Punch: Punch (91.1886)

September 18, 1886.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

141

A STORY FOR A SUMMER NUMBER.

(To be filled in to suit the Illustrations.)

Mirth and Mystery.
(Prize Design for the Cover of a Summer Number.)

I ^ an old man now, and as I sit in my easy chair, my little
grandchildren flock around my legs, and with wondering eyes, ask
me tor a story. (Chance for Artist. Baronial Hall with armour,
with Grandfather and little ones.) Sometimes my thoughts stray
away to the quiet Chapel hard by, in which lie all my ancestors and
my darling wife. (Chance for Artist. Initial Vignette of Abbey
by moonlight.) And then I am very sad, hut as a rule I am a hale
and hearty veteran, and as merry as the best of them. When I am
in my gay mood, I tell the youngsters a right frolicsome anecdote.
Here is a sample.

Tears ago when I was fresh from the University, when I had just
left Oxford with its wine parties—(Chance for Artist. Scene from
College life.)—and its Schools, and had come up to town, I naturally
went a great deal into society. At a dance one evening in Eton
Square, 1 met a most charming girl— (Chance for Artist. Exterior
of Mansion with linkman.)—who, 1 fear found me rather dull
company.

" You tell me," she said, as we stood under some spreading tranches
and Chinese lanterns—(Chance for Artist. The Conservatory.)—
' You tell me, that you have not been to Lord's„the Academy, to any
of the Theatres, and have read no new hooks ? "

" I am obliged to confess, that you are indeed right," I admitted—
we spoke in rather a pedantic way in 1876—" To tell the truth, I
have had little time away from my studies. To achieve suecess it
Was necessary that I should know no leisure."

"Not even to read the novel that every one is talking of ? " asked
the fair girl coquettishly, toying with her bouquet in the supper-
room, to which apartment we had now proceeded. (Chance for
Artist. The Supper. Pine-apples. Plate and Footmen.)

\\ What novel ? " I replied.
. ,Why Burnt Mill Meadow. But perhaps you don't approve of

(i x agam the fair girl looked at me with bewitching coquetry.
I neither approve nor disapprove," I returned, somewhat piqued
at her raillery. " I have never read it—nay, more, the title is novel
to me."

„ "You mean the hook," she said, smilingly, disengaging herself
irom. me (by this time she had completed a rather hearty supper),
and taking the arm of a gentleman of military appearance, she
frvi ' " You will excuse me, but I am engaged for the cotillon—
[Chance for Artist. The Cotillon.)—to Captain Dashaway."
And with a silvery laugh she was gone.

When I got home to my chambers in St. James's Street I found a
letter waiting for me. I opened it, and was reminded that I had
allowed my subscription to Brown and Nephews' Circulating
Library to expire.

" The very thing," I murmured, as 1 went to bed. " To-morrow
I will supply the omission, and obtain Burnt Mill Meadow at the
railway book-stall."

After my matutinal meal in my rooms on the following morning—
(Chance for Artist. Breakfast in Bachelors' Chambers in St. James's
Street. Foils, cards of invitation, and toast-rack.)—I went down to
the Albert Station, and, handing in a cheque, renewed my subscrip-
tion, and asked for the volume.

" Very sorry, Sir, but it isn't in," replied the clerk. (Chance for
Artist. Albert Station, with Book-stall and Departing Continental
Train in the distance.) " The fact is that, after the first demand, no
one wanted it, and we sent it up the line."

" How can I get it ? " I asked, rather angrily.

" By transferring your subscription to any of our Stalls in the
Provinces."

No sooner said than done. I selected a Station, and then obtained
a ticket for the new depot. On my way I passed the scene of a
recent disaster—(Chance for Artist. The Accident to the Great
Southern Express—a leap for life)—hut arrived safely.

" Burnt Mill Meadow,'" repeated the provincial clerk. "Ah, to
be sure, we did have it, but it has been called in. You won't get it,
Sir, unless you go to our head-office, and buy it at a reduced price."

Again I travelled along the line, reached London, and passing
through the Strand at the busiest time of the day—(Chance for
Artist. The Strand at the busiest time of the day)—made my way
to the palatial premises of X. I. Brown and Nephews.
_ " All gone; all sold!" was the business-like reply to my applica-
tion for the coveted novel. "You may get it at Pudie's."

I went to Pudie's, but was unsuccessful, and could not find it at
the Grreen-and-YaLlery Gallery—another well-known Circulating
Library. However, the custodian dropped a hint.

" If you were going abroad, now," said he, "you might possibly
pick it up. It has been appropriated by Yicomte Picnitz."

Acting upon this suggestion (the London Season was now at an
end), I started for Paris. We had a rough crossing—(Chance for
Artist. Between Dover and Calais on the Mail-boat)—and I was
only too glad to find myself safe and sound in the court-yard of the
Grand Hotel. I immediately drove to ithe Bue de Bivoli—(Chance
for Artist. Street-Life in Paris)—and entering Galignant's, asked
for Burnt Mill Meadow.

"Afraid you can't get one," said the man hehind the counter,
shaking his head. " I believe it is out of print."

By this time my blood was up. I made up my mind to ohtain it
at all hazards. I travelled all over Germany, through the Alps—■
(Chance for Artist. The Avalanche)—into Spain, where I joined in
the dissipations of the people—(Chance for the Artist. Scene at the
Bull Fight—Death of the Toreador)—and thence into Italy. But,
go where I would, seek where I could, I found no trace of the lost
volume. Then, at length, thoroughly dispirited, I returned home,
pausing for an hour or two at Boulogne. I walked into Saderost's
English Library, a favourite haunt in years gone by.

"Pardon me," said an old gentleman, who was reading the news-
paper as I entered, '' but you are very ill. I am a Doctor, and am
alarmed at your condition. Tell me frankly what is the matter ? "

I explained that I was disappointed in obtaining a novel, whose
search had become a mania.

"I believe that, if I could only find Burnt Mill Meadoiv-"

II Burnt Mill Meadow !'" echoed the representative of Mr. Sab-
erost. "Why, we have a copy. It is the very last. It was returned
to us by a scrupulous Englishman, who wished it sent hack to
Vicomte Picnitz, as he heard that the work had been ealled in. I
don't know whether, under the circumstances, I should give it to
you, but-"

" But I do," interrupted the old Doctor, taking the volume out of
the attendant's hands and presenting it to me. "That book, Sir,
has saved your life! "

There was no time for thanks, or further explanation, as at that
moment a signal was made that the boat was about to start. (Chance
for Artist. The Doctor at Boulogne. Eccentric comedy with comely
French fisher-girls looking in at the doorway.) Overjoyed I hurried
on board. I am not a good sailor, so could give no attention to the
volume until I reached England. Once ashore, I hastened to a
secluded spot on the Pier, and greedily opened the hook. Before I
could read a line of it, it was seized, and wrested from me.

" I must take that, Sir,—it is contraband in England," and ere I
had time to protest, the Custom House Officer tossed the volume I
so much treasured into the water! I never saw it again!

I went mad! For many years I remembered nothing! At length,
thanks to a curative course at the Catford Retreat, I was restored to
full mental health. But I was old before my time. ,

Even now as I write, the sad memory of my great disappointment
(so cruel, and oh, so hard to bear!) comes back to me, and I feel that
in spite of my grandchildren's merry voices, I shall soon die. An
What is this P As I write, the room grows dark, my strength iaus,
and the pen falls from my feeble faltering fingers. Ah! -Rest at
last!! [Chance for Artist. The Old Man's grave.) _