Chapter I: HAVE lately made a most important discovery which has disclosed one of

the great secrets of English rank. You, in the United States, knowing nothing of this, will consider the following authentic history of rank a singular curiosity.

They have confined the several species of man within such definite limits, in this country, that the moment they hear a knocking at the doors, they can tell you whether it be a servant, a postman, a milkman, a half or whole gentleman, a very great gentleman, a knight, or a nobleman.

A servant is bound to lift the knocker once; should he usurp a nobleman’s knock he would hazard his situation. A postman knocks twice, very loudly. A milkman knocks once, at the same time sending forth an artificial noise, not unlike the yell of an American Indian. A mere gentleman usually knocks three times, moderately; a terrible fellow feels authorised to knock thrice, very loudly, generally adding to these two or three faint knocks, which seem to run into each other; but there is considerable art in doing this elegantly, therefore it is not always attempted; but it is a valuable accomplishment. A stranger who should venture at an imitation would undoubtedly be taken for an upstart. A knight presumes to give a _double knock_, that is six raps, with a few faint ones at the end. I have not yet ascertained the various peculiarities which distinguish the degrees between the baronet and the nobleman; but this I know too well, that a nobleman, at any time of night, is allowed to knock so long and loud, that the whole neighbourhood is frequently disturbed; and although fifty people may be deprived of their night’s rest, there is no redress at law or at equity. Nor have I learned how long and loud a prince of the blood presumes to knock, though doubtless he might knock an hour or two by way of distinction.

You may hold your sides if you please, but I assure you I am perfectly serious. These people are so tenacious of their prerogative, that a true-blooded Englishman goes near to think it a part of British liberty. Indeed, I am convinced I could place certain Englishmen in a situation, in which, rather than knock at a door but once, they would fight a duel every day in the week. Good heavens, how would a fine gentleman appear if obliged to knock but once at the door of a fashionable lady to whose party he had been invited, while at the same moment a number of his everyday friends, passing by, might observe the circumstance! I cannot conceive of a more distressing occurrence. The moment he entered the room the eyes of the whole company would be turned on him; he would believe himself disgraced for ever, he would feel himself annihilated, for all his imaginary consequence, without which an Englishman feels himself to be nothing, would have forsaken him.

You may imagine it a very easy matter to pass from the simple _rap_ of the servant to that of the nobleman; but let me inform you these little monosyllables stand in the place of Alpine mountains, which neither vinegar nor valour can pass. Hercules and Theseus, those vagabond but respectable bullies, who govern by personal strength instead of a standing army, would have hesitated an enterprise against these raps. They have, by prescription, risen nearly to the dignity of Common Law, of which strangers as well as natives are bound to take notice. I was lately placed in a pleasant position through ignorance of this. Soon after my arrival I received an invitation to dine with a gentleman, and in my economical way, with the greatest simplicity, I gave one reasonable rap; after a considerable time a servant opened the door and asked me _what I wanted_! I told him Mr. ——. He replied “His _master_ has company, but will see if he can be spoken with.” In the meantime I was left in the entry. Presently Mr. —— came, who, a little mortified, began to reprove the servant; but it appeared in the sequel he was perfectly right, for on telling Mr. —— “_I knocked but once_,” he burst into a laugh, and said he would explain that at dinner.

Should an honest fellow, ignorant of the consequences of these raps, come to London in search of a place, and unfortunately knock at a gentleman’s door, after the manner of noblemen, it might prejudice him as much as a prayer-book once prejudiced a certain person in Connecticut. The anecdote is this:—

A young adventurer, educated Church-of-England-wise, on going forth to seek his fortune, very naturally put his prayer-book in his pocket. Wandering within the precincts of Connecticut, he offered his service to a farmer, who, after asking him a thousand questions (a New England custom), gave him employment; but in the evening, the unlucky prayer-book being discovered, he fairly turned the poor wight out of doors to get a lodging where he could.

You know the Connecticut _Blue Laws_ made it death for a priest, meaning a clergyman of the Church of England, to be found within that State. Thank heaven, those days are past. “God, liberty, and toleration,” whether a man prefers a prayer-book to the missal, or the Koran to a prayer-book, or a single rap at a door to the noise of a dozen.

Adieu.

N.B.—You must keep this letter a profound secret, as we have certain gentlemen on our side of the Atlantic who would, in imitation of the noblemen here, disturb their neighbours.

_William Austin._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_A CAPTIVE MAIDEN._

IT is extremely probable that we shall lose our servant-girl. She was the victim of a very singular catastrophe a night or two since, in consequence of which she has acquired a prejudice against the house of Adeler. We were troubled with dampness in our cellar, and in order to remove the difficulty we got a couple of men to come and dig the earth out to the depth of twelve or fifteen inches, and fill it in with a cement and mortar floor. The material was, of course, very soft, and the workmen laid boards upon the surface, so that access to the furnace and the coal-bin was possible. That night, just after retiring, we heard a woman screaming for help; but after listening at the open window, we concluded that Cooley and his wife were engaged in an altercation, and so we paid no more attention to the noise. Half-an-hour afterwards there was a violent ring at the front door bell, and upon going to the window again I found Pitman standing upon the door-step below. When I spoke to him he said—

“Max,”—the judge is inclined sometimes, especially during periods of excitement, to be unnecessarily familiar,—“there’s somethin’ wrong in your cellar. There’s a woman down there screechin’ and carryin’ on like mad. Sounds ’s if somebody’s a-murderin’ her.”

I dressed and descended; and securing the assistance of Pitman, so that I would be better prepared in the event of burglars being discovered, I lighted a lamp and we went into the cellar.

There we found the maid-servant standing by the refrigerator, knee-deep in the cement, and supporting herself with the handle of a broom, which was also half-submerged. In several places about her were air-holes marking the spot where the milk-jug, the cold veal, the Lima beans, and the silver-plated butter-dish had gone down. We procured some additional boards, and while Pitman seized the sufferer by one arm I grasped the other. It was for some time doubtful if she would come to the surface without the use of more violent means, and I confess that I was half inclined to regard with satisfaction the prospect that we would have to blast her loose with gunpowder. After a desperate struggle, during which the girl declared that she would be torn in pieces, Pitman and I succeeded in getting her safely out, and she went upstairs with half a barrel of cement on each leg, declaring that she would leave the house in the morning.

The cold veal is in there yet. Centuries hence some antiquarian will perhaps grub about the spot whereon my cottage once stood, and will blow that cold veal out in a petrified condition, and then present it to a museum as the fossil remains of some unknown animal. Perhaps, too, he will excavate the milk-jug and the butter-dish, and go about lecturing upon them as utensils employed in bygone ages by a race of savages called “The Adelers.” I should like to be alive at the time to hear that lecture. And I cannot avoid the thought that if our servant had been completely buried in the cement, and thus carefully preserved until the coming of that antiquarian, the lecture would be more interesting, and the girl more useful than she is now. A fossilised domestic servant of the present era would probably astonish the people of the twenty-eighth century.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_MRS. PARTINGTON IN COURT._

“I TOOK my knitting-work and went up into the gallery,” said Mrs. Partington, the day after visiting one of the city courts; “I went up into the gallery, and, after I had adjusted my specs, I looked down into the room, but I couldn’t see any courting going on. An old gentleman seemed to be asking a good many impertinent questions,—just like some old folks,—and people were sitting around making minuets of the conversation. I don’t see how they made out what was said, for they all told different stories. How much easier it would be to get along if they were all made to tell the same story! What a sight of trouble it would save the lawyers! The case, as they call it, was given to the jury, but I couldn’t see it, and a gentleman with a long pole was made to swear that he’d keep an eye on ’em, and see that they didn’t run away with it. Bimeby in they came agin, and then they said somebody was guilty of something, who had just said he was innocent, and didn’t know nothing about it no more than the little baby that had never subsistence. I come away soon afterwards; but I couldn’t help thinking how trying it must be to sit there all day, shut out from the blessed air!”

_Benjamin Penhallon Shillaber_
_(“Mrs. Partington”)._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_THE MUSIC-GRINDERS._

THERE are three ways in which men take
One’s money from his purse,
And very hard it is to tell
Which of the three is worse;
But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.

You’re riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush,
And takes your horse’s reins,
Another hints some words about
A bullet in your brains.

It’s hard to meet such pressing friends,
In such a lonely spot;
It’s very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;
And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you’re going out to dine,—
Some odious creature begs
You’ll hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,
Poor little lovely innocents,
All clamorous for bread,—
And so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.

You’re sitting on your window-seat,
Beneath a cloudless moon;
Your hear a sound that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,
As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a cracked bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Of music seems to come;
There’s something like a human voice,
And something like a drum;
You sit in speechless agony,
Until your ear is numb.

Poor “Home, sweet home” should seem to be
A very dismal place;
Your “Auld Acquaintance” all at once
Is altered in the face;
Their discords sting through Burns and Moore,
Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,
And break the legs of Time.

But hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,
And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound;
It cannot be,—it is,—it is,—
A hat is going round!

No! pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,
And pay the owner of the bear
That stunned you with his paw,
And buy the lobster that has had
Your knuckles in his claw;

But, if you are a portly man,
Put on your fiercest frown,
And talk about a constable
To turn them out of town;
Then close your sentence with an oath,
And shut the window down!

And, if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Or if you cannot make a speech
Because you are a flat,
Go very quietly and drop
A button in the hat!

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_MISS CRUMP’S SONG._

MISS CRUMP was inexorable. She declared that she was entirely out of practice. “She scarcely ever touched the piano;” “Mamma was always scolding her for giving so much of her time to French and Italian, and neglecting her music and painting; but she told mamma the other day that it really was so irksome to her to quit Racine and Dante, and go to thrumming upon the piano, that, but for the obligations of filial obedience, she did not think she should ever touch it again.”

Here Mrs. Crump was kind enough, by the merest accident in the world, to interpose, and to relieve the company from farther anxiety.

“Augusta, my dear,” said she, “go and play a tune or two; the company will excuse your hoarseness.”

Miss Crump rose immediately at her mother’s bidding, and moved to the piano, accompanied by a large group of smiling faces.

“Poor child,” said Mrs. Crump, as she went forward, “she is frightened to death. I wish Augusta could overcome her diffidence.”

Miss Crump was educated in Philadelphia; she had been taught to sing by Madame Piggisqueaki, who was a pupil of Ma’m’selle Crokifroggietta, who had sung with Madame Catalani; and she had taken lessons on the piano from Seignor Buzzifussi, who had played with Paganini.

She seated herself at the piano, rocked to the right, then to the left, leaned forward, then backward, and began. She placed her right hand about midway the keys, and her left about two octaves below it. She now put off to the right in a brisk canter up the treble notes, and the left after it. The left then led the way back, and the right pursued it in like manner. The right turned, and repeated its first movement; but the left outran it this time, hopped over it, and flung it entirely off the track. It came in again, however, behind the left on its return, and passed it in the same style. They now became highly incensed at each other, and met furiously on the middle ground. Here a most awful conflict ensued for about the space of ten seconds, when the right whipped off all of a sudden, as I thought, fairly vanquished. But I was in the error against which Jack Randolph cautions us; “it had only fallen back to a stronger position.” It mounted upon two black keys, and commenced the note of a rattlesnake. This had a wonderful effect upon the left, and placed the doctrine of “snake charming” beyond dispute. The left rushed furiously towards it repeatedly, but seemed invariably panic-struck when it came within six keys of it, and as invariably retired with a tremendous roaring down the bass keys.

It continued its assaults, sometimes by the way of the naturals, sometimes by the way of the sharps, and sometimes by a zigzag through both; but all its attempts to dislodge the right from its stronghold proving ineffectual, it came close up to its adversary, and expired.

Any one, or rather no one, can imagine what kind of noises the piano gave forth during the conflict. Certain it is, no one can describe them, and, therefore, I shall not attempt it. The battle ended, Miss Augusta moved as though she would have arisen, but this was protested against by a number of voices at once.

“One song, my dear Aurelia,” said Miss Small; “you must sing that sweet little French air you used to sing in Philadelphia, and which Madame Piggisqueaki was so fond of.”

Miss Augusta looked pitifully at her mamma, and her mamma looked “sing” at Miss Augusta; accordingly, she squared herself for a song.

She brought her hands to the campus this time in fine style, and they seemed now to be perfectly reconciled to each other. They commenced a kind of colloquy; the right whispering treble very softly, and the left responding bass very loudly. The conference had been kept up until I began to desire a change of the subject, when my ear caught, indistinctly, some very curious sounds, which appeared to proceed from the lips of Miss Augusta; they seemed to be compounded of a dry cough, a grunt, a hiccough, and a whisper; and they were introduced, it appeared to me, as interpreters between the right and the left.

Things progressed in this way for about the space of fifteen seconds, when I happened to direct my attention to Mr. Jenkins, from Philadelphia. His eyes were closed, his head rolled gracefully from side to side; a beam of heavenly complacency rested upon his countenance; and his whole man gave irresistible demonstration that Miss Crump’s music made him feel good all over. I had just turned from the contemplation of Mr. Jenkins’ transports, to see whether I could extract from the performance anything intelligible, when Miss Crump made a fly-catching grab at half-a-dozen keys in a row and at the same instant she fetched a long, dunghill-cock crow, at the conclusion of which she grabbed as many keys with her left. This came over Jenkins like a warm bath, and over me like a rake of bamboo briers.

My nerves had not recovered from this shock before Miss Augusta repeated the movement, and accompanied it with a squall of a pinched cat. This threw me into an ague fit; but, from respect to the performer, I maintained my position.

She now made a third grasp with the right, boxed the faces of six keys in a row with the left, and at the same time raised one of the most unearthly howls that ever issued from the throat of a human being. This seemed the signal for universal uproar and destruction. She now threw away all her reserve, and charged the piano with her whole force. She boxed it, she clawed it, she raked it, she scraped it. Her neck-vein swelled, her chin flew up, her face flushed, her eye glared, her bosom heaved; she screamed, she howled, she yelled, cackled, and was in the act of dwelling upon the note of a screech-owl, when I took the St. Vitus’s dance, and rushed out of the room. “Good Lord,” said a bystander, “if this be her _singing_, what must her _crying be_!” As I reached the door I heard a voice exclaim, “By heavens! she’s the most enchanting performer I ever heard in my life!” I turned to see who was the author of this ill-timed compliment, and who should it be but Nick Truck, from Lincoln, who seven years before was dancing “Possum up the Gumtree” in the chimney-corner of his father’s kitchen. Nick had entered the counting-room of a merchant in Charleston some five or six years before, had been sent out as supercargo of a vessel to Bordeaux, and while the vessel was delivering one cargo and taking in another, had contracted a wonderful relish for French music.

As for myself, I went home in convulsions; took sixty drops of laudanum, and fell asleep. I dreamed that I was in a beautiful city, the streets of which intersected each other at right angles; that the birds of the air and the beasts of the forest had gathered there for battle, the former led on by a Frenchman, the latter by an Italian; that I was looking on their movements towards each other, when I heard the cry of “Hecate is coming!” I turned my eye to the north-east, and saw a female flying through the air toward the city, and distinctly recognised in her the features of Miss Crump. I took the alarm, and was making my escape, when she gave command for the beasts and birds to fall on me. They did so, and, with all the noises of the animal world, were in the act of tearing me to pieces, when I was waked by the stepping of Hall, my room-mate, into bed.

“Oh, my dear sir,” exclaimed I, “you have waked me from a horrible dream. What o’clock is it?”

“Ten minutes after twelve,” said he.

“And where have you been to this late hour?”

“I have just returned from the party.”

“And what kept you so late?”

“Why, I disliked to retire while Miss Crump was playing.”

“In mercy’s name!” said I, “is she playing yet?”

“Yes,” said he; “I had to leave her playing at last.”

“And where was Jenkins?”

“He was there, still in ecstasies, and urging her to play on.”

“And where was Truck?”

“He was asleep.”

“And what was she playing?”

“An Italian——”

Here I swooned, and heard no more.

_Augustus Baldwin Longstreet._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_A POLYGLOT BARBER._

MY first tonsorial experience is in a barber shop of the old town of Prinkipo. Most of the barbers are polyglotically inclined. My particular barber is either a Greek, a Maltese, a Sclav, a Bulgarian, or a Montenegrin. It is impossible at first to tell his native tongue. He has French glibly. He speaks a “leetle Inglis,” and understands less. He is well up in Italian, as many of the families in this vicinage are. He had some knowledge of Spanish, as kindred to the Italian. This extraordinary learning always gives me a shudder, and especially when under his razor or shears. Being a stranger on the island, and having no very pronounced national features, it was equally difficult for him to ascertain my nationality, except by inquisition long and pitiless. All I could do was to arm myself with the affirmatives and negatives of various languages. With these I made myself complaisant, to save my face from bloodshed. My first conversation with this artist confirmed the general reputation as to the gossipy quality of the Barber of Seville. He had all the gossip of the isles, including its languages. The conversation ran somewhat after this style—

Barber: “You have been here long?”

I reply in Bohemian, “_Ne!_”

He easily understood that.

“You are here for your health?”

I reply in Danish, affirmatively and negatively, “_Ja!_” “_Nei, minherre!_” “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir.” This puzzled him.

“An army gentleman, perhaps?”

I reply in German, “_Nein, mein herr_.”

“Oh, then you are a navy officer?”

Having in view my position as admiral of the launch, I reply in Hungarian; because, _lucus a non lucendo_, Hungary is an inland country, and, like our own, without a navy.

“_Igen!_” “Yes.”

“Your vessel is at Constantinople?”

Remembering that there was an Italian emigrant named Christopher Columbus of naval renown, I reply: “_Si, signore_.”

“You will bring your vessel to Prinkipo?”

Ah! here was my opportunity. It is the modern Greek in which I reply: “_Nae vevayos_.”

He is thunderstruck. It is evidently his mother-tongue. Likely he has a Polish father; who knows? When he asks me in French—

“Will your vessel touch at Athens?”

I respond in Polish, “_Tak!_” “No.” And then, with some hesitation, I add the French word, “_peut-être_.” “Perhaps.”

“You will visit Egypt?”

“_Sim, senhor._” This is Portuguese for “Yes, sir.”

The gesture or the manner with which these responses are made encourages him, for he immediately asks whether I have ever been in Alabania. I have no negative or affirmative in any of the languages of the Adriatic. My Dalmatian servitor, Pedro, is absent, and my next best affirmative is in Russian.

“_Do prawda._” Perhaps, being affiliated with the Sclav, he understands this language.

“You have never been in Egypt?”

As the pine and the palm are associated in my mind, and having connected the Polar midnight sun with the Pyramids of the Pharaohs, I respond in Swedish, making it intense—

“_Ja!_” adding a little affirmative in Roumanian, to give intensity to the remark, “_Gie_.”

After a pause in the conversation he resumes. He believes that he has my nationality fixed. He surmises that I am from some Balkan province, and he asks—

“Have you been in Roumelia, Bulgaria, Servia, Montenegro, and Herzegovina?”

Knowing that I could not answer this truthfully, and not being able to answer it partially, I give him back in Roumanian an emphatic negative—

“_Na canna, bucca._”

“You have been quite a traveller!”

This suggests the Chinese as the fitting language for the affirmative, and I say—

“_She!_”

Having no reference to Haggard’s novel, for it was not then out. To make the “_she_” expressive I add another affirmative, which I had carefully studied while boarding with the Chinese Legation in Washington.

“_Ta Jin!_”

“You like the Chinese, Monsieur?”

Having succeeded so well with the Chinese, I answer promptly in the negative—

“_Puh!_”

This monosyllable disgusts him. His subordinates gather around the chair where I was being shaved, interested in this composite conversation. The artist then asks if I had visited Jerusalem. Here was my great breakdown. Notwithstanding I had represented a Hebrew community in New York, with more synagogues than Jerusalem had in the time of Solomon, I was at a loss for a Hebrew affirmative. Happy thought! I respond promptly in the Arabic tongue, with its guttural peculiarity—

“_Na’am._”

It sounded to me after I uttered it like profanity, and I fell back as gracefully as I could, waiting for the next attack, and equipped with a Japanese expletive.

“You like Constantinople?”

I respond in a sweet Japanese accent—

“_Sama, san!_”

“How long have you been in Constantinople?”

I give it to him in English—

“I arrived there in the year 1851—thirty-six years ago.”

“_Mon Dieu!—mon Dieu!—mon Dieu!_” he exclaims, “Have you lived there ever since that time?”

“_Beaucoup, Monsieur!_”

He has not yet learned my nationality. I am afraid every moment that he will strike America. It comes—

“Perhaps you have been in America?”

“Wa’al, yaas, I guess!”

He could not understand this, for he had not been educated at Robert College, nor had he abided in Vermont. I ask him in French which America he means. He says—

“South America. I have a cousin of my wife’s there, and I would like to know how the country looks.”

“_Le nom du cousin de votre femme?_” I ask.

“Pierre Moulka Pari Michipopouli. He is like you, Monsieur—quite a traveller.”

Then began a fusillade of questions and rattling replies.

“You have lived in Paris, Monsieur?”

“_Jamais!_” “Never.” “Been to Genoa?” “_Si, Signore._” “Ah, you are English, are you not?” With the intense Turkish negative I respond, “_Yok!_” “French?” “_Non._” “German?” “_Nein._” “Sclav?” “_Nee._” “Italian?” “_No, Signore._” “Ah! Espagnol? You look like one.”

“Pardon, Monsieur, I am not.”

“Well,” said he, taking breath, “will you tell me, Monsieur, where you do come from?”

“Don’t you remember the only nation in the world where the barber is as good as a king?” I said proudly.

“Oh, Switzerland. _Sapristi! Corpo de Bacco!_”

Understanding that last remark perfectly, I offer him a cigarette, and say, “No, I am not Swiss.”

“Brazeel?” “_Jamais._”

The way that barber rubs the unguent into my hairless scalp and hirsute beard shows that he is a disappointed man.

The next time I visit the shop I receive marked attention. The hands all rise up. They pick up the earth in a Turkish _salaam_. They distribute it in courtesy to the American minister, whom they have meanwhile discovered. As I have been frequently turned away from the doors of our American Congress after twenty-five years’ service, because I did not act or look like a member, so I was unrecognised here, by the “_Oi Barberoi_,” as having no national characterisation. America was the last race or people to which this Greek barber assigned me.

_Samuel S. Cox._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_AT THE GIANT’S CAUSEWAY._

“YIS, sur. It’s many a wan av yure countrymin Oi’ve taken over the Causeway, sur.”

“How do you know what countryman I am?”

“Thrust me fur knowing the American accent, sur.”

“I haven’t the American accent. You have it. Go to New York if you don’t believe me.”

“There’s many an Oirishman there, I’m tould, sur.”

“More than in Dublin.”

“De ye tell me thot, sur? Well, sur, Oi took Gineral Grant himsilf over the Causeway, and a foine mawn he was. An’ Gineral Sheridan, too, sur. Many’s the great mawn Oi’ve taken over the Causeway, sur.”

“Besides me?”

“Well, sur, ye may be the greatest av thim all, sur; fur, as Oi’ve often noticed, them that’s laste like it is sometimes bether than they look, sur.”

“True. So we won’t pursue _that_ subject any further.”

“Oi took the Duke av Connaught himsilf down this very road, sur, an’ do you know what he says to me, sur? He says, ‘Pat,’ says he, ‘have ye had anything to ate the day?’ ‘Saving yer presence, sur,’ says Oi, ‘except a bite at breakfast’—an’ before the words were out of my mout’, says the Duke to me, says he, ‘Sit down wid us,’ says he; an’ no sooner said than done, and Oi had moy lunch with the Duke av Connaught. De ye moind _thot_, now?”

“That was a great honour—for the Duke.”

“It was—what’s that, sur? It was a great honour fur _me_, sur.”

“Just depends on how a man looks at it. If you think it was a great honour for you, it was.”

“An’ Oi’ve taken great professors over the Causeway, sur—min that knew more in wan minute, sur, than you and Oi wud know in all our loives, sur. An’ they’ve tould me that this was the greatest soight in the whole wurrold.”

“Curious how education develops the power of lying.”

“Loying is it, sur? Don’t you know that there’s nothing in the whole wurrold loike the Goiant’s Causeway, sur?”

“What for? For mud?”

“The road _is_ a troifle muddy at this toime av the year, sur. It’s not many comes to see it in the winther toime, sur; indade, yure the first wan this week. There’s a power av rain in the nort’ av Oireland in the winter toime, sur.”

“How much further away is this Causeway?”

“Is it the Causeway, sur? But a troifle, sur. Ye’ll see it the minute we turn that bit av rock, sur. Sure an’ begorra it’s well worth the walk, for there is no place that is as noted as the Causeway, sur.”

“Yes. They told me about it at Derry. That’s why I came.”

“De ye mane to say, sur, that ye niver heard av the Goiant’s Causeway till ye came to Derry? Well, sur, Oi’ve taken tins av thousands av people over this ground, sur, and yure the first wan that iver tould me he never heard av the Causeway. Where were ye brought up, sur?”

“I’m a Belfast man.”

“De ye mane thot? Troth! Oi don’t think the professors are the biggest loiers, saving yer prisince, sur.”

“Where’s your old Causeway? We’re round that rock now.”

“Where’s the Causeway is it, sur? Where should it be but just before yer two eyes?”

“You don’t mean that foundation, do you?”

“What foundation, sur?”

“Looks like as if a building society had started a big stone tabernacle, and went bankrupt when the foundation was laid.”

“The greatest min in this wurrold, sur, tould me that——”

“Never mind what the greatest men said. _Is_ that the Causeway? That’s what I want settled.”

“It is, sur.”

“Let’s get back.”

“Back, is it, sur? Troth, ye’r not there yet. Divil a fut will Oi go back till ye’ve seen what ye paid for, sur.”

“All right, I’ll go on—under protest—merely to please you, you know.”

“Oi’m afraid ye’r hard to plaze yersilf, sur. It’s wan av the siven wondhers av the wurrold, sur.”

“That people come here? It _is_ a wonder, as you say. I’ll bet they don’t come a second time.”

“Now, beggin’ ye’r pardon, ye’r wrong there, sur. Not the sickond toime, but the twintieth toime have Oi known educated min to come, sur. And the aftener a man av sinse sees it, sur, the more wondherful he thinks it. Now, sur, ye’r fut is on the smaller Causeway, and be careful how you stip, fur it’s moighty slippery undherfut. There are three Causeways, sur, the Great Causeway bein’ in the centhre, and that we’ll come to in a minute, sur.”

“What is it used for?”

“The Causeway, is it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s used for nothin’ at all, sur.”

“Then why did they go to all this expense?”

“What expinse, sur?”

“The building of it.”

“Be all the powers, sur, it’s surely not running through your hid that the Goiant’s Causeway was built by the hand av man, sur!”

“How was it built, then? By contract?”

“Oi see plainly Oi’ll hay to begin at the beginnin’ wid you, sur. It was built by a mighty convulsion av nathure, sur.”

“Oh, yes, I remember reading about it in the papers at the time. It was the beginning of the Irish troubles.”

“It was at the beginning av toime, sur. Professor Gneiss, av Edinburgh, tould me its origin was volcanic, and that——”

“Oh, you can’t believe what a professor says. Was _he_ there?”

“He was not.”

“Well, then!”

“If you, sur, will excuse the liberty Oi’ll take, sur, in recommending you to kape silence fur a few minutes, sur, ye’ll know a good dale more whin ye lave here than ye did whin ye came, sur.”

“All right; go ahead.”

“These columns, sur, are basaltic.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a term used by Professor Gneiss. Now Oi’ll call ye’r attention to the ind av this column. That we call octagon, meaning eight-sided, as ye can see. And if yer measure the eight sides, sur, yer’ll foind them the same to a hair’s breadth.”

“And yet you say nobody chiselled it?”

“Oi do, sur.”

“You evidently think I’ll believe anything. But no matter. Go on, go on.”

“Now, if ye’ll notice, around this octagon are eight other pillars, forming an octagon group, as we call thim here, sur, all the columns being aqual in size. Now, sur, if ye follow me here, ye will see a septagon column, from the Latin word maning siven, and around that there are siven columns.”

“Is there any sixtogon one?”

“There is not, sur.”

“It’s a sort of seven-by-eight Causeway then?”

“There, sur, Oi tould ye ye would slip down, sur. A man broke his leg there once. Are ye hurt, sur?”

“Not in the least.”

“Thank the powers for that, sur! Oi always notice that the quieter a man kapes, the more attention he can pay to his futin’.”

“And you’re paid to do the talking, too. I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Now, sur, ye see from here the Great Causeway. Isn’t that a grand soight, sur?”

“Well, that depends on what you call a——”

“Oh! tare an’ ’owns, sur, ye’ve kilt yerself entoirely this toime. Don’t attempt to roise, sur, till Oi get down to ye. Dear! dear!! Are ye badly hurt, sur?”

“Groggy, but still in the ring. Say, are my trousers——”

“They _are_ torn a little, sur, Oi regret to say.”

“Why the Old Harry didn’t you tell me this place was so slippery? Do you want to break a man’s neck over this Causeway of yours?”

“Sure, sur, Oi warned ye the very first afgo. Beggin’ your pardon, sur, if ye’d pay as much attintion to ye’r fut as you do to your tongue——”

“Who’s been doing all the talking? Have I opened my mouth since we started? Well, now that we’re down here, what’s there to see?”

“Ye see these columns, sur. They’re the tallest in the Causeway. Ye can see their formation now, sur. They’re all in short lengths of three or four feet, and every joint is a perfect ball and socket wan.”

“What’s the object of the ball and socket?”

“Ah, who can tell that, sur?”

“Hadn’t the professor some pet fiction about it?”

“He _did_ say, sur——”

“I was sure of it.”

“——That it was on account of the uneven cooling of the lava. Now, look at this, sur. This is—_be_ careful, sur. Ye were nearly aff that toime again. This is the Goiant’s Wishin’ Chair. If ye sit down here, ye can have three wishes, sur.”

“I won’t sit down.”

“Have ye nothing to wish, sur?”

“No. All I wanted was to meet the biggest liar in the world, but I don’t need to wish for that now.”

“Then ye’ve met him, sur. Well, Oi suppose ye like company, sur?”

“Anything else to be seen around here?”

“Do ye see those basaltic columns on the face av the cliff, sur? That’s the Goiant’s Organ, sur.”

“Who plays on it?”

“Well, sur, the storms do. When the wind comes dhriving in from the Atlantic, and the waves lash up the Causeway, they do be sayin’ that whin the timpast is at its hoight all the grand tones av an organ can be heard comin’ from thim pipes.”

“Good enough. That’s worth the money. Here you are. I must be going now to catch my train. Good-bye.”

“Here’s a very dacent mon, sur, that sells picturs av the Causeway.”

“I don’t care for any.”

“They’re very chape, sur.”

“I want to forget the Causeway.”

“Then good-bye, sur, an’ thank ye, sur.”

“Good-bye.”

* * * * *

The Guide (to the Picture-seller): “De ye see thot mon sprawlin’ over the Causeway? Well, thot’s the dombdest fule Oi iver tuk over these racks. Oi wouldn’t take that mon over the Causeway agin fur all the money in the North av Oireland. De ye mind _thot_ now?”

_Robert Barr_ (“_Luke Sharp_”).

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_HANS BREITMANN’S BARTY._

HANS BREITMANN gife a barty;
Dey had biano-blayin’,
I felled in lofe mit a ’Merican frau,
Her name vas Madilda Yane.
She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel,
Her eyes vas himmel-plue,
Und vhen dey looket indo mine,
Dey shplit mine heart in dwo.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
I vent dere you’ll pe pound;
I valtzet mit Madilda Yane,
Und vent shpinnen’ round und round.
De pootiest Fraulein in de house,
She vayed ’pout dwo hoondred pound,
Und every dime she gife a shoomp
She make de vindows sound.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
I dells you it cost him dear;
Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks
Of foost-rate lager beer.
Und vhenefer dey knocks de shpicket in
De Deutschers gifes a cheer;
I dinks dat so vine a barty
Nefer coom to a het dis year.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Dere all vas Souse and Brouse,
Vhen de sooper comed in, de gompany
Did make demselfs to house;
Dey ate das Brot and Gensy broost,
De Bratwurst and Braten vine,
Und vash der Abendessen down
Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Ve all cot troonk ash bigs.
I poot mine mout’ to a parrel of beer,
Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs;
Und den I gissed Madilda Yane.
Und she shlog me on de kop,
Und de gompany vighted mit daple-lecks
Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty—
Vhere ish dot barty now?
Vhere ish de lofely golden cloud
Dot float on de moundain’s prow?
Vhere ish de himmelstrahlende stern—
De shtar of de shpirit’s light?
All goned afay mit de lager beer—
Afay in de Ewigkeit.

_Charles Godfrey Leland._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_OUR NEW BEDSTEAD._