Punch (77.1879)

154

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[October 4, 1879.

'' NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTES."

Sea-side Visitor (on the Suffolk Coast). "You'll excuse me, Sir, but I notice that you seem to like to sit all day on this
exposed Spot-"

Native (Ancient Mariner). "Yes, I dew, Sis ; 'cause then I know there ain't nobody to the East'akd o' me!"

helped exactly to his taste and liking—always, of course, with the
exception of that one undecided person, who will turn up on every
occasion of this sort, and who never can make up his mind as to
what he really does want, so upsetting all calculations, and generally
finishing by saying, " Oh, don't mind me—I '11 help myself; " and.
ultimately taking something of everything.

After a while, getting to know one another thoroughly well,
unpunctuality set in. The men had gradually sat up later and later,
and therefore rose later and later. They dropped into breakfast
with various apologies, the younger offering excuses for their tardy
appearance, and the more experienced not attempting to explain
anything. Then, imperceptibly, there was a falling-off in politeness,
generally, though sustained only in private and particular instances;
the tone became familiar and less courteous. We had, as it were,
begun with the minuet de la cour, and were ending with a polka.
Perhaps the strain had been too great at first, and "self" was
reasserting itself. At last our house party has dwindled down to a
few, who cling on affectionately, like the bluebottles in September,
and we are dependent for excitement on outsiders, to whose houses
we go, and who return our visits.

My excellent host and myself agree that this is what we like. We
have plenty of time for the papers, which are no longer seized on,
taken away, and hidden, and after dinner we can sit down quietly
to discuss claret, Burns's works and life, and with the second bottle
we discuss philosophy and social science. If my host insists on
producing some peculiarly fine old port, after the claret, then we
get into theology. On the whole, with the assistance of a little
occasional contradiction from externs, the evenings are passed se-
riously, pleasantly, and profitably. After any prolonged discussion,
finishing only with the departure of the last guest, whose carriage has
been announced two hours ago,|I invariably retire to read up a certain
portion of what are, to my mind, clenching anti-positivist arguments
in Mr. Mallock's Is Life worth Living? Having commenced a
chapter, I find that this must be the same chapter I began last night,
and when I 've got to the second page, which determines me on the
point, I close my eyes, to make a mental resume of the strong points

in the previous argument. The resume becoming rather muddled,
gets itself mixed up with lawn-tennis, with what we '11 do to-morrow,
with an indistinct recollection of having said something to somebody
in London about something of great importance, which suddenly
connects itself with something else that happened years and years
ago, that I had forgotten till now,—and then—I pull myself
together, and determine to .... to put out the candle before I
forget it.

Thus we are passing a pleasant and peaceable time, "when one
morning my host enters with a telegram, and announces to us gene-
rally, that " Jim's coming ! "

The prospect of Jim's coming puts everyone into good spirits. A
flash of delight passes round like an electric current. I own to
feeling intensely pleased. Not because I know Jim, or have the
slightest idea who he is, or what he is—" What's Allison to Jim, or
Jim to Allison ?" (Mac Shakspeare adapted)—but simply from seeing
the delight depicted on everyone's countenance. Jim, it turns out,
is Allison's nephew, the life and soul of the house—when he's
there.

Host and hostess beam, as the former flourishes Jim's telegram, for
it is a peculiarity with Jim, that, no matter where he may be, no
matter how far from home, or how near—whether in India, Africa,
Paris, Germany, London, or merely in the next village, if there is
only a telegraph station to be found, Jim telegraphs.

Allison's house is six miles from a telegraph station, but this
makes no difference to Jim, who, in the impulse of a message, anni-
hilates times, space, and expense—the latter having nothing to do
with his own pocket personally. So a messenger has arrived in hot
haste on horseback, from the nearest town; and as there is a request
that an answer may be sent, Allison complies with it, and sends one
—it being comparatively economical to pay a shilling for sending a
message, in order to forestall another five-shilling telegram from Jim
in the course of the morning, inquiring if the first had come all right.

Everyone personally acquainted with Jim beams again.

"He'll wake us up a bit!" says Allison; which, though he
means it well, is rather a slur on the present company's liveliness.