LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1782, 6 November 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

“ WHAT A MAD WORLD IT IS.” 4 Morning, Bob,’ says Mr Wilding dropping into * Bob’a ’ chambers with his usual airy grace, and sinking indolently into a chair. 4 Good morning,’ calmly returns Bob, who looks as if he ought to be addressed as Robert, if not Bohun—his surname—which would, of course, bo even more dignified. Briefs being new to him, and attorneys almost unknown, he glances up from bis papers with a charmingly abstracted air, and just a soup con of weariness, that is very well done, indeed. His friend is evidently delighted with it, and smiles approvingly. ‘ Used up, Bob ?’ he asks with a suspicious concern, after a slight but eloquent pause.’ 4 No, no,’ protests Mr Bohun, mildly, 4 not so much as that—of course, there is responsibility attached to it, and—and that.’ 4 All that,’ says his visitor with increasing sympathy ; 4 I feel just like you. Responsibility is wearing me out. Conscience is killing me slowly but surely—in fact, is making an old man of me before my time. When I saw the wretched boy at my place a few minutes since, creeping and staggering up the stairs, and ‘growing every second more damp and unpleasant beneath the load of briefs he held in both arms, I feared I might lose my senses, so I fled to you for advice; only to find you, if possible, in a worse case. My dear follow, don’t. Throw over a client or two; do anything except kill yourself with work.’ 4 Oh! hang you,’ says Mr Bohun, inelegantly and frivolously, looking wildly round for a ruler or any other seasonable missile, and then they both laugh, and dignity is no more. Sob foregoes grandiloquence and descends to commonplace, 4 You know the Normans, don’t yon 2’asks Wilding presently. 4 The old people—yes; and George I ustd to know, long, .long; ago, but I have rather lost sight of him of late.’ 4 Ah, yes. He’s about the beat of them. He’s in a lunatic asylum no. Odd how things come round.’ 4 No ! You don’t say so? I never heard a word of it. I met the old man. Sir John, and the Gorings the other night, and he said nothing of it. ’ 4 Well, he wouldn’t, you know, ’tisn’t likely,’says Mr Wilding. 4 It’s a sort of “Ohl no; we never mention him’ sort of affair altogether. You see they set their affections on George—swore by him—thought he had the entire brains of the family; and when he was spun for the I.C.S. they nearly went out of their minds. 4 Did they?’ says Bohun, with interest. 4 Evidently very excitable people ; no doubt it is hereditary in their family.’ 4 Eh!’ says Mr Wilding, somewhat pn*zled. Then— 4 Well, it couldn't be helped, you know.’ 4 No, of course not, poor fellow, ’ in tones of the deepest commiseration, 4 You’re A-l at sympathy,’ says Mr Wilding ; your face will certainly make your fortune in Court some day. Imitation, they say, is the sincerest flattery; so don’t be offended if yon see me trying to copy your present expression. But I really can’t see that George Norman is so much to be pitied, after all. Things might have been worse.’ 4 Well, I confess I don’t see that.’ 4 Oh, nonsense! I know many fellows worse off. He says himself it is rather a sunny berth, and that he is quite comfortable.’ 4 1 am glad to hear that. He 'doesn’t feel his position, then ?’ * One would think you were talking of a convict,’ says Mr Wilding, with some contempt. 4 1 can tell you, in the long run, his people, in spite of their absurd pride, were glad enough to get him in.’ 4 That’s only natural, you know, though it sounds heartless. I dare say he was troublesome at home.’ 4 He was always a restless sort of beggar —that must be allowed ; but it was a comedown. of course, from an Indian judgeship.’ ■ Well, it was—rather.’ 4 At first the old people quite despised the notion of the asylum, but George was headstrong, as yon may remember, and very determined, and do you know. In the long run they had the greatest difficulty in getting him in at all.’ 4 Ah ? a violent case, I suppose. Poor George 1 ’ 4 What?’ says Mr Wilding, stnpidly. and then he glanced keenly at his friend, and finally gives way to laughter, that by degrees denerates into a roar, 4 Violent 1 ’ says he when he can speak, and then laughs again so heartily that Mr Bohun perforce joins in the merriment, although ignorant of its cause. 4 Did you think that George was a lunatic ?’ he says at length. 4 For a small part I declare you are better than Toole.’ 4 You said he was in a lunatic asylum. What would any one think from that ? ’ demanded Mr Bohun, slightly aggrieved. 4 So he is, but not as a patient. He is doctor of the Southway asylum. I thought you knew that. What brought mo hear today was to bring you an invitation to a ball at his place. I met him yesterday, and it appears he is giving his mad friends a dance. I said I had never seen an affair of the kind, so he asked me to got rid of my ignorance without delay, and when I mentioned your name (I was afraid to go myself) ho said he’d be awfully glad to see you also. Will you come ?’ 4 I will,’ says Bohun briskly. 4 I should rather fancy renewing acquaintance with George. He was always a very decent fellow.’ 4 With uncommon'pretty"sisters— ’ 4 That enhances his value threefold,’ says Mr Bohun approvingly. The first feeling that fills the breasts of Mr Wilding and his friend as they enter the ball-room at .Vouthway is one of distinct disappointment. It is very much like any other ball-room ; there is no denying this sad fact; our friends acknowledge its truth with a sigh, and a secret sensation of surprise and dinsatit faction. They had expected something widely different; something with a touch of burletque about it here and there, that would have made it stand out conspicuously from among the common ruck of entertainments. They had fondly looked for a festival that might resemble in a mild fashion a meeting of the Fiji Islanders, or a war dance among the Redshanks ; and after all they find themselves gazing at a ball that is as nearly as possible similar to an ordinary West End affair.

Naturally, therefore, they are a little downhearted and inwardly aggrieved. Everything is strictly en regie. The flower*, the lights, the mnsio that is swelling and throbbing through the rooms are irreproachable. The whole scene is familiar to them ; they have been through it a thousand times before. Mr Bohun, growing supercilious, puts his eyeglass in his eye and looks vaguely round him. ‘ Really, it is very difficult to know who is mad and who isn’t,’ he says aloud, and Mr Wilding, who is at his elbow, assents wearily. Yes, it is all very disappointing.

Of course there are a few eccentric blots in the perfect picture, but they are not numerous and may be counted on the Angers of one hand. That is, for instance, at the upper end of the room a lady clad in the costume of the Bohemian girl, as she appears in Mr Balfe’s opera. She rejoices in three' particoloured petticoats, worn one over another in successive degrees of shortness, which, if odd, is certainly picturesque. That is, the petticoats are ; their wearer, though undoubtedly odd, fails dismally in the picturesque. The fact that she is a gaunt spinster of fifty-five, with gigantic nose and spectacles, rather spoils the effect. When in her sane mind, I have no doubt she would have shrieked at a Bohemian and quivered with indignation at a short petticoat; yet now, poor soul, she goes about harmlessly enough, assuring everybody she is a prima donna, and telling them what a success she had at Drury Lane last night she sang, and how her Majesty was there, and how the Shah of Persia flung her a bouquet studded with gems. ‘Yes, my admiring friend, studded with gems.’ At the other end of the room stands another blot, evidently trying to sink out of sight. He is a young man of unmistakably gentle breeding, but clothed in the roughest of rough garments. Dr. Norman, coming up behind our two friends, points him out. ‘ Look at that man,’ he says ; * it is very sad, poor fellow! He is heir to a baronetcy and eight thousand a year and a lovely place in Yorkshire, yet he insists npon it that ho is an artisan, and will speak nothing but the broadest Yorkshire dialect,’ * That accounts for the coat,’ says Wilding ‘ Tea. To-night, nothing would induce him to get into his dress clothes. He said a person in his position would be uncomfortable in them. He is very uneven in his temper ; and we hope we may make a cure of him yet. Now go and dance with whom you please. There are several pretty women in the room. Don’t flirt too much, but humor them —humor them.’ * Wo can't be accused of turning their heads, that’s one comfort,’ says Wilding, ‘ misfortune having done that already.’ So they separate, and Bohun, moving slowly, watches curiously all that is going on around him. Half an hour later, standing with his back to a door, his eyes fell upon a young and very pretty girl sitting alone upon a conch at some distance from him. Her hands are folded on her knees, her eyes are wandering slowly down the crowd beyond her. She is dressed in some filmy robe of black, a little open at the neck, through which her skin shines with dazzling fairness. Her sleeves are cut short to the elbow, so that her arms, soft and rounded as a child’s, can be half seen. Bohun is attracted, and gazes at her intently; there is something about her mouth, which is firm yet very tender, that reminds him of some one —whom he cannot call to mind. Yes, she is very pretty, more than pretty—downright lovely; when Mr Bohan comes to this point be raises himself from his lounging position and crosses over to the conch on which this fair divinity is seated. It is with some faint feelings of apprehension he takes this step, lunatics, however beautiful, not being altogether to hia taste. ‘ Seelng’you are alone,’ he begins respectfully, * I thought perhaps you would let me come and talk to yonffor a little.’ The distraught beauty turns her head, and regards him speculatively—perhaps a trifle nervously—before replying. ‘ Oh! certainly,’ ahe’saya then, in n very sweet voice that haa a plaintive ring in it. ‘ Thank you,’ says Bohun gratefully, seating himself behind her. Glancing at the room generally, he says presently with a view to making conversation : ‘ This is rather a gay scene, ia it not!' •Very,’ aaya Beauty. * You are fond of dancing ?’ * Yea,’ says Beauty, always with an air of reservation. ‘Evidently of the monosyllabic order,’ thinks Mr Bobnn ; ‘ not of the demonstrative at all events, I thank my stars. ’ ‘ Then why are you not dancing ?’ he asks gently—very gently, lest he should arouse a sleeping demon. The pretty maniac pauses a moment, as though to consider her answer, and then says naively: ‘ Because nobody has asked me.’ ‘What a shame!’says Bohnn. ‘ One can hardly believe It. Perhaps,’ with some hesitation, ‘ you will give me the pleasure of—’ He had half risen from his seat as he speaks, bat at his words his companion shrinks visibly shrinks visibly, and put up one hand in a manner almost beseechingly. ‘Oh! thank you, no!’ she says regarding him with something like horror in her eyes. ‘ I should much prefer not Do not,’ enentreatingly, and jnst a little soothingly, • think me rude, but I assnre yon I should much rather sit still.’ ‘As you wish, of course,’ says Bohun, reseating himself. ‘Doesn’t know her own mind for two seconds, poor soul,’ he tells himself pityingly, and knows he is devoutly thankful to her because of her refusal. To talk to an insane young woman is one thing, to dance with her is quite another. ‘Besides,’ says the pretty girl with rather a forced smile, and plainly with a desire to conciliate, ‘ you see I haven’t been introduced to you. I don’t even know your name.’

Here Mr Bohun remembers George Norman’s advice to humor them. So by the way of humoring this particular patient, he says blandly—--4 I am the King of the Cannibal Islands !’ ‘Eh !’ says Beauty gravely. She regards him attentively for a moment or two in her slow, pretty fashion, and then goes on—‘Your majesty haa done me a great honor; I had no idea I was conversing with royalty.’ ’ Well, one mightn’t think it, certainly, to look at me,’ says Mr Bohun modestly, 4 but the fact remains.’

‘ I should rather fancy your people must be troublesome. I shouldn’t think you have much of a time with them,’ says his companion timidly 4 You are right,’ says Mr Bohun, ‘ but that arises principally from the reason that I am seldom among them ; their attentions are a little too pronounced for my tastes, so are their meals. Even when Ido visit them it don’t seem to signify ; they don’t trouble overmuch, and of late years I have noticed that the levees grower smaller and smaller. You see they have a rather playful way of making themselves scarce especially in famine times, audit is pretty nearly—always famine times.’

‘ Pocr people! how their poverty must distress you,’ says Beauty. • Not so much as you imagine,’ says Bohun; * as I told you before, except on very rare occasions, I don’t inflict my society upon them.’ 4 Why?’ with interest, * Lest they should make me scarce, too.’

‘ Ah! ’ says the lovely lunatic so comprehensively, that Bohun for a little while stares at her reflectively. Then he says, gently—- ‘ Now I have told yon all my private affairs, don’t you think you might confide a little in me ? May I ask your name ? ’ She lowers her eyes and hesitates perceptibly, after which she says with a gentle dignity—- • I am the Queen of Hearts ! ’ < Indeed 1 ’ says Bohun, with a quiet emile, ‘yon amaze me! I did not know that there was a queen in the room, and such a queen I After all, it was no common instinct that drew mo to your side. 4 Like inclines to like,’ you know, and 4 birds of a feather— ’

‘ Gather no mess,’ says the Queen of Hearts unsmilingly. * Quite bo,’ replies Mr Bohun, though perhaps at this moment he is a little —just a little—at fault. Again he stares at her meditatively. Certainly she is a very able lanatic. • Your kingdom is a larger one than mine, he says presently. ‘lt is universal,’ returns her majesty mildly. ‘lt grows every hour. ’ ‘lt has certainly grown within the last hour,’ replies he; ‘you have made a fresh conquest. Will your majesty deign to enroll me as a new eubjoct ? *

‘ You! ’ with a laugh full of amusement and a vivid blush, *so soon ’. Oh! it is impossible.' ‘lt is quite possible. I would not be your subject bat your slave,’ says Bohun, warming to his work, and insensibly moving a degree nearer to her. At this unexpected movement on his part, the fair queen shows signs of fear. She pale* visibly, and casts an anxious look around her. Then, shrinking from him, she makes a quick gesture, suggestive of instant flight. ‘ Have I offended you ? Surely you are not afraid of mo? ’ asked Bohun, reproachfully. *Oh ! no—no. It is not that,’ murmurs she faintly ; * only, you are so —so —impetuous. The fact is, I cannot speak to you—if you—stir! ’ Her fingers clasp each other nervously. There is a good deal of unmistakable fear in her large blue eyes. (‘Hysterical!’ thinks Mr Bohun, ‘very flighty and unsettled, poor little thing ! ’) ‘Very well,’ he says, * then I shan’t stir ; but at least relieve my anxiety. Tell me you. do not reject me ; that you will accept me as* a subject ? ’ *Of course, I accept you. Why should T not ? Only a moment since I confess I felt a little frightened ; remembering where you, came from I half-thought you were going bite me.’ ‘ It was a most natural thought,’ amiably; ‘but reassure yourself; it is so long since I have tasted human flesh, that I have almost lost my zest for it. I promise faithfully I shan’t take a bite out of you, at all events.