DOI Heft:
January 4, 1879
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17733#0309
January 4, 1879.]
PUNCH, OB, THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
305
Offer declined, with, thanks. Hate making a menagerie of a bed-
room. Besides, I have always understood animals see ghosts quicker
than men do (isn't this idea embodied in a proverb abont " Pigs
seeing the wind?") and behave in a manner that would drive
me to the verge of insanity. No ; let them all come with Josslyn
to my room; but let the whole party quit the apartment together.
We ascend the stairs.
Past the dark corners again—darker than before; along the narrow
slip of old carpet, which seems to have been laid down to accommo-
date a line of acrobats, past the military ghost clock, which keeps
time, as a secret, locked up in its own ease, in front of which
Josslyn stops, as do also the animals, his three familiars, Fiend,
Snap, and the black cat Griff, who, having trotted on in front with
his tail erect, as though he were saying, " Suivez moil " now turns,
and sidles up against the wainscot, making his tail describe all
sorts of curious curves, and then performing the figure " 8 " in and
out between Josslyn's legs, occasionally rearing himself up on his
hind legs while opening a very red mouth to utter a complaining
sort of whine, intimating his impatience at our unnecessary loitering.
" That clock," Josslyn informs me, in a subdued voice, as if afraid
of being overheard, and perhaps contradicted, by some members
of the Phantom Horner family, perpetually in the corners, "that
clock is nearly two hundred years old. It is said to have stopped
at the very hour, on the evening of the murder, when the wicked old
Earl went to his room for the last time. No one has ever dared to
move it; and all attempts at winding it up have been utterly useless."
" The hands have been moved, I suppose ?" I observe, as carelessly
as I can, though with that ghostly faded old clock-face staring into
mine, I am somehow conscious of my remark probably being con-
sidered an impertinence. Not by Josslyn—oh clear, no ! not at all
by Josslyn ! I don't take him into consideration in the presence of
the Clock.
" The hands," my host answers, "have never been altered. One
of the family, a reckless, hard-drinking, hard-riding Squire, who
inhabited The Mote about fifty years ago, made a bet that he would
move the hands."
"Well?"
" Well—when his companions, whom he had left at table, came to
look for him, they found him sitting where we now stand, a gibber-
ing idiot, the glass of the clock-face open, and the hands pointing
where they had always pointed, and where they have pointed ever
since."
_ The clock hands, I notice, point to twenty-five minutes past
eight.
" The wicked old Earl," I observe, " used^to retire early."
Josslyn regards me regretfully. I beg his pardon. I really did
not intend a pun. No, I explain, I simply meant that the wicked
old Earl did not on that particular night go to bed late. On my
word, there seems to be a punning fiend at my elbow, suggesting,
"Now for another! Say that, though deceased, he couldn't be
spoken of as the late Earl." But I won't yield to the temptation,
which is simply a matter of nerves, as is a joke with the Dentist
who in another second will be holding your jaw for you and pulling
up an ancient tooth by its roots. I beg Josslyn to believe me when
I say that I really did not mean to pun, but am perfectly serious.
Apparently satisfied with my apology, which he seems to accept
on behalf of the clock, Josslyn answers,
"Yes, twenty-five minutes past eight was his time for retiring.
And that hour has been ever since invariably associated with some
calamity in the family history."
"Really?"
The dogs both settle themselves down with their forepaws out
before them, like two young Sphinxes, as though expecting a story.
The black cat, whose patience had been long ago exhausted, has,
with less politeness, disappeared.
" At twenty-five minutes past eight," Josslyn commences in a
mysteriously confidential tone, "the second Earl of Depfokd
was born. He ruined the property; and one morning he was found
hanging on an elm-tree. They cut him down, but he was dead.
His watch had stopped at twenty-five minutes past eight."
"How strange!" I murmur; and my voice seems somehow or
another to belong to some one behind me, so that I am strongly in-
clined to turn round and see who it is. The words, " How strange ! "
seem to have come to me from outside; to have pervaded me, to have
so got into my head, that I feel as though there were some mechanism
fitted up inside it, arranged to produce only the two articulate words
in a dull, muffled tone, " How strange!"
"The third Earl," continues Josslyn, eyeing the imperturbable
clock-face with respectful sadness, "ran away with an heiress, and
they were privately married in this house, one Christmas eve, at
twenty-five minutes past eight. He wouldn't wait till the half-hour,
as the guardians of the young Lady were actually hammering at the
door. The marriage was an unhappy one. That day year he returned
home suddenly to find his young wife unfaithful. The dinner, which
should have been only laid for one, was set out for two: the Earl
rushed from the room, met Captain Oekaed Cleveland on these
very stairs, and stabbed him to the heart. On returning to the
dining-room, he found the young Countess sitting before the fire.
Thinking it was the Captain, she said, ' Geraed, you are too soon;
we do not dine till eight-thirty.' ' And it is now eight twenty-
five !' thundered the husband. What became of them no one
knows."
"Were they never seen again?" I inquire, for the story seems
to finish rather abruptly, and then, to clear my throat—for my voice
sounds husky, I cough gently, very gently—stilling the sound, as
though I were in the sick-room of an invalid, whose life depended
on his not being disturbed by the slightest sound, and at the
same time casting a side-glance at the historical staircase.
Josslyn answers slowly,—
" They were never seen again . . . alive. But-"
He pauses, regarding me inquiringly, as if debating with himself
whether my initiation is sufficiently advanced to permit of my being
admitted to the real secrets. He decides in my favour, and resumes—
" But"-
NEW LEAVES FOR THE NEW YEAR.
(Which I fully mean to turn over—if I donH forget it.)
moking — I mean to give
up smoking—or at least
smoking more than {blank)
cigars a day. N.B.—To
make sure of myself, I had
better wait a week or so
ere fixing on the number.
I mean to keep an ac-
curate account of what I
lose at cards, for I feel
certain that I do lose, since
my wife takes all my
winnings.
I mean in my spare mo-
ments — if I ever have
spare moments — to rub
up my Greek and Latin,
which are getting rather
rusty.
I mean at the same time
—or some time or other—
to polish up my French a
bit, for though it passes
pretty fairly with waiters
who are polyglots, and with
Swiss or German landlords
who can speak a little
English, still, it hardly
stands the test of a table
d'hote in Paris,"and still less of [a visit"\vith a French friend to the
Franc ais!
I likewise mean to look up my Algebra a little, and, if possible, to
dip into my Euclid once a week or so ; for nothing helps a man in
life so much as Mathematics; and unluckily at school I always
preferred Cricket.
While I am thus about to complete my education, I mean to set
myself a good stiff course of solid reading, to occupy my mind in
any moments of leisure which may happen to occur to me.
In order to gain time for thus developing my intellect, I mean to
give up reading trashy magazines and novels, and wasting precious
eyesight upon badly-printed newspapers.
I really mean to save up money, if I can, to give myself the treat
of subscribing to a number of most deserving charities.
With this intent, I mean to dine less at the Club, to give up
billiards, and generally to grow more economic in my habits.
I mean to take more exercise and be more careful in my diet, for I
certainly am getting rather stouter than is elegant.
Whenever 1 dine out (which I intend shall be but seldom), I mean
strictly to avoid ever touching sweet s or entrees, and rigidly to con-
fine myself to two glasses of champagne and, say. three of hock or
claret—reserving power, as Directors do, of ' adding to their
number " on particular occasions.
I mean to give up oyster lunches—the cost of which is simply
ruinous—and to deny myself the luxury of muffins with my marma-
lade, as I feel sure they prejudicially affect my mental faculties.
I really do intend to go to Church more regularly, and I will
never—no, never—or, at least, hardly ever—come down to breakfast
so late on Sunday mornings.
I mean rigidly to abstain from taking little nips before dinner,
and little naps after it.
And, finally, I certainly intend to invite my wife's Mamma to
come and spend a week with us—probably at Easter, when I think I
can foresee that some unexpected business will summon me to Paris.
PUNCH, OB, THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
305
Offer declined, with, thanks. Hate making a menagerie of a bed-
room. Besides, I have always understood animals see ghosts quicker
than men do (isn't this idea embodied in a proverb abont " Pigs
seeing the wind?") and behave in a manner that would drive
me to the verge of insanity. No ; let them all come with Josslyn
to my room; but let the whole party quit the apartment together.
We ascend the stairs.
Past the dark corners again—darker than before; along the narrow
slip of old carpet, which seems to have been laid down to accommo-
date a line of acrobats, past the military ghost clock, which keeps
time, as a secret, locked up in its own ease, in front of which
Josslyn stops, as do also the animals, his three familiars, Fiend,
Snap, and the black cat Griff, who, having trotted on in front with
his tail erect, as though he were saying, " Suivez moil " now turns,
and sidles up against the wainscot, making his tail describe all
sorts of curious curves, and then performing the figure " 8 " in and
out between Josslyn's legs, occasionally rearing himself up on his
hind legs while opening a very red mouth to utter a complaining
sort of whine, intimating his impatience at our unnecessary loitering.
" That clock," Josslyn informs me, in a subdued voice, as if afraid
of being overheard, and perhaps contradicted, by some members
of the Phantom Horner family, perpetually in the corners, "that
clock is nearly two hundred years old. It is said to have stopped
at the very hour, on the evening of the murder, when the wicked old
Earl went to his room for the last time. No one has ever dared to
move it; and all attempts at winding it up have been utterly useless."
" The hands have been moved, I suppose ?" I observe, as carelessly
as I can, though with that ghostly faded old clock-face staring into
mine, I am somehow conscious of my remark probably being con-
sidered an impertinence. Not by Josslyn—oh clear, no ! not at all
by Josslyn ! I don't take him into consideration in the presence of
the Clock.
" The hands," my host answers, "have never been altered. One
of the family, a reckless, hard-drinking, hard-riding Squire, who
inhabited The Mote about fifty years ago, made a bet that he would
move the hands."
"Well?"
" Well—when his companions, whom he had left at table, came to
look for him, they found him sitting where we now stand, a gibber-
ing idiot, the glass of the clock-face open, and the hands pointing
where they had always pointed, and where they have pointed ever
since."
_ The clock hands, I notice, point to twenty-five minutes past
eight.
" The wicked old Earl," I observe, " used^to retire early."
Josslyn regards me regretfully. I beg his pardon. I really did
not intend a pun. No, I explain, I simply meant that the wicked
old Earl did not on that particular night go to bed late. On my
word, there seems to be a punning fiend at my elbow, suggesting,
"Now for another! Say that, though deceased, he couldn't be
spoken of as the late Earl." But I won't yield to the temptation,
which is simply a matter of nerves, as is a joke with the Dentist
who in another second will be holding your jaw for you and pulling
up an ancient tooth by its roots. I beg Josslyn to believe me when
I say that I really did not mean to pun, but am perfectly serious.
Apparently satisfied with my apology, which he seems to accept
on behalf of the clock, Josslyn answers,
"Yes, twenty-five minutes past eight was his time for retiring.
And that hour has been ever since invariably associated with some
calamity in the family history."
"Really?"
The dogs both settle themselves down with their forepaws out
before them, like two young Sphinxes, as though expecting a story.
The black cat, whose patience had been long ago exhausted, has,
with less politeness, disappeared.
" At twenty-five minutes past eight," Josslyn commences in a
mysteriously confidential tone, "the second Earl of Depfokd
was born. He ruined the property; and one morning he was found
hanging on an elm-tree. They cut him down, but he was dead.
His watch had stopped at twenty-five minutes past eight."
"How strange!" I murmur; and my voice seems somehow or
another to belong to some one behind me, so that I am strongly in-
clined to turn round and see who it is. The words, " How strange ! "
seem to have come to me from outside; to have pervaded me, to have
so got into my head, that I feel as though there were some mechanism
fitted up inside it, arranged to produce only the two articulate words
in a dull, muffled tone, " How strange!"
"The third Earl," continues Josslyn, eyeing the imperturbable
clock-face with respectful sadness, "ran away with an heiress, and
they were privately married in this house, one Christmas eve, at
twenty-five minutes past eight. He wouldn't wait till the half-hour,
as the guardians of the young Lady were actually hammering at the
door. The marriage was an unhappy one. That day year he returned
home suddenly to find his young wife unfaithful. The dinner, which
should have been only laid for one, was set out for two: the Earl
rushed from the room, met Captain Oekaed Cleveland on these
very stairs, and stabbed him to the heart. On returning to the
dining-room, he found the young Countess sitting before the fire.
Thinking it was the Captain, she said, ' Geraed, you are too soon;
we do not dine till eight-thirty.' ' And it is now eight twenty-
five !' thundered the husband. What became of them no one
knows."
"Were they never seen again?" I inquire, for the story seems
to finish rather abruptly, and then, to clear my throat—for my voice
sounds husky, I cough gently, very gently—stilling the sound, as
though I were in the sick-room of an invalid, whose life depended
on his not being disturbed by the slightest sound, and at the
same time casting a side-glance at the historical staircase.
Josslyn answers slowly,—
" They were never seen again . . . alive. But-"
He pauses, regarding me inquiringly, as if debating with himself
whether my initiation is sufficiently advanced to permit of my being
admitted to the real secrets. He decides in my favour, and resumes—
" But"-
NEW LEAVES FOR THE NEW YEAR.
(Which I fully mean to turn over—if I donH forget it.)
moking — I mean to give
up smoking—or at least
smoking more than {blank)
cigars a day. N.B.—To
make sure of myself, I had
better wait a week or so
ere fixing on the number.
I mean to keep an ac-
curate account of what I
lose at cards, for I feel
certain that I do lose, since
my wife takes all my
winnings.
I mean in my spare mo-
ments — if I ever have
spare moments — to rub
up my Greek and Latin,
which are getting rather
rusty.
I mean at the same time
—or some time or other—
to polish up my French a
bit, for though it passes
pretty fairly with waiters
who are polyglots, and with
Swiss or German landlords
who can speak a little
English, still, it hardly
stands the test of a table
d'hote in Paris,"and still less of [a visit"\vith a French friend to the
Franc ais!
I likewise mean to look up my Algebra a little, and, if possible, to
dip into my Euclid once a week or so ; for nothing helps a man in
life so much as Mathematics; and unluckily at school I always
preferred Cricket.
While I am thus about to complete my education, I mean to set
myself a good stiff course of solid reading, to occupy my mind in
any moments of leisure which may happen to occur to me.
In order to gain time for thus developing my intellect, I mean to
give up reading trashy magazines and novels, and wasting precious
eyesight upon badly-printed newspapers.
I really mean to save up money, if I can, to give myself the treat
of subscribing to a number of most deserving charities.
With this intent, I mean to dine less at the Club, to give up
billiards, and generally to grow more economic in my habits.
I mean to take more exercise and be more careful in my diet, for I
certainly am getting rather stouter than is elegant.
Whenever 1 dine out (which I intend shall be but seldom), I mean
strictly to avoid ever touching sweet s or entrees, and rigidly to con-
fine myself to two glasses of champagne and, say. three of hock or
claret—reserving power, as Directors do, of ' adding to their
number " on particular occasions.
I mean to give up oyster lunches—the cost of which is simply
ruinous—and to deny myself the luxury of muffins with my marma-
lade, as I feel sure they prejudicially affect my mental faculties.
I really do intend to go to Church more regularly, and I will
never—no, never—or, at least, hardly ever—come down to breakfast
so late on Sunday mornings.
I mean rigidly to abstain from taking little nips before dinner,
and little naps after it.
And, finally, I certainly intend to invite my wife's Mamma to
come and spend a week with us—probably at Easter, when I think I
can foresee that some unexpected business will summon me to Paris.