"A disappointing man," I have heard a dutiful nephew term his uncle.

True, he (the uncle, I mean) is ninety-four, and therefore old enough to know better than to rally so many times. But after all, he does nothing, runs into no danger, is tended as carefully as a new-born baby; 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, and must return to politics.

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

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

First the secretary rose, ran off a quant.i.ty of statistics, as to what had been done by the great League, what it was going to do, and how many converts had been induced to join, which was exceedingly uninteresting, I think, but which elicited loud applause from the rest of the audience. Then some resolution was pa.s.sed, at which if you agreed you were begged "to signify the same in the usual way." After which those who thought differently were asked to show their feelings in the same fashion. I held my hand up here, but I suppose the ruling councillor did not expect any opposition, for he never even looked round to see, but gabbled off by rote, "On the contrary? carried unanimously!" and my amiable attempt at running counter to the rest was not even noticed!

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

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

Of course animation like this brought down the house. The applause nearly deafened me, and I was quite glad when he drew near the end of his most tedious speech. He concluded by calming down very suddenly, returned to his original tones, and thanking his audience for his exceedingly 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 pa.s.s a vote of thanks to the "gifted orator." Someone seconded it, and the great man came forward again to thank us for thanking him. A sort of "So glad, I'm glad, you're glad" business, it seemed to me.

Then the ladies were thanked for being present: "Such great aids, and such an _important_ element in the League," with a sn.i.g.g.e.r, and what he confidently hoped was a fascinating smile, but which made him resemble 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 ear had he wished. Then someone returned thanks for the ladies. The ruling councillor was thanked, and thanked his thankers back again, and after a few more people had exhibited their great faculty for grat.i.tude the meeting 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, not caring in any way to emulate Balaam. It is not only the members of the Primrose League who are so anxious to praise each other. It is the case at nearly every meeting you go to. It is a weakness of human nature. We know that if we laud our friend he will sing an eulogy on us 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 as smoking 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 great deal better after you have had a cup. But it is a stimulant, the effect of which does not last very long, and all the while it is ruining your nerves and const.i.tution. I daresay it is difficult to give up--the poor man finds the same with his spirits. You are no better than he!"

It is rather a come down, is it not? Somehow, when you are drinking tea, you feel so very temperate. Well, at least, the above reflection makes 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 as ever, 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 of them take it as regularly as they stream out of the trains on Sat.u.r.day afternoons with pink papers under their arms--such elevating literature! Indeed there is quite a fuss if they have to go without it--the tea I mean, not the paper.

It is strange too, because they dislike it so, if we trespa.s.s on their preserves, _e.g._, their outcry on ladies smoking: which is exceedingly unfair, for we have no equivalent for the fragrant weed.

Still I agree with the men in a way, for nothing looks worse than a girl smoking in public, though a cigarette now and then with a brother does, 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 would not smoke it through. It was so hard that if I had bent it, it would have snapped in two. He had only just found it in a corner of a cupboard where it had lain for years and years. But oh, the strength of that cigarette! It took me hours to get through, for it would not draw a bit. Nevertheless, with the incentive of a shilling to urge me on, I continued "faint but pursuing" and eventually won the bet. I would not do it again for ten times the amount.

But I should be talking about tea, not smoking; and tea has other baneful influences besides destroying the digestion. I think that afternoon tea is the time that breeds more gossip and scandal than any 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 the neighborhood at their fingers' ends, and in a quarter of an hour have picked everyone of their most intimate friends to pieces, nor do they leave them a shred of character.

Why do we feel such a relish in running down our friends and relations--the latter especially? _I_ quite enjoy it, though I should never do so outside my own family; thus my words never come round to their 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 three dozen photographs are dealt round, and each person plays one, he who plays the ugliest portrait taking the trick. The more hideous the photograph, the greater its value as a trump! I have played the game with a man who always keeps his brother to the end, and then brings him out with enormous success, the said brother never failing to overtrump any other card in the pack! So you see it is a most amiable game altogether. You must only be careful not to spread your doings abroad, 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 as long as you are not discovered to be the originator. But if your words against a person ever happen to get round to him or her (of course added to, and made almost unrecognizable in their progress) you make an enemy for life. At least, this is so as a rule. Personally, I never care what people say against me, so long as it is not true. But if they only keep to the truth, then it is aggravating. You cannot deny it! You cannot "tremble with indignation, and fling the words back in their faces," as the slandered heroine always does in the modern novel. You must simply submit to the accusation.

A man I know was saying all round the place a little while ago, that my 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 "d.a.m.ning praise." But it is true. We always admit the fact. We know we show our teeth too much when we laugh and talk. It was impossible to disclaim such a statement. If he had said that we squinted, not a syllable would have been p.r.o.nounced against him. Our eyes are all exceptionally good, and would bear any detrimental remarks. But no, he kept to the truth, and consequently has suffered ever since, for ways of revenge have been found which were thoroughly successful. He is the ugliest man 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, I think calls--formal calls--are some of the most dreadful experiences Mrs. Grundy obliges you to undergo. I dislike them immensely, and always get out of them if possible. I hope servants do not afterwards record the expression of my countenance when they tell me their mistress is "out." It is radiant with an unholy joy!

These dreadful "at home" days, too, are so provoking. If you know a dozen people in a neighborhood, you can only call on one at a time.

They all have different days! This may seem slightly impossible; but it is not indeed. While one lady's house is open to visitors on the first and third Wednesdays in the month, another is on view on the second and fourth, and so on. Not two people agree!

Small talk, I think, is never so small as on these occasions. The poor weather is thorougly worn out, a few mutual friends are picked to pieces, and of course there is a discussion about dress. Sometimes you hear some sad account of the lady's second cousin's daughter, and you have immediately to clothe your countenance in a sober garb. You must look grieved, and all the while not caring one straw if the cousin's daughter has fits or gets insane, or anything else she cares to do.

You have never heard of her before, and therefore have not the slightest interest in her eccentricities. I always feel so terribly inclined to laugh, just because I ought to be doing the other thing.

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

With the lower cla.s.ses, this, so to speak, gloating over your losses is even more apparent. One comparatively well-to-do woman I know, seems to have a monopoly of funerals. There is always some relation dead, and off she goes with an important air, draped from head to foot in 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 the terrible moment of her return, when you are obliged, whether you will or not, to listen to the whole account, the description, the progress, and finally the interment of "the corpse"! I hope, however dead I may be one day, that I shall never be described as "a corpse"! There is something so horrible in the word, I always think. It makes you even more dead than you are. It cuts you so absolutely off from the living.

Then there are those tiresome people who talk of nothing but their own families. The mother from whom you hear all the ailments of her children if they are young, all the conquests of her daughters if they are old. The sisters, to prevent the accusation of vanity, do not praise themselves, but arrive at the same end by lauding up each other! These "mutual admiration" families, as Wilkie Collins so aptly terms them, are families to be shunned.

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

I met one of the former cla.s.s the other day. He was a dreadful specimen! A large head, a bland smile, a vacant stare, and an enormous capacity for eating!

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

He was talking about the recent muzzling order, and added, in quick little 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 a suggestion that two pairs of goloshes apiece would answer the purpose admirably, besides having the combined advantage of keeping the poor things from rheumatism!