I could see he was ill at ease: he was dreadfully afraid that his amorous flight would be discovered by his master. He said to me once every minute, ”_Falls of Bruar, only, please: keep your thumb on Tummel!_” Latterly he set these words to a kind of rough music, and sang them continuously in my ear, winking the while and smiling roguishly. I obeyed him.
A BAD CASE OF NERVES.
While I was sitting alone in the smoking-room of the hotel, a tall, thin, restless-eyed, aristocratic young fellow came quietly in. He went up to the sideboard, poured out half a tumbler of water, and carefully measured out about ten drops of phospherine therein. He swallowed the mixture, smacked his lips, and sighed. He then remarked that it was a nice evening and that he was very ill with a nervous complaint. ”I suppose, now,” he said, ”you would actually tell me not to worry, to take everything easy, and, above all, to firmly believe there is nothing whatever the matter with me?” ”Most certainly,” I said, ”you ought to consider yourself in perfectly good health; by and by you would come to be so in reality. The Christian Scientists say you might even learn to hold fire in your hand by thinking of the frosty Caucasus.” ”I suppose, too, you would recommend me to have a hobby, such as golf, or gardening, or amateur photography.” ”Yes, I believe a harmless hobby such as you mention would relieve the mental strain and take you out of yourself.”
”Well, I essayed golf, but, alas! I ma.s.sacred a ram; I tried gardening, and tired of it before the flowers began to show; and as to photography, it only increased the number of my enemies.” ”What about cycling or horse-riding?” ”These won't do--I can _think_ at both of them. Now, I _don't want to think: in fact, I mustn't_.” ”Fis.h.i.+ng? wouldn't that be a reposeful diversion?” ”No, no,” he said, ”I could not stand the sight of an animal enduring pain.” ”Well, you surely might try a little light reading.” ”The strange thing about my reading is this,” said he, ”I look at a sentence and understand it, but I am aware of something, either at the back of my head or behind me, which says, 'All this is futile stuff and nonsense: give it up, it's not for you; you are condemned to everlasting emptiness, and your life will never know any more fulness or joy.'
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