Tom asks Dick for "baccer", and Dick denies
that he has got any, and Tom tells him he
lies, and Sam strikes in and says, " No, he
doan't," and Jem tells Sam he lies, and Bill
tells him that if he was Sam he would punch
Jem's head, and Bob, apparently snuffing the
battle from afar off and not liking the scent
of it, shouts suddenly a pacific good-night in
the distance.  The farewell salutation seems to
quiet the gathering storm.  They all roar
responsive to the good-night roar of Bob.  A
moment of silence, actually a moment, follows —
then a repetition of the long, loud, weary
yawning in chorus—then another moment of
silence — then Jem suddenly shouts to the
retiring Bob to come back—Bob refuses,
softened by distance—Jem insists, and his four
friends join him—Bob relents and returns.  A
shriek of indignation, far down the village—
Bob's wife has her window open, and has heard
him consent to go back to his friends.  Hearty
laughter from Bob's five friends; screams
from Bob's wife; articulate screams, informing
Bob that she will " cut his liver out," if
he does not come home directly.  Answering
curses from Bob; he will " mash " his wife, if
she does not hold her tongue.  A song in
chorus from Bob's five friends.  Outraged by
this time past all endurance, I spring out of
bed and seize the water-jug.  My wife,
having the doctor's directions ever present to
her mind, implores me in heart-rending tones
to remember that I am under strict medical
orders not to excite myself.  I pay no heed
to her remonstrances, and advance to the
window with the jug.  I pause before I
empty the water on the heads of the assembly
beneath; I pause, and hear—O! most
melodious, most welcome of sounds!—the sudden
fall of rain.  The merciful, bountiful sky has
anticipated me; the " clerk of the weather"
has been struck by my idea of dispersing the
Nag's Head Night Club, by water.  By the
time I have put down the jug and got back
to bed, silence—primeval silence, the first,
the foremost of all earthly influences—falls
sweetly over our tavern at last.  That night,
before sinking wearily to rest, I have once
more the satisfaction of agreeing with my
wife.  Dear and admirable woman! she
proposes to leave this secluded village the first
thing to-morrow morning.  Never did I share
her opinion more cordially than I share it
now. Instead of keeping myself composed, I
have been living in a region of perpetual
disturbance; and, as for doing nothing, my mind
has been so agitated and perturbed that I
have not even had time to think about it.
We will go, love— as you so sensibly suggest
—we will go the first thing in the morning, to
any place you like, so long as it is large
enough to swallow up small sounds.  Where,
over all the surface of this noisy earth, the
blessing of tranquillity may be found, I
know not; but this I do know; the present
secluded English village is the very last place
towards which any man should think of turning
his steps, if the main object of his walk
through life is to discover quiet.

NOTE THE SECOND.  NOTHING.

The next morning we continue our journey
in the direction of the coast, and arrive at a
large watering-place.  Observing that it is,
in every respect, as unlike the secluded
village as possible, we resolve to take up our
abode in this populous and perfectly tranquil
town.  We get a lodging fronting the sea.
There are noises about us — various and loud
noises, as I should have thought, if I had not
just come from a village; but everything is
comparative, and, after the past experience I
have gone through, I find our new place of
abode quiet enough to suit the moderate
expectations which I have now learnt to
form on the subject of getting peace in this
world.  Here I can at least think almost
uninterruptedly of the doctor's orders.  Here I
may surely begin my new life, and enjoy the
luxury of Nothing.

I suppose it is a luxury; and yet so
perverse is man, I hardly know whether I am
not beginning to find it something more like,
a hardship at the very outset.  Perhaps my
busy and active life has unfitted me for a due
appreciation of the happiness of being idle.
Perhaps I am naturally of a restless, feverish,
constitution.  However that may be, it is
certain that on the first day when I seriously
determine to do nothing, I fail to find in the
execution of my resolution such supreme
comfort and such easy enjoyment as I had
anticipated.  I try hard to fight against the
conviction (which will steal on me, nevertheless)
that I have only changed one kind of
hard work for another that is harder.  I try
to persuade myself that time does not hang at
all heavily on my hands, and that I am
happier with nothing to do than ever I was
with a long day's work before me.  Do I
succeed or do I fail in this meritorious
attempt?  Let me write down the results of
my first day's experience of Nothing, and let
the reader settle the question for me.

Breakfast at nine o'clock, so as not to make
too long a day of it. Among the other
things on the table are shrimps.  I find
myself liking shrimps for an entirely new
reason—they take such a long time to eat.
Well, breakfast is over at last: I have had
quite enough, and yet I am gluttonously
sorry when the table is cleared.  If I were in
health I should now go to my desk, or take
up a book.  But I am out of health, and I must
do Nothing.  Suppose I look out of window?
I hope that is idle enough to begin with.

Sea, Ha! sea!  Very large, very grey,
very calm; very calm, very grey, very large.
Ha!

Ships.  One big ship in front, two little
ships behind.  (What time shall we have
dinner, my dear?  At five?  Certainly at
five!)  One big ship in front, two little ships
behind.  Nothing more to see?  No, Nothing.