United States or Saint Helena, Ascension, and Tristan da Cunha ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Feeling in a gregarious, companionable humour I have had enough solitude at Murglebed to last me the rest of my short lifetime I went later in the afternoon to Sussex Gardens to call on Mrs. Ellerton. It was her day at home, and the drawing-room was filled with chattering people.
I foresee him an invaluable chairman of committee. But he will never become a statesman. He has too passionate a faith in facts and figures, and has not cultivated a sense of humour at the expense of the philosophers. Young men who do not read them lose a great deal of fun. Well, to-morrow I leave Murglebed for ever; it has my benison. Democritus returns to London.
"Recovered your sanity?" he asked. "The dangerous symptoms have passed over," I replied. "I undertake not to bite." He regarded me as though he were not quite certain, and asked in his pronounless way whether I was glad to be back in London. "Yes," said I. "Rogers is the only human creature who can properly wax the ends of my moustache. It got horribly limp in the air of Murglebed.
"Are you going there at once?" "At once," said I. "It's November," said he, "and a villainous November at that; so you'll see Murglebed-on-Sea in the fine flower of its desolation." I thanked him, went home, and summoned my excellent man Rogers. "Rogers," said I, "I am going to the seaside. I heard that Murglebed is a nice quiet little spot.
There are no amenities or urbanities of life in Murglebed to choke the growth of the Idea. This evening it flourishes so exceedingly that I think it safe to transplant it in the alien soil of Q 3, The Albany, where the good Rogers must be leading an idle existence peculiarly deleterious to his morals. This gives one furiously to think.
I interest myself in pauper lunacy no more. A man requires less flippant occupation for the premature sunset of his days. Well, in Murglebed I can think, I can weigh the pros and cons of existence with an even mind, I can accustom myself to the concept of a Great Britain without Simon de Gex. Of course, when I go I shall "cast one longing, lingering look behind." I don't particularly want to die.
Almost cheerfully he assured me that I should find nothing to eat in Murglebed. "You can amuse yourself," said I, "by sending me down a daily hamper of provisions." "There isn't even a church," he continued. "Then you can send me down a tin one from Humphreys'. I believe they can supply one with everything from a tin rabbit-hutch to a town hall."
He sighed and departed, and the next day I found myself here, in Murglebed-on-Sea. On a murky, sullen November day Murglebed exhibits unimagined horrors of scenic depravity. It snarls at you malignantly. It is like a bit of waste land in Gehenna. There is a lowering, soap-suddy thing a mile away from the more or less dry land which local ignorance and superstition call the sea.
It has a decayed bit of front garden in which a gnarled, stunted stick is planted, and it is called The Laburnums. My landlord, the owner of the villas, is a builder. What profits he can get from building in Murglebed, Heaven alone knows; but, as he mounts a bicycle in the morning and disappears for the rest of the day, I presume he careers over the waste, building as he goes.
I am going to have a seraph of a time. I am going to play the archangel. I shall always have pleasant memories of Murglebed. Such an idea could not have germinated in any other atmosphere. In the scented groves of sunny lands there would have been sown Seeds of Regret, which would have blossomed eventually into Flowers of Despair.
Word Of The Day