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diff --git a/old/51952-h/51952-h.htm b/old/51952-h/51952-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 24c99c5..0000000 --- a/old/51952-h/51952-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10490 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title> - A Journalists Note-book, by Frank Frankfort Moore - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} - .x-small {font-size: 75%;} - .small {font-size: 85%;} - .large {font-size: 115%;} - .x-large {font-size: 130%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -Project Gutenberg's A Journalists Note-Book, by Frank Frankfort Moore - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: A Journalists Note-Book - -Author: Frank Frankfort Moore - -Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51952] -Last Updated: November 16, 2016 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JOURNALISTS NOTE-BOOK *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - A JOURNALISTS NOTE-BOOK - </h1> - <h2> - By Frank Frankfort Moore - </h2> - <h4> - Author of “Forbid the Banns,” “Daireen,’” “A Gray Eye or So,” etc. - </h4> - <h4> - London: Hutchins On And Co., Paternoster Row - </h4> - <h3> - 1894 - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0008.jpg" alt="0008 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0008.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0009.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I.—PAST AND PRESENT. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II.—THE OLD SCHOOL. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III.—THE EDITOR OF THE PAST. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV.—THE UNATTACHED EDITOR. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V.—THE SUB-EDITORS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI—THE SUB-EDITORS (continued). - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII.—SOME EXTINCT TYPES. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII.—MEN, MENUS, AND MANNERS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX.—ON THE HUMAN IMAGINATION. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X—THE VEGETARIAN AND OTHERS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI.—ON SOME FORMS OF SPORT. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII.—SOME REPORTERS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII—THE SUBJECT OF REPORTS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV.—IRELAND AS A FIELD FOR - REPORTERS. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV.—IRISH TROTTINGS AND JOTTINGS. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI.—IRISH TOURISTS AND TRAINS. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII—HONORARY EDITORS AND OTHERS. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII.—OUTSIDE THE LYCEUM BILL. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX.—SOME IMPERFECT STUDIES. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX.—ON SOME FORMS OF CLEVERNESS. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI.—“SO CAREFUL OF THE TYPE.” </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I.—PAST AND PRESENT. - </h2> - <p> - <i>Odd lots of journalism—Respectability and its relation to - journalism—The abuse of the journal—The laudation of the - journalist—Abuse the consequence of popularity—Popularity the - consequence of abuse—Drain-work and grey hairs—“Don’t neglect - your reading for the sake of reviewing”—Reading for pleasure or to - criticise—Literature—Deterioration—The Civil List - Pension—In exchange for a soul.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>OME years ago - there was an auction of wine at a country-house in Scotland, the late - owner of which had taken pains to gain a reputation for judgment in the - matter of wine-selecting. He had all his life been nearly as intemperate - as a temperance orator in his denunciation of whisky as a drink, hoping to - inculcate a taste for vintage clarets upon the Scots; but he that tells - the tale—it is not a new one—says that the man died without - seriously jeopardizing the popularity of the native manufacture. The wines - that he had laid down brought good prices, however; but, at the close of - the sale, several odd lots were “put up,” and all were bought by a local - publican. A gentleman who had been present called upon the publican a few - days afterwards, and found him engaged in mixing into one huge cask all - the “lots” that he had bought—Larose, Johannisberg, Château Coutet. - </p> - <p> - “Hallo,” said the visitor, “what’s this mixture going to be, Rabbie?” - </p> - <p> - “Weel, sir,” said the publican, looking with one eye into the cask and - mechanically giving the contents a stir with a bottle of Sauterne which he - had just uncorked—“Weel, sir, I think it should be port, but I’m no - sure.” - </p> - <p> - These odd lots of journalistic experiences and recollections may be - considered a book, “but I’m no sure.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - After all, “a book’s a book although”—it’s written by a journalist. - Nearly every writer of books nowadays becomes a journalist when he has - written a sufficient number. He is usually encouraged in this direction by - his publishers. - </p> - <p> - “You’re a literary man, are you not?” a stranger said to a friend of mine. - </p> - <p> - “On the contrary, I’m a journalist,” was the reply. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” said the inquirer, detecting a certain - indignant note in the disclaimer. “I beg your pardon. What a fool I was to - ask you such a question!” - </p> - <p> - “I hope he wasn’t hurt,” he added in an anxious voice when we were alone. - “It was a foolish question; I might have known that he was a journalist, - <i>he looked so respectable</i>.” - </p> - <p> - We are all respectable nowadays. We belong to a recognised profession. We - may pronounce our opinions on all questions of art, taste, religion, - morals, and even finance, with some degree of diffidence: we are at - present merely practising our scales, so to speak, upon our various - “organs,” but there is every reason to believe that confidence will come - in due time. Are not our ranks being recruited from Oxford? Some years ago - men drifted into journalism; now it is looked on as a vocation. Journalism - is taken seriously. In a word, we are respectable. Have we not been - entertained by the Lord Mayor of London? Have we not entertained Monsieur - Emile Zola? - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - People have ceased to abuse us as they once did with great freedom: they - merely abuse the journals which support us. This is a healthy sign; for it - may be taken for granted that people will invariably abuse the paper for - which they subscribe. They do not seem to feel that they get the worth of - their subscription unless they do so. It is the same principle that causes - people to sneer at a dinner at which they have been entertained. If we are - not permitted to abuse our host, whom may we abuse? The one thing that a - man abuses more than to-day’s paper is the negligence of the boy who omits - to deliver it some morning. Only in one town where I lived did I find that - a newspaper was popular. (It was not the one for which I wrote.) The - fathers and mothers taught their children to pray, “God bless papa, mamma, - and the editor of the <i>Clackmannan Standard</i>.” - </p> - <p> - I met that editor some years afterwards. He celebrated a sort of impromptu - Comminution Service against the people amongst whom he had lived. They had - never paid for their subscriptions or their advertisements, and they had - thus lowered the <i>Standard</i> of Clackmannan and of the editor’s - confidence in his fellow-men. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The only newspaper that is in a hopeless condition is the one which is - neither blessed at all nor cursed at all. Such a newspaper appeals to no - section of the public. It has always seemed to me a matter of question - whether a man is better satisfied with a paper that reflects (so far as it - is possible for a paper to do so) his own views, or with one that reflects - the views that he most abhors. I am inclined to believe that a man is in a - better humour with those of his fellow-men whom he has thoroughly abused, - than with the one whom he greets every morning on the top of his omnibus. - </p> - <p> - It is quite a simple matter to abuse a newspaper into popularity. One of - the Georges whose biographies have been so pleasantly and touchingly - written by Thackeray and Mr. Justin M’Carthy, conferred a lasting - popularity upon the man whom he told to get out of his way or he would - kick him out of it. - </p> - <p> - The moral of this is, that to be insulted by a monarch confers a greater - distinction upon a man living in Clapham or even Brixton than to be - treated courteously by a greengrocer. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - But though people continue to abuse the paper for which they subscribe, - and for which they are usually some year or two in arrears in the matter - of payment, still it appears to me that the public are slowly beginning to - comprehend that newspapers are written (mostly) by journalists. Until - recently there was, I think, a notion that journalists sat round a - bar-parlour telling stories and drinking whisky and water while the - newspapers were being produced. The fact is, that most of the surviving - anecdotes of the journalists of a past generation smell of the - bar-parlour. The practical jesters of the fifties and the punsters of the - roaring forties were tap-room journalists. They died hard. The journalists - of to-day do not even smile at those brilliant sallies—bequeathed by - a past generation—about wearing frock-coats and evening dress, about - writing notices of plays without stirring from the taproom, about the - mixing up of criticisms of books with police-court reports. Such were the - humours of journalism thirty or forty years ago. We have formed different - ideas as to the elements of humour in these days. Whatever we may leave - undone it is not our legitimate work. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It was when journalism was in a state of transition that a youth, waiting - on a railway platform, was addressed by a stranger (one of those men who - endeavour to make religious zeal a cloak for impertinence)—“My dear - young friend, are you a Christian?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said the youth, “I’m a reporter on the <i>Camberwell Chronicle</i>.” - </p> - <p> - On the other hand, it was a very modern journalist whose room was invaded - by a number of pretty little girls one day, just to keep him company and - chat with him for an hour or so, as it was the day his paper—a - weekly one—went to press. In order to get rid of them, he presented - each of them with a copy of a little book which he had just published, - writing on the flyleaf, “With the author’s compliments.” Just as the girls - were going away, one of them spied a neatly bound Oxford Bible that was - lying on the desk for editorial notice. - </p> - <p> - “I should so much like that,” she cried, pouncing upon it. - </p> - <p> - “Then you shall have it, my dear, if you clear off immediately,” said the - editor; and, turning up the flyleaf, he wrote hastily on it, “<i>With the - author’s compliments</i>.” - </p> - <p> - Yes, he was a modern journalist, and took a reasonable view of the - authoritative nature of his calling. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Our position is, I affirm, becoming recognised by the world; but now and - again I am made to feel that such recognition does not invariably extend - to all the members of our profession. Some years ago I was getting my hair - cut in Regent Street, and, as usual, the practitioner remarked in a - friendly way that I was getting very grey. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I said, “I’ve been getting a grey hair or so for some time. I don’t - know how it is. I’m not much over thirty.” (I repeat that the incident - occurred some years ago.) - </p> - <p> - “No, sir, you’re not what might be called old,” said he indulgently. - “Maybe you’re doing some brain-work?” he suggested, after a pause. - </p> - <p> - “Brain-work?” said I. “Oh no! I work for a daily paper, and usually write - a column of leading articles every night. I produce a book a year, and a - play every now and again. But brain-work—oh no!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, in that case, sir, it must be due to something else. Maybe you drink - a bit, sir.” - </p> - <p> - I did not buy the bottle which he offered me at four-and-nine. I left the - shop dissatisfied. - </p> - <p> - This is why I hesitate to affirm that modern journalism is wholly - understanded of the people. - </p> - <p> - But for that matter it is not wholly understanded of the people who might - be expected to know something about it. The proprietor of a newspaper on - which I worked some years ago made use of me one day to translate a few - lines of Greek which appeared on the back of an old print in his - possession. My powers amazed him. The lines were from an obscure and - little-known poem called the “Odyssey.” - </p> - <p> - “You must read a great deal, my boy,” said he. - </p> - <p> - I shook my head. - </p> - <p> - “The fact is,” said I, “I’ve lately had so much reviewing to do that I - haven’t been able to read a single book.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s too hard on you,” said he gravely. “Get some of the others of the - staff to help you. You mustn’t neglect your reading for the sake of - reviewing.” - </p> - <p> - I didn’t. - </p> - <p> - Upon another occasion the son of this gentleman left a message for me that - he had taken a three-volume novel, the name of which he had forgotten, - from a parcel of books that had arrived the previous day, but that he - would like a review of it to appear the next morning, as his wife said it - was a capital story. - </p> - <p> - He was quite annoyed when the review did not appear. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - But there are, I have reason to know, many people who have got no more - modern ideas respecting that branch of journalism known as reviewing. - </p> - <p> - “Are you reading that book for pleasure or to criticise it?” I was asked - not so long ago by a young woman who ought to have known better. “Oh, I - forgot,” she added, before I could think of anything sharp to say by way - of reply—“I forgot: if you meant to review it you wouldn’t read it.” - </p> - <p> - I thought of the sharp reply two days later. - </p> - <p> - So it is, I say, that some of the people who read what we write from day - to day, have still got only the vaguest notions of how our work is turned - out. - </p> - <p> - Long ago I used to wish that the reviewers would only read the books I - wrote before criticising them; but now my dearest wish is that they will - review them (favourably) without reading them. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I heard some time ago of a Scot who, full of that brave sturdy spirit of - self-reliance which is the precious endowment of the race of North - Britons, came up to London to fight his way in the ranks of literature. - The grand inflexible independence of the man asserted itself with such - obstinacy that he was granted a Civil List Pension; and while in receipt - of this form of out-door relief for poets who cannot sell their poetry, he - began a series of attacks upon literature as a trade, and gave to the - world an autobiography in a sentence, by declaring that literature and - deterioration go hand in hand. - </p> - <p> - This was surely a very nasty thing for the sturdy Scotchman, who had - attained to the honourable independence of the national almshouse, to say, - just as people were beginning to look on literature as a profession. - </p> - <p> - But then he sat down and forthwith reeled off a string of doggerel verses, - headed “The Dismal Throng.” In this fourth-form satirical jingle he abused - some of the ablest of modern literary men for taking a pessimistic view of - life. Now, who on earth can blame literary men for feeling a trifle dismal - if what the independent pensioner says is true, and success in literature - can only be obtained in exchange for a soul? The man who takes the most - pessimistic view of the profession of literature should be the last to - sneer at a literary man looking sadly on life. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II.—THE OLD SCHOOL. - </h2> - <p> - <i>The frock-coat and muffler journalist—A doomed race—One of - the specimens—A masterpiece—-“Stilt your friend”—A - jaunty emigrant—A thirsty knave—His one rival—Three - crops—His destination—“The New Grub Street”—A courteous - friend—Free lodgings—The foreign guest—Outside the hall - door—The youth who found things—His ring—His watch—The - fruits of modesty—Not to be imitated—A question for Sherlock - Holmes—The liberty of the press—Deadheads.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> HAVE come in - contact with many journalists of the old school—the frock-coat and - muffler type. The first of the class whom I met was for a few months a - reporter on a newspaper in Ireland with which I was connected. He had at - one time been a soldier, and had deserted. I tried, though I was only a - boy, to get some information from him that I might use afterwards, for I - recognised his value as the representative of a race that was, I felt, - certain to become extinct. I talked to him as I talked—with the aid - of an interpreter—to a Botjesman in the South African veldt: I - wanted to learn something about the habits of a doomed type. I succeeded - in some measure. - </p> - <p> - The result of my researches into the nature of both savages was to - convince me that they were born liars. The reporter carried a pair of - stage whiskers and a beard with him when sent to do any work in a country - district; the fact being that the members of the Royal Irish Constabulary - in the country barracks are the most earnest students of the paper known - as <i>Hue and Cry</i>, and the man said that, as his description appeared - in every number of that organ, he should most certainly be identified by a - smart country policeman if he did not wear a disguise. Years afterwards I - got a letter from him from one of her Majesty’s gaols. He wanted the loan - of some money and the gift of a hat. - </p> - <p> - This man wrote shorthand admirably, and an excellent newspaper English. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Another specimen of the race had actually attained to the dizzy eminence - of editor of a fourth-class newspaper in a town of one hundred thousand - inhabitants. In those days Mr. Craven Robertson was the provincial - representative of Captain Hawtree in <i>Caste</i>, and upon the Captain - Hawtree of Craven Robertson this “journalist” founded his style. He wore - an eyeglass, a moustache with waxed ends, and a frock coat very carefully - brushed. His hair was thin on the top—but he made the most of it. He - was the sort of man whom one occasionally meets on the Promenade at Nice, - wearing a number of orders on the breast of his coat—the order of Il - Bacio di St. Judæus, the scarlet riband of Ste. Rahab di Jericho, the - Brazen Lyre of SS. Ananias and Sapphira. He was the sort of man whom one - styles “Chevalier” by instinct. He was the most plausible knave in the - world, though how people allowed him to cheat them was a mystery to me. - His masterpiece of impudence I have always considered to be a letter which - he wrote to a brother-editor, from whom he had borrowed a sum of money, to - be repaid on the first of the next month. When the appointed day came he - chanced to meet this editor-creditor in the street, and asking him, with a - smile as if he had been on the lookout for him, to step into the nearest - shop, he called for a sheet of paper and a pen, and immediately wrote an - order to the cashier of his paper to pay Mr. G. the sum of five pounds. - </p> - <p> - “There you are, my dear sir,” said he. “Just send a clerk round to our - office and hand that to the cashier. Meantime accept my hearty thanks for - the accommodation.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. G. lost no time in presenting the order; but, as might have been - expected, it was dishonoured by the cashier, who declared that the editor - was already eight months in advance in drawing his salary. Mr. G. hastened - back to his own office and forthwith wrote a letter of furious - upbraidings, in which I have good reason to suspect he expressed his views - of the conduct of his debtor, and threatened to “take proceedings,” as the - grammar of the law has it, for the recovery of his money. - </p> - <p> - The next day Mr. G. received back his own letter unopened, but inside the - cover that enclosed it to him was the following:— - </p> - <p> - “My dear Mr. G.,— - </p> - <p> - “You may perhaps be surprised to receive your letter with the seal - unbroken, but when you come to reflect calmly over the unfortunate - incident of your sending it to me, I am sure that you will no longer be - surprised. I am persuaded that you wrote it to me on the impulse of the - moment, otherwise it would not contain the strong language which, I think - I may assume, constitutes the major portion of its contents. Knowing your - natural kindness of disposition, and feeling assured that in after years - the consciousness of having written such a letter to me would cause you - many a pang in your secret moments, I am anxious that you should be spared - much self-reproach, and consequently return your letter unopened. You - will, I am certain, perceive that in adopting this course I am acting for - the best. Do not follow the next impulse of your heart and ask my - forgiveness. I have really nothing to forgive, not having read your - letter. - </p> - <p> - “With kindest regards, I remain - </p> - <p> - “Still your friend - </p> - <p> - “A. Swinne Dell.” - </p> - <p> - If this transaction does not represent the high-water mark of knavery—if - it does not show something akin to genius in an art that has many - exponents, I scarcely know where one should look for evidence in this - direction. - </p> - <p> - Five years after the disappearance of Mr. A. Swinne Dell from the scene of - this <i>coup</i> of his, I caught a glimpse of him among the steerage - passengers aboard a steamer that called at Madeira when I was spending a - holiday at that lovely island. His frock-coat was giving signs (about the - collar) of wear, and also (under the arms) of tear. I could not see his - boots, but I felt sure that they were down at the heel. Still, he held his - head jauntily as he pointed out to a fellow-passenger the natural charms - of the landscape above Funchal. - </p> - <p> - Another of the old school who pursued a career of knavery by the light of - the sacred lamp of journalism was, I regret to say, an Irishman. His - powers of absorbing drink were practically unlimited. I never knew but one - rival to him in this way, and that was when I was in South Africa. We had - left our waggon, and were crouching in most uncomfortable postures behind - a mighty cactus on the bank of a river, waiting for the chance of potting - a gemsbok that might come to drink. Instead of the graceful gemsbok there - came down to the water a huge hippopotamus. He had clearly been having a - good time among the native mealies, and had come for some liquid - refreshment before returning to his feast. He did not plunge into the - water, but simply put his head down to it and began to drink. After five - minutes or so we noticed an appreciable fall in the river. After a quarter - of an hour great rocks in the river-bed began to be disclosed. At the end - of twenty minutes the broad stream had dwindled away to a mere trickle of - water among the stones. At the end of half an hour we began to think that - he had had as much as was good for him—we wanted a kettleful of - water for our tea—so I put an elephant cartridge (‘577) into my - rifle and aimed at the brute’s eye. He lifted up his head out of pure - curiosity, and perceiving that men with rifles were handy, slouched off, - grumbling like a professional agitator on being turned out of a public - house. - </p> - <p> - That hippopotamus was the only rival I ever knew to the old-school - journalist whose ways I can recall—only he was never known to taste - water. Like the man in one of H. J. Byron’s plays, he could absorb any - “given”—I use the word advisedly—any given quantity of liquor. - </p> - <p> - “Are you ever sober, my man?” I asked of him one day. - </p> - <p> - “I’m sober three times a day,” he replied huskily. “I’m sober now. This is - one of the times,” he added mournfully. - </p> - <p> - “You were blind drunk this morning—I can swear to that,” said I. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” he replied promptly. “But what’se good of raking up the past, - sir? Let the dead past burits dead.” He took a step or two toward the - door, and then returned. He carefully brushed a speck of dust off the rim - of his hat. All such men wear the tallest of silk hats, and seem to feel - that they would be scandalised by the appearance of a speck of dust on the - nap. “D’ye know that I can take three crops out of myself in the day?” he - inquired blandly. - </p> - <p> - “Three crops?” - </p> - <p> - “Three crops—I said so, of drunk. I rise in morn’n,—drunk - before twelve; sleep it off by two, and drunk again by five; sleep it off - by eight—do my work and go to bed drunk at two a.m. You haven’t such - a thing as half-a-crown about you, sir? I left my purse on the grand piano - before I came out.” - </p> - <p> - I was under the impression that this particular man was dead years ago; - and I was thus greatly surprised when, on jumping on a tramcar in a - manufacturing town in Yorkshire quite recently, I recognised my old friend - in a man who had just awakened in a corner, and was endeavouring to - attract the attention of the conductor. When, after much incipient - whistling and waving of his arms, he succeeded in drawing the conductor to - his side, he inquired if the car was anywhere near the Wilfrid Lawson - Temperance Hotel. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll let you down when we come to it,” said the conductor. - </p> - <p> - “Do,” said the other in his old husky tones. - </p> - <p> - “Lemme down at the Wellfed Laws Tenpence Otell.” - </p> - <p> - In another minute he was fast asleep as before. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - At present no penal consequences follow any one who calls himself a - literary man. It is taken for granted, I suppose, that the crime brings - its own punishment. - </p> - <p> - One of the most depressing books that any one straying through the King’s - Highway of literature could read is Mr. George Gissing’s “The New Grub - Street.” What makes it all the more depressing is the fact of its carrying - conviction with it to all readers. Every one must feel that the squalor - described in this book has a real existence. The only consolation that any - one engaged in a branch of literature can have on reading “The New Grub - Street,” comes from the reflection that not one of the poor wretches - described in its pages had the least aptitude for the business. - </p> - <p> - In a town of moderate size in which I lived, there were forty men and - women who described themselves for directory purposes as “novelists.” Not - one of them had ever published a volume; but still they all believed - themselves to be novelists. There are thousands of men who call themselves - journalists even now, but who are utterly incapable of writing a decent - “par.” I have known many such men. The most incompetent invariably become - dissatisfied with life in the provinces, and hurry off to London, having - previously borrowed their train fare. I constantly stumble upon provincial - failures in London. Sometimes on the Embankment I literally stumble upon - them, for I have found them lying in shady nooks there trying to forget - the world’s neglect in sleep. - </p> - <p> - Why on earth such men take to journalism has always been a mystery to me. - If they had the least aptitude for it they would be earning money by - journalism instead of trying to borrow half-crowns as journalists. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I knew of one who, several years ago, migrated to London. For a long time - I heard nothing about him; but one night a friend of mine mentioned his - name, and asked me if I had ever known him. - </p> - <p> - “The fact is,” said he, “I had rather a curious experience of him a few - months ago.” - </p> - <p> - “You were by no means an exception to the general run of people who have - ever come in contact with him,” said I. “What was your experience?” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” replied he, “I came across him casually one night, and as he - seemed inclined to walk in my direction, I asked him if he would mind - coming on to my lodgings to have a bottle of beer. He found that his - engagements for the night permitted of his doing so, and we strolled on - together. I found that there was supper enough for two adults in the - locker, and our friend found that his engagements permitted of his taking - a share in the humble repast. He took fully his share of the beer, and - then I offered him a pipe, and stirred up the fire. - </p> - <p> - “We talked until two o’clock in the morning, and, as he told me he lived - about five miles away—he didn’t seem quite sure whether it was at - Hornsey or Clapham—I said he could not do better than occupy a spare - truckle that was in my bedroom. He said he thought that I was right, and - we retired. We breakfasted together in the morning, and then we walked - into Fleet Street, where we parted. That night he overtook me on my way to - my lodgings, and in the friendliest manner possible accompanied me - thither. Here the programme of the night before was repeated. The third - night I quite expected to be overtaken by him; but I was mistaken. I was - not overtaken by him: he was sitting in my lodgings waiting for me. He - gave me a most cordial welcome—I will say that for him. The night - following I had a sort of instinct that I should find him waiting for me - again in my sitting-room. Once more I was mistaken. He was not waiting for - me; he had already eaten his supper—<i>my supper</i>, and had gone - to bed—<i>my bed</i>; but with his usual thoughtfulness, he had left - a short note for me upbraiding me, but in a genial and quite a gentlemanly - way, for staying out so late, and begging me not to awake him, as he was - very tired, and—also genially—inquiring if it was absolutely - necessary for me to make such a row in my bath in the mornings. He was a - light sleeper, he said, and a little noise disturbed him. I did not awake - him; but the next morning I was distinctly cool towards him. I remarked - that I thought it unlikely that I should be at home that night. He begged - of me not to allow him to interfere with my plans. When I returned that - night, I found him sitting at my table playing cards with a bleareyed - foreigner, whom he courteously introduced as his friend Herr Vanderbosch - or something. - </p> - <p> - “‘Draw your chair to the table, old chap, and join in with us. I’ll see - that you get something to drink in a minute,’ said he. - </p> - <p> - “I thanked him, but remarked that I had a conscientious objection to all - games of cards. - </p> - <p> - “‘Soh?’ said the foreigner. ‘Das is yust var yo makes ze mistook. Ze game - of ze gards it is grand—soblime!’ - </p> - <p> - “He added a few well-chosen sentences about sturm und drang or something; - and in about five minutes I found myself getting a complete slanging for - my narrow-minded prejudices, and for my attempt to curtail the innocent - recreation of others. I will say this for our friend, however: he never - for a moment allowed our little difference on what was after all a purely - academic question, to interfere with his display of hospitality to myself - and Herr Vanderbosch. He filled our tumblers, and was lavish with the - tobacco jar. When I rose to go to bed he called me aside, and said he had - made arrangements for me to sleep in the truckle for the night, in order - to admit of his occupying my bed with Herr Vanderbosch—the poor - devil, he explained to me with many deprecating nods, had not, he feared, - any place to sleep that night. But at this point I turned. I assured him - that I was constitutionally unfitted for sleeping in a truckle, or, in - fact, in any bed but my own. - </p> - <p> - “‘All right,’ he cried in a huff, ‘I’ll sleep in the truckle, and I’ll - make up a good fire for him to sleep before on the sofa.’ - </p> - <p> - “Well, we all breakfasted together, and the next night the two gentlemen - appeared once more at the door of the house. They were walking in as - usual, when the landlady asked them where they were going. - </p> - <p> - “‘Why, upstairs, to be sure,’ said our friend. “‘Oh no!’ said the - landlady, ‘you’re not doing that. Mr. Plantagenet has left his rooms and - gone to the country for a month—maybe two—and the rooms is let - to another gent.’ “Well, our friend swore that he had been treated - infernally, and Herr Vanderbosch alluded to me as a schweinhund—I - heard him. I fancy the word must be a term of considerable opprobrium in - the German tongue. Anyhow, they didn’t get past the landlady,—she - takes a large size in doors,—and after a while our friend’s menaces - dwindled down to a request to be permitted to remove his luggage. - </p> - <p> - “‘I’ll bring it down to you,’ said the landlady; and she shut the hall - door very gently, leaving them on the step outside. When she brought down - the luggage—it consisted of three paper collars and one cuff with a - fine carbuncle stud in it—they were gone. - </p> - <p> - “Our friend told some one the other day of the disgraceful way I had - treated him and his foreign associate. But he says he would not have - minded so much if the landlady had not shut the door so gently.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Another remarkable pressman with whom I came in contact several years ago - was a member of the reporting staff of an Irish newspaper. One day I - noticed him wearing what appeared to me to be an extremely fine ring. It - was set with an antique polished intaglio surrounded by diamonds. The ring - was probably unique, and would be worth perhaps £70 to a collector. I have - seen very inferior mediaeval intaglios sold for that sum. I examined the - diamonds with a lens, and then inquired of the youth where he had bought - it, and if he was anything of a collector. - </p> - <p> - “I picked it up going home one wet night,” he replied. “I advertised for - the owner in all the papers for a week—it cost me thirty shillings - in that way,—but no one ever came forward to claim it. I would - gladly have sold the thing for thirty shillings at the end of a month; but - then I found that it was worth close upon a hundred pounds.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re the luckiest chap I ever met,” said I. - </p> - <p> - In the course of a short time another of the reporters asked me if I had - ever seen the watch that the same youth habitually wore. I replied that I - had never seen it, but should like to do so. The same night I was in the - reporters’ room, when the one who had mentioned the watch to me asked the - wearer of the article if ten o’clock had yet struck. The youth forthwith - drew out of his pocket one of the most charming little watches I ever saw. - The back was Italian enamel on gold, both outside and within, and the - outer case was bordered with forty-five rubies. A black pearl about the - size of a pea was at the bow, right round the edge of the case were - diamonds, and in the rim for the glass were twenty-five rubies and four - stones which I fancied at a casual glance were pale sapphires. I examined - these stones with my magnifier, and I thought I should have fainted when I - found that they were blue diamonds. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Le Temps est pour l’Homme, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - L’Eternité est pour l’Amour” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - was the inscription which I managed to make out on the dial. - </p> - <p> - I handed back the watch to the reporter—his salary was £120 per - annum—and inquired if he had found this article also. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said, with a laugh. “I picked that up, curiously enough, during - a trip that I once made to the Scilly Islands. I advertised it in the - Plymouth papers the next day, for I believed it to have been dropped by - some wealthy tourist; but I got no applicant for it; and then I came to - the conclusion that the watch had been among the treasures of some of the - descendants of the smugglers and wreckers of the old days. It keeps good - enough time now, though a watchmaker valued the works at five shillings.” - </p> - <p> - “Any time you want a hundred pounds—a hundred and fifty pounds,” - said I, “don’t hesitate to bring that watch to me. Have you found many - other articles in the course of your life?” I asked, as I was leaving the - room. - </p> - <p> - “Lots,” he replied. “When I was in Liverpool I lived about two miles from - my office, and through getting into a habit of keeping my eyes on the - ground, I used to come across something almost every week. Unfortunately, - most of my finds were claimed by the owners.” - </p> - <p> - “You have no reason to complain,” said I. - </p> - <p> - I was set thinking if there might not be the potentialities of wealth in - the art of walking with one’s eyes modestly directed to the ground; and - for three nights I was actually idiot enough to walk home from my office - with looks, not “commercing with the skies,” but—it was purely a - question of commerce—with the pavements. The first night I nearly - transfixed a policeman with my umbrella, for the rain was coming down in - torrents; the second, I got my hat knocked into the mud by coming in - contact with the branch of a tree overhanging the railings of a square, - and the third I received the impact of a large-boned tipsy man, who was, - as the idiom of the country has it, trying to walk on both sides of the - road at once. - </p> - <p> - I held up my head in future. - </p> - <p> - The reporter left the newspaper in the course of a few months, and I never - saw him again. But quite recently I was reading Miss Dougall’s novel - “Beggars All,” and when I came upon the account of the reporter who - carries out several adroit schemes of burglary, the recollection of the - remarkable “finds” of the young man whose ring and watch had excited my - envy, flashed across my mind; and I began to wonder if it was possible - that he had pursued a similar course to that which Miss Dougall’s hero - found so profitable. I should like to consult Mr. Sherlock Holmes on this - point when he returns from Switzerland—we expect him every day. - </p> - <p> - At any rate, it is certain that the calling of a reporter would afford - many opportunities to a clever burglar, or even an adroit pickpocket. A - reporter can take his walks abroad at any hour of the night without - exciting the suspicion of a policeman; or, should such suspicion be - aroused, he has only to say “Press,” and he may go anywhere he pleases. - The Press rush in where the public dare not tread; and no one need be - surprised if some day a professional burglar takes to stenography as an - auxiliary to the realisation of his illegitimate aims. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - One of the countless St. Peter stories has this privilege of the Press for - its subject, and a reporter for its hero. This gentleman was walking - jauntily through the gate of him “who keeps the keys,” but was stopped by - the stern janitor, who inquired if he had a ticket. - </p> - <p> - “Press,” said the reporter, trying to pass. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean by that? You know you can’t be admitted anywhere without - a ticket.” - </p> - <p> - “I tell you that I belong to the Press; you don’t expect a reporter to - pay, do you?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not? Why shouldn’t you be treated the same as the rest of the people? - I can’t make flesh of one and fish of another,” added St. Peter, as if a - professional reminiscence had occurred to him. - </p> - <p> - The reporter suddenly brightened up. “I don’t want exceptional treatment,” - said he. “Now that I come to think of it, aren’t they all <i>deadheads</i> - who come here?” - </p> - <p> - I fancy that reporter was admitted. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III.—THE EDITOR OF THE PAST. - </h2> - <p> - <i>Proprietary rights—Proprietary wrongs—Exclusive rights—The - “leaders” of a party—The fossil editor—The man and the dog and - the boar—An unpublished history—The newspaper hoax—A - premature obituary notice—The accommodating surgeon—A matter - of business—The death of Mr. Robinson—The quid pro quo</i>’. - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T is only within - the past few years that the Editor has obtained public recognition as a - personality; previously his personality was merged in the proprietor, and - when his efforts were successful in keeping a Corporation from making - fools of themselves—this is assuming an extreme case of success—or - in exposing some attempted fraud that would have ruined thousands of - people, he was compelled to accept his reward through the person of the - proprietor. The proprietor was made a J.P., and sometimes even became - Mayor or Chairman of the Board of Guardians, when the editor succeeded in - making the paper a power in the county. Latterly, however, the editors of - some provincial journals have been obtaining recognition. - </p> - <p> - They have been granted the dubious honour of knighthood; and the public - have discovered that the brains which have dictated a policy that has - influenced the destinies of a Ministry, may be entrusted with the - consideration of sewage and main drainage questions on a Town Council, or - with the question of the relative degrees of culpability of a man who - jumps upon his wife’s face and is fined ten shillings, and the boy who - steals a raw turnip and is sent to a reformatory for five years—a - period quite insufficient for the adequate digestion of that comestible, - which it would appear boys are ready to sacrifice years of their liberty - to obtain. - </p> - <p> - I must say that, with one exception, the proprietors whom I have met were - highly competent business men—men whose judgment and public spirit - were deserving of that wide recognition which they nearly always obtained - from their fellow-citizens. One, and one only, was not precisely of this - type. He used to write with a blue pencil across an article some very - funny comments. - </p> - <p> - I have before me at this moment a letter in which he asked me to - abbreviate something; and he gave me an example of how to do it by cutting - out a letter of the word—he spelt it <i>abrievate</i>. - </p> - <p> - He had a perfect passion for what he called “exclusives.” The most trivial - incident—the overturning of a costermonger’s barrow, and the number - of the contents sustaining fatal injuries; the blowing off of a - clergyman’s hat in the street, with a professional opinion as to the - damage done; the breaking of a window in a private house—he regarded - as good foundation for an “exclusive”; and indeed it must be said that the - information given to the public by the organ of which he was proprietor - was rarely ever to be found in a rival paper. At the same time, upon no - occasion of his obtaining a really important piece of news did he succeed - in keeping it from the others. This annoyed him extremely He was in great - demand as chairman of amateur reciting classes—a distinction that - was certainly dearly purchased. I never knew of one of these reciting - entertainments being refused a full report in his newspaper upon any - occasion when he presided. He also aspired to the chairmanship of small - political meetings, and once when he found himself in such a position, he - said he would sing the audience a song, and he carried out his threat. His - song was probably more convincing than his speech would have been. He had - a famous story for platform use. It concerned a donkey that he knew when - they were both young. - </p> - <p> - He said it made people laugh, and it surely did. At a public dinner he - formulated the plausible theory that to be a good player of golf was to be - a gentleman. He was a poor golfer himself. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Now, regarding London editors I have not much to say. I am not personally - acquainted with any one of them. But for twelve years I read every - political article that appeared in each of the six principal London daily - papers; I also read a report of every speech made in the House of Commons, - and of every speech made by a statesman of Cabinet rank outside - Parliament; and I am prepared to say that the great majority of these - speeches bore the most unmistakable evidence of being—well, not - exactly inspired by, but certainly influenced by some leading article. In - one word, my experience is that what the newspapers say in the morning the - statesmen say in the evening. - </p> - <p> - Of course Mr. Gladstone must not be included in the statesmen to whom I - refer. His inspiration comes from another direction. That is how he - succeeds in startling so many people. - </p> - <p> - The majority of provincial editors include, I have good reason to know, - some of the best men in the profession. Only here and there does one meet - with a fossil of journalism who is content to write a column of platitudes - over a churchwarden pipe and then to go home to sleep. - </p> - <p> - With only one such did I come in contact recently. He was connected with a - newspaper which should have had unbounded influence in its district, but - which had absolutely none. The “editor” was accustomed to enter his room - about noon, and he left it between seven and eight in the evening, having - turned out a column of matter of which he was an earnest reader the next - morning. And yet this same newspaper received during the night sometimes - twelve columns of telegraphic news and verbatim reports of the chief - speeches in Parliament. - </p> - <p> - The poor old gentleman had never been in London, and never could see why I - should be so constantly going to that city. He was under the impression - that George Eliot was a man, and he one day asked me what the Royal - Academy was. Having learned that it was a place where pictures that richly - deserved exposure were hung, he shortly afterwards assumed that the French - Academy was a gallery in which naughty French pictures—he assumed - that everything French was naughty—were exhibited. He occasionally - referred to the <i>Temps</i> phonetically, and up to the day of his death - he never knew why I laughed when I first heard his pronunciation of the - name of that organ. - </p> - <p> - The one dread of his life was that I might some time inadvertently suggest - that I was the editor of the paper. As if any sane human being would have - such an aspiration! His opportunity came at last. A cabinet photograph of - a man and a dog arrived at the office one day addressed to the editor. He - hastened to the proprietor and “proved” that the photograph represented me - and my dog, and that it had been addressed “to the editor.” The proprietor - was not clever enough to perceive that the features of the portrait in no - way resembled those with which I am obliged to put up, and so I ran a - chance of being branded as a pretender. - </p> - <p> - Fortunately, however, the fascinating little daughter of the proprietary - household contrived to see the photograph, and on being questioned as to - its likeness to a member of the staff, declared that there was no one half - so goodlooking connected with the paper. On being assured that the - original had already been identified, she expressed her willingness to - stake five pounds upon her opinion; and the injured editor accepted her - offer. - </p> - <p> - Now, all this time I had never been applied to by the disputants, though I - might have been expected to know something of the matter,—people - generally remember a visit to their photographer or their stockbroker,—but - just as the young lady was about to appeal to me as an unprejudiced - arbiter on the question at issue, the manager of the advertisement - department sent to inquire if any one on the editorial staff had come upon - a photograph of a man and a collie. An advertisement for a lost collie - had, he said, been appearing in the paper, and a postcard had just been - received from the owner stating that he had forwarded a photograph of the - animal, in order that, should any one bring a collie to the office and - claim the reward, the advertising department would be in a position to see - that the animal was the right one. - </p> - <p> - The young lady got her five pounds, and, having a considerable interest in - the stocking of a farm, purchased with it an active young boar which, in - an impulse of flattery, she named after me, and which, so far as I have - been able to gather, is doing very well, and has already seen his - children’s children. - </p> - <p> - When I asked the young lady why she had called the animal after me, she - said it was because he was a bore. She had a graceful wit. - </p> - <p> - In a weak moment this editor confided to me that he was engaged in writing - a book—“A History of the Orange” was to be the title, he told me; - and he added that I could have no idea of the trouble it was causing him; - but there he was wrong. After this he was in the habit of writing a note - to me about once a week, asking me if I would oblige him by doing his work - for him, as all his time was engrossed by his “History.” It appears to me - rather melancholy that the lack of enterprise among publishers is so great - that this work has not yet been given a chance of appearing. I looked - forward to it to clear up many doubtful points of great interest. Up to - the present, for instance, no intelligent effort has been made to - determine if it was the introduction of the orange into Great Britain that - brought about the Sunday-school treat, or if the orange was imported in - order to meet the legitimate requirements of this entertainment. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Human nature—-and there is a good deal of it in a large - manufacturing centre—could not be restrained in the neighbourhood of - such a relic of a past generation, and, consequently, that form of - pleasantry known as the hoax was constantly attempted upon him. One - morning the correspondence columns, which he was supposed to edit with - scrupulous care, appeared headed with an account of the discovery of some - ancient pottery bearing a Latin inscription—the most venerable and - certainly the most transparent of newspaper hoaxes. - </p> - <p> - It need scarcely be said that there was an extraordinary demand for copies - of the issue of that day; but luckily the thing was discovered in time to - disappoint a large number of those persons who came to the office to mock - at the simplicity of the good old soul, who fancied he had found a - congenial topic when he received the letter headed with an appeal to - archæologists. - </p> - <p> - Is there a more contemptible creature in the world than the newspaper - hoaxer? The wretch who can see fun in obtaining the publication of some - filthy phrase in a newspaper that is certain to be read by numbers of - women, should, in my mind, be treated as the flinger of a dynamite bomb - among a crowd of innocent people. The sender of a false notice of a - marriage, a birth, or a death, is usually difficult to bring to justice, - but when found, he—or she—should be treated as a social leper. - The pain caused by such heartless hoaxes is incalculable. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Sometimes a careless reporter, or foreman printer, is unwittingly the - means of causing much annoyance, and even consternation, by allowing an - obituary notice to appear prematurely. On every well-managed paper there - is a set of pigeon-holed obituaries of eminent persons, local as well as - national. When it is almost certain that one of them is at the point of - death, the sketch is written up to the latest date, and frequently put in - type, to be ready in case the news of the death should arrive when the - paper is going to press. Now, I have known of several cases in which the - “set-up” obituary notice contrived to appear before the person to whom it - referred had breathed his last. This is undoubtedly a very painful - occurrence, and in some cases it may actually precipitate the incident - which it purports to record. Personally, I should not consider myself - called on to die because a newspaper happened to publish an account of my - death; but I know of at least one case in which a man actually succumbed - out of compliment to a newspaper that had accidentally recorded his death. - </p> - <p> - That person was not made of the same fibre as a certain eminent surgeon - with whom I was well acquainted. He was thoughtful enough to send for a - reporter on one Monday evening, and said that as he did not wish the pangs - of death to be increased by the reflection that a ridiculous sketch of his - career would be published in the newspapers, he thought he would just - dictate three-quarters of a column of such a character as would allow of - his dying without anything on his mind. Of course the reporter was - delighted, and commenced as usual:— - </p> - <p> - “It is with the deepest regret that we have to announce this morning the - decease of one of our most eminent physicians, and best-known citizens. - Dr. Theobald Smith, M.Sc., F.R.C.S.E., passed peacefully away at o’clock - {last night/this morning} at his residence, Pharmakon House, surrounded by - the members of the family to whom he was so deeply attached, and to whom, - though a father, he was still a friend.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, sir,” said the reporter, “I’ve left a space for the hour, and I can - strike out either ‘last night,’ or ‘this morning,’ when I hear of your - death.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s right,” said the doctor. “Now, I’ll give you some particulars of - my life.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks,” said the reporter. “You will not exceed three-quarters of a - column, for we’re greatly crushed for space just now. If you could put it - off till Sunday, I could give you a column with leads, as Parliament - doesn’t sit on Saturday.” - </p> - <p> - It seemed a tempting offer; but the doctor, after pondering for a few - moments, as if trying to recollect his engagements, shook his head, and - said he would be glad to oblige, but the matter had really passed beyond - his control. - </p> - <p> - “But there’ll surely be time for you to see a proof?” cried the reporter, - with some degree of anxiety in his voice. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll take good care of that,” said the doctor. “You can send it to me in - the morning. I think I’ll die between eleven and twelve at night.” - </p> - <p> - “That would suit us exactly,” said the reporter genially. “We could then - send the obituary away in the first page at one o’clock. The foreman - grumbles if he has to put obituaries on page 5, which goes down to the - machine at half-past three.” - </p> - <p> - The doctor said that of course business was business, and he should do his - best to accommodate the foreman. - </p> - <p> - He died that night at twenty minutes past eleven. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I have suggested the possibility of the record of a death in a public - print having a disastrous effect upon a sick man, and the certainty of its - causing pain to his relatives. This view was not taken by the eccentric - proprietor to whom I have already alluded. Upon one occasion he heard - casually that a man named Robinson had just died. He hastened to his - office, found a reporter, and told him to write a paragraph regretting the - death of Mr. Richard Robinson. He assumed that it was Richard Robinson who - was dead, but it so happened that it was Mr. Thomas Robinson, although Mr. - Richard Robinson had been in feeble health for some time. Now, when the - son of the living Mr. Robinson called upon the proprietor the next day to - state that his father had read the paragraph recording his death, and that - the shock had completely prostrated him, the proprietor turned round upon - him, and said that Mr. Robinson and his family should rather feel - extremely grateful for the appearance of a paragraph of so complimentary a - character. Young Mr. Robinson, fearing that the next move on the part of - the proprietor would be to demand payment for the paragraph at scale - rates, begged that his intrusion might be pardoned; and hurried away - congratulating himself at having escaped very easily. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Editors are always supposed to know nearly everything, and they nearly - always do. In this respect they differ materially from the representatives - of other professions. If you were to ask the average clergyman—if - there is such a thing as an average clergyman—what he thought of the - dramatic construction of a French vaudeville, he would probably feel hurt; - but if an editor failed to give an intelligent opinion on this subject, as - well as upon the tendencies to Socinianism displayed in the sermon of an - eminent Churchman, he would be regarded as unfit for his business. You can - get an intelligent opinion from an editor on almost any subject; but you - are lucky if you can get an intelligent opinion on any one subject from - the average professional man—a lawyer, of course, excepted. - </p> - <p> - But undoubtedly curious specimens of editors might occasionally have been - found in the smaller newspaper offices in the provinces long ago. More - than twenty years have passed since the sub-editor of a rather important - paper in a town in the Midlands interviewed, on a matter of professional - etiquette, the editor—he was an Irishman—of a struggling organ - in the same town. - </p> - <p> - It appeared that the chief reporter of the sub-editor’s paper had given - some paragraph of news to a brother on the second paper, and yet when the - latter was respectfully asked for an equivalent, he refused it; hence the - need for diplomatic representations. - </p> - <p> - “I say that our reporters must have a <i>quid pro quo</i> in every case - where they have given a par. to yours,” said the sub-editor, who was - entrusted with the negotiations. - </p> - <p> - “Must have a what?” asked the Irish editor. “A <i>quid pro quo</i>,” said - the sub-editor. “Now I’ve come here for the <i>quid</i> and I don’t mean - to go until I get it.” - </p> - <p> - The editor looked at him, then felt for something in his waistcoat pocket. - Producing a piece of that sort of tobacco known as Limerick twist, he bit - it in two, and offered one portion to the sub-editor, saying, “There’s - your quid for you; but, so help me Gad, I’ve only got what you see in my - mouth to last me till morning.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV.—THE UNATTACHED EDITOR. - </h2> - <p> - <i>The “casual” word—The mighty hunter—The retort discourteous—How - the editor’s chair was broken—An explanation on a clove—The - master of a system—A hitch in the system—The two Alhambras—A - parallel—The unattached parson—Another system—A father’s - legacy—The sermon—The imagination and its claims—The - evening service—Saying a few words—Antique carved oak—How - the chaplain’s doubts were dispersed—A literary tinker—A - tinker’s triumph—The two Joneses.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE “scratch” - editor also may now and again be found to possess some eccentricities. He - is the man who is taken on a newspaper in an emergency to fill the place - of an editor who may perhaps be suffering from a serious illness, or who - may, in an unguarded moment, have died. There is a class of journalists - with whom being out of employment amounts almost to a profession in - itself. But the “unattached” editor is usually no more brilliant a man - than the unattached gentleman “in holy orders”—the clergyman who - appears suddenly at the vestry door carrying a black bag, and probably - with his nose a little red (the result of a cold railway journey), and who - introduces himself to the sexton as ready to do duty for the legitimate, - but temporarily incapacitated, incumbent, whose telegram he had received - only the previous day. - </p> - <p> - As the congregation are glad to get any one who can read the prayers with - an air of authority in the absence of their pastor, so the proprietors of - a newspaper are sometimes pleased to welcome the “scratch,” or casual, - editor. - </p> - <p> - I have met with a few of the class, but never with one whose chronic - unattached condition I could not easily account for, before we had been - together long. Most of them hated journalism—-and everything else - (with one important exception). All of them boasted of their feats as - journalists. A fine crusted specimen was accustomed to declare nightly - that he had once kept hunters; another that he had not always been - connected with such a miserable rag as the journal on which he was - temporarily employed. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve been on the best papers in the three kingdoms,” he shouted one - night. - </p> - <p> - “That’s only another way of saying that you’ve been kicked off the most - influential organs in the country,” remarked a bystander. - </p> - <p> - “If you don’t look out you’ll soon be kicked off another.” - </p> - <p> - No verbal retort is possible to such brutality of language. None was - attempted. - </p> - <p> - When I was explaining, the next day, to the proprietor how the chair in - the editor’s room came to be broken, and also how the silhouette of an - octopus came to be executed so boldly in ink upon the wall of the same - apartment, the “scratch” editor (his appellation had a double significance - this day) entered suddenly. He said he had come to explain something. - </p> - <p> - Now when a literary gentleman appears with long strips of sticking plaster - loosely adhering to one side of his face, as white caterpillars adhere to - a garden wall, and when, moreover, the perfume that floats on the air at - his approach is that of a peppermint lozenge that has been preserved from - decay in alcohol, any explanation that he may offer in regard to a - preceding occurrence is likely to be received with suspicion, if not with - absolute distrust. In this case, however, no opportunity was given the man - for justifying any claim that he might advance to be credited. - </p> - <p> - The proprietor assured him that he had already received an account of the - deplorable occurrence of the night before, and that he hoped mutual - apologies would be made in the course of the day, so that, in diplomatic - language, the incident might be considered closed before night. - </p> - <p> - The “scratch” man breathed again—heavily, alcoholically, - peppermintally. And before night I managed to sticking-plaster up a peace - between the belligerents. - </p> - <p> - At the end of a month some busybody outside the paper had the bad taste to - point out to the proprietor that one of the leading articles—the one - contributed by the “scratch” man—in a recent issue of the paper, was - to a word identical with one which had appeared a fortnight before in a - Scotch paper of some importance. The “scratch” man explained—on - alcohol and a clove—that the Scotch paper had copied his article. - But the proprietor expressed his grave doubts on this point, his chief - reason for adopting this course being that the Scotch paper with the - article had appeared ten days previously. Then the “scratch” man said the - matter was a singular, but by no means unprecedented, coincidence. - </p> - <p> - The proprietor opened the office door. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - One of the most interesting of these “casuals” had been a clergyman (he - said). I never was quite successful in finding out with what Church he had - been connected, nor, although pressed for a reply, would he ever reveal to - me how he came to find himself outside the pale of his Church—whatever - it was. He had undoubtedly some of the mannerisms of a clergyman who is - anxious that every one should know his profession, and he could certainly - look out of the corners of his eyes with the best of them. Like the parson - who is so very “low” that he steadily refuses to cross his t’s lest he - should be accused of adopting Romish emblems, he declined to turn his head - without moving his whole body. - </p> - <p> - He wore rusty cloth gloves. - </p> - <p> - He was also the most adroit thief whom I ever met; and I have lived among - some adroit ones in my time. - </p> - <p> - I never read such brilliant articles as he wrote nightly—never, - until I came upon the same articles in old files of the London newspapers, - where they had originally appeared. The original articles from which his - were copied <i>verbatim</i> were, I admit, quite as brilliant as his. - </p> - <p> - His <i>modus operandi</i> was simplicity itself. He kept in his desk a - series of large books for newspaper cuttings, and these were packed with - articles on all manner of subjects, clipped from the best newspapers. - Every day he spent an hour making these extracts, by the aid of a pot of - paste, and indexing them on the most perfect system of double entry that - could be conceived. - </p> - <p> - At night I frequently came down to my office and found that he had written - two columns of the most delightful essays. One might, perhaps, be on the - subject of Moresco-Gothic Architecture and its influence on the genius of - Velasquez, another on Battueshooting and the Acclimatisation of the Bird - of Paradise in English coverts; but both were treated with equal grace. - That such erudition and originality should be associated with cloth gloves - astonished me. One day, however, the man wrote a column upon the - decoration of one of the courts of the Alhambra, and a more picturesque - article I never read—up to a certain point; and this point was - reached when he commenced a new paragraph as follows:— - </p> - <p> - “Alas! that so lovely a piece of work should have fallen a prey to the - devastating element that laid the whole structure in ruins, and eclipsed - the gaiety, if not of nations, at any rate of the people of London, who - were wont to resort nightly to this Thespian temple of Leicester Square, - feeling certain that under the liberal management of its enterprising <i>entrepreneur</i> - some brilliant stage spectacle would be brought before their eyes. Now, - however, that the company for the restoration of the building has been - successfully floated, we may hope for a revival of the ancient glories of - the Alhambra.” - </p> - <p> - I inquired casually of the perpetrator of the article if he had ever heard - of the Alhambra? - </p> - <p> - “Why, I wrote of it yesterday,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve been in it; it’s in Leicester Square.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever hear of another Alhambra?” - </p> - <p> - I asked blandly. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; there’s one in Glasgow.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever hear of one that wasn’t a music-hall?” - </p> - <p> - “Never. Maybe the temperance people give one of their new-fashioned coffee - places the name to attract sinners on false pretences.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever hear of an Alhambra in Spain?” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t mean to say that they have music-halls in Spain? But why - shouldn’t they? Spaniards are fond of dancing, I believe.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not indeed?” said I. - </p> - <p> - The next day he had an explanation to offer to the chief of the staff. In - the evening he told me that he was going to leave the paper. - </p> - <p> - “How is that?” I inquired. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t like it,” he replied. “My ideas are cribbed, cabined, and - confined here.” - </p> - <p> - “They are certainly cribbed,” said I. “Did you never hear of the Alhambra - at Grenada?” - </p> - <p> - “Never; that’s what played the mischief with the article. You’ll see how - the mistake arose. There was a capital article in the <i>Telegraph</i> - about the Alhambra—I see now that it must have referred to the one - in Spain—about four years ago; well, I cut it out and indexed it. A - year ago, when the Alhambra in Leicester Square was about to re-open, - there was an article in the <i>Daily News</i>. I found it in my index - also, and incorporated the two articles in mine. How the mischief was I to - know that one referred to Grenada and the other to London? These writer - chaps should be more explicit. What do they get their salaries for, - anyway?” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I have referred to a certain resemblance existing between the unattached - parson and the unattached editor. This resemblance is the more impressed - on me now that, after recalling a memory of an appropriator of another - man’s literary work by the “casual” editor, I can recollect how I lived - for some years next door to a “casual” parson, who had annexed a bagful of - sermons left by his father, one of which he preached whenever he obtained - an engagement. It was said that on receiving the usual telegram from a - disabled rector on Saturday evening, he was accustomed to go to the - sermon-sack, and, putting his hand down the mouth, take out a sermon with - the same ease and confidence as are displayed by the professional - rat-catcher in extracting from his bag one of its lively contents for the - gratification of a terrier. It so happened, however, that upon a fine - Sunday morning, he set out to do duty for a clergyman at a distance, - having previously felt about the sermon-sack until he found a good fat - roll of manuscript, which he stuffed into his pocket. He reached the - church—in which, it should be mentioned, he had never before - preached—and, bustling through the service with his accustomed - celerity, ascended the pulpit and flattened out with a slap or two the - sermon on the cushion in front of him. The sermon proved to be the - valedictory one preached by his father in the church of which he had been - rector for half a century. It was unquestionably a very fine effort, but - it might seem to some people to lack local colour. Delivered in a church - to which the preacher was a complete stranger, it had a certain amount of - inappropriateness about it which might reasonably be expected to diminish - from its effect. - </p> - <p> - “It is a solemn moment for us all, my dear, dear friends. It is a solemn - moment for you, but ah! how much more solemn for me! Sunday after Sunday - for the past fifty years I have stood in the pulpit where I stand to-day - to preach the Gospel of Truth. I see before me now the well-known faces of - my flock. Those who were young when I first came among you are now well - stricken in years. Some whom I baptised as infants, have brought their - infants to me to be baptised; these in turn have been spared to bring - their infants to be admitted into the membership of the Church Militant. - For fifty years have I not taken part in your joys and your sorrows, and - now who shall say that the hour of parting should not be bitter? I see - tears on the faces before me——” - </p> - <p> - And the funny part of the matter was that he did. No one present seemed to - see anything inappropriate in the sermon; and at the pathetic references - to the hour of parting, there was not a dry eye in the church—except - the remarkably bright pair possessed by a female scoffer, who told the - story to me. It was not to be expected that the clergyman would become - aware of the mistake—if it was a mistake—that he had made: he - had for years been a preaching machine, and had become as devoid of - feeling as a barrel organ; but it seemed to me incredible that only one - person in the church should discover the ludicrous aspect of the - situation. - </p> - <p> - So I remarked to my informant, and she said that it was all the same a - fact that the people were weeping copiously on all sides. - </p> - <p> - “I asked the doctor’s wife the next day what she thought of the sermon,” - added my informant, “and she replied with a sigh that it was beautifully - touching; and when I put it straight to her if she did not think it was - queer for a clergyman who was a total stranger to us to say that he had - occupied the pulpit for fifty years, she replied, ‘Ah, my dear, you’re too - matter of fact: sermons should not be taken too literally. <i>You should - make allowance for the parsons imagination</i>.’” - </p> - <p> - It is told of the same “casual” that an attempt was made to get the better - of him by a parsimonious set of churchwardens upon the occasion of his - being engaged to do duty for the regular parson of the parish. The - contract made with the “casual” was to perform the service and preach the - sermon in the morning for the sum of two guineas. He turned up in good - time on the Sunday morning and performed his part of the contract in a - business-like way. In the vestry, after he had preached the sermon, he was - waited on by the senior churchwarden, who handed him his fee and expressed - the great satisfaction felt by the churchwardens at the manner in which - the work had been executed. He added that as the clergyman’s train would - not leave the village until half-past eight at night, perhaps the reverend - gentleman would not mind dining with him, the senior churchwarden, and - performing a short evening service at six o’clock. - </p> - <p> - “That will suit me very well indeed,” said the reverend gentleman. “I - thank you very much for your hospitable offer. I charge thirty shillings - for an evening service with sermon.” - </p> - <p> - The hospitable churchwarden replied that he feared the resources of the - church would not be equal to such a strain upon them. He thought that the - clergyman might not object under the circumstances to give his services - gratis. - </p> - <p> - “Do you dispose of your excellent cheeses gratis?” asked the clergyman - courteously. The churchwarden was in the cheese business. - </p> - <p> - “Well, no, of course not,” laughed the churchwarden. “But still—well, - suppose we say a guinea for the evening service?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s my charge for the service, leaving out the sermon,” said the - clergyman. - </p> - <p> - He explained that it was the cheapest thing in the market at the time. It - was done with only the smallest margin of profit. Allowing for the wear - and tear, it left hardly anything for himself. - </p> - <p> - The churchwarden shook his head. He feared that they would not be able to - trade on the terms, he said. Suddenly, however, he brightened up. Could - the reverend gentleman not give them a good, sound, second quality sermon? - he inquired. They did not expect an A-1, copper-fastened, platinum-tipped, - bevelled-edged, full-calf sermon for the money; but hadn’t the reverend - gentleman a sound, clump-soled, celluloid-faced, nickel-plated sermon—something - evangelical that would do very well for one evening? - </p> - <p> - The clergyman replied that he had nothing of the sort in stock. - </p> - <p> - “Well, at any rate, you will say a few words to the congregation—not - a sermon, you know—after the service, for the guinea?” suggested the - churchwarden. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, I’ll say a few words, if that’s all,” said the clergyman. - </p> - <p> - And he did. - </p> - <p> - When he had got to that grand old Amen which closes the Evening Service, - he stood up and said,— - </p> - <p> - “Dear brethren, there will be no sermon preached here this evening.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Having entered upon the perilous path that is strewn with stories of - clergymen, I cannot leave it without recalling certain negotiations which - a prelate once opened with me for the purchase of an article of furniture - that remained at the palace when he was translated (with footnotes in the - vernacular by local tradesmen) to a new episcopate. I have always had a - weakness for collecting antique carved oak, and the prelate, being aware - of this, called my attention to what he termed an “antique carved oak - cabinet,” which occupied an alcove in the hall. He said he thought that I - might be glad to have a chance of purchasing it, for he himself did not - wish to be put to the trouble of conveying it to his new home—if a - palace can be called a home. Now, there had been a three days’ auction at - the palace where the antiquity remained, and, apparently, all the dealers - had managed to resist the temptation that was offered them of acquiring a - rare specimen of old oak; but, assuming that the dignitary had placed a - high reserve price upon it from which he might now be disposed to abate, I - replied that it would please me greatly to buy the cabinet if it was not - too large. By appointment I accompanied a seemingly meek domestic chaplain - to the dis-.mantled palace; and there, sure enough, in a dark alcove of - the long and narrow hall—for the palace was not palatial—I saw - (dimly) a huge thing like a wardrobe with pillars, or it might have been a - loose box, or perhaps a bedstead gone wrong, or a dismantled hearse. - </p> - <p> - “That’s a dreadful thing,” I remarked to the meek chaplain. - </p> - <p> - “Dreadful, indeed,” he replied. “But it’s antique carved oak, so I suppose - it’s a treasure.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you a match about you?” I asked, for the place was very dark. - </p> - <p> - The meek chaplain looked scandalised—it was light enough to allow of - my seeing that—at the suggestion that he carried matches. He said he - thought he knew where some might be had. He walked to the end of the - passage, and I saw him take out a box of matches from a pocket. He came - back, saying he recollected having seen the box on a ledge “down there.” I - struck a match and held the light close to the fabric. I gave a portion of - it a little scrape with my knife, and then tested the carving by the same - implement. - </p> - <p> - “How did his lordship describe this?” I inquired. - </p> - <p> - “He said it was antique carved oak,” said the meek chaplain. - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever hear of Cuvier and the lobster?” I inquired further. - </p> - <p> - He said he never had. - </p> - <p> - “That being so, I may venture to say that his lordship’s description of - this thing is an excellent one,” I remarked; “only that it is not antique, - it is not carved, and it is not oak.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” asked the meek chaplain.. - </p> - <p> - I struck another match, and showed him the white patch that I had scraped - with my knife, and he admitted that old oak was not usually white beneath - the surface. I showed him also where the carving had sprung up before the - point of my knife, making plain the ‘fact that the carving had been glued - to the fabric. - </p> - <p> - “His lordship got that made by a local carpenter twenty-five years ago,” - said I; “and yet he tries to sell it to me for antique carved oak. It - strikes me that in Wardour Street he would find a congenial episcopate.” - </p> - <p> - The meek chaplain stroked his chin reflectively; then, putting his - umbrella under one arm, he joined the tips of his fingers, saying,— - </p> - <p> - “Whatever unworthy doubts I may once have entertained on the difficult - subject of Apostolic succession are now, thank God, set at rest.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” I inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Is it possible,” he asked, “that you do not perceive how strong an - argument this incident furnishes in favour of our Church’s claim to the - Apostolic succession of her bishops?” - </p> - <p> - I shook my head. - </p> - <p> - “St. Peter was a Jew,” said the meek chaplain. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Another of the casual ward of editors who appears on the tablets of my - memory was a gentleman who came from Wales—and a large number of - other places. He had a rooted objection to write anything new; but he was - the best literary tinker I ever met. In Spitzhagen’s story, “Sturmfluth,” - there is a most amusing account of the sculptor who made the statues of - distinguished Abstractions, which he had carved in his young days, do duty - for memorial commissions of lately-departed heroes. A bust of Homer he had - no difficulty in transforming into one of Germania weeping for her sons - killed in the war, and so forth. The sculptor’s talent was the same as - that of the editor. He had the draft of about fifty articles, and three - obituary notices. These he managed to tinker up, chipping a bit off here - and there, and giving prominence to other portions, until his purpose of - the moment was served. I have seen him turn an article that purported to - show the absurdity of free trade, into an attack upon the Irish policy of - the Government; and in the twinkling of an eye upon another occasion he - made one on the Panama swindle do duty for one on the compulsory rescue of - Emin by Stanley. With only a change of a line or, two, the obituary notice - of Gambetta was that which he had used for Garibaldi; and yet when the - Emperor Frederick died, it was the same article that was furbished up for - the occasion. Every local medical man who died was dealt with in the - appreciative article which he had written some years before on the death - of Sir William Gull; and the influence of the career of every just - deceased local philanthropist was described in the words (slightly altered - to suit topography) that had been written for the Earl of Shaftesbury. - </p> - <p> - It was really little short of marvellous how this system worked. It was a - tinker’s triumph. - </p> - <p> - I must supplement my recollections of these worthies by a few lines - regarding a man of the same type who, I believe, never put pen to paper - without being guilty of some extraordinary error. A high compliment was - paid to me, I felt, when I had assigned to me, as part of my duties, the - reading of his proof sheets nightly. In everyone that I ever read I found - some monstrous mistake; and as he was old enough to be my grandfather, and - extremely sensitive besides, I was completely exhausted by my expenditure - of tact in pointing out to him what I called his “little inaccuracies.” - One night he laid his proof sheet before me, saying triumphantly, “You’ll - not find any of the usual slips in that, I’m thinking. I’ve managed to - write one leader correct at last.” - </p> - <p> - I read the thing he had written. It referred to a letter which Mr. Bence - Jones had contributed to <i>The Times</i> on the subject of the Irish Land - League Agitation. After commenting on this letter, he wound up by saying - that Mr. Bence Jones had proved himself to be as practical an - agriculturalist as he was an expert painter. - </p> - <p> - “Are you certain that Bence Jones is a painter?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “As certain as I can be of anything,” was the reply. “I’ve seen his work - referred to dozens of times. I believe there’s a picture of his in the - Grosvenor Gallery this very year. I thought you knew all about - contemporary art,” he added, with a sneer. - </p> - <p> - “Art is long,” said I, searching for a Grosvenor Gallery catalogue, which - I knew I had thrown among my books. “Now, will you just turn up the - picture you say you saw noticed, and I’ll admit that you know more than I - do?” - </p> - <p> - I handed him the catalogue. He adjusted his spectacles, looked at the - index, gave a triumphant “Ha! I have you now,” and forthwith turned up - “The Golden Stair,” by E. <i>Burne</i> Jones. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V.—THE SUB-EDITORS. - </h2> - <p> - <i>The old and the new—The scissors and paste auxiliaries—A - night’s work—“A dorg’s life”—How to communicate with the third - floor—A modern man in the old days—His migration—Other - migrants—Some provincial correspondents—Forgetful of a Town - Councillor—The Plymouth Brother as a sub-editor—A vocal effort—“Summary” - justice—Place aux Dames—A ghost story—Suggestions of the - Crystal Palace—The presentation.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T would give me no - difficulty to write a book about sub-editors with illustrations from those - whom I have met. It is, perhaps, in this department of a newspaper office - that the change from the old <i>regime</i> is most apparent. The young - sub-editors are frequently graduates of universities; but, in spite of - this, most of them are well abreast of French and German as well as - English literature. They bear out my contention, that journalism is - beginning to be taken seriously. The new men have chosen journalism as - their profession; they have not, as was the case with the men of a past - age, merely drifted into journalism because they were failures in banks, - in tailors’ shops, in the drapery line, and even in the tobacco business—one - in which failure is almost impossible. - </p> - <p> - I have met in the old days with specimens of such men—men who - fancied, and who got their employers to fancy also, that because they had - failed in occupations that demanded the exercise of no intellectual powers - for success, they were bound to succeed in something that they termed “a - literary calling.” They did not succeed as a rule. They glanced over their - column or two of telegraphic news,—in those days few provincial - papers contained more than a double column of telegrams,—they - glanced through the country correspondence and corrected such mistakes in - grammar as they were able to detect: it was with the scissors and paste, - however, that their most striking intellectual work was done. In this - department the brilliancy of the old sub-editor’s genius had a chance of - being displayed. It coruscated, so to speak, on the rim of the paste pot, - and played upon the business angle of the scissors, as the St. Elmo’s - light gleams on the yard-arms. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said one of them to me, with a glow of proper pride upon his face, - as he ran the closed scissors between the pages of the <i>Globe</i>. “Ah, - it’s only when it comes to a question of cutting out that your true - sub-editor reveals himself.” - </p> - <p> - And he forthwith annexed the “turn-over,” without so much as acquainting - himself with the nature of the column. - </p> - <p> - “Do you never read the thing before you cut it out?” I inquired timidly. - </p> - <p> - He smiled the smile of the professor at the innocent question of a tyro. - </p> - <p> - “Not likely, young fellow,” he replied. “It’s bad enough to have to read - all the cuttings when they appear in our next issue, without reading them - beforehand.” - </p> - <p> - “Then how do you know whether or not the thing that you cut out is - suitable for the paper?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “That’s where the instinct of your true subeditor comes in,” said he. “I - put in the point of the scissors mechanically and the right thing is sure - to come between the blades.” - </p> - <p> - In a few minutes he had about thirty columns of cuttings ready for the - foreman printer. - </p> - <p> - I began to feel that I had never done full justice to the sub-editor or - the truffle hunter. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I have said that in those old days not more than two columns of wired news - ever came to any provincial paper—<i>The Scotsman</i>, the <i>Glasgow - Herald</i>, and a Liverpool and Manchester organ excepted. The private - wire had not yet been heard of. In the present day, however, I have seen - as many as sixteen columns of telegraphic news in a very ordinary - provincial paper. I myself have come into my office at ten o’clock to find - a speech in “flimsy,” of four columns in length, on some burning question - of the moment. I have read through all this matter, and placing it in the - printers’ hands by eleven, I have written a column of comment (about one - thousand eight hundred words), read a proof of this column and started for - home at half-past one. I may mention that while waiting for the last slips - of my proof, I also made myself aware of the contents of the <i>Times</i>, - the <i>Telegraph</i>, the <i>Standard</i>, and the <i>Morning Post</i>, - which had arrived by the midnight train. - </p> - <p> - I suppose there are hundreds of editors throughout the provinces to whom - such a programme is habitually no more a thing to shrink from than it was - to me for several years of my life. But I am sure that if any one of the - sub-editors of the old days had been required to read even five columns of - a political speech, and eight of parliament, he would have talked about - slave-driving and a “dorg’s life” until he had fallen asleep—as he - frequently did—with his arms on his desk and the “flimsies” on the - floor. - </p> - <p> - Some time ago I was in London, and had written an article at my rooms, - with a view of putting it on the special wire at the Fleet Street end for - transmission to the newspaper on which I was then employed. It so - happened, however, that I was engaged at other matters much longer than I - expected to be that night, so that it was past one o’clock in the morning - when I drove to the office in Fleet Street. The lower door was shut, and - no response was given to my ring. I knew that the editor had gone home, - but of course the telegraph operator was still in his room—I could - see his light in the topmost window—and I made up my mind to rouse - him, for I assumed that he was taking his usual sleep. After ringing the - bell twice without result, it suddenly occurred to me that I might place - myself in connection with him by some other means than the bell-wire. I - drove to the Central Telegraph Office, and sent a telegram to the operator - at the Irish end of the special wire, asking him to arouse the Fleet - Street operator and tell him to open the street door for me. - </p> - <p> - When I returned to Fleet Street I found the operator waiting for me at the - open door. In other words, I found that my easiest plan of communicating - with the third floor from the street was by means of an office in Ireland. - </p> - <p> - I do not think that any of the old-time subeditors would have been likely - to anticipate the arrival of a day when such an incident would be - possible. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The only modern man of the old school, so to speak, with whom I came in - contact at the outset of my journalistic life, now occupies one of the - highest places on the London Press. I have never met so able a man since I - worked by his side, nor have I ever met with one who was so accurate an - observer, or so unerring a judge of men. He was everything that a - subeditor should be, and if he erred at all it was on the side of - courtesy. I have known of men coming down to the office with an action for - libel in their hearts, and bitterness surpassing the bitterness of a - Thomson whose name has appeared with a p, in the account of the attendance - at a funeral, and yet going back to their wives and families quite genial, - owing to the attitude adopted toward them by this subeditor; yes, and - without any offer being made by him to have the mistake, of which they - usually complained, altered in the next issue. - </p> - <p> - He was one of the few men whom I have known to go to London from the - provinces with a doubt on his mind as to his future success. Most of those - to whom I have said a farewell that, unfortunately, proved to be only - temporary, had made up their minds to seek the metropolis on account of - the congenial extent of the working area of that city. A provincial town - of three hundred thousand inhabitants had a cramping effect upon them, - they carefully assured me; the fact being that any place except London was - little better than a kennel—usually a good deal worse.. - </p> - <p> - I have come to the conclusion, from thinking over this matter, that, - although self-confidence may be a valuable quality on the part of a - pressman, it should not be cultivated to the exclusion of all other - virtues. - </p> - <p> - The gentleman to whom I refer is now managing editor of his paper, and - spends a large portion of his hardly-purchased leisure hours answering - letters that have been written to him by literary aspirants in his native - town. One of them writes a pamphlet to prove that there never has been and - never shall be a hell, and he sends it to be dealt with on the following - morning in a leader in the leading London newspaper. He, it seems, has to - be written to—kindly, but firmly. Another wishes a poem—not on - a death in the Royal Family—to be printed, if possible, between the - summary and the first leader; a third reminds the managing editor that - when sub-editor of the provincial paper eleven years before, he inserted a - letter on the disgraceful state of the footpath on one of the local - thoroughfares, and hopes that, now that the same gentleman is at the head - of a great metropolitan organ, he will assist him, his correspondent, in - the good work which has been inaugurated. The footpath is as bad as ever, - he explains. But it is over courteously repressive letters to such young - men—and old men too—as hope he may see his way to give them - immediate and lucrative employment on his staff, that most of his spare - time and all his spare stamps are spent. - </p> - <p> - Ladies write to him by the hundred—for it seems that any one may - become a lady journalist—making valuable suggestions to him by means - of which he may, if he chooses, obtain daily a chatty column with local - social sketches, every one guaranteed to be taken from life. - </p> - <p> - He doesn’t choose. - </p> - <p> - The consequence is that the ladies write to him again without the loss of - a post, and assure him that if he fancies his miserable paper is anything - but the laughing-stock of humanity, he takes an absurdly optimistic view - of the result of his labours in connection with it. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - About five years after he had left the town where we had been located - together, I met a man who had come upon him in London, and who had - accepted his invitation to dinner. - </p> - <p> - “We had a long talk together,” said the man, recording the transaction, - “and I was surprised to find how completely he has severed all his former - connections and old associations. I mentioned casually the names of some - of the most prominent of the people here, but he had difficulty in - recalling them. Why, actually—you’ll scarcely believe it—when - I spoke of Sir Alexander Henderson, he asked who was he! It’s a positive - fact!” - </p> - <p> - Now Sir Alexander Henderson was a Town Councillor. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The provincial successor to the sub-editor just referred to was - undoubtedly a remarkable man. He was a Plymouth Brother, and without - guile. He was, for some reason or other, very anxious that I should join - “The Church” also. I might have done so if I had succeeded in discovering - what were the precise doctrines held by the body. But it would seem that - the theology of the Plymouth Brethren is not an exact science. A Plymouth - Brother is one who accepts the doctrines of the Plymouth Brethren. So much - I learned, and no more. - </p> - <p> - He possessed a certain amount of confidence in the correctness of his - views—whatever they may have been, and he never allowed any pressman - to enter his room without writing a summary on some subject; for which, it - may be mentioned, he himself got credit in the eyes of the proprietor. He - had no singing voice whatsoever, but his views on the Second Advent were - so deep as to force him to give vocal expression to them thus:— - </p> - <p> - “Parlando. The Lord shall come. Will you write me a bit of a summary?” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0092.jpg" alt="0092 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0092.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - The request to anyone who chanced to be in the room with him, following so - hard upon the vocal assertion of the most solemn of his theological - tenets, had a shocking effect; more especially as the newspaper offices in - those old days were constantly filled with shallow scoffers and sceptics; - and, of course, persons were not wanting who endeavoured to evade their - task by assuring him that the Sacred Event was not one that could be - legitimately treated within a lesser space than a full column. - </p> - <p> - He usually offered to discuss with me at 2 a.m. such subjects as the - Immortality of the Soul or the Inspiration of Holy Writ. When he would - signify his intention of proving both questions, if I would only wait for - four hours. - </p> - <p> - I was accustomed to adopt the attitude of the schoolboy who, when the - schoolmaster, after drawing sundry lines on the blackboard, asserted that - the square described upon the diagonal of a double rectangular - parallelogram was equal to double the rectangle described upon the other - two sides, and offered to prove it, said, “Pray don’t trouble yourself, - sir; I don’t doubt it in the least.” - </p> - <p> - I assured the sub-editor that there was nothing in the somewhat extensive - range of theological belief that I wouldn’t admit at 2 a.m. after a long - night’s work. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The most amusing experience was that which I had with the same gentleman - at the time of the Eastern crises of the spring of 1878. During the - previous year he had accustomed himself to close his nightly summary of - the progress of the war between Russia and Turkey and the possibility of - complications arising with England, with these words:—“Fortunate - indeed it is that at the present moment we have at our Foreign Office so - sagacious and far-seeing a statesman as Earl Derby. Every confidence may - be reposed in his judgment to avert the crisis which in all probability is - impending.” - </p> - <p> - Certainly once a week did this summary appear in the paper, until I fancy - the readers began to tire of it. As events developed early in the spring, - the paragraph was inserted with feverish frequency. He was at it again one - night—I could hear him murmur the words to himself as he went over - the thing—but the moment he had given out the copy I threw down in - front of him a telegram which I had just opened. - </p> - <p> - “That will make a good summary,” I said. “The Reserves are called out and - Lord Derby has resigned.” - </p> - <p> - He sprang to his feet, exclaiming, like the blameless George, “What—what—what?” - </p> - <p> - “There’s the flimsy,” said I. “It’s a good riddance. He never was worth - much. The idea of a conscientious Minister at the Foreign Office! Now - Beaconsfield will have a free hand. You’d better write that summary.” - </p> - <p> - “I will—I will,” he said. “But I think I’ll ask you to dictate it to - me.” - </p> - <p> - “All right,” said I. “Heave ahead. ‘The news of the resignation of Earl - Derby will be received by the public of Great Britain with feelings akin - to those of relief.... The truth is that for several months past it was - but too plain to even the least sagacious persons that Lord Derby at the - Foreign Office was the one weakness in the <i>personnel</i> of the - Ministry. In colloquial, parlance he was the square peg in the round hole. - Now that his resignation has been accepted we may say farewell, a long - farewell, to a feeble and vacillating Minister of whose capacity at such a - serious crisis we have frequently thought it our duty to express our grave - doubts.’” - </p> - <p> - He took a shorthand note of this stuff, which he transcribed, and ordered - to be set up in place of the first summary. For the next three months that - original metaphor of the square peg and the round hole appeared in - relation to Lord Derby once a week in the political summary. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Among the minor peculiarities of this subeditor of the old time was an - apparently irresistible desire for the companionship of his wife at - nights. Perhaps, however, I am doing him an injustice, and the evidence - available on this point should only be accepted as indicating the desire - of his wife for the companionship of her husband. At any rate, for some - reason or other, the lady occupied an honoured place in her husband’s room - certainly three nights every week. - </p> - <p> - The pair never exchanged a word for the six or seven hours that they - remained together. Perhaps here again I am doing one of them an injustice, - for I now remember that during at least two hours out of every night the - door of the room was locked on the inside, so they may have been making up - their arrears of silence by discussing the immortality of the soul, or - other delicate theological points, during this “close” season. - </p> - <p> - The foreman printer was the only one in the office who was in the habit of - complaining about the presence of the lady in the sub-editor’s room. He - was the rudest-voiced man and the most untiring user of oaths ever known - even among foremen printers, and this is saying a great deal. He explained - to me in language that was by no means deficient in force, that the - presence of the lady had a cramping and enervating effect upon him when he - went to tell the sub-editor that he needn’t send out any more “copy,” as - the paper was overset. How could any conscientious foreman do himself - justice under such circumstances? he asked me. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The same sub-editor had a ghost story. He was the only man whom I ever met - who believed in his own ghost story. I have come in contact with several - men who had ghost stories in their <i>répertoire</i>, but I never met any - but this one who was idiot enough to believe in the story that he had to - tell. I am sorry that I cannot remember its many details. But the truth is - that it made no more impression on me than the usual ghost story makes - upon a man with a sound digestion. As a means of earning a livelihood the - journalistic “spook” occupies a legitimate place among the other devices - of modern enterprise to effect the same praiseworthy object; but a - personal and unprofessional belief in the possibility of the existence in - visible form of a “ghost” is the evidence either of a mind - constitutionally adapted to the practice of imposture, or of a remarkable - capacity for being imposed upon. My friend the sub-editor had not a heart - for falsehood framed, so I believed that he believed that he had seen the - spirit of his father make an effective exit from the apartment where the - father had died. This was, I recollect, the foundation of his story. I - remember also that the spirit took the form of a small but compact ball of - fire, and that it rolled up the spout—on the outside—and then - broke into a thousand stars. - </p> - <p> - The description of the incident suggested a lesser triumph of Messrs. - Brock at the Crystal Palace rather than the account of the solution of the - greatest mystery that man ever has faced or ever can face. When I had - heard the story to the end—up to the moment that the old nurse came - out of the house crying, “He’s gone, he’s gone!” preparatory to throwing - her apron over her head—I merely asked,— - </p> - <p> - “How many nights did you say you had been watching by your father?” - </p> - <p> - “Three,” he replied. “But I don’t think that I said anything to you about - watching.” Neither had he. Like the witness at the mysterious murder trial - who didn’t think it worth while mentioning to the police that he had seen - a man, who had a grudge against the deceased, leaving the room where the - body was found, and carrying in one hand a long knife dripping with blood, - my friend did not think that the circumstance of his having had no sleep - for three nights had any bearing upon the question of the accuracy of his - eyesight. - </p> - <p> - Of course I merely said that the story was an extraordinary one. - </p> - <p> - I have noticed that Plymouth Brotherhood, vegetarianism, soft hats, bad - art, and a belief in at least one ghost usually are found associated. - </p> - <p> - This sub-editor emigrated several years ago to the South Sea Islands with - evangelistic intentions. On his departure his colleagues made him a - graceful and appropriate gift which could not fail to cause him to recall - in after years the many pleasant hours they had spent together. - </p> - <p> - It took the form of an immense marble chimney-piece clock, weighing about - a hundredweight and a half, and looking uncomfortably like an - eighteenth-century mural tomb. It was such a nice present to make to an - evangelist in the neophyte stage, every one thought; for what the gig was - in the forties as a guarantee of all that was genteel, the massive marble - clock was in the eyes of the past generation of journalists. I happen to - know something about the sunny islands of the South Pacific and their - inhabitants, and it has often occurred to me that the guarantees of - gentility which find universal acceptance where the hibiscus blooms, may - not be wholly identical with those that were in vogue among journalists - long ago. Should these unworthy doubts which now and again occur to me - when I am alone, be well founded, I fear that the presentation to my - friend may repose elsewhere than on a chimney-piece of Upolu or Tahiti. - </p> - <p> - As a matter of fact, I read a short time ago an account of a remarkable - head-dress worn by a native chief, which struck me as having many points - in common with a massive dining-room marble clock. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI—THE SUB-EDITORS (continued). - </h2> - <p> - <i>The opium eater—A babbler o’ green fields—The “Brither - Scots”—A South Sea idyl—St. Andrew Lang Syne—An - intelligent community—The arrival of the “Bonnie Doon,” Mackellar, - master—Captain Mackellar “says a ‘sweer’”—A border raid on a - Newspaper—It pays—A raid of the wild Irish—Naugay Doola - as a Newspaper editor—An epic—How the editor came to buy my - emulsion—The constitutionially quarlsome sub-editor—The - melancholy man—Not without a cause—The use of the razor.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>NOTHER remarkable - type of the subeditor of the past was a middle-aged man whom it was my - privilege to study for some months. No one could account for a curious <i>distrait</i> - air which he frequently wore; but I had only to look at his eyes to become - aware of the secret of his life. I had seen enough of opium smokers in the - East to enable me to pronounce decisively on this “case.” He was a most - intelligent and widely-read man; but he had wrecked his life over opium. - He could not live without it, and with it he was utterly unfit for any - work. Night after night I did the wretched man’s work while he lay in a - corner of the room wandering through the opium eater’s paradise. After - some months he vanished, utterly from the town, and I never found a trace - of him elsewhere. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - He was much to be preferred to a curious Scotsman who succeeded him. It - was not the effects of opium that caused this person to lie in a corner - and babble o’ green fields upon certain occasions, such as the anniversary - of the birth of Robert Burns, the anniversary of the death of the same - poet, the celebration of the Annual Festival of St. Andrew, the Annual - Dinner of the Caledonian Society, the Anniversary Supper of the Royal - Scottish Association, the Banquet and Ball of the Sons of Scotia, the - “Nicht wi’ Our Ain Kin,” the Ancient Golf Dinner, the Curlers’ Reunion, - the “Rink and Drink” of the “Free Bowlers”—a local festival—the - Pipe and Bagpipe of the Clans Awa’ Frae Harne—another local club of - Caledonians. Each of these celebrations of the representatives of his - nation, which took place in the town to which he came—I need - scarcely say it was not in Scotland—was attended by him; hence the - babbling o’ green fields between the hours of one and three a.m. He - babbled once too often, and was sent forth to fresh fields by his - employer, who was not a “brither Scot.” I daresay he is babbling up to the - present hour. - </p> - <p> - In spite of the well-known and deeply-rooted prejudices of the Scottish - nation against the spirit of what may be termed racial cohesion, it cannot - be denied that they have been known now and again to display a tendency—when - outside Scotland—to localise certain of their national institutions. - They do so at considerable self-sacrifice, and the result is never - otherwise than beneficial to the locality operated on. No more adequately - attested narrative has been recorded than that of the two Shanghai - merchants—Messrs. Andrew Gareloch and Alexander MacClackan—who - were unfortunate enough to be wrecked on the voyage to England. They were - the sole survivors of the ship’s company, and the island upon which they - found themselves was in the middle of the Pacific, and about six miles - long by four across. In the lagoon were plenty of fish, and on the ridge - of the slope cocoanuts, loquats, plantains, and sweet potatoes were - growing, so that there was no question as to their supplies holding out. - After a good meal they determined that their first duty was to name the - island. They called it St. Andrew Lang Syne Island, and became as festive - and brotherly—they pronounced it “britherly”—as was possible - over cocoanut milk: it was a long time since either of them had tasted - milk. The second day they founded a local Benevolent Society of St. - Andrew, and held the inaugural dinner; the third day they founded a Burns - Club, and inaugurated the undertaking with a supper; the fourth day they - started a Scottish Association, and with it a series of monthly reunions - for the discussion of Scotch ballad literature; the fifth day they laid - out a golf links with the finest bunkers in the world, and instituted a - club lunch (strictly non-alcoholic); the sixth day they formed a Curling - Club—the lagoon would make a braw rink, they said, if it only froze; - if it didn’t freeze, well, they could still have the annual Curlers’ - supper—and they had it; the Seventh Day they <i>kept</i>. On the - evening of the same day a vessel was sighted bearing up for the island; - but, of course, neither of the men would hoist a signal on the Seventh - Day, and they watched the craft run past the island, though they were - amazed to find that she had only her courses and a foresail set, in spite - of the fact that the breeze was a light one. The next morning, when they - were sitting together at breakfast discussing whether they should lay the - foundation stone—with a commemorative lunch—of a free kirk, a - U.P. meeting-house, or an Auld Licht meeting-house—they had been - fiercely discussing the merits of each at every spare moment during the - previous twenty years at Shanghai—they saw the vessel returning with - all sail set and a signal flying. To run up one of their shirts to a pole - at the entrance to the lagoon was a matter of a moment, and they saw that - their signal was responded to. Sail was taken off the ship, she was - steered by signals from the shore through the entrance to the lagoons and - dropped anchor. - </p> - <p> - She turned out to be the <i>Bonnie Doon</i>, of Dundee, Douglas Mackellar, - master. He had found portions of wreckage floating at sea, and had thought - it possible that some of the survivors of the wreck might want passages - “hame.” - </p> - <p> - “Nae, nae,” said both the men, “we’re no in need o’ passages hame just the - noo. But what for did ye no mak’ for the passage yestere’en in the - gloaming?” - </p> - <p> - “Ay,” said Captain Mackellar, “I ran by aboot the mirk; but hoot awa’—hoot - awa’, ye wouldn’t hae me come ashore on the Sawbath Day.” - </p> - <p> - “Ye shortened sail, tho’,” remarked Mr. MacClackan. - </p> - <p> - “Ay, on Saturday nicht. I never let her do more than just sail on the - Sawbath. Why the eevil didn’t ye run up a bit signal, ye loons, if ye - spied me sae weel?” - </p> - <p> - “Hoot awa’—hoot awa’, ye wouldn’t hae us mak’ a signal on the - Sawbath day.” - </p> - <p> - “Na’, na’, no regular signal; but ye might hae run up a wee bittie—just - eneugh tae catch my e’en. Ay, an’ will ye nae come aboard?” - </p> - <p> - “We’ll hae to talk owre it, Captain.” - </p> - <p> - Well; they did talk over the matter, cautiously and discreetly, for a few - hours, for Captain Mackellar was a hard man at a bargain, and he would not - agree to give them a passage at anything less than two pound a head. At - last negotiations were concluded, the men got aboard the <i>Bonnie Doon</i> - and piloted her out of the lagoon. They reached the Clyde in safety, - having on the voyage found that Captain Mackellar was a religious man and - never used any but the most God-fearing of oaths at his crew. - </p> - <p> - “Weel, ma freends,” said he, as they approached Greenock—“Weel, I’m - in hopes that ye’ll be paying me the siller this e’en.” - </p> - <p> - “Ay, mon, that we will, certes,” said the passengers. “In the meantime, - we’d tak’ the liberty o’ calling your attention to a wee bit claim we hae - japped doon on a bit slip o’ paper. It’s three poon nine for harbour dues - that ye owe us, Captain Mackellar, and twa poon ten for pilotage—it’s - compulsory at yon island, so maybe ye’ll mak’ it convenient to hand us - owre the differs when we land. Ay, Douglas Mackellar, ye shouldn’a try to - get the better o’ brither Scots.” - </p> - <p> - Captain Douglas Mackellar was a God-fearing man, but he said “Dom!” - </p> - <p> - I once had some traffic with a newspaper office that had suffered from a - border raid. In the month of June a managing editor had been imported from - the Clyde, and although previously no “hand” from north of the Tweed had - ever been located within its walls, yet before December had come, to take - a stroll through any department of that office was like taking a walk down - Sauchiehall Street, or the Broomielaw. The foreman printer used weird - Scotch oaths, and his son was the “devil”—pronounced <i>deevil</i>. - His brother-in-law was the day foreman, and his brother-in-law’s son was a - junior clerk. The stereotyper was the stepson of the night foreman’s - mother, and he had a nephew who was the machinist, with a brother for his - assistant. The managing editor’s brother was sub-editor, and the man to - whom his wife had been engaged before she married him, was - assistant-editor. The assistant-editor’s uncle became the head of the - advertising department, and he had three sons; two of them became clerks - with progressive salaries, and the third became the chief reporter, also - with a progressive salary. In fact, the paper became a one-family show—it - was like a “nicht wi’ Burns,”—and no paper was ever worked better. - It never paid less than fifteen per cent. - </p> - <p> - A rather more amusing experience was of the overrunning of a newspaper - office by the wild Irishry. The organ in question had a somewhat chequered - career during the ten months that it existed. At one period—for even - as long as a month—it was understood to pay its expenses; but when - it failed to pay its expenses, no one else paid them; hence in time it - came to be looked upon as a rather unsound property. The original editor, - a man of ability and culture, declined to be dictated to in some delicate - political question by the proprietor, and took his departure without going - through the empty formality—it was, after all, only a point of - etiquette—of asking for the salary that was due to him. For some - weeks the paper was run—if something that scarcely crawled could be - said to be run—without an editor; then a red-headed Irishman of the - Namgay Doola type appeared—like a meteor surrounded by a nimbus of - brogue—in the editor’s room. His name was O’Keegan, but lest this - name might be puzzling to the English nation, he weakly gave in to their - prejudices and simplified it into O’Geogheghoiran. He was a Master of Arts - of the Royal University in Ireland, and a winner of gold medals for Greek - composition, as well as philosophy. He said he had passed at one time at - the head of the list of Indian Civil Service candidates, but was rejected - by the doctor on account of his weak lungs. When I met him his lungs had - apparently overcome whatever weakness they may once have had. He had a - colloquial acquaintance with Sanscrit, and he had also been one of the - best billiard markers in all Limerick. - </p> - <p> - I fancy he knew something about every science and art, except the art and - science of editing a daily newspaper on which the payment of salaries was - intermittent. In the course of a week a man from Galway had taken the - vacant and slightly injured chair of the sub-editor, a man from Waterford - said he had been appointed chief of the reporting staff, a man from - Tipperary said he was the new art editor and musical critic, and a man - from Kilkenny said he had been invited by his friend Mr. O’Geogheghoiran - to “do the reviews.” I have the best of reasons for knowing that he - fancied “doing the reviews” meant going into the park upon military - field-days, and reporting thereupon. - </p> - <p> - In short, the newspaper <i>staff</i> was an Irish blackthorn. - </p> - <p> - It began to “behave as sich.” - </p> - <p> - The office was situated down a court on my line of route homeward; and one - morning about three o’clock I was passing the entrance to the court when I - fancied I heard the sound of singing. I paused, and then, out of sheer - curiosity, moved in the direction of the newspaper premises. By the time I - had reached them the singing had broadened into recrimination. I have - noticed that singing is usually the first step in that direction. The - members of the literary staff had apparently assembled in the reporters’ - room, and, stealing past the flaring gas jet on the very rickety stairs, I - reached that window of the apartment which looked upon the lobby. When I - rubbed as much dust and grime off one of the panes as admitted of my - seeing into the room, I learned more about fighting in five minutes than I - had done during a South African campaign. - </p> - <p> - A dozen or so bottles of various breeds lay about the floor, and a variety - of drinking vessels lay about the long table at the moment of my glancing - through the window. Only for a moment, however, for in another second the - editor had leapt upon the table, and with one dexterous kick—a kick - that no amount of Association play could cause one to acquire; a kick that - must have been handed down, so to speak, from father to son, unto the - third and fourth generations of backs—had sent every drinking vessel - into the air. One—it was a jug—struck the ceiling, and brought - down a piece of plaster about the size of a cart-wheel; but before the - mist that followed this transaction had risen to obscure everything, I saw - that a tumbler had shot out through the window that looked upon the court. - I heard the crash below a moment afterwards. A mug had caught the - corresponding portion of the anatomy of the gentleman from Waterford, and - it irritated him; a cup crashed at the open mouth of the reviewer from - Kilkenny, and, so far as I could see, he swallowed it; a tin pannikin - carried away a portion of the ear of the musical critic from Tipperary—it - was so large that he could easily spare a chip or so of it, though some - sort of an ear is essential to the conscientious discharge of the duties - of musical critic. - </p> - <p> - For some time after, I could not see very distinctly what was going on in - the room, for the dust from the dislodged plaster began to rise, and - “friend and foe were shadows in the mist.” Now and again I caught a - glimpse of the red-head of the Master of Arts and Gold Medallist - permeating the mist, as the western sun permeates the smoke that hangs - over a battle-field; and wherever that beacon-fire appeared devastation - was wrought. The subeditor had gone down before him—so much I could - see; and then all was dimness and yells again—yells that brought - down more of the plaster and a portion of the stucco cornice; yells that - chipped flakes off the marble mantelpiece and sent them quivering through - the room; yells that you might have driven tenpenny nails home with. - </p> - <p> - Then the dust-cloud drifted away, and I was able to form a pretty good - idea of what was going on. The meeting in mid-air of the ten-light - gasalier, which the dramatic critic had pulled down, and the iron fender, - which the chief of the reporting staff had picked up when he saw that his - safety was imperilled, was epic. The legs of chairs and stools flying - through the air suggested a blackboard illustration of a shower of - meteors; every now and again one crashed upon a head and cannoned off - against the wall, where it sometimes lodged and became a bracket that you - might have hung a coat on, or else knocked a brick into the adjoining - apartment. - </p> - <p> - The room began to assume an untidy appearance after a while; but I noticed - that the editor was making praiseworthy efforts to speak. I sympathised - with the difficulty he seemed to have in that direction. It was not until - he had folded in two the musical critic and the chief reporter, and had - seated himself upon them without straightening them out, that his voice - was heard. - </p> - <p> - “Boys,” he cried, “if this work goes on much longer I fear there’ll be a - breach of the peace. Anyhow, I’m thirsty. I’ve a dozen of porter in my - room.” - </p> - <p> - The only serious accident of the evening occurred at this point. The - reviewer got badly hurt through being jammed in with the other six in the - door leading to the editor’s room. - </p> - <p> - The next morning the paper came out as usual, and the fact that the - leaders were those that had appeared on the previous day, and that the - Parliamentary report had been omitted, was not noticed. I met the - red-haired editor as he came out of a chemist’s shop that afternoon. I - asked, as delicately as possible, after his health. - </p> - <p> - “I’d be well enough if it wasn’t for the sense of responsibility that - sometimes oppresses me,” said he. “It’s a terrible weight on a single - man’s shoulders that a daily paper is, so it is.” - </p> - <p> - “No doubt,” said I. “Do you feel it on your shoulders now?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t I just?” said he. “I’ve been buying some emulsion inside to see if - that will give me any ease.” - </p> - <p> - He then told me a painfully circumstantial story of how, when walking home - early in the morning, he was set upon by some desperate miscreant, who had - struck him twice upon his left eye, which might account, he said, for any - slight discolouration I might notice in the region of that particular - organ if I looked closely at it. - </p> - <p> - “But what’s the matter with your hair?” - </p> - <p> - I inquired. “It looks as if it had been powdered.” - </p> - <p> - “Blast it!” said he, taking off his hat, and disclosing several hillocks - of red heather with a patch of white sticking-plaster on their summits—like - the illustration of the snow line on a geological model of the earth’s - surface. “Blast it! It must have been the ceiling. It’s a dog’s life an - editor’s is, anyhow.” - </p> - <p> - I never saw him again. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Of course, the foregoing narrative is only illustrative of the exuberance - of the Irish nature under depressing circumstances; but I have also come - in contact with sub-editors who were constitutionally quarrelsome. They - were nearly as disagreeable to work with as those who were perpetually - standing on their dignity—men who were never without a complaint of - being insulted. I bore with one of this latter class longer than any one - else would have done. He was the most incompetent man whom I ever met, so - that one night when he growled out that he had never been so badly treated - by his inferiors as he was just at that instant, I had no compunction in - saying,— - </p> - <p> - “By whom?” - </p> - <p> - “By my inferiors in this office,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “I’d like to know where your inferiors are,” said I. “They’re not in this - office—so much I can swear. I doubt if they are in any other.” - </p> - <p> - He asked me if I meant to insult him, and I assured him that I invariably - made my meaning so plain when I had occasion to say anything, there was no - excuse for asking what I meant. - </p> - <p> - He never talked to me again about being insulted. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Another curious specimen of an extinct animal was subject to remarkable - fits of depression and moroseness. He offered to make me a bet one night - that he would not be alive on that day week. I took him up promptly, and - offered to stake a five-pound note on the issue, provided that he did the - same. He said he hadn’t a five-pound note in the world, though he had been - toiling like a galley slave for twenty years. I pitied the poor fellow, - though it was not until I saw his wife—a mass of black beads and - pomatum—that I recognised his right to the consolation of pessimism. - I believe that he was only deterred from suicide by an irresistible belief - in a future state. He had heard a well-meant but injudicious sermon in - which the statement was made that husband and wife, though parted by - death, would one day be reunited. Believing this he lived on. What was the - use of doing anything else? - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I met with another sub-editor on whom for a period I looked with some - measure of awe, being <i>in statu pupillari</i> at the time. - </p> - <p> - Every night he used to take a razor out of his press and lay it beside his - desk, having opened it with great deliberation and a hard look upon his - haggard face. I believed that he was possessed of strong suicidal - impulses, and that he was placing the razor where it would be handy in - case he should find it necessary to make away with himself some night or - in the early hours of the morning. - </p> - <p> - I held him in respect for just one month. At the end of that time I saw - him sharpening his pencil with the razor, and I ventured to inquire if he - usually employed the instrument for that purpose. - </p> - <p> - “I do,” he replied. “I lost six penknives in this room within a fortnight; - those blue-pencilled reporters use up a lot of knives, and they never buy - any, so I brought down this old razor. They’ll not steal that.” - </p> - <p> - And they didn’t. - </p> - <p> - But I lost all respect for that sub-editor. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII.—SOME EXTINCT TYPES. - </h2> - <p> - <i>A perturbed spirit—The loss of a fortune—A broken bank—A - study in bimetallism—Auri sacra fames—A rough diamond—A - friend of the peerage—And of Dublin stout—His weaknesses—The - Quarterly Review—The dilemma—An amateur hospital nurse—A - terrible night—Benvenuto Cellini—A subtle jest—The - disappearance of the jester—An appropriated leaderette—An - appropriated anecdote—An appropriated quatrain.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NCE I saw a - sub-editor actually within easy reach of suicide. It was not the - duplicating of a five-column speech in flimsy, nor was it that the foreman - printer had broken his heart. It was that he had been the victim of a - heartless theft. His savings of years had been carried off in the course - of a single night. So he explained to me with “tears in his eyes, - distraction in’s aspect,” when I came down to the office one evening. He - was walking up and down his room, with three hours’ arrears of unopened - telegrams on his desk and a <i>p.p.c.</i> note from the foreman beneath a - leaden “rule,” used as a paper weight; for the foreman, being, as usual, a - conscientious man, invariably promised to hand in his notice at sundown if - kept waiting for copy. - </p> - <p> - “What on earth is the matter?” I inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Is it neuralgia or——” - </p> - <p> - “It’s worse—worse!” he moaned. “I’ve lost all my money—all—all! - there’s the tin I kept it in—see for yourself if there’s a penny - left in it.” He threw himself into his chair and bowed down his head upon - his hands. - </p> - <p> - Far off a solitary (speaking) trumpet blew. - </p> - <p> - “If the hands are to go home you’ve only got to say so and I release - them,” was the message that was delivered into my ear when I went to the - end of the tube communicating with the foreman. - </p> - <p> - “Three columns will be out inside half an hour,” I replied. Then I turned - to the sobbing sub-editor. “Come,” said I, “bear it like a man. It’s a - terrible thing, of course, but still it must be faced. Tell me how many - pounds you’ve lost, and I’ll put the matter into the hands of the police.” - </p> - <p> - He looked up with a vacant white face. - </p> - <p> - “How many—there were a hundred and forty pence in the tin when I - went home last night. See if there’s a penny left.” - </p> - <p> - A cursory glance at the chocolate tin that lay on the table was quite - sufficient to convince me that it was empty. - </p> - <p> - “Cheer up,” I said. “A hundred and forty pence. It sounds large in pence, - to be sure, but when you think of it from the standard of the silver - currency it doesn’t seem so formidable. Eleven and eightpence. Of course - it’s a shocking thing. Was it all in pence?” - </p> - <p> - “All—all—every penny of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Keep up your heart. We may be able to trace the money. I suppose you are - prepared to identify the coins?” - </p> - <p> - He ran his fingers through his hair, and I could see that he was striving - manfully to collect his thoughts. - </p> - <p> - “Identify? I could swear to them if I saw them in the lump—one - hundred and forty—one—hundred—and—forty—pence! - Yes, I’ll swear that I could swear to them in the lump. But singly—oh, - I’ll never see them again!” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me how it came about that you had so much money in this room,” said - I, beginning to open the telegrams. “Man, did you not think of the - terrible temptation that you were placing in the way of the less opulent - members of the staff? Eleven and eight in a disused chocolate tin! It’s a - temptation like this that turns honest men into thieves.” - </p> - <p> - Then it was that he informed me on the point upon which I confess I was - curious—namely, how he came to have this fortune in copper. - </p> - <p> - His wife, he said, was in the habit of giving him a penny every rainy - night, this being his tramcar fare from his house to his office. But—he - emphasised this detail—she was usually weak enough not to watch to - see whether he got into the tramcar or not, and the consequence was that, - unless the night was very wet indeed, he was accustomed to walk the whole - way and thus save the penny, which he nightly deposited in the chocolate - tin: he could not carry it home with him, he said, for his wife would be - certain to find it when she searched his waistcoat pockets before he arose - in the morning. - </p> - <p> - “For a hundred and forty times you persevered in this course of duplicity - for the sake of the temporary gain!” said I. “It is this craving to become - quickly rich that is the curse of the nineteenth century. I thought that - journalists were free from it; I find that they are as bad as Stock - Exchange gamblers or magazine proprietors. Oh, gold! gold! Go on with your - work or there’ll be a blue-pencilled row to-morrow. Don’t fancy you’ll - obtain the sympathy of any human being in your well-earned misfortune. You - don’t deserve to have so good a wife. A penny every rainy night—a - penny! Oh, I lose all patience when I think of your complaining. Go on - with your work.” - </p> - <p> - He went on with his work. - </p> - <p> - Some months after this incident he thought it necessary to tell me that he - was a Scotchman. - </p> - <p> - It was not necessary; but I asked him if his wife was one too. - </p> - <p> - “Not exactly,” said he argumentatively. “But she’s a native of Scotland—I’ll - say that much for her.” - </p> - <p> - I afterwards heard that he had become the proprietor of that very journal - upon which he had been sub-editor. - </p> - <p> - I was not surprised. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - My memories of the sub-editor’s room include a three months’ experience of - a remarkable man. He imposed upon me for nearly a week, telling me - anecdotes of the distinguished persons whom he had met in the course of - his career. It seemed to me—for a week—that he was the darling - of the most exclusive society in Europe. He talked about noble lords by - their Christian names, and of noble ladies with equal breezy freedom. Many - of his anecdotes necessitated a verbatim report of the replies made by - marquises and countesses to his playful sallies; and I noticed that, so - far as his recollection served him, they had always addressed him as - George; sometimes—but only in the case of over-familiar daughters of - peers—Georgie. I felt—for a week—that journalism had - made a sensible advance socially when such things were possible. Perhaps, - I thought, some day the daughter of a peer may distort my name, so that I - may not die undistinguished. - </p> - <p> - I have seen a good many padded peeresses and dowdy duchesses since those - days, and my ambition has somehow drifted into other channels; but while - the man talked of his intimacies with peers, and his friendship—he - assured me on his sacred word of honour (whatever that meant) that it was - perfectly Platonic—with peeresses. - </p> - <p> - I was carried away—for a week. - </p> - <p> - He was an undersized man, with a rooted prejudice against soap and the - comb. He spoke like a common man, and wore clothes that were clearly - second-hand. He posed as the rough diamond, the untamed literary lion, the - genius who refuses to be trammelled by the usages—most of them - purely artificial—of society, and on whom society consequently - dotes. - </p> - <p> - What he doted on was Dublin stout. If he had acquired during his - intercourse with the aristocracy their effete taste in the way of - drinking, he certainly managed to chasten it. He drank six bottles of - stout in the course of a single night, and regretted that there was not a - seventh handy. - </p> - <p> - For a month he did his work moderately well, but at the end of that time - he began to put it upon other people. He made excuse after excuse to shirk - his legitimate duties. One night he came down with a swollen face. He was - suffering inexpressible agony from toothache, he said, and if he were to - sit down to his desk he really would not guarantee that some shocking - mistake would not occur. He would, he declared, be serving the best - interests of the paper if he were to go home to his bed. He only waited to - drink a bottle of stout before going. - </p> - <p> - A few days after his return to work he entered the office enveloped in an - odoriferous muffler, and speaking hoarsely. He had, he said, caught so - severe a cold that the doctor was not going to allow him to leave his - house; but so soon as he got his back turned, he had run down to tell us - that it was impossible for him to do anything for a night or two. He - wanted to bind us down in the most solemn way not to let the doctor know - that he came out, and we promised to let no one know except the manager. - This assurance somehow did not seem to satisfy him. But he drank a bottle - of porter and went away. - </p> - <p> - The very next week he came to me in confidence, telling me that he had - just received the proofs of his usual political article in the <i>Quarterly</i>, - and that the editor had taken the trouble to telegraph to him to return - the proofs for press without fail the next day. Now, the only question - with him was, should he chuck up the <i>Quarterly</i>, for which he had - written for many years, or the humble daily paper in the office of which - he was standing. - </p> - <p> - I did not venture to suggest a solution of the problem. - </p> - <p> - He did. - </p> - <p> - “Maybe you wouldn’t mind taking a squint”—his phraseology was that - of the rough genius—“through the telegrams for to-night,” said he. - “I don’t like to impose on a good-natured sonny like you, but you see how - I’m situated. Confound that <i>Quarterly!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Do you do the political article for the <i>Quarterly?</i>” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Man, I’ve done it for the past eleven years,” said he. “I thought every - one knew that. It’s editor of the <i>Quarterly</i> that I should be to-day - if William Smith hadn’t cut me out of the job. But I bear him no malice—bless - your soul, not I. You’ll go over the flimsies?” - </p> - <p> - I said I would, and he wiped a bath sponge of porter-froth off his beard - in order to thank me. - </p> - <p> - I knew that he was telling me a lie about the <i>Quarterly</i>, but I did - his work. - </p> - <p> - Less than a week after, he entered my room to express the hope that I - would be able to make arrangements to have his work done for him once - again, the fact being that he had just received a message from Mrs. - Thompson—the wife of young Thompson, the manager for Messrs. Gibson, - the shippers—to ask him for heaven’s sake to help her to look after - her husband that night. Young Thompson had been behaving rather wildly of - late, it appeared, and was suffering from an attack of that form of - heredity known as <i>delirium tremens</i>. He had been held down in the - bed by three men and Mrs. Thompson the previous night, my informant said, - and added that he himself would probably be one of a fresh batch on whom a - similar duty would devolve inside an hour or so. - </p> - <p> - He had scarcely left the office—after refreshing himself by the - artificial aid of Guinness—before a knock came to my door, and the - next moment Mr. Thompson himself quietly entered. I saw that the poker was - within easy reach, and then asked him how he was. - </p> - <p> - “I’m all right,” he replied. “I merely dropped in to borrow the <i>Glasgow - Herald</i> for a few minutes. I heard to-day that a ship of ours was - reported as spoken, but I can’t find it in any paper that has come to us.” - </p> - <p> - “You can have the <i>Herald</i> with pleasure,” said I. “You didn’t go to - the concert last night?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said he. “You see it was the night of our choir practice, and I had - to attend it to keep the others up to their work.” - </p> - <p> - The next night I asked the sub-editor how his friend Mr. Thompson was, and - if he had experienced much difficulty in keeping him from making an - onslaught upon the snakes. - </p> - <p> - He shook his head solemnly, as if his experiences of the previous night - were too terrible to be expressed in ordinary colloquialisms. - </p> - <p> - “Sonny,” said he, “pray that you may never see all that I saw last night.” - </p> - <p> - “Or all that Thompson saw,” said I. “Was he very bad?” - </p> - <p> - “As bad as they make them,” he replied. “I sat on his head for hours at a - stretch.” - </p> - <p> - “When he was off his head you were on it?” - </p> - <p> - “Ay; but every now and again he would, by an almost superhuman effort, - toss me half way up to the ceiling. Man, it was an awful night! It’s - heartless of me not being with the poor woman now; but I said I’d do a - couple of hours’ work before going.” - </p> - <p> - “All right,” said I. “Maybe Thompson will call here and you can walk up - with him.” - </p> - <p> - “Thompson call? What the blue pencil do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Just what I say. If you had waited for five minutes last night you might - have had his company up to that pleasant little <i>séance</i> in which you - turned his head into a chair. He called to see the <i>Glasgow Herald</i> - before you could have reached the end of the street.” - </p> - <p> - He gave a little gasp. - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t say Thompson, did I?” he asked, after a pause. - </p> - <p> - “You certainly did,” said I. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll be forgetting my own name next,” said he. “The man’s name is - Johnston—he lives in the corner house of the row I lodge in.” - </p> - <p> - “Anyhow, you’ll not see him to-night,” said I. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The fellow failed to exasperate me even then. But he succeeded early the - next month. He came to me one night with a magazine in his hand. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder if the boss”—I think I mentioned that he was a rough - diamond—“would mind my inserting a column or so of extracts from - this paper of mine in the <i>Drawing Room</i> on Benvenuto Cellini?” He - pronounced the name “Selliny.” - </p> - <p> - “On whom is the paper?” I inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Selliny—Benvenuto Selliny. I’ve made Selliny my own—no man - living can touch me there. I knocked off the thing in a hurry, but it - reads very well, though I say it who shouldn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “Why shouldn’t you say it?” I inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Well when you’ve written as much as me,”—he was a rough diamond—“maybe - you’ll be as modest,” he cried, gaily. “When you can knock off a paper——” - </p> - <p> - “There’s one paper that you’ll not knock off, but that you’ll be pretty - soon knocked off,” said I; “and that paper is the one that you are - connected with just now. If lies were landed property you’d be one of the - largest holders of real estate in the world. I never met such a liar as - you are. You never wrote that article on Benvenuto Cellini—you don’t - even know how to pronounce the man’s name.” - </p> - <p> - “The boy’s mad—mad!” he cried, with a laugh that was not a laugh. - “Mr. Barton,”—the managing editor had entered the room,—“this - fair-haired young gentleman is a bit off his head, I’m thinking.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m not off my head in the least,” said I. “Do you mean to say, in the - presence of Mr. Barton, that you wrote that paper in the <i>Drawing Room</i> - on Benvenuto Cellini?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you want me to take my oath that I wrote it?” said he. “What makes you - think that I didn’t write it?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing beyond the fact that I wrote it myself, and that this slip of - paper which I hold in my hand is the cheque that was sent to me in payment - for it, and that this other slip is the usual form of acknowledgment—you - see the title of the article on the side—which I have to post - to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - There was a silence in the room. The managing editor had seated himself in - my chair and was scribbling something at the desk. - </p> - <p> - “My fair-haired friend,” said the sub-editor, “I thought that you would - have seen from the first the joke I was playing on you. Why, man, the - instant I read the paper I knew it was by you. Don’t you fancy that I know - your fluent style by this time?” - </p> - <p> - “I fancy that there’s no greater liar on earth than yourself,” said I. - </p> - <p> - “Look here,” he cried, assuming a menacing attitude. “I can stand a lot, - but——” - </p> - <p> - “And so can I,” said the managing editor, “but at last the breaking strain - is reached. That paper will allow of your drawing a month’s salary - to-morrow,”—he handed him the paper which he had scribbled,—“and - I think that as this office has done without you for eleven nights during - the past month, it will do without you for the twelfth. Don’t let me find - you below when I am going away.” - </p> - <p> - He didn’t. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I cannot say that I ever met another man connected with a newspaper quite - so unscrupulous as the man with whom I have just dealt. I can certainly - safely say that I never again knew of a journalist laying claim to the - authorship of anything that I wrote, either in a daily paper, where - everything is anonymous, or in a magazine, where I employed a pseudonym. - No one thought it worth his while doing so. A man who was not a - journalist, however, took to himself the honour and glory associated with - the writing of a leaderette of mine on the excellent management of a local - library. The man who was idiot enough to do so was a theological student - in the Presbyterian interest. He began to frequent the library without - previously having paid his fare, and on being remonstrated with mildly by - the young librarian, said that surely it was not a great concession on the - part of the committee to allow him the run of the building after the - article he had written in the leading newspaper on the manner in which the - institution was conducted. It so happened, however, that the librarian - had, at my request, furnished me with the statistics that formed the basis - of the leaderette, and he had no hesitation in saying of the divinity - student at his leisure what David said of all men in his haste. But after - being thrust out of the library and called an impostor, the divinity - student went home and wrote a letter signed “Theologia,” in which he made - a furious onslaught upon the management of the library, and had the - effrontery to demand its insertion in the newspaper the next day. - </p> - <p> - He is now a popular and deservedly respected clergyman, and I hear that - his sermon on Acts v., 1-11 is about to be issued in pamphlet form. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Curiously enough quite recently a man in whose chambers I was - breakfasting, pointed out to me what he called a good story that had - appeared in a paper on the previous evening. - </p> - <p> - The paragraph in which it was included was as follows:— - </p> - <p> - “A rather amusing story is told by the <i>Avilion Gazettes</i> Special - Commissioner in his latest article on ‘Ireland as it is and as it would - be.’ It is to the effect that some of the Irish members recently wished to - cross the Channel for half-a-crown each, and to that end called on a boat - agent, a Tory, who knew them, when the following conversation took place:— - </p> - <p> - “‘Can we go across for half-a-crown each?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘No, ye can’t, thin.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘An’ why not?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Because’tis a cattle boat.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Nevermind that, sure we’re not particular.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘No, but the cattle are.’” - </p> - <p> - That was the entire paragraph.. - </p> - <p> - “It’s a bit rough on your compatriots,” said my host. “You look as if you - feel it.” - </p> - <p> - “I do,” said I; “I feel it to be rather sad that a story that a fellow - takes the trouble to invent and to print in a pamphlet, should be picked - up by an English correspondent in Dublin, printed in one of his letters - from Ireland, and afterwards published in a London evening paper without - any acknowledgment being made of the source whence it was derived.” - </p> - <p> - And that is my opinion still. The story was a pure invention of my own, - and it was printed in an anonymous skit, only without the brogue. It was - left for the English Special Commissioner to make a feature of the brogue, - of which, of course, he had become a master, having been close upon two - days in Dublin. - </p> - <p> - But the most amusing thing to me was to find that the sub-editor of the - newspaper with which I was connected had actually cut the paragraph out of - the London paper and inserted it in our columns. He pointed it out to me - on my return, and asked me if I didn’t think it a good story. - </p> - <p> - I said it was first rate, and inquired if he had ever heard the story - before. He replied that he never had. - </p> - <p> - That was, I repeat, the point of the whole incident which amused me most; - for I had made the sub-editor a present of the original pamphlet, and he - said he had enjoyed it immensely. - </p> - <p> - He also hopes to be one day an ordained clergyman. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - When in Ireland during the General Election of 1892, I got a telegram one - night informing me that Mr. Justin M’Carthy had been defeated in Derry - that day by Mr. Ross, Q.C. - </p> - <p> - It occurred to me that if a quatrain could be made upon the incident it - might be read the next day. The following was the result of the great - mental effort necessary to bring to bear upon the task:— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “That the Unionists Derry can win - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Is a matter to-day beyond doubt; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - For Ross the Q.C. is just in, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - And the one that’s Justin is just out.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I put my initials to this masterpiece, and I need scarcely say that I was - dizzy with pride when it appeared at the head of a column the next - morning. Now, that thing kept staring me in the face out of every - newspaper, English as well as Irish, that I picked up during the next - fortnight, only it appeared without my initials, but in compensation bore - as preface, lest the reader might be amazed at coming too suddenly upon - such subtle humour, these words:— - </p> - <p> - “The following epigram by a Dublin wit is being widely circulated in the - Irish metropolis.” Some months afterwards, when I chanced to pay a visit - to Dublin, the author of the epigram was pointed out to me. - </p> - <p> - “So it was he who wrote that thing about just in and just out?” I - remarked. - </p> - <p> - “It was,” said my friend. “I’d introduce you to him only, between - ourselves, though a nice enough fellow before he wrote that, <i>he hasn’t - been very approachable since</i>.” - </p> - <p> - I felt extremely obliged to the gentleman. I thought of Mary Barton, the - heroic lady represented by Miss Bateman long ago, who had accused herself - of the crime committed by another. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII.—MEN, MENUS, AND MANNERS. - </h2> - <p> - <i>A humble suggestion—The reviewer from Texas—His treatment - of the story of Joseph and his Brethren—A few flare-up headings—The - Swiss pastor—Some musical critics—“Il Don Giovanni”—A - subtle point—Newspaper suppers—Another suggestion—The - bitter cry of the journalist—The plurality of porridge—An - object lesson superior to grammatical rules—The bloater as a supper - dish—Scarcely an unequivocal success.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> HOPE I may not be - going too far when I express the hope in this place that any critic who - finds out that some of my jottings are ancient will do me the favour to - state where the originals are to be found. I have sufficient curiosity to - wish to see how far the jottings deviate from the originals. - </p> - <p> - In the preparation of stories for the Press it is, I feel more impressed - every day, absolutely necessary to bear in mind the authentic case of the - young sailor’s mother who abused him for telling her so palpably - impossible a yarn about his having seen fish rise from the water and fly - along like birds, but who was quite ready to accept his account of the - crimson expanse of the Red Sea. Some of the most interesting incidents - that have actually come under my notice could not possibly be published if - accuracy were strictly observed as to the details. They are “owre true” to - obtain credence.. - </p> - <p> - In this category, however, I do not include the story about the gentleman - from Texas who, after trying various employments in Boston to gain a - dishonest livelihood, represented himself at a newspaper office as a - journalist, and only asked for a trial job. The editor, believing he saw - an excellent way of getting rid of a parcel of books that had come for - review, flung him the lot and told him to write three-quarters of a column - of flare-up head-lines, and a quarter of reviews, and maybe some fool - might be attracted to the book column. Now, at the top of the batch there - chanced to be the first instalment of a new Polyglot Bible, after the plan - so successfully adopted by Messrs. Bagster, about to be issued in parts, - and the reviewer failed to recognise the Book of Genesis, which he - accordingly read for fetching head-lines. The result of his labours by - some oversight appeared in the next issue of the paper, and attracted a - considerable amount of interest in religious circles in Boston. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0136.jpg" alt="0136 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0136.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - The remaining quarter of a column was occupied by a circumstantial and - highly colloquial account of the incidents recorded in the Book of - Genesis, and it very plainly suggested that the work had been published by - Messrs. Hoskins as a satire upon the success of the Hebrew race in the New - England States. The reviewer even made an attempt to identify Joseph with - a prominent Republican politician, and Potiphar’s wife with the Democratic - party, who were alleged to be making overtures to the same gentleman. - </p> - <p> - But I really did once meet with a sub-editor who had reviewed “The Swiss - Family Robinson” as a new work. He commenced by telling the readers of the - newspaper that the book was a wholesome story of a worthy Swiss pastor, - and so forth. - </p> - <p> - I also knew a musical critic who, on being entrusted with the duty of - writing a notice of <i>Il Don Giovanni</i>, as performed by the Carl Rosa - Company, began as follows: “Don Giovanni, the gentleman from whom the - opera takes its name, was a licentious Spanish nobleman of the past - century.” The notice gave some account of the <i>affaires</i> of this - newly-discovered reprobate, glossing over the Zerlina business rather more - than Mozart thought necessary to do, but being very bitter against - Leporello, “his valet and confidant,” and finally expressing the opinion - somewhat dogmatically that “few of the public would be disposed to say - that the fate which overtook this callous scoundrel was not well earned by - his persistence in a course of unjustifiable vice. The music is tuneful - and was much encored.” - </p> - <p> - Upon the occasion of this particular representation I recollect that I - wrote, “An Italian version of a Spanish story, set to music by a German, - conducted by a Frenchman, and interpreted by a Belgian, a Swiss, an - Irishman and a Canadian—this is what is meant by English Opera.” - </p> - <p> - My notice gave great offence; but the other was considered excellent. - </p> - <p> - The moral tone that pervaded it was most praiseworthy, the people said. - </p> - <p> - And so it was. - </p> - <p> - I have got about five hundred musical jottings which, if provoked, I may - one day publish; but, meantime, I cannot refrain from giving one - illustration of the way in which musical notices were managed long ago. - </p> - <p> - Madame Adelina Patti had made her first (and farewell) appearance in the - town where I was located. I was engaged about two o’clock in the morning - putting what I considered to be the finishing touches to the column which - I had written about the diva’s concert, when the reporter of the leading - paper burst into the room in which I was writing. He was in rather a - dishevelled condition, and he approached me and whispered that he wanted - to ask me a question outside—there were others in the room. I went - through the door with him and inquired what I could do for him. - </p> - <p> - “I was marked for that blessed concert, and I went too, and now I’m - writing the notice,” said he. “But what I want to know is this—<i>Is - Patti a soprano or a contralto?</i>” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I have just now discovered that it would be unwise for me to continue very - much farther these reminiscences of editors and sub-editors, the fact - being that I have some jottings about every one of the race whom I have - ever met, and when one gets into a desultory vein of anecdotage like that - in which I now find myself for the first time in my life, one is liable to - exhaust a reader’s forbearance before one’s legitimate subject has become - exhausted. I think it may be prudent to make a diversion at this period - from the sub-editors of the past to the suppers of the newspaper office. - Gastronomy as a science is not drawn out to its finest point within these - precincts. There is still something left to be desired by such persons as - are fastidious. I have for long thought that it would be by no means - extravagant to expect every newspaper office to be supplied with a - kitchen, properly furnished, and with the “good plain cook,” who so - constantly figures in the columns (advertising), at hand to turn out the - suppers for all departments engaged in the production of the paper. - </p> - <p> - It is inconvenient for an editor to be compelled to cook his own supper at - his gas stove, while the flimsies of the speech upon which he is writing - are being laid on his desk by the sub-editor, and the foreman’s messenger - is asking for them almost before they have ceased to flutter in the - cooling draught created by opening the door. Equally inconvenient is it - for the sub-editor and the reporters to get something to prevent them from - succumbing to starvation. The compositors in some offices have lately - instituted a rule by which they “knock off” for supper at half-past ten; - but what sort of a meal do they get to sustain them until four in the - morning? I have no hesitation in pronouncing it to be almost as - indifferent as that upon which the editor is forced to subsist for, - perhaps, the same period. I have seen the compositors—some of them - earning £5 a week—crouching under their cases, munching hunches (the - onomatopæia is Homeric) of bread, while their cans of tea—that - abomination of cold tea warmed up—were stewing over their gas - burners. - </p> - <p> - In the sub-editors’ room, and the reporters’ room, tea was also being - cooked, or bottles of stout drunk, the accompanying, comestibles being - bread or biscuits. After swallowing tea that has been stewing on its - leaves for half-an-hour, and eating a slab of office bread out of one hand - while the other holds the pen, the editor writes an article on the - grievances of shopmen who are only allowed an hour for dinner and - half-an-hour for tea; or, upon the slavery of a barmaid; or, perhaps, - composes a nice chatty half-column on the progress of dyspepsia and the - necessity for attending carefully to one’s diet. - </p> - <p> - Now, I affirm that no newspaper office should be without a kitchen. The - compositors should be given a chance of obtaining all the comforts of home - at a lesser cost than they could be provided at home; and later on in the - night the reporters, sub-editors, and editor should be able to send up - messages as to the hour they mean to take supper, and the dish which they - would like to have. Here is an opportunity for the Institute of - Journalists. Let them take sweet counsel together on the great kitchen - question, and pass a resolution “that in the opinion of the Institute a - kitchen in complete working order should form part of every morning - newspaper office; and that a cook, holding a certificate from South - Kensington, or, better still, Mrs. Marshall, should be regarded as - essential to the working staff as the editor.” - </p> - <p> - I do not say that a box of Partagas, or Carolinas, should be provided by - the management for every room occupied by the literary staff; though - undoubtedly a move in the right direction, yet I fear that public feeling - has not yet been sufficiently aroused by the bitter cry of the journalist, - to make the cigar-box and the club chair probable; but I do say that since - journalism has become a profession, those who practise it should be - treated as if they were as deserving of consideration as the salesmen in - drapers’ shops. Surely, as we have sent the bitter cry into all the ends - of the earth on behalf of others, we might be permitted the luxury of a - little bitter cry on our own account. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - This brings me down to the recollections I retain of the strange ideas - that some of the staff of journals with which I have been connected, - possessed as to the most appropriate menu for supper. One of these - gentlemen, for instance, was accustomed to make oatmeal porridge in a - saucepan for himself about two o’clock in the morning. When accused of - being a Scotchman, he indignantly denied that he was one. He admitted, - however, that he was an Ulsterman, and this was considered even worse by - his accusers. He invariably alluded to the porridge in the plural, calling - it “them.” I asked him one night why the thing was entitled to a plural, - and he said it was because no one but a blue-pencilled fool would allude - to it as otherwise. I had the curiosity to inquire farther how much - porridge was necessary to be in the saucepan before it became entitled to - a plural; if, for instance, there was only a spoonful, surely it would be - rather absurd to still speak of it as “them.” He replied, after some - thought, that though he had never considered the matter in all its - bearings, yet his impression was that even a spoonful was entitled to a - plural. - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever hear any one allude to brose as ‘it’?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - I admitted that I never had. - </p> - <p> - “Then if you call brose ‘them,’ why shouldn’t you call stirabout ‘them’?” - he asked, triumphantly. - </p> - <p> - “I must confess that I never had the matter brought so forcibly before - me,” said I. - </p> - <p> - As he was going to “sup them,” as he termed the operation of ladling the - contents of the saucepan into his mouth, I hastily left the room. I have - eaten tiffin within easy reach of a dozen lepers on Robben Island in Table - Bay, I have taken a hearty supper in a tent through which a camel every - now and again thrust its nose, I have enjoyed a biltong sandwich on the - seat of an African bullock waggon with a Kaffir beside me, I have even - eaten a sausage snatched by the proprietor from the seething panful in the - window of a shop in the Euston Road—I did so to celebrate the - success of a play of mine at the Grand Theatre—but I could not - remain in the room while that literary gentleman partook of that simple - supper of his. - </p> - <p> - On my return when he had finished I never failed to allow in the most - cordial way the right of the preparation to a plural. It was to be found - in every part of the room; the table, the chairs, the floor, the - fireplace, the walls, the ceiling—all bore token to the fact that it - was not one but many. - </p> - <p> - In the hands of a true Ulsterman stirabout “are” a terrible weapon. - </p> - <p> - As a mural decorative medium “they” leave much to be desired. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Only one man connected with the Press did - </p> - <p> - I ever know addicted to the bloater as a supper dish. The man came among - us like a shadow and disappeared as such, after a week of incompetence; - but he left a memory behind him that not all the perfumes of Arabia can - neutralise. It was about one o’clock in the morning—he had come on - duty that night—that there floated through the newspaper office a - dense blue smoke and a smell—such a smell! It was of about the same - density as an ironclad. One felt oneself struggling through it as though - it were a mass of chilled steel plates, backed with soft iron. On the - upper floor we were built in by it, so to speak. It arose on every side of - us like the wall of a prison, and we kept groping around it for a hole - large enough to allow of our crawling through. Two of us, after battering - at that smell for a quarter of an hour, at last discovered a narrow - passage in it made by a current of air from an open window, and having - squeezed ourselves through, we ran downstairs to the sub-editors’ room. - </p> - <p> - Through the crawling blue smoke we could just make out the figure of a man - standing in his shirt sleeves in front of the fire using a large - two-pronged iron fork as a toothpick. On a plate on the table lay the - dislocated backbone of a red herring (<i>harengus rufus</i>). - </p> - <p> - The man was perfectly self-possessed. We questioned him closely about the - origin of the smoke and the smell, and he replied that, without going so - far as to pronounce a dogmatic opinion on the subject, and while he was - quite ready to accept any reasonable suggestion on the matter from either - of us, he, for his part, would not be at all surprised if it were found on - investigation that both smoke and smell were due to his having openly - cooked a rather bloated specimen of the Yarmouth bloater. He always had - one for his supper, he said; critically, when not too pungent—he - disliked them too pungent—he considered that a full-grown bloater, - well preserved for its years and considering the knocking about that it - must have had, was fully equal to a beefsteak. There was much more - practical eating in it, he should say, speaking as man to man. And it was - so very simple—that was its great charm. - </p> - <p> - For himself, he never could bear made-up dishes; they were, he thought, - usually rich, and he had a poor-enough digestion, so that he could not - afford to trifle with it. - </p> - <p> - Just then the foreman loomed through the dense smoke, and, being - confronted with the hydra-headed smell, he boldly grappled with it, and - after a fierce contest, he succeeded in strangling one of the heads and - then set his foot on it. He hurriedly explained to the subeditor that all - the hands who had lifted the copy that had been sent out were setting it - up with bowls of water beside them to save themselves the trouble of going - to the water-tap for a drink. - </p> - <p> - The next day the clerks in the mercantile department were working with - bottles of carbolic under their noses, and every now and again a note - would be brought in from a subscriber ordering his paper to be stopped - until a new consignment of printers’ ink should arrive, in which the chief - ingredient was not so pungent. - </p> - <p> - At the end of a week the sub-editor was given a month’s salary and an - excellent testimonial, and was dismissed. The proprietor of the journal - had the sub-editors’ room freshly painted and papered, and made the - assistant-editor a present of two pounds to buy a new coat to replace the - one which, having hung in the room for an entire night, had to be burnt, - no cleaner being found who would accept the risk of purifying it. The - cleaners all said that they would not run the chance of having all the - contents of their vats left on their hands. They weren’t as a rule - squeamish in the matter of smells; they only drew the line at creosote, - and the coat was a long way on the other side. - </p> - <p> - Seven years have passed since that sub-editor partook of that simple - supper, and yet I hear that every night drag-hounds howl at the door of - the room, and strangers on entering sniff, saying,— - </p> - <p> - “Whew! there’s a barrel of red herrings somewhere about.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX.—ON THE HUMAN IMAGINATION. - </h2> - <p> - <i>Mr. Henry Irving and the Stag’s Head—The sense of smell—A - personal recollection—Caught “tripping”—The German band—In - the pre-Wagnerian days—Another illustration of a too-sensitive - imagination—The doctor’s letter—Its effects—A sudden - recovery—The burial service is postponed indefinitely</i>. - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T might be as - well, I fancy, to accept with caution the statement made in the last lines - of the foregoing chapter. At any rate, I may frankly confess that I have - always done so, knowing how apt one is to be carried away by one’s - imagination in some matters. Mr. Henry Irving told me several years ago a - curious story on this very point, and in regard also to the way in which - the imagination may be affected through the sense of smell. - </p> - <p> - When he was very young he was living at a town in the west of England, and - in one of the streets there was a hostelry which bore a swinging sign with - a stag’s head painted upon it, with a sufficient degree of legibility to - enable casual passers-by to know what it was meant to simulate. But every - time he saw this sign, he had a feeling of nausea that he could overcome - only by hurrying on down the street. Mr. Irving explained to me that it - did not appear to him that this nausea was the result of an offended - artistic perception owing to any indifferent draughtsmanship or defective - <i>technique</i> in the production of the sign. It actually seemed to him - that the painted stag possesses some influence akin to the evil eye, and - it was altogether very distressing to him. After a short time he left the - town, and did not revisit it until he had attained maturity; and then, - remembering the stag’s head and the curious way in which it had affected - him long before, he thought he would look up the old place, if it still - existed, and try if the evil charm of the sign had ceased to retain its - potency upon him. He walked down the street; there the sign was swinging - as of old, and the moment he saw it he had a feeling of nausea. Now, - however, he had become so impregnated with the investigating spirit of the - time, that he determined to search out the origin of the malign influence - of the neighbourhood; and then he discovered that the second house from - the hostelry was a soap and candle factory, on a sufficiently extensive - scale to make a daily “boiling” necessary. It was the odour arising from - this enterprise that induced the disagreeable sensation which he had - experienced years before, and from which few persons are free when in the - neighbourhood of tallow in a molten state. - </p> - <p> - I do not think that this story has been published. But even if it has - appeared elsewhere it scarcely requires an apology. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Though wandering even more widely than usual from my text—after all, - my texts are only pretexts for unlimited ramblings—I will give - another curious but perfectly authentic case of the force of imagination. - In this case the imagination was reached through the sense of hearing. - </p> - <p> - At one time I lived in a town at the extremity of a very fine bay, at the - entrance to which there was a small village with a little bay of its own - and a long stretch of sand, the joy of the “tripper.” I was a “tripper” of - six in those days, and during the summer months an excursion by steamer on - the bay was one of the most joyous of experiences. But the steamer was a - very small one, and apt to yield rather more than is consistent with - modern ideas of marine stability to the pressure of the waves, which in a - north-easterly wind—the prevailing one—were pretty high in our - bay. The effect of this instability was invariably disastrous to a maiden - aunt who was supposed to share with me the enjoyment of being caught - “tripping.” With the pertinacity of a man of six carrying a model of a - cutter close to his bosom, I refused to “go below” under the - circumstances, with my groaning but otherwise august relative, and she was - usually extremely unwell. It so happened, however, that the proprietors of - the steamboat were sufficiently enterprising to engage—perhaps I - should say, to permit—a German band to drown the groans of the - sufferers in the strains of the beautiful “Blue Danube,” or whatever the - waltz of the period may have been—the “Blue Danube” is the oldest - that I can remember. Now, when the “season” was over, and the steamer was - laid up for the winter, the Germans were accustomed to give open-air - performances in the town; so that during the winter months we usually had - a repetition on land of the summer’s <i>répertoire</i> at sea. The first - bray that was given by the trombone in the region of the square where we - lived was, however, quite enough to make my aunt give distinct evidence of - feeling “a little squeamish”; by the time the oboe had joined hands, so to - speak, with the parent of all evil, the trombone, she had taken out her - handkerchief and was making wry faces beneath her palpably false scalpet. - But when the wry-necked fife, and the serpent—the sea-serpent it was - to her—were doing their worst in league with, but slightly - indifferent to, the cornet and the Saxe-horn, my aunt retired from the - apartment amid the derisive yells of the young demons in the schoolroom, - and we saw her no more until the master of the music had pulled the bell - of the hall-door, and we had insulted him in his own language by shouting - through the blinds “schlechte musik!—sehr schlechte musik!” We were - ready enough to learn a language for insulting purposes, just as a parrot - which declines to acquire the few refined words of its mistress, will, if - left within the hearing of a groom, repeat quite glibly and joyously, - phrases which make it utterly useless as a drawing-room bird in a house - where a clergyman makes an occasional call. For years my aunt could never - hear a German band without emotion, since the crazy little steamer had - danced to their strains. In this case, it must also be remarked, the - feeling was not the result of a highly-developed artistic temperament. The - blemishes of the musical performances were in no way accountable for my - relative’s emotions, though I believe that the average German band - frequenting what theatrical-touring companies call “B. towns,” might - reasonably be regarded as sufficient to precipitate an incipient disorder. - No, it was the force of imagination that brought about my aunt’s disaster, - which, I regret to say, I occasionally purchased, when I felt that I owed - myself a treat, for a penny, for this was the lowest sum that the <i>impresario</i> - would take to come round our square and make my aunt sick. The sum was so - absurdly low, considering the extent of the results produced, I am now - aware that no really cultured musician, no <i>impresario</i> with any - self-respect, would have accepted it to bring his band round the corner; - but when one reflects that the sum on the original <i>scrittura</i> was - invariably doubled—for my aunt sent a penny out when her sufferings - became intense, to induce the band to go away—the transaction - assumes another aspect. - </p> - <p> - We hear of the enormous increase in the salaries paid to musical artists - nowadays, and as an instance of this I may mention that a friend of mine a - few months ago, having occasion for the services of a German band—not - for medicinal purposes but for a philological reason—was forced to - pay two shillings before he could effect his object! Truly the conditions - under which art is pursued have undergone a marvellous change within a - quarter of a century. I could have made my aunt sick twenty-four times for - the sum demanded for a single performance nowadays. And in the sixties, it - must also be remembered, Wagner had not become a power. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Strong-minded persons, such as the first Lord Brougham, may take a - sardonic delight in reading their own obituary notices, and such persons - would probably scoff at the suggestion made in an earlier chapter, that - the shock of reading the record of his death in a newspaper might have a - disastrous effect upon a man, but there is surely no lack of evidence to - prove the converse of “<i>mentem mortalia tangunt</i>.” - </p> - <p> - I heard when in India a story which seemed to me to be, as an illustration - of the effects of imagination, quite as curious as the well-known case of - the sailor who became cured of scurvy through fancying that the clinical - thermometer with which the surgeon took his temperature was a drastic - remedy. A young civil servant at Colombo felt rather fagged after an - unusually long stretch of work, and made up his mind to consult the best - doctor in the place. He did so, and the doctor went through the usual - probings and stethoscopings, and then looked grave and went over half the - surface again. He said he thought that on the whole he had better write - his opinion of the “case” in all its particulars and send it to the - patient. - </p> - <p> - The next morning the patient received the following letter:— - </p> - <p> - “My dear Sir,—I think it only due to the confidence which you have - placed in me to let you know in the plainest words what is the result of - my diagnosis of your condition. Your left lung is almost gone, but with - care you might survive its disappearance. Unhappily, however, the cardiac - complications which I suspected are such as preclude the possibility of - your recovery. In brief, I consider it to be my duty to advise you to lose - no time in carrying out any business arrangements that demand your - personal attention. You may of course live for some weeks; but I think you - would do wisely to count only on days. - </p> - <p> - “Meantime, I would suggest no material change in your diet, except the - reduction of your brandy pegs to seven per diem.” - </p> - <p> - This letter was put into the hands of the unfortunate man when he returned - from his early ride the next morning. Its effect was to diminish to an - appreciable degree his appetite for breakfast. He sat motionless on his - chair out on the verandah and stared at the letter—it was his - death-warrant. After an hour he felt a difficulty in breathing. He - remembered now that he had always been uneasy about his lungs—his - left in particular. He put his hand over the place where he supposed his - heart to lie concealed. How could he have lived so many years in the world - without becoming aware of the fact that as an every-day sort of an organ—leaving - the higher emotions out of the question altogether—his heart was a - miserable failure? Sympathy, friendship, love, emotion,—he would not - have minded if his heart were incapable of these, if it only did its - business as a blood pump; but it was perfectly plain from the manner in - which it throbbed beneath his hand, that it was deserving of all the - reprobation the doctor had heaped upon it. - </p> - <p> - His difficulty of respiration increased, and with this difficulty he - became conscious of an acute pain under his ribs. He found when he - attempted to rise that he could only do so with an effort. He managed to - totter into his bedroom, and when he threw himself on his bed, it was with - the feeling that he should never rise from it again. - </p> - <p> - His faithful Khânsâmah more than once inquired respectfully if the - Preserver of the Poor would like to have the Doctor Sahib sent for, and if - the Joy of the Whole World would in the meantime drink a peg. But the - Preserver of the Poor had barely strength to express the hope that the - disappearance of the Doctor Sahib might be effected by a supernatural - agency, and the Joy of the Whole World could only groan at the suggestion - of a peg. The pain under his ribs was increasing, and he had a general - nightmare feeling upon him. Toward evening he sank into a lethargy, and at - this point the Khânsâmah made up his mind that the time for action had - come; he went for the doctor himself, and was fortunate enough to meet him - going out in his buggy to dine. - </p> - <p> - “What on earth have you been doing with yourself?” he inquired, when he - had felt the pulse of the patient. “Why, you’ve no pulse to speak of, and - your skin—What the mischief have you been doing since yesterday?” - </p> - <p> - “How can you expect a chap’s pulse to be anything particular when he has - no heart worth speaking of?” gasped the patient. - </p> - <p> - “Who has no heart worth speaking of?” - </p> - <p> - The patient looked piteously up at him. - </p> - <p> - “That’s kicking a man when he’s down,” he murmured. - </p> - <p> - “What’s the matter with you anyway?” said the doctor. “Your heart’s all - right, I know—at least, it was all right yesterday. Is it your - liver? Let me have a look at your eyes.” - </p> - <p> - He certainly did let the doctor have a look at his eyes. He lay staring at - the good physician for some minutes. - </p> - <p> - “No, your liver is no worse than it was yesterday,” said the doctor, - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean to say that your letter was only a joke?” said the patient, - still staring. - </p> - <p> - “A joke? Don’t be a fool. Do you fancy that I play jokes upon my patients? - I wrote to you what was the exact truth. I flatter myself I always tell - the truth even to my patients.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” groaned the patient. “And after telling me that I hadn’t more than a - few days to live you now say my heart’s all right.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re mad, my good fellow, mad! I said that you must go without the - delay of a day for a change—a sea voyage if possible—and that - in a week you’d be as well as you ever were. Where’s the letter?” - </p> - <p> - It was lying on the side of the bed. The patient had read it again after - he had thrown himself down. - </p> - <p> - “My God!” cried the doctor, when he had brought it over to the lamp. “An - awful thing has happened. This is the letter that I wrote to Lois Perez, - the diamond merchant, who visited me yesterday just before you came. My - assistant must have put the letter that was meant for Perez into the - envelope addressed to you, and your letter into the other cover. Great - heavens!” - </p> - <p> - The patient was sitting up in the bed. - </p> - <p> - “You mean to say that—that—I’m all right?” he gasped. - </p> - <p> - “Of course you’re all right. You told me you wanted a sea voyage, and - naturally I prescribed one for you to give you a chance of getting your - leave without any trouble.” - </p> - <p> - The patient stared at the doctor for another minute and then fell back - upon his pillow, turned his face to the wall, and wept. - </p> - <p> - Only for a few minutes, however; then he suddenly sprang from the bed, - caught the doctor by the collar of his coat, looked around for a weapon of - percussion, picked up the pillow and forthwith began to belabour the - physician with such vehemence that the Khânsâmah, who hurried into the - room hearing the noise of the scuffle, fled from the compound, being - certain that the Joy of the Whole World had become a maniac. - </p> - <p> - After the lapse of about a minute the doctor was lying on the floor with - the tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks and on to his disordered - shirt-front, while the patient sat limp on a chair yelling with laughter—a - trifle hysterically, perhaps. At the end of five minutes both were sitting - over a bottle of champagne—not too dry—discussing the - extraordinary effect of the imagination upon the human frame. - </p> - <p> - “But, by Jingo! I mustn’t forget poor Lois Perez,” cried the doctor, - starting up. “You may guess what a condition he is in when you know that - the letter you read was meant for him.” - </p> - <p> - “By heavens, I can make a good guess as to his condition,” said the - patient. “I was within measurable distance of that condition half an hour - ago. But I’m hanged if you are going to make any other poor devil as - miserable as you made me. Let the chap die in peace.” - </p> - <p> - “There’s something in what you say,” said the doctor. “I believe that I’ll - take your advice; only I must rescue your letter from him. If it were - found among his effects after his death next week, I’d be set down as - little better than a fool for writing that he was generally sound but in - need of a long sea voyage.” - </p> - <p> - He drove off to the house of the Portuguese dealer in precious stones, and - on inquiring for him, learned that he had left in the afternoon by the - mail steamer to take the voyage that the doctor had recommended. He meant - to call at the Andamans, and then go on to Rangoon, the man in charge of - the house said. - </p> - <p> - “There’ll be an impressive burial service aboard that steamer before it - arrives at the Andaman Islands,” said the doctor to his wife as he told - her what had occurred. The doctor was in a very anxious state lest the - letter which the Portuguese had received should be found among his papers. - His wife, however, took a more optimistic view of the situation. And she - was right; for Lois Perez returned in due course from Rangoon with a very - fine collection of rubies; and five years afterwards he had still - sufficient strength left to get the better of me in the sale of a - cat’s-eye to which he perceived I had taken a fancy that was not to be - controlled. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X—THE VEGETARIAN AND OTHERS. - </h2> - <p> - <i>“Benjamin’s mess”—An alluring name—Scarcely accurate—A - frugal supper—Why the sub-editor felt rather unwell—“A man - should stick to plain homely fare”—Two Sybarites—The stewed - lemon as a comestible—The midnight apple—The roasted crabs—The - Zenana mission—The pibroch as a musical instrument—A curious - blunder—The river Deccan—Frankenstein as the monster—The - outside critics—A critical position—The curate as critic—A - liberal-minded clergyman—Bound to be a bishop—The joy-bells.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>O return to the - sub-editors and their suppers, I may say that I never met but one - vegetarian pressman. He was particularly fond of a supper dish to which - the alluring name of Benjamin’s Mess was given by the artful inventor. I - do not know if the editor of this compilation had any authority—Biblical - or secular—for assuming that its ingredients were identical with - those with which Joseph, with the best of intentions, no doubt, but with - very questionable prudence, heaped upon the dish of his youngest brother. - I am not a profound Egyptologist, but I have a distinct recollection of - hearing something about the fleshpots of Egypt, and the longing that the - mere remembrance of these receptacles created in the hearts of the - descendants of Joseph and his Brethren, when undergoing a course of - enforced vegetarianism, though somewhat different in character from that - to which, at a later period, Nebuchadnezzar—the most distinguished - vegetarian that the world has ever known—was subjected. Therefore, I - think it is only scriptural to assume that the original mess of Benjamin - was something like a glorified Irish stew, or perhaps what yachtsmen call - “lobscouce,” and that it contained at least a neck of mutton and a knuckle - of ham—the prohibition did not exist in those days, and if the stew - did not contain either ham or corned beef it would not be worth eating. - But the compilation of which my friend was accustomed to partake nightly, - and to which the vegetarian cookery book arrogates the patriarchal title, - was wholly devoid of flesh-meat. It consisted, I believe, of some lentils, - parsnips, a turnip, a head of cabbage or so, a dozen of leeks, a quart of - split peas, a few vegetable marrows, a cucumber, a handful of green - gooseberries, and a diseased potato to give the whole a piquancy that - could not be derived from the other simple ingredients. - </p> - <p> - I was frequently invited by the sub-editor to join him in his frugal - supper, but invariably declined. I told him that I had no desire to - convert my frame into a costermonger’s barrow. - </p> - <p> - Upon one occasion the man failed to come down to the office when he was - due. He appeared an hour later, looking very pale. His features suggested - those of an overboiled cauliflower that has not been sufficiently strained - after being removed from the saucepan. He explained to me the reason of - his delay and of his overboiled appearance. - </p> - <p> - “The fact is,” said he, “that I did not feel at all well this morning. For - my breakfast I could only eat one covered dishful of peasepudding, a head - or two of celery and a few carrots, with a tureen of lentil soup and a raw - potato salad; so my wife thought she would tempt me with a delicacy for my - dinner. She made me a bran pie all for myself—thirty-two Spanish - onions and four Swedish turnips, with a beetroot or two for colouring, and - a thick paste of oatmeal and bran—that’s why it’s called a bran pie. - Confound the thing! It’s too fascinating. I can never resist eating it - all, and scraping the stable bucket in which it is cooked. I did so - to-day, and that’s why I’m late. Well, well, perhaps I’ll gain sense late - in life. I don’t feel quite myself even yet. Oh, confound all those dainty - dishes! A man should stick to plain homely fare when he has work to do.” - </p> - <p> - But on reflection I think that the most peculiar supper menus of the - sub-editorial staff were those partaken of by two journalists who occupied - the same room for close upon a year—a room to which I had access - occasionally. One of these gentlemen was accustomed to place in a saucepan - on the fire a number of unpeeled lemons with as much water as just covered - them. After four hours’ stewing, this dainty midnight supper was supposed - to be cooked. It certainly was eaten, and with very few indications, all - things considered, of abhorrence, by the senior occupant of the - sub-editor’s room. He told me once in confidence that he really did not - dislike the stewed lemons very much. He had heard that they were conducive - to longevity, and in order to live long he was prepared to make many - sacrifices. There could be little doubt, he said, that the virtue - attributed to them was real, for he had been partaking of them for supper - for over three years, and he had never suffered from anything worse than - acute dyspepsia. I congratulated him. Nothing worse than acute dyspepsia! - </p> - <p> - His stable companion, so to speak, did not believe in heavy hot suppers - such as his colleague indulged in. He said it was his impression that no - more light and salutary supper could be imagined than a single apple, not - quite ripe. - </p> - <p> - He acted manfully up to his belief, for every night I used to see him - eating his apple shortly after midnight, and without offering the fruit - the indignity of a paring. The spectacle was no more stimulating than that - of the lemon-eater. My mouth invariably became so puckered up through - watching the midnight banquets of these Sybarites, it was only with - difficulty that I could utter a word or two of weak acquiescence in their - views on a question of recognised difficulty. - </p> - <p> - It is somewhat remarkable that the apple-eating sub-editor should be the - one who was guilty of the most remarkable error I ever knew in connection - with an attempted display of erudition. He had set out to write a lively - little quarter-of-a-column leaderette on a topic which was convulsing - society in those days—namely, the cruelty of boiling lobsters alive. - I am not quite certain that the question has even yet been decided to the - satisfaction either of the humanitarian who likes lobster salad, or of the - lobster that finds itself potted. Perhaps the latter may some day come out - of its shell and give us its views on the question. - </p> - <p> - At any rate, in the year of which I write, the topic was almost a burning - one: the month was September, Parliament had risen, and as yet the - sea-serpent had not appeared on the horizon. The apple-eating sub-editor - was doing duty for the assistant-editor, who was on his holidays; and as - evidence of his light and graceful erudition, he asserted in his article - that, however inhuman modern cooks might be in their preparation of - Crustacea for the fastidious palates of their patrons, quite as great - cruelty—assuming that it was cruelty—was in the habit of being - perpetrated in cookery in the days of Shakespeare. “Readers of the - immortal bard of Avon,” he wrote, “will recollect how, in one of the - charming lyrics to ‘Love’s Labour’s Lost,’ among the homely pleasures of - winter it is stated that ‘roasted crabs hiss in the bowl.’ - </p> - <p> - “This reference to the preparation of crabs for the table makes it - perfectly plain that it was quite common to cook them alive, for were it - otherwise, how could they hiss? That listening to the expression of the - suffering of the crabs should be regarded by Shakespeare as one of the - joys of a household, casts a somewhat lurid light upon the condition of - English Society in the sixteenth century.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It was the lemon-eating sub-editor who, on being requested by the editor - to write something about the Zenana Mission, pointing out the great good - that it was achieving, and the necessity there was for maintaining it in - an efficient condition, produced a neat little article on the subject. He - assured the readers of the paper that, among the many scenes of missionary - labour, none had of late attracted more attention than the Zenana mission, - and assuredly none was more deserving of this attention. Comparatively few - years had passed since Zenana had been opened up to British trade, but - already, owing to the devotion of a handful of men and women, the nature - of the inhabitants had been almost entirely changed. The Zenanese, from - being a savage people, had become, in a wonderfully short space of time, - practically civilised; and recent travellers to Zenana had returned with - the most glowing accounts of the continued progress of the good work in - that country. The writer of the article then branched off into the - “labourer-worthy-of-his-hire” side of this great evangelisation question—in - most questions of missionary enterprise this side has a special interest - attached to it—and the question was aptly asked if the devoted - labourers in that remote vineyard were not deserving of support. Were - civilisation and Christianity to be snatched from the Zenanese just when - both were within their grasp? So on for nearly half a column the writer - meandered in the most orthodox style, just as he had done scores of times - before when advocating certain missions. - </p> - <p> - I found him the next day running his finger down the letter Z, in the - index to the Handy Atlas, with a puzzled look upon his face. I knew then - that he had received a letter from the editor, advising him to look out - Zenana in the Atlas before writing anything further about so ticklish a - region. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I also knew a sub-editor who fancied that the pibroch was a musical - instrument widely circulated in the Highlands. - </p> - <p> - But who can blame a humble provincial journalist for making an odd blunder - occasionally, when a leading London newspaper, in announcing the death, - some years ago, of Captain Wallace, son of Sir Richard Wallace, stated - that the sad event had occurred while he was “playing at bagatelle in the - Bois de Boulogne”? It might reasonably have been expected, I think, that - the sub-editor of the foreign news should know of the existence of the - historic mansion Bagatelle, which the Marquis of Hertford left to Sir - Richard Wallace with the store of art treasures that it contained. - </p> - <p> - What excuse, one may also ask, can be made for the Dublin Professor who - referred in print “to those populous districts of Hindostan, watered by - the Ganges and the Deccan”? - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - In alluding to Frankenstein as the monster, and not merely the maker of - the monster, the mistakes made by provincial journalists of the old school - may certainly also be condoned, when we find the same ridiculous - hallucination maintained by one of the most highly representative of - modern journalists, as-well as by the editor of a weekly paper of large - circulation, who enshrined it in the preface to a book for which he was - responsible. In this case the writer could not have been pressed for time. - But the marvel is, not that so many errors are run into by provincial - journalists, but that so few can be laid to their charge. With telegrams - pouring in by private wire, as well as by the P.A. and C.N., to say - nothing of Baron Reuter’s and Messrs, Dalziel’s special services; with the - foreman printer, too, appearing like a silent spectre and departing like - one that is not silent, leaving the impression behind him that no - newspaper, except that composed by a hated rival, can possibly be produced - the next morning;—with all these drags upon the chariot wheels of - composition, how can it be reasonably expected that an editor or a - sub-editor will become Academic in his erudition? When, however, it is - discovered the next day by some tenth-rate curate, who probably gets a - free copy of the paper, that the quotation “<i>O tempora! O mores!</i>” is - attributed to Virgil instead of Cicero, in a leading article a column in - length, written upon a speech of seven columns, the writer is at once - referred to as an ignorant boor, and an invitation is given to all that - curate’s friends to point the finger of scorn at the journalist. - </p> - <p> - A long experience has convinced me that the curate who gets a free copy of - the paper, and who is most velvet-gloved in approaching any member of the - staff when he wants a favour, such as a leaderette on the Zenana Mission, - in which several of his lady friends are deeply interested, or a paragraph - regarding a forthcoming bazaar, or the insertion of a letter signed - “Churchman,” calling attention to some imaginary reform which he himself - has instituted—this very curate is the person who sends the marked - copies of the paper to the proprietor with a gigantic <i>Sic</i> opposite - every mistake, even though it be only a turned letter. - </p> - <p> - I put a stop to the tricks of one of the race who had annoyed me - excessively. I simply inserted verbatim a long letter that he wrote on - some subject. It was full of mistakes, and to these the next day, in a - letter which he meant to be humorous, he referred as “printer’s errors.” I - took the liberty of appending an editorial note to this communication, - mentioning that the mistakes existed in the original letter, and adding - that I trusted the writer would not think it necessary to attribute to the - printer the further blunders which appeared in the humorous communication - to which my note was appended. - </p> - <p> - The fellow sought an interview with me the next day, and found it. He was - furiously indignant at the course which I had adopted, and said I had - taken advantage of the haste in which he had written both letters. I - brought out of my desk forthwith a paper which he had taken the trouble to - re-edit with red ink for the benefit of the proprietor, who had, - naturally, handed it to me. I recognised the handwriting of the red-ink - editor the moment I received the first of his letters. - </p> - <p> - “Did you make any allowance for the haste of the writers of these passages - that you took the trouble to mark and send to the proprietor?” I inquired - blandly. - </p> - <p> - He said he did not know what it was that I referred to; and added that it - was a gratuitous assumption on my part to say that he had marked and sent - the paper. - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” said I. “I’ll assume that you deny having done so. May I do - so?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly you may,” he replied. “I have something else to do beside - pointing out the blunders of your staff.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I ask your pardon for having assumed that you marked the paper,” - said I. “I was too hasty.” - </p> - <p> - “You were—quite too hasty,” said he, going to the door. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve acknowledged it,” said I. “And therefore I’ll not go to your rector - until to-morrow evening to prove to him that his curate is a sneak and a - liar as well as an extremely ignorant person.” - </p> - <p> - He returned as I sat down. - </p> - <p> - “What paper is it that you allude to?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “I showed it to you,” said I. “It was the paper that you re-edited in red - ink and posted anonymously to the proprietor.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that?” said he. “Why on earth didn’t you say so at once? Of course I - sent that paper. My dear fellow, it was only my little joke. I meant to - have a little chaff with you about the mistakes.” - </p> - <p> - “Go away—go away,” said I. “Go away, <i>Stiggins</i>.” - </p> - <p> - And he went away. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I need scarcely say that such clergymen are not to be interviewed every - day. Equally exceptional, I think, was the clergyman who was good enough - to pay me a visit a few months after I had joined the editorial staff of a - daily paper. Although I had never exactly been the leader of the coughers - in church, yet on the other hand I had never been a leader of the scoffers - outside it; and somehow the parson had come to miss me. I had an uneasy - feeling when he entered my room that he had come on business—that he - might possibly have fancied I was afflicted with doubts on, say, the right - of unbaptised infants to burial in consecrated ground, and that he had - come prepared to lift the burden from my soul; but he never so much as - spoke of business until he had picked up his hat and gloves, and had said - a cheerful farewell. Only then he remarked, as if the thing had occurred - to him quite suddenly,— - </p> - <p> - “Oh, by the way, I don’t think I noticed you in church during the past few - Sundays. I was afraid that you were indisposed.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no,” said I. “I was all right; but the fact is, you see, that I’ve - become a sort of editor, and as I can never get to bed before three or - four in the morning, it would be impossible for me to rise before eleven. - To be sure I’m not on duty on Saturday nights, but the force of habit is - so great that, though I may go to bed in decent time on that night, I - cannot sleep until my usual hour.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I see, I see,” said he, beginning to draw on his gloves. “Well, - perhaps on the whole—all things considered—the—ah—” - here he was seized with a fit of coughing, and when he recovered he said - he had always been an admirer of old Worcester, and he rather thought that - some cups which I had on a shelf were, on the whole, the most - characteristic as regards shape that he had ever seen. - </p> - <p> - Then he went away, and I perceived from the appearance that his back - presented to me, that he would one day become a bishop. A clergyman with - such tact as he exhibited can no more avoid being made a bishop than the - young seal can avoid taking to the water. - </p> - <p> - Before five years had passed he was, sure enough, raised to the Bench, and - every one is delighted with him. The celery from the Palace garden - invariably takes the first prize at the local shows; his lordship smiles - when you congratulate him on his repeated successes with celery, but when - you talk about chrysanthemums he becomes grave and shakes his head. - </p> - <p> - This is his tact. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The church of which he was rector was situated in a fashionable suburb of - the town, and it possessed one of the noisiest peals of bells possible to - imagine. They were the terror of the neighbourhood. - </p> - <p> - Upon one occasion an elderly gentleman living close to the church - contracted some malady which necessitated, the doctor said, the observance - of the strictest quiet, even on Sundays. A message was sent to the chief - of the bellringers to this effect, the invalid’s wife expressing the hope - that for a Sunday or two the bells might be permitted to remain silent. Of - course her very reasonable wish was granted. The chief of the ringers - thoughtfully called every Sunday morning to inquire after the sufferer’s - condition, and for three weeks he learned that it was unchanged, and the - bells consequently remained silent. On the fourth Sunday, he was told that - the man had died during the night. He immediately hastened off to the - other seven bellringers, worse than the first, and telling them that their - prohibition was removed, they climbed the belfry and rang forth the most - joyous peal that had ever annoyed the neighbourhood. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” said the lady with whom I lodged, “there are the joy bells once - more. Poor Mr. Jenkins must be dead at last.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI.—ON SOME FORMS OF SPORT. - </h2> - <p> - <i>An invitation to shoot rooks—The sub-editors gun—A - quotation from “The Rivals”—The rook in repose—How the gun - came to be smashed—Recollections of the Spanish Main—A greatly - overrated sport—The story of Jack Burnaby’s dogs—A fastidious - man—His keeper’s remonstrance—The Australian visitor—-A - kind offer—Over-willing dogs—The story of a muzzle-loader—How - Mr. Egan came to be alive—Why Patsy Muldoon smiled—The moral—Degrees - of dampness—Below the surface—The chameleon blackberry—A - superlative degree of thirst.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> FRIEND of mine - once came to my office to invite me to an afternoon’s rook-shooting. I was - not in my room and he found me in the sub-editor’s. I inquired about the - trains to the place where the slaughter was to be done, and finding that - they were satisfactory, agreed to join him on the following afternoon. - </p> - <p> - Then he turned to the sub-editor—a pleasant young fellow who had - ideas of going to the bar—and asked him if he would care to come - also. At first the sub-editor said he did not think he would be able to - come, though he would like very much to do so. A little persuasion was - sufficient to make him agree to be one of our party. He had not a gun of - his own, he said, but a friend had frequently offered to lend him one, so - that there would be no difficulty so far as that matter was concerned. - </p> - <p> - The next day I managed, as usual, just to catch the train as it began to - move-away from the platform. My colleague on the newspaper had the door of - the compartment open for me, and I could see the leather of his gun-case - under the seat. I put my rook rifle—it was not in a case—in - the network, and we had a delightful run through the autumn landscape to - the station—it seemed miles from any village—where my friend - was awaiting us in his dogcart, driving tandem. The drive of three miles - to the rook-wood was exhilarating, and as we skirted some lines of old - gnarled oaks, I perceived in a moment that we could easily fill a railway - truck with birds, they were so plentiful. I made a remark to this effect - to my friend, who was driving, and he said that when we arrived at the - shooting ground and gave the birds the chance to which they were entitled - we mightn’t get more than a couple of hundred all told. - </p> - <p> - The shooting ground was under a straggling tree about fifty yards from the - ruin of an old castle, said to have been built by the Knights Templar. - Here we dismounted from the dogcart, sending it a mile or two farther - along the road in charge of the man, and got ready our rifles. - </p> - <p> - “What on earth have you got there?” my friend inquired of the sub-editor, - who was working at the gun-case. - </p> - <p> - “It’s the gun and cartridges,” replied the young man; “but I’m not quite - certain how to make fast the barrels to the stock.” - </p> - <p> - “Great heavens!” cried my friend. “You’ve brought a double-barrelled - sporting gun to shoot rooks!” - </p> - <p> - And so he had. - </p> - <p> - We tried to explain to him that for any human being to point such a weapon - at a rook would be little short of murder, but he utterly failed to see - the force of our arguments. He very good-humouredly said that, as we had - come out to shoot rooks, he couldn’t see how it mattered—especially - to the rooks—whether they were shot with his gun or with our rook - rifles. He added that he thought the majority of the birds were like Bob - Acres, and would as lief be shot in an ungentlemanly as a gentlemanly - attitude. - </p> - <p> - Of course it is impossible to argue with such a man. We only said that he - must accept the responsibility for the butchery, and in this he cheerfully - acquiesced, slipping cartridges into both barrels—the friend from - whom he had borrowed the weapon had taught him how to do this. - </p> - <p> - We soon found that at this point the breaking-strain of his information - was reached. He had no more idea of sport than a butcher, or the <i>Sonttag - jager</i> of the <i>Oberlander Blatter.</i> - </p> - <p> - As the rooks flew from the ruins to the belt of trees my friend and I - brought down one each, and by the time we had reloaded, we were ready for - two more, but I fired too soon, so that only one bird dropped. I saw the - eyes of the man with the shot-gun gleam, “his heart with lust of slaying - strong,” and he forthwith fired first one barrel and then the other at an - old rook that cursed us by his gods, sitting on a branch of a tree ten - yards off. - </p> - <p> - The bird flapped heavily away, becoming more vituperative every moment. - </p> - <p> - “Look here,” I shouted, “you mustn’t shoot at a bird that’s sitting on a - branch.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh. yes,” said my friend, with a grim smile. “Oh, yes, he may. It’ll do - him no more harm than the birds.” - </p> - <p> - Not a bird did that young sportsman fire at except such as had assumed a - sitting posture, and, incredible though it may seem, he only succeeded in - killing one. But from the moment that his skill was rewarded by witnessing - the downward flap of this one, the lust for blood seemed to take - possession of him, as it does the young soldiers when their officers have - succeeded in preventing them from blazing away at the enemy while still a - mile off. He continued to load and fire at birds that were swaying on the - trees beside us. - </p> - <p> - “There’s a chance for you,” said my friend, “sarkastik-like,” pointing to - a rook that had flapped into a branch just above our heads. - </p> - <p> - The young man, his face pale and his teeth set, was in no mood for - distinguishing between one tone of voice and another. He simply took half - a dozen steps into the open and, aiming steadily at the bird, fired both - barrels simultaneously. Down came the rook in the usual way, clawing from - branch to branch. It remained, however, for several seconds on a bough - about eight feet from the ground; then we had a vision of the sportsman - clubbing his gun, and making a wild rush at his prey—and then came a - crash and a cheer. The sportsman held aloft in one hand the tattered rook - and in the other a double-barrelled gun with a broken stock. - </p> - <p> - He had never fired a shot in his life before this day, and all his ideas - of musketry were derived from the stories of pirates and buccaneers of the - Spanish Main—wherever that may be—which had come to him for - review. He thought that the clubbing of his weapon, in order to prevent - the escape of the rook, quite a brilliant thing to do. - </p> - <p> - He had, however, completely smashed the gun, and that, my friend said, was - a step in the right direction. He could not do any more butchery with it - that day. - </p> - <p> - It cost him four pounds getting that gun repaired, and he confessed to me - that, according to his experience, fowling was a greatly overrated sport. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It was while we were driving to the train that my friend told me the story - of Jack Burnaby’s dogs—a story which he frankly confessed he had - never yet got any human being to believe, but which was accurate in all - its details, and could be fully verified by affidavit. He did not succeed - in obtaining my credence for it. There are other forms of falsehood - besides those verified by an affidavit, and I could not have given more - implicit disbelief than I did to the story, even if it had formed the - subject of this legal method of embodying a fiction. - </p> - <p> - It appeared that never was there a more fastidious man in the matter of - his sporting dogs than one Algy Grafton. Pointers that called for - outbursts of enthusiasm on the part of other men—quite as good - sportsmen as Algy—failed to obtain more than a complimentary word - from him, and even this word of praise was grudgingly given and invariably - tempered by many words which were certainly not susceptible of a - eulogistic meaning. - </p> - <p> - Among his friends—such as declined to resent the insults which he - put upon their dogs—there was a consensus of opinion that the animal - which would satisfy him would not be born—allowing a reasonable time - for the various processes of evolution—for at least a thousand - years, and then, taking into consideration the growth of radical ideas, - and the decay of the English sport, there would be little or no demand for - a first-class dog in the British Islands. - </p> - <p> - Algy Grafton had just acquired the Puttick-Foozler moor, and almost every - post brought him a letter from his head-keeper describing the condition of - the birds and the prospects of the Twelfth. Though the letters were - written on a phonetic principle, the correctness of which was, of course, - proportionate to the accuracy of a Scotchman’s ear, and though the - head-keeper was scarcely an optimist, still there was no mistaking the - general tone of the information which Algy received through this source - from the north: he gathered that he might reasonably look forward to the - finest shoot on record. - </p> - <p> - Every letter which he got from the moor, however, contained the expression - of the keeper’s hope that his master would succeed in his search for a - couple of good dogs. The keeper’s hope was shared by Algy; and he did - little else during the month of July except interview dogs that had been - recommended to him. He travelled north and south, east and west, to - interview dogs; but so ridiculously fastidious was he that at the close of - the first week in August he was still without a dog. He was naturally at - his wit’s end by this time, for as the Twelfth approached there was not a - dog in the market. He telegraphed in all directions in the endeavour to - secure some of the animals which he had rejected during the previous - month, but, as might have been expected, the dogs were no longer to be - disposed of: they had all been sold within a day or two after their - rejection by Mr. Grafton. It was on the seventh of August that he got a - letter from his correspondent on the moor, and in this letter the tone of - mild remonstrance which the keeper had hitherto adopted in referring to - his master’s extravagant ideas on the dog question, was abandoned in - favour of one of stern reprimand; in fact, some sentences were almost - abusive. Mr. Donald MacKilloch professed to be anxious to know what was - the good of his wearing out his life on the moor if his master did not - mean to shoot on it. He hoped he would not be thought wanting in respect - if he doubted the sanity of the policy of waiting without a dog until it - pleased Providence—Mr. MacKilloch was a very religious man—to - turn angels into pointers and saints into setters, a period which, it - seemed to Mr. MacKilloch, his master was rather oversanguine in - anticipating. - </p> - <p> - It was not surprising that, after receiving this letter from the - Highlands, Algy Grafton was somewhat moody as he strolled about his - grounds on the morning of the eighth, nor was it remarkable that, when the - rectory boy appeared with a letter stating that the Reverend Septimus - Burnaby was anxious for him to run across in time to lunch at the rectory, - to meet Jack Burnaby, who had just returned from Australia, Algy said that - the rector and his brother Jack and all the squatters in the Australian - colonies might be hanged together. Mrs. Grafton, however, whose life had - not been worth a month’s purchase since the dog problem had presented - itself for solution, insisted on his going to the rectory to lunch, and he - went. It was while smoking a cigar in the rectory garden with Jack - Burnaby, who had spent all his life squatting, but with no apparent - inconvenience to himself, that Algy mentioned that he was broken-hearted - on account of his dogs. He gave a brief summary of his travels through - England in search of trustworthy animals, and lamented his failure to - obtain anything that could be depended on to do a day’s work. - </p> - <p> - “By George! you don’t mean to say there’s not a good dog in the market - now?” said Mr. Burnaby, the squatter. - </p> - <p> - “But that’s just what I do mean to say,” cried Algy, so plaintively that - even the stern and unbending MacKilloch might have pitied him. “That’s - just what I do mean to say. I’d give fifty pounds to-day for a pair of - dogs that I wouldn’t have given ten pounds for a month ago. I’m - heart-broken—that’s what I am!” - </p> - <p> - “Cheer up!” said Mr. Burnaby. “I have a couple of sporting dogs that I’ll - lend to you until I return to the Colony in February next—the best - dogs I ever worked with, and I’ve had some experience.” - </p> - <p> - “It was Providence that caused you to come across to me to-day, Grafton,” - said the rector piously, as Algy stood speechless among the trim rosebeds. - </p> - <p> - “You’re sure they’re good?” said Algy, his old suspicions returning. - </p> - <p> - “Good?—am I sure?—oh, you needn’t have them if you don’t - like,” said the Australian. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon a thousand times,” cried Algy. “Don’t fancy that I - suggest that the dogs are not first rate. Oh, my dear fellow, I don’t know - how to thank you. I am—well, my heart is too full for words.” - </p> - <p> - “There’s not a man in England except yourself that I’d lend them to,” said - Mr. Burnaby. “I give you my word that I’ve been offered forty pounds for - each of them. Oh, there isn’t a fault between them. They’re just perfect.” - </p> - <p> - Algy was delighted, and for the remainder of the evening he kept assuring - his poor wife that he was not quite such a fool as some people, including - the Scotch keeper, seemed to fancy that he was. - </p> - <p> - He had felt all along, he said, that just such a piece of luck as had - occurred was in store for him, and it was on this account he had steadily - refused to be gulled into buying any of the inferior animals that had been - offered to him. - </p> - <p> - Oh, yes, he assured her, he knew what he was about, and he’d let - MacKilloch know who it was that he had to deal with. - </p> - <p> - The Australian’s dogs were in the custody of a man at Southampton, but he - promised to have them sent northward in good time. It was the evening of - the eleventh when they arrived at the lodge. They were strange wiry - brutes, and like no breed that Algy had ever seen. The head-keeper looked - at them critically, and made some observations regarding them that did not - seem grossly flattering. It was plain that if Mr. MacKilloch had conceived - any sudden admiration for the dogs he contrived to conceal it. Algy said - all that he could say, which was that Mr. Burnaby knew perfectly well what - a dog was, and that a dog should be proved before it was condemned. Mr. - MacKilloch, hearing this excellent sentiment, grunted. - </p> - <p> - The next day was a splendid Twelfth so far as the weather was concerned. - Algy and his two friends were on the moor at dawn. At a signal from the - head-keeper the dogs were put to their work. They seemed willing enough to - work. Under their noses rose an old cock. To the horror of every one they - made a snap for him, and missing him they rushed full speed through the - heather in the direction he had taken, setting up birds right and left, - and driving them by the score into the next moor. Algy stood aghast and - speechless. It would be inaccurate to describe the attitude of Donald - MacKilloch as passive. He was not silent. But in spite of his shouts—in - spite of a fusi-lade of the strongest “sweers” that ever came from a - God-fearing Scotchman with well-defined views of his own on the Free Kirk - question, the two dogs romped over the moor, and the air was thick with - grouse of all sorts and conditions, from the wary cocks to the incipient - cheepers. - </p> - <p> - To the credit of Algy Grafton it must be stated that he resolutely refused - to allow a gun to be put into the hands of Donald MacKilloch. There was a - blood-thirsty look in the keeper’s eyes as now and again one of the dogs - appeared among the clumps of purple heather. When they were tired out - toward evening they were captured by one of the keepers, and led off the - moor, Algy following them, for he feared that they might meet with an - accident. He sent a telegram that night to their owner, and the next - morning received the following reply:— - </p> - <p> - “The infernal idiot at Southampton sent you the wrong dogs. The right ones - will reach you to-morrow. You have got a pair of the best kangaroo hounds - in the world—worth five hundred guineas. Take care of them.—Burnaby.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Kangaroo hounds! kangaroo hounds!</i>” murmured Algy with a far-away - look in his eyes. - </p> - <p> - It seems that he is not quite so fastidious about dogs as he used to be. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - When in the west of Ireland some years ago, pretending to be on the - look-out for “local colour” for a novel, I heard, with about ten thousand - others, a very amusing story regarding a gun. It was told to me by a man - who was engaged in grazing a cow along the side of a ditch where I sat - while partaking of a sandwich, fondly hoping that at sundown I might be - able to look a duck or two straight in the face as the “fly” came over the - smooth surface of the glorious lake along which the road skirted. - </p> - <p> - “Your honour,” said the narrator—he pronounced the words something - like “yer’an’r,” but the best attempts to reproduce a brogue are - ineffective—“Your honour will mind how Mr. Egan was near having an - accident just as he drew by the bit of stone wall beyond the entrance to - his own gates?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I replied, “I remember hearing that he was fired at by some - ruffian, and that his horse ran away with him.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s likely that that’s the same story only told different. Maybe you - never heard tell that it was Patsy Muldoon that was bid to do the job for - Mr. Egan, God save him!” - </p> - <p> - “I never heard that.” - </p> - <p> - “Maybe not, sir. Ay, Patsy has repented for that shot, for it knocked the - eye of him that far into the inside of his head that the doctors had no - machine long enough to drag for it in the depths of his ould skull. Patsy - wasn’t a well-favoured boy before that night, and with the loss of his ear - and the misplacement of his eye—it’s not lost that it is, for it’s - somewhere in the inside of his head—he’s not a beauty just now. You - see, sir, Patsy Muldoon, Conn Moriarty, Jim Tuohy, and Tim Gleeson was all - consarned in the business. They got the lend of a loan of ould Gleeson’s - gun, and the powder was in a half-pint whisky-bottle with a roll of paper - for a cork, and every boy was supposed to bring his own bullets. Well, - sir, ould Gleeson, before going quiet to his bed, had put a full charge of - powder and a bullet down the throat of the gun, and had left her handy for - Tim in the turf stack. But when Tim got a hoult of the wippon, he didn’t - know that the ould man had loaded her, and so he put another charge in - her, and rammed it home to make sure. Then he slipped the bottle with the - rest of the powder into his pocket and strolled down to the bit of dead - wall—I suppose they call them dead walls, sir, because they’re so - convanient for such-like jobs. Anyhow, he laid down herself and the - powder-bottle handy among the grass, and went back to the cabin, so as not - to be suspected by the polis of interferin’ with the job that was Patsy’s - by right. Well, sir, my brave Conn was the next to come to the place, just - to see that Tim hadn’t played a thrick on him. He knew that it was all - right when he saw herself lying among the grass, and as he didn’t know - that Tim had loaded her, he gave her a mouthful of powder himself and - rammed down the lead. After him came my bould Tuohy, and, by the Powers, - if he didn’t load herself in proper style too. Last of all came Patsy that - was to do the job—he’d been consalin’ himself in the plantation, and - it was barely time he had to put another charge into the ould gun, when - Mr. Egan came up on his horse. Patsy slipped a cap on the nipple, and took - a good aim from the side of the wall. When he pulled the trigger it’s a - dead corp that the gentleman would ha’ been only for the accident that - occurred just then, for by some reason or other that nobody can account - for, herself burst—a thing she’d never done before—and Patsy’s - eye was druv into his head, and he was left searching by the aid of the - other for the half of his ear, while Mr. Egan was a mile away on a mad - horse. That’s the story, your honour, only nobody can account to this day - for the quare way that Patsy smiles when he sees a single barr’l gun with - the barr’l a bit rusty.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It was, I recollect, on the day following the rehearsal of this pretty - little tale—the moral of which is that no man should shoot at a - fellow man from the shelter of a crumbling wall, without having - ascertained the exact numerical strength of the charges already within the - barrel of the gun—that I was caught on the mountain in a shower of - rain which penetrated my two coats within half-an-hour, leaving me in the - condition of a bath sponge that awaits squeezing. While I was trickling - down to the plains I met with the narrator of the story just recorded, and - to him I explained that I was wet to the skin. - </p> - <p> - “And if your honour’s wet to the skin, and you with an overcoat on, how - much worse amn’t I that was out through all the shower with only a rag on - my back?” - </p> - <p> - It is said that it was in this neighbourhood that the driver of one of the - “long cars,” on being asked by a tourist what was the name of a berry - growing among the hedges, replied, “Oh, them’s blackberries, your honour.” - </p> - <p> - “Blackberries?” said the tourist. “But these are not black, but pink.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, sir; but blackberries is always pink when they’re green,” was - the ready explanation. - </p> - <p> - I cannot guarantee the novelty of this story; but I can certainly affirm - that it is far more reasonable than the palpable invention regarding the - nervous curate who is said to have announced that, “next Tuesday, being - Easter Monday, an open air meeting will be held in the vestry, to - determine what colour the interior of the schoolhouse shall be whitewashed - outside.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “Am I dhry? Is it am I dhry, that you’re afther askin’ me?” said a car - driver to a couple of country solicitors, whom he was “conveying” to a - court-house at a distant town on a summer’s day. “Dhry? By the Powers! I’m - that dhry that if you was to jog up against me suddint-like, the dust - would fly out of my mouth.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII.—SOME REPORTERS. - </h2> - <p> - <i>An important person—The mayor-maker—Two systems—The - puff and the huff—“Oh that mine enemy were reported verbatim!”—Errors - of omission—Summary justice—An example—The abatement of - a nuisance—The testimony of the warm-hearted—The fixed rate—A - possible placard—A gross insult—Not so bad as it might have - been—The subdivision of an insult—An inadequate assessment—The - Town Councillor’s bribe—Birds of a feather—A handbook needed—An - outburst of hospitality—Never again—The reporters “gloom”—The - March lion—The popularity of the coroner.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE chief of the - reporting staff is usually the most important person connected with a - provincial newspaper. It is not too much to say that it is in his power to - make or to annihilate the reputation of a Town Councillor, or even a Poor - Law Guardian. He may do so by the adoption of either of two systems: the - first is persistent attention, the second is persistent neglect. He may - either puff a man into a reputation, or puff him out of it. There are some - men who become universally abhorred through being constantly alluded to as - “our respected townsman”; such a distinction seems an invidious one to the - twenty thousand townsmen who have never been so referred to. If a reporter - persists in alluding to a certain person as “our respected townsman,” he - will eventually succeed in making him the most highly disrespected burgess - in the municipality, if he was not so before.’ On the other hand a - reporter may, by judicious neglect of a burgess who burns for distinction, - destroy his chances of becoming a Town Councillor; and, perhaps, before he - dies, Mayor. But my experience leads me to believe that if a reporter has - a grudge against a Town Councillor, a Poor Law Guardian, or a Borough - Magistrate, and if he is really vindictive, the most effective course of - vengeance that he can adopt is to record verbatim all that his enemy - utters in public. The man who exclaimed, at a period of the world’s - history when the publishing business had not attained its present - proportions, “Oh that mine enemy had written a book!” knew what he was - talking about. “Oh that mine enemy were reported verbatim!” would - assuredly be the modern equivalent of the bitter cry of the patriarch. The - stutterings, the vain repetitions, and the impossible grammar which - accompany the public utterances—imbecile only when they are not - commonplace—of the average Town Councillor or Poor Law Guardian, - would require the aid of the phonograph to admit of their being anly when - they are not commonplace—of the average Town Councillor or Poor Law - Guardian, would require the aid of the phonograph to admit of their being - adequately depreciated by the public. - </p> - <p> - The worst offenders are those men who are loudest in their complaints - against the reporters, and who are constantly writing to correct what they - call “errors” in the summary of their speeches. A reporter puts in a - grammatical and a moderately reasonable sentence or two the ridiculous - maunderings and wanderings of one of these “public men,” and the only - recognition he obtains assumes the form of a letter to the editor, - pointing out the “omissions” made in the summary. Omissions! I should - rather think there were omissions. - </p> - <p> - I have no hesitation in affirming that the verbatim reporting of their - speeches would mean the annihilation of ninety-nine out of every hundred - of these municipal orators. - </p> - <p> - Only once, on a paper with which I was connected, had a reporter the - courage to try the effect of a literal report of the speech of a man who - was greatly given to complaining of the injustice done to him in the - published accounts of his deliverances. Every “haw,” “hum,” “ah,” “eh—eh;” - every repetition, every reduplication of a repetition, every unfinished - sentence, every singular nominative to a plural verb, every artificial - cough to cover a retreat from an imbecile statement, was reported. The - result was the complete abatement of this nuisance. A considerable time - elapsed before another complaint as to omissions in municipal speeches was - made. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - To my mind, the ability and the judgment shown by the members of the - reporting staff cannot be too warmly commended. It is not surprising that - occasionally attempts should be made by warm-hearted persons to express in - a substantial way their recognition of the talents of this department of a - newspaper. I have several times known of sums of money being offered to - reporters in the country, with a view of obtaining the insertion of - certain paragraphs or the omission of others. Half-a-crown was invariably - the figure at which the value of such services was assessed. I am still of - the opinion that this was not an extravagant sum to offer a presumably - educated man for running the risk of losing his situation. Curiously - enough, the majority of these offers of money came from competitors at - ploughing matches, at exhibitions of oxen and swine, and at flower shows. - Why agriculturalists should be more zealous to show their appreciation of - literary work than the rest of the population it would be difficult to - say; but at one time—a good many years ago—I heard so much - about the attempted distribution of half-crowns in agricultural districts, - I began to fear that at the various shows it would be necessary to have a - placard posted, bearing the words: “GRATUITIES TO REPORTERS STRICTLY - PROHIBITED.” - </p> - <p> - Many years ago I was somewhat tired of hearing about the numerous insults - offered to reporters in this way. A head-reporter once told me that a - junior member of his staff had come to him after a day in the country, - complaining bitterly that he had been grossly insulted by an offer of - money. - </p> - <p> - “And what did you say to him?” I inquired. - </p> - <p> - “I asked him how much he had been offered,” replied the head-reporter, - “and when he said, ‘Half-a-crown,’ I said, ‘Pooh! half-a-crown! that - wasn’t much of an insult. How would you like to be offered a sovereign, as - I was one day in the same neighbourhood? You might talk of your insults - then.’ That shut him up.” - </p> - <p> - I did not doubt it. - </p> - <p> - “You think the juniors protest too much?” said I. - </p> - <p> - The reporter laughed shrewdly. - </p> - <p> - “You remember <i>Punch’s</i> picture of the man lying drunk on the - pavement, and the compassionate lady in the crowd who asked if the poor - fellow was ill, at which a man says, ‘Ill? ‘im ill? I only wish I’d alf - his complaint’?” - </p> - <p> - I admitted that I had a vivid recollection of the picture; but I added - that I could not see what it had to say to the subject we were discussing. - </p> - <p> - Again the reporter smiled. - </p> - <p> - “If you had seen the chap’s face to-day when I talked of the sovereign you - would know what I meant; his face said quite plainly, ‘I wish I had half - of that insult.’” - </p> - <p> - That view was quite intelligible to me some time after, when a reporter, - whose failings were notorious, came to me with the old story. He had been - offered half-a-crown by a man in a good social position who had been fined - at the police court that day for being drunk and assaulting a constable, - and who was anxious that no record of the transaction should appear in the - newspaper. - </p> - <p> - “Great heavens!” said I, “he had the face to offer you half-a-crown?” - </p> - <p> - “He had,” said the reporter, indignantly. “Half-a-crown! The low hound! He - knew that if I included his case in to-morrow’s police news he would lose - his situation, and yet he had the face to offer me half-a-crown. What - hounds there are in the world! Two pounds would have been little enough.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I never heard of a Town Councillor offering a bribe to a reporter; but I - have heard of something more phenomenal—a Town Councillor - indignantly rejecting what he conceived to be a bribe. He took good care - to boast of it afterwards to his constituents. It happened that this - Councillor was the leader of a select faction of three on the Corporation, - whose <i>métier</i> consisted in opposing every scheme that was brought - forward by the Town Clerk, and supported by the other members of the - Corporation. Now the Town Clerk had hired a shooting one autumn, and as - the birds were plentiful, he thought that it would be a graceful act on - his part to send a brace of grouse to every Alderman and every Councillor. - He did so, and all the members of the Board accepted the transaction in a - right spirit—all, except the leader of the opposition faction. He - explained his attitude to his constituents as follows: - </p> - <p> - “Gentlemen, you’ll all be glad to hear that I’ve made myself formidable to - our enemies. I’ve brought the so-called Town Clerk down on his knees to - me. An attempt was made to bribe me last week, which I am determined to - expose. One night when I came home from my work, I found waiting for me a - queer pasteboard box with holes in it. I opened it, and inside I found a - couple of fat <i>brown pigeons</i>, and on their legs a card printed ‘With - Mr. Samuel White’s compliments.’ ‘Mr. Samuel White! That’s the Town - Clerk,’ says I, ‘and if Mr. Samuel White thinks to buy my silence by - sending me a pair of brown pigeons with Mr. Samuel White’s compliments, - Mr. Samuel White is a bit mistaken;’ so I just put the pigeons back into - their box, and redirected them to Mr. Samuel White, and wrote him a polite - note to let him know that if I wanted a pair of pigeons I could buy them - for myself. That’s what I did.” (Loud cheers.) - </p> - <p> - When it was explained to him some time after that the birds were grouse, - and not pigeons, he asked where was the difference. The principle would be - precisely the same, he declared, if the birds were eagles or ostriches. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It has often occurred to me that for the benefit of such men, a complete - list should be made out of such presents as may be legitimately received - from one’s friends, and of those that should be regarded as insultive in - their tendency. It must puzzle a good many people to know where the line - should be drawn. Why should a brace of grouse be looked on as a graceful - gift, while a pair of fowl—a “yoke,” they are called in the West of - Ireland—can only be construed as an affront? Why should a haunch of - venison (when not over “ripe”) constitute an acceptable gift, while a - sirloin of prime beef could only be regarded as having an eleemosynary - signification? Why may a lover be permitted to offer the object of his - attachment a fan, but not a hat? a dozen of gloves, but not a pair of - boots? These problems would tax a much higher intelligence—if it - would be possible to imagine such—than that at the command of the - average Town Councillor. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It was the same member of the Corporation who, one day, having succeeded—greatly - to his astonishment—in carrying a resolution which he had proposed - at a meeting, found that custom and courtesy necessitated his providing - refreshment for the dozen of gentlemen who had supported him. His ideas of - refreshment revolved round a public-house as a centre; but when it was - explained to him that the occasion was one that demanded a demonstration - on a higher level, and with a wider horizon, he declared, in the - excitement of the moment, that he was as ready as any of his colleagues to - discharge the duties of host in the best style. He took his friends to a - first-class restaurant, and at a hint from one of them, promptly ordered a - couple of bottles of champagne. When these had been emptied, the host gave - the waiter a shilling, telling him in a lordly way to keep the change. The - waiter was, of course, a German, and, with a smile and a bow, he put the - coin into his pocket, and hastened to help the gentlemen on with their - overcoats. When they were trooping out, he ventured to enquire whom the - champagne was to be charged to. - </p> - <p> - The hospitable Councillor stared at the man, and then expressed the - opinion that all Frenchmen, and perhaps Italians, were the greatest rogues - unhung. - </p> - <p> - “You savey!” he shouted at the waiter—for like many persons on the - social level of Town Councillors, he assumed that all foreigners are a - little deaf,—“You savey, I give you one shilling—one bob—you - savey!” - </p> - <p> - The waiter said he was “much oblige,” but who was to pay for the - champagne? - </p> - <p> - The gentlemen who had partaken of the champagne nudged one another, but - one of them was compassionate, and explained to the Councillor that the - two bottles involved the expenditure of twenty-four shillings. - </p> - <p> - “Twenty-eight shillings,” the waiter murmured in a submissive, - subject-to-the-correction-of-the-Court tone. The wine was Heidsieck of - ‘74, he explained. - </p> - <p> - The Councillor gasped, and then smiled weakly. He had been made the - subject of a jest more than once before, and he fancied he saw in the - winks of the men around him, a loophole of escape from an untenable - position. - </p> - <p> - “Come, come,” said he, “I’ve no more time to waste. Don’t you flatter - yourselves that I can’t see this is a put-up job between you all and the - waiter.” - </p> - <p> - “Pay the man the money and be hanged to you!” said an impetuous member of - the party. - </p> - <p> - Just then the manager of the restaurant strolled up, and received with a - polite smile the statement of the hospitable. Councillor regarding what he - termed the barefaced attempt to swindle on the part of the German waiter. - </p> - <p> - “Sir,” said the manager, “the price of the wine is on the card. Here it - is,”—he whipped a card out of his pocket. “‘Heidsieck—1874—14s.’” - </p> - <p> - The generous host fell back on a chair speechless. - </p> - <p> - Had any of his friends ever read Hamlet they would certainly not have - missed quoting the lines: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Indeed this (Town) Councillor - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Who was in life—” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Well—otherwise. However, <i>Hamlet</i> remained unquoted. - </p> - <p> - After a long pause he recovered his powers of speech. - </p> - <p> - “And that’s champagne—that’s champagne!” he said in a weak voice, - “Champagne! By the Lord Harry, I’ve tasted better ginger-beer!” - </p> - <p> - He has lately been very cautious in bringing forward any resolutions at - the Corporation. He is afraid that another of them may chance to be - carried. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The reporter who told me the story which I have just recorded, was an - excellent specimen of the class—shrewd, a capital judge of - character, and a good organiser. He had, however, never got beyond the - stereotyped phrases which appear in every newspaper—indeed, there - was no need for him to get beyond them. Every death “cast a gloom” over - the locality where it occurred; and a chronicle of the weather at any time - during the month of March caused him to let loose the journalist’s lion - upon an unsuspecting public. - </p> - <p> - Once it occurred to me that he went a little too far with the gloom that - he kept, as Captain Mayne Reid’s Mexicans kept their lassoes, ready to - cast at a moment’s notice. - </p> - <p> - He wrote an account of a fire which had caused the death of two persons, - and concluded as follows:— - </p> - <p> - “The conflagration, which was visible at a distance of four miles, and was - not completely subjugated until a late hour, cast a gloom over the entire - quarter of the town, that will be felt for long, more especially as the - premises were wholly uninsured.” - </p> - <p> - Yes, I thought that this was carrying the gloom a little too far. - </p> - <p> - I will say this for him, however: it was not he who wrote: “A tall but - well-dressed man was yesterday arrested on suspicion of being concerned in - a recent robbery.” - </p> - <p> - Nor was it he who headed a paragraph, “Fatal Death by Drowning.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - In a town in which I once resided the coroner died, and there was quite a - brisk competition for the vacant office. The successful candidate was a - gentleman whose claims had been supported by a newspaper with which I was - connected. Three months afterwards the proofreader brought under the - notice of the sub-editor in my presence a paragraph which had come from - the reporter’s room, and which had already been “set up.” So nearly as I - can remember, it was something like this:—“Yesterday, no fewer than - three inquests were held in various parts of this town by our highly - respected coroner. Indeed, any doubts that may possibly have existed as to - the qualification of this gentleman for the coronership, among those - narrowminded persons who opposed his selection, must surely be dispelled - by reference to the statistics of inquests held during the three months - that he has been in office. The increase upon the corresponding quarter - last year is thirteen, or no less than 9.46 per cent. Compared with the - immediately preceding quarter the figures are no less significant, - showing, as they do, an increase of seventeen, or 12.18 per cent. In other - words, the business of the coroner has been augmented by one-eighth since - he came into office. This fact speaks volumes for the enterprise and - ability of the gentleman whose candidature it was our privilege to - support.” - </p> - <p> - Of course this paragraph was suppressed. The sub-editor told me the next - day that it had been written by a junior reporter, who had misunderstood - the instructions of his chief. The fact was that the coroner wanted an - increase of remuneration,—he was paid by a fixed salary, not by - “piece work,” so to speak,—and he had suggested to the chief - reporter that a paragraph calling attention to the increase of inquests in - the town might have a good effect. The chief reporter had given the - figures to a junior, with a few hasty instructions, which he had somehow - misinterpreted. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII—THE SUBJECT OF REPORTS. - </h2> - <p> - <i>The lecture society—“Early Architecture”—The professional - consultation—Its result—“Un verre d’eau”—Its story—Lyrics - as an auxiliary to the lecture—The lecture in print—A - well-earned commendation—The preservation of ancient ruins—The - best preservative—“Stone walls do not a prison make”—The - Parnell Commission—A remarkable visitor—A false prophet—Sir - Charles Russell—A humble suggestion—The bashful young man—Somewhat - changed—“Ireland a Nation”—Some kindly hints—The - “Invincibles” in court—The strange advertisement—How it was - answered—Earl Spencer as a patron—“No kindly act was ever done - in vain!”</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> REPORTER is now - and again compelled to exercise other powers than those which are - generally supposed to be at the command of the writer of shorthand and the - paragraphist. I knew a very clever youth who in a crisis showed of what he - was capable. There was, in the town where we lived, a society of very - learned men and equally learned women. Once a fortnight a paper was read, - usually on some point of surpassing dulness—this was in the good old - days, when lectures were solemn and theatres merry. Just at present, I - need scarcely say, the position of the two is reversed: the theatres are - solemn (the managers, becoming pessimistic by reason of their losses, - endeavour to impress their philosophy upon the public), but the - lecture-room rings with laughter as some <i>savant</i> treats of the - “Loves of Coleoptera” with limelight illustrations, or “The Infant - Bacillus.” The society which I have mentioned had engaged as lecturer for - a certain evening a local architect, who had largely augmented his - professional standing by a reputation for conviviality; and the subject - with which he was to deal was “Early Architecture.” A brother professional - man, whose sympathies were said to extend in many directions, had promised - to take the chair upon this occasion. It so happened, however, that, owing - to his pressing but unspecified engagements, the lecturer found himself, - on the day for which the lecture was announced, still in doubt as to the - sequence that his views should assume when committed to paper. About noon - on this day he strolled into the office of the gentleman who was - advertised to take the chair in the evening, and explained that he should - like to discuss with him the various aspects of the question of Early - Architecture, so that his mind might be at ease on appearing before the - audience. - </p> - <p> - They accordingly went down the street, and made an earnest inspection of - the interior of a cave-dwelling in the neighbourhood—it was styled - “The Cool Grot,” and tradition was respected by the presence therein of - shell-fish, oat-cake, and other elementary foods, with various samples of - alcohol in a rudimentary form. In this place the brother architects - discussed the subject of Early Architecture until, as a reporter would - say, “a late hour.” The result was not such as would have a tendency to - cause an unprejudiced person to accept without some reserve the theory - that on a purely æsthetic question, a just conclusion can most readily be - arrived at by a friendly discussion amid congenial surroundings. - </p> - <p> - A small and very solemn audience had assembled some twenty minutes or so - before the lecturer and chairman put in an appearance, and then no time - was lost in commencing the business of the meeting. The one architect was - moved to the chair, and seconded, and he solemnly took it. Having - explained that he occupied his position with the most pleasurable - feelings, he poured himself out a glass of water with a most unreasonable - amount of steadiness, and laid the carafe exactly on the spot—he was - most scrupulous on this point—it had previously occupied. He drank a - mouthful of the water, and then looked into the tumbler with the shrewd - eye of the naturalist searching for infusoria. Then he laughed, and told a - story that amused himself greatly about a friend of his who had attended a - temperance lecture, and declared that it would have been a great success - if the lecturer had not automatically attempted to blow the froth off the - glass of water with which he refreshed himself. Then he sat down and fell - asleep, before the lecturer had been awakened by the secretary to the - committee, and had opened his notes upon the desk. For about ten minutes - the lecturer made himself quite as unintelligible as the most erudite of - the audience could have desired; but then he suddenly lapsed into - intelligibility—he had reached that section of his subject which - necessitated the recitation of a poem said to be in a Scotch dialect, - every stanza of which terminated with the words, “A man’s a man for a’ - that!” He then bowed, and, recovering himself by a grasp of the desk, - which he shook as though it were the hand of an old schoolfellow whom he - had not met for years, he retired with an almost supernatural erectness to - his chair. - </p> - <p> - In a moment the chairman was on his feet—the sudden silence had - awakened him. In a few well-chosen phrases he thanked the audience for the - very hearty manner in which they had drunk his health. He then told them a - humorous story of his boyhood, and concluded by a reference to one “Mr. - Vice,” whom he trusted frequently to see at the other end of the table, - preparatory to going beneath it. He hoped there was no objection to his - stating that he was a jolly good fellow. No absolute objection being made, - he ventured on the statement—in the key of B flat; the lecturer - joined in most heartily, and the solemn audience went to their homes, - followed by the apologies of the secretary to the committee. - </p> - <p> - The chairman and the lecturer were then shaken up by the old man who came - to turn out the lights. He turned them out as well. - </p> - <p> - Now, the reporter who had been “marked” for that lecture found that he had - some much more important business to attend to. He did not reach the - newspaper office until late, and then he seated himself, and thoughtfully - wrote out the remarks which nine out of every ten chairmen would have - made, attributing them to the gentleman who presided at the lecture; and - then gave a general summary of the lecture on “Early Architecture” which - ninety-nine out of every hundred working architects would deliver if - called on. He concluded by stating that the usual vote of thanks was - conveyed to the lecturer, and suitably acknowledged by him, and that the - audience was “large, representative, and enthusiastic.” - </p> - <p> - The secretary called upon the proprietor of the paper the next day, and - expressed his high appreciation of the tact and judgment of the reporter; - and the proprietor, who was more accustomed to hear comments on the - display of very different attainments on the part of his staff, actually - wrote a letter of commendation to the reporter, which I think was well - earned. - </p> - <p> - The most remarkable point in connection with this occurrence was the - implicit belief placed in the statements of the newspaper, not only by the - public—for the public will believe anything—but also by the - architect-lecturer and the architect-chairman. The professional standing - of the former was certainly increased by the transaction, and till the day - of his death he was accustomed to allude to his lecture on “Early - Architecture.” The secretary to the committee, for his own credit’s sake, - said nothing about the fiasco, and the solemn members of the audience were - so accustomed to listen to incomprehensible lectures in the same room that - they began to think that the performance at which they had “assisted” was - only another of the usual type, so they also held their peace on the - matter. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Having introduced this society, I cannot refrain from telling the story of - another transaction in which it was concerned. The ramifications of the - society extended in many directions, and a more useful organisation could - scarcely be imagined. It was like an elephant’s trunk, which can uproot a - tree—if the elephant is in a good humour—but which does not - disdain to pick up a pin—like the boy who afterwards became Lord - Mayor of London. The society did not shrink from discussing the question - “Is a Monarchy or a Republic the right form of Government?” on the same - night that it dealt with a new stopper for soda-water bottles. The - Carboniferous Future of England was treated of upon the same evening as - the Immortality of the Soul; perhaps there is a closer connection than at - first meets the eye between the two subjects. It took ancient buildings - under its protection, as well as the most recently fabricated pre-historic - axe-head; and it was the discharge of its functions in regard to ancient - buildings that caused the committee to pass a resolution one day, calling - on their secretary to communicate with the owner of a neighbouring - property, in the midst of which a really fine ruin of an ancient castle, - with many interesting associations, was situated, begging him to order a - wall to be built around the ruins, so as to prevent them from continuing - to be the resort of cows with a fine taste in archaeology, when the summer - days were warm and they wanted their backs scratched. - </p> - <p> - The property was in Ireland, consequently the landlord lived in England, - and had never so much as seen the ruins. It was news to him that anything - of interest was to be found on his Irish estates; but as his son was - contemplating the possibility of entering Parliament as the representative - of an Irish borough, he at once crossed the Channel, had an interview with - the society’s secretary, and, with the president, visited the old castle, - and was delighted with it. He sent for his bailiff, and told him that he - wanted a wall four feet high to be built round the field in the centre of - which the ruins lay—he even went so far as to “peg out,” so to - speak, the course that he wished the wall to take. - </p> - <p> - The Irish bailiff stared at his master, but expressed the delight it would - give him to carry out his wishes. - </p> - <p> - The owner crossed to England, promising to return in three months to see - how the work had been done. - </p> - <p> - He kept his word. He returned in three months, and found, sure enough, - that an excellent wall had been built on the exact lines he had laid down, - but every stone of the ruins of the ancient castle had disappeared. - </p> - <p> - The bailiff stood by with a beaming face as he explained how the ruins had - gone. - </p> - <p> - <i>He had caused the wall to be built out of the stones of the ancient - castle, to save expense.</i> - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - If reporters were only afforded a little leisure, any one of them who has - lived in a large town could compile an interesting volume of his - experiences. I have often regretted that I could never master the art of - shorthand. I worked at it for months when a boy, and made sufficient - progress to be able to write it pretty fairly; but writing is not - everything. The capacity for transcribing one’s notes is something to be - taken into account; and it was at this point that I broke down, and was - forced to become a novelist—a sort of novelist. The first time that - I went up country in Africa, my stock of paper being limited, I carried - only two pocket-books, and economised my space by taking my notes in - shorthand. I had no occasion to refer to these notes until I was writing - my novel “Daireen,” and then I found myself face to face with a hundred - pages of hieroglyphs which were utterly unintelligible to me. In despair I - brought them to a reporter, and he read them off for me much more rapidly - than he or anyone else could read my ordinary handwriting to-day. In fact, - he read just a little too fast,—I was forced to beg him to stop. - There are some occurrences of which one takes a note in shorthand in one’s - youth in a strange country, but which one does not wish particularly to - offer to the perusal of strangers years afterwards. - </p> - <p> - But although I could never be a reporter, I now and again availed myself - of a reporter’s privileges, when I wished to be present at a trial that - promised some interesting features to a student of good and evil. It - seemed to me that the Parnell Commission was an epitome of the world’s - history from the earliest date. No writer has yet done justice to that - extraordinary incident. I have asked some reporters, who were present day - after day, if they intended writing a real history of the Commission; not - the foolish political history of the thing, but the story of all that was - laid bare to their eyes hour after hour,—the passions of patriotism, - of power, of hate, of revenge; the devotion to duty, the dogged heroism, - the religious fervour; every day brought to light such examples of these - varied attributes of the Irish nature as the world had never previously - known. - </p> - <p> - The reporters said they had no time to devote to such thankless work; and, - besides, every one was sick of the Commission. - </p> - <p> - Often as I went into the court and faced the scene, it never lost its - glamour for me. Every day I seemed to be wandering through a world of - romance. I could not sleep at night, so deeply impressed was I with the - way certain witnesses returned the scrutiny of Sir Charles Russell; with - the way Mr. Parnell hypnotised others; with the stories of the awful - struggle of which Ireland was the centre. - </p> - <p> - Going out of the courts one evening, I came upon an old man standing with - his hat off and with one arm uplifted in an attitude of denunciation that - was tragic beyond description. He was a handsome old man, very tall, but - slightly stooped, and he clearly occupied a good position in the world. - </p> - <p> - We were alone just outside the courts. I pretended that I had suddenly - missed something. I stood thrusting my hands into my pockets and feeling - between the buttons of my coat, for I meant to watch him. At last I pulled - out my cigarette-case and strolled on. - </p> - <p> - “You were in that court?” the old man said, in a tone that assured me I - had not underestimated his social position. - </p> - <p> - He did not wait for me to reply. - </p> - <p> - “You saw that man sitting with his cold impassive face while the tears - were on the cheeks of every one else? Listen to me, sir! I called upon the - Most High to strike him down—to strike him down—and my prayer - was heard. I saw him lying, disgraced, deserted, dead, before my eyes; and - so I shall see him before a year has passed. ‘Mene, mene, tekel, - upharsin.’” - </p> - <p> - Again he raised his arm in the direction of the court, and when I saw the - light in his eyes I knew that I was looking at a prophet. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he seemed to recover himself. He put on his hat and turned round - upon me with something like angry surprise. I raised my hat. He did the - same. He went in one direction and I went in the opposite. - </p> - <p> - He was a false prophet. Mr. Parnell was not dead within the year. In fact, - he was not dead until two years and two months had passed. In accordance - with the thoughtful provisions of the Mosaic code, that old gentleman - deserved to be stoned for prophesying falsely. But his manner would almost - have deceived a reporter. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Having introduced the subject of the Parnell Commission, I may perhaps be - permitted to express the hope that Sir Charles Russell will one day find - sufficient leisure to give us a few chapters of his early history. I - happen to know something of it. I am fully acquainted with the nature of - some of its incidents, which certainly would be found by the public to - possess many interesting and romantic elements; though, unlike the - romantic episodes in the career of most persons, those associated with the - early life of Sir Charles Russell reflect only credit upon himself. Every - one should know by this time that the question of what is Patriotism and - what is not is altogether dependent upon the nature of the Government of - the country. In order to prolong its own existence for six months, a - Ministry will take pains to alter the definition of the word Patriotism, - and to prosecute every one who does not accept the new definition. Forty - years ago the political lexicon was being daily revised. I need say no - more on this point; only, if Sir Charles Russell means to give us some of - the earlier chapters of his life he should lose no time in setting about - the task. A Lord Chief Justice of England cannot reasonably be expected to - deal with any romantic episodes in his own career, however important may - be the part which he feels himself called on now and again to take in the - delimitation of the romantic elements (of a different type) in the careers - of others of Her Majesty’s subjects. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It may surprise some of those persons who have been unfortunate enough to - find themselves witnesses for the prosecution in cases where Sir Charles - Russell has appeared for the defence, to learn that in his young days he - was exceedingly shy. He has lost a good deal of his early diffidence, or, - at any rate, he manages to prevent its betraying itself in such a way as - might tend to embarrass a hostile witness. As a rule, the witnesses do not - find that bashfulness is the most prominent characteristic of his - cross-examination. But I learned from an early associate of Sir Charles’s, - that when his name appeared on the list to propose or to respond to a - toast at one of the dinners of a patriotic society of which my informant - as well as Sir Charles was a member, he would spend the day nervously - walking about the streets, and apparently quite unable to collect his - thoughts. Upon one occasion the proud duty devolved upon him of responding - to the toast, “Ireland a Nation!” Late in the afternoon my informant, who - at that time was a small shopkeeper—he is nothing very considerable - to-day—found him in a condition of disorderly perturbation, and - declaring that he had no single idea of what he should say, and he felt - certain that unless he got the help of the man who afterwards became my - informant he must inevitably break down. - </p> - <p> - “I laughed at him,” said the gentleman who had the courage to tell the - story which I have the courage to repeat, “and did my best to give him - confidence. ‘Sure any fool could respond to “Ireland a Nation!”’ said I; - ‘and you’ll do it as well as any other.’ But even this didn’t give him - courage,” continued my informant, “and I had to sit down and give him the - chief points to touch on in his speech. He wrung my hand, and in the - evening he made a fine speech, sir. Man, but it was a pity that there - weren’t more of the party sober enough to appreciate it!” - </p> - <p> - I tell this tale as it was told to me, by a respectable tradesman whose - integrity has never been questioned. - </p> - <p> - It occurred to me that that quality in which, according to his interesting - reminiscence of forty years ago, his friend Russell was deficient, is not - one that could with any likelihood of success be attributed to the - narrator. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - If any student of good and evil—the two fruits, alas! grow upon the - same tree—would wish for a more startling example of the effect of a - strong emotion upon certain temperaments than was afforded the people - present in the Dublin Police Court on the day that Carey left the dock and - the men he was about to betray to the gallows, that student would indeed - be exacting. - </p> - <p> - I had been told by a constabulary officer what was coming, so that, unlike - most persons in the court, I was not too startled to be able to observe - every detail of the scene. Carey was talking to a brother ruffian named - Brady quite unconcernedly, and Brady was actually smiling, when an officer - of constabulary raised his finger and the informer stepped out of the - dock, and two policemen in plain clothes moved to his side. Carey glanced - back at his doomed accomplices, and muttered some words to Brady. I did - not quite catch them, but I thought the words were, “It’s half an hour - ahead of you that I am, Joe.” - </p> - <p> - Brady simply looked at his betrayer, whom it seems he had been anxious to - betray. There was absolutely no expression upon his face. Some of the - others of the same murderous gang seemed equally unaffected. One of them - turned and spat on the floor. But upon the faces of at least two of the - men there was a look of malignity that transformed them into fiends. It - was the look that accompanies the stab of the assassin. Another of them - gave a laugh, and said something to the man nearest to him; but the laugh - was not responded to. - </p> - <p> - The youngest of the gang stared at one of the windows of the court-house - in a way that showed me he had not been able to grasp the meaning of - Carey’s removal from the dock. - </p> - <p> - In half-an-hour every expression worn by the faces of the men had changed. - They all had a look that might almost have been regarded as jocular. There - can be no doubt that when a man realises that he has been sentenced to - death, his first feeling is one of relief. His suspense is over—so - much is certain. He feels that—and that only—for an hour or - so. I could see no change on the faces of these poor wretches whom the - Mephistophelian fun of Fate had induced to call themselves Invincible, in - order that no devilish element might be wanting in the tragedy of the - Phoenix Park. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I do not suppose that many persons are acquainted with the secret history - of the detection of the “Invincibles.” I think I am right in stating that - it has never yet been made public. I am not at liberty to mention the - source whence I derived my knowledge of some of the circumstances that led - to the arrest of Carey, but there is no doubt in my mind as to the - accuracy of my “information received” on this matter. - </p> - <p> - It may, perhaps, be remembered that, some months after the date of the - murders, a strange advertisement appeared in almost every newspaper in - Great Britain. It stated that if the man who had told another, on the - afternoon of May 6th, 1882, that he had once enjoyed a day’s skating on - the pond at the Viceregal Lodge, would communicate with the Chief of the - Detective Department at Dublin Castle, he would be thanked. Now beyond the - fact that May 6th was the date of the murders, and that they had taken - place in the Phoenix Park, there was nothing in this advertisement to - suggest that it had any bearing upon the shocking incident; still there - was a general feeling that it had a very intimate connection with the - efforts that the police were making to unravel the mystery of the outrage; - and this impression was well founded. - </p> - <p> - I learned that the strangely-worded advertisement had been inserted in the - newspapers at the instigation of a constabulary officer, who had, in many - disguises, been endeavouring to find some clue to the assassins in Dublin. - One evening he slouched into a public-house bespattered as a bricklayer, - and took a seat in a box, facing a pint of stout. He had been in - public-house after public-house every Saturday night for several weeks - without obtaining the slightest suggestion as to the identity of the - murderers, and he was becoming discouraged; but on this particular evening - he had his reward, for he overheard a man in the next box telling some - others, who were drinking with him, that Lord Spencer was not such a bad - sort of man as might be supposed from the mere fact of his being - Lord-Lieutenant. He (the narrator) had been told by a man in the Phoenix - Park on the very evening of the murders that he (the man) had not been - ashamed to cheer Lord Spencer on his arrival at Dublin that day, for when - he had last been in Dublin he had allowed him to skate upon the pond in - the Viceregal grounds. - </p> - <p> - The officer dared not stir from his place: he knew that if he were at all - suspected of being a detective, his life would not be worth five minutes’ - purchase. He could only hope to catch a glimpse of some of the party when - they were leaving the place. He failed to do so, for some cause—I - cannot remember what it was—nor could the barmaid give any - satisfactory reply to his cautiously casual enquiries as to the names of - any of the men who had occupied the box. - </p> - <p> - It was then that the advertisement was inserted in the various newspapers; - and, after the lapse of some weeks, a man presented himself to the Chief - of the Criminal Investigation Department, saying that he believed the - advertisement referred to him. The man seemed a respectable artisan, and - his story was that one day during the last winter that Earl Spencer had - been in Ireland, he (the man) had left his work in order to have a few - hours’ skating on the ponds attached to the Zoological Gardens in the - Phoenix Park, but on arriving at the ponds he found that the ice had been - broken. “I was just going away,” the man said, “when a gentleman with a - long beard spoke to me, and enquired if I had had a good skate. I told him - that I was greatly disappointed, as the ice had all been broken, and I - would lose my day’s pay. He took a card out of his pocket, and wrote - something on it,” continued the man, “and then handed it to me, saying, - ‘Give that to the porter at the Viceregal Lodge, and you’ll have the best - day’s skating you have had in all your life.’ He said what was true: I - handed in the card and told the porter that a tall gentleman with a beard - had given it to me. ‘That was His Excellency himself,’ said the porter, as - he brought me down to the pond, where, sure enough, I had such a day’s - skating as I’ve never had before or since.” - </p> - <p> - “And you were in the Phoenix Park on the evening of the murders?” said the - Chief of the Department. - </p> - <p> - “I must have been there within half-an-hour of the time they were - committed,” replied the man. “But I know nothing of them.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m convinced of it,” said the officer. “But I should like to hear if you - met any one you knew in the Park as you were coming away.” - </p> - <p> - “I only met one man whose name I knew,” said the other, “and that was a - builder that I have done some jobs for: James Carey is his name.” - </p> - <p> - This was precisely the one bit of evidence that was required for the - committal of Carey. - </p> - <p> - An hour afterwards he offered to turn Queen’s Evidence. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV.—IRELAND AS A FIELD FOR REPORTERS. - </h2> - <p> - <i>The humour of the Irish Bench—A circus at Bombay—Mr. - Justice Lawson—The theft of a pig—“Reasonably suspected”—A - prima facie case for the prosecution—The defence—The judge’s - charge—The scope of a judge’s duties in Ireland—Collaring a - prisoner—A gross contempt of court—How the contempt was purged—The - riotous city—The reporter as a war correspondent—“Good mixed - shooting”—The tram-car driver cautioned—The “loot” mistaken - for a violin—The arrest in the cemetery—Pommelling a policeman—A - treat not to be shared—A case of discipline—The German - infantry—A real grievance—“Palmam qui meruit ferat.”</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HERE is plenty of - light as well as gloom to be found in the law courts, especially in - Ireland. Until recently, the Irish Bench included many humorists. Perhaps - the last of the race was Mr. Baron Dowse. Reporters were constantly giving - me accounts of the brilliant sallies of this judge; but I must confess it - seemed to me that most of the examples which I heard were susceptible of - being regarded as evidence of the judge’s good memory rather than of his - original powers. - </p> - <p> - Upon one occasion, he complained of the misprints in newspapers, and - stated that some time before, he had made the quotation in court, “Better - fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay,” but the report of the case - in the newspaper attributed to him the statement, “Better fifty years of - Europe than a circus at Bombay.” - </p> - <p> - He omitted giving the name of the paper that had so ill-treated him and - Lord Tennyson. He had not been a judge for fifteen years without becoming - acquainted with the rudiments of story-telling. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Mr. Justice Lawson was another Irish judge with a strong vein of humour - which he sometimes repressed, for I do not think that he took any great - pleasure in listening to that hearty, spontaneous, and genial outburst of - laughter that greets every attempt at humour on the part of a judge. It is - a nasty thing to say, but I do believe that he now and again doubted the - sincerity of the appreciation of even the junior counsel. A reporter who - was present at one Cork Assizes when Lawson was at his best, told me a - story of his charge to a jury which conveys a very good idea of what his - style of humour was. - </p> - <p> - A man was indicted for stealing a pig—an animal common in some parts - of Ireland. He was found driving it along, with no more than the normal - amount of difficulty which such an operation involves; and on being spoken - to by the sergeant of constabulary, he stated that he had bought the pig - in a neighbouring town, and that he had paid a certain specified sum for - it. On the same evening, however, a report reached the police barrack that - a pig, the description of which corresponded with the recollection which - the sergeant retained of the one which he had seen some hours before, had - been stolen from its home in the neighbourhood. The owner was brought face - to face with the animal that the sergeant had met, and it was identified - as the one that had been stolen. The man in whose possession the pig was - found was again very frank in stating where he had bought it; but his - second account of the transaction was not on all fours with his first, and - the person from whom he said he had purchased it, denied all knowledge of - the sale—in fact, he was able to show that he was at Waterford at - the time he was alleged to be disposing of it. - </p> - <p> - All these facts were clearly proved; and no attempt was made to controvert - them in the defence. The counsel for the prisoner admitted that the police - had a good <i>prima facie</i> case for the arrest of his client; there - were, undoubtedly, some grounds for suspecting that the animal had - disappeared from the custody of its owner through the instrumentality of - the prisoner; but he felt sure that when the jury had heard the witnesses - for the defence, they would admit that it was utterly impossible to - conceive the notion that he had had anything whatever to do with the - matter. - </p> - <p> - The parish priest was the first witness called, and he stated that he had - known the prisoner for several years, and had always regarded him as a - thrifty, sober, hard-working man, adding that he was most regular in his - attendance to his religious duties. Then the episcopal clergyman was - examined, and stated that the prisoner was an excellent father and a - capital gardener; he also knew something about the care of poultry. - Several of the prisoner’s neighbours testified to his respectability and - his readiness to oblige them, even at considerable personal inconvenience. - </p> - <p> - After the usual speeches, the judge summed up as follows:— - </p> - <p> - “Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence in the case, and it’s - not for me to say that any of it is false. The police sergeant met the - prisoner driving the stolen pig, and the prisoner gave two different - accounts as to how it had come into his possession, but neither of these - accounts could be said to have a particle of truth in it. On the other - hand, however, you have heard the evidence of the two clergymen, to whom - the prisoner was well known. Nothing could be more satisfactory than the - character they gave him. Then you heard the evidence given by the - neighbours of the prisoner, and I’m sure you’ll agree with me that nothing - could be more gratifying than the way they all spoke of his neighbourly - qualities. Now, gentlemen, although no attempt whatever has been made by - the defence to meet the evidence given for the prosecution, yet I feel it - necessary to say that it is utterly impossible that you should ignore the - testimony given as to the character of the prisoner by so many witnesses - of unimpeachable integrity; therefore, gentlemen, I think that the only - conclusion you can come to is that the pig was stolen by the prisoner and - that he is the most amiable man in the County Cork.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Mr. Justice Lawson used to boast that he was the only judge on the Bench - who had ever arrested a man with his own hand. The circumstances connected - with this remarkable incident were related to me by a reporter who was - present in the court when the judge made the arrest. - </p> - <p> - The <i>locale</i> was the court-house of an assize town in the South of - Ireland. For several days the Crown had failed to obtain a conviction, - although in the majority of the cases the evidence was practically - conclusive; and as each prisoner was either sent back or set free, the - crowds of sympathisers made an uproar that all the ushers in attendance - were powerless to suppress. On the fourth day the judge, at the opening of - the court, called for the County Inspector of Constabulary, and, when the - officer was brought from the billiard-room of the club, and bustled in, - all sabre and salute, the judge, in his quiet way, remarked to him, “I’m - sorry for troubling you, sir, but I just wished to say that as the court - has been turned into a bear-garden for some hours during the past three - days, I intend to hold you responsible for the maintenance of perfect - order to-day. Your duty is to arrest every man, woman, or child that makes - any demonstration of satisfaction or dissatisfaction at the result of the - hearing of a case, and to put them in the dock, and give evidence as to - their contempt of court. I’ll deal with them after that.” The officer went - down, and orders were given to his men, of whom there were about fifty in - the court, to arrest any one expressing his feelings. The first prisoner - to be tried was a man named O’Halloran, and his case excited a great deal - of interest. The court was crowded to a point of suffocation while the - judge was summing up, which he did with a directness that left nothing to - be desired. In five minutes the jury had returned a verdict of “Not - Guilty.” At that instant a wild “Hurroo!” rang through the court. It came - from a youth who had climbed a pillar at a distance of about a yard from - the Bench. In a moment the judge had put out his hand and grasped the - fellow by the collar; and then, of course, the policemen crushed through - the crowd, and about a dozen of them seized the prehensible legs of the - prisoner Stylites. - </p> - <p> - “One of you will be ample,” said the judge. “Don’t pull the boy to pieces; - let him down gently.” - </p> - <p> - This operation was carried out, and the excitable youth was placed in the - dock, whence the prisoner just tried had stepped. - </p> - <p> - “Now,” said the judge, “I’m going to make an example of you. You heard - what I said to the Inspector of Constabulary, and yet I arrested you with - my own hand in the very act of committing a gross contempt of court. I’ll - make an example of you for the benefit of others. What’s your name?” - </p> - <p> - “O’Halloran, yer honour,” said the trembling youth. - </p> - <p> - “Isn’t that the name of the prisoner who has just been tried?” said the - judge. - </p> - <p> - “It is, my lord,” replied the registrar. - </p> - <p> - “Is the last prisoner any relation of yours?” the judge asked of the youth - in the dock. - </p> - <p> - “He’s me brother, yer honour,” was the reply. - </p> - <p> - “Release the boy, and go on with the business of the court,” said the - judge. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I chanced to be in Belfast at the time of the riots in 1886, and my - experience of the incidents of every day and every night led me to believe - that British troops have been engaged in some campaigns that were a good - deal less risky to war correspondents than the riots were to the local - newspaper reporters. Six of them were more or less severely wounded in the - course of a week. I found it necessary, more than once, to go through the - localities of the disturbances, and I must confess that I was always glad - when I found myself out of the line of fire. I am strongly of the opinion - that the reporters should have been paid at the ratio of war - correspondents at that time. When they engaged themselves they could not - have contemplated the possibility of being forced daily for several weeks - to stand up before a fusilade of stones weighing a pound or so each, and - Martini-Henry bullets, with an occasional iron “nut” thrown in to make up - weight, as it were. In the words of the estate agents’ advertisements, - there was a great deal of “good mixed shooting” in the streets almost - nightly for a month. - </p> - <p> - Several ludicrous incidents took place while the town was crowded with - constabulary who had been brought hastily from the country districts. A - reporter told me that he was the witness of an earnest remonstrance on the - part of a young policeman with a tram-car driver, whom he advised to take - his “waggon” down some of the side streets, in order to escape the angry - crowd that had assembled farther up the road. Upon another occasion, a - grocer’s shop had been looted by the mob at night, and a man had been - fortunate enough to secure a fine ham which he was endeavouring, but with - very partial success, to secrete beneath his coat. A whole ham takes a - good deal of secreting. The police had orders to clear the street, and - they were endeavouring to obey these orders. The man with the ham received - a push on his shoulder, and the policeman by whom it was dealt, shouted - out in a fine, rich Southern brogue (abhorred in Belfast), “Git along wid - ye, now thin, you and yer violin. Is this any toime for ye to be after - lookin’ to foind an awjence? Ye’ll get that violin broke, so ye will.” - </p> - <p> - The man was only too glad to hurry on with his “Strad.” of fifteen pounds’ - weight, mild-cured. He did not wait to explain that there is a difference - between the viol and “loot.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - One of the country policemen made an arrest of a man whom he saw in the - act of throwing a stone, and the next day he gave his evidence at the - Police Court very clearly. He had ascertained that the scene of the arrest - was York Street, and he said so; but the street is about a mile long, and - the magistrate wished to know at what part of it the incident had - occurred. - </p> - <p> - “It was just outside the cimitery, yer wash’p,” replied the man. - </p> - <p> - “The cemetery?” said the magistrate. “But there’s no cemetery in York - Street.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, yer wash’p—there’s a foine cimitery there,” said the - policeman. “It was was just outside the cimitery I arrested the prisoner.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s the first I’ve heard of a cemetery in that neighbourhood,” said the - Bench. “Don’t you think the constable is mistaken, sergeant?” - </p> - <p> - The sergeant put a few questions to the witness, and asked him how he knew - that the place was a cemetery. - </p> - <p> - “Why, how would anybody know a cimitery except by the tombstones?” said - the witness. “I didn’t go for to dig up a corp or two, but there was the - foinest array of tombstones I ever clapt oyes on.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s the stonecutter’s yard the man means,” came a voice from the body of - the court; and in another moment there was a roar of laughter from all - present. - </p> - <p> - The arrest had been made outside a stonecutter’s railed yard, and the - strange policeman had taken the numerous specimens of the proprietor’s - craft, which were standing around in various stages of progress, for the - <i>bona fide</i> furnishing of a graveyard. - </p> - <p> - He was scarcely to be blamed for his error. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I believe that it was during these riots the story originated—it is - now pretty well known, I think—of the man who had caught a - policeman, and was holding his head down while he battered him, when a - brother rowdy rushed up, crying,— - </p> - <p> - “Who have you there, Bill?” - </p> - <p> - “A policeman.” - </p> - <p> - “Hold on, and let me have a thump at him.” - </p> - <p> - “Git along out of this, and find a policeman for yourself!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Having referred to the Royal Irish Constabulary, I may not perhaps be - regarded as more than usually discursive if I add my expression of - admiration for this splendid Force to the many pages of commendation which - it has received from time to time from those whose opinion carries weight - with it—which mine does not. The men are the flower of the people of - Ireland. They have a <i>sense</i> of discipline—it has not to be - impressed upon them by an occasional “fortnight’s C.B.” Upon one occasion, - I was the witness of the extent to which this innate sense of discipline - will stretch without the breaking strain being reached. One of the most - distinguished officers in the Force was parading about one hundred men - armed with the usual carbine—the handiest of weapons—and with - swords fixed. He was mounted on a charger with some blood in it—you - would not find the same man astride of anything else—and for several - days it had been looking down the muzzles of the rifles of a couple of - regiments of autumn manoeuvrers who had been engaged in a sham fight in - the Park; but it had never shown the least uneasiness, even when the Field - Artillery set about the congenial task of annihilating a skeleton enemy. - It stood patiently while the constabulary “ported,” “carried,” and - “shouldered”; but so soon as the order to “present” was given, a gleam of - sunlight glanced down the long line of fixed swords, and that twinkle was - just what an Irish charger, born and bred among the fogs of the Atlantic - seaboard, could not stand. It whirled round, and went at full gallop - across the springy turf, then suddenly stopped, sending its rider about - twenty yards ahead upon his hands and knees. After this feat, it allowed - itself to be quietly captured by the mounted orderly who had galloped - after it. The orderly dismounted from his horse, and passed it on to the - officer, who galloped back to the long line of men standing at the - “present” just as they had been before he had left them so hurriedly. They - received the order to “shoulder” without emotion, and then the parade went - on as if nothing had happened. Subsequently, the officer remounted his own - charger—which had been led up, and had offered an ample apology—and - in course of time he again gave the order to “present.” The horse’s ears - went back, but it did not move a hoof. After the “shoulder” and “port” the - officer made the men “charge swords,” and did not halt them until they - were within a yard of the horse’s head. The manouvre had no effect upon - the animal. - </p> - <p> - I could not help contrasting the discipline shown by the Irish - Constabulary upon this occasion with the bearing of a company of a - regiment of German Infantry, who were being paraded in the Thiergarten at - Berlin, when I was riding there one day. The captain and lieutenant had - strolled away from the men, leaving them standing, not “at ease,” but at - “attention”—I think the officers were making sure that the carriage - of the Crown Prince was not coming in their direction. But before two - minutes had passed the men were standing as easy as could well be, - chatting together, and suggesting that the officers were awaiting the - approach of certain young ladies, about whose personal traits and whose - profession they were by no means reticent. Of course, when the officers - turned, the men stood at “attention”; but I trotted on to where I lived In - Den Zelten, feeling that there was but little sense of discipline in the - German Army—so readily does a young man arrive at a grossly - erroneous conclusion through generalising from a single instance. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It is difficult to understand how it comes that the splendid services of - the Royal Irish Constabulary have not been recognised by the State. I have - known officers who served on the staff during the Egyptian campaign, but - who confessed to me that they never heard a shot fired except for saluting - purposes, and yet they wore three decorations for this campaign. Surely - those Irish Constabulary officers, who have discharged the most perilous - duties from time to time, as well as daily duties requiring the exercise - of tact, discretion, judgment, and patience, are at least as deserving of - a medal as those soldiers who obtained the maximum of reward at the - minimum of risk in Egypt, South Africa, or Ashantee. The decoration of the - Volunteers was a graceful recognition of the spirit that binds together - these citizen soldiers. Surely the services of some members of the Irish - Constabulary should be similarly recognised. This is a genuine Irish - grievance, and it is one that could be redressed much more easily than the - majority of the ills that the Irish people are heir to. A vote for a - thousand pounds would purchase the requisite number of medals or stars or - crosses—perhaps all three might be provided out of such a fund—for - those members of the Force who have distinguished themselves. The right - adjudication of the rewards presents no difficulty, owing to the “record” - system which prevails in the Force. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV.—IRISH TROTTINGS AND JOTTINGS. - </h2> - <p> - <i>Some Irish hotels—When comfort comes in at the door, humour flies - out by the window—A culinary experience—Plenty of new - sensations—A kitchen blizzard—How to cook corned beef—A - théoriser—Hare soup—A word of encouragement—The result—An - avenue forty-two miles long—Nuda veritas—An uncanny request—A - diabolic lunch—A club dinner—The pièce de resistance—Not - a going concern—A minor prophecy—An easy drainage system—Not - to be worked by an amateur—Après moi, le deluge—Hot water and - its accompaniments—The boots as Atropos—A story of Thackeray—A - young shaver.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN writing for an - Irish newspaper, I took some pains to point out how easily the country - might be made attractive to tourists if only the hotels were improved. I - have had frequent “innings,” and my experiences of Irish hotels in various - districts where I have shot, or fished, or yachted, or boated, would make - a pretty thick volume, if recorded. But while most of these experiences - have some grain of humour in them, that humour is of a type that looks - best when viewed from a distance. When it is first sprung upon him, this - Irish fun is not invariably relished by the traveller. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Max O’Rell told me that he liked the Irish hotels at which he had - sojourned, because he was acknowledged by the <i>maîtres</i> to possess an - identity that could not be adequately expressed by numerals. But on the - whole it is my impression that the numerical system is quite tolerable if - one gets good food and a clean sleeping-place. To be sure there is no - humour in a comfortable dinner, or a bed that does not require a layer of - Keating to be spread as a sedative to the army of occupation; still, - though the story of tough chickens and midnight hunts can be made - genuinely entertaining, I have never found that these actual incidents - were in themselves very inspiriting. - </p> - <p> - A friend of mine who has a capital shooting in a picturesque district, was - compelled to lodge, and to ask his guests to lodge, at the little inn - during his first shooting season. Knowing that the appetite of men who - have been walking over mountains of heather is not usually very - fastidious, he fancied that the inn cook would be quite equal to the - moderate demands made upon her skill. The experiment was a disastrous one. - The more explicit the instructions the woman was given regarding the - preparation of the game, the more mortifying to the flesh were her - achievements. There was, it is true, a certain amount of interest aroused - among us every day as to the form that the culinary whim of the cook would - assume. The monarch that offered a reward for the discovery of a new - sensation would have had a good time with us. We had new sensations at the - dinner hour every day. “Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we - may be,” was an apothegm that found constant illustration when applied to - that woman’s methods: we knew that we gave her salmon, and grouse, and - hare, and snipe; but what was served to us, Heaven and that cook only knew—on - second thoughts I will leave Heaven out of the question altogether. The - monstrous originalities, the appalling novelties, the confounding of - substances, the unnatural daring manifested in every day’s dinner, filled - us with amazement, but, alas! with nothing else. We were living in a sort - of perpetual kitchen blizzard—in the centre of a culinary chaos. The - whirl was too much for us. - </p> - <p> - Our host took upon him to allay the fiend. He sent to the nearest town for - butcher’s supplies. The first joint that arrived was a fine piece of - corned beef. - </p> - <p> - “There, my good woman,” cried our host, putting it into the cook’s hands, - “I suppose you can cook that, if you can’t cook game.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, your honour, it’s misself that can cook it tubbe sure,” she - cried in her lighthearted way. - </p> - <p> - She did cook it. - </p> - <p> - <i>She roasted it for five hours on a spit in front of the kitchen fire.</i> - </p> - <p> - As she laid it on the table, she apologised for the unavoidable absence of - gravy. - </p> - <p> - It was the driest joint she had ever roasted, she said; and I do believe - that it was. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - One of the party, who had theories on the higher education of women, and - other methods of increasing the percentage of unmarriageable females, said - that the cook had never been properly approached. She could not be - expected to know by intuition that the flavour of salmon trout was - impaired by being stewed in a cauldron with a hare and many friends, or - that the prejudices of an effete civilisation did not extend so far as to - make the boiling of grouse in a pot with bacon a necessity of existence. - The woman only needed a hint or two and she would be all right. - </p> - <p> - He said he would give her a hint or two. He made soup the basis of his - first hints. - </p> - <p> - It was so simple, he said. - </p> - <p> - He picked up a couple of hares, an old cock grouse and a few snipe, and - told the woman to put them in a pot, cover them with water, and leave them - to simmer—“Not to boil, mind; you understand?”—“Oh, tubbe - sure, sorr,”—for the six hours that we would be on the mountain. He - showed her how to cut up onions, and they cut up some between them; he - then taught her how to fry an onion in the most delicate of ribbon-like - slices for “browning.” All were added to the pot, and our friend joined us - with a very red face, and carrying about him a flavour of fried onions as - well defined as a saint’s halo by Fra Angelico. The dogs sniffed at him - for a while, and so did the keeper. - </p> - <p> - He declared that the woman was a most intelligent specimen, and quite - ready to learn. We smiled grimly. - </p> - <p> - All that day our friend shot nothing. We could see that, like Eugene Aram, - his thought was otherwhere. We knew that he was thinking over the coming - soup. - </p> - <p> - On returning to the inn after a seven hours’ tramp, he hastened to the - kitchen. A couple of us loitered outside the door, for we felt certain - that a surprise was awaiting our friend—the pot would have leaked, - perhaps; but the savoury smell that filled the kitchen and overflowed into - the lobby and the room where we dined made us aware that everything was - right. - </p> - <p> - Our friend turned a stork’s eye into the pot, and then, with a word of - kind commendation to the cook—“A man’s word of encouragement is - everything to a woman, my lad, with a wink to me—he called for a - pint of port wine and placed it handy. - </p> - <p> - “Now,” said he to the woman, “strain off that soup in a quarter of an - hour, add that wine, and we’ll show these gentlemen that between us we can - cook.” - </p> - <p> - In a quarter of an hour we were sitting round the table. Our friend tried - to look modest and devoid of all self-consciousness as the woman entered - with a glow of crimson triumph on her face, and bearing in her hands an - immense dish with the well-known battered zinc cover concealing the - contents. - </p> - <p> - Down went the dish, and up went the cover, disclosing a rugged, - mountainous heap of the bones of hare, with threads of flesh still - adhering to them, and the skeletons of some birds. - </p> - <p> - “Good Lord!” cried our host. “What’s this anyway? The rags of what was - stewed down for the soup?” - </p> - <p> - Our theorising friend leapt up. - </p> - <p> - “Woman,” he shouted, “where the devil is the soup?” - </p> - <p> - “Sure, didn’t ye bid me strain it off, sorr?” said the woman. - </p> - <p> - “And where the blazes did you strain it off?” he asked, in an awful - whisper. - </p> - <p> - “Why, where should I be after straining it, sorr, but into the bog?” she - replied. - </p> - <p> - The bog was an incident of the landscape at the back of the inn. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I recollect that upon the occasion of this shooting party, a new - under-keeper arrived from Connaught, and I overheard him telling a - colleague who came from the county Clare, that the avenue leading to his - last employer’s residence was forty-two miles long. - </p> - <p> - “By me sowl,” said the Clare man, “it’s not me that would like to be set - down at the lodge gates on an empty stomach within half-an-hour of - dinner-time.” - </p> - <p> - After some further conversation, the Connaught man began to dilate upon - the splendour of his late master’s family. He reached a truly dramatic - climax by saying,— - </p> - <p> - “And every night of their lives at home the ladies strip for dinner.” - </p> - <p> - “Holy Moses!” was the comment. - </p> - <p> - “Do your master’s people at home strip for dinner?” enquired the Connaught - man. - </p> - <p> - “No; but they link in,” was the thoughtful reply. - </p> - <p> - Sometimes, it must be acknowledged, an unreasonable strain is put upon the - resources of an Irish inn by an inconsiderate tourist. Some years ago, my - brother-in-law, Bram Stoker, was spending his holiday in a picturesque - district of the south-west. He put up at the usual inn, and before leaving - for a ramble, oh the morning of his arrival, the cook (and waitress) asked - him what he would like for lunch. The day was a trifle chilly, and, - forgetting for the moment that he was not within the precincts of the - Green-room or the Garrick, he said, “Oh, I think that it’s just the day - for a devil—yes, I’ll cat a devil at two.” - </p> - <p> - “Holy Saints!” cried the woman, as he walked off. “What sort of a man is - that at all, at all? He wants to lunch off the Ould Gentleman.” - </p> - <p> - The landlord scratched his chin and said that this was the most - unreasonable demand that had ever been made upon his house. He expressed - the opinion that the gastronome whose palate was equal to this particular - <i>plat</i> should seek it elsewhere—he even ventured to specify the - <i>locale</i> at which the search might appropriately begin with the best - chances of being realised. His wife, however, took a less despondent view - of the situation, and suggested that as the powers of exorcising the Foul - Fiend were delegated to the priest, it might be only reasonable to assume - that the reverend gentleman would be equal to the much less difficult feat - involved in the execution of the tourist’s order. - </p> - <p> - But before the priest had been sent for, the constabulary officer drove - up, and was consulted on the question that was agitating the household. - With a roar of laughter, the officer called for a couple of chops and the - mustard and cayenne pots—he had been there before—and showed - the cook the way out of her difficulty. - </p> - <p> - But up to the present hour I hear that that landlord says,— - </p> - <p> - “By the powers, it’s misself that never knew what a divil was till Mr. - Stoker came to my house.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - However piquant a comestible the Foul Fiend might be, I believe that in - point of toughness he would compare favourably with a fully-matured swan. - Among the delicacies of the table I fear that the swan will not obtain - great honour, if any dependence may be placed upon a story which was told - to me at a fishing inn in Connemara, regarding an experiment accidentally - tried upon such a bird. I repeat the story in this place, lest any - literary man may be led to pamper a weak digestion by indulging in a swan - supper. The specimen in question was sent by a gentleman, who lived in a - stately home in Lincolnshire, as a gift to the Athenæum club, of which he - was a member. The bird was addressed to the secretary, and that gentleman - without delay handed it over to the cook to be prepared for the table. - There was to be a special dinner at the end of the week, and the committee - thought that a distinctive feature might be made of the swan. They were - not mistaken. As a <i>coup d’oil</i> the swan, resting on a great silver - dish, carried to the table by two servitors, could scarcely have been - surpassed even by the classical peacock or the mediaeval boar’s head. The - croupier plunged a fork with a steady hand into the right part—wherever - that was situated—and then attacked the breast with his knife. Not - the slightest impression could he make upon that portion of the mighty - structure that faced him. The breast turned the edge of the knife; and - when the breast did that the people at the table began to wonder what the - drum-sticks would be like. A stronger blade was sent for, and an athlete—he - was not a member of the Athenæum—essayed to penetrate the skin, and - succeeded too, after a vigorous struggle. When he had wiped the drops from - his brow he went at the flesh with confidence in his own powers. By some - brilliant wrist-practice he contrived to chip a few flakes off, but it - soon became plain that eating any one of them was out of the question. One - might as well submit as a <i>plat</i> a drawer of a collector’s geological - cabinet. The club cook was sent for, and he explained that he had had no - previous experience of swans, but he considered that the thirteen hours’ - boiling to which he had submitted the first specimen that had come under - his notice, all that could reasonably be required by any bird, whether - swan or cassowary. He thought that perhaps with a circular saw, after a - steam roller had been passed a few times over the carcass, it might be - possible.... - </p> - <p> - “Well, I hope you got my swan all right,” said the donor a few days after, - addressing the secretary. - </p> - <p> - “That was a nice joke you played on us,” said the secretary. - </p> - <p> - “Joke? What do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “As if you didn’t know! We had the thing boiled for thirteen hours, and - yet when it was brought to the table we might as well have tried to cut - through the Rock of Gibraltar with a pocket-knife.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean? You don’t mean to say that you had it cooked?” - </p> - <p> - “Didn’t you send it to be cooked?” - </p> - <p> - “Cooked! cooked! Great heavens, man! I sent it to be stuffed and preserved - as a curiosity in the club. That swan has been in my family for two - hundred and eighty years. It was one of the identical birds fed by the - children of Charles I.—you’ve seen the picture of it. My ancestor - held the post of ‘master of the swans and keeper of the king’s cygnets - sure.’ It is said that a swan will live for three hundred years or - thereabouts. And you plucked it, and cooked it! Great heavens! It was a - bit tough, I suppose?” - </p> - <p> - “Tough?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; I daresay you’d be tough, too, about a.d. 2200. And I thought it - would look so well in the hall!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - At the same time that the tale just recorded was told to me, I heard - another Lincolnshire story. I do not suppose that it is new. A certain - church was situated at a place that was within the sphere of influence of - some fens when in flood. The consequence was that during a severe winter, - divine service was held only every second Sunday. Once, however, the - weather was so bad that the parson did not think it worth his while going - near the church for five Sundays. This fact came to the ears of the - Bishop, and he wrote for an explanation. The clergyman replied as follows:— - </p> - <p> - “Your lordship has been quite correctly informed regarding the length of - the interval that has elapsed since my church was open; but the fact is - that the devil himself couldn’t get at my parishioners in the winter, and - I promise your lordship to be before him in the spring.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - That parson took a humbler view of his position and privileges in the - world than did a Presbyterian minister in Ulster whose pompous way of - moving and of speaking drew toward him many admirers and imitators. He - paid a visit to Palestine at one time of his life, and on his return, he - preached a sermon introducing some of his experiences. Now, the only - inhabitants of the Holy Land that the majority of travellers can talk - about are the fleas; but this Presbyterian minister had much to tell about - all that he had seen. It was, however, only when he began to show his - flock how strictly the inspiriting prophecies of Jeremiah and Joel and the - rest had been fulfilled that he proved that he had not visited the country - in vain. - </p> - <p> - “My dear friends,” said he, “I read in the Sacred Book the prophecy that - the land should be in heaps: I looked up from the page, and there, before - my eyes, were the heaps. I read that the bittern should cry there: I - looked up; lo! close at hand stood a bittern. I read that the Minister of - the Lord should mourn there: <i>I was that minister.</i>” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Upon one occasion, when sojourning at a picturesquely situated Connemara - inn, hot water was left outside my bedroom door in a handy soup tureen, in - which there was also a ladle reposing. One morning in the same “hotel” I - called the attention of the official, who discharged (indifferently) the - duties of boots and landlord, to the circumstance that my bath - (recollecting the advertisement of the entertainment which it was possible - to obtain under certain conditions at the Norwegian inn, I had brought the - bath with me) had not been emptied since the previous day. The man said, - “It’s right that you are, sorr,” and forthwith remedied the omission by - throwing the contents of the bath out of the window. - </p> - <p> - I was so struck by the convenience of this system of main drainage, and it - seemed so simple, that the next morning, finding that the bath was in the - same condition as before, I thought to save trouble by performing the - landlord’s operation for myself. I opened the window and tilted over the - bath. In a moment there was a yell from below, and the air became - sulphurous with Celtic maledictions. These were followed by roars of - laughter in the vernacular, so that I thought it prudent to lower both the - window and the blind without delay. - </p> - <p> - “Holy Biddy!” remarked the landlord when I had descended to breakfast—not - failing to observe that a portly figure was standing in a <i>semi-nude</i> - condition in front of the kitchen fire, while on the back of a chair - beside him a black coat was spread-eagled, sending forth a cloud of steam—“Holy - Biddy, sorr, what was that ye did this morning, anyway?” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean, Dennis?” I asked innocently. “I shaved and dressed as - usual.” - </p> - <p> - “Ye emptied the tin tub [<i>i.e</i>., my zinc bath] out of the windy over - Father Conn,” replied the landlord. “It’s himself that’s being dried this - minute before the kitchen fire.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m very sorry,” said I. “You see, I fancied from the way you emptied the - bath yesterday that that was the usual way of doing the business.” - </p> - <p> - “So it is, sorr,” said he. “But you should always be after looking out - first to see that all’s clear below.” - </p> - <p> - “Why don’t you have those directions printed and hung up in the bedroom?” - said I, assuming—as I have always found it safe to do upon such - occasions—the aggressive tone of the injured party. - </p> - <p> - “We don’t have so many gentlemen coming here that’s so dirty that they - need to be washed down every blessed marnin’,” he replied; and I thought - it better to draw upon my newspaper experience, and quote the - three-starred admonition, “All communications on this subject must now - cease.” - </p> - <p> - However, the trout which were laid on the table in front of me were so - numerous, and looked so tempting, that I went into the kitchen, and after - making an elaborate apology to Father Conn, the amiable parish priest, for - the mishap he had sustained through my ignorance of the natural - precautions necessary to be taken when preparing my bath, insisted on the - reverend gentleman’s joining me at breakfast while his coat was being - dried. - </p> - <p> - With only a superficial reluctance, he accepted my invitation, remarking,— - </p> - <p> - “I had my own breakfast a couple of hours ago, sir, but in troth I feel - quite hungry again. Faith, it’s true enough that there’s nothing like a - morning swim for giving a man an appetite.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Two lady relatives of mine were on their way to a country house in the - county Galway, and were compelled to stay for a night at the inn, which - was a sort of half-way house between the railway station and their - destination. On being shown to their bedroom while their dinner was being - made ready, they naturally wished to remove from their faces the traces of - their dusty drive of sixteen miles, so one of them bent over the banisters—there - was no bell in the room, of course—and inquired if the servant would - be good enough to carry upstairs some hot water. - </p> - <p> - “Surely, miss,” the servant responded from below. - </p> - <p> - In a few minutes, the door of the bedroom was knocked at, and the woman - entered, bearing in her hand a tray with two glasses, a saucer of loaf - sugar, a lemon, a ladle, and a small jug of hot water. - </p> - <p> - It appeared that in this district the use of hot water is unknown except - as an accompaniment to whisky, a lemon, and a lump of sugar. The - combination of the four is said to be both palatable and popular. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It was at a much larger and more pretentious establishment in the - south-west that I was staying when a box of books arrived for me from the - library of Messrs. Eason & Son. It was tied with stout, tough cord, - about as thick as one’s little finger. I was in the act of dressing when - the boots brought up the box, so I asked him to open it for me. The man - fumbled for some time at the knot, and at last he said he would have to - cut the cord. - </p> - <p> - When I had rubbed the soap out of my eyes, - </p> - <p> - I noticed him in the act of sawing through the tough cord with one of my - razors which I had laid on the dressing-table after shaving. - </p> - <p> - “Stop, stop,” I shouted. “Man, do you know that that’s a razor?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it’ll do well enough for this, sir. I’ve forgot my knife downstairs,” - said the man complacently. - </p> - <p> - If the razor did for the operation, the operation certainly did for the - razor. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - And here I am led to recall a story told to me by the late Dr. George - Crowe, the husband of Miss Bateman, the distinguished actress, and brother - to Mr. Eyre Crowe, A.R.A. It will be remembered by all who are familiar - with the chief incidents in the life of Thackeray, that in 1853 he adopted - Miss Amy Crowe (her father, an historian and journalist of eminence in his - day, had been one of the novelist’s closest friends), and she became one - of the Thackeray household. Her brother George was at school, but he had - “the run of the house,” so to speak, in Onslow Square. Next to the desire - to become an expert smoker, the desire to become an accomplished shaver - is, I think, the legitimate aspiration of boyhood; and George Crowe had - his longings in this direction, when examining Thackeray’s razors with the - other contents of his dressing-room one day. The means of gratifying such - an aspiration are (fortunately) not invariably within the reach of most - boys, and young Crowe was not exceptionally situated in this matter. The - same spirit of earnest investigation, however, which had led him to - discover the razors, caused him to find in one of the garrets an old but - well-preserved travelling trunk, bound with ox-hide, and studded with - brass nails. To spread a copious lather over a considerable part of the - lid, and to set about the removal, by the aid of a razor, of the hair of - the ox-hide, occupied the boy the greater part of an afternoon. Though not - exactly so good as the real operation, this shave was, he considered, a - move in the right direction; and it was certainly better than nothing at - all. By a singular coincidence, it was about this time that Thackeray - began to complain of the difficulty of putting an edge upon his razors, - and to inquire if any one had been at the case where they were kept. Of - course, no one except the boy knew anything about the business, and he, - for prudential reasons, preserved silence. The area of the ox-hide that - still remained hirsute was pretty extensive, and he foresaw many an hour - of fearful joy, such as he had already tasted in the garret. Twice again - he lathered and shaved at the ox-hide; but the third attempt was not a - success, owing to the sudden appearance of the housekeeper, who led the - boy to the novelist’s study and gave evidence against him, submitting as - proofs the razor, the shaving-brush, and a portion of George Crowe’s thumb - which he had inadvertently sliced off. Thackeray rose from his desk and - mounted the stairs to the garret; and when the housekeeper followed, - insisting on the boy’s accompanying her—probably on the French - principle of confronting a murderer with the body of his victim—Thackeray - was found seated on an unshaved portion of the trunk, and roaring with - laughter. - </p> - <p> - So soon as he had recovered, he shook his finger at the delinquent (who, - twenty-five years afterwards, told me the story), and merely said: - </p> - <p> - “George, I see clearly that in future I’ll have to buy my trunks bald.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVI.—IRISH TOURISTS AND TRAINS. - </h2> - <p> - <i>The late Emperor of Brazil—An incredulous hotel manager—The - surprised A.R.A.—The Emperor as an early riser—The habits of - the English actor—A new reputation—Signor Ciro Pinsuti—The - Prince of Bohemia—Treatment au prince—The bill—An - Oriental prince—An ideal costume for a Scotch winter—Its - subsequent modification—The royal sleeping-place—Trains and - Irish humour—The courteous station-master—The sarcasm of the - travellers—“Punctually seven minutes late”—Not originally an - Irishman—The time of departure of the 7.45 train—Brahke, - brake, brake—The card-players—Possibility of their - deterioration—The dissatisfied passenger—Being in a hurry he - threatens to walk—He didn’t—He wishes he had.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NCE I was treated - very uncivilly at an hotel in the North of Ireland, and as the occasion - was one upon which I was, I believed, entitled to be dealt with on terms - of exceptional courtesy, I felt the slight all the more deeply. The late - Emperor of Brazil, in yielding to his desire to see everything in the - world that was worth seeing, had appeared suddenly in Ireland. I had had - the privilege of taking tiffin with His Majesty aboard a man-of-war at Rio - Janeiro some years previously, and on calling upon him in London upon the - occasion of his visit to England, I found to my surprise that he - remembered the incident. He asked me to go with him to the Giant’s - Causeway, and I promised to do so if he did not insist on starting before - sunrise,—he was the earliest riser I ever met. His idea was that we - could leave Belfast in the morning, travel by rail to Portrush - (sixty-seven miles distant), drive along the coast to the Giant’s Causeway - (eight miles), and return to Belfast in time to catch the train which left - for Dublin at three o’clock. - </p> - <p> - This programme was actually carried out. On entering the hotel at Portrush—we - arrived about eight in the morning—I hurried to the manager. - </p> - <p> - “I have brought the Emperor of Brazil to breakfast,” said I, “so that if - you could let us have the dining-room to ourselves I should be much - obliged to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Who is it that you say you’ve brought?” asked the manager sleepily. - </p> - <p> - “The Emperor of Brazil,” I replied promptly. - </p> - <p> - “Come now, clear off out of this, you and your jokes,” said the manager. - “I’ve been taken in before to-day. You’ll need to get up earlier in the - morning if you want to do it again. The Emperor of Brazil indeed! It’ll be - the King of the Cannibal Islands next!” - </p> - <p> - I felt mortified, and so, I fancy, did the manager shortly afterwards. - </p> - <p> - Happily the hotel is now managed by the railway company, and is one of the - best in all Ireland. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I fared better in this matter than the messenger who hurried to the - residence of a painter, who is now a member of the Royal Academy, to - announce his election as Associate in the days of Sir Francis Grant. It is - said that the painter felt himself to be so unworthy of the honour which - was being thrust upon him, that believing that he perceived an attempt on - the part of some of his brother-artists to make him the victim of a - practical joke, he promptly kicked the messenger downstairs. - </p> - <p> - The manager of the hotel did not quite kick me out when I explained to him - that his house was to be honoured by the presence of an Emperor, but he - looked as if he would have liked to do so. - </p> - <p> - Regarding the early rising of the Emperor Dom Pedro II., several amusing - anecdotes were in circulation in London upon the occasion of his first - visit. One morning he had risen, as usual, about four o’clock, and was - taking a stroll through Covent Garden market, when he came face to face - with three well-known actors, who were returning to their rooms after a - quiet little supper at the Garrick Club. The Emperor inquired who the - gentlemen were, and he was told. For years afterwards he was, it is said, - accustomed to declare that the only men he met in England who seemed to - believe with him that the early morning was the best part of the day, were - the actors. The most distinguished members of the profession were, he - said, in the habit of rising between the hours of three and four every - morning during the summer. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - A story which tends to show that in some directions, at any rate, in - Ireland the hotel proprietors are by no means wanting in courtesy towards - distinguished strangers, even when travelling in an unostentatious way, - was told to me by the late Ciro Pinsuti, the well-known song writer, at - his house in Mortimer Street. (When he required any changes in the verses - of mine which he was setting, he invariably anticipated my objections by a - story, told with admirable effect.) It seems that Pinsuti was induced some - years before to take a tour to the Killarney Lakes. On arriving at the - hotel where he had been advised to put up, he found that the house was so - crowded he had to be content with a sort of china closet, into which a - sofa-bed had been thrust. The landlord was almost brusque when he ventured - to protest against the lack of accommodation, but subsequently a - compromise was effected, and Pinsuti strolled away along the lakes. - </p> - <p> - On returning he found in the hall of the hotel the genial nobleman who was - Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and an old London friend of Pinsuti’s. He was - on a visit to the Herberts of Muckross, and attended only by his son and - one aide-de-camp. - </p> - <p> - Now, at one time the same nobleman had been in the habit of contracting - Pinsuti’s name, when addressing him, into “Pince”; in the course of time - this became improved into “Prince”; and for years he was never addressed - except in this way; so that when he entered the hall of the hotel, His - Excellency lifted up his hands and cried,— - </p> - <p> - “Why, Prince, who on earth would have fancied meeting you here of all - places in the world?” - </p> - <p> - Pinsuti explained that he had merely crossed the Channel for a day or two, - and that he was staying at the hotel. - </p> - <p> - “Come along then, and we’ll have lunch together,” said the Lord - Lieutenant; and Pinsuti forthwith joined the Viceregal party. - </p> - <p> - But when luncheon was over, and the Viceroy was strolling through the - grounds for a smoke by the side of the musician, the landlord approached - His Excellency’s son, saying,— - </p> - <p> - “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but may I ask who the Prince is that - lunched with you and His Excellency?” - </p> - <p> - “What Prince?” said Lord Ernest, somewhat puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, my lord; I heard His Excellency address him as Prince more than - once,” said the landlord. - </p> - <p> - Then Lord Ernest, perceiving the ground for a capital joke, said,— - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the Prince—yes, to be sure; I fancied you knew him. Prince! - yes, that’s the Prince of Bohemia.” - </p> - <p> - “The Prince of Bohemia! and I’ve sent him to sleep on an iron chair-bed in - a china closet!” cried the landlord. - </p> - <p> - Lord Ernest looked grave. - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn’t have done that if I had been you,” he said, shaking his head. - “You must try and do better for him than that, my man.” Shortly afterwards - the Viceregal party drove off, and then the landlord approached Pinsuti, - and bowing to the ground, said,— - </p> - <p> - “I must humbly apologise to your Royal Highness for not having a suitable - room for your Royal Highness in the morning; but now I’m proud to say that - I have had prepared an apartment which will, I trust, give satisfaction.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean by Highnessing me, my good man?” asked Pinsuti. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” said the landlord, smiling and bowing, “though it may please your - Royal Highness to travel <i>incognito</i>, I trust I know what is due to - your exalted station, sir.” - </p> - <p> - For the next two days Pinsuti was, he told me, treated with an amount of - respect such as he had never before experienced. A waiter was specially - told off to attend to him, and every time he passed the landlord the - latter bowed in his best style. - </p> - <p> - It was, however, an American lady tourist who held an informal meeting in - the drawingroom of the hotel, at which it was agreed that no one should be - seated at the <i>table d’hote</i> until the Prince of Bohemia had entered - and taken his place. - </p> - <p> - On the morning of his departure he found, waiting to take him to the - railway station, a carriage drawn by four horses. Out to this he passed - through lines of bowing tourists—especially Americans. - </p> - <p> - “It was all very nice, to be sure,” said Pinsuti, in concluding his - narrative; “but the bill I had to pay was not so gratifying. However, one - cannot be a Prince, even of Bohemia, without paying for it.” - </p> - <p> - This story more than neutralises, I think, the impression likely to be - produced by the account of the insolence of the official at the northern - hotel. Universal civility may be expected even at the largest and - best-appointed hotels in Ireland. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - As I have somehow drifted into these anecdotes about royal personages, at - the risk of being considered digressive—an accusation which I spurn—I - must add one curious experience which some relations of mine had of a - genuine prince. My cousin, Major Wyllie, of the Madras Staff Corps, had - been attached to the prince’s father, who was a certain rajah, and had - been the instrument employed by the Government for giving him some - excellent advice as to the course he should adopt if he were desirous of - getting the Star which it was understood he was coveting. The rajah was - anxious to have his heir, a boy of twelve, educated in England, and he - wished to find for him a place in a family where his morals—the - rajah was great on morals—would be properly looked after; so he - sought the advice of Major Wyllie on this important subject. After some - correspondence and much persuasion on the part of the potentate, my cousin - consented to send the youth to his father’s house near Edinburgh. The - rajah was delighted, and promised to have an outfit prepared for his son - without delay. The result of the consultation which he had with some - learned members of his <i>entourage</i> on the subject of the costume - daily worn in Edinburgh by gentlemen, was peculiar. I am of the opinion - that some of its distinctive features must have been exaggerated, while - the full value of others cannot have been assigned to them; for the young - prince submitted himself for the approval of Major Wyllie, and some other - officers of the Staff, wearing a truly remarkable dress. His boots were of - the old Hessian pattern, with coloured silk tassels all round the uppers. - His knees were bare, but just above them the skirt of a kilt flowed, in - true Scotch fashion, only that the material was not cloth but silk, and - the colours were not those of any known tartan, but simply a brilliant - yellow. The coat was of blue velvet, crusted with jewels, and instead of - the flowing shoulder-pieces, there hung down a rich mantle of gold - brocade. The crowning incident of this ideal costume of an unobtrusive - Scotch gentleman whose aim is to pass through the streets without - attracting attention, was a crimson velvet glengarry cap worn over a white - turban, and containing three very fine ostrich feathers of different, - colours, fastened by a diamond aigrette. - </p> - <p> - Yes, the consensus of opinion among the officers was that the rajah had - succeeded wonderfully in giving prominence to the chief elements of the - traditional Scottish national dress, without absolutely extinguishing - every spark of that orientalism to which the prince had been accustomed. - It was just the sort of costume that a simple body would like to wear - daily, walking down Prince’s Street, during an inclement winter, they - said. There was no attempt at ostentation about it; its beauty consisted - in its almost Puritan simplicity; and there pervaded it a note of that - sternness which marks the character of the rugged North Briton. - </p> - <p> - The rajah was delighted with this essay of his advisers at making a - consistent blend of Calicut and Caledonia in <i>modes</i>; but somehow the - prince arrived in Scotland in a tweed suit. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I afterwards heard that on the first morning after the arrival of the - prince at his temporary home, he was missing. His bed showed no signs of - having been slept in during the night; but the eiderdown quilt was not to - be seen. It was only about the breakfast hour that the butler found His - Highness, wrapped in the eiderdown quilt, <i>under the bed.</i> - </p> - <p> - He had occupied a lower bunk in a cabin aboard the P. & O. steamer on - the voyage to England, and he had taken it for granted that the sleeping - accommodation in the house where he was an honoured guest was of the same - restricted type. He had thus naturally crept under the bed, so that some - one else might enjoy repose in the upper and rather roomier compartment. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The transition from Irish inns to Irish railways is not a violent one. On - the great trunk lines the management is sufficiently good to present no - opportunities for humorous reminiscences. It is with railways as with - hotels: the more perfectly appointed they are, the less humorous are the - incidents associated with them in the recollection of a traveller. It is - safe to assume that, as a general rule, native wit keeps clear of a line - of rails. Mr. Baring Gould is good enough to explain, in his “Strange - Survivals and Superstitions,” that the fairy legend is but a shadowy - tradition of the inhabitants during the Stone Age; and he also explains - how it came about that iron was accepted as a potent agent for driving - away these humorous folk. The iron road has certainly driven the witty - aborigines into the remote districts of Ireland. A railway guard has never - been known to convulse the passengers with his dry wit as he snips their - tickets, nor do the clerks at the pigeon-holes take any particular trouble - to Hash out a <i>bon mot</i> as one counts one’s change. The man who, - after pouring out the thanks of the West for the relief meal given to the - people during the last failure of the potato and every other crop, said, - “Troth, if it wasn’t for the famine we’d all be starving entirely,” lived - far from the sound of the whistle of an engine. - </p> - <p> - Still, I have now and again come upon something on an Irish railway that - was droll by reason of its incongruity. There was a station-master at a - small town on an important line, who seemed a survival of the leisurely - days of our grandfathers. He invariably strolled round the carriages to - ask the passengers if they were quite comfortable, just as the - conscientious head waiter at the “<i>Trois Frères</i>” used to do in - respect of his patrons. He would suggest here and there that a window - might be closed, as the morning air was sometimes very treacherous. He - even pressed foot-warmers upon the occupants of the second-class - carriages. He was the friend of all the matrons who were in the habit of - travelling by the line, and he inquired after their numerous ailments - (including babies), and listened with dignified attention while they told - him all that should be told in public—sometimes a trifle more. A - medical student would learn as much about a very interesting branch of the - profession through paying attention to the exchange of confidences at that - station, as he would by walking the hospitals for a year. The - station-master was greatly looked up to by agriculturists, and it was - commonly reported that there was no better judge of the weather to be - found in the immediate neighbourhood of the station. - </p> - <p> - It was really quite absurd to hear English commercial travellers and other - persons in the train, who had not become aware of the good qualities of - this most estimable man, grumbling because the train usually remained at - this platform for ten minutes instead of the two minutes allotted to it in - the “A B C.” The engine-drivers, it was said, also growled at being forced - to run the twenty miles on either side of this station at as fast a rate - as forty miles an hour, instead of the thirty to which they had accustomed - themselves, to save their time. The cutting remarks of the impatient - passengers made no impression upon him. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, station-master,” cried a commercial gentleman one day when the - official had come across quite an unusual number of acquaintances, “is - there a breakdown on the line?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know indeed, sir, but I’ll try and find out for you,” said the - station-master blandly. He went off hurriedly (for him), and did not - return for five minutes. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve telegraphed up the line, sir,” said he to the gentleman, who only - meant to be delicately sarcastic, “and I’m happy to assure you that no - information regarding a breakdown has reached any of the principal - stations. It has been raining at Ballynamuck, but I don’t think it will - continue long. Can I do anything more for you, sir?” - </p> - <p> - “No, thank you,” said the commercial gentleman meekly. - </p> - <p> - “I can find out for you if the Holyhead steamer has had a good passage, if - you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes,” suggested the official. “What! - you are anxious to get on? Certainly, sir; I’ll tell the guard. Good - morning, sir.” - </p> - <p> - When the train was at last in motion a wiry old man in a corner pulled out - his watch, and then turned to the commercial traveller. - </p> - <p> - “Are you aware, sir,” he said tartly, “that your confounded inquiries kept - us back just seven minutes? You should have some consideration for your - fellow-passengers, let me tell you, sir.” - </p> - <p> - A murmur of assent went round the compartment. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Upon another occasion a passenger, on arriving at the station over whose - destinies this courteous official presided, put his head out of the - carriage window, and inquired if the train had arrived punctually. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir,” replied the station-master, “very punctually: seven minutes - late to a second.” - </p> - <p> - Upon another occasion I heard him say to an inquirer,— - </p> - <p> - “Oh no, sir; I wasn’t originally an Irishman. I am one now, however.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “By heavens!” said some one at the further end of the compartment, “that - reply removes all doubt on the subject.” - </p> - <p> - Several years ago I was staying at Lord Avonmore’s picturesque lodge at - the head of Lough Dearg. A fellow-guest received a telegram one Sunday - afternoon which compelled his immediate departure, and seeing by the - railway time-table that a train left the nearest station at 7.45, we drove - in shortly before that hour. There was, however, no sign of life on the - little platform up to 7.50. Thereupon my friend became anxious, and we - hunted in every direction for even the humblest official. After some - trouble we found a porter asleep on a pile of cushions in the lamp-room. - We roused him and said,— - </p> - <p> - “There’s a train marked on the time-table to leave here at 7.45, but it’s - now 7.50, and there’s no sign of a train. What time may we expect it?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know, sir, for myself.” said the porter, “but I’ll ask the - station-master.” - </p> - <p> - We followed him down the platform, and then a man, in his shirt sleeves, - came out of an office. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. O’Flaherty,” cried the porter, “here’s two gentlemen that wants to - know, if you please, at what o’clock the 7.45 train leaves.” - </p> - <p> - “It leaves at eight on weekdays and a quarter past eight on Sundays,” was - the thoughtful reply. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It is reported that on the same branch, an engine-driver, on reaching the - station more than usually behind his time, declared that he had never - known “herself”—meaning the engine—to be so sluggish before. - She needed a deal of rousing before he could get any work whatever out of - her, he said; and she had pulled up at the platform without a hand being - put to the brake. When he tried to start the engine again he failed - utterly in his attempt. She had “rusted,” he said, and when an engine - rusted she was more stubborn than any horse. - </p> - <p> - It was a passenger who eventually suggested that perhaps if the brakes - were turned off, the engine might have a better chance of doing its work. - </p> - <p> - This suggestion led to an examination of the brake wheels of the engine. - </p> - <p> - “By me sowl, that’s a joke!” said the engine-driver. “If I haven’t been - driving her through the county Tipperary with the brakes on!” - </p> - <p> - And so he had. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - On a branch line farther north the official staff were said to be so - extremely fond of the Irish National game of cards—it is called - “Spoil Five”—that the guard, engine-driver, and stoker invariably - took a hand at it on the tool-box on the tender—a poor substitute - for a table, the guard explained to an interested passenger who made - inquiries on the subject, but it served well enough at a pinch, and it was - not for him to complain. He was right: it was for the passengers to - complain, and some of them did so; and a remonstrance was sent to the - staff which practically amounted to a prohibition of any game of cards on - the engine when the train was in motion. It was very reasonably pointed - out by the manager that, unless the greatest watchfulness were observed by - the guard, he might, when engaged at the game, allow the train to run past - some station at which it was advertised to stop—as a matter of fact - this had frequently occurred. Besides, the manager said, persistence in - the practice under the conditions just described could not but tend to the - deterioration of the staff as card-players; so he trusted that they would - see that it was advisable to give their undivided attention to their - official duties. - </p> - <p> - The staff cheerfully acquiesced, admitting that now and again it was a - great strain upon them to recollect what cards were out, and at the same - time what was the name of the station just passed. The fact that the guard - had been remiss enough, on throwing down the hand that had just been dealt - to him on the arrival of the train at Ballycruiskeen, to walk down the - platform crying out “Hearts is thrumps!” instead of the name of the - station, helped to make him at least see the wisdom of the manager’s - remonstrance; and no more “Spoil Five” was played while the engine was in - motion. - </p> - <p> - But every time the train made a stoppage, the cards were shuffled on the - engine, and the station-master for the time being took a hand, as well as - any passenger who had a mind to contribute to the pool. Now and again, - however, a passenger turned up who was in a hurry to get to his journey’s - end, and made something of a scene—greatly to the annoyance of the - players, and the couple of policemen, and the porter or two, who had the - <i>entrée</i> to the “table.” Upon one occasion such a passenger appeared, - and, in considerable excitement, pointed out that the train had taken - seventy-five minutes to do eight miles. He declared that this was - insufferable, and that, sooner than stand it any longer, he would walk the - remainder of the distance to his destination. - </p> - <p> - He was actually showing signs of carrying out his threat, when the guard - threw down his hand, dismounted from the engine and came behind him. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, sir, you’ll get into the train again, won’t you?” said he. - </p> - <p> - “No, I’ll be hanged if I will,” shouted the passenger. “I’ve no time to - waste, I’ll walk.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, no, sir; you’ll get into the train. Do, sir; and you’ll be at the end - of the journey every bit as soon as if you walked,” urged the official. - </p> - <p> - His assurance on this point prevailed, and the passenger returned to his - carriage. But unless the speed upon that occasion was a good deal greater - than it was when I travelled over the same line, it is questionable if he - would not have been on the safe side in walking. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVII—HONORARY EDITORS AND OTHERS. - </h2> - <p> - <i>Our esteemed correspondent—The great imprinted—Lord - Tennyson’s death—“Crossing the Bar”—Why was it never printed - in its entirety?—The comments on the poem—Who could the Pilot - have been?—Pilot or pilot engine?—A vexed and vexing question—Erroneous - navigation—Tennyson’s voyage with Mr. Gladstone—Its - far-reaching results—Tennyson’s interest in every form of literary - work—“My Official Wife”—Amateur critics—The Royal Dane—Edwin - Booth and his critic—A really comic play—An Irving enthusiast—“Gemini - and Virgo”—“Our sincerest laughter”—The drollest of - soliloquies—“Eugene Aram” for the hilarious—The proof of a - sincere devotion.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE people who - spend their time writing letters to newspapers pointing out mistakes, or - what they imagine to be mistakes, and making many suggestions as to how - the newspaper should be conducted in all its departments, constitute a - branch of the profession of philanthropy, to which sufficient attention - has never been given. - </p> - <p> - I do not, of course, allude to the type whom Mr. George Du Maurier derided - when he put the phrase <i>J’écrirai à le Times</i> into his mouth on being - compelled to pay an extravagant bill at a French hotel; there are people - who have just grievances to expose, and there are newspapers that exist - for the dissemination of those grievances; but it is an awful thought that - at this very moment there are some hundreds—perhaps thousands—of - presumably sane men and women sitting down and writing letters to their - local newspapers to point out to the management that the jeu d’esprit - attributed in yesterday’s issue to Sydney Smith, was one of which Douglas - Jerrold was really the author; or that the quotation about the wind being - tempered to the shorn lamb is not to be found in the Bible, but in “the - works of the late Mr. Sterne”; or perhaps suggesting that no country could - rightly be regarded as exempted from the list of lands forming a - legitimate sphere for missionary labour, whose newspapers give up four - columns daily to an account of the horse-racing of the day before. A book - might easily be written by any one who had some experience, not of the - letters that appear in a newspaper, but of those that are sent to the - editor by enthusiasts on the subject of finance, morality, religion, and - the correct text of some of Burns dialect poems. - </p> - <p> - When Lord Tennyson died, I printed five columns of a biographical and - critical sketch of the great poet. I thought it necessary to quote only a - single stanza of “Crossing the Bar.” During the next clay I received quite - a number of letters asking in what volume of Tennyson’s works the poem was - to be found. In the succeeding issue of the paper I gave the poem in full. - From that day on during the next fortnight, no post arrived without - bringing me a letter containing the same poem, with a request to have it - published in the following issue; and every writer seemed to be under the - impression that he (or she) had just discovered “Crossing the Bar.” Then - the clergymen who forwarded in manuscript the sermons which they had - preached on Tennyson, pointing out the “lessons” of his poems, presented - their compliments and requested the insertion of “Crossing the Bar,” <i>in - its entirety</i>, in the place in the sermons where they had quoted it. - All this time “poems” on the death of Tennyson kept pouring in by the - hundred, and I can safely say that not one came under my notice that did - not begin, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Yes, thou hast cross’d the Bar, and face to face - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Thy Pilot seen,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - or with words to that effect. - </p> - <p> - After this had been going on for some weeks a member of the proprietorial - household came to me with a letter open in his hand. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder how it was that we missed that poem of Tennyson’s.” said he. “It - would have done well, I think, if it had been published in our columns at - his death.” - </p> - <p> - “What poem is that?” I inquired. - </p> - <p> - “This is it,” he replied, offering me the letter which he held. “A - personal friend of my own sends it to me for insertion. It is called - ‘Crossing the Bar.’ Have you ever seen it before?” - </p> - <p> - The aggregate thickness of skull of the proprietorial household was - phenomenal. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - When writing on the subject of this poem I may perhaps be permitted to - express the opinion, that the remarks made about it in some directions - were the most astounding that ever appeared in print respecting a - composition of the character of “Crossing the Bar.” - </p> - <p> - One writer, it may be remembered, took occasion to point out that the - “Pilot” was, of course, the poet’s son, by whom he had been predeceased. - The “thought” was, we were assured, that his son had gone before him to - show him the direction to take, so to speak. Now whatever the “thought” of - the poet was, the thought of this commentator converged not upon a pilot - but a pilot-engine. - </p> - <p> - Then another writer was found anxious to point out that Tennyson’s - navigation was defective. “What would be the use of a pilot when the bar - was already crossed?” was the question asked by this earnest inquirer. - This gentleman’s idea clearly was that Tennyson should have subjected - himself to a course of Mr. Clark Russell before attempting to write such a - poem as “Crossing the Bar.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The fact was that Tennyson knew enough navigation for a poet, just as Mr. - Gladstone knows enough for a premier. When the two most picturesque of - Englishmen (assuming that Mr. Gladstone is an Englishman) took their - cruise together in a steam yacht they kept their eyes open, I have good - reason to know. I question very much if the most ideal salt in the - mercantile marine could make a better attempt to describe some incidents - of the sea than Tennyson did in “Enoch Arden”; and as the Boston gentleman - was doubtful if more than six men in his city could write “Hamlet,” so I - doubt if the same number of able-bodied seamen, whose command of emphatic - language is noted, could bring before our eyes the sight, and send rushing - through our ears the sound, of a breaking wave, with greater emphasis than - Tennyson did when he wrote,— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “As the crest of some slow-arching wave - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Heard in dead night along that table-shore - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Drops flat; and after the great waters break, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - From less and less to nothing.‘’ - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It was after he had returned from his last voyage with Mr. Gladstone that - Tennyson wrote “Crossing the Bar.” - </p> - <p> - It was after Mr. Gladstone had returned from the same voyage that he - consolidated his reputation as a statesman by a translation of “Rock of - Ages” into Italian. He then made Tennyson a peer. - </p> - <p> - Perhaps it may not be considered an impertinence on my part if I give, in - this place, an instance, which came under my notice, of the eclectic - nature of Lord Tennyson’s interest in even the least artistic branches of - literary work. A relative of mine went to Aldworth to lunch with the - family of the poet only a few weeks before his death saddened every home - in England. Lord Tennyson received his guest in his favourite room; he was - seated on a sofa at a window overlooking the autumn russet landscape, and - he wore a black velvet coat, which made his long delicate fingers seem - doubly pathetic in their worn whiteness. He had been reading, and laid - down the book to greet his visitor. This book was “My Official Wife.” - </p> - <p> - Now the author of the story so entitled is not the man to talk of his - “Art,” as so many inferior writers do, in season and out of season. He - knows that his stories are no more deserving of being regarded as - high-class literature than is the scrappy volume at which I am now - engaged. He knows, however, that he is an excellent exponent of a form of - art that interests thousands of people on both sides of the Atlantic; and - the fact that Tennyson was able to read such a story as “My Official Wife” - seems to me to show how much the poet was interested in a very significant - phase of the constantly varying taste of the great mass of English - readers. - </p> - <p> - It is the possession of such a sympathetic nature as this that prevents a - man from ever growing old. Mr. Gladstone also seems to read everything - that comes in his way, and he is never so busy as to be unable to snatch a - moment to write a word of kindly commendation upon an excessively dull - book. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It is not only upon the occasion of the death of a great man or a prince - that some people are obliging enough to give an editor a valuable hint or - two as to the standpoint from which the character of the deceased should - be judged. They now and again express themselves with great freedom on the - subject of living men, and are especially frank in their references to the - private lives of the best-known and most highly respected gentlemen. It - is, however, the performances of actors that form the most fruitful - subject of irresponsible comment for “outsiders.” It has often seemed to - me that every man has his own idea of the way “Hamlet” should be - represented. When I was engaged in newspaper work I found that every new - representation of the play was received by some people as the noblest - effort to realise the character, while others were of the opinion that the - actor might have found a more legitimate subject than this particular play - for burlesque treatment. Mr. Edwin Booth once told me a story—I dare - say it may be known in the United States—that would tend to convey - the impression that the study of Hamlet has made its way among the - coloured population as well as the colourless—if there are any—of - America. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Booth said that he was acting in New Orleans, and when at the hotel, - his wants were enthusiastically attended to by a negro waiter. At every - meal the man showed his zeal in a very marked way, particularly by never - allowing another waiter to come within hailing distance of his chair. Such - attention, the actor thought, should be rewarded, so he asked Caractacus - if he would care to have an order for the theatre. The waiter declared - that if he only had the chance of seeing Mr. Booth on the stage, he (the - waiter) would die happy when his time came. The actor at once gave him an - order for the same night, and the next morning he found the man all teeth - and eyes behind his chair. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Caractacus, did you manage to go to the theatre last night?” asked - Booth. - </p> - <p> - “Didn’t I jus’, Massa Boove,” cried the waiter beaming. - </p> - <p> - “And how did you enjoy the piece?” - </p> - <p> - “Jus’ lubly, sah; nebber onjoyed moself so well—it kep’ me in a roar - o’ larfta de whole ebening, sah. Oh, Massa Boove, you was too funny.” - </p> - <p> - The play that had been performed was <i>Hamlet.</i> - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I chanced to be residing for a time in a large manufacturing town which - Mr. Irving visited when “touring” some twelve years ago. In that town an - enthusiastic admirer of Mr. Irving’s lived, and he was, with Mr. Irving - and myself, a guest of the mayor’s at a dinner party on one Sunday night. - In the drawing-room of the mayoress the great actor repeated his favourite - poem—“Gemini and Virgo,” from Calverley’s “Verses and Translations,” - dealing with inimitable grace with the dainty humour of this exquisite - trifle; and naturally, every one present was delighted. For myself I may - say that, frequently though I had heard Mr. Irving repeat the verses. - </p> - <p> - I felt that he had never before brought to bear upon them the consummate - art of that high comedy of which he is the greatest living exponent. But I - could not help noticing that the gentleman who had protested so - enthusiastic an admiration for the actor, was greatly puzzled as the - recitation went on, and I came to the conclusion that he had not the - remotest idea what it was all about. When some ladies laughed outright at - the delivery of the lines, with matchless adroitness, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “I did not love as others do— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - None ever did that I’ve heard tell of,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - the man looked angrily round and cried “Hsh!” but even this did not - overawe the young women, and they all laughed again at, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “One night I saw him squeeze her hand— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - There was no doubt about the matter. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - I said he must resign, or stand - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - My vengeance—and he chose the latter.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - But by this time it had dawned upon the jealous guardian of Mr. Irving’s - professional reputation that the poem was meant to be a trifle humorous, - and so soon as he became convinced of this, he almost interrupted the - reciter with his uproarious hilarity, especially at places where the - humour was far too subtle for laughter; and at the close he wiped his eyes - and declared that the fun was too much for him. - </p> - <p> - I asked a relative of his if he thought that the man had the slightest - notion of what the poem was about, and his relative said,— - </p> - <p> - “It might be in Sanskrit for all he understands of it. He loves Mr. Irving - for himself alone. He has got no idea of art.” - </p> - <p> - Later in the night the conversation turned upon the difference between the - elocutionary modes of expression of the past and the present day. In - illustration of a point associated with the question of effect, Mr. Irving - gave me at least a thrill such as I had never before experienced through - the medium of his art, by repeating,— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “To be or not to be: that is the question.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Before he had reached the words,— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “To die: to sleep: - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - No more,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I felt that I had suddenly had a revelation made to me of the utmost - limits of art; that I had been permitted a glimpse behind the veil, if I - may be allowed the expression; that I had been permitted to take a single - glance into a world whose very name is a mystery to the sons of men. - </p> - <p> - Every one present seemed spellbound. A commonplace man who sat next to me, - drew a long breath—it was almost a gasp—and said,— - </p> - <p> - “That is too much altogether for such people us we are. My God! I don’t - know what I saw—I don’t know how I come to be here.” - </p> - <p> - He could not have expressed better what my feeling was; and yet I had seen - Mr. Irving’s Hamlet seventeen times, so that I might have been looked upon - as unsusceptible to any further revelation on a point in connection with - the soliloquy. - </p> - <p> - When I glanced round I saw Mr. Irving’s enthusiastic admirer once more - wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. It was not, however, until Mr. - Irving was in the act of reciting “The Dream of Eugene Aram,” that the - same gentleman yielded to what he conceived to be the greatest comic treat - of the evening. - </p> - <p> - Happily he occupied a back seat, and smothered his laughter behind a huge - red handkerchief, which was guffaw-proof. - </p> - <p> - He was a little lower than the negro waiter in his appreciation of the - actor’s art. - </p> - <p> - A year afterwards I met the same gentleman at an hotel in Scotland, and he - reminded me of the dinner-party at the mayor’s. His admiration for Mr. - Irving had in no degree diminished. He was partaking of a simple lunch of - cold beef and pickled onions; and when he began to speak of the talents of - the actor, he was helping himself to an onion, but so excited did he - become that instead of dropping the dainty on his plate, he put it into - his mouth, and after a crunch or two, swallowed it. Then he helped himself - to a second, and crunched and talked away, while my cheeks became wrinkled - merely through watching him. He continued automatically ladling the onions - into his mouth until the jar was nearly empty, and the roof of my mouth - felt crinkly. Fortunately a waiter came up—he had clearly been - watching the man, and perceived that the hotel halfcrown lunch in this - particular case would result in a loss to the establishment—and - politely inquired if he had quite done with the pickle bottle, as another - gentleman was asking for it. - </p> - <p> - I wondered how the man felt after the lapse of an hour or so. I could not - but believe in the sincerity of a devotion that manifested itself in so - striking a manner. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I have mentioned “The Dream of Eugene Aram.” Has any one ever attempted to - identify the “little boy” who was the recipient of the harrowing tale of - the usher? In my mind there is no doubt that the “gentle lad” whom Hood - had in his eye was none other than James Burney, son of Dr. Burney, and - brother of the writer of “Evelina.” He was a pupil at the school near Lynn - which was fortunate enough to obtain the services of Eugene Aram as usher; - and I have no doubt that, when he settled down in London, after joining in - the explorations of Captain Cook, he excited the imagination of his friend - Hood by his reminiscences of his immortal usher. - </p> - <p> - Gessner’s “Death of Abel” was published in England before the edition, - illustrated by Stothard, appeared in 1797. Perhaps, however, young Master - Burney carried his Bible about with him. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVIII.—OUTSIDE THE LYCEUM BILL. - </h2> - <p> - <i>Mr. Edwin Booth—Othello and Iago at supper—The guest—Mr. - Irving’s little speech—Mr. Booth’s graceful reply—A striking - tableau—A more memorable gathering—The hundredth night of “The - Merchant of Venice”—The guests—Lord Houghton’s speech—Mr. - Irving’s reply—Mr. J: L. Toole supplies an omission—Mr. Dion - Boncicault at the Lyceum—English as she is spoke—“Trippingly - on the tongue”—The man who was born to teach the pronunciation of - English—A Trinity College student—The coveted acorn—A - good word for the English.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> DID not mean to - enter upon a course of theatrical anecdotage in these pages, but having - mentioned the name of a great actor recently dead, I cannot refrain from - making a brief reference to what was certainly one of the most interesting - episodes in his career. I allude to Mr. Edwin Booth’s professional visit - to London in 1881. It may truthfully be said that if Mr. Booth was not - wholly responsible for the financial failure of his abbreviated “season” - at the Princess’s Theatre, neither was he wholly responsible for his - subsequent success at the Lyceum. I should like, however, to have an - opportunity of bearing testimony to his frank and generous appreciation of - the courtesy shown to him by Mr. Henry Irving, in inviting him to play in - <i>Othello</i>. when it became plain that the performances of the American - actor at the Princess’s were not likely to make his reputation in England. - It would be impossible for me to forget the genuine emotion shown by Mr. - Booth when, on the Saturday night that brought to a close the notable - representations of <i>Othello</i> at the Lyceum, he referred to the - kindness which he had received at that theatre. Although the occasion to - which I refer was the most private of private suppers, I do not feel that - I can be accused of transgressing the accepted <i>codex</i> of the - Beefsteak Room in touching upon a matter which is now of public interest. - Early in the week Mr. Irving had been good enough to invite me to meet Mr. - Booth at supper on the Saturday. After the performance, in which Mr. - Irving was Othello and Mr. Booth Iago, I found in the supper-room, in - addition to the host and the guest of the evening, Mr. John McCullough, - who, it will be remembered, paid a visit to England at the same time as - Mr. Booth; and a member of Parliament who subsequently became the Leader - of the House of Commons. Mr. J. L. Toole and Mr. Bram Stoker subsequently - arrived. We found a good deal to talk about, and it was rather late—too - late for the one guest who was unconnected with theatrical matters (at - least, those outside St. Stephen’s)—when Mr. Irving, in a few of - those graceful, informal sentences which he seems always to have at his - command, and only rising to his feet for a moment, asked us to drink to - the health of Mr. Booth. Mr. Irving, I recollect, referred to the fact - that the representations of <i>Othello</i> had filled the theatre nightly, - and that the instant the American actor appeared, the English actor had to - “take a back seat.” - </p> - <p> - The playful tone assumed by him was certainly not sustained by Mr. Booth. - It would be impossible to doubt that he made his reply under the influence - of the deepest feeling. He could scarcely speak at first, and when at last - he found words, they were the words of a man whose eyes are full of tears. - “You all know how I came here,” he said. “You all know that I went to - another theatre in London, and that I was a big failure, although some - newspaper writers on my side of the water had said that I would make Henry - Irving and the other English actors sit up. Well, I didn’t make them sit - up. Yes, I was a big failure. But what happened then? Henry Irving invites - me to act with him at his theatre, and makes me share the success which he - has so well earned. He changes my big failure into a big success. What can - I say about such generosity? Was the like of it ever seen before? I am - left without words. Friend Irving, I have no words to thank you.” The two - actors got upon their feet, and as they clasped hands, both of them - overcome, I could not help feeling that I was looking upon an emblematic - tableau of the artistic union of the Old World and the New. So I was. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I could not help contrasting this graceful little incident with the more - memorable episode which had taken place in the same building some years - previously. On the evening of February 14th, 1880, Mr. Irving gave a - supper on the stage of the Lyceum, to celebrate the hundredth - representation of <i>The Merchant of Venice</i>. I do not suppose that - upon any occasion within the memory of a middle-aged man so remarkable a - gathering had assembled at the bidding of an actor. Every notable man in - every department of literature, art, and science seemed to me to be - present. The most highly representative painters, poets, novelists, - play-writers, actors of plays, composers of operas, singers of operas, - composers of laws, exponents of the meaning of these laws, journalists, - financiers,—all this goodly company attended on that moist Saturday - night to congratulate the actor upon one of the most signal triumphs of - the latter half of the century. Of course it was well understood by Mr. - Irving’s personal friends that an omission of their names from the list of - invitations to this marvellous function was inevitable. Capacious though - the stage of the Lyceum is, it would not meet the strain that would be put - on it if all the personal friends of Mr. Irving were to be invited to the - supper. So soon as I heard, however, that every living author who had - written a play that had been produced at the Lyceum Theatre would be - invited, I knew that, in spite of the fact that I only escaped by the skin - of my teeth being an absolute nonentity—I had only published nine - volumes in those days—I would not be an “outsider” upon this - occasion. Two years previously a comedietta of mine had been played at - this theatre for some hundred nights, while the audience were being shown - to their places and were chatting genially with the friends whom they - recognised three or four seats away. That was my play. No human being - could deprive me of the consciousness of having written a play that was - produced at the Lyceum Theatre. It was not a great feat, but it - constituted a privilege of which I was not slow to avail myself. - </p> - <p> - The invitations were all in the handwriting of Mr. Irving, and the <i>menu</i> - was, in the words of Joseph in “Divorçons,” <i>délicat, distingué—très - distingué</i>. While we were smoking some cigars the merits of which have - never been adequately sung, though they would constitute a theme at least - equal to that of the majority of epics, our host strolled round the - tables, shaking hands and talking with every one in that natural way of - his, which proves conclusively that at least one trait of Garrick’s has - never been shared by him. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Twas only that when he was off he was acting,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - wrote Garrick’s—and everybody else’s—friend, Goldsmith. No; - Mr. Irving cannot claim to be the inheritor of all the arts of Garrick. - </p> - <p> - More than an hour had passed before Lord Houghton rose to propose the - toast of the evening. He did so very fluently. He had evidently prepared - his speech with great care; and as the <i>doyen</i> of literature—the - true patron of art and letters during two generations—his right to - speak as one having authority could not be questioned. No one expected a - commonplace speech from Lord Houghton, but few of Mr. Irving’s guests - could have looked for precisely such a speech as he delivered. It struck a - note of far-reaching criticism, and was full of that friendly counsel - which the varied experiences of the speaker made doubly valuable. Its - commendation of the great actor was wholly free from that meaningless - adulation, which is as distasteful to any artist who knows the limitations - of his art, as it is prejudicial to the realisation of his aims. In his - masterly biography of the late Lord Houghton, Mr. Wemyss Reid refers to - the great admiration which Lord Houghton had for Mr. Irving; and this - admiration was quite consistent with the tone of the speech in which he - proposed the health of our host. It was probably Lord Houghton’s sincere - appreciation of the aims of Mr. Irving that caused him to make some - delicate allusion to the dangers of long runs. Considering that we had - assembled on the stage of the Lyceum to celebrate a phenomenal run on that - stage, the difficulty of the course which Lord Houghton had to steer in - order to avoid giving the least offence to even the most susceptible of - his audience, will be easily recognised. There were present several - playwriters who, by the exercise of great dexterity, had succeeded in - avoiding all their lives the pitfall of the long run; and these gentlemen - listened, with mournful acquiescence, while Lord Houghton showed, as he - did quite conclusively, that, on the whole, the interests of dramatic art - are best advanced by adopting the principles which form the basis of the - Théâtre Français. But there were also present some managers who had been - weak enough to allow certain plays which they had produced, to linger on - the stage, evening after evening, so long as the public chose to pay their - money to see them. I glanced at one of these gentlemen while Lord Houghton - was delivering his tactful address, and I cannot say that the result of my - glance was to assure me that the remarks of his lordship were convincing - to that manager. Contrition for those past misdeeds that took the form of - five-hundred-night runs was not the most noticeable expression upon his - features. But then the manager was an actor as well, so that he may only - have been concealing his remorse behind a smiling face. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Irving’s reply was excellent. With amazing good-humour he touched upon - almost every point brought forward by Lord Houghton, referring to his own - position somewhat apologetically. Lord Houghton had, however, made the - apologetic tone inevitable; but after a short time Mr. Irving struck the - note for which his friends had been waiting, and spoke strongly, - earnestly, and eloquently on behalf of the art of which he hoped to be the - exponent. - </p> - <p> - We who knew how splendid were the aims of the hero of a hundred nights, - with what sincerity and at how great self-sacrifice he had endeavoured to - realize them; we who had watched his career in the past, and were - hopefully looking forward to a future for the English drama in a - legitimate home; we who were enthusiastic almost to a point of passion in - our love and reverence for the art of which we believed Irving to be the - greatest interpreter of our generation,—we, I say, felt that we - should not separate before one more word at least was spoken to our friend - whose triumph we regarded as our own. - </p> - <p> - It was Mr. J. L. Toole, our host’s oldest and closest friend, who, in the - Beefsteak Room some hours after midnight, expressed, in a few words that - came from his heart and were echoed by ours, how deeply Mr. Irving’s - triumph was felt by all who enjoyed his friendship—by all who - appreciated the difficulties which he had surmounted, and who, having at - heart the best interests of the drama, stretched forth to him hands of - sympathy and encouragement, and wished him God-speed. - </p> - <p> - Thus closed a memorable gathering, the chief incidents in which I have - ventured to chronicle exactly as they appeared to me. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Only to one more Lyceum performance may I refer in this place. It may be - remembered that ten or eleven years ago the late Mr. Dion Boucicault was - obliging enough to offer to give a lecture to English actors on the - correct pronunciation of their mother-tongue. The offer was, I suppose, - thought too valuable to be neglected, and it was arranged that the lecture - should be delivered from the stage of the Lyceum Theatre. A more - interesting and amusing function I have never attended. It was clear that - the lecturer had formed some very definite ideas as to the way the English - language should be spoken; and his attempts to convey these ideas to his - audience were most praiseworthy. His illustrations of the curiosities of - some methods of pronouncing words were certainly extremely curious. For - instance, he complained bitterly of the way the majority of English actors - pronounced the word “war.” - </p> - <p> - “Ye prenounce the ward as if it wuz spelt w-a-u-g-h,” said the lecturer - gravely. “Ye don’t prenounce it at all as ye shud. The ward rhymes with - ‘par, ‘are,’ and ‘kyar,’ and yet ye will prenounce it as if it rhymed with - ‘saw’ and ‘Paw-’ Don’t ye see the diffurnce?” - </p> - <p> - “We do, we do!” cried the audience; and, thus encouraged by the ready - acquiescence in his pet theories, the lecturer went on to deal with the - gross absurdity of pronouncing the word “grass,” not to rhyme with “lass,” - which of course was the correct way, but almost—not quite—as - if it rhymed with “laws.” - </p> - <p> - “The ward is ‘grass,’ not ‘graws,’” said our lecturer. “It grates on a - sinsitive ear like mine to hear it misprenounced. Then ye will never be - injuced to give the ward ‘Chrischin’ its thrue value as a ward of three - syllables; ye’ll insist on calling it ‘Christyen,’ in place of - ‘Chrischin.’ D’ye persave the diffurnce?” - </p> - <p> - “We do, we do!” cried the audience. - </p> - <p> - “Ay, and ye talk about ‘soots’ of gyar-ments, when everybody knows that ye - shud say ‘shoots’; ye must give the full valye to the letter ‘u’—there’s - no double o in a shoot of clothes. Moreover, ye talk of the mimbers of the - polis force as ‘cunstables,’ but there’s no ‘u’ in the first syllable—it’s - an ‘o,’ and it shud be prenounced to rhyme with ‘gone,’ not with ‘gun.’ - Then I’ve heard an actor who shud know better say, in the part of Hamlet, - ‘wurds, wurds, wurds’; instead of giving that fine letter ‘o’ its full - value. How much finer it sounds to prenounce it as I do, ‘wards, wards, - wards’! But when I say that I’ve heard the ward ‘pull’ prenounced not to - rhyme with ‘dull,’ as ye’ll all admit it shud be, but actually as if it - was within an ace of being spelt ‘p double o l,’ I think yell agree with - me that it’s about time that actors learnt something of the rudiments of - the art of ellycution.” - </p> - <p> - I do not pretend that these are the exact instances given by Mr. - Boucicault of the appalling incorrectness of English pronunciation, but I - know that he began with the word “war,” and that the impression produced - upon my mind by the discourse was precisely as I have recorded it. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - There is a tradition at Trinity College, Dublin, that a student who spoke - with a lovely brogue used every art to conceal it, but with indifferent - success; for however perfect the “English accent” which he flattered - himself he had grafted upon the parent stem indigenous to Kerry may have - been when he was cool and collected, yet in moments of excitement—chiefly - after supper—the old brogue surrounded him like a fog. This was a - great grief to him; but his own weakness in this way caused him to feel a - deep respect for the natives of England. - </p> - <p> - After a visit to London he gave the result of his observations in a few - words to his friends at the College. - </p> - <p> - “Boys,” he cried, the “English chaps are a poor lot, no matter how you - look at them. But I will say this for them,—no matter how drunk any - one of them may be, he never forgets his English accent.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIX.—SOME IMPERFECT STUDIES. - </h2> - <p> - <i>A charming theme—The new tints—An almost perfect - descriptive system—An unassailable position—The silver - mounting of the newspaper staff—An unfair correspondcnt—A lady - journalist face to face—The play-hawkers Only in two acts—An - earnest correspondent—A haven at last—Well-earned repose—The - “health columns”—Answers to correspondents—Other medical - advisers—The annual meeting—The largest consultation on record - over one patient—He recovers!—A garden-party—A congenial - locale—The distinguished Teuton—The local medico—Brain - “sells”—A great physician—Advice to a special correspondent—Change - of air—The advantages of travel—The divergence of opinion - among medical men—It is due to their conscientiousness.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>S this rambling - volume does not profess to be a guide to the newspaper press, I have not - felt bound to follow any beaten track in its compilation. But I must - confess that at the outset it was my intention to deal with that agreeable - phase known as the Lady Journalist. Unhappily (or perhaps I should say, - happily), “the extreme pressure on our space” will not permit of my giving - more than a line or two to a theme which could only be adequately treated - in a large volume. It has been my privilege to meet with three lady - journalists, and I am bound to say that every one of the three seemed to - me to combine in herself all the judgment of the trained journalist (male) - with the lightness of touch which one associates with the doings of the - opposite sex. All were able to describe garments in picturesque phrases, - frequently producing by the employment of a single word an effect that a - “gentleman journalist”—this is, I suppose, the male equivalent to a - lady journalist—could not achieve at any price. They wrote of ladies - being “gowned,” and they described the exact tint of the gowns by an - admirable process of comparison with the hue of certain familiar things. - They rightly considered that the mere statement that somebody came to - somebody else’s “At Home” in brown, conveys an inadequate idea of the - colour of a costume: “postman’s bag brown,” however, brings the dress - before one’s eye in a moment. To say that somebody’s daughter appeared in - a grey wrap would sound weak-kneed, but a wrap of <i>eau de Tamise</i> is - something stimulating. A scarlet tea-jacket merely suggests the Book of - Revelation, but a Clark-Russell-sunset jacket is altogether different. - </p> - <p> - They also wrote of “picture hats,” and “smart frocks,” and many other - matters which they understood thoroughly. I do not think that any - newspaper staff that does not include a lady journalist can hope for - popularity, or for the respect of those who read what is written by the - lady journalist, which is much better than popularity. I have got good - reason to know that in every newspaper with which I was associated, the - weekly column contributed by the lady journalist was much more earnestly - read than any that came from another source. - </p> - <p> - Yes, I feel that the position of the lady in modern journalism is - unassailable; and the lady journalists always speak pleasantly about one - another, and occasionally describe each other’s “picture hats.” - </p> - <p> - In brief, the lady journalist is the silver mounting of the newspaper <i>staff</i>. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I once, however, received an application from a lady, offering a weekly - letter on a topic already, I considered, ably dealt with by another lady - in the columns of the newspaper with which I was connected. I wrote - explaining this to my correspondent, and by the next post I got a letter - from her telling me that of course she was aware that a letter purporting - to be on this topic was in the habit of appearing in the paper, but - expressing the hope that I did not fancy that she would contribute “stuff - of that character.” - </p> - <p> - I did not have the faintest hope on the subject. - </p> - <p> - Now it so happened that the lady who wrote to me had some months before - gone to the lady whose weekly letters she had derided, and had begged from - her some suggestions as to the topics most suitable to be dealt with by a - lady journalist, and whatever further hints she might be pleased to offer - on the general subject of lady journalism. In short, all that she had - learned of the profession—it may be acquired in three lessons, most - young women think—she had learned from the lady at whom she pointed - a finger of scorn. - </p> - <p> - This I did not consider either ladylike or journalist-like, so that I can - hardly consider it lady-journalist-like. - </p> - <p> - Lady journalists have recently taken to photographing each other and - publishing the results. - </p> - <p> - This is another step in the right direction. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Once I had an opportunity of talking face to face with a lady journalist. - It happened at the house of a distinguished actress in London. By the - merest chance I had a play which I felt certain would suit the actress, - and I went to make her acquainted with the joyful news. To my great - chagrin I found that I had arrived on a day when she was “receiving.” - Several literary men were present, and on some of their faces. - </p> - <p> - I thought I detected the hang-dog look of the man who carries a play about - with him without a muzzle. I regret to say that they nearly all looked at - me with distrust. - </p> - <p> - I came by chance upon one of them speaking to our charming hostess behind - a <i>portiere</i>. - </p> - <p> - “I think the part would suit you down to the ground.” he was saying. “Yes, - six changes of dress in the four acts, and one of them a ballroom scene.” - </p> - <p> - I walked on. - </p> - <p> - Ten minutes afterwards I overheard a second, who was having a romp with - our hostess’s little girl, say to that lady,— - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, I am very fond of children, when they are as pretty as Pansy - here. By the way, that reminds me that I have in my overcoat pocket a - comedy that I think will give you a chance at last. If you will allow me - when those people go....” - </p> - <p> - I passed on. - </p> - <p> - “The piece I brought with me is very strong. You were always best at - tragedy, and I have frequently said that you are the only woman in London - who can speak blank verse,” were the words that I heard spoken by the - third literary gentleman at the further side of a group of palms on a - pedestal. - </p> - <p> - I thought it better not to say anything about my having a play concealed - about my person. It occurred to me that it might be well to withhold my - good news for a day or two. Meantime I had a delightful chat with the lady - journalist, and confided in her my belief that some of the literary men - present had not come for the sake of the intellectual treat available at - every reception of our hostess’s, but solely to try and palm off on her - some rubbish in the way of a play. - </p> - <p> - She replied that she could scarcely believe that any man could be so base, - and that she feared I was something of a cynic. - </p> - <p> - When she was bidding good-bye to our hostess I distinctly heard the latter - say,— - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry that you have only made it in two acts; however, you may - depend on my reading it carefully, and doing what I can with it for you.” - </p> - <p> - The above story might be looked on as telling against myself in some - measure, so I hasten to obviate its effect by mentioning that the play - which I had in my pocket was acted by the accomplished lady for whom I - designed it, and that it occupied a dignified place among the failures of - the year. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - There was a lady journalist—at least a lady so describing herself—who - sent me long accounts of the picture shows three days after I had received - the telegraphed accounts from the art correspondent employed by the - newspaper. She wanted to get a start, she said; and it was in vain that I - tried to point out to her that it was the other writers who got the start - of her, and that so long as she allowed this to happen she could not - expect anything that she wrote to be inserted. - </p> - <p> - It so happened, however, that her art criticisms were about on a level - with those that a child might pass upon a procession of animals to or from - a Noah’s Ark. Then the lady forwarded me criticisms of books that had not - been sent to me for review, and afterwards an interview or two with - unknown poets. Nothing that she wrote was worth the space it would have - occupied. - </p> - <p> - Only last year I learned with sincere pleasure that this energetic lady - had obtained a permanent place on the staff of a lady’s halfpenny weekly - paper. I could not help wondering on what department she could have been - allowed to work, and made some inquiry on the subject. Then it was I - learned that she had been appointed superintendent of the health columns. - It seems that the readers of this paper are sanguine enough to expect to - get medical advice of the highest order in respect of their ailments for - the comparatively trilling expenditure of one halfpenny weekly. By - forwarding a coupon to show that they have not been mean enough to try and - shirk payment of the legitimate fee, they are entitled to obtain in the - health columns a complete reply as to the treatment of whatever symptoms - they may describe. As this reply is seldom printed in the health columns - until more than a month or six weeks after the coupon has been sent in to - the newspaper, addressed “M.D.,” the extent of the boon that it confers - upon the suffering—the long-suffering—subscribers can easily - be estimated. - </p> - <p> - As the superintendent of the column signed “M.D.,” the lady who had failed - as an art critic, as a reviewer, and as an interviewer, had at last found - a haven of rest. Of course, when she undertook the duties incidental to - the post she knew nothing whatever of medicine. But since then, my - informant assured me that she had been gradually “feeling her way,” and - now, by the aid of a half-crown handbook, she can give the best medical - advice that can be secured in all London for a halfpenny fee. - </p> - <p> - I had the curiosity to glance down one of her columns the other day. It - ran something like this:— - </p> - <p> - “Gladys.—Delighted to hear that you like your new mistress, and that - the cook is not the tyrant that your last was. As scullery-maid I believe - you are entitled to every second evening out. But better apply (enclosing - coupon) to the Superintendent of the Domestic Department. Regarding the - eruptions on the forehead, they may have been caused by the use of too hot - curling tongs on your fringe. Why not try the new magnetic curlers? (see - advertisement, p. 9). It would be hard to be compelled to abandon so - luxurious a fringe for the sake of a pimple or two. Thanks for your kind - wishes. Your handwriting is striking, but I must have an impression of - your palm in wax, or on a piece of paper rubbed with lamp-black, before I - can predict anything certain regarding your chances of a brilliant - marriage.” - </p> - <p> - “Airy Fairy Lilian.—What a pretty pseudonym! Where did you contrive - to find it? Yes, I think that perhaps the doctor who visited you was right - after all. The symptoms were certainly those of typhoid. Have you tried - the new Omniherbal Typhoid Tablets (see advertisement, p. 8). If not too - late they might be of real service to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Harebell.—I should say that if your waist is now forty-two inches, - it would be extremely imprudent for you to try and reduce it by more than - ten or eleven inches. Besides, there is no beauty in a wasp-like waist. - The slight redness on the outside tegument of the nose probably proceeds - from cold, or most likely heat. Try a little <i>poudre des fées</i> (see - advertisement, p. 9).” - </p> - <p> - “Shy Susy.—It is impossible to answer inquiries in this column in - less than a month. (1) If your tooth continues to ache, why not go to Mr. - Hiram P. Prosser, American Dental Surgeon (see advertisement, p. 8), and - have it out. (2) The best volume on Etiquette is by the Countess of D. It - is entitled ‘How to Behave’ (see advertisement outside cover). (3) No; to - change hats in the train does not imply a promise to marry. It would, - however, tell against the defendant in the witness-box. (4) Decidedly not; - you should not allow a complete stranger to see you to your door, unless - he is exceptionally good-looking. (5) Patchouli is the most fashionable - scent.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I do not suppose that this enterprising young woman is an honoured guest - at the annual meeting of the British Medical Association. Certainly no - lady superintendent of the health columns of a halfpenny weekly paper was - pointed out to me at the one meeting of this body which I had the - privilege of attending, and at which, by the way, some rather amusing - incidents occurred. - </p> - <p> - An annual, meeting of the British Medical Association seemed to me to be a - delightful function. For some days there were <i>fêtes</i> (with - fireworks), receptions (with military bands playing), dances (with that - exhilarating champagne that comes from the Saumur districts), excursions - to neighbouring ruins of historic interest, and the common or garden-party - in abundance. In addition to all these, a rumour was circulated that - papers were being read in some out-of-the-way hall—no one seemed to - know where it was situated, and the report was generally regarded as a - hoax—on modern therapeutics, for the entertainment of such visitors - as might be interested in the progress of medical science. - </p> - <p> - No one seemed interested in that particular line. - </p> - <p> - A concert took place one evening, and was largely attended, every seat in - the building being occupied. The local amateur tenor—the microbe of - this malady has not yet been discovered—sang with his accustomed - throaty incorrectness, and immediately afterwards there was a considerable - interval. Then the conductor appeared upon the platform and said that an - unfortunate accident had happened to the gentleman who had just sung, and - he should feel greatly obliged if any medical gentleman who might chance - to be present would kindly come round to the retiring room. - </p> - <p> - It seemed to me that the audience rose <i>en masse</i> and trooped round - to the retiring room. I was one of the few persons who remained in the - hall. - </p> - <p> - “Say, why didn’t some strong man throw himself between the audience and - the door?” a stranger shouted across the hall to me in an American accent. - </p> - <p> - “With what object?” I shouted back. - </p> - <p> - “Wal,” said the stranger, “I opine that if this community is subject to - such visitations as we have just had from that gentleman who sang last, - his destruction should be made a municipal affair.” - </p> - <p> - “We know what we’re about,” said I. “How would you like to look up and - find two hundred and forty-seven fully qualified medical men standing by - your bed-side.” - </p> - <p> - “Not much,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder if the story of the opossum that was up a gum tree, and begged a - military man beneath not to fire, as he would come down, had reached the - States before you left,” said I. - </p> - <p> - He said he hadn’t heard tell of it. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said I, “there was an opossum——” - </p> - <p> - But here the hall began to refill, and the concert was proceeded with. The - sufferer had recovered, we heard, in spite of all that was against him. A - humorist said that he had merely slipped from a ladder in endeavouring to - reach down his high C. - </p> - <p> - When he was told that he had to pay two hundred and forty-seven guineas - for medical attendance he nearly had a relapse. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It was at the same meeting of the Medical Association that a garden-party - was given by the Superintendent of the District Lunatic Asylum. This was a - very pleasant affair, and was attended by about five hundred persons. A - detestable man who was present, however, thought fit to make an effort to - give additional spirit to the entertainment by pointing out to some of his - friends the short, ungainly figure of a German <i>savant</i>, who was - wandering about the grounds in a condition of loneliness, and by telling a - story of a homicide of a bloodcurdling type, to account for the - gentleman’s presence at the institution. - </p> - <p> - The jester gave free expression to his doubts as to the wisdom of the - course adopted by the medical superintendent in permitting such freedom to - a man who was supposed to be confined during Her Majesty’s pleasure,—this - was, he said, because of the merciful view taken by the jury before whom - he had been tried. He added, however, that he supposed the superintendent - knew his own business. - </p> - <p> - As this story circulated freely, the German doctor, whose appearance and - dress undoubtedly lent it a certain plausibility, became easily the most - attractive person in view. Young men and maidens paused in the act of - “service” over the lawn tennis nets, to watch the little man whose large - eyes stared at them from beneath a pair of shaggy eyebrows, and whose - ill-cut grey frieze coat suggested the uniform of the Hospital for the - Insane. Strong men grasped their walking sticks more firmly as he passed, - and women, well gowned, and wearing picture hats—I trust I am not - infringing the copyright of the lady journalist—drew back, but still - gazed at him with all the interest that attaches itself to a great - criminal in the eyes of women. - </p> - <p> - The little man could not but feel that he was attracting a great deal of - attention; but being probably well aware of his own attainments, he did - not shrink from any gaze, but smiled complacently on every side. Then a - local medical man, whose self-confidence had never been known to fail him - in an emergency, thought that the moment was an auspicious one for - exhibiting the extent of his researches in cerebral phenomena, beckoned - the German to his side, and, removing the man’s hat, began to prove to the - bystanders that the shape of his head was such as precluded the - possibility of his playing any other part in the world but that of a - distinguished homicide. But the German, who understood English very well, - as he did everything else, turned at this point upon the local - practitioner and asked him what the teuffil he meant. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t be alarmed, ladies,” said the practitioner assuringly, as there was - a movement among his audience. “I know how to treat this form of - aberration. Now then, my good man——” - </p> - <p> - But at this moment a late arrival in the form of a great London surgeon - strolled up accompanied by the medical superintendent of the Asylum, and - with an exclamation of pleasure, pounced upon the subject of the discourse - and shook him warmly by the hand. The Teuton was, however, by no means - disposed to overlook the insult offered to him. He explained in the - expressive German tongue what had occurred, and any one could see that he - was greatly excited. - </p> - <p> - But Sir Gregory, the English surgeon, had probably some experience of - cases like this. He put his hand through the arm of the German, and then - giving a laugh that in an emergency might obviate the use of a lancet, he - said loudly enough to be heard over a considerable area,— - </p> - <p> - “Come along, my dear friend; there is no visiting an hospital for the - insane without coming across a lunatic,—a medical practitioner - without discretion is worse.” - </p> - <p> - The local physician was left standing alone on the lawn. - </p> - <p> - He shortly afterwards went home. - </p> - <p> - If you wish to anger him now you need only talk about brain “sells.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - At the same meeting it was my privilege to be presented to a really great - London physician. He was the medical gentleman who was consulted by a - special correspondent on his return from making a tour with the Marquis of - Lome, when the latter became Viceroy of Canada. The special correspondent - had left for Canada on the very day that he arrived in England from the - Cape, having gone through the Zulu campaign, and he had reached the Cape - direct from the Afghan war. After about two years of these experiences he - felt run down, and acting on the suggestion of a friend, lost no time in - consulting the great physician. - </p> - <p> - On learning that the man was suffering from a curious impression of - weariness for which he could not account, but which he had tried in vain - to shake off, the great physician asked him what was his profession. He - replied that he was a literary man—that he wrote for a newspaper. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I thought so,” cried the great physician. “Your complaint is easily - accounted for. I perceived in a moment that you had been leading a - sedentary life. That is what plays havoc with literary men. What you need - just now is a complete change—no half measures, mind you—a - complete change—a sea voyage would brace you up, or,—let me - see—ah, yes, Margate might do. Try a fortnight at Margate.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I am bound to say that it was another doctor who, when a naval captain who - had been in charge of a corvette on the South Pacific station for five - years, went to him for advice, gravely remarked,— - </p> - <p> - “I wonder, sir, if at any time of your life you got a severe wetting?” - </p> - <p> - The modern physician is most earnest in recommending changes of air and - scene and employment. He is an enemy to the drug system. But the last - enemy that shall be destroyed is the drug system. The “masses” believe in - it as they believe no other system, whether in medicine, religion, or even - gambling. - </p> - <p> - I shall never forget the ring of contempt that there was in the voice of a - servant of mine at the Cape, when, on the army surgeon’s giving him a - prescription to be made up, he found that the whole thing only cost - fourpence, and he said,— - </p> - <p> - “That there coor can’t be much of a coor, sir; only corst fourpence, and - me ready to pay ‘arf-a-crown.” - </p> - <p> - In the smoking-room of an hotel in Liverpool some years ago a rather - self-assertive gentleman was dilating to a group in a cosy corner on the - advantages of travel, not merely as a physical, but as an intellectual - stimulant. - </p> - <p> - “Am I right, sir?” he cried, turning to me. “Have you ever travelled?” - </p> - <p> - I mentioned that I had done a little in that way. - </p> - <p> - “Where do you come from now, sir?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “South America,” said I meekly. - </p> - <p> - “And you, sir,” he cried, turning to another stranger; “have you - travelled?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, a bit,” replied the man. “I was in ‘Frisco this day fortnight, and - I’ll be in Egypt on this day week.” - </p> - <p> - “I knew by the look of those gentlemen that they had travelled,” said the - loud man, turning to his group. “I believe in the value of travel. I - travel myself—just like those gentlemen. Yes; a week ago I was at - Bradford. Here I am at Liverpool to-day, and Heaven knows where I may be - next week—at Manchester, may be.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - So far as I can gather, the impression seems to be pretty general that - some divergence of opinion is by no means impossible among physicians in - their diagnosis of a case. Doctors themselves seem to have at last become - aware of the fact that the possibility of a difference being manifested in - their views on some cases is now and again commented on by the - irresponsible layman. An eminent member of that profession which makes a - larger demand than any other upon the patience, the judgment, and the - self-sacrifice of those who practise it, defended, a short time ago, in - the course of a very witty speech, the apparent want of harmony between - the views of physicians on some technical points. He said that perhaps he - might not be going too far if he remarked that occasionally in a court of - law the technical evidence given by two doctors seemed at first sight not - to agree. This point was readily conceded by the audience; and the - professor then went on to say that surely the absence of this mechanical - agreement on all points should be accepted as powerful testimony to the - conscientiousness of the profession. One of the rarest of charges brought - against physicians was that of collusion. In fact, while he believed that, - if put to it, his memory would be quite equal to recall some instances of - a divergence of opinion between doctors in a witness-box, he did not think - that he could remember a single case in which a charge of collusion - against two members of the profession had been brought home to them. - </p> - <p> - Most sensible people will, I am persuaded, take this view of a matter - which has called for comment in all ages. It is because doctors are so - singularly sensitive that, sooner than run the chance of being accused of - acting in collusion in any case, they now and again have been known to - express views that were—well, not absolutely in harmony the one with - the other. - </p> - <p> - The distinguished physician who made so reasonable a defence of the - profession which he adorns, told me that it was one of his early - instructors who made that excellent summary of the relative values of - medical attendance:— - </p> - <p> - “I have no hesitation in saying that it’s not better to be attended by a - good doctor than a bad doctor; but I won’t go the length of saying that - it’s not better to be attended by no doctor at all than by either.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XX.—ON SOME FORMS OF CLEVERNESS. - </h2> - <p> - <i>The British Association—The late Professor Tyndall—His - Belfast address—The centre of strict orthodoxy—The indignation - of the pulpits—Worse than atheism—Biology and blasphemy allied - sciences—The champion of orthodoxy—The town is saved—After - many days—The second visit of Professor Tyndall to Belfast—The - honoured guest of the Presbyterians—Public opinion—Colour - blindness—Another meeting of the British Association—A clever - young man—The secret of the ruin—The revelation of the secret—The - great-grandfather of Queen Boadicea—The story of Antonio Giuseppe—Accepted - as primo tenore—The birthday books—A movable feast—A box - at the opera—Transferable—The discovery of the transfers—An - al fresco operatic entertainment—No harm done.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE annual meetings - of the British Association for the Advancement of Science can be made - quite as delightful functions as those of the British Medical Association, - if they are not taken too seriously; and I don’t think that there is much - likelihood of that happening. I have had the privilege of taking part in - several of the dances, the garden parties, and the concerts which have - taken place under the grateful protection of science. I have also availed - myself of the courtesy of the railway companies that issued cheap tickets - to the various places of interest in the locality where the annual - festivities took place under the patronage of the British Association. The - only President’s address which I ever heard delivered was, however, that - of Professor Tyndall at Belfast. - </p> - <p> - I was little more than a boy at the time, and that is probably why I was - more deeply interested in Biology and Evolution than I have been in more - recent years. It is scarcely necessary to say that Professor Tyndall’s - utterance would take a very humble place in the heterodoxy of the present - day, for the exponents of theology have found it necessary to enlarge - their borders as the century draws to a close, and I suppose that if poor - Tyndall had offered to lecture in St. Paul’s Cathedral his appearance - under the dome would have been welcomed by the authorities, as it - certainly would have been by the public. But Belfast had for long been the - centre of strict orthodoxy, and so soon as the address of Professor - Tyndall was printed a great cry arose from every pulpit. The excellent - Presbyterians of Ulster were astounded at the audacity of the man in - coming into the midst of such a community as theirs in order to deliver an - address that breathed of something worse than the ancient atheists had - ever dreamed of in their most heterodox moments. If the man had wanted to - blaspheme—and a good <i>primâ facie</i> case was made out in favour - of the assumption that he had—could he not have taken himself off to - some congenial locality for the purpose? Why should he come to Belfast - with such an object? Would the town ever get rid of the stigma that would - certainly be attached to it as the centre from which the blasphemies of - Biology had radiated upon this occasion? - </p> - <p> - These were the questions that afflicted the good people for many days, and - the consensus of opinion seemed to be in favour of the theory that unless - the town should undergo a sort of moral fumigation, it would not be - restored to the position it had previously occupied in the eyes of - Christendom. The general idea is that to slaughter a pig in a Mohammedan - mosque is an act the consequences of which are so far-reaching as to be - practically irreparable; the act of Professor Tyndall at Belfast was of - precisely this nature in the estimation of the inhabitants. - </p> - <p> - Fortunately, however, a champion of orthodoxy appeared in the form of a - Professor at the Presbyterian College who wrote a book—I believe - some copies may still be purchased—to make it impossible for Tyndall - or any other exponent of Evolution to face an audience of intelligent - people. This book was the saving of the town. Belfast was rehabilitated, - and the people breathed again. - </p> - <p> - But the years went by; Darwin’s funeral service was held in Westminster - Abbey, and Professor Tyndall’s voice was now and again heard like an - Alpine echo of his master. In Belfast a University Extension Scheme was - set on foot and promised to be a brilliant success—it collapsed - after a time, but that is not to the point. What is to the point, however, - is the fact that the inaugural lecture of the University Extension series - was on the subject of Biology, and the chosen exponent of the science was - Professor Tyndall. He came to Belfast as the honoured guest of the city—it - had become a city since his memorable visit—and he passed some days - at the official residence of the Presbyterian President of the Queen’s - College, who had been a pupil at the divinity school of the clergyman who - had written the book that was supposed to have re-consecrated, as it were, - the locality defiled by the British Association address of 1874. - </p> - <p> - This incident appears to me to be noteworthy—almost as noteworthy as - the reception given in honour of Monsieur Emile Zola in the Guildhall a - few years after Mr. Vizetelly had been sent to gaol for issuing a purified - translation of a work of Zola’s. - </p> - <p> - I think it was Mr. Forster who, in the spring of 1882, when Mr. Parnell - and his friends were languishing in Kilmainham, said that the Irish - Channel was like the water described by Byron: a palace at one side, a - prison on the other. The Irish members left Kilmainham, and in a few hours - found themselves in Westminster Palace—at least, Westminster Palace - Hotel. - </p> - <p> - Public opinion knows but the two places of residence—a palace and a - prison. When a man leaves the one he is considered fit for the other. - Public opinion knows but black and white, and vacillates from one to the - other with the utmost regularity. - </p> - <p> - The only constant thing in the world is change. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - At another meeting of the British Association I was a witness of a - remarkable piece of cleverness on the part of a young man who has since - proved his claim to be regarded as one of the most adroit men in England. - Among the excursions the chief was to the locality of a ruin, the origin - of which was, like the origin of the De la Pluche family, lost in the - mists of obscurity. The ruin had been frequently visited by distinguished - archæologists, but none had ventured to do more than guess—if one - could imagine guesswork and archaeology associated—what period - should be assigned to the dilapidated towers. It so happened, however, - that an elderly professor at the local college had, by living laborious - days, and mastering the elements of a new language, succeeded in wresting - their secret from the lichened stones, and he made up his mind that when - the British Association had its excursion to the ruin, he would reveal all - that he had discovered regarding it, and by this <i>coup de théâtre</i> - become famous. - </p> - <p> - But the clever young man had an interesting young brother who had gained a - reputation as a poet, and who dressed perhaps a trifle in excess of this - reputation; and when the old professor was about to make his revelation - regarding the ruin, the clever young man put up his brother in another - part of the enclosure to recite one of his own poems on the locality. In a - few moments the professor, who had commenced his discourse, was - practically deserted. Only half a dozen of the excursionists rallied round - him, and permitted themselves to be mystified; the cream of the visitors, - to the number of perhaps a hundred, were around the reciter on an historic - hillock fifty yards away, and his mellow cadences sounded very alluring to - the few people who listened to the jerky delivery of the lecturer in the - ruin. - </p> - <p> - But the clever young man did not yield to the alluring voice of his - brother. He had heard that voice before, and was well acquainted with its - cadences. He was also well acquainted with the poem that was being recited—he - had heard it more than once before. What he was not acquainted with was - the marvellous discovery made by the professor who was in the act of - revealing it to ten ears—that is allowing that only one person of - those around him was deaf. The clever young man sat concealed behind a - wall covered with ivy and listened to every word of the revelation. When - it was over he unostentatiously joined the crowd around his brother, and - heard with pleasure that the delivery of the poem had been very striking. - </p> - <p> - “But we must not waste our time,” said the clever young man, with the air - of authority of a personal conductor. “We have several other interesting - points to dwell upon”—he spoke as if he and his brother owned the - ruins and the natural landscape into the bargain. “Oh, yes, we must hurry - on. I do not suppose there is any lady or gentleman present who is aware - of the fact that we are within a few yards of the place where the - great-grandfather of Queen Boadicea lies buried.” - </p> - <p> - A murmur of negation passed round the crowd. - </p> - <p> - “Follow me,” said the clever young man; and they followed him. - </p> - <p> - He led them to the very place where the professor had made his revelation, - and then, standing on a portion of the ruined structure, he gave in choice - language, and with many inspiring quotations from the literature of the - Ancient Britons, the substance of the professor’s revelation. - </p> - <p> - For half an hour he continued his discourse, and quite delighted every one - who heard him, except, perhaps, the elderly professor. He was among the - audience, and he listened, with staring eyes, to the clever young man’s - delightful mingling of the deepest archaeological facts with fictions that - had a semblance of truth, and he was speechless. The innocent old soul - actually believed that the clever young man had surpassed him, the - professor, in the profundity of his researches into the history of the - ruin; he knew that the face of the clever young man had not been among the - faces of the few people who had heard his revelation, but he did not know - that the clever young man was hidden among the ivy a few yards away. - </p> - <p> - When the people were applauding the delightful discourse, he pressed - forward to the impromptu lecturer and shook him warmly by the hand. - </p> - <p> - “Sir!” he cried, “you have in you the stuff that goes to make a great - archæologist. I have worked at nothing else but this ruin for the last - eight years, and yet I admit that you know more about it than I do.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my dear sir,” said the clever young man, “the world knows that in - your own path you are without a rival. I am content to sit at your feet. - It is an honourable position. Any time you want to know something of this - locality and its archæology do not hesitate to command me.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The only rival in adroitness to the young man whose feats I have just - recorded was one Antonio Giuseppe. I came upon this person in London, but - only when I was in Milan did I become acquainted with the extent of his - capacity. One of the stories I heard about him is, I think, worth - repeating, illustrating, as it does, the difference between the English - and the Italian systems of imposture. - </p> - <p> - Antonio Giuseppe certainly was attached to the State Opera Company, but it - would be difficult to define with any degree of exactness his duties in - connection with that Institution. He had got not a single note in his - voice, and yet—nay, on this account—he had passed during a - season at Homburg as a distinguished tenor—for Signor Giuseppe was - careful to see that his portmanteau was inscribed in white letters of - considerable size, “Signor Antonio Giuseppe, State Opera Company.” He gave - himself as many airs as a professional—nay, as an amateur, tenor, - and he was thus assigned the most select apartment in the hotel during his - sojourn, and a large folding screen was placed between his seat at the <i>table - d’hote</i> and the window. There was, indeed, every excuse for taking - Signor Giuseppe for a distinguished operatic tenor. He spoke all European - languages with equal impurity, he went about in a waistcoat that - resembled, in combination of colours, the drop scene of a theatre, he wore - a blue velvet tie, made up in a knot to display a carbuncle pin about the - size of a tram-car light, and his generosity in wristband was equalled - only by his prodigality of cigarette paper. These characteristics, coupled - with the fact that he had never been known to indulge in the luxury of a - bath, gave rise to the rumour that he was the greatest tenor in Europe; - consequently he was looked upon with envy by the Dukes with incomes of a - thousand pounds a day, who were accustomed to resort for some months out - of the year to Homburg; while Countesses in their own right sent him daily - missives expressive of their admiration for his talents, and entreating - the favour of his autograph in their birthday books. Poor Signor Giuseppe - was greatly perplexed by the arrival of a birthday book at his apartment - every morning; but so soon as its import was explained to him, he never - failed to respond to the request of the fair owners of the volumes. His - caligraphy did not extend beyond the limits of his autograph, and his - birthday seemed to be with him a movable feast, for in no two of the books - did his name appear on the pages assigned to the same month. As a matter - of fact, it is almost impossible for a man who has never been acquainted - with his father or mother, to know with any degree of accuracy the exact - day on which he was born, so that Signor Giuseppe, who was discovered by a - priest in a shed at the quay at Leghorn on St. Joseph’s day, was not to - blame for his ignorance in respect of his nativity. - </p> - <p> - Of course, when Mr. Fitzgauntlet, the enterprising impresario of the State - Opera, turned up at Homburg in the course of a week or two, it became - known that whatever position Signor Giuseppe might occupy in the State - Opera Company, it was not that of <i>primo tenore</i>, for the most - exacting impresario has never been known to include among the duties of a - <i>primo tenore</i> the unpacking of a portmanteau and the arrangement of - its contents around the dressing room of the impresario. The folding - screen was removed from behind Signor Giuseppe on the day following the - arrival of Mr. Fitzgauntlet at Homburg, and from being <i>feted</i> as - Giuseppe the tenor, he was scorned as Giuseppe the valet. - </p> - <p> - But in regarding Signor Giuseppe as nothing beyond the valet to the - impresario the sojourners at the hotel were as greatly in error as in - accepting him as the tenor. To be sure Signor Giuseppe now and again - discharged the duties that usually devolve upon the valet, but the scope - of his duties extended far beyond these limits. It was his task to arrange - the <i>claque</i> for a new <i>prima donna</i>, and to purchase the - bouquets to be showered upon the stage when the impresario was anxious to - impress upon the public the admirable qualities possessed by a <i>débutante</i> - whose services he had secured for a trifle. It was also Giuseppe’s - privilege to receive the bouquets left at the stage door by the young - gentlemen—or the old gentlemen—who had become struck with the - graceful figure of the <i>premiere danseuse</i> or perhaps <i>cinquantième - danseuse</i>, and the emoluments arising from this portion of his duties - were said to be equal to a liberal income, exclusive of what he made by - the disposal of the bouquets to the florist from whom they had been - originally purchased. This invaluable official also made a little money - for himself by his ingenuity in obtaining the photographs and autographs - of the chief artists of the company, which he distributed for sale every - evening in the stalls; but not quite so profitable was that part of his - business which consisted in inventing stories to account for the absence - of the impresario when tradesmen called at the State theatre with their - bills; still, the thoughtfulness and ingenuity of Signor Giuseppe were - quite equal to the strain put upon them in this direction, and Mr. - Fitzgauntlet had no reason to be otherwise than satisfied. When it is - understood that Giuseppe transacted nearly all their business for the - chief artists in the company, engaged their apartments, and looked after - their luggage when on tour in the provinces, it will readily be believed - that he had, as a rule, more money at his banker’s than any official - connected with the State Opera. - </p> - <p> - The confidence which had always been placed in Signor Giuseppe’s integrity - by the artists of the company was upon one occasion rudely shaken, and the - story of how this disaster occurred is about to be related. Signor - Giuseppe did a little business in wine and cigars, principally of British - manufacture, and he had, with his accustomed dexterity, hitherto escaped a - criminal prosecution under the Sale of Drugs Act for the consequences of - his success in disposing of his commodities in this line of business. He - also did a little in a medical way, a certain bottle containing a bright - crimson liquid with a horrible taste being extremely popular among the - members of the extensive chorus of the State Opera. When a “cyclus” of - modern German opera was contemplated by Mr. Fitzgauntlet, Giuseppe - increased his medical stock, feeling sure that the result of the - performances would occasion a run upon his drugs; but the negotiations - fell through, and it was only by the force of his perseverance and - persuasiveness he contrived to get rid of his surplus to the gentlemen who - played the brass instruments in the orchestra. It was not, however, on - account of his transactions in the medical way that he almost forfeited - the respect in which he was held by the artists, but because of the part - he played with regard to the disposal of a certain box of cigars. After - the production of the opera <i>Le Diamant Noir</i>, Signor Boccalione, the - great basso, went to Giuseppe, saying,— - </p> - <p> - “Giuseppe, I want your advice: you know I have made the success of the - opera, but I do not read music very quickly, and Monsieur Lejeune has had - a good deal of trouble with me. I should like to make him some little - return; what would you suggest?” - </p> - <p> - Giuseppe was lost in thought. He wondered, could he suggest the propriety - of the basso’s offering the <i>maestro di piano</i> a case of Burgundy—Giuseppe - had just received three cases of the finest Burgundy that had ever been - made in the Minories. - </p> - <p> - “A present to the value of how much?” he asked of Signor Boccalione. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said the basso airily, and with a gesture of indifference, “about - sixty francs. Monsieur Lejeune had not really so much trouble with me—no - one else in the company would think of acknowledging his services, but - with me it is different—I cannot live without being generous.” - </p> - <p> - Giuseppe mused. - </p> - <p> - “If the signor would only go so far as seventy francs, I could get him a - box of the choicest cigars,” he said after a pause; and then he went on to - explain that the cigars were in the possession of a friend of his own, - whom he had passed into the opera one night, and who consequently owed him - some compliment, so that the box, which in the ordinary way of business - was really worth eighty francs, might be obtained for seventy. The - generosity of the basso, however, was not without its limits; it would, - sustain the tension put upon it by the expenditure of sixty francs, but it - was not sufficiently strong to face the outlay suggested by Giuseppe.. - </p> - <p> - “Sixty francs!” he cried, “sixty francs is a small fortune, and I myself - smoke excellent cigars at thirty. I will give no more than sixty.” - </p> - <p> - Giuseppe did not think the box could be purchased for the money, but he - said he would try and induce his friend to be liberal. The next day he - came to Signor Boccalione with the box containing the hundred cigars of - the choicest brand—the quality of the cigars will be fully - appreciated when it is understood that the hundred cost Giuseppe - originally close upon thirteen shillings. - </p> - <p> - “Per Bacco!” cried the basso, “Monsieur Lejeune should be a happy man—he - had hardly any trouble with me, now that I come to reflect. Oh, I am the - only man in the company who would be so foolish as to think of a present—and - such a present—for him.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Signor!” said Giuseppe, “such a present! The perfume, signor, - wonderful! delicious! celestial!” He then explained how he had persuaded - his friend, by soft words and promises, to part with the box for sixty - francs, and Signor Boccalione listened and laughed; then, on a sheet of - pink notepaper, the basso wrote a dedication, occupying twelve lines, of - the box of cigars to the use of the supremely illustrious <i>maestro di - piano</i>, Lejeune, in token of the invaluable assistance he had afforded - to the most humble and grateful of his friends and servants, Alessandro - Boccalione. - </p> - <p> - When Giuseppe promised to send the box to the maestro on the following day - he meant to keep his word, and he did keep it. On the same evening he was - met by Maestro Lejeune. The maestro looked very pale in the face. - </p> - <p> - “Giuseppe, my friend,” he said with a smile, “you were very good to me - upon our last tour, looking after my luggage with commendable zeal; I have - often thought of making you some little return. You will find a box of - cigars—one hundred all but one—on my dressing table; you may - have them for your own use.” - </p> - <p> - Giuseppe was profuse in his thanks, and, on going to the dressing-room of - the maestro, obtained possession once more of the box of cigars he had - sold to the basso. On the mat was the half-smoked sample which Monsieur - Lejeune had attempted to get through. - </p> - <p> - Not more than a week had passed after this transaction when Signor - Giuseppe was sent for by Madame Speranza, the celebrated soprano. - </p> - <p> - “Giuseppe,” said the lady, “as you have had twenty-seven of my photographs - within the past month, I think you may be able to help me out of a - difficulty in which I find myself.” - </p> - <p> - Giuseppe thought it rather ungenerous for a soprano earning—or at - least getting paid—two hundred pounds a week, to make any reference - to such a paltry matter as photographs; he, however, said nothing on this - subject, but only expressed his willingness to serve the lady. She then - explained to him what he knew already, namely, that she had had a serious - difference with Herr Groschen, the conductor, as to the <i>tempo</i> of a - certain air in <i>Le Diamant Noir</i>, and that the conductor and she had - not been on speaking terms for more than a fortnight. - </p> - <p> - “But now,” said Madame Speranza in conclusion, “now that I have made the - opera so brilliant a success, I should like to make my peace with the poor - old man, who must be miserable in consequence of my treatment of him,—especially - as I got the best of the dispute. I mean to write to him this evening, and - send him some present—something small, you know—not - extravagant.” - </p> - <p> - “What would Madame think of the appropriateness of a box of cigars?” asked - Giuseppe after an interval of thought. “I heard Herr Groschen say that he - had just smoked the last of a box, and meant to purchase another when he - had the money,” he added. - </p> - <p> - “How much would a box of cigars cost?” asked the <i>prima donna</i>. - </p> - <p> - “Madame can have cigars at all prices—even as low as sixty-five - francs,” replied her confidential adviser. - </p> - <p> - “Mon Dieu! what extravagant creatures men are!” cried the lady. - “Sixty-five francs’ worth of cigars would probably not last him more than - a few months. Never mind; I do not want a cheap box,—my soul is a - generous one: procure me a box at sixty-six francs, and we will say - nothing more about the photographs.” - </p> - <p> - Signor Giuseppe said he would try what could be done. A man whom he had - once obliged had a sister married to one of the most intelligent cigar - merchants in the city; but he did not think he had any cigars under - seventy francs. - </p> - <p> - “Not a sou more than sixty-six will I pay,” cried the soprano with - emphasis. Giuseppe gave a shrug and said he would see what could be done. - </p> - <p> - What he saw could be done was to expend the sum of twopence English in the - purchase of a cigar, to put in the centre of the package from which the - maestro had taken his sample, and to bring the box sealed to Madame - Speranza, whom he congratulated on being able to present her late enemy - with a box of cigars of a quality not to be surpassed in the island of - Cuba. The lady put her face down to the box and made a little grimace, and - Giuseppe left her apartment with three guineas English in his pocket. - </p> - <p> - Two days afterwards he encountered Herr Groschen. - </p> - <p> - “Giuseppe,” said the conductor, “you may remember that when you so - cleverly contrived to have my luggage with the fifteen pounds of tobacco - amongst it passed at the Custom House I said I would make you a present. - Forgive me for my negligence all this time, and accept a box of choice - cigars, which you will find on my table. May you be happy, Giuseppe—you - are a worthy fellow.” - </p> - <p> - It is needless to say that Signor Giuseppe recovered his box. On the - hearth-rug lay a half-smoked specimen, and by its side the portion of - Madame Speranza’s letter to the conductor which he had used to light the - one cigar out of the hundred. - </p> - <p> - Before another week had passed, the same box had been sold to the tenor, - to present to Mr. Fitzgauntlet, who, on receiving it, put his nose down to - the package, and threw the lot into a corner among waste papers, and went - on with his writing. The box was rescued by Giuseppe, and presented by him - to the husband of Madame Galatini-Purissi, the contralto, in exchange for - three dozen copies of the fair <i>artiste’s</i> portrait. Then Signor - Purissi sent the box to the flautist in the orchestra, who played the - obbligato to some of the contralto’s arias, and as this gentleman did not - smoke he made it over once more to Signor Giuseppe. As the box had by this - time been in the hands of every one in the company likely to possess a box - of cigars, Giuseppe thought it would show a grasping spirit on his part - were he to attempt to dispose of it again; so he merely made up the - ninety-nine cigars in packages of three, which he sold to thirty-three - members of the chorus at a shilling a head. - </p> - <p> - It so happened, however, that Herr Groschen, Signor Boccalione, and Signor - Purissi met in a tobacconist’s shop about a week after the final - distribution of the cigars, and their conversation turned upon the - comparative ease with which bad cigars could be procured. Herr Groschen - boasted how he had repaid his obligations to Giuseppe with a box of - cigars, which he was certain satisfied the poor devil. - </p> - <p> - “Corpo di Bacco!” cried the basso, “I bought a box from Giuseppe to - present to Maestro Lejeune.” - </p> - <p> - “And I,” said the husband of the contralto, “bought another from him. Can - it have been the same box?” - </p> - <p> - Suspicion being thus aroused, Boccalione sought out Monsieur Lejeune, who - confessed that he had given the box to Giuseppe; and Signor Purissi - learned from the flautist that his gift had been disposed of in the same - direction. The story went round the company, and poor Giuseppe was pounced - upon by his indignant and demonstrative countrymen, and an explanation - demanded of him on the subject of his repeated disposal of the same box. - Giuseppe was quite as demonstrative as the most earnest of his - interrogators in declaring that he had not disposed of the same box. His - friend had obliged him with several boxes, and he had himself been greatly - put about to oblige the ungrateful people who now turned upon him. He - swore by the tomb of his parents that the obligations he had already - discharged towards the ingrates would never be repeated; they might in - future go elsewhere (Signor Giuseppe made a suggestion as to the exact - locality) for their cigars; but for his part he washed his hands clean of - them and their cigars. For three-quarters of an hour the basso-profundo, - the soprano, and the husband of the contralto gesticulated before Giuseppe - in the portico of the Opera House, until a crowd collected, the impression - being general that an animated scene from a new opera was being rehearsed - by the artists of the State Opera. A policeman who arrived on the scene - could not be persuaded to take this view of the matter, and he politely - requested the distinguished members of the State Opera Company either to - move on or to go within the precincts of the building. The basso attempted - to explain to the policeman in very choice Italian what Giuseppe had done, - but he was so demonstrative the officer thought he was threatening the - police force generally, and took his name and address with a view to - issuing a summons for this offence. In the meantime Giuseppe got into a - hansom and drove off, craning his neck round the side of the vehicle to - make a parting allusion to the maternity of the husband of the contralto, - to which the soprano promptly replied by a suggestion which, if true, - would tend to remove the mystery surrounding the origin of Giuseppe. A - week afterwards of course all were once again on the most friendly terms; - but Giuseppe now and again feels that his want of ingenuousness in the - cigar-box transaction well-nigh jeopardised the reputation for integrity - he had previously enjoyed among the principals of the State Opera Company. - He has been much more careful ever since, and flatters himself that not - even the <i>tenore robusto</i>, who is the most suspicious of men, can - discover the points on which he gets the better of him. As a practical - financier Signor Antonio Giuseppe thinks of himself as a success; and - there can hardly be a doubt that he is fully justified in taking such a - view of his career. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXI.—“SO CAREFUL OF THE TYPE.” - </h2> - <p> - <i>Why the chapter is a short one—Straw essential to brick-making—A - suggestion regarding the king in “Hamlet”—The Irish attendant—The - overland route—“Susanna and the editors”—“The violets of his - wrath”—The clergyman’s favourite poem—A horticultural feat—A - tulip transformed—The entertainment of an interment—The - autotype of Russia—A remarkable conflagration and a still more - remarkable dance—Paradise and the other place—Why the concert - was a success—The land of Goschcn—A sporting item—A - detective story—The flora and fauna—The Moors dictum—Absit - omen!</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>F this chapter is - a short one, it is so for the best of reasons: it is meant to record some - blunders of printers and others which impressed themselves upon me. It - would obviously be impossible to make a chapter of the average length out - of such a record. The really humorous faults in the setting up of anything - I have ever written have been very few. In the printing of the original - edition of my novel <i>Daireen</i> one of the most notable occurred in a - first proof. Every chapter of this book is headed with a few lines from <i>Hamlet</i>, - and one of these headings is from the well-known scene with Rosencrantz - and Guildenstern, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - <i>Gull</i>.—The King, sir—— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - <i>Hamlet</i>.—Ay, sir, what of him? - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - <i>Gull</i>.—Is in his retirement marvellous distempered. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - <i>Hamlet</i>.—With drink, sir? - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - <i>Gull</i>.—No, my lord, rather with choler. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - This was the dialogue as I had written it. The humorous printer added a - letter that somewhat changed the sense. He made the line,— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “No, my lord, rather with <i>cholera</i>.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - This was probably an honest attempt on the compositor’s part to work out a - “new reading,” and it certainly did not appear to me to be more - extravagant than the scores of attempts made in the same direction. If - this reading were accepted, the perturbation of Claudius during the - players’ scene, and his hasty Bight before its conclusion, would be - accounted for. - </p> - <p> - Another daring new reading in <i>Hamlet</i> was suggested by a compositor, - through the medium of a comma and a capital. In the course of a magazine - article, he set up a line in the third scene of the third act, in this - way,— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - <i>Hamlet</i>.—Now might I do it, Pat! - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It is somewhat curious that some attempt has not been made before now to - justify such a reading. Could it not be suggested that Hamlet had an Irish - servant who was in his confidence? About the time of Hamlet, the Danes had - an important settlement in Ireland, and why might not Hamlet’s father have - brought one of the natives of that island, named Patrick, to be the - personal attendant of the young prince? The whole thing appears so - feasible, it almost approaches the dimensions of an Irish grievance that - no actor has yet had the courage to bring on the Irish servant who was - clearly addressed by Hamlet in the words just quoted. - </p> - <p> - So “readings” are made. - </p> - <p> - Either of those which the compositors suggested is much more worthy of - respect than the late Mr. Barry Sullivan’s,— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “I know a hawk from a heron. Pshaw!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - But if compositors are sometimes earnest and enterprising students of - Shakespeare, I have sometimes found them deficient on the subject of - geography. Upon one occasion, for instance, I accompanied a number of them - on an excursion to the Isle of Man. The day was one of a mighty rushing - wind, and the steamer being a small one, the disasters among the - passengers were numerous. There was not a printer aboard who was not in a - condition the technical equivalent to which is “pie.” I administered - brandy to some of them, telling them to introduce a “turned rule,” which - means, in newspaper instructions, “more to follow.” But all was of no - avail. We reached the island in safety, however, and then one of the - compositors who had been very much discomposed, seeing the train about to - start for Douglas, told me in a confidential whisper that he had suffered - so much on the voyage, he had made up his mind to return to Ireland by - train. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Quite a new reading, not to <i>Hamlet</i>, but to one of the lyrics in <i>The - Princess</i>, was suggested by another compositor. The introduction of a - comma in the first line of the last stanza of “Home they brought her - warrior dead” produced a quaint effect. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Rose a nurse of ninety years, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Set his child upon her knee,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - appears in every edition of <i>The Princess</i>. But my friend, by his - timely insertion of a comma, made it read thus: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Rose, a nurse of ninety years.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Perhaps the nurse’s name was Rose, but Tennyson kept this a secret. - </p> - <p> - One of the loveliest of Irish national melodies is that for which Moore - wrote the stanzas beginning:— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy waters!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The title of this song appeared in the programme of a St. Patrick’s Day - Concert, which was published in a leading London newspaper, as though the - poem were addressed to one Mr. O’Moyle,—“Silent, O’Moyle.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Another humorist set up a reference to “Susanna and the Elders,” - </p> - <p> - “Susanna and the Editors,” which was not just the same thing. Possibly the - printer had another and equally apocryphal episode in his mind’s eye. - </p> - <p> - I felt a warm personal regard for the man who made a lecturer state that a - critic had “poured out the violets of his wrath upon him.” The criticism - did not, under these circumstances, seem particularly severe. - </p> - <p> - I must frankly confess, however, that I had nothing but reprobation for - the one who made a clergyman state in a lecture to a class of young - ladies, that his favourite poem of Wordsworth’s was “Invitations to - Immorality.” Nor had I the least feeling except of indignation for the one - who set up the title of a picture in which I was interested, “a rare - turnip,” instead of “a rare tulip.” The printer who at the conclusion of - an obituary notice was expected to announce to the readers of the paper - that “the interment will take place on Saturday,” but who, instead, gave - them to understand that “the entertainment will take place on Saturday,” - did not, I think, cause any awkward mishap. He knew that the idea was that - of entertainment, whatever the word employed might be. - </p> - <p> - The compositor who caused an editor to refer to “the autotype of the - Russian people,” when the word <i>autocrat</i> was in the “copy” before - him, was less to be blamed than the reader who allowed such a mistake to - pass without correction. - </p> - <p> - When I read on a proof one night that the most striking scene in <i>The - Dead Heart</i> at the Lyceum was “the burning of the Pastille and the - dance of the Rigmarole,” I asked for the “copy” that had been telegraphed; - and I found that the printer was not responsible for this marvellous - blunder. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It will be remembered that at one of his lectures in the United States, - Mr. Richard A. Proctor remarked that in the course of a few million years - something remarkable would happen, but that its occurrence would not - inconvenience his audience, as he supposed they would all be in Paradise - at that time. - </p> - <p> - In one paper the reporter made him say that he supposed his audience would - all be in Paris at that time. - </p> - <p> - The next evening Mr. Proctor turned the mistake to a good “scoring” - account, by stating that he fancied at first an error had been made; but - that shortly afterwards, he remembered that the tradition was, that all - good Americans go to Paris when they die, so that the reporter clearly - understood his business. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The enterprising correspondent who sows his telegrams broadcast is a - frequent cause of the appearance of mistakes. I recollect that one sent a - hundred words over the wire regarding some village concert, the great - success of which was due to the zeal of the Reverend John Jones, “the <i>locus - standi</i> of the parish.” He had probably heard something at one time of - a <i>pastor loci,</i> and made a brave but unsuccessful attempt to - reproduce the phrase. - </p> - <p> - Another correspondent telegraphed regarding the arrival of two American - cyclists at Queenstown, that their itinerary would be as follows: “They - will travel on their bicycles through Ireland and England, and then - crossing from Dover to Calais they will proceed through Europe, and from - Turkey they will pass through Asia Minor into Xenophon and the Anabasis, - leaving which they will travel to Egypt and the Land of <i>Goschen</i>.” - </p> - <p> - The reference to Xenophon was funny enough, but the spelling of the last - word, identifying the country with the statesman, seemed to me to - represent the highwater mark of the flood-tide of modernism. A few years - before, when the correspondent was doubtless more in touch with the - vicissitudes of the Children of Israel than with the feats of cyclists - from the United States, he would probably have assimilated Mr. Goschen’s - name with the Land of Goshen; but soon the fame of the ex-Chancellor of - the Exchequer had become of more immediate importance to him, and it was - the land that changed its name in his mind to the name of the ex-Finance - Minister. - </p> - <p> - It was probably the influence of the same spirit of modernism that caused - a foreman, in making up the paper for the press, to insert under the title - of “Sporting,” half a column of a report of a lecture by a clergyman on - “The Races of Palestine.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It was, however, the telegraph office that I found to be responsible for a - singular error in the report of the arrest of a certain notorious - criminal. The report should have stated that “a photograph of the prisoner - had been taken by the detective camera,” but the result of the filtration - of the message through a network of telegraph wires was the statement that - the photograph “had been taken by Detective Cameron.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Some years ago a too earnest naturalist was drowned when canoeing on a - lake in the west of Ireland. An enterprising correspondent who clearly - resided near the scene of the accident, forwarded to the newspaper with - which I was connected, a circumstantial account of the finding of the - capsized canoe. In the course of his references to the objects of the - naturalist’s visit to the west, the reporter made the astounding statement - that “he had already succeeded in getting together a practically complete - collection of the <i>flora</i> and <i>fauna</i> of Ireland,”—truly a - “large order.” - </p> - <p> - I feel that I cannot do better than bring to a close with this story my - desultory jottings, which may bear to be regarded as a far from complete - collection of the <i>flora</i> and <i>fauna</i> of journalism. Perhaps my - researches into these highways and byways may induce some more competent - and widely experienced brother to publish his notes on men and matters. - </p> - <p> - “Not a jot, not a jot,” protested the <i>Moor</i>. - </p> - <p> - Am I setting the omen at defiance in publishing these Jottings? Perhaps I - am; though I feel easier in my mind on this point when I recall how, on my - quoting in an article the proverb, “<i>Autres temps, mitres mours”</i> a - wag of a printer caused it to appear, “<i>Autres temps, autres</i> - Moores!” - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg’s A Journalists Note-Book, by Frank Frankfort Moore - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JOURNALISTS NOTE-BOOK *** - -***** This file should be named 51952-h.htm or 51952-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/5/51952/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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